i wanna take up all your time | george weasley x reader
summary: You ask George to be your (fake) boyfriend so your family will get off your back. He says yes, even though he's not pretending.
warnings: george centric, fluff, mutual (but george doesn't know it), fake dating, fem!reader, she/her pronouns used for reader, real world au
note: long-ish bc apparently i'm incapable of getting to the point.
ps. thank u to everyone who's been reading and commenting, u mean the world to me <3 lmk if u wanna be tagged on the next part !
pss. can u guess what the twins do in this fic's universe? (not a joke shop!) big reveal coming in the next part (:<
part 1, part 2, part 3
∗
George has never felt this way before.
He's never been shy around women, never thought twice about a text, a look, a date. It might sound cocky—but maybe he is sort of proud of it, of the way he's always been lucky with women. Most of all, of knowing how to treat them.
With you, it's different.
He blames your arrangement—what a God-awful way to describe this thing he's gotten himself into. But he knows, deep down, that feeling both miserable and exhilarated, like he's standing on the edge of a cliff, is more about him wanting to do something reckless and, just as desperately, trying not to ruin it.
He stares at his phone like he wants it to dial your number on its own. He's saved you as ‘Y/N L/N’, no emojis, lest you somehow snoop around and, through sheer deduction, figure out all the embarrassing things he wants to do with you. Your contact photo beams at him; he took it himself, on a day when you asked him to go try a new Thai restaurant together. Why are the simplest things so hard, he wonders.
With a defeated sigh, George presses the green button.
You pick up on the second ring.
“Hi, handsome.”
George Weasley is very glad you can’t see him through the phone, a very uncool grin almost splitting his face in two.
“Hello, gorgeous.”
“To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“Can’t a man just casually ring his fake girlfriend to ask about her day?”
“He can,” you muse. George can hear a grin identical to his in your voice. “Although there’s not much to tell. We did just see each other a few hours ago.”
“We did? Feels like forever.” He prays to God his theatrics come across as just that.
You laugh on the other end. There’s the sound of metallic clatter, like you’re in your kitchen moving pots and pans around.
“What are you doing?”
“Meal prep,” you say, “I have to go to the office tomorrow. I always forget how depressing Sundays can get.”
“We’ll have to do something about that,” he says. Then, more confident than he actually feels, “Can’t have my girl feeling sad on a weekend.”
George is used to getting away with things like this. He’s been calling you all sorts of pet names for years. It used to throw you off; he remembers the bewildered look on your face the first time he called you princess. You’re used to it now, have even told him you know there’s nothing behind it except his usual playfulness.
He’s not sure that’s still the case.
“You know, I feel like you’re taking this awfully seriously.” Your tone is mocking but not unkind. “One would think a business owner would have much busier weekends.”
“What can I say? I have a strong work ethic.”
“Oh, so this is business.”
“It can be if you want it to.”
"I don't", you reply swiftly, "I don't like working on Sundays."
"Neither do I," says George. He feels something tighten in his stomach, like a rubber band pulled taut. He decides it’s now or never. "Let me take you out. On a date."
There's a silence on your end of the line, long enough for George to freak out and consider hanging up.
“Okay,” your voice is soft, almost breathless. “What kind of date?”
“A fun one. Wear something comfortable. Pick you up in an hour?” George says this all in one breath, fast enough that he doesn’t have time to second-guess himself.
“An hour?” You sound taken aback and he likes that.
“Would you prefer two?”
“No. An hour is fine.”
“Good.”
∗
The thing about being a fake boyfriend is that George starts noticing things. Not only that, but he's also bothered by them. Things he would've previously deemed unimportant, ridiculous even. Case in point: the way his hair refuses to cooperate.
He's spent the better part of the past half hour staring at the mirror, finding new things to feel self-conscious about. Not only is his hair not cooperating, but also—has his nose always looked like that?
"I'd make fun of you if I genuinely didn't feel sorry for you right now," says Fred from where he leans against the bathroom doorframe.
He's been kind enough to let George know that his outfit is fine, thank you very much, but seems to be at his wit's end over George's sudden vanity.
George decides it's time to give up and accept himself as he is. He pats Fred on the shoulder as he squeezes past him and heads for the door.
"Go get her, tiger."
∗
"You weren't lying!"
The roar of the rollercoaster and the screams of its passengers make it so that you have to practically scream into George's ear.
"About what?" he screams back.
"The fun!"
Your smile makes George swoon.
He'd refused to let you know where he was taking you when he picked you up, and you'd spent the short car ride trying to guess.
"The museum," had been your first guess.
"I said fun," he'd replied.
"You're a fiend, museums are fun."
"To whom?"
"People of culture, obviously."
"Right, so niether of us."
You'd laughed so loudly you'd gotten shy about it. He'd thought he wanted to make you laugh like that as often as he could.
George hadn't been able to keep the location of your date secret for very long because a ferris wheel had come very evidently into view before he'd reached your destination.
"Oh my God! Are you taking me to the fair?"
"No."
"We're literally pulling into the parking lot."
"We're just running some errands," he'd said, trying mightily to fight the smile that was making its way across his face.
George had let you drag him wherever you'd wanted to go, which turned out to be every single attraction, including the ones for children.
He finds himself in line beside you for an intimidating rollercoaster, a shaky wooden structure that threatens collapse. It's by far the attraction with the longest line, but also the one you're most excited about. George has never been able to say no to you.
"I didn't know you were such a fan of rollercoasters," he says, half teasing.
"Are you kidding? Greatest human invention, right after drainage."
"What else don't I know about you?" he asks, suffling along a few spaces as the line moves forward.
"Wouldn't you like to know?" You say, your grin wolfish. "Tell me something about you for a change."
George figures he can't say I think I'm in love with you umprompted, so he settles for something else. "Remember that party when we first met?"
"Mm. At Mary's house?" You furrow your brow and he nods. "It's been so long. What about it?"
"Remember how it ended?"
"Yeah, someone broke the sink. Mary was furious, poor thing." You lift an eyebrow and consider him for a moment. He fixates on a beauty mark under your eye.
"That was me. Well, us." He clarifies, "Fred and I."
"Unsurprising. Tell me something else."
"W-what?" The line moves forward another inch and he stares at you in disbelief. You seem rather pleased with yourself.
"I knew that. You offered to pay for it afterwards."
"How d'you know that?"
"Mary's my friend. She told me some redheaded jerk– her words, not mine— had offered to pay for it." Your smile is so self-satisfied George wants to kiss it off your face. "Figured t'was you 'cause you have this weird sense of justice that none of your brothers have."
"Pshaw," he says, waving a hand in the air, "Don't flatter me."
"I'm not trying to!"
The roar of the coaster's metallic wheels interrupts your conversation. George glances at the tracks ahead, the line advancing faster than he'd like it to. Your hand brushes his against the railing and he feels his fingers burn where you touched him. He thinks he makes a sound.
You cock your head and look at him, eyes squinting.
"It's rude to stare," he says.
"Is this fear I'm sensing?" You bite your lip, bearly able to keep your grin at bay. "George, are you afraid of roller coasters?"
George Weasley is not afraid of roller coasters.
"I just rode, like, twelve with you!"
"Then why do you look like that?"
"Like what?"
"Like you're about to be sick."
Suddenly, you're at the front of the line, and some teenager in uniform is ushering you toward your seats. You choose the ones at the front, but turn to George and lean in, whispering like you're conspiring. A sudden whiff of your perfume hits his face.
"We can skip this one if you want to," you say. "I won't make fun of you." He knows by the softness in your tone that you mean it.
George is only slightly anxious. The creaks and groans of the wooden structure make it seem like it's about to plummet to the ground at any second, but the tremors reverberating through it are nothing compared to what his heart is doing.
"I'm not scared," he says. "Just—overwhelmed, maybe."
"You don't have to prove anything to me."
George would much rather have you think he's afraid of roller coasters than find out what your presence does to him.
"I'm not," he says quickly. "Proving anything, I mean."
So the ride starts, and it's not half bad. You grab George's hand and lift both your arms in the air, your happy laugh almost lost beneath the clatter of the machine. He feels like he left his stomach at the start of the ride, unsure of what exactly is to blame. The cold air nips at his face, the sky and the lights of faraway buildings blurring into one continuous motion.
Then it ends, almost as suddenly as it started, and you climb out of the coaster so fast he has to look around for you.
George finds you bent over a trash can.
"Y/N! What happened? Are you okay?" He brushes your hair away from your face, confused and panicked, before putting two and two together.
Oh.
You retch weakly and he almost laughs. Not cruelly, just disbelieving.
"You're awful," you say, still hunched over. "You're mean and awful."
He does laugh this time, rubbing absent-minded circles over your back. Despite the ridiculousness of the situation, George realizes he wants to take care of you.
“I’m sorry, baby.” He says it and means it, although there’s a smile that never leaves his face. “Let me get you some water. Wait here.”
He leaves you for a total of thirty seconds and comes back with a plastic water bottle and some napkins, only to find you sitting on the ground, hugging your knees.
You accept the water wordlessly.
“Stop looking at me,” you say meekly, all your bite from before gone. "You're enjoying this."
“Sorry,” he says. “You’re very pretty. Can’t help myself.”
You snort and immediately regret it.
“Oh, God, I’m serious. Stop harrassing me.”
George lets you do your thing, turns around without ever leaving your side. He meant it, is the thing. You are very pretty, even now.
He knows this is going to be a problem.
You shuffle around and George turns to help you onto your feet. You look like yourself again, albeit a bit pale. He has to resist the urge to touch your face.
“Better?” he asks.
“Physically? Yes.” You let out a small laugh and press your face briefly against his shoulder. George fears he might pass out. “Emotionally? I don’t think I’ll recover. This is the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to me.”
“I’ve had worse dates,” he says, and it’s true, although mainly because they weren’t with you.
“Pshaw,” you echo him, a lopsided smile curving the edges of your mouth.
The sky is that purple-blue color that comes right before night. There’s a light breeze and the smell of popcorn, cotton candy, and hot chocolate. Fairy lights and neon signs twinkle all around. You slip your right arm through George’s left and start walking.
“I can’t believe I ruined this,” you say, shaking your head. “It was going so well.”
George looks at you. You look down at your feet. “You didn’t ruin anything.”
“I threw up on you.”
“Not on me. Just—in my general direction.”
The pink glow of the neon lights from a nearby shooting gallery makes you look almost angelic when you turn your face up towards him. “George Weasley, you’re a liar.”
George likes the way you say his name, no real heat underneath. He chuckles, hyperaware of the place where your hand meets his arm.
“You do have to admit it’s a fun anecdote. And it works.”
“Works for what?”
“Your family?” He clears his throat. “Like, if they ask about us on Sunday?”
You blink at him. “What would they even ask? Our top five most humiliating moments?”
George laughs loudly. “Top five? I can list at least ten of yours.”
You nudge his shoulder and throw him an unconvincing annoyed look. “It’s a family dinner, George, not an immigration interview.”
“Need I remind you,” he says, amused, “that you’re the one who wants to be convincing?”
That makes you go quiet. George feels like he’s on a tightrope, never quite sure which way to lean. He gently unhooks your arm from his, and you start to protest before he places his arm over your shoulders. You press the side of your face into him, so natural a movement that George doubts you’re aware of it. He starts guiding you towards the car, the soft glow of the street lamps lighting the way.
“So,” he asks, “how am I gonna convince them that I’m mad about you if I can’t get the story of our first date right?”
“They won’t ask,” you say into his shoulder.
“Think of it as method acting.”
“Okay.” You indulge him. “How long have we been dating for?”
George doesn’t notice when you reach the car. He finds himself standing in front of you, the toes of your sneakers almost touching his. Your closeness makes him dizzy.
He tries to remember the first time he thought of you as more than a friend. It’s embarrassing, really, how far back he can go without finding a definitive answer. You’ve always been there, an insistent presence in his chest.
“Six months ago,” he settles for something that doesn’t feel too incriminating. “But we were keeping it secret because you wanted to go slow.”
Your laugh is equal parts surprised and sweet. The cold evening breeze makes you shiver a little. George hurries to open the car door for you.
“Me?”
“Obviously.”
George would never want to take things slow with you.
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Teach Me How To Not Stare At You || George Weasley x Reader
George Weasley x Reader
the summer before sixth year, the year where you suddenly take up more space in his mind than you had previously.
Word Count : 3.3k
Warnings : Language and Drinking, TeenagerStuff.
Originally, you had planned to spend an evening at the Burrow before heading into Diagon Alley for this year’s supplies.
Somehow, an evening had turned into staying until the start of term.
It wasn’t your first summer at the Burrow. You’d known the twins since first year, spent enough holidays tucked inside the crooked little house that Molly no longer bothered asking whether you were staying for dinner. You knew which stair complained loudest after midnight, which cupboard held the good biscuits, and exactly how far to lean out of the upstairs bathroom window to get a decent view of the orchard.
You’d even babysat Ron and Ginny a few times when they were younger, though Ron became furious whenever you reminded him.
Things were different this year.
Sixteen, freckle faced, and apparently incapable of looking anywhere else, George Weasley had spent most of August staring at you.
He hadn’t meant to really, that was the irritating part.
It wasn’t as though he’d suddenly forgotten what you looked like. George had known your face for five years. He’d watched it turn green over a cauldron after Fred convinced you that adding powdered moonstone to a Pepperup Potion would make it taste like peppermint. He’d seen it covered in soot, pumpkin juice, ink and, on one memorable occasion, half a treacle tart.
He knew you, there was nothing new to see.
“George.”
His eyes snapped away from you.
Fred was sitting across from him at the kitchen table, spoon suspended halfway to his mouth.
“What?”
“You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
Fred’s eyes slid pointedly toward the other end of the kitchen.
You were standing beside Molly at the sink with your sleeves shoved up to your elbows, peeling potatoes and arguing with Ginny over whether Oliver Wood was attractive.
Apparently, Ginny thought he was, you thought Ginny needed higher standards.
George had been listening very carefully.
“Nothing,” he said.
Fred snorted into his porridge.
George kicked him underneath the table.
“Ow.”
“Foot slipped.”
“Course it did.”
Across the room, you laughed. George looked your way again, watching as your nose scrunched up at Ginny’s argument.
Fred slowly lowered his spoon.
“Mate.”
“Shut up.”
“I haven't even said anything.”
“You were going to.”
“I was.”
George stabbed unnecessarily hard at a piece of sausage.
Fred watched him for another moment before leaning forward.
“You fancy her.”
George nearly inhaled his breakfast.
“I what?”
“You fancy-”
“I heard you.” George cut him off.
“Good.”
“I don’t.”
Fred looked toward you.
George followed his gaze automatically.
Fred looked back at him.
George realised what he'd done.
“Oh, that's embarrassing.”
“Piss off.”
Fred grinned.
This wasn't fancying you.
Fancying someone was different.
Fancying someone was Angelina Johnson walking past after Quidditch practice and Fred forgetting what sentence he'd been saying. Fancying someone was Lee Jordan spending an entire Herbology lesson trying to convince Alicia Spinnet that his hand had accidentally landed on hers four separate times.
This was different.
George couldn't explain it, he just liked looking at you. That wasn't a crime.
Fred sighed dramatically.
“Hopeless.”
George kicked him again.
The problem followed him upstairs.
It followed him into the orchard.
Everywhere you went, George’s eyes seemed to find you.
Sometimes it wasn't even interesting.
You'd be sitting on the rug beside Ginny, sorting through school books.
Helping Molly hang washing.
Falling asleep in an armchair with your mouth slightly open.
By the middle of August, Fred had begun keeping count.
“Seven.”
George didn't bother looking away from where you and Ginny were lying in the grass beneath the apple trees.
“Don't know what you're talking about.”
“That's seven today.”
“Seven what?”
“Times I've caught you staring at her.”
“Get a hobby.”
“This is my hobby.”
George finally looked at his brother, Fred was stretched beside him against the trunk of a tree, hands behind his head and looking entirely too pleased with himself.
“You know,” Fred continued, “you could just tell her.”
“Tell her what?”
“That you've developed some kind of illness.”
George shoved his shoulder.
Fred laughed.
“I don't fancy her.”
“You've said.”
“I don't.”
“Course.”
From somewhere across the orchard came Ginny's shriek as you apparently attempted to shove an apple down the back of her shirt.
George smiled before he could stop himself.
Fred’s grin softened into something worse.
“Oh,” Fred said.
George frowned. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Don't do that.”
“Do what?”
“That.”
Fred's expression turned innocent.
George knew that expression. It had preceded several explosions and one memorable incident involving Percy’s prefect badge and a charm that made it scream obscenities every time he polished it.
“What?”
Fred shrugged.
“You really like her.”
George opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Because the annoying thing was that Fred hadn't said fancy that time.
He'd said like, and George couldn't dismiss that nearly as easily.
Of course he liked you, you were his friend.
One of his best, really. You'd been there before Lee. Before Quidditch victories and OWLs and joke products hidden beneath floorboards. You'd met George when he was eleven years old, all elbows and freckles and ambitions that mostly involved seeing how many dungbombs one could fit inside Filch's office before detection.
You'd grown up with him.
There had never been a question of whether you'd be there.
You simply were.
George looked across the orchard again.
You'd abandoned your attack on Ginny and were lying flat on your back now, staring at the sky.
Something tightened unpleasantly in his chest.
“What happens after Hogwarts?” he asked.
Fred turned his head.
“What?”
George regretted it immediately.
“Nothing.”
“No, go on.”
“I just mean,” He shrugged. “Things'll be different.”
“We'll have the shop.”
“Yeah.”
That part George could see clearly.
Him and Fred. A shop. Shelves filled with things they'd invented instead of essays they hadn't written. No teachers telling them what they couldn't test or where they couldn't set something off. That future had always been easy.
But suddenly George pictured the shop without you wandering through the front door whenever you felt like it, and he didn't like it.
Fred watched him, raising a brow.
“You know she'll still exist when we leave school, right?”
“Obviously.”
“You can visit people.”
“I'm aware.”
“There's this brilliant new invention called an owl.”
“Shut up.”
Fred grinned.
He wondered, distantly, when he'd started worrying about missing things that hadn't ended yet.
By half three the next afternoon, Fred had decided stealing the Firewhisky had been a brilliant idea.
After ten minutes, George had decided Fred was an idiot.
And by four, you had all forgotten who'd suggested it in the first place.
“This tastes like furniture polish.”
You were lying on your back beneath one of the apple trees, holding the bottle above your face with a look of deep personal betrayal.
George snorted.
“You drink furniture polish often?”
“Enough to recognise it.”
Fred reached across George and stole the bottle from you.
“Ungrateful.”
“You nicked it.”
“Acquired.”
“From where?”
Fred took a mouthful and immediately coughed into his sleeve.
George grinned.
“Smooth.”
“Shut up.”
You laughed.
George looked at you.
He'd been doing that too much lately.
Looking.
Noticing.
You were wearing an old jumper that had once belonged to Charlie, then Fred, and now seemed to have somehow become yours. One sleeve covered most of your hand. There was grass stuck in your hair.
You looked completely at home, that was the strangest part.
The first time you'd stayed at the Burrow, George had waited for you to say something about it.
Not because there was anything wrong with his home.
There wasn't.
But he knew.
He knew the roof leaned.
He knew most of the furniture had belonged to somebody else first. He knew the plates didn't match and the pipes complained and Ron's dress robes had once belonged to some ancient relative nobody could remember.
He knew because other people noticed.
Some tried not to.
That was worse.
You never had.
You'd walked into the Burrow at twelve years old, asked why there was a ghoul upstairs, and then spent twenty minutes trying to convince Fred and George to introduce you to it.
At thirteen, you'd helped Molly degnome the garden and declared it “more fun than Quidditch,” which was objectively insane.
At fourteen, you'd slept on a camp bed in Ginny's room and complained only because Ginny kicked in her sleep.
Now you were sixteen, drunk in his orchard, wearing his brother's old jumper like you'd been born in it.
George stared, you turned your head towards him.
“There he goes again.”
Fred didn't even look up.
“Eight.”
“Fuck off.”
You grinned.
“What are you looking at?”
“Nothing.”
“You always say that.”
“Because you're always imagining things.”
“Am I?”
You sat up, slower than usual, and took the bottle from Fred.
George watched you take another cautious sip.
Your face twisted immediately.
“Still horrible.”
“And yet,” George said, “you continue.”
“I'm committed now.”
“To what?”
You considered this.
“Poor decisions.”
Fred raised his hand.
“To poor decisions.”
You clinked the bottle against his palm.
George laughed.
From the house, Molly shouted something none of you could quite make out.
All three of you froze.
Fred lowered his voice.
“Do you think she knows?”
“She always knows,” George said.
You looked mildly horrified.
“Will she kill us?”
“No.”
Fred thought about it.
“Maybe.”
“Fred!” You squealed
“She likes you. You'll survive.”
You looked toward the Burrow.
The late-afternoon sun made the crooked windows shine.
Smoke curled lazily from the chimney.
Somewhere upstairs, the ghoul thumped against a pipe.
You smiled.
“I love it here.”
George looked at you.
You didn't seem to realise you'd said anything important.
Fred was attempting to balance the Firewhisky bottle against his knee.
George said, “What?”
You glanced at him.
“You said you love it here.”
“I do.” You said it like it was obvious.
George waited for the punchline, none came.
“Why?” He questioned.
Now you looked at him like he was stupid.
“Because it's the Burrow.”
“That clears it up.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I don't.”
You gestured vaguely toward the house.
“It's loud.”
George laughed.
“Excellent start.”
“Everyone's always in everyone else's business.”
“Getting better.”
“Your mum feeds people until they physically can't move. Your dad brings home rubbish and acts like he's discovered buried treasure. The stairs sound like they're dying. There's something living in the attic.”
“Ghoul.”
“Right. Him.”
You smiled.
“And nobody ever has to ask if they're allowed to be here.”
George stopped smiling.
You picked at the label on the bottle.
“At my house, people visit.”
You looked toward the Burrow again.
“Here, they just sort of become part of it.”
Something strange happened in George's chest.
You took another drink.
“And your mum's going to lose her mind when she finds out we stole this.”
Fred nodded solemnly.
“Beautifully said.”
You shoved him.
George was still looking at you.
Not because of your hair.
Not because of the way the sun caught your face.
Not even because he'd spent most of the summer discovering that apparently his best friend had become unfairly pretty when he wasn't paying attention.
Because you looked at his home, the crooked, noisy, overcrowded, patched-together Burrow, and somehow saw exactly what he saw.
Not what it cost, what it was worth.
“George.”
He blinked.
You were watching him.
“What?”
“You're staring again.”
Fred lifted one finger.
“Nine.”
George threw an apple at him.
Fred ducked and the apple sailed past him into the long grass.
“You nearly killed me.”
“Tragic.”
“Would've ruined Mum's afternoon.”
“Only because she'd have to clean you up.”
You laughed so hard you nearly tipped sideways.
George caught your elbow.
Fred saw that too.
His mouth curled.
You were still leaning slightly into George, either because you'd had too much Firewhisky or because neither of you had noticed.
George noticed.
He noticed everything now.
Fred looked between the two of you.
Then toward the house.
“I think I'm hungry.”
“You ate twenty minutes ago,” George said.
“Growing boy.”
“You're leaving.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
Fred stood, brushing grass from his trousers.
“What a strange accusation.”
“Fred.”
“I'll tell Mum you both died.”
“Tell her George killed me first,” you said.
George looked down at you.
“You're taking his side?”
“Always.”
“Cruel.”
Fred gave George a look over your head that was so smug it should've been illegal.
Then he wandered toward the house, whistling.
George watched him go.
“Bastard.”
You laughed.
“He's giving you privacy.”
“I don't need privacy.”
“Right.”
You were smiling at him.
George looked away.
That lasted about three seconds.
“Ten,” you said.
His eyes narrowed.
“You're counting now?”
“Someone has to carry on Fred's legacy.”
“You're both insufferable.”
“You love us.”
George's gaze caught yours.
The answer came so quickly he nearly said it, instead he scoffed.
“Debatable.”
You leaned back against the tree.
George took the Firewhisky from you before you could have another mouthful.
“Oi.”
“You're cut off.”
“Says who?”
“Says me.”
“You're not my dad.”
“Thank Merlin.”
You reached for the bottle.
George held it away.
You climbed half over him trying to get it.
“Give it back.”
“No, you've had enough.”
“You've had more than me.”
“I've got a higher tolerance.”
“You're bigger by about four inches.”
“Exactly.”
“That isn't how alcohol works.”
“Sounds right.”
You grabbed his wrist with both hands.
George tried to keep the bottle out of reach.
You were laughing.
He was laughing.
And then you slipped.
Not far.
Just enough to land against him.
Your face ended up inches from his.
Both of you stopped.
George could smell Firewhisky on your breath.
Could see the tiny crease beside your eye from laughing.
Could feel your hand still around his wrist.
His heart began doing something fucking stupid.
You blinked.
“Still want to tell me you’re not staring?”
Your voice had gone quieter.
George stared.
You smiled slowly.
“Eleven.”
“Shut up.”
But he was smiling too.
The storm came three days later.
It had been threatening all afternoon.
The air hung thick and heavy over the Burrow, turning everyone's shirts sticky and making Ron complain so persistently that Molly eventually chased him from the kitchen with a tea towel.
George and Fred had been testing a new prototype near the edge of the orchard.
You had been enlisted as an unwilling observer.
“If this takes my eyebrows off,” you warned, “I'm telling your mother.”
“You're sixteen,” Fred said. “Bit old for tattling.”
“I'm never too old to tell Molly when you've endangered me.”
George adjusted the small cylinder in his hand.
“You're perfectly safe.”
You stared at him.
“You said that before you turned my hair purple.”
“That was safe.”
“It lasted two weeks.”
“Purple suited you.”
Your eyes narrowed.
George grinned.
Fred groaned.
“Could you two flirt after we determine whether this explodes?”
George's ears went hot.
You threw a handful of grass at Fred.
“We're not flirting.”
“Didn't say you were any good at it.”
The first crack of thunder saved George from having to answer.
You looked up.
The sky above the orchard had turned nearly black.
“That doesn't look good.”
“It'll pass,” Fred said.
A fat drop of rain landed directly on his forehead.
Then another.
Then the sky opened.
You screamed.
Fred swore.
George grabbed the box of prototypes while the three of you bolted toward the Burrow.
The three of you took off toward the house.
Halfway there, you pointed toward Arthur’s little shed.
“There!”
George followed you.
He stumbled inside behind you, soaked through and laughing.
Then turned.
Fred was gone.
George squinted through the rain.
A ginger head was disappearing toward the house.
“Bastard.”
You looked out.
“He left us?”
“Yep.”
“Some brother.”
George knew exactly what Fred was doing.
You leaned against the wall, dripping water onto the floor.
George looked.
You caught him.
“Oh my God.”
“What?”
“You’re staring again.”
“I’m not.”
“You’ve been doing it all summer.”
George froze.
“You noticed?”
You laughed.
“George, everyone noticed.”
That was worse.
“Brilliant.”
“You thought you were subtle?”
Rain hammered against the roof.
You shoved wet hair out of your face.
George watched.
You pointed at him.
“There!”
“What?”
“Again.”
“I was looking at your hair.”
“My hair is attached to my head.”
“Unfortunate.”
You shoved him.
George caught your wrist.
Then neither of you moved.
A normal moment would suddenly stop feeling normal.
Your hand in his.
Your face too close.
You smiling at him.
George forgot what he was about to say.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You always say that.”
“Works sometimes.”
“Not really.”
Another crack of thunder sounded.
You jumped, barely.
George grinned.
“Oh, shut up.”
“Scared?”
“No.”
“You jumped.”
“Reflex.”
“Could protect you.”
“From thunder?”
“I’m very brave.”
“You ran away from a gnome yesterday.”
“It bit me.”
“You screamed.”
“It surprised me.”
“You made Molly look at your ankle.”
“It could’ve been infected.”
You started laughing, George did too.
Then you looked at him.
He was staring again, a lopsided smile on his lips.
This time you didn’t tease him.
“George?”
He let go of your wrist.
“Sorry.”
“You’re weird.”
“I know.”
“Different weird.”
He rubbed the back of his neck.
The Burrow was maybe a hundred yards away.
He considered making a run for it.
“You’re avoiding me.”
“I’m wet.”
“You’ve been wet for ten minutes.”
“Could get wetter.”
“We’re inside.”
“You’re argumentative.”
“And you’re avoiding the question.”
“You haven’t asked one.”
You folded your arms.
“Fine. Why do you keep staring at me?”
George looked anywhere else.
The doorway.
The rain.
A shovel, lovely shovel.
“George.”
“I could lie.”
“You’re bad at it.”
“I’m excellent at lying.”
“You once told McGonagall a suit of armour exploded by itself while holding the firework.”
“Circumstantial evidence.”
You smiled at him as he sighed.
“I don’t know.”
“That’s your answer?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t know?”
“I mean,I sort of know.”
You waited.
George hated when people waited.
“You’ve gone strange.”
Your mouth fell open.
“I’ve gone strange?”
“Not like that.”
“Great start.”
“Shut up.”
“You’re doing wonderfully.”
“You’ve just always been around.”
“That keeps getting better.”
“No, listen.”
He rubbed both hands over his face.
“You’ve been there since first year. You’re at school. You come here. You’re at Christmas sometimes. You’re just…”
He gestured at you.
“Here.”
You stared.
“I’m fucking this up.”
“A little.”
George looked down at the floor.
“I don’t think I noticed before.”
“Noticed what?”
“You.”
You went quiet.
“That sounded bad.”
“It did.”
“I know you existed.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“I mean I didn’t-Merlin.”
You were smiling now.
Which helped.
A bit.
“You’ve always been you,” George said. “And now you’re still you, except I keep looking at you and thinking things.”
Your eyebrows went up.
“Things?”
“Don’t.”
“What things?”
“Mostly decent ones.”
“Mostly?” You scoffed
“I’m sixteen.”
You burst out laughing.
George grinned.
“There. See? This is why I didn’t want to explain it.”
“You brought it up.”
“You asked.”
“You started staring.”
You stepped closer, George forgot what he was doing again.
“So you fancy me.”
He grimaced.
“Fred said that.”
“Fred knows?”
“Fred knows everything. It’s awful.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“Do you?”
George could’ve made a joke.
Usually he would have.
Instead he looked at you.
“Yeah.”
You went quiet, then smiled.
“Bit embarrassing,” he added.
“Terrible for you.”
“Ruined my whole summer.”
“Has it?”
“I’ve got nothing done.”
“You never do anything.”
“Exactly.”
You laughed.
George stared.
Again.
You shook your head.
“There.”
“What?”
“You’re doing it.”
George didn’t bother looking away.
“Can’t help it.”
“That sounds like your problem.”
“Massive problem.”
“Maybe you should learn.”
“Teach me.”
You looked at him.
“How?”
George’s eyes dropped to your mouth.
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
You kissed him first.
It was quick.
Barely there.
George stood completely still after you pulled back.
“Well?” you asked.
“Well what?”
“You’re staring again.”
“Give me a second.”
You laughed.
George kissed you before you could say anything else.
This time he actually kissed you.
One hand went to your cheek, the other caught your waist.
You made a small surprised sound against his mouth.
George decided immediately that he wanted to hear it again.
When you pulled apart, he rested his forehead against yours.
the concept of bts talking about cortis’ weight? these are grown ass 30 year old men analyzing the bodies of teenagers. these men are weird as fuck and i will die on this hill.
pairing/tropes: bestfriend! fred weasley, fem! gryffindor! muggleborn! reader, terribly slow burn, generally just cozy writing and fluff, & the weasleys love the reader! hooray! (especiallyyy ginny) and i think i should mention that fred's on his knees somewhere in here? (not in a sexual way...just read, you'll find out haha)
w/c: roughly 6.5k(cut short, mind...)
summary: after the twins convince you to visit The Burrow over spring break for two weeks, you find yourself caught up in a whirlwind of chaos, sibling drama, a continued habit with a certain redheaded menace...
t/w: parental issues briefly mentioned here and there, cursing, minor sibling arguments, as expected with the Weasleys!
a/n: i got so carried away that i wrote more about the entire Weasley family loving y/n more than fred and the reader alone oh my gosh... please read this fic if you're looking for domestic fluff, Weasley family dynamics and super subtle romance blossoming! and this isn't proofread. my grammar goes CRAZY BAD later in the fic, so let's just all ignore that alright?
───── ⋆.✶
you stand in the Leaky Cauldron, Floo Powder slipping between your fingers like liquid rather than grains of magical powder. you squint into the blazing fire, hitching your duffel bag higher on your shoulder.
"thanks again, tom! take care!" you call out to the barman, and he raises a hand in acknowledgement, shooting you a toothless grin. you grimace slightly at the fire; the Floo network never really got easier, and the powder always somehow ends up in your hair. you throw down the powder and quickly say before stepping in,
"The Burrow!" the flames turn a blinding emerald, and you squeeze your eyes shut against the sudden chill, shoulders hunched.
you're in The Burrow's kitchen. coughing slightly, you dust your shirt off, straightening up. you could feel the energy of the magic radiating off the place immediately, holding the multiple floors together precariously.
"y/n, you're here!" ginny squeals from the kitchen table, heading toward you immediately. you drop your bag and smile, embracing her. orange heads pop out one by one; molly emerges from a corner, with a motherly, beaming smile plastered on her face. percy emerges from the living room next, folding up a copy of the Daily Prophet, with his glasses nearly slipping off his nose.
"hullo, y/n," percy says politely, and you wave in greeting. percy retreats to the kitchen for coffee, content with the interaction.
arms still around ginny, you grin as the twins thunder down the stairs in unison, still in their striped pajamas.
"you said 12pm in the letter, y/n! it's half past, what took you so long?!" fred grins, pushing off the banister to reach you faster.
"y/n! you're bloody here, finally!" george yells, and ginny pulls away, while molly tsks fondly at the sudden increase in noise. the twins lightly hug you. fred first, a loose half hug, and george another.
"yeah, it's half past twelve, what're you doing in pajamas?" you counter, and fred grins sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck.
"mum told us to clean our rooms up, a bloke's bound to have to sacrifice something," he says, but you didn't believe it for a moment. molly nods, giving the twins an appraising look.
"and i hope you have?" she asks, a gentle hand on your arm already to guide you.
"yeah, absolutely," george affirms, and your lips twitch.
"it's spotless, not a single sock on the floor," fred says, grinning at you. you snort.
"write a letter to lee, he'll never believe it," you tease, and george snickers.
"is that y/n?" you hear another person say; ron entering the room, one sock on. you wave cheerily, and ron's eyebrows go up, a boyish, shy smile spreading across his face. he presses his lips together, ducking his head in greeting. fred and george share a look, snickering. you shove fred lightly, and he doesn't even fight it.
"sod off, you two, he's just a kid," you scoff, and percy smiles from behind his mug of coffee. ron blushes indignantly but remains silent; a wise choice, around fred and george.
"yeah, and you three are the epitome of grown adults," he says, and the twins immediately round on him, wearing exaggeratedly shocked expressions.
"george, did you hear that? Head Boy made a joke!" fred gasps loudly. ginny rolls her eyes.
"blimey, they'll have to revoke your position, perce!" and with that, the twins are off to bother their older brother. you desperately choke back a loud laugh into a soft cough, for percy had been nice enough to you over the years to earn your slight sympathy.
"oh, shush, you two," molly chides, shooing the two lanky boys away from her third oldest son. she turns to you, smile blooming on her face again. you can't help but smile too, even though your cheeks were starting to hurt. The Burrow was the most cheerful place you'd ever been in.
"y/n, dearest, would you like a cup of tea? i was just about to put the kettle on," she says, and before you could agree, she was already shuffling off, beaming.
"boys, could one of you help y/n up to her room? the one on the...." she waves her wand around as she recalls. "ah, yes. the room on the third floor to the right, your father and i had just cleared that one out," she says, ushering you on gently to go with fred, who had apparently volunteered himself to help you up. george is still annoying percy, and fred already has your duffel in his hand. he's going up the stairs already, two steps at a time.
"y'know," he begins as you follow after, matching his pace. "george and i really thought about that letter we sent. we thought your parents would never let you come, with how you told them out to be," he admits, and you chuckle half-heartedly. the twins had written a whole letter to help convince your skeptical-of-magic, muggle parents to let you stay in The Burrow for a week. it had been a surprisingly long letter from the twins.
"i'm not exaggerating about them! and i could tell the letter took time, your handwriting was neat, even," you mention, slightly out of breath from the quick journey up the stairs. "your 'n's, 'u's and 'h's even looked different," you tease and fred flashes you a sarcastic grin.
"yeah, because your 't's and 'l's are always seperate." ginny passes by, making a confused face.
"why do you have each other's handwriting memorised? that's mad," she says, then bounds up the stairs. you and fred share a look, processing with matching dumbly flat expressions. you had reached the third floor; the twins' room was on the same floor.
"i just copy your homework all the time," fred explains, even though you weren't the one asking. you nod slowly, also thinking for a reason as to why you knew fred's.
"yeah... and i'm so used to checking your work that i memorised your terrible handwriting," you say, lips tipping up into an amused smile at the end of your sentence. fred scoffs loudly, walking to the room next to his and george's.
"lay off it, i'm literally carrying your things! your bags are always so heavy," he huffs, stopping before the door. the same oakwood doors as the rest of the house. fred opens the door with a flourish, grinning.
"i don't imagine you'll get much sleep; george and i are always awake at night. genius masterplans, you see."
"even after all the tomfoolery in the day? wow, you two are incredible," you sass easily, lips splitting into a grin when fred laughs despite himself.
"alright, you got me there-" fred is interrupted by a shrill cry- molly calling for tea. fred nods to the inside of the room, handing you your duffel.
"settle in and put your stuff down, i'll tell mum you're coming. george'll take all the biscuits to himself...." he mutters, already retreating down the stairs quickly. bemused, you turn to what was to be your room for the next week. it was clean, with polished wooden floors, a burnt orange coloured carpet on the floor. the room was small but spacious, with a closet that you opened to find empty, save for a tiny moth that had made itself welcome inside, that fluttered out after you opened the door. there was a simple bedframe against the wall to the right of the room, a single mattress on it. facing opposite the bed was the closet and a small desk. you quickly set your things down, and make your way back downstairs, sneakers squeaking against the wooden vinyl.
downstairs, you find arthur, having just come home from work- a half day, apparently. he kisses molly on the top of her head and accepts the cup of tea she hands him. you approach the round kitchen table, where everyone was sitting now. you smile, finding it nice that the whole family gathered in the afternoon for tea. you supposed it was normal, but your family never really did that too much. ginny brightens up when she sees you approaching, crumbs of a scone on her lips. she swallows, swiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
"y/n, can you help me pick an outfit for me later? i'm going out with my friends tomorrow," she asks even before you've joined the table. arthur looks up at the mention of your name, his weary but happy face breaking out into a warm smile. he opens his arms for a hug, into which you hurry in.
"hullo, mr weasley. ginny, you've reminded me, i brought you some of my own nail polish from home, i don't use it because of school. if you'd like, i can help you put some on before you go," you offer, pulling away from arthur, who takes a seat at the table. ginny smiles, big and wide.
"y/n, i hear you're staying a week?" arthur asks pleasantly, sipping his tea. all of the Weasleys, except percy who apparently preferred coffee, black, seemed to like their tea drowning in sugar and creamer. you nod, slipping into the nearest seat before accepting a cup of your own with a quiet thank you; black, with no sugar, just how you liked it. along the years, either fred or george must've told her. you were sitting between ron and ginny, with the twins and arthur across you, and molly still bustling about with the kettle.
"oh yeah, i had to fit all my things in one bag. took me hours," you admit sheepishly, and molly laughs, waving a hand.
"oh, nothing an Extension Charm won't fix. i'll help you with it, dear," she says kindly, and you duck your head in thanks, smiling. arthur turns to you, looking thoughtful all of a sudden.
"y/n, you wouldn't happen to know the function.... of a screwdriver?" he asks, and you try to remember, barely fazed by the question. the twins were leaning over the table to whisper something to ron; likely a "secret spell" that they had definitely made up to mess with him. you let them serve as background noise as you think.
"a screwdriver.... is for repairing, because muggles-" you're interrupted by one of the twins.
"hey, everyone's hogging y/n! you've all suddenly got plans with her, but we invited her over first," says george.
"oh, sod off, fred, you're always talking about her anyway!" ron scoffs, and your eyebrows go up mid-sip. you swallow, setting your cup down.
"that's george, ron."
"how can you always tell them apart like that? they look the same!"
"i'm much more handsome than george."
"shove off, fred, i'm better looking if anything," the twins joke, and you roll your eyes, waving a hand.
"they look different to me, they've got different eyes," you say dismissively. "can we go back to, 'you're always talking about her'?" you ask, a smug grin spreading across your face. you look over to fred, who looks both amused and indignant.
"what? george talks about you too," fred says, and george nods in confirmation, to his twin's rescue.
"so both of you talk about me! wow, y/n must be a pretty great friend," you tease, and ginny snickers at the slightly pink tinge on fred's ears in particular.
"yeah yeah, whatever," george laughs, biting into a biscuit.
"you're alright at best," fred says, shockingly turning progressively pinker. you raise a brow at the uncharacteristic behaviour, and he bristles.
"what? you're scary!" he defends, and you drop your jaw incredulously. you and fred start to bicker slightly, although it's all in good fun.
"me, scary? i'm literally smiling at you, there's no reason for you to turn red!"
"i'm red?? am not! and besides, you're sort of scary when you stare like that."
"stare?? that's just me looking at you."
"yeah, but you get this look like you're trying to-"
"alright, enough, the two of you."
you and fred tear your gazes from each other to look at molly, sheepish grins plastered on. she has her hands on her hips. you reach for a cookie slowly, watching her as she appraises the twins.
"if you two want to spend time with her so much, de-gnome-" the twins immediately start to groan, with george clutching his hands to his chest protectively. molly continues, amused now.
"de-gnome the garden after this, and by then everyone else will have finished 'hogging' y/n's time." you laugh at the crestfallen expression on the twins' faces.
"they bite this time of year!"
"they bite all times of the year," ron points out smugly, and fred knuckles him playfully.
"we'll put a gnome in your bed, ronniekins. then you'll be crying out for mum!" fred laughs, and him and george get up to go to the garden before it got dark out.
"mummy! mummy! something's biting me!" fred mimics ron's cries, and arthur tries to look disapproving. percy looks unamused.
"ohhh, mummy i'm scared!" george cackles, grabbing garden gloves for himself and fred on the way out by the back door. molly swats them with a tea-rag as they go, but they continue laughing. the twins' laughter floats out with them, and you stifle a laugh.
"their laughter is contagious, is all," you assure ron, who was scowling at the door through which the twins has just exited.
───── ⋆.✶
as promised, you head to ginny's room after tea to help her with her outfit and to paint her nails. you knew that she enjoyed having you around; with three brothers constantly around, you would want a girl around too. ginny's room was simple and surprisingly clean. the walls were adorned with moving pictures of her and her friends from Hogwarts and her childhood, her family, and a few posters of what seemed to be wizarding music bands. her bed had multiple soft toys on it, and as you sit on it, you set a lion softie in your lap, its mane soft tufts of fabric. you dump nearly 10 bottles of nail polish on her bed.
"alright, i have red, pink, teal, brown, green, purple, mauve and maroon, what'll it be?" you ask ginny, who was staring in slight awe. you realise then that ginny had probably never worn nail polish before, or very rarely; molly was the only woman in her immediate family, and she certainly wasn't the type for makeup apart from a simple lipstick on special occasions. from what you had heard, you doubted that their great-aunt tessie was very fashionable either. the boys didn't wear nail polish, and in Hogwarts, it wasn't allowed(although most didn't really abide by the rules).
"red," ginny decides after 5 minutes of staring at the bottles. lightly amused, you take ginny's hand, prepping her nails as she watched with a sort of bashful excitement.
"have you painted your nails before?" you ask her, filing her nail while making sure not to get anything on her covers. ginny shakes her head, still watching.
"i dunno, mum says when i was younger i have, but i don't remember it," she confesses, her hand fidgeting as you set it on your knee while you open the bottle of polish.
"well, maybe you have. and red is a good choice, i think it'll fit you," you say quietly, more focused as you begin to paint.
"talk to me," you murmur, head ducked while ginny sat infront of you.
"about what?" she asks, and you shrug, blowing a strand of hair away from your face.
"anything. boys, school, complain about your brothers."
"boys?! i- there are no-" ginny splutters, and you glance up at her, starting to laugh.
"who is he?" you ask knowingly, already knowing ginny fancied harry potter. fred and george had told you, not that you needed telling. the girl was rather obvious, or maybe you were just observant.
ginny tells you about harry after appoximately three minutes of hesitation; from there, she just goes on and on, talking about how cool he was, how she liked his eyes, and his hair and his smile, how he was so much funnier than ron. you listen, nodding along and chiming in your opinions once in a while.
soon enough, ginny's nails are painted and dry, a bright scarlet. she squeals softly, wiggling her fingers at you.
"i love them!" she says brightly, hopping off her bed to go to her closet.
"oh, outfit time?" you ask from the bed. ginny nods, being careful not to let her nails touch anything else even though they were dry.
"okay, it's spring, so you need something light. show me your options," you say, picking your own nail polish. you pick a deep brown, which was your go-to whenever you did paint your nails.
ginny finally ends up picking a sunny yellow top and simple bootcut jeans after half an hour, during which you had painted both hands.
"i'm going to go see if the twins have finished de-gnoming," you say, pushing yourself off the bed. ginny nods absently, staring at her carpet floor, which had a heap of discarded clothes from the selection process of her outfit. you head downstairs, inspecting your nails as you go.
"mrs weasley, are fred and george still in the garden?" you ask, and molly nods, looking up from her knitting.
"yes, dear. and open the first cabinet to your left, there are some ice treats that arthur bought for you children," she says, and you do so, opening said cabinet. it had a freezing charm on it apparently, because the inside was ice-cold, with colourful popsicles inside. you grab three; one grape for yourself, a lime one for george, and orange for fred.
"thanks, mrs weasley!" you call out, pushing the back door open. outside, you see the twins, still wrestling with the gnomes. george falls forward as he clings to one's ankles, with the boy screaming louder than the gnome. fred rushes over to help him, also screaming for no apparent reason, and both of them swing the gnome across the bushes. you approach whilst laughing, the popsicles already melting down your fingers.
"here," you giggle, squinting in the sun. you give fred the orange popsicle, and george the lime one. they accept them, panting slightly.
"thank you!" george groans, practically snatching it from you in his haste. you give it to him, amused.
"you're an angel," fred sighs, his shirt damp with sweat. his hair, like george's was sweaty, and the column of his neck glistened with beads of perspiration. fred lifts the hem his shirt to wipe his neck, and you look down at your sneakers, trying to act like you weren't observing him for some reason. neither of them noticed, thanks to your relief. you weren't looking, anyway. your eyes just happened to be facing fred...or something.
"i hate the gnomes. why can't they eat rubbish or something instead of roots?" george sighs, and you nod sympathetically, crunching on your grape popsicle. the twins plop down right there, and you follow suit, crossing your legs. fred stretches his legs out infront of him.
"are you done with them, atleast? it's been nearly an hour and a half."
"yeah, the little buggers won't be back for a while," fred says, glancing to your painted nails.
"you painted your nails too?" he asks, and you nod, showing the twins. they lean in in unison, peering at the dark brown shining on your nails.
"cute," george says approvingly, swallowing half of his popsicle. fred nods, pushing his damp hair from his face.
"want me to do yours?" you ask them, dead serious. the twins shake their head.
"no, why would we paint our nails?" george asks, and fred nods. before you open your mouth to tell the twins that not only women could paint their nails, but men too, fred gets to his statement first.
"yeah, we do too much with our hands to maintain that," he says, wiggling his eyebrows. you fake-gag, which turns into a laugh.
"gross!"
"i meant pranks, spitfire. you know that!" fred grins, and george barks out a laugh as you bristle.
"merlin, i haven't heard that nickname in years! it used to rile you up so much, y/n," george snickers, and you huff, still licking your ice popsicle with as much anger as one could enjoy an iced confection. the nickname was ancient, something fred used to call you in your earliest years of friendship, just to make you mad. you sassed him regularly, even then, so the nickname 'spitfire' had emerged. he had grown out of the petty name-calling years ago; or so you thought.
"used to?" fred laughs, pointing his popsicle at you. "look at her, she's fuming!" you flip fred off, annoyed.
"if i 'spit fire', you spew shit," you say, before immediately laughing at your own joke. george joins in, high-fiving you in pure glee.
"fucking hell! spewshit! that's your nickname, fred! y/n, how did you not come up with this earlier?!"
"i hate both of you."
"suck it, spewshit!" you and george cackle in unison, collapsing together as fred grins reluctantly.
"that doesn't even make sense!"
"SUCK IT, SPEWSHIT!"
───── ⋆.✶
by the time dinner rolled around, you were exhausted of social energy, but still content. you sit between ginny and ron again, opposite the twins and percy, just like at afternoon tea. ginny was talking to no one in particular, or maybe just everyone, about her plans with her friends tomorrow. you listen, nodding along, as arthur talks to percy about some news. ron is too busy shoveling roast potatoes into his mouth to be of use, and the twins are laughing between themselves. you were tired, but ginny seemed particularly excited about her outfit that you had helped her pick, so you listened, not unhappily. the twins share a look, then lean over to ginny.
"oi ginny," says george. ginny looks over, spearing a vegetable.
"tomorrow while you're out, can you help us get…" fred begins, then looks to you; he was trying to get ginny to talk to them instead of you so that you could take the backseat. you smile gratefully.
"a bunch of sweets…" fred says slowly, before nodding decisively.
"sweets? what for?" ginny asks, and the twins shrug. from there, the twins occupy ginny' attention, letting you stay quiet. fred catches your eye, giving you a look; "are you alright?", to which you nod, leaning back in your seat. you smile at fred. a genuine, thankful one, instead of the usual teasing grin. he smiles back, eyes twinkling with mischief. as it turns out, the twins could be socially aware when they felt like it.
───── ⋆.✶
after dinner, everyone retreats to do their own things. arthur and molly chat in the living room, percy's in his room studying for his N.E.W.T.S(it's all he ever talks about), ron's writing to harry and hermione to ask them to meet up, and ginny's in her room, poring over quidditch magazines. that allows you to occupy yourself in the company of the twins. you sit in their room, taking a place on the floor with your legs stretched out infront of you. the twins were working on prank products, which they did with extra rigor when they were home for the holidays, because they had more time. they seem particularly invested in their invention ideas, you think.
"so, you two are taking this business thing serious?" you ask, and george looks up from his roll of parchment.
"yeah, we think we've got a real knack for it," he says hopefully, twirling his pen. fred straightens up, looking proud.
"we've got this product idea, where we charm ordinary looking sweets to cause temporary illness," he says, leaning back against his headboard where he sits on his bed. you pause, trying to be supportive despite the bizarre idea. why the hell would someone buy something that would make them sick? fred laughs at the hesitant smile on your face.
"y/n, whatever you do, never become an actor," he laughs, getting off the bed to come sit with you on the floor. george does the same, and the three of you sit on the carpet, huddled in an odd triangle. you roll your eyes.
"you're taking the piss, then. there's no product that makes someone sick," you figure out, and george shakes his head, looking infinitely amused.
"no no, there is, the point is, when the subject eats the candy, they get sick. for example, nosebleeds, fevers, boils," george begins, and this time you don't hide the disbelief on your face. you knew many people considered the twins a little...loose in the head, but you didn't believe it, not until now.
"and there are antidote halves. someone could eat them to get out of lessons, then recover almost immediately after. perfect excuse to leave situations," fred finishes, and you gasp, understanding the concept.
"ohhh, that makes so much more sense. that's bloody brilliant!" you grin, clapping in excitement. the twins grin at each other, then at you.
"are you going to tell your mum and dad about your idea?" you ask them, and their expressions flatten a little. you deflate along with them; you knew the twins were apprehensive, because their parents, especially molly, wouldn't like the idea of a self-built business, especially because the Weasleys weren't particularly well-off. fred and george were right to think so, because all of their older brothers had relatively stable jobs- and, well, percy was clearly set on the Ministry. but you couldn't see the twins in the Ministry even if they were actually put in there. it was just too....bland, too uniform for people like them.
"well, keep at it. maybe in a year or so, you could start selling products to people in school, and when your mum sees how well they sell, she might be more open," you say encouragingly, and george nods, setting his pencil down.
"that's what we're hoping for. we really think we could make it big," fred says, and you take a deep breath, smiling.
"yeah, for sure."
"will you be our tester, y/n?" fred asks, but the look on his face made it clear that he already knew what your response, or any normal person's, would be to the request to test a magical product that made you bleed through the nose, to put it mildly.
"frederick, that's like asking me to sock myself in the nose. try asking me again, or you won't need an enchanted candy for a nosebleed." fred laughs, raising his hands.
"woah, the full name, you're in trouble, freddie," george chuckles, elbowing fred. you sigh.
"hey, calm it, spitfire. i was simply testing the waters," fred snickers, and you scoff out an incredulous laugh, smacking his head. he ducks, yowling. george laughs, reaching over to his bed. he tosses you a pillow, and you hit fred with it lightly, laughing.
"pillow fight??? really, y/n?!" fred yells, rolling over on the floor like a solider. he takes cover behind his bed, grabbing a pillow of his own. biting your lip in determination, you hit him harder, and he cries out.
"GEORGE, SAVE ME, YOU UNLOYAL DICK!" he bellows, and you look over to george, who is on his side, clutching his middle as he laughs.
"you're on your own, spewshit!" you cackle, and fred hits you over the head, both of you on your knees.
"are you kidding me?? 'spitfire' is a much better nickname than 'spewshit'! stop this right now!" he gasps between laughs. you stand, swinging your mighty sword(soft pillow) to hit fred's side.
"fight me! or are you too scaareddd!" you laugh, having way too much fun for someone who had supposedly run out of social battery an hour ago. fred stands too, bouncing on the balls of his feet like a fighter. you shake your shoulders dramatically.
"ohh, it's a match!" george grins, standing too. he claps, pretending to cheer. grinning, you hit fred's chest with the pillow, and he hits you square in the face. both of you are laughing yourselves silly, breathless and stupid.
"ohhh, y/n delivers a clean blow to spewshit's chest! and spewshit counters with a brutal hit to the face! might want to fix your hair there, y/n," george yells, giving commentary now. you blow your hair from your face dismissively. you and fred circle one another, pretending to stare each other down while holding back giggles. fred's hair was incredibly messy, tufts of fiery hair sticking up like flames. you could only imagine how your own hair looked, your braid messy and falling out.
"i'm not 'spewshit', i'm 'beautiful and handsome lad'," fred tells george, who completely ignores him. while fred's distracted, you hook your foot behind his knees, making him fall with an undignified yelp.
"hey, that wasn't a pillow!" fred pants in protest, on one knee infront of you. you just smack him with your pillow, giggling breathlessly.
"ohh, and mighty y/n brings spewshit to his knees! a marvelous end to the thrilling match!" george cheers joyfully, and fred sets his other knee on the carpet too, pretending to sob into his hands lie a fallen warrior.
"how come she's 'mighty y/n' and i'm 'spewshit'?!" he wails, but you could see his grin peeking out from between his fingers, the crinkle of the corners of his eyes because of his smile. you ruffle his already messy hair, thumping his shoulder. fred on his knees was a satisfying sight, you thought with amusement.
"alright now, crybaby. up you get," you laugh, and fred rolls his eyes, standing up to full height, quite a bit taller than you. you cross your arms, adopting a matter-of-fact expression.
"i think i prefer you down there," you inform him, and fred laughs, tossing his pillow onto his bed.
"that'll be five galleons," he grins, and you snicker despite yourself, waving at him dismissively.
"i won that thrilling match, by the way," you say instead, and fred shakes his head in disbelief.
"you call that a bloody match? meet me in the garden for Quidditch, i'll show you something thrilling."
"that's not fair, i don't play Quidditch," you retort, and fred crosses his arms to mirror you.
"well, i'm not a pillow-fight player, either," he defends, raising a brow. you make a face, and george starts laughing all over again.
"i'm not one either....and that's not even a thing, anyway!" you argue, trying not to smile in order to win the 'argument'.
"whatever you say, spitfire," fred shrugs, acting like he didn't use the nickname on purpose to make you mad. you look to george, who was spectating with twitching lips. he catches your look and shrugs, grinning. you turn back to fred.
"i hate you," you decide haughtily, and fred throws his head back, laughing. you bristle, scoffing but unable to say anything, because obviously, you didn't hate your best friend.
"yeah, right. goodnight, you've got to head to bed," he reminds you, and you walk backwards, rolling your eyes fondly.
"i won that argument, too," you tell him, and george nods, which earns him a swat on the back of the head from fred.
"goodnight, you tosspots."
───── ⋆.✶
that night after washing up and changing, you lie in your borrowed bed, thinking about the day you had experienced. it was more chaotic than any day back at your home, and merlin, was it tiring at times. but then again, there wasn't a single place anywhere else where you could remember smiling this much in a day. you think back to the pillow fight, giggling to yourself in the dark. fred was absolutely terrible at pillow fighting, given that he was a Beater in Quidditch, and had consistently made the team every year since his second.
you roll over onto your side, unable to stop smiling. the whole day had been so much fun, and the thought of returning back to your house makes your smile falter slightly. it wasn't that your home was a cruel place, it just....didn't really feel like home. it felt like a temporary living space, even with your mother greeting you home with a smile and a cup of tea... with cream and sugar, not how you liked it. you sigh, shaking the mundane thoughts from your head. instead, you direct your thoughts to roger davies, a boy that had caught your eye in the last few weeks of school before your spring break. with dark hair and indigo blue eyes, he was pretty cute.... angelina and alicia had thought so too, when you had asked them about their opinions before the spring break.
───── ⋆.✶
the next few days at The Burrow go by in a blur of chores(that you insisted on helping with), shopping for groceries with molly and percy, who apparently knows how to pick out the best tomatoes, helping fred and george prank a very irritated ron, and a lot of laughter. every night, you find yourself sore and completely exhausted, but the happiest you've ever been. you never notice the weariness in your limbs until you bid everyone a good night and lie in bed alone. and as it turns you, fred and george were not noisy at night, like fred had warned you about. the two troublemakers seem to be asleep long before you in their room next door every night.
───── ⋆.✶
before you knew it, your last day at the Burrow was upon you. you drag yourself downstairs for breakfast at 8am, trying not to seem too tired. you were not a morning person, to say the least. the twins, especially fred, however, were the epitome of early birds. you pull your hair up into a bun as you shuffle down the stairs. the first few days at The Burrow, you had been shy enough to clean up quite a bit before breakfast, but after seeing that quite literally everyone except arthur, who left for work immediately after breakfast, looked messy and dreadful, you didn't bother much either. besides, the Weasleys never judged.
you take a seat at the kitchen table, waving in greeting to percy, ginny, ron, molly and arthur, who were already seated. the twins emerge from upstairs one after the other, plopping down across you.
"last day here, eh, y/n?" george asks, pouring himself some cereal. you nod with an exaggerated sigh, looking very melancholic. you serve yourself some salad; you never really had an appetite in the morning.
"yeah, then i won't see you all for a week. i've written letter to angie, al and lee, i think they've mailed their replies to my house instead," you say, seperating the tomatoes from your salad without a second thought.
"you don't like tomatoes, dear?" asks molly, and you freeze before sheepishly rubbing the side of your neck.
"err... i don't mind them?" you say, and fred laughs.
"she hates them, mum," fred says for you, and you flush, not wanting to make molly feel bad for making things with tomatoes with you as a guest.
"keep making things with tomatoes though," fred assures molly, who looks lightly amused. "she gives all her tomatoes to me, so nothing goes to waste," he says, and you sigh good-naturedly, shaking your head in mock-irritation.
"ohhh, so that's why y/n seperates her tomatoes from her food almost every day at school," ginny goes, and george nods.
"it's a habit they've got going on between them. fred loves tomatoes, apparently, and y/n hates them, so he takes hers."
"oh, how sweet! arthur, look how nice," molly coos, and you feel your cheeks heat involuntarily. fred looks to you, stifling a laugh. you catch his look and bite your lip to keep a laugh in, too. arthur looks up, smiling even though he clearly wasn't listening to the conversation.
"ah, wonderful!" he says, and molly huffs, smacking her husband's shoulder playfully. everyone laughs. the conversation returns to less embarrassing ground, and you continue seperating your tomatoes. once you were done, you tap the edge of your plate, and without missing it, fred scoops them up from your plate directly into his mouth. you look at him with an eyebrow raised, half in amusement and half in mild judgement. he swallows then grins, shrugging.
"what? i'm hungry," he explains, with both of you unaware that everyone else was watching the exchange in amusement.
───── ⋆.✶
the rest of the day goes by too fast, with packing your things up(which was much easier because of the Extension charm that molly had helped you with) and the one prank you had done with fred and george involving a very smelly dungbomb and percy's shower, which had taken a whole hour just to coordinate. by the end of the day, you were very, very reluctant to leave. you stand in the kitchen of The Burrow infront of the fireplace, with the entire Weasley family surrounding you.
"are you sure you can't stay for another week?" ginny asks you woefully, and you're shocked to see her eyes welling up. eyes widening, you pull her into a hug, patting her head.
"oh, ginny, don't cry!" you say, a little flustered at the tears. behind ginny, the twins were grinning, which makes you want to laugh. instead, you pull away from ginny, gently wiping at her eyes.
"we'll see each other in school, right?" you ask her, and she nods, wiping at her tears hurriedly. "show me your nails," you instruct gently, and ginny smiles, showing off her nails like you had taught her to, with a flourish. you laugh, showing off your own for her.
"use the nail polish while you can, alright?" you lean down to whisper in her ear. "and if you can, paint fred and george's too. i wanna see it," you tell her, and ginny laughs, her tears drying up. she steps back, and molly comes up to hug you.
"y/n, it was wonderful having you here for more than one day. tell your parents we said thank you for letting you stay, alright? i've put a tin of biscuits in there-"
"oh, mrs weasley, you didn't have to-"
"shush, dear, they're just something small." she pulls away, smiling before patting your cheek. the twins come up to you, and george hugs you, surprisingly tighter than the greeting one a week ago. you hug him back, with both arms.
"wow, everybody here loves me," you joke, and george pulls back, laughing.
"you're alright at best, spitfire," fred mutters, pulling you into a hug. you throw your arms around his neck, laughing.
"i'll let it slide just this once, frederick," you tease, and he grins, squeezing you tighter once before letting go. percy shakes your hand firmly, and ron stares at you for a moment. you stare back, amused. then you pat his shoulder kindly. fred and george burst into quiet sniggers. you roll your eyes fondly. arthur gives you a fatherly thump on the back, and you grin.
"thanks for having me, mr weasley. and the rest of you," you say, smiling at everyone.
"thank you for coming, dear."
"write to us, y/n!"
"good-bye, y/n."
"i'll paint their nails pink, y/n!"
"what are you talking about, ginny?"
"shut up, you'll find out later, fred."
"language, ginerva."
your one week at The Burrow had been more eventful than any month long holiday anywhere else, with anyone else.
───── ⋆.✶
thank you for reading! i had to cut this shorter, actually, because i got so damn carried away. and i thought i would finish this way later, but apparently, i'd rather write than do my work. who's surprised? no one.
i would say not to expect part three any time soon, but i finished part two within a week of part one, so....expect it soon? don't expect it soon? idk!
Summary: When a quiet girl with a hopeless crush on George Weasley finally finds herself getting closer to him, she starts to wonder if maybe fate has something planned for them. In a world where soulmates bear matching marks and feel each other's pain. But some things are better left unknown.
Warnings: no use of y/n
Cw: angstyyy, soulmate au
Wc: 4k+
Part 2 <- Part 3 -> Part 4 (coming soon)
It's been weeks since you and George started your morning walks by the lake, and you're starting to believe—foolishly, dangerously—that maybe this could actually work. That maybe you could have this one good thing before everything falls apart.
You're sitting in the Great Hall during breakfast, half-listening to Iris talk about her Arithmancy homework, when you see her. A girl with dark hair and sharp features, sitting at the Ravenclaw table. She's not doing anything unusual. Just eating breakfast like everyone else.
But she's looking at George.
Not the way everyone looks at the Weasley twins—with amusement or exasperation or fondness. She's looking at him with focus. With intent. Like she's studying him.
You tell yourself you're imagining it. That you're being paranoid. That not everyone who looks at George is a threat to the fragile, precious thing growing between you.
But then her eyes shift. And she's looking at you.
For just a moment, your gazes lock across the Great Hall. Her expression doesn't change. She doesn't smile or frown or give any indication that she's been caught staring. She just looks at you, calm and assessing, before turning back to her breakfast.
But you're not fine. Because something about that look—that brief, calculated look—has set off every alarm bell in your body.
You glance back at the Ravenclaw table, but the girl isn't looking anymore. She's talking to her friends, laughing at something, completely normal.
Maybe you are just being paranoid.
You see her again that afternoon.
----
The library had become one of the few places where you could still be near George without having to explain yourself.
You weren't close anymore. Not really. Whatever you had once been to each other had slowly turned into something quieter, something neither of you knew how to name. You still knew the little things about him. You knew when he was pretending to understand something, when he was about to make a joke, when he was tired even though he insisted he wasn't.
But knowing someone wasn't the same as having them.
You had learned that recently.
And lately, there was someone else who seemed to be learning all those little things about him too.
The Ravenclaw girl.
She had been around more and more. You noticed her at breakfast, in the corridors, outside his classes. Somehow, whenever you were in the same room as George, she eventually appeared too. She never did anything obvious. She didn't need to. A laugh here, a question there, a reason to sit beside him when there were plenty of other seats.
It was enough.
That afternoon, you were sitting across from George in the library when you finally asked about her. You kept your eyes on your book as you spoke, pretending the question was nothing more than curiosity.
"Who's that Ravenclaw girl? She's been around you quite a lot lately."
George glanced over his shoulder before looking back at you. He shrugged, turning his quill between his fingers as he explained that they'd started talking recently.
Apparently, they had discovered they had a lot in common. Their humour, their interests, even the way they thought about certain things. He said it so casually, but there was something warm in his voice when he talked about her.
You forced yourself to smile.
"That's nice."
The words tasted bitter.
George watched you for a moment, like he could tell something was wrong, but you lowered your eyes before he could ask. You thought about how strange it was that someone else was slowly becoming familiar with him in ways you used to be. She was learning the jokes you already knew, discovering the things that made him laugh, finding out what made him happy.
And she would get to keep learning.
You wouldn't.
That was the part that hurt.
Not that George might like her.
But that one day, when you were nothing more than a memory, she would still be there.
A few minutes later, the Ravenclaw girl approached your table with a book pressed against her chest. She didn't even glance at you before turning her attention to George and telling him she'd been looking for him. She wanted to show him something, apparently, and the way she spoke made it sound as though she already expected him to come with her.
George looked at her, then at you.
"You need me?"
She smiled. "For a minute."
You felt something inside your chest crack quietly.
Not because she wanted him.
Because he looked like he wanted to go.
And you suddenly realised that maybe this was the beginning of something you had been terrified of for months. George finding someone else. George learning how to laugh without you. George slowly building a life that didn't have a place for you in it.
You closed your book and gathered your things even though you weren't finished.
"You should go."
George frowned slightly. "Are you sure?"
You nodded.
"Yeah. Go."
He hesitated, and for one stupid second, your heart hoped he might choose to stay.
Then you remembered what you wanted for him.
Someone who wouldn't leave him behind.
So you gave him another small smile and added quietly, "You two have a lot in common, remember?"
Something changed in his expression.
He looked at you for a long moment, almost as though he wanted to understand what you were really saying.
But you only smiled again.
Eventually, he picked up his things and followed her.
-----
The girl never looks up again. But somehow, you know she's aware of you. Aware of George. Aware of everything.
Over the next few days, you see her everywhere.
In the corridors between classes. In the courtyard. Near the Gryffindor common room entrance. Always at a distance. Always just... there.
You start to feel like you're losing your mind.
"I'm telling you, she's following him," you say to Iris one evening in the common room.
Iris gives you a concerned look. "Following who?"
"George. That Ravenclaw girl. I see her everywhere he is."
"Maybe she just has a similar schedule."
"No, it's more than that. She's always watching him. Watching us."
"Have you talked to George about it?"
"I mentioned her once. He didn't even know who she was."
Iris is quiet for a moment. "Look, I know you're stressed. With everything going on—your illness, your feelings for George, all of it. Maybe you're just... seeing things that aren't there?"
The words sting, even though Iris says them gently.
"I'm not imagining this," you say.
"I'm not saying you are. I'm just saying... maybe you're a little paranoid right now. Which would be totally understandable."
You want to argue. You want to insist that you're not being paranoid, that there's something wrong about this girl and the way she appears wherever George is.
But maybe Iris is right. Maybe the stress is getting to you. Maybe you're so afraid of losing George that you're inventing threats where there are none.
"Maybe," you say quietly.
But you don't believe it.
----
It gets worse.
The girl—you still don't know her name—starts appearing more frequently. She's somehow always at George's side.
You start noticing her everywhere, but after a while, it isn't just the fact that she's always around George that catches your attention. It's the way she looks at him.
You see her outside your Potions classroom, but her eyes aren't really on you. They're searching the corridor for him. In the courtyard, she sits where she can see the path George usually takes after class. Near the Hufflepuff common room, she suddenly seems very interested in whatever happens to be going on whenever George walks past.
And then you start noticing the little things.
The way her face brightens whenever she sees him. The way she laughs a little too quickly at his jokes, even the terrible ones. The way she finds reasons to stand beside him, ask him questions, or stretch a conversation that should have ended minutes ago.
It becomes obvious.
She likes him.
You almost wish you hadn't realised.
Because once you see it, you can't stop seeing it. Every smile, every glance, every excuse to be near him becomes another reminder that someone else wants the same person you've been trying so desperately to let go of.
One afternoon, you watch her laugh at something George says, her eyes lingering on him even after he's looked away.
Iris follows your gaze and quietly asks, "You see it too, don't you?"
You look down at your book.
"Yeah."
You try to sound indifferent, but your fingers tighten around the page.
"She really likes him."
Iris doesn't answer immediately. She knows you well enough to understand that you aren't saying it because you're angry.
You're saying it because you're already trying to convince yourself that this is a good thing.
"You look exhausted," Iris says one afternoon. "Are you sleeping?"
"Not really," you admit.
"Maybe you should go to the Hospital Wing," Iris suggests. "Get something to help you sleep."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You're paranoid and exhausted and—"
"I said I'm fine."
The words come out sharper than you intended. Iris flinches, and guilt floods through you.
"I'm sorry," you say quickly. "I'm just... I'm stressed. You're right. I'll try to get more sleep."
Iris doesn't look convinced, but she doesn't push.
-----
On Friday, something changes.
You're walking to Charms when you see them together.
George and the girl.
They're standing in the corridor, talking. The girl is smiling—a bright, pretty smile that makes her whole face light up. George is smiling too, that easy, friendly smile he gives everyone.
Your heart drops into your stomach.
You stop walking, frozen in the middle of the corridor while students flow around you. You can't hear what they're saying. You're too far away. But you can see the way the girl touches George's arm, casual and brief. You can see the way George laughs at something she says.
They look... comfortable together. Natural.
Like they've known each other for years instead of—
Wait. How long have they known each other?
You realize with a jolt that you don't know. You don't know when they met or how or why they're talking now. You don't know anything except that the girl who's been watching you, watching George, is now standing right next to him, touching his arm, making him laugh.
You force yourself to move, to walk past them. George doesn't notice you. He's too focused on whatever the girl is saying.
The girl notices, though.
As you pass, her eyes flick to you. Just for a second. And there's something in her expression—something that might be triumph or satisfaction or just your paranoid imagination—before she looks back at George.
You make it around the corner before you have to stop and lean against the wall, trying to catch your breath.
You're being ridiculous. They were just talking. George talks to lots of people. It doesn't mean anything.
But your hands are shaking, and there's a voice in the back of your mind whispering that everything is about to fall apart.
You avoid George for the rest of the day.
You skip dinner, claiming you have a headache. You hide in your dormitory and try to read, but the words blur together on the page.
You keep seeing them together. Keep seeing the way she touched his arm. Keep seeing the way he smiled at her.
"You're being stupid," you tell yourself. "You're being paranoid and jealous and stupid."
But you can't shake the feeling that something is wrong.
Around nine o'clock, there's a knock on your dormitory door. One of your roommates answers it, then calls your name.
"Someone's here for you."
Your heart leaps. George.
But when you go to the door, it's Iris.
"We need to talk," she says.
You follow her down to the common room, which is mostly empty at this hour. She leads you to a corner and sits down, patting the seat next to her.
"What's going on?" you ask.
"That's what I want to know. You've been acting strange all week, and today you completely disappeared. George came looking for you at dinner. He was worried."
The mention of George makes your chest ache. "I had a headache."
"Right. A headache." Iris gives you a look. "Does this have anything to do with that Ravenclaw girl you've been obsessing over?"
"I'm not obsessing—"
"You are. And I'm worried about you." Iris takes your hand. "Look, I know you're hurt. I know you're dealing with a lot. But you can't let that ruin what you have with George."
"I saw them together today," you say quietly. "Talking. She touched his arm. He was smiling at her."
"So? George smiles at everyone. He's friendly. That's just who he is."
"It was different."
"How?"
You can't explain it. You can't put into words the way it felt to see them together, the certainty that something has shifted.
"I don't know," you say finally. "It just was."
Iris sighs. "You need to talk to George. Tell him how you're feeling."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
I'm not supposed to get attached. Because I'm not supposed to let him get attached to me. Because this was always going to end badly and maybe it's better if it ends now, before we get in any deeper.
"I just can't," you say.
Iris looks at you for a long moment, and you can see the frustration and concern warring in her expression.
"You're going to lose him," she says finally. "Not because of some other girl. Because you're pushing him away."
The words hit like a physical blow.
"Maybe that's for the best," you whisper.
"No. It's not." Iris squeezes your hand. "I know you think you're protecting him. But you're just hurting both of you."
You don't answer. Because she's right, and you know it, but you don't know how to stop. You don't know how to let yourself have this when you know how it ends.
-----
You don't meet George by the lake the next morning.
It's the first time you've missed your morning walk since you started them, and the guilt sits heavy in your chest. But you can't face him. Not yet. Not when you're still seeing him with that girl every time you close your eyes.
You spend the morning in the library instead, hiding in your usual corner, trying to focus on homework and failing miserably.
Around ten o'clock, George finds you.
"There you are," he says, dropping into the chair across from you. "I waited by the lake for an hour. I was starting to think something happened to you."
The concern in his voice makes you feel even worse.
"I'm sorry," you say, not meeting his eyes. "I overslept."
"You never oversleep."
"Well, I did today."
There's a pause. You can feel George watching you, trying to figure out what's wrong.
"Did I do something?" he asks finally. "Because if I did, I want to fix it. But I can't fix it if you won't tell me what's wrong."
"You didn't do anything," you say, and it's the truth. He didn't do anything wrong. This is all you—your paranoia, your fear, your inability to just let yourself be happy.
"Then what's going on? You've been avoiding me."
"I haven't—"
"You have. And I want to know why."
You finally look up at him. The concern in his face makes your chest ache, especially because you know you can't keep giving him reasons to worry about you. Your eyes drift briefly toward the window, where students are passing through the courtyard, and you think about how different things have felt lately. George seems lighter around Evelyn. Happier, maybe. And perhaps that was what you had been hoping for all along.
"You've been spending a lot of time with her lately," you say quietly, turning the corner of your page between your fingers. "It's nice, I think. You seem to have fun together."
George's eyebrows pull together. "What are you getting at?"
You shake your head with a faint smile, trying to make it seem like an ordinary observation. "Nothing. I just think it's good that you've found someone who suits you."
He goes quiet, watching you like he knows there's something hidden underneath your words.
You look back down at your book before he can see the sadness in your eyes. "She seems good for you."
You don't say anything else.
You don't need to.
The words already feel like a goodbye.
----
That night, you have a nightmare.
You're standing by the lake, and George is there, but he's not looking at you. He's looking at someone else. The Ravenclaw girl. She's standing between you, and there's something on her wrist. A mark. Glowing and beautiful and unmistakable.
A soulmate mark.
George reaches for her, and you try to call out to him, try to tell him that it's wrong, that you're his soulmate, not her. But no sound comes out. You're invisible again. Forgotten.
The girl turns to look at you, and her smile is triumphant.
"He was never yours," she says. "He was always meant to be mine."
You wake up gasping, your heart racing, your sheets soaked with sweat.
It was just a dream. Just a nightmare brought on by stress and paranoia.
But it felt real. Too real.
You press your hand to your chest, feeling your heart beat its irregular rhythm. You're running out of time. You can feel it. Your body is getting weaker, your episodes more frequent.
And now there's this girl, this threat you don't understand, circling closer and closer.
You're going to lose everything. George. Your life. All of it.
And there's nothing you can do but watch it happen.
----
Monday morning, you don't go to the lake.
You tell yourself it's because you're tired, because you need to rest, because your body is demanding it. But the truth is, you're scared. Scared of what's coming. Scared of seeing that girl again. Scared of the way everything feels like it's about to shatter.
It wasn't one big thing. It was all the little things that had disappeared. You didn't tease him anymore when he did something stupid. You didn't complain when he stole things from your hands. You didn't linger when you happened to meet in the corridors, and you no longer looked for him when you entered a room.
That was what bothered him most.
----
George had only taken a few steps down the corridor when he noticed the Ravenclaw girl waiting near the window. He slowed, recognising her immediately.
"Hey, Evelyn."
She looked up at the sound of her name and smiled. "George."
She fell into step beside him, asking if he was alright when she noticed him rubbing his arm. George glanced down at it and gave a small shrug, explaining that a strange pain had suddenly shot through it a few moments ago. It was already fading, but he could still feel a dull ache beneath his skin.
Evelyn's expression shifted.
She looked at his arm for a moment before slowly bringing her own hand to the exact same place.
"Ouch."
George stopped.
Evelyn looked down at her arm, then back at him. For a second, she looked genuinely surprised. "That's strange. I felt something there too."
George stared at her, his mind going completely quiet.
Neither of them spoke for a moment. Then Evelyn gave a small laugh, trying to make it sound like nothing, but there was something nervous underneath it. She kept glancing between her arm and George's, as though she was trying to understand what had just happened.
George looked down at his own arm again.
He knew what it could mean.
Soulmates felt each other's pain.
His heart gave a strange, sudden beat.
It wasn't fear.
If anything, there was something almost hopeful about the thought. After everything he'd been through, after years of wondering who his soulmate might be, the possibility that she could be standing right in front of him made his thoughts race.
"You felt it too, didn't you?" Evelyn asked softly.
George finally looked at her.
"Yeah."
The word came out quieter than he expected.
Evelyn smiled, almost shyly, and lowered her hand from her arm. "Maybe we should talk about this."
George nodded, still looking at her.
For the first time, the thought didn't feel impossible.
Maybe he had finally found her.
And somewhere beneath that thought was another one he wasn't ready to face yet.
If Evelyn really was his soulmate, then what did that mean for the girl he'd spent so long trying not to love?
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Sneaky Hours, Sneaky Towers | Fred Weasley x Ravenclaw!reader
summary: you and Fred sneak into the Ravenclaw tower late at night and have a little midnight rendezvous.
warnings: dry humping
divider by @uzmacchiato
Your hands tangled in Fred’s hair as he softly moaned into the kiss, pushing you back into the wall. You giggled, breaking the kiss briefly. Fred smiled against your skin as he pressed kisses to your jaw and neck, hand cupping the back of your head so you didn’t hit your head on the wall. You hummed in pleasure, tipping your head back to allow him to lavish your neck with kisses, giggling when he nipped at your ear.
Fred returned to your lips with a smile, capturing them once again. You guided him to the Ravenclaw dorms, trying your hardest not to break the kiss. When you accidentally tripped on his robes, neither of you could help but pull apart in a fit of chuckles. You took his hand in yours, tangling your fingers together, and pulled him towards the dorms. He happily let you lead as you both made your way through the dark Hogwarts hallways, silent at the late hour, and tried your best to avoid Mrs. Norris and her irritating human.
Once you got to the dorms, the bronze eagle knocker asked, “Who lived longer, the ghost or the poltergeist?”
Fred scratched his head, perplexed by the riddle. “Depends on what age they died, doesn’t it?” he whispered to you.
You chuckled softly and shook your head. “A non-being can never have been,” you replied to the knocker, and the giant door swung open.
You took his hand once again and dragged him inside the common room while Fred stared at the back of your head in awe. Once inside, you turned around to face him, arms looping around his shoulders. His hands fell to your waist, and his face still wore that awed expression.
“I will never get over how smart you are,” he mumbled, leaning down to capture your lips once more.
You hummed happily into the kiss, pushing him back gently towards the couch in front of the fire in the common room. Fred plopped down, pulling you with him, and you wasted no time straddling his hips. He lay down with you on top of him, as your lips stayed attached, tongues clashing in a battle of who could get a better taste of the other. His hand slipped inside your robes, caressing your side lovingly, sending butterflies through your chest. Your hand tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck, lightly scratching his scalp and sending shivers down his spine.
He moaned once again into the kiss, unabashed and needy, causing heat to shoot down to your core. You ground your hips against his as you two pulled away from the kiss for a breath. Your foreheads rested against each other, eyes closed as you panted for breath.
“Darling,” Fred mumbled needily against your lips as you kept grinding your hips on his dick. You could feel the hard length of him against your wet core, and the friction was so delicious and so incredibly welcome that you couldn’t bring yourself to stop.
“Hm?” you questioned before trailing wet kisses over his jaw and down his neck. Fred tipped his head back, welcoming the touch. His hands moved down to your ass, helping guide your movements as his breathing grew more laboured. You paused at the spot where his neck meets his shoulder and bit down gently, eliciting a whine from Fred. You smiled against his skin, clearly pleased with yourself before licking over that spot.
“Fuck, darling,” he panted, groping your ass. You brought your head back up, forehead resting against his again as you ground your hips down with more force. Both of you moaned simultaneously at the added friction. “Faster,” he requested. Fred could barely keep his eyes open at the moment, looking up at you with a blissed-out expression, face flushed, hair messy, and you thought he had never looked more handsome.
You rested both palms on his shoulders as you sat up a little to grind your hips down more. Your breathing was also heavy at this point, and you could feel your orgasm approaching. Your movements grew more frantic, and your moans grew louder. Fred reached out to tuck your hair behind your ear, cupping your cheek in the process. You smiled mischievously at him before taking his thumb into your mouth and sucking on it.
Fred’s eyes rolled back in his head. “You’re going to be the end of me,” he murmured and pulled you down to kiss you deeply once again.
You pulled apart, panting. “And are you going to let me?” you questioned, voice growing breathier the closer you approached your orgasm.
“Oh, absolutely,” he replied before he started rutting his hips into yours.
You buried your face in his shoulder as you nearly screamed. He turned his face into your head as well to drown out the noises he was making. Both of you came with moans of each other's names. You slumped on top of him, both of you breathing heavily. Fred rubbed your back as he pressed kisses to your temple and shoulder while mumbling quiet, worshipful praises against your skin.
Once your breathing became normal, you sat up, looking down at Fred with a soft smile. He mirrored your expression, looking at you with the same lovestruck, devoted expression that only came out when nobody was around.
“I’ve missed doing that,” he whispered.
You chuckled softly. “Me too, Freddie.”
You leaned down to softly peck his lips. “It's gonna suck to say goodnight to you,” you mumbled.
He groaned in response. “You mean, you're planning on using me for a smash then tossing me out like some old dildo?” he feigned offence.
You laughed quietly, kissing his forehead. “You’re not an old dildo, Freddie,” you replied lovingly. Fred smiled endearingly at you.
“You’re a very new dildo,” you stated.
Fred gasped in offence, tickling your sides. You giggled, getting off him to get away and trying to suppress your laughter as much as possible to avoid waking anyone. “You traitorous vixen,” Fred teased. “Say you love me.”
You giggled. “Never!” you retorted, trying to push him away.
Fred didn’t let up, though, continuing to tickle you until you gave in.
“Okay, I love you, I love you, I love you,” you gasped out through your laughter.
He finally stopped, plopping down on the couch next to you and pulling you into his embrace. He kissed the top of your head and responded, “I love you, too, you vixen.”
Summary: When a quiet girl with a hopeless crush on George Weasley finally finds herself getting closer to him, she starts to wonder if maybe fate has something planned for them. In a world where soulmates bear matching marks and feel each other's pain. But some things are better left unknown.
Warnings: no use of y/n
Cw: angstyyy, soulmate au
Wc: 4k+
Part 1 <- Part 2 -> Part 3(coming soon)
It starts with a dropped book.
You're walking through the corridor on the third floor, arms full of library books because you've never learned to make multiple trips, when one slips from the pile. It hits the stone floor with a loud thud that echoes embarrassingly through the hallway.
You stop, sighing, trying to figure out how to pick it up without dropping the rest. A few students glance your way as they pass, but no one stops. You're used to that. You're about to attempt a very awkward crouch when someone else gets there first.
"Got it," a familiar voice says.
You look up, and your heart stops.
George Weasley is crouching in front of you, picking up your Charms textbook. He straightens, and suddenly he's right there, closer than he's ever been, holding out your book with an easy smile.
"Thanks," you manage, your voice barely above a whisper.
"No problem." He glances at the stack in your arms. "That's a lot of books. You planning to read them all tonight?"
"I—" You feel heat creeping up your neck. "I just... I like to be prepared."
"Prepared for what, exactly? The entire year's curriculum in one go?"
There's no meanness in his tone. He's teasing, but it's gentle. Friendly. And when you dare to meet his eyes, they're warm and curious.
"Maybe," you say, and you're surprised when it comes out almost playful.
George grins. "Well, in that case, you might want to add this one." He reaches over and taps the spine of a book near the top of your pile.
"Advanced Transfiguration Theory. Really riveting stuff. Put me right to sleep last week."
You can't help it—you smile. A real smile, not the practiced one you've perfected. "I'll keep that in mind."
"George! Come on, we're going to be late!" Fred's voice calls from down the corridor.
George glances back at his brother, then returns his attention to you. For a moment, he just looks at you, and there's something in his expression you can't quite read. Then he smiles again.
"See you around," he says.
----
And then he's gone, jogging to catch up with Fred, leaving you standing in the middle of the corridor with your arms full of books and your heart racing.
It was nothing. Just a small interaction. He was being nice, the way anyone would be. But you replay it in your mind for the rest of the day anyway.
"He talked to you?" Iris asks that evening in the common room, her eyes wide.
"It was nothing," you insist, but you can't stop the small smile on your face. "He just picked up a book I dropped."
"And then he stayed to talk to you."
"For like thirty seconds."
"Thirty seconds more than usual." Iris leans forward, excited. "This is good. This is progress."
"It's not progress. It's just... a thing that happened." You try to sound dismissive, but your heart is still doing that stupid flutter. "It doesn't mean anything."
"It could mean something."
"Iris." You give her a look. "We talked about this. I'm not—"
"I know, I know." She holds up her hands. "I'm not saying you should do anything. I'm just saying... maybe it's okay to enjoy the moment. Even if it doesn't go anywhere."
You want to argue, but you can't. Because the truth is, you are enjoying it. That brief conversation has been playing on repeat in your mind all day, and every time you think about the way George smiled at you, something warm blooms in your chest.
It's dangerous. You know it's dangerous.
But maybe Iris is right. Maybe it's okay to have this one small thing.
-----
The next time you see George, it's in the library.
You're tucked into your usual corner, the one by the window where hardly anyone ever goes. You've been working on your Potions essay for the past hour, and your hand is cramping from writing. You're just considering taking a break when someone drops into the chair across from you.
"Fancy meeting you here."
You look up, startled, and there he is again. George Weasley, grinning at you like you're old friends.
"Hi," you say, your mind going blank.
"Hi yourself." He nods at your parchment. "What are you working on?"
"Potions essay. About Veritaserum."
"Ah, truth serum. Nasty stuff." He leans back in his chair, looking entirely too comfortable. "Fred and I tried to brew some once in third year. Ended up with something that made Snape's hair turn purple for a week. He never did figure out it was us."
You bite back a smile. "That's terrible."
"That's genius," he corrects. "There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Absolutely." His eyes are sparkling with mischief. "Terrible is getting caught. Genius is getting away with it."
This time you do smile, and George notices. His grin widens.
"There it is," he says.
"There what is?"
"Your smile. I was starting to think you didn't have one."
The comment catches you off guard. Heat floods your cheeks. "I smile."
"Not usually. At least, not that I've seen." He tilts his head, studying you.
"You're always so serious. Walking around with your nose in a book, looking like you're carrying the weight of the world."
You don't know what to say to that. Because he's right, but he doesn't know why. He doesn't know about the actual weight you're carrying.
"I just... I like to focus on my studies," you say finally.
"Nothing wrong with that. But you know what they say about all work and no play."
"What do they say?"
"Makes you a very dull person." He leans forward, resting his arms on the table. "When's the last time you did something fun? Something that wasn't studying or reading or being responsible?"
You think about it. Really think about it. And you realize you can't remember.
"I don't know," you admit quietly.
Something shifts in George's expression. The teasing fades, replaced by something softer. "That's a shame," he says. "Everyone should have fun. Especially at Hogwarts. This place is magic—literally. We should be enjoying it."
"Some of us have other priorities."
"Like what?"
Like staying alive as long as possible. Like not wasting the time I have left. Like not getting attached to people who will have to grieve for me.
"Like passing my N.E.W.T.s," you say instead.
George makes a face. "Boring. Come on, there has to be something you do for fun."
"I read."
"Besides reading."
You hesitate. "I... I like walking by the lake. Early in the morning, when no one else is around. It's peaceful."
George's expression softens even more. "Yeah? What do you like about it?"
No one's ever asked you that before. No one's ever cared enough to ask.
"The quiet," you say slowly. "The way the water looks when the sun's just coming up. The way everything feels... still. Like the whole world is holding its breath."
You stop, suddenly self-conscious. That was too much. Too revealing.
But George isn't laughing. He's just watching you with this look on his face that you can't quite interpret.
"That sounds nice," he says quietly. "Peaceful."
"It is."
"Maybe I could join you sometime."
Your heart stops. "What?"
"For a walk. By the lake." He says it casually, like he's not just turned your entire world upside down. "If you want company, I mean. No pressure."
You should say no. You should make up an excuse, put distance between you, protect him from getting close to someone who's dying.
But instead, you hear yourself say, "Okay."
George's face lights up. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." You can't quite believe you're agreeing to this. "Tomorrow morning? Around six?"
"Six in the morning?" He pretends to look horrified. "That's practically the middle of the night."
"You said you wanted to join me."
"I did, didn't I?" He sighs dramatically. "Fine. Six it is. But you owe me a very strong cup of coffee afterward."
"Deal."
He grins at you, and you feel that dangerous warmth spreading through your chest again. This is a mistake. You know it's a mistake.
But you can't bring yourself to take it back.
-----
You barely sleep that night.
You lie awake, staring at the ceiling of your dormitory, wondering what you've just agreed to. Wondering if you should back out. Wondering if George will even show up, or if this was just a casual comment he'll forget about by morning.
But when you slip out of the castle at dawn, wrapping your cloak tight against the morning chill, he's already there.
He's standing by the edge of the lake, hands in his pockets, looking out at the water. The sun is just starting to rise, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold. He looks different in this light—softer, quieter. Less like the loud prankster everyone knows and more like... just a person.
"You came," you say, surprised.
He turns, and his face breaks into a smile. "Course I came. I said I would, didn't I?"
"I thought maybe you'd forget."
"Forget about this? Not a chance." He falls into step beside you as you start walking along the shore. "Besides, I was curious. Wanted to see what gets you up at this ungodly hour."
You walk in silence for a few minutes. It should be awkward, but somehow it's not. It's... comfortable. Easy.
"You were right," George says eventually. "It is peaceful."
"Told you."
"And the water does look different at this time of day. All pink and gold." He glances at you. "You come here a lot?"
"When I can." You pause. "It helps me think."
"What do you think about?"
Everything. My illness. How much time I have left. How unfair it all is. How much I wish things were different.
"Just... stuff," you say vaguely.
George doesn't push. He just nods, like he understands that some thoughts are too big to share.
You walk the length of the lake together, and George fills the silence with stories. He tells you about the prank shop he and Fred want to open someday. About the time they turned Percy's Head Boy badge into a spider. About growing up in a house full of siblings and never having a moment's peace.
You listen, and you laugh, and for a little while, you forget about everything else. You forget about your illness, about your limited time, about all the reasons this is a terrible idea.
You just... exist. In this moment. With him.
When you finally head back to the castle, the sun is fully up and students are starting to emerge for breakfast.
"Same time tomorrow?" George asks as you reach the entrance.
You should say no. You should end this now, before it becomes something more.
"Okay," you say instead.
And George smiles like you've just made his day.
-----
It becomes a routine.
Every morning, you meet George by the lake. Sometimes you walk. Sometimes you just sit by the water and talk. He tells you stories, and slowly, carefully, you start telling him things too. Small things. Safe things. About your favorite books, about why you chose Hufflepuff, about the garden your mother keeps at home.
You don't tell him about your illness. You don't tell him that every morning you wake up wondering if this will be the day your body finally gives out. You don't tell him that sometimes, when you're lying in bed at night, you can feel your heart beating wrong, skipping and stuttering in your chest.
Maybe that's why you find yourself telling him something you've never really said out loud.
But you tell him other things. Real things. And he listens like every word matters.
You've always wanted to fly.
Not the kind of flying you're supposed to do in lessons, with a professor watching from the ground and a list of rules to follow. You wanted to know what it felt like to take a broom after dark and disappear into the night, high enough that Hogwarts would look small beneath you. You wanted the cold air against your face and the freedom of going wherever you pleased, even if it was only for a little while.
"I've always wanted to know what it feels like to fly."
George looks at you, surprised.
"Fly?"
You nod, looking down at your hands.
"Not in lessons. Not because I have to. I mean really fly."
You pause, trying to find the right words.
"At night, maybe. When it's quiet and everyone's asleep. Just... going wherever I want for a little while."
George smiles faintly.
"You've never been on a broom?"
You shake your head.
"Never."
"Why?"
You shrug, giving him the easiest answer.
"I've never been allowed."
George looked at you when you mentioned it, waiting for an explanation you weren't going to give him. You simply shrugged and looked away, pretending it wasn't important.
You couldn't tell him that your illness was the reason. You couldn't tell him that every time you'd imagined yourself doing it, there had always been that quiet thought in the back of your mind reminding you that you might not have much time left.
So you let him believe it was nothing. He didn't question you.
George watches you quietly before his smile returns.
"Well, that's easily fixed."
You laugh softly. You shake your head, but you're smiling now.
"Maybe someday."
George grins.
"Definitely someday."
You smile back.
Neither of you knows how much that little promise will come to mean. And for a moment, you let yourself believe him.
You didn't know then that someday would become one of the things you'd wish for most.
-----
The walks by the lake bleed into other moments. George starts sitting with you in the library. He saves you a seat in the classes you share. He waves at you across the Great Hall, and your heart does that stupid flutter every single time.
Iris notices, of course.
"You're spending a lot of time with him," she says one evening, her tone carefully neutral.
"We're just friends," you say, but even you don't believe it anymore.
"Are you?"
You don't answer. Because the truth is, you don't know what you are. Friends doesn't feel like the right word for the way George looks at you sometimes. For the way your hands almost touched yesterday when you were walking, and how you both pulled back at the same time, like you'd been burned.
"Be careful," Iris says softly. "I don't want to see you get hurt."
"I won't," you lie; you're already hurt. You've been hurt since the moment you realized you were falling for him. Since the moment you understood that every smile, every laugh, every shared moment is just another thing you'll have to leave behind.
Three weeks after that first morning by the lake, something shifts.
You're in the courtyard, sitting on a bench with a book you're not really reading. George appears out of nowhere and drops down beside you, so close your shoulders almost touch.
"What are you reading?" he asks.
You show him the cover. "Muggle poetry."
"Poetry?" He makes a face. "Isn't that all roses are red, violets are?"
"Not all of it." You flip to a page you've marked. "Listen to this." You turn to the page you'd marked.
"If time would only linger where we stand,
I'd ask the morning not to hurry by,
I'd hold each little moment in my hands,
and never ask the evening why."
George is quiet for a moment, his eyes lingering on the page.
"You like that?"
You nod, closing the book gently.
"Why?"
You shrug, trying to make it seem like it isn't anything. "I don't know. I just think some moments deserve to last a little longer."
He looks at you, like he's trying to understand what you mean. You smile before he can ask.
"And some things are nicer when you don't explain them."
He lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "You're strange."
"Maybe."
You look back down at the poem, letting your thumb rest against the worn edge of the page.
----
George is quiet for a moment. When you look up, he's watching you with an expression that makes your breath catch.
You look back down at the page, suddenly finding it easier to stare at the words than at him.
"There was another one."
"You became a part of me before I could say your name,
and by the time I did, I feared it would be too late."
The words linger between you.
You keep your eyes on the page, refusing to look at him. If you did, he might see too much in your expression. He might wonder why those words meant so much to you.
"That's…" He trails off, his eyes lingering on the words. "That's a little heartbreaking, isn't it?"
"It's beautiful," you say softly. "It's about loving someone so much they become a part of you. So much that you carry them with you everywhere, even when they're not there."
"Have you ever felt like that?" George asks. "About someone?"
The question hangs in the air between you. You should deflect. You should change the subject. But you're tired of lying.
"Yes," you whisper.
George's eyes search your face. "Who?"
You can't answer that. You can't tell him it's him, that it's always been him, that you've been carrying him in your heart for years.
"It doesn't matter," you say, looking away. "They don't feel the same way."
"How do you know?"
"Because they don't even see me."
"Then they're an idiot."
The words are so fierce, so immediate, that you look back at him in surprise. George is staring at you with an intensity that makes your heart race.
"Anyone who doesn't see you is an idiot," he says. "Because you're... you're brilliant. And kind. And you notice things other people don't. And when you smile—really smile, not that fake one you do for everyone else—it's like the sun coming out."
You can't breathe. You can't think. All you can do is stare at him while your heart pounds so hard you're sure he must be able to hear it.
"George," you whisper.
"I see you," he says quietly. "I don't know when it started, but I do. I see you."
This is the moment. The moment where everything could change. Where you could tell him the truth—about your feelings, about your illness, about everything.
But you can't. Because if you tell him, if you let him in, you'll just be giving him something else to lose.
"I have to go," you say abruptly, standing up.
"Wait—"
"I'm sorry. I just—I have to go."
You practically run from the courtyard, leaving George sitting there alone. You don't stop until you reach the Hufflepuff common room, and even then you keep going, up to your dormitory, where you finally let yourself fall apart.
George Weasley sees you. And that's the most wonderful, terrible thing that's ever happened.
----
You avoid him for two days.
It's cowardly, and you know it. But you don't know what else to do. Every time you think about that moment in the courtyard, about the way he looked at you, about what he said, your chest aches with a longing so intense it's almost physical.
You want him. You want to be with him, to let yourself have this, to stop being so afraid.
But you're dying. And letting him care about you, letting him get attached, would be the cruelest thing you could do.
You're in the library again, hiding in your corner, when he appears. He doesn't say anything at first. He just sits down across from you and waits.
"I'm sorry," you say finally, not looking up from your book. "For running away."
"Why did you?"
"Because I..." You close your book, forcing yourself to meet his eyes.
"Because this is complicated."
"What is?"
"This. Us. Whatever this is."
George leans forward. "It doesn't have to be complicated. I like you. I think you might like me too. That's pretty simple, actually."
Your heart sinks.
For one horrible second, you almost let yourself believe him. You almost let yourself imagine what it would be like to stop hiding, to tell him that you've liked him for far longer than he knows, to finally let yourself have something good without constantly thinking about how little time you have left.
But you know better.
"It's not that simple."
"Why not?"
Because I'm dying.
Because there are days when you wake up wondering how many more mornings you have left. Because every time you get a little closer to him, you can already picture the day you'll have to leave him behind. Because he deserves years with someone, and all you could ever give him is a handful of months and a goodbye.
You swallow it all.
"You've got it wrong, George."
His smile disappears slowly.
"I don't like you like that."
There. You said it.
The words feel like tearing something out of yourself and handing it to him, knowing he's going to be the one who gets hurt by it.
George stares at you, almost as if he's waiting for you to laugh and tell him you're joking.
You don't.
"I'm sorry if I gave you the wrong idea," you continue, forcing yourself to sound calm. "I shouldn't have."
He looks down at his hands.
You want to reach for him. You want to take every word back. You want to tell him that he's wrong, that you've liked him for so long that sometimes it scares you how easily he has become part of your thoughts, your days, your plans for a future you know you'll never have.
Instead, you sit there and let the silence grow between you.
"Right," he says eventually.
Just one word.
Somehow, it's worse than if he'd argued with you.
You look at him and see the disappointment he's trying so hard to hide, and for a moment you nearly break.
But you remind yourself why you're doing this.
If he hates you a little, he'll heal faster.
If he thinks you never loved him, he won't spend the rest of his life wondering why you left.
And if he never knows the truth, maybe losing you won't hurt quite as much.
"Friends," you say quietly, because you need to put a name to whatever is left between you.
George gives a small nod.
"Friends."
You smile.
He doesn't.
And when you look away, you let the tears you've been holding back fall silently into your lap, where he can't see them.
-----
Over the next week, something shifts between you and George.
You still meet by the lake every morning. You still sit together in the library. But now there's something else there too. Something unspoken but undeniable.
The way he looks at you has changed.
There is still warmth there, but something has been pulled back. He doesn't linger around you as long as he used to, doesn't tease you quite as much, and seems to think twice before saying something that might make you uncomfortable.
He believes you.
And somehow, that hurts more than if he'd been angry.
Because you were the one who told him there was nothing between you, and now he's slowly learning how to treat you like there isn't.
----
The rain had started sometime during the lesson, soft at first against the classroom windows. By the time class ended, it had turned into a heavy downpour, the kind that sent students rushing through the corridors and toward the castle.
You had barely been listening for the last twenty minutes. The ache in your chest had been getting worse all morning, accompanied by the familiar dizziness and weakness that you'd become far too good at hiding. Your hands had started trembling beneath the desk, and you'd kept them tucked into your sleeves so nobody would notice.
The moment the lesson ended, you slipped out before anyone could stop you. You told yourself you only needed some air, that you'd be fine after a few minutes.
You weren't.
The rain soaked through your robes almost immediately, but you barely felt the cold. Your chest tightened with every breath, the pain spreading beneath your ribs until you had to stop walking. You reached for the nearest wall, but your legs gave out before you could steady yourself properly.
You slid down against the stone, breathing unevenly as your head began to pound. Your vision blurred, dark spots appearing at the edges, and your heart seemed to beat painfully against your ribs.
You hated this.
----
You hated how your body could betray you without warning. How you could wake up feeling almost normal and end the day barely able to stand. How every episode reminded you that you were running out of time.
Your hand pressed against your chest.
Once.
Then again.
Not hard enough to truly hurt yourself, but enough that you could feel something beneath your palm besides the illness.
You're already struggling to breathe.
The familiar ache has returned.
It starts beneath your ribs, spreading slowly through your chest until every breath feels too shallow. Your vision blurs at the edges, and you stop walking.
You press a hand against your chest. Not here. Not now.
You try to take another breath, but the pain only worsens.
Your knees give out.
You catch yourself against the stone wall, fingers digging into it as your head begins to pound. You squeeze your eyes shut, willing it to stop, but the pain keeps coming. And then you think of George.
His face. His voice.
The way he'd looked at you after you'd told him you didn't like him. The disappointment in his eyes. Something inside you finally breaks.
You slide down the wall until you're sitting on the cold ground, rain pouring over you.
"I hate you."
The words come out barely above a whisper. You press your fist against your chest.
"I hate you."
You hit it again, harder this time, as though you could somehow beat the feeling out of yourself.
Your hand pressed against your chest.
Once.
Then again.
You struck your chest with the heel of your palm, frustrated tears spilling down your face.
"Come on."
Your voice shook.
"Please."
You hit your chest again, not because you wanted to hurt yourself, but because you were furious at the body that kept failing you.
"Why can't you just stop?"
Your breathing broke into a sob. You pressed both hands against yourself, almost as though you could force the pain to disappear.
"I hate this."
Another hit.
"I hate this."
Your hand fell against your chest again as tears mixed with the rain.
"I hate my body."
The words came out broken. You hated the weakness. The exhaustion. The dizziness that came without warning. The way your hands trembled when you were scared. The way your heart could suddenly hurt so badly that you couldn't think about anything else.
----
Back inside the castle, your friend had noticed you were missing. She'd watched you grow paler throughout the lesson, the colour slowly draining from your face until even your lips looked almost white. When you disappeared without saying anything, she knew something was wrong.
She found you outside several minutes later.
The moment she saw you sitting against the wall, soaked through and trembling, she ran toward you.
"Oh, God."
She dropped beside you and immediately reached for your hands.
"Hey, look at me."
You finally looked at her. Your face was soaked with rain and tears, your skin frighteningly pale and your breathing still uneven. The moment you saw the worry in her eyes, you couldn't keep pretending.
She gently caught your wrists when your hand moved back toward your chest.
"Stop. You're going to hurt yourself."
You finally looked at her, and whatever she saw on your face made her expression crumble.
Your voice cracked, and another wave of tears came. You looked down at yourself as though you couldn't understand why your own body had become something you were afraid of.
"I hate my body."
Your friend pulled you into her arms.
"I know."
"I hate waking up tired. I hate being scared of stairs. I hate wondering if I'm going to make it through the day without something happening."
Your words came faster now, spilling out after years of being kept inside.
You closed your eyes and leaned back against her, exhausted. For once, you didn't try to pretend you were okay. You simply let yourself cry while she held you, the rain pouring around you as you mourned the future your illness was slowly taking away and the boy you loved enough to make him believe you didn't.
----
Meanwhile, George sat through the rest of the lesson without really hearing anything the professor was saying. His parchment remained mostly empty in front of him, his thoughts drifting back to you despite how hard he'd been trying not to think about you.
Ever since you'd told him you didn't like him that way, he'd been forcing himself to keep his distance. He'd stopped lingering after lessons, stopped finding excuses to walk beside you, and tried to convince himself that eventually the disappointment would fade.
It hadn't.
He was staring absently at the parchment when a sudden pain tore through his chest. His breath caught, and his hand immediately went over his heart. For a moment, he thought he'd been hit by a spell, but then the pain faded almost as quickly as it had appeared.
"George?"
He looked up to find Fred watching him from across the desk. George shook his head, trying to brush it off, but before he could say anything, the pain returned. This time it was deeper, spreading beneath his ribs until his fingers tightened around his robes.
"I'm fine."
Fred didn't look convinced.
"You don't look fine."
George didn't answer. He was too busy trying to understand what he was feeling. He'd turned seventeen months ago, old enough for the soulmate bond to fully awaken, and he'd already experienced strange little things that couldn't possibly have been his own. A bruise appearing where he hadn't been hit. A sudden sting in his arm for no reason. But this was different. This wasn't a passing ache.
He lowered his gaze to his trembling hand, his stomach twisting as another wave of pain moved through his chest. There was something almost desperate about it, something that made him feel as though whoever was on the other end of the bond was fighting against their own body.
"That's my soulmate, isn't it?"
Fred's expression changed.
George swallowed, his voice quieter this time.
"I can feel them."
The pain slowly faded, leaving behind a dull ache that refused to disappear. George sat there in silence, wondering who she was and where she could possibly be. He had spent years imagining what meeting his soulmate would be like.
He'd imagined laughter, excitement, maybe even some ridiculous story he'd tell Fred years later. He'd never imagined sitting helplessly in a classroom while she suffered somewhere he couldn't reach.
George rubbed at his chest, waiting for the strange ache to disappear. It lingered for a few seconds before finally fading, leaving him with nothing but an uncomfortable feeling he couldn't quite explain.
He looked down at his parchment and forced himself to pick up his quill again.
"Probably nothing."
Fred glanced at him. "You sure?"
George gave a small shrug, his eyes staying on the page.
"Yeah. She'll be alright."
He didn't know why he said it so confidently. Maybe because he needed to believe it. He didn't know who she was, or where she was, or what had happened to her. For all he knew, she'd already forgotten about the pain.
So George forced a small smile and went back to his work. He didn't know that, somewhere in the castle, she was still crying.
----
You'd been looking paler lately.
At first, it was easy to ignore. A little less colour in your cheeks, a tiredness that lingered beneath your eyes no matter how much you slept. Then, with every passing day, it became harder to hide.
Your friend noticed it before anyone else did.
Your skin seemed almost translucent beneath the sunlight, your lips losing their usual colour. The dark circles beneath your eyes grew deeper, and there were moments when she would catch you staring blankly ahead, as though even keeping your eyes open required more energy than you had.
You kept insisting you were fine.
But you weren't.
And with every passing day, your body seemed to make that harder to pretend.
A/n: okayyy so maybe things are getting a little more painful now 😭
Note : i literally hit flow state writing this AND I FINALLY LEARNED HOW TO DO GRADIENT TEXT 🥹 (also ik a 3rd year student is diff ages in the UK/USA so jus to explain myself, typically a 3rd yr student in the uk is 20 - 21 yrs old, jus incase ppl from the USA get confused)
Warnings : Violence and underground fighting, Blood and injury, Medical procedures, Concussions and broken bones, Mentions of death and grief, Family conflict, kissing, Illegal medical practice, swearing.
Synopsis : When an injured underground fighter arrives at her apartment clinic, a hardworking medical student finds herself drawn into a world she never wanted to be part of. As their feelings grow, James must choose between the ring and the future they could build together.
The knock came at 2:50 AM.
You knew because you'd been staring at your anatomy textbook for the past three hours, the words blurring together into meaningless shapes. Cranial nerves. Twelve of them. You could recite them backward and forward, but your attending physician would still find something to criticise during rounds.
The knock came again, more insistent this time. Urgent.
You knew that kind of knock. It was the same desperate rhythm that brought the street kids to your door, the same cadence that accompanied split lips and broken ribs and injuries that couldn't see the inside of a hospital without questions being asked.
Sighing, you marked your page and padded to the door in your worn medical school sweatshirt and sleep shorts. The peephole revealed a man you'd never seen before—tall, broad-shouldered, with blonde hair falling into his eyes. He was holding his side, and even through the distorted fish-eye lens, you could see the blood seeping between his fingers.
Behind him stood Kai, one of your regulars. A fighter who knew better than to take hits to the head but did it anyway.
"Please," Kai called through the door. His voice was strained. "He needs help. Won't go to a hospital."
"They never do," you muttered, but you were already unlocking the deadbolt.
The door swung open, and the man—the stranger—looked up. His eyes were dark, intense, and even through obvious pain, there was something magnetic about him. Charismatic in a way that made you immediately suspicious.
"I can pay," he said. His voice was rough, accented with something you couldn't quite place. "Whatever you need."
"I don't do this for money." You stepped aside, gesturing them in. "I do it because people like you are too stubborn to get proper medical care."
Kai helped the stranger inside, and in the better light of your apartment-turned-clinic, you could see the full extent of the damage. Split eyebrow, swollen jaw, and that side wound that was still bleeding sluggishly through his black t-shirt. The shirt clung to a body that was clearly athletic—fighter's build, all lean muscle and controlled power.
"On the table," you instructed, pointing to the medical examination table you'd bought secondhand and set up in what used to be your living room. Your actual living space had been reduced to your bedroom and a tiny kitchenette. The rest was shelves of medical supplies, carefully organised equipment, and the sterile smell of antiseptic.
The stranger moved with surprising grace despite his injuries, settling onto the table with only a slight hiss of pain. Up close, you could see he was probably around your age—early twenties, maybe. There was something refined about his features, aristocratic almost, which seemed at odds with the violence written across his skin.
"What's your name?" you asked, pulling on latex gloves with practiced efficiency.
"James." He watched you with those dark eyes, tracking your every movement. "You're the med student Kai told me about."
"Third year." You lifted his shirt carefully, and he helped by pulling it over his head in one smooth motion. The movement made him wince, but he didn't complain.
The wound was a deep laceration along his ribs—not life-threatening, but it needed stitches. You'd done hundreds of sutures by now, on orange peels and pig's feet and eventually on real human skin in the controlled environment of the hospital. But there was something different about doing it here, in your apartment at three in the morning, with a man who looked like he'd walked out of some underground fight club.
Because that's exactly what he'd done.
"This is going to hurt," you warned, prepping the area with beta-dine. "I can give you local anaesthetic, but—"
"Just do it." James's jaw was set, determined. "I've had worse."
You believed him. His torso was a roadmap of scars—some old and silvered, others relatively fresh. This wasn't his first fight, and it wouldn't be his last.
"Kai," you said without looking up, "there's coffee in the kitchenette. Make yourself useful."
Kai knew a dismissal when he heard one. He disappeared into your kitchenette, leaving you alone with James.
The needle pierced skin, and James didn't flinch. He just kept watching you with that unnerving intensity, like he was trying to figure you out.
"You're good at this," he said after the third suture.
"I should be. I'm drowning in student debt to be good at this." You kept your hands steady, your stitches even. "What happened?"
"Fight."
"Obviously. I meant why."
James was quiet for a moment. You could feel him considering his answer, weighing what to tell you. "Because I'm good at it," he finally said. "And because sometimes you need to prove something to yourself."
"By getting stabbed?"
"It was a punch. Guy had a ring on."
You glanced up at him, one eyebrow raised. "A ring did this?"
"He hit hard."
"Clearly." You returned to your work, fingers moving with practiced precision. There was something almost meditative about suturing—the repetitive motion, the focus required, the satisfaction of seeing torn flesh knit back together under your hands.
James's breathing was controlled, steady. He had the discipline of someone used to pain, used to pushing through it. You'd seen it before in fighters, in athletes, in people who'd learned that showing weakness was dangerous.
"Why do you do this?" James asked suddenly. "Run a clinic out of your apartment for people who can't pay?"
"Someone has to." You tied off another suture. "The system fails people like Kai. Like you, apparently. People who need help but can't get it through normal channels."
"That's not an answer."
You paused, meeting his eyes. "My brother," you said quietly. "He got into some trouble when he was younger. Got hurt. Was too scared to go to the hospital because he thought they'd call the cops. By the time I found him, the infection had spread. He almost died."
"But he didn't."
"No. But he could have. And I decided that if I was going to spend years learning how to heal people, I wasn't going to let bureaucracy and fear stop me from actually doing it."
James nodded slowly, like you'd confirmed something he'd suspected. "You're idealistic."
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
"In my world, it usually is."
"Then maybe you're in the wrong world."
His laugh was short, humourless. "Maybe."
You finished the last suture and stepped back to examine your work. Clean, even stitches. It would scar, but it would heal properly. "Keep it clean and dry. Change the dressing daily. Come back in a week and I'll remove the stitches."
"I can pay you," James said again, reaching for his jeans pocket.
"I told you, I don't—"
"I know. But let me contribute to your supplies at least. Sutures aren't cheap."
He had a point. You went through supplies faster than your meagre budget could sustain, relying on samples from the hospital and the occasional donation from sympathetic attending physicians who looked the other way.
"Fine," you relented. "There's a jar by the door. Whatever you think is fair."
James slid off the table, moving more carefully now that the adrenaline was wearing off. He pulled his ruined shirt back on, and you noticed the way the fabric clung to his frame, the way he moved with a fighter's grace even injured.
Kai emerged from the kitchen with three cups of coffee. "You're a miracle worker," he told you, handing you a mug.
"I'm a med student with a saviour complex," you corrected, but you took the coffee gratefully. It was going to be a long night of studying after this.
James pulled out his wallet, and you deliberately turned away, focusing on cleaning your instruments. You heard the rustle of bills, the clink of the jar. When you glanced back, he'd put in what looked like several hundred dollars.
"That's too much," you started to protest.
"It's not enough," James said simply. "For what you do. For what you risk."
There was something in his voice—respect, maybe, or understanding. Like he recognised the danger you put yourself in, running an unlicensed clinic, treating people who existed in the shadows.
"Come on," Kai said, clapping James on the shoulder carefully. "Let's get you home before you bleed through those stitches."
James moved toward the door, then paused. He turned back to look at you, and in the dim light of your apartment, his eyes were impossibly dark. "Thank you," he said. "Really."
"Just don't make it a habit," you replied. "Getting stabbed, I mean."
"I'll try."
But you both knew it was a lie.
After they left, you locked the door and leaned against it, suddenly exhausted. The coffee was already cold in your hands. You looked at the jar by the door, at the money James had left, and felt a strange flutter in your chest that you immediately suppressed.
He was a fighter. A man who made his living—or his reputation, or whatever it was—by violence. You'd seen too many fighters come through your door, too many broken bodies, and shattered lives. You weren't going to let yourself get drawn into that world.
You had medical school to finish. A career to build. A life that didn't involve patching up underground fighters at three in the morning.
But as you returned to your anatomy textbook, you found yourself thinking about dark eyes and controlled breathing and the way James had looked at you like you were something rare and valuable.
You shook your head, forcing yourself to focus on cranial nerves.
You wouldn't see him again after he came back for suture removal. You'd make sure of it.
—————-
James came back three days later.
It was early evening this time, the sun setting over the city in shades of orange and pink. You'd just gotten home from a brutal twelve-hour shift at the hospital, your feet aching and your mind numb from the endless parade of patients and the attending physician's constant criticism.
The knock was softer this time. Almost hesitant.
You opened the door to find James standing there with takeout bags in his hands and a sheepish expression on his face.
"Before you say anything," he started, "I know I'm not supposed to come back for four more days. But I wanted to thank you properly, and Kai said you never eat real food, just coffee and whatever you can grab between shifts."
You stared at him. He was wearing dark jeans and a leather jacket over a simple white t-shirt, and without the blood and injuries, you could see just how attractive he actually was. Unfairly so.
"I don't need—"
"Thai food," he interrupted, holding up the bags. "Kai said it's your favourite. And before you protest, I already ate, so this is all for you. Consider it payment for putting up with me bleeding on your table."
Your stomach growled, betraying you. You hadn't eaten since a granola bar at six that morning.
"Fine," you sighed, stepping aside. "But just this once."
James's smile was brilliant, transforming his entire face. You could see why people would be drawn to him, why he'd have that charisma Kai had mentioned. There was something genuine about it, something warm that seemed at odds with the violence of his profession.
He set the food out on your tiny kitchen table—the only part of your apartment that wasn't dedicated to medical supplies. Pad Thai, green curry, spring rolls, mango sticky rice. Enough food for three people.
"This is too much," you said, but you were already reaching for the pad Thai.
"You look like you need it." James settled into the chair across from you, watching as you took your first bite. "Rough day?"
"Aren't they all?" You closed your eyes, savouring the explosion of flavours. God, when was the last time, you'd had actual good food? "My attending physician thinks I'm incompetent. I'm pretty sure I failed my last exam. And I had to watch a kid die today because his parents couldn't afford his medication."
The words spilled out before you could stop them. You never talked about your days, never let yourself process the weight of it all. But something about James's quiet presence made it easier.
"I'm sorry," he said, and he sounded like he meant it.
"It's not your fault." You took another bite, then another. "It's just... sometimes I wonder if I'm cut out for this. If I'm strong enough."
"You run a clinic out of your apartment for people who have nowhere else to go," James said quietly. "You stitch up fighters at three in the morning without asking questions. You're strong enough."
You looked up at him, surprised by the conviction in his voice. "You don't know me."
"I know enough."
There was a moment of silence, comfortable somehow, as you continued eating. James didn't push for conversation, didn't fill the quiet with meaningless chatter. He just sat there, present, and solid, like an anchor in the chaos of your life.
"How are the stitches?" you asked finally, falling back on professional territory.
"Good. No infection, minimal pain." He lifted his shirt slightly, showing you the bandaged area. "You do good work."
"I should. I've been practicing on orange peels since I was sixteen."
"Orange peels?"
"It's how you learn to suture. Orange peels, then pig's feet, then eventually real people." You smiled slightly. "My mom thought I was crazy, practicing on fruit in the kitchen."
"Were you? Crazy?"
"Probably. Who decides at sixteen that they want to spend the next decade of their life drowning in debt and sleep deprivation?"
"Someone who wants to help people," James said. "Someone who sees suffering and can't look away."
You met his eyes, and there was something in his gaze that made your breath catch. Understanding, maybe. Recognition.
"What about you?" you asked, deflecting. "Why fighting?"
James leaned back in his chair, considering. "I was good at it," he said finally. "Grew up doing taekwondo, ice hockey, break dancing. Anything physical, I excelled at. And when I found underground fighting, it was like... everything made sense. In the ring, there's no politics, no expectations, no pretending to be something you're not. Just skill and will and the truth of what you're capable of."
"That's very philosophical for someone who gets punched in the face for a living."
He laughed, a real laugh this time. "I contain multitudes."
"Clearly."
You finished eating, and James helped you clean up without being asked. It was domestic, almost intimate, this simple act of sharing space and food and conversation. You tried not to think about how nice it felt, how easy.
"I should go," James said, but he didn't move toward the door. "Let you rest."
"You should," you agreed, but you didn't move either.
"Can I come back?" The question was soft, almost vulnerable. "Not as a patient. Just... to check in. Make sure you're eating."
You should say no. You should maintain boundaries, keep your distance from this world of violence and danger. But when you looked at James, you didn't see a fighter. You saw someone lonely, someone searching for connection in a life that probably didn't allow for much of it.
"Okay," you heard yourself say. "But bring coffee next time. Good coffee, not the hospital cafeteria sludge I usually drink."
James's smile was like sunrise. "Deal."
After he left, you cleaned up the rest of the kitchen and tried not to think about the way your apartment felt emptier without him in it.
—————
James came back two days later with expensive coffee and pastries from a bakery you'd never been able to afford.
Then he came back three days after that with dinner and questions about your latest exam.
Then again, and again, until his visits became a regular part of your routine. He'd show up in the evenings, always with food or coffee, always with that quiet presence that somehow made your chaotic life feel more manageable.
You learned things about him in fragments, pieces of a puzzle that slowly came together. He was multilingual—Chinese, Thai, Korean, English—and sometimes he'd slip between languages without realising it. He'd grown up privileged, the son of a Chinese businessman and Thai mother, but had chosen the underground fighting circuit as a way to prove himself outside of his family's expectations.
"They wanted me to take over the business," he told you one evening, sitting on your kitchen counter while you organised medical supplies. "Suit and tie, board meetings, corporate politics. But I couldn't breathe in that world. Fighting was the only place I felt real."
"And now?" you asked, labelling a box of gauze.
"Now I'm one of the best." There was no arrogance in his voice, just fact. "People come from all over to fight me. The purses are good. The reputation is better."
"But?"
He looked at you, surprised. "But what?"
"There's a 'but' in your voice. 'I'm one of the best, but...'"
James was quiet for a long moment. "But sometimes I wonder what I'm actually proving. And to who."
You set down the gauze and turned to face him fully. "You don't have to prove anything, you know. Not to your family, not to yourself. You're allowed to just... be."
"That's easy for you to say. You know exactly who you are and what you want."
"Do I?" You laughed, but it was bitter. "I'm a third-year med student who's failing half her classes, running an illegal clinic, and surviving on four hours of sleep a night. I have no idea what I'm doing."
"You're saving lives."
"I'm barely keeping my head above water."
James slid off the counter and crossed to you in two strides. He was close now, close enough that you could see the faint scar through his eyebrow from that first night, close enough to smell his cologne—something expensive and subtle.
"You're the strongest person I know," he said quietly. "And I know a lot of fighters."
Your heart was pounding, and you couldn't tell if it was from exhaustion or proximity or the way James was looking at you like you were something precious.
"I should finish organising," you said, but you didn't move.
"You should rest."
"Can't. Exam tomorrow."
"Then let me help you study."
And he did. James sat with you for the next three hours, quizzing you on pharmacology and anatomy, making terrible jokes to help you remember drug interactions, bringing you coffee when your eyes started to droop. He was patient and encouraging, and when you finally felt confident enough to sleep, he let himself out quietly, leaving a note on your kitchen table.
"You're going to be an amazing doctor. Get some sleep. - J"
You kept the note.
The next week, you removed his stitches. Your hands were steady as you snipped and pulled, but you were hyperaware of every point of contact—your fingers on his skin, the warmth of his body, the way he watched your face instead of your hands.
"All done," you said, stepping back. "You'll have a scar, but it should fade over time."
"I don't mind scars." James ran his fingers over the healing wound. "They tell stories."
"What story does this one tell?"
"That I met someone who made me want to be more careful."
The words hung in the air between you, heavy with implication. You busied yourself with cleaning up, trying to ignore the way your pulse had quickened.
"James—"
"I know," he interrupted gently. "I know this is complicated. I know you have school and a career and a life that doesn't include someone like me. But I can't stop thinking about you. About this." He gestured around your apartment-clinic. "About how you make me want to be better."
You turned to face him, and the vulnerability in his expression nearly broke you. "I can't ask you to change who you are."
"You're not asking. I'm choosing." He stood, moving closer. "Every time I step into that ring now, I think about you patching me up after. About the disappointment in your eyes when I come back bleeding. And I'm starting to think that maybe proving myself isn't worth it if it means disappointing you."
"That's not fair," you whispered. "You can't put that on me."
"I'm not. I'm putting it on myself." His hand came up, hesitating just before touching your face. "Can I?"
You should say no. You should maintain professional distance. You should protect yourself from the inevitable heartbreak of caring about someone who lived such a dangerous life.
But you nodded.
His fingers were gentle as they traced your cheekbone, calloused but careful. "I have a fight next week," he said quietly. "Big one. Against Marcus Chen—he's brutal, fights dirty, but the purse is significant. I already agreed to it, before I met you."
"Okay," you managed.
"I want you there."
"James—"
"I know it's a lot to ask. But I want you to see that part of my life. To understand it. And maybe..." He trailed off, his thumb brushing your jaw. "Maybe it'll help me figure out if this is still what I want."
You should say no. You should stay far away from that world of violence and blood and broken bones.
"Okay," you said instead. "I'll be there."
His smile was brilliant and terrified all at once.
——————
The warehouse was exactly what you'd imagined and somehow worse.
It was an abandoned industrial building on the outskirts of the city, the kind of place that probably hadn't seen legal activity in decades. Inside, someone had set up a makeshift ring—chain-link fence formed into an octagon, harsh lights overhead, concrete floor that had seen too much blood.
The crowd was a mix of people you'd never want to meet in a dark alley and people who looked like they'd wandered in from corporate offices. Money changed hands openly, bets being placed with the casual ease of long practice. The air smelled like sweat and beer and violence.
Kai found you near the entrance, looking lost and overwhelmed.
"You came," he said, surprised.
"James asked me to."
Kai's expression softened. "He's different since he met you. More careful. Thinking about the future instead of just the next fight."
"I don't want to change him."
"Maybe he needs to change." Kai guided you through the crowd to a spot near the ring where you'd have a clear view. "Marcus is dangerous. He's put three fighters in the hospital this year. James is good, maybe the best I've seen, but Marcus doesn't fight fair."
Your stomach twisted with anxiety. "Should I have tried to stop him?"
"Would he have listened?"
"No."
"Then all you can do is be here. And patch him up after, if he needs it."
The crowd's noise swelled suddenly, and you looked up to see James entering from a side door. He was shirtless, wearing only black fighting shorts and hand wraps, his body a sculpture of controlled power. Every muscle was defined, every movement precise. He looked like a different person from the man who brought you coffee and helped you study—this was the fighter, the champion, the man who'd built his reputation on violence.
His eyes scanned the crowd and found you. For a moment, his expression softened, and he raised one wrapped hand in a small wave. You waved back, your heart in your throat.
Then Marcus entered from the opposite side, and the crowd went wild.
Marcus was bigger than James, heavier, with a reach advantage and a mean smile. He had the look of someone who enjoyed hurting people, who fought not for sport or proof but for the pure pleasure of domination.
You wanted to leave. You wanted to grab James and drag him out of this place and never let him come back.
But you stayed.
The referee—if you could call him that—gave brief instructions. No biting, no eye gouging, fight until someone taps out or can't continue. Everything else was fair game.
The bell rang.
Marcus came out aggressive, throwing heavy punches that James slipped with practiced ease. James was faster, more technical, landing precise strikes to the body and head. It was almost beautiful, the way he moved—like a dance, like the break dancing he'd mentioned, every movement flowing into the next.
But Marcus was relentless. He absorbed James's strikes and kept coming forward, cutting off the ring, forcing James into close quarters where his size advantage mattered more.
Three minutes in, Marcus landed a brutal elbow that opened a cut above James's eye. Blood flowed freely, and you saw James blink it away, adjusting his strategy. He started targeting Marcus's legs, chopping away at the bigger man's base with low kicks that echoed through the warehouse.
The crowd was screaming, but you barely heard them. All your focus was on James, on the way he moved, on cataloging his injuries with a clinical part of your brain even as your heart raced with fear.
Round two. Marcus was limping slightly, but he'd adjusted, checking James's kicks and countering with punches that were starting to land more frequently. James's face was a mask of blood and concentration, his breathing controlled despite the pace.
Then Marcus did something you'd only seen in your worst nightmares of this moment—he grabbed James in a clinch and brought his knee up hard, right into James's ribs. You heard the crack from where you stood, saw James's face go white with pain.
Broken rib. Maybe two.
But James didn't stop. He couldn't, not with the crowd baying for blood, not with his reputation on the line. He pushed through the pain, landing a spinning back fist that dropped Marcus to one knee.
The crowd went insane.
James pressed his advantage, raining down strikes, but you could see the way he was favouring his left side, the way each breath was agony. Marcus covered up, weathering the storm, and when James's pace slowed—just for a second, just enough—Marcus exploded upward with an uppercut that caught James clean on the chin.
James went down hard.
The referee started counting. One. Two. Three.
Get up, you thought desperately. Get up, James.
Four. Five. Six.
James stirred, rolling to his side. His eyes were unfocused, and you could see him fighting through the concussion, through the pain, through everything that should have kept him down.
Seven. Eight.
He got to his knees.
Nine.
He stood, swaying but upright.
The referee checked him, and James nodded that he could continue. You wanted to scream at him to stop, to tap out, to choose his health over his pride.
But you understood now. This was who he was. This was what he'd built his life around. And watching him fight through impossible odds, you saw the truth of it—the beauty and the horror, the strength, and the self-destruction.
The final round was brutal. Both fighters were exhausted, injured, running on pure will. Marcus's leg was nearly useless, and James could barely breathe through his broken ribs. They traded strikes with desperate intensity, each looking for the one shot that would end it.
James found it first.
A perfectly timed counter—Marcus threw a wild haymaker, and James slipped inside, landing a short elbow that caught Marcus on the temple. The bigger man's eyes rolled back, and he collapsed like a puppet with cut strings.
The referee didn't even count. He waved it off immediately, and the crowd erupted.
James had won.
But as you watched him raise his arms in victory, you saw the cost. The blood, the broken ribs, the concussion, the way he could barely stand. He'd won, but he'd destroyed himself to do it.
Kai was already moving toward the ring, and you followed, pushing through the crowd. By the time you reached James, he was leaning heavily on Kai, his victory smile fading into exhaustion and pain.
"Hey," he said when he saw you, and his voice was slurred. Definitely concussed. "You stayed."
"Of course I stayed, you idiot." You ducked under his other arm, helping Kai support his weight. "We need to get him to my place. Now."
"Hospital—" James started.
"Would ask too many questions," you finished. "I can handle this. But we need to move."
Getting James out of the warehouse and into Kai's car was a blur of concerned fighters and congratulations that felt hollow. In the backseat, James's head lolled against your shoulder, and you kept him talking, checking his pupils with your phone's flashlight, monitoring for signs of serious brain injury.
"Stay with me," you kept saying. "Keep talking, James. Tell me about your first fight."
He mumbled something in Chinese, then switched to English. "Was scared. Thought I'd lose. But then I won, and it felt like... like I'd found where I belonged."
"And now?" you asked, your hand finding his, squeezing tight. "Does it still feel that way?"
"No," he whispered. "Now it just hurts."
————-
Your apartment had never felt smaller than it did with James bleeding on your examination table and Kai pacing anxiously in the corner.
"Out," you told Kai, your voice sharp with stress. "I need space to work."
"But—"
"Out. I'll call you when he's stable."
Kai left reluctantly, and you turned your full attention to James. He was conscious but drifting, the concussion making him drowsy and confused. You needed to keep him awake, needed to monitor him for the next several hours to make sure he didn't have a brain bleed.
But first, you had to deal with the broken ribs.
"This is going to hurt," you warned, gently probing his left side. James hissed in pain, and you felt the telltale grinding of fractured bone. "Two broken ribs, maybe three. I need to wrap them, but you need to stay still."
"Always hurts," James mumbled. "Part of the job."
"This isn't a job, James. This is self-destruction." Your hands were shaking as you cleaned the cut above his eye, and you realised you were angry. Furious, actually. "You could have died in there. That last hit—if it had landed differently, if you'd hit your head on the concrete—"
"But I didn't."
"But you could have!" You threw the bloody gauze into the trash with more force than necessary. "And for what? Money? Reputation? Proving something to people who don't care if you live or die?"
James tried to sit up, winced, and fell back. "You don't understand."
"Then explain it to me." You were wrapping his ribs now, your movements efficient despite your anger. "Explain why you'd risk everything for a fight. Explain why you'd put yourself through this when you could do anything else with your life."
"Because it's the only thing I'm good at!" The words burst out of him, raw and honest. "Because in that ring, I know who I am. I know my worth. Outside of it, I'm just... I'm just my father's disappointment, my family's black sheep, a guy who walked away from everything he was supposed to be."
"You're more than that." You finished wrapping his ribs and moved to check his pupils again. Still reactive, but sluggish. "You're smart, you're kind, you're—"
"I'm a fighter." James caught your wrist gently, stopping your examination. "It's all I know how to be."
You looked down at him, at this man who'd somehow become so important to you in such a short time, and felt something crack in your chest. "I can't do this," you whispered. "I can't keep patching you up just to watch you go back and get hurt again. I can't—" Your voice broke. "I can't care about someone who cares so little about their own life."
"I care." His grip on your wrist tightened. "I care more now than I ever have. Because of you."
"Then stop." The words came out as a plea. "Stop fighting. Find something else. Be something else."
"I don't know how."
"Then learn." You pulled your wrist free, stepping back. "Because I can't watch you die, James. I can't be the one who puts you back together knowing you're just going to break yourself again."
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by James's laboured breathing and the distant sounds of the city outside your window.
"I have three more contracted fights," James said finally. "After tonight. Three more, and then I'm done with this circuit. I was already planning to step back, maybe do some training instead of fighting. Tonight just... confirmed it."
You wanted to believe him. God, you wanted to believe him so badly.
"Why?" you asked. "Why were you planning to step back?"
James met your eyes, and despite the concussion and the pain and the exhaustion, his gaze was clear. "Because I met someone who made me want a future beyond the next fight. Someone who made me realise that proving myself doesn't matter if I don't have anyone to share my life with."
Your breath caught. "James—"
"I'm not asking you to wait for me. I'm not asking you to fix me or save me or any of that bullshit." He struggled to sit up, and this time you helped him, supporting his back. "I'm just telling you that you changed something in me. Made me want to be better. Made me want to be someone worthy of the way you look at me."
"I look at you like you're an idiot who gets punched in the face for a living."
"You look at me like I matter." His hand found yours, and his thumb traced circles on your palm. "Like I'm more than just a fighter. And I want to be that person. The one you see when you look at me."
You should pull away. You should maintain distance, protect yourself from the inevitable heartbreak. But instead, you found yourself squeezing his hand back.
"Three more fights," you said. "And then you're done."
"Three more fights," he agreed. "And then I'm done."
"And you're going to be careful. No more Marcus-level opponents. No more broken ribs."
"I'll try."
"You'll succeed." You stood, moving to get ice for his swelling. "Because if you come back here with another concussion, I'm going to kill you myself."
James's laugh turned into a cough, and he clutched his ribs. "Noted."
You spent the rest of the night monitoring him, waking him every hour to check his responsiveness, making sure the concussion wasn't worsening. Somewhere around dawn, you dozed off in the chair next to the examination table, exhausted from the emotional and physical toll of the night.
You woke to find James watching you, his good hand stretched out like he'd been about to touch your face but stopped himself.
"Hey," he said softly. "You should sleep in your bed."
"I'm monitoring you."
"I'm fine. Ribs hurt like hell, but the concussion's better."
You checked him anyway—pupils, responsiveness, memory. He was right; he was improving. The human body's capacity for healing never ceased to amaze you.
"You scared me tonight," you admitted, sitting back down. "When you went down, when he was counting, I thought—"
"I know." James's expression was somber. "I scared myself. For the first time in years, I didn't want to get back up. I wanted to stay down, to let it be over. But then I thought about you watching, and I couldn't let you see me quit."
"That's not—" You stopped, reconsidering. "James, there's no shame in knowing when to stop. In choosing your health over your pride."
"I know that now." He shifted carefully, making room on the table. "Come here."
You should say no. He was injured, you were exhausted, and this was crossing about a dozen professional boundaries. But you found yourself climbing onto the table anyway, careful of his ribs, settling against his right side.
James's arm came around you, and despite everything—the blood, the violence, the fear—you felt safe. Like you'd found something you didn't know you were looking for.
"Three more fights," James murmured into your hair. "And then I'm yours. If you'll have me."
You didn't answer. You just closed your eyes and let yourself imagine a future where James wasn't a fighter, where you weren't constantly terrified of losing him, where you could just be two people trying to build something real.
It felt impossible.
But then again, so did running a clinic out of your apartment and falling for an underground fighter.
Maybe impossible was just another word for worth fighting for.
———————-
Two weeks later, James kept his promise about being careful. His next fight was against a mid-tier opponent, technical but not brutal, and he won in the second round with a submission hold that didn't require anyone getting their face rearranged.
You didn't watch that one. You couldn't. Instead, you waited at your apartment, studying pharmacology and trying not to check your phone every thirty seconds.
When James showed up at your door an hour after the fight, he was barely marked—just some redness on his ribs and a slight swelling on his jaw.
"See?" he said, spreading his arms. "Careful."
You pulled him inside and kissed him.
It wasn't planned. You'd been holding back for weeks, maintaining boundaries, telling yourself that getting involved with James was a terrible idea. But seeing him standing there, mostly intact, grinning like he'd just won the lottery instead of a fight—something in you just broke.
Or maybe it finally came together.
James made a surprised sound against your mouth, then his arms came around you, careful of his ribs, and he kissed you back with an intensity that made your knees weak. He tasted like sports drink and adrenaline, and when he pulled back, his eyes softened immediately.
"I've been wanting to do that since the night we met," he admitted, his forehead resting against yours.
"You were bleeding all over my table. That's a terrible time for a first kiss."
"Every moment with you feels like the right time."
You laughed, but it was shaky. "That's incredibly cheesy."
"Doesn't make it less true." His thumb traced your lower lip. "I have two fights left. Two more, and then I'm done. I've already told my manager. After that, I want to focus on training others, maybe open a legitimate gym. Build something that doesn't require me getting my face punched in."
"I like your face unpunched."
"Me too." He kissed you again, softer this time. "Come upstairs with me. To my place. Let me show you the life I want to build."
You'd never been to James's apartment. He always came to you, fitting himself into your world of medical supplies and late-night studying. But now, as Kai drove you both across the city to a high-rise in the expensive district, you realised how little you actually knew about James's life outside of fighting.
His apartment was on the top floor—a penthouse with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering city. It was beautiful and modern and completely impersonal, like a hotel room that no one actually lived in.
"I know," James said, watching your face. "It's not very homey. I've never really... I've never had a reason to make it feel like home."
You walked to the windows, looking out at the city spread below like a carpet of lights. "It's beautiful."
"It's empty." James came up behind you, his arms wrapping around your waist. "Like my life was before I met you."
"James—"
"I mean it." His voice was quiet, serious. "I've spent years building this reputation, making money, proving I could succeed outside my family's expectations. But I've been lonely. So, fucking lonely. And then you opened your door at three in the morning and looked at me like I was just another person who needed help, not a fighter or a disappointment or a success story. Just... me."
You turned in his arms, looking up at him. "You are just you. The fighting, the money, the reputation—that's all external. The person who brings me coffee and helps me study and makes terrible jokes to help me remember drug interactions—that's who you really are."
"That's who I want to be." His hand came up to cup your face. "For you. With you."
"You don't have to change for me."
"I'm not changing. I'm becoming." He kissed your forehead, your cheeks, the corner of your mouth. "The person I was always supposed to be, before I got lost in proving myself."
You pulled him down for a real kiss, deep and slow and full of promise. James responded with a hunger that had nothing to do with violence and everything to do with connection, with the desperate human need to be seen and known and wanted.
When you finally broke apart, both breathing hard, James rested his forehead against yours. "Stay," he whispered. "Tonight. Just sleep next to me. Let me hold you without blood or injuries or fear. Just... be with me."
You should say no. You had early rounds at the hospital tomorrow. You had studying to do. You had a life that was already too complicated without adding a relationship with a fighter who was trying to retire.
"Okay," you said instead. "I'll stay."
James's bedroom was as impersonal as the rest of the apartment, but when he pulled you into his bed and wrapped himself around you—careful of his healing ribs—it felt like the most natural thing in the world.
"Tell me about your family," you said into the darkness. "Your real story, not the abbreviated version."
James was quiet for a long moment, his fingers tracing patterns on your arm. "My father built his business from nothing," he finally said. "Came from poverty, worked his way up, became successful beyond his wildest dreams. He wanted me to take over, to continue his legacy. But I couldn't be what he wanted. I tried, for years I tried, but I was suffocating."
"So you left."
"So I left. Broke his heart, disappointed my mother, became the family shame. And I told myself I didn't care, that I was better off without them. But the truth is, I've been trying to prove them wrong ever since. Every fight, every win—it was all about showing them I could succeed on my own terms."
"And did you? Prove them wrong?"
"I don't know." His arms tightened around you. "I proved I could fight. I proved I could win. But I'm not sure that's the same thing as proving I made the right choice."
You turned in his arms, facing him in the darkness. "Maybe you don't need to prove anything. Maybe you just need to live a life that makes you happy."
"Are you happy?" James asked. "With medical school, with your clinic, with the constant stress and exhaustion?"
You considered the question honestly. "I'm happy when I help someone. When I stitch up a wound and know it'll heal properly, when I diagnose something the attending physicians missed, when someone comes back to thank me for saving their life. Those moments make everything else worth it."
"That's how I used to feel about fighting," James admitted. "But lately, the only time I feel that way is when I'm with you."
Your heart clenched. "James—"
"I know it's fast. I know we barely know each other. But I can't pretend I don't feel this." His hand found yours in the darkness, fingers interlacing. "You make me want to be better. Not for my father, not for my reputation, but for myself. For us."
"I'm scared," you whispered. "I'm scared of caring about you and then losing you. I'm scared of building something real with someone whose life is so dangerous."
"I'm scared too." James pulled you closer, until you could feel his heartbeat against your chest. "I'm scared of letting you down. Of not being enough. Of going back to that empty feeling I had before I met you."
"So what do we do?"
"We try." His lips brushed your forehead. "We take it one day at a time. I finish my last two fights, I transition out of the circuit, and we figure out what comes next. Together."
It wasn't a perfect answer. It wasn't a guarantee. But as you lay there in James's arms, listening to the city hum outside the windows, you realised that maybe perfect wasn't what you needed.
Maybe you just needed real.
"Okay," you said. "We try."
James's kiss was soft and sweet and full of relief. "Thank you," he murmured against your lips. "For giving me a chance. For seeing me."
"Thank you for bringing me coffee and making me eat real food."
He laughed, and the sound vibrated through both of you. "I'm going to take such good care of you. I'm going to make sure you eat three meals a day and sleep more than four hours a night and actually enjoy your life instead of just surviving it."
"That's a tall order."
"I'm up for the challenge."
You fell asleep like that, wrapped in each other, and for the first time in months, you didn't dream about exams or patients or all the ways you were failing. You just dreamed about possibility.
———————-
James's last fight was scheduled for three weeks later.
In that time, your relationship shifted into something real and tangible. James spent most nights at your apartment, helping you study, cooking meals you actually sat down to eat, making your chaotic life feel manageable. You spent weekends at his penthouse, slowly adding personal touches—photos, books, plants—until it started to feel like a home instead of a hotel.
You met Kai for coffee and learned about James's early days in the circuit, how he'd been raw and talented but undisciplined, how he'd worked obsessively to become one of the best. Kai told you that he'd never seen James as focused or as happy as he'd been since meeting you.
"He's different," Kai said, stirring his coffee. "Lighter. Like he finally figured out what he was fighting for."
You also learned about the final fight. James's opponent was a rising star named Kim Jisung, young and hungry and looking to make his name by beating a legend. It wasn't supposed to be brutal—Kim Jisung was technical, not a brawler—but there was always risk.
"I'll be careful," James promised the night before the fight, holding you close in his bed. "In and out, clean win, and then I'm done."
"And then you're done," you echoed, trying to believe it.
"And then I'm yours." He kissed you slowly, thoroughly. "Completely and totally yours."
The next evening, you found yourself back in that warehouse, back in the crowd of people betting on violence. But this time, Kai stayed by your side, a steady presence as you watched James prepare.
James found you before the fight, pulling you aside into a quiet corner.
"Hey," he said, cupping your face in his hands. "I need you to know something."
"James—"
"No, let me say this." His thumbs stroked your cheeks. "Whatever happens in there, I love you. I know it's fast, I know we're still figuring this out, but I love you. You changed my life. You made me want to be better. And after tonight, I'm going to spend every day proving that I'm worthy of you."
Tears pricked your eyes. "You don't have to prove anything."
"I want to." He kissed you, soft and sweet. "I want to be the man you see when you look at me. The one who brings you coffee and makes you laugh and supports your dreams. Not the fighter. Just... James."
"I love you too," you whispered against his lips. "So come back to me intact, okay? No broken ribs, no concussions, just a clean win and then we go home."
"Deal." One more kiss, and then Kai was calling him, and James was walking toward the ring.
The fight was everything James promised it would be—technical, controlled, almost beautiful in its precision. Kim Jisung was good, but James was better, and you could see years of experience in every movement, every counter, every perfectly timed strike.
It should have been easy.
But in the third round, Jisung got desperate. He threw a spinning kick that James blocked, but the momentum carried Jisung forward, and his elbow caught James in the temple—not intentional, just bad luck and worse timing.
James went down.
Your heart stopped.
The referee started counting, and you were moving before you realised it, pushing through the crowd toward the ring. Kai caught you, held you back, but you could see James on the canvas, see him struggling to orient himself.
"Get up," you whispered. "Please, James, get up."
He did. At the count of seven, James rolled to his knees, then stood. The referee checked him, and James nodded that he could continue, but you could see the glaze in his eyes, the slight sway in his stance.
He was concussed. Again.
The referee restarted the fight, and Jisung came forward cautiously, probably feeling guilty about the accidental blow. James circled, buying time for his head to clear, and you saw the moment his focus returned—the way his stance solidified, his eyes sharpened.
Then James did something you'd never seen him do before.
He tapped out.
Just walked to the referee and tapped his shoulder, signalling submission. The crowd went silent, confused, and then erupted in boos and shouts. Jisung looked shocked, like he couldn't believe what was happening.
But James just smiled, raised Jisung's hand in victory, and walked out of the ring.
He walked straight to you.
"I'm done," he said, pulling you into his arms despite the crowd's anger, despite Kai's shocked expression, despite everything. "I'm done fighting. I'm choosing you. I'm choosing us."
You were crying, you realised, tears streaming down your face as you held him. "You didn't have to—"
"Yes, I did." He pulled back to look at you, and despite the concussion, his eyes were clear. "I felt that hit, and all I could think was that I promised you I'd come back intact. And I realised that winning didn't matter. My reputation didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was keeping my promise to you."
"James—"
"I love you," he said, loud enough for the people around you to hear. "I love you more than fighting, more than proving myself, more than any of this. And I'm done pretending otherwise."
You kissed him, there in the middle of the warehouse with the crowd jeering and Kai laughing in disbelief. You kissed him like he was your whole world, because in that moment, he was.
"Let's go home," you whispered against his lips.
"Yeah," James agreed, smiling. "Let's go home."
Epilogue: Two Years Later
The clinic was official now.
With James's financial backing and your medical credentials, you'd managed to get licensed as a community health centre, serving the population that fell through the cracks of the healthcare system. It was still in your apartment building, but you'd expanded into two additional units, with actual examination rooms and a small pharmacy and even a part-time nurse.
James ran the administrative side, handling insurance and billing and all the things you had no patience for. He'd also opened a gym three blocks away, training fighters in technique and discipline, teaching them that strength wasn't just about winning but about knowing when to walk away.
You were in your final year of medical school, top of your class now that you weren't running on four hours of sleep and coffee fumes. Your attending physicians praised your clinical skills and your dedication to underserved populations. You had residency interviews lined up at several prestigious programs.
Life was good. Busy, chaotic, but good.
"Hey," James said, poking his head into your office—an actual office, with a desk and everything. "Last patient just left. You ready to go?"
You looked up from your charting and smiled. James was wearing jeans and a t-shirt from his gym, his hair slightly messy, and there wasn't a single bruise or cut on his face. He looked healthy and happy and completely at peace.
"Yeah," you said, saving your work. "Let's go."
You'd started a tradition of Friday night dinners on the rooftop of your building, watching the sun set over the city. James would cook—he'd gotten surprisingly good at it—and you'd talk about your week, your dreams, your plans for the future.
Tonight, as you sat on the blanket James had spread out, eating pad Thai and watching the sky turn orange and pink, you felt a contentment you'd never experienced before.
"I have something for you," James said, setting down his food.
"If it's more medical supplies, I'm going to kiss you."
"It's not medical supplies." He pulled a small box from his pocket, and your heart stopped. "Before you panic, it's not what you think. Not yet, anyway. We're still young, you're still in school, and I want to do this right."
He opened the box to reveal a simple silver ring with a small stone—not a diamond, but something blue and beautiful.
"It's a promise ring," James explained. "A promise that when you're ready, when the time is right, I'm going to ask you properly. A promise that I'm in this for the long haul. A promise that you're it for me."
You were crying again, but this time they were happy tears. "James—"
"You saved my life," he said softly, taking the ring from the box. "Not just that first night when you stitched me up, but every day since. You made me want to be better. You made me believe I could be more than just a fighter. And I want to spend the rest of my life making you as happy as you've made me."
He slipped the ring onto your right hand, and it fit perfectly.
"I love you," you said, launching yourself at him. He caught you with a laugh, holding you close as the sun set over the city. "I love you so much."
"I love you too." James kissed you, soft and sweet and full of promise. "My healer. My home."
You stayed on that rooftop until the stars came out, talking about the future—about residency programs and expanding the clinic and maybe, someday, a wedding. About the life you were building together, brick by brick, day by day.
It wasn't perfect. You still worked too hard, and James still had nightmares about his fighting days. You argued about money and time management and whose turn it was to do the dishes. But it was real, and it was yours, and it was worth every moment of uncertainty that had brought you here.
"Hey," James said as you were packing up to head inside. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For opening your door that night. For giving me a chance. For seeing past the fighter to the person underneath." He pulled you close, his arms around your waist. "For loving me."
"Thank you for bringing me coffee," you replied, smiling against his chest. "For making me eat real food. For showing me that it's okay to let someone take care of me too."
"Always," James promised. "For as long as you'll have me."
"Forever, then."
"Forever," he agreed.
And as you walked back inside, hand in hand, you knew that whatever challenges came next—medical school, residency, building your clinic, navigating life together—you'd face them the same way you'd faced everything else.
Together.
A fighter and a healer, building something beautiful from broken pieces.
---
note: ngl i kinda cringed a bit while writing this but it’s okay we live. also blonde james 😍😍😍😍 he’s been bias wrecking me too much recently, but im loyal to seonghyeon.
boxer!martin x fem!reader ⋆˚꩜｡ in which going behind your brother’s back isn’t such a bad idea 𑣲. cocky martin .✦ ݁˖ warnings: fluff, slight angst in the end, language ᢉ𐭩 enjoy <3
was martin always this much of a jerk, or had winning just made him unbearably cocky?
the gym smells like old sweat and new ambition when your brother first brings martin in.
you're sitting on the bench near the heavy bags, scrolling through your phone when the door swings open and there he is. eighteen, lean muscle, eyes that keep flicking toward you even while your brother explains the training schedule. martin nods along. he’s polite and focused, but every time your brother turns to grab paperwork you catch martin looking again.
you don't mind. you've been around fighters long enough to know when someone's checking you out versus when they're just curious.
"this is my sister” your brother says, clapping martin on the shoulder. "she brings water sometimes. don't get any ideas."
martin smiles, small and quick. "got it, coach."
but he doesn't got it. not really. because three weeks later when you're dropping off fresh towels after practice, martin is the one who jogs over to grab them from you.
his fingers brush yours and he holds the contact half a second longer than necessary.
"thanks” he says, voice low. "these smell way better than the ones we usually have."
"that's because i actually wash them” you tell him, and he laughs like you said something clever instead of stating a fact.
your brother is across the gym yelling combinations at another fighter, too busy to notice the way martin keeps finding excuses to talk to you. you don't mind that either.
martin's got this easy charm, the kind of charm that makes you want to stick around even when you have errands to run.
he starts winning matches. not just winning but dominating them. your brother calls him his "golden ticket" and martin just ducks his head, embarrassed but pleased.
you start showing up to the fights, sitting in the front row with your brother's spare hoodie pulled over your head.
every time martin glances over between rounds and sees you there, something in his posture changes. he stands taller. hits harder. the bell rings and he's a different fighter.
"you know he's only looking at you right?" your friend whispers during one particularly brutal match. "like, the entire crowd is screaming and he's scanning your face to see your reaction."
"can you just keep it quiet?” you mutter, but you're smiling. because it's true and you both know it.
your brother catches on eventually. pulls martin aside after a late practice, voice firm. "my sister is off limits. you hear me? she's not part of this deal."
martin nods, says all the right things, promises to keep his distance.
but the next day when you show up with water bottles, he's the one who meets you at the door again. this time he doesn't even pretend it's about the water.
"you coming to the match on friday?" he asks, casual like he's asking about the weather.
"depends. you gonna win?" you raise your eyebrow.
"only if you're there to watch." he says with the brightest smile ever.
you roll your eyes but you're already planning your outfit.
your brother would lose his mind if he knew, but what he doesn't know won't hurt him. at least that's what you tell yourself when martin texts you after practice, asking if you want to grab food after the next fight.
it's casual at first. small conversations in the parking lot. quick texts that turn into longer ones. he calls you after a win, still buzzing with adrenaline and you listen to him ramble about footwork and timing until he falls asleep mid sentence.
you start showing up at the gym even when your brother isn't there, bringing snacks or just sitting on the bleachers while martin works the speed bag.
"your brother's gonna kill me” martin says one afternoon, unwrapping his hands after a long session.
"probably” you agree, handing him a water bottle. "but you'll die happy, right?" you chuckle.
he grins at that, the kind of smile that gives you butterflies. "so worth it."
months pass like that. on and off. stolen moments and secret smiles. your brother remains oblivious, too focused on martin's rising record to notice the way his fighter's eyes track you across the gym.
martin gets bolder tho. starts finding reasons to touch your hand when he takes the water bottle. lingers in doorways when you're leaving. the tension builds slow and steady until it feels like something has to give.
which leads us to tonight.
it's almost midnight when you push open the gym door. the place is empty except for martin, still in his training gear, working the heavy bag with single minded focus.
his breathing comes hard, but he doesn't stop until he catches sight of you in the mirror.
"hey” he says, dropping his hands. "didn't think anyone else would be here this late."
"couldn't sleep” you tell him, walking over to the bench where his stuff is scattered. "thought maybe you'd want company."
martin wipes his face with a towel, but his eyes never leave you. "your brother know you're here?"
"what do you think?"
he laughs, low and warm. "fair enough."
you watch him unwrap his hands, he loosens the tape and flexes his fingers. there's something so sweet about it, like you're seeing a part of him that doesn't belong to the ring or your brother or the crowd that cheers his name.
"you were good today” you say “so good.”, settling on the bench. "that combination in the third round was clean."
"yeah? you think i was good?”
"i always think that."
martin sits beside you, close enough that your knees touch. "your brother would have a stroke if he knew how often you show up."
"well good thing he's not here then, no?”
"good thing” martin echoes, and the way he says it makes you get sweet butterflies.
"so” you start, leaning back on your hands, "how's it feel being the golden ticket?" you ask sarcastically while chuckling.
"exhausting” he admits, stretching his arms above his head. "your brother has me running drills that would make a marine cry."
"awh poor baby” you tease him jokingly as you reach out to give his cheek a small stroke with the back of your hand. "want me to bring you a juice box next time?"
"only if it's the good kind with the little straw” he says back, smiling. "the ones that taste like actual fruit instead of pure regret of being a boxer."
you laugh, and the sound echoes in the empty gym. "i'll see what i can do. maybe i'll even throw in some cookies if you win your next match."
"bribery? from the coach's sister?" martin clutches his chest dramatically. "i'm shocked. didn’t expect this from you."
"you gonna tell on me?"
"nah” he says, his voice dropping a little. "i like having secrets with you."
there's a pause that’s comfortable and charged at the same time. martin reaches over and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering against your cheek.
"you know” he continues, "i've been thinking about that last fight.“
"what about it?"
"i kept looking for you between rounds. every time i found you in the crowd, it was like... i don't know. like i could breathe better."
you laugh and immediately cringe out "eww that's so cheesy martin."
"yeah, well you bring it out in me” he says, not even trying to deny it. "besides, you're the one who keeps showing up to watch me get punched in the face. what does that say about you?"
"that i have excellent taste in entertainment?"
"or that you like watching me sweat” he teases as you make a gagging sound. but besides it, you can feel the heat rising in your cheeks from how good his sweet talk is.
"maybe both” you admit, and the way his eyes light up makes you want to kiss him right there.
so you do.
martin meets you halfway, his hand sliding to the back of your neck as your lips connect. it's familiar now, this dance between you.
the way his other hand finds your resting hand. when you pull back, he's smiling against your mouth.
"been thinking about doing that all day” he murmurs.
"just today?"
"every day since the first time” he corrects. "which was...what, a few months ago now?"
"four months and two days" you say without thinking, then immediately regret it when his grin turns smug.
"keeping count huh?"
you push his shoulder “shut up."
he just chuckles and nudges your cheek with his nose, “c’mon i was kidding. that’s so cute.”, kissing you again .
he always stays respectful, never wandering too far. though there's an emotion in the way he holds you that makes your heart beat a little bit faster.
when you break apart this time, martin rests his forehead against yours. "your brother gave me another talk last week."
"again?” you raise your brows. “what'd he say this time?"
"the usual. to stay away from his sister, focus on training, don't mess up his golden ticket's head with relationship drama."
"and what'd you say?"
"told him i'd think about it” martin admits, his thumb tracing circles on your hand. "been thinking about it a lot, actually."
"and?"
"still thinking” he says, but the way he's looking at you suggests his thoughts are pretty one sided. "mostly about how you're worth every lecture he wants to give me."
"even the really long ones?"
"especially the really long ones. makes the reward feel more earned."
you roll your eyes but you're smiling. “ew, corny."
"you love it."
"maybe” you concede, reaching up to run your fingers through his damp sweat hair. "but don't let it go to your head." you say as you stand up. “i should go.”
“already?” martin says as he looks up at you.
“yeah, well… can’t stay forever, y’know.”
then, something in his expression changed. martin shrug his shoulders and reached for his water bottle, “alright.”
that’s it. no arguing. no trying to convince you to stay.
he just gets up, grabs his hoodie from the bench and throws it over his shoulder like he couldn’t care less.
you pause, almost expecting him to say something else.
but he doesn’t.
you narrow your eyes. “that’s all?”
he glances back at you, “what?”
“you’re not gonna try to make me stay?”
martin gives you a lazy little smile, “nah. if you wanna go, go.”
something about how easily he says it annoys you more than if he’d argued.
you grab your bag, “fine.”
“fine.”
you head toward the door. then right before you leave, he calls after you.
“hey.”
you turn.
“don’t get jealous if you see me with someone on friday.”
you scoff, “what?”
he shrugs, “just warning you. we’re not together, y’know.”
you stare at him, “you’re such a dick.”
he laughs under his breath, “night.”
and maybe this is why the two of you had been off and on. but hey, that’s just who he is, right?
ᝰ.ᐟ a/n: hey guyss!!🤍 i’m finally back after my vacation, posting’s gonna be more frequent now hehe😼 did u guys like this ending? at first it was gonna be all sweet martin but i feel like this fits him more😸 official masterlist here!
OR . . . 5 TIMES EVERYONE THOUGHT JAMES WAS YOUR BOYFRIEND & THE ONE TIME YOU DIDN’T BOTHER TO CORRECT THEM
❤︎ c. yufan x reader
&&. friends to lovers. yearner bsf!james. non-idol au. mentions of parties + alcohol. brief mentions of violence + jealousy. fem-implied reader. can be read as a standalone fic, but is a continuation of hopelessly devoted requested by anonymous <3 all content is purely fictional !
-ˋˏ ✄┈ ONE
JAMES IS LATE. james was never late, not once since you’d known him. he was always five minutes early, annoyingly punctual even when you wish he wouldn’t be.
but today, james is late. and he’s not answering his phone, which is unlike him, so you finally get up from your chair and go downstairs to search the beyond-packed library for him.
when you come back up after the fruitless search, your friends have finally arrived. they’re mid laugh, sipping on some exorbitantly-colored boba drink, eyes widening when they see you come up the stairs.
megan nudges your shoulder, offering you a sip from her cup. “hey, tell your boyfriend thanks for the drinks!”
“my boyfriend?” you blink, blindly taking the drink she shoves into your hand. several of the others echo the thanks, but you’re stuck on the ‘boyfriend’ part another minute before james comes bustling in, balancing a pastry bag on top of a drink carrier full of the same beverage that’s currently in your hand.
he grins when he sees you, taking his wired headphones off his shoulder as he sets everything down. “hey! sorry i’m late, i saw your messages but my hands were kinda full.”
normally you’d crack a joke or tease him about his uncharacteristic tardiness, but you’re still thrown off by megan’s comment.
“i picked up that new drink they have at the cafe by my place, the one you said you wanted to try?” he continues, effortlessly passing around the drinks and pastries to your friends while he talks. “figured it’d be good study fuel, especially since you have all those exams coming up.”
“right, thanks!” you manage, your laugh coming out with a nervous tinge that makes you wince internally. james doesn’t seem to notice, tearing off a piece of his croissant for you to try. he holds the piece of bread to your mouth with that same easy smile, and you feel your cheeks heat up as you lean forward to bite it.
boyfriend…
“it’s good, right?” james insists, laughing at your mouth-full nod. as you sit back down, your eyes trace the lines of his whisker-dimples, the way his eyes close when he laughs. you keep staring from behind your laptop screen as he sets up his things, completely unaware of your unwavering gaze.
your boyfriend… what a concept.
-ˋˏ ✄┈ TWO
YOUR PHONE IS RINGING. you wince when you see your mother’s contact light up the screen. it’s been way too long since you called her, but exam season has you going absolutely insane.
“heeeyyy,” you greet, trying not to sound as guilty as you feel. (it’s not working).
“she’s alive!” your mother jokes, and you sigh as you fall back into the pillows on your bed.
“i’m so sorry, i promise i meant to call! it’s just with exams, i haven’t had any free time between studying and test prep, ugh, i feel like i’m losing my mind.”
“remember to keep taking care of yourself,” she chides, “don’t neglect your health just for some grades!”
“it’s not just grades, it’s my entire future.”
she clicks her tongue. “you’re too young to be worrying about your future. wait until your greys start to come in.”
“i’m going to put you on with my guidance counselors and see what they have to say about that.”
when she laughs, you do too.
“well,” she says, static crackling in your speaker, “how’s everything else? are you remembering to have fun and not just study? are you still seeing that guy?”
your nose wrinkles in confusion. “what guy?”
“the one you’re always talking about!”
“mom, the only guy i ever hang out with is james.”
“james! yes, that was it. you’re still together?”
“james and i are not dating,” you snort. “he’s my best friend.”
“you talk about him all the time. he drives you around, gets you coffee, takes you out to eat, he’s in every picture you send us!”
“that doesn’t mean we’re together,” you insist, rolling over on your side. true to your mother’s words, nearly every picture on the wall beside your bed is of you and james.
she gives a low hum, full of that motherly-knowing. “whatever you say, dear.”
she switches topics after that, but your mind lingers on her words from before, and your gaze on the photo wall.
-ˋˏ ✄┈ THREE
THE BIG ONE IS DONE. your ill-fated chemistry exam, the one you’d been studying for the entire last month, was finally over. you didn’t know how it turned out, but your chest felt lighter just getting the damn thing turned in.
you’d raced to james’ apartment, bypassing the knock and instead fumbling for the spare key he’d given you a few months back as you let yourself in.
“it’s over!” you yell, barging in after throwing the door open and tossing your book bag to the ground. “i’m free!”
an empty living room greets you. your lips pull into a pout. where was james for the celebratory hug and scream-cheering session? where was your sweet reward matcha latte and k-drama binge night?
you walk over to the calendar he keeps near the kitchen, every aspect of his schedule planned out in detail, complete with little spider-man doodles and positive manifestations.
hockey practice, tuesday 6pm.
great. you check the clock. 6:24 pm. he’d be gone at least another hour and a half if not more.
your mood sours just a little, but you move on to plan b. you go into james’ room, slide into whatever hoodie he’d left on his desk chair, and climb into his bed where you promptly fall asleep.
─────
james unlocks his door and heaves a great sigh, stretching his sore limbs after dropping his gym bag.
juhoon looks up from the couch, his eyes going wide at the volume of the subsequent groan james lets out.
“dude, you didn’t tell me your girlfriend was crashing here! keep it down, you’ll wake her.”
“girlfriend?”
juhoon gestures to where the door to james’ room is still open. you’re still fast asleep under his comforter, in his university hoodie, mouth open and snoring.
james covers his mouth to keep from laughing. when he drops it, a fond smile has taken over his face. juhoon gives him a knowing look.
“are you ever gonna ask her out?”
james shushes him immediately, shooing the younger boy off as he goes in the bedroom and closes the door behind him.
he approaches the bed, where you’ve shifted to curl up in the corner, one pillow clutched in your arms. he perches on the mattress beside you, and your stir at the movement.
your eyes open to find his smile, so wide his eyes are nearly closed. “good morning.”
you punch his arm weakly, speaking through a yawn. “i waited for you.”
“clearly,” he replies, scooting back on the bed to lean against the wall. “so how was the big exam?”
you shrug, sitting up a little. “won’t know until next week, but i’m just glad that thing is over.”
he laughs. “i’m sure you did great.”
“how was practice?” you ask, cheek smushed against the pillow.
“boring. coach made us run drills almost the entire time ‘cause some guys were late.”
his fingers idly brush the hair from your face. the touch is so casual, nothing different than normal, but it makes your heart leap in your chest.
you burrow deeper into the covers, tugging on his sleeve. “come nap with me.”
“you won’t sleep tonight,” james chides, but he’s still smiling.
“i can sleep for ten days after that exam,” you retort, continuously tugging at his sleeve. “come on.”
james lets you pull him down beside you, laughing when his back hits the mattress.
“you smell good.” you cuddle closer, ditching the pillow to clutch his arm to your chest instead.
“i showered at the gym.”
you hum, falling into comfortable silence, feeling the residual energy of his strong heartbeat so close to you.
“goodnight, jjami.”
“goodnight,” he answers, grabbing for his phone with his free hand. your eyes are already closed, so you don’t see the text from juhoon that james opens.
girl + friend = girlfriend
-ˋˏ ✄┈ FOUR
THE BEACH WAS PACKED. it had been full-house all day, the waves crashing and sun beating down even though it was barely a few weeks into spring.
your friend group had decided on a bonfire once the sun set, and you and james had run out to pick up s’mores supplies — except that when you returned, there was almost no place for you to sit.
your hair was still damp from the water, smelling of sunscreen and tanning oil, and you were in cutoff jean shorts and james’ hockey team hoodie. you’d just finished unloading the snacks and look up to him with a questioning glance.
your friends are caught up in the fire and the food, not a care in the world for your little seating issue. you could just sit in the sand, but then it was already getting cold and you’d have to worry about the embers flying in your eyes and such.
you stand around for a while, but nobody gets up. and then james, ever the gentleman, gestures for you to sit first on the tiny sliver of log that wasn’t taken. you grin, grabbing him by the shoulders and plopping him down before settling comfortably on his lap, legs thrown over his without a care.
his cheeks are warm, either from the proximity or the fire, but his hands are strong and steady around you.
the firelight glints off his copper eyes. “you okay?”
you nod, gaze returning to the fire. you squeeze his hands, locked around your middle to keep you in place against him. “never better.”
the laughter and conversation keeps coming, and so do the toasted marshmallows.
some especially toasty, in your case.
“holy shit!”
you blow frantically on the squishy thing to extinguish the flame, to no avail. you nearly tumble off james’ lap in all the commotion, but he takes the skewer from you with a smirk and blows it out in one breath.
you make playful cutting eyes at him, but he’s redeemed as he holds the stick steady while you assemble the s’more around the burnt confection.
james laughs when you present it to him proudly and obediently takes a bite.
“it’s good,” he says through a mouthful of graham cracker, and you snort as you take a bite yourself.
you’re so caught up with the smoky taste of the treat that you don’t notice the way james is looking at you.
what you do notice, however, is that across the circle your friends and pointing and whispering and giggling. you can tell it’s all in good nature, that they’re probably on about “how cute you and james are” like they have been for weeks now, but it doesn’t bother you even one bit.
they could think what they want. you were just happy to be there with james.
-ˋˏ ✄┈ FIVE
THE PARTY WAS IN FULL SWING. it was one of the few times you’d managed to drag james out of his apartment on a friday night, and you were enjoying every second of it — until he ran off.
(an exaggeration. he’d only wandered off to get you another drink, but he was taking longer than normal and you were starting to miss him).
you’re too busy wallflower-ing to notice the guy that comes up to you until he begins to speak, leaning in to be heard over the music.
“you look a little lonely.”
he’s handsome, tall, good smile. not james, but still handsome.
“just waiting for a drink,” you reply coyly, nearly shouting as well. he holds up his cup, but you shake your head. “no thanks.”
“suit yourself,” he winks, taking another swig. “so, you having fun?”
“music could be better,” you admit. “but it’s a good time. you?”
he starts to answer but trails off when a pair of strong arms encircle your waist. you feel the familiar warmth and steadiness of james’ chest against your back, the sharp line of his chin settling on your shoulder.
the guy — the poor guy who hadn’t even gotten the chance to introduce himself — starts to back away.
“my bad,” he says, lifting his drink in salute. “didn’t know you were taken.”
james doesn’t say anything, just stares with that stone-cold gaze, and you’re too flustered to speak up either. the guy turns and leaves without another word, and you finally get up the bearings to pull away and shove james in the chest.
“you’re always scaring guys off from me!” you complain.
he barely budges from your actions, his eyes still fixed on the other guy’s retreating back. “i didn’t like the way he was looking at you.”
“he didn’t even get a chance to look at me!”
“he wasn’t good enough,” james insists, leaning back against the wall.
you roll your eyes. “you say that about every guy.”
“it’s true about every guy,” he shrugs. he offers the can to you, taking it upon himself to fix up the little details in your outfit as you take a sip. he fixes a stray strand of hair, adjusts the strap on your top, tugs down at your skirt to ensure full coverage. he’s like a helicopter-best-friend. “and what was that with the drink? that’s dangerous.”
“i didn’t take it,” you huff. “i can look after myself.”
“i know you can,” he says. “but what’s wrong with letting someone help out?”
you huff again, but you don’t say anything else. you don’t want to ruin the night arguing, especially when you know he has the best intentions and went out of his way to come with you tonight.
“let’s just…enjoy the party, okay?”
james gives a resolute nod. “i can do that. you want to dance?”
that gets a smile out of you. “let’s do it!”
─────
it’s not like james to leave you alone, especially anywhere as crowded as this party. but the car was parked far down the dark street, and it was getting later and colder, and you insisted you’d be fine waiting on the porch while he went to go get it.
he shouldn’t have left you.
because when he pulls up to the driveway, ready to get out and walk you back to the car, there’s somebody in his place by your side.
it’s a different guy this time. bigger, stupider, and clearly not backing off.
you’re against a corner, smile stretched uncomfortably tight. your knuckles are paling around the can in your hand.
then the guy leans in, way too close for comfort, and you smile drops completely.
james sees the way your pupils dilate with panic, the way you try to duck away from the contact, and he explodes like a firecracker out of the car, keys still swinging from the ignition.
you yelp when the douchebag in front of you is yanked backwards, hands clapping over your mouth when you see james appear behind him and then—
WHAM!
his fist cracks against the guy’s jaw with scary precision.
shouts erupt from the partygoers who’d spilled outside, watching the fight break out.
you watch in horror as james shakes out his hand, easily ducking the retaliation punch the other guy swings out of instinct.
“what the fuck is your problem?!” the guy yells, advancing, but james is too quick. he shoves him again, eyes burning with rage, but a group of frat guys gets between them before things escalate even more.
“stay the fuck away from her!” he yells as the partygoers push him back towards the car.
james almost never curses. he never gets in fights. and he certainly doesn’t get into fights over you.
“what the hell were you thinking?!” you demand, anger rising in your voice. the fury vanishes from his eyes as soon as james looks at you, his gaze softening but eyes still wide with shock when you shove him in the chest too.
“i— i was—”
“are you insane?! you could’ve gotten hurt!”
your clenched hands fall weakly against him, your arms having begun to shake already. your vision is going blurry with tears and your resolve gives out, anger giving way to the fear and panic from before.
when you collapse forward into his arms, you’ve already started to cry. your arms clutch tight to his back, fists balled into his jacket as your shoulders shake.
“i’m sorry,” james murmurs quickly, one hand cradling the back of your head and the other tight around your waist. “i won’t do it again. i just didn’t want you to get hurt, and i was worried, and i saw him lean in like that and i just lost it—”
“thank you,” you whisper, and he falls silent. his arms wrap around you even tighter, and it’s like he’s the only thing holding you together when it feels like you’re falling apart.
the party rages on behind you, the fight long forgotten, but james keeps you wrapped up in his arms as he leads you back to the car.
he may not be your boyfriend, not exactly, but he sure as hell won’t let anything happen to you. not while he’s around. not on his life.
-ˋˏ ✄┈ THE ONE
SHE DIDN’T DO ANYTHING. not really, anyway.
it wasn’t a crime to sit too close, or to touch his arm while apologizing for nearly spilling her drink on him (even though the cup was miles from touching him), or to sneak less-than-subtle glances out of the corner of her eye.
she wasn’t the first one, and something told you she wouldn’t be the last. and that wouldn’t have bothered you normally, but this time you can’t escape the deep ache in your gut.
because it’s james. your james — sweet, oblivious james who had no idea he was being hit on and subsequently no idea why you were absolutely pissed.
except he’s not yours, which you had to remind yourself of, and had only served to further sour your mood.
that, james noticed.
what he didn’t notice was when he went to get his jacket after you told him with flushed cheeks and a delicate scowl, that you wanted to go — was that the girl apologized to you for not realizing he was your boyfriend. and you didn’t say one word to the contrary.
he just took your hand as you walked out like nothing had happened.
the fresh air feels good on your face, hot from anger and embarrassment and some guilt you were trying hard to push down.
“is everything okay?” james asks, ever thoughtful, ever patient. his pace matches yours, though with his longer legs it takes him half the effort — whereas you’re walking like you’re trying to run away from something.
“i’m fine,” you reply unconvincingly, arms crossed over your chest as your shoes knock against the pavement. you don’t look at him when you speak. you can’t. he’d see right through you.
james doesn’t press the issue. he just drapes his jacket over your shoulders, opens the car door for you, and takes you home.
when you get in the door, he stops you in the entryway. “you sure you’re okay?” his hands find your cheeks, hot under his touch as he smoothes the hair back from your face. “you didn’t have too much to drink? you’re all flushed.”
there’s no malice or judgement in his tone. just warm concern, and a hint of exasperated fondness underneath it. it does nothing to help your state.
“i told you i’m fine!” you insist, pulling back even though your body yearns for his touch. it’s true, your burning jealousy hadn’t allowed for much drinking. you weren’t exactly in a festive mood, then or now.
you go to the kitchen to get a glass of water, hoping for some reprieve to this ugly feeling. a soft quiet settles, the tension bleeding from the room as the frenzy subsides.
james sinks into the couch, just as home at your place as his.
you walk over slowly, dreading the question before it even leaves your mouth.
“james, can i ask you something?”
not jjami. uh oh, it’s serious.
he sits up straighter. “yeah, of course.”
“what are we?”
the questions hangs in the air a while before he can muster the breath to reply. “what do you mean?”
“i mean…you act like my boyfriend. everyone around us is convinced we’re madly in love. and…you look at me like…” you trail off, unsure of how to continue. “like that,” you reply helplessly, gesturing to his face. to his brown eyes, soft like melting copper in that way he only ever looks at you.
“so…so what are we?”
james swallows hard. “whatever you want us to be.”
“what do you want?”
his response is breathless, immediate. “you.”
that surprises you. it shouldn’t, but it does. by now, his fingers have laced into yours and you’re having trouble focusing.
“you…what?”
“i was scared it was obvious.”
“i…” it was. to everyone else, and maybe even to you too. but you were too scared to put your eggs in one basket, to let yourself think it was anything more than it was. “i don’t know.”
it’s too much. too many possibilities, too much change. you’d never been good at change. the only reason you could ever stand it was with james by your side. but now it’s different. now, the change is between you.
“that’s okay,” he says, quickly, softly. “you don’t have to know anything. we can pretend nothing happened. it’s still me.”
“it’s not that,” you whisper back. “it’s just…”
you’re flustered again, almost too embarrassed to bring it up. too late now.
“just what?” he asks gently. his hands are still warm in yours.
“those girls!” you burst out before you can stop yourself. you fight the urge to clap your hands over your mouth, mortified by the outburst.
james blinks. “what girls?”
you drag your hands over your face, your cheeks warm under the touch. “james, you can’t possibly be that blind.”
“from the party?”
“yes, from the party! they couldn’t have been more obvious!”
his only answer is a puzzled glance. you’d be infuriated if he wasn’t so beautiful.
“and it’s not just them, james,” you sigh, pressure building behind your eyes. “it’s every girl that passes you by, the baristas that put hearts on your cups, the gym receptionist that giggles when you say ‘good morning’, it’s everyone!”
“are you…you’re jealous?”
like it’s just dawning on him.
your face burns. “maybe.”
it takes a moment for him to reply — and to wipe the tiny smile off his face and get serious.
“i don’t see other girls. i mean, i see them with my eyes, but not…not with my heart.” he’s pulling you in with every word, like you were made to be in his arms. “you’re the only one i feel when i’m around you. my heart only beats for you.”
god, you could die. your heart thumps pathetically against your ribs like it’s about to combust. you wouldn’t be surprised if it did.
“you’re going to kill me,” you whisper, close enough now that your nose is practically touching his.
“not before i get a chance to kiss you,” he murmurs back, the ghost of a laugh escaping him as he pulls you in, in, in even closer, until you’re practically in his lap.
you could die. your hands are squeezing his shoulders for purchase so tight you’re sure it’s painful, but there’s nothing in his eyes but bliss.
“so…can i?”
his thumbs are tracing circles around the skin exposed on your waist where he’s shirt’s ridden up. you’re having trouble even following his words. “what?”
“kiss you,” he replies, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.
it’s all you can do to nod shakily, and then you can’t even think at all.
it’s like fireworks exploding. it’s the kind of kiss where if you were in a movie, some grand piano and strings theme would be playing, and the audience would be cheering, and the screen would turn pink and red with flower petals.
but it’s more than a blown-out fantasy. because it’s james, which means that it’s real.
the warmth of his body under you is real. the smoothness of his skin, the soft hair on the back of his neck beneath your fingers is real. his lips on yours, the way his lashes flutter against his cheeks when he kisses you — it’s all real.
and it’s better than you ever imagined. because it’s james. your james.
then, now, and probably forever.
💭 — i really hope the anon who requested this finds it!! <3 thank you so much for the ideas and inspo, 100% of the cred belongs to ur beautiful brain. i think it really came together and i hope you enjoy reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it!!
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Summary: Forced onto a blind date by your mum, you decide the easiest way out is to make him hate you. However, fate seems to have other plans.
Warnings: no use of y/n
Cw: a little angst
Wc: 4k+
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10 (Last part)
You changed your outfit three times.
The first one was the one you had laid out, which told you something already. You did not lay outfits out for things that did not matter. When you put it on and looked at the mirror it felt too much like you were trying to say something with what you were wearing, and you did not want him to read anything into it before you had even left the room.
So you changed.
The second one was the opposite problem. Too casual. The kind of thing you wore on a Sunday when you were not planning to go anywhere. You stood in front of the mirror in it and thought about the way Fred had said seven o'clock like it was something he had been planning for more than one day, and you thought about the way his face had looked when you agreed, and the second outfit did not feel right either.
The third one was fine. It was just fine. Not too much and not too little and it was what you were wearing now and you were not going to think about it anymore.
You looked at it in the mirror for another thirty seconds.
Then you made yourself stop.
Nadia was sitting on her bed behind you, holding a book. She had been holding it for the last fifteen minutes. You had not heard a single page turn.
"Do not," you said.
"I was not going to say anything," she said.
"You have been holding that book open to the same page since I got back from the bathroom."
"I am reading slowly."
"Nadia."
A small pause. "You look nice," she said simply. "That is all."
You looked at yourself in the mirror one more time. Then you picked up your bag out of habit and put it down again because you did not need a bag. Then you picked it up again because without it your hands did not know what to do with themselves. Then you put it down one final time.
She chuckled.
"Go already," Nadia said.
You went.
----
The common room was mostly quiet when you came downstairs. A few second years were hunched over something near the fire, talking in low urgent voices and occasionally looking over their shoulders. Someone had fallen asleep in the big armchair with a textbook open on their chest, rising and falling slowly. The fire was low and orange and the room smelled like warm wood.
No Fred.
You stood at the bottom of the stairs with your hands clasped in front of you and waited and felt slightly ridiculous and told yourself that was fine, that was a normal thing to feel, and then the portrait hole swung open and he came through it.
He was still pulling his jacket on with one hand. His hair was slightly damp at the ends, like he had washed it not long ago and then left it to do whatever it wanted, which was what it always looked like. He was looking down at the jacket buttons when he came through and then he looked up and he saw you standing there at the bottom of the stairs and his face did the thing.
It was a small thing. It was not dramatic. It was just that something in him settled when he saw you, like a question he had been holding got answered without him having to ask it out loud.
"You came," he said.
"You told me to come."
"I know," he said, still working on the jacket. "I just." He looked at you properly. "Good. You came."
You tilted your head. "You said that already."
"I know," he said again. And then he smiled, warm and a little crooked, and held out his hand. "Come on. We are going to be late."
You looked at his hand. "Late for what."
"The surprise," he said patiently. "Obviously."
You looked at him for one more second.
Then you took his hand.
He knew the castle the way people knew places they had grown up in, not by thinking about them but by feeling them, turning where he needed to turn before he reached the corner, slowing before a step that was slightly higher than the others. He moved quickly and quietly and you moved with him, and after the first few familiar corridors you stopped recognising where you were and just followed.
He checked around corners before turning them. At one point he pulled you sideways into a shadowed alcove so suddenly that you barely had time to process it before you were pressed against the stone wall in the dark with Fred's hand on your arm and one finger raised to his lips.
Filch came around the corner below, lantern swinging, muttering something you could not make out. You both stood completely still and did not breathe and watched the light from the lantern move along the wall and then diminish and then disappear.
The corridor went quiet.
Fred looked at you in the dark.
"We are sneaking out," you whispered.
"We are absolutely not sneaking out," he whispered back.
"We are hiding in an alcove from the caretaker."
"We are pausing," he said, "at a scenic point along an unconventional route." He said it with great seriousness. "It is completely different."
You stared at him.
He stared back.
The corner of his mouth moved.
----
You pressed your free hand over your own mouth to keep the laugh inside as he pulled you out of the alcove and you followed along.
The way out was a passage near the ground floor that he went to without hesitating, crouching down and pressing on a section of wall in a specific place that made it swing inward. It was narrow and low and smelled like cold stone and earth and the night air that was already coming in from the other end, and you ducked through it and came out on the other side and straightened up.
The grounds opened up in front of you.
And the sky opened up above.
You had been inside for weeks. You had forgotten, properly forgotten, what the sky looked like when there was nothing between you and it. It was enormous above the grounds, deep blue going to black at the edges, and it was absolutely full of stars. Not the handful you could see from the tower windows. All of them. More than you could count, more than you could take in all at once, laid out across the dark in every direction.
You stood there and just looked at it.
The air was cool and clean smelling like the lake and the particular freshness of a spring night that had not quite decided to be warm but was not cold either. It moved through you when you breathed in, settling something.
Fred stood beside you and did not say anything.
He just waited while you looked.
After a moment you took a step forward. Then another. Then you let go of his hand without thinking about it, just to have your arms free, just to be properly in the open, and you walked out further onto the grass and tipped your head back and looked up at all of it.
The stars were the kind of bright that felt almost close. Like if you reached up far enough you could brush them with your fingers. You turned slowly with your head back, taking in the full arc of the sky from one side to the other, and there was too much of it to hold all at once and you did not mind. You just kept turning slowly.
Fred watched you from a few feet away.
You turned back to face the lake and that was when you saw the rocks. They were at the far edge of the slope where the ground dropped away toward the bank, large flat ones jutting out from the earth, and from here you could tell that if you stood on them you would have the whole lake in front of you with nothing in the way.
You were already walking toward them.
You did not decide to walk toward them. Your feet just went.
The grass was soft and slightly wet under your shoes and the lake got larger as you got closer. When you reached the rocks you climbed up onto the first one, then the next, finding your footing in the dark, and from the top one you stopped. The whole lake was in front of you; it was extraordinary.
The water was completely still. The moonlight lay across it in one long unbroken line going all the way to the far bank. And the sky reflected back from the surface so that the stars were below you as well as above you, and you were standing in the middle of all of it, surrounded on every side by dark and silver and light.
You heard Fred climb up beside you.
Neither of you said anything for a while. You just stood there together and looked at the lake and the sky above it and the sky below it and let it be as big as it was.
Then you jumped back down to the grass and kept walking.
"Where are you going," Fred said, landing beside you.
"I want to see the rest of it," you said.
He did not argue. He just walked with you.
-----
You followed the edge of the lake for a while, close enough to hear the small sounds the water made against the stones at the bank. The grass was wet and your shoes were going to need drying out tomorrow and you found that you did not care at all.
You walked without talking. The silence was comfortable in the way it had been comfortable on the back step at the Burrow, full rather than empty, and Fred walked beside you with his hands in his pockets and matched your pace and let you lead and did not try to direct you anywhere.
A fish or something else moved out on the water and sent a ring of ripples spreading outward in the dark. You stopped to watch them come toward the bank and spread and disappear. Then you turned and kept going.
You rounded the curve of the bank and the ground flattened out where the field began, and that was when you saw it.
It was a tree at the far edge of the field, standing alone, old and broad, taller than the others nearby. And at this time of year its branches were full of white blossom, heavy with it, so much that the whole tree glowed faintly in the moonlight. You could see it from here, pale and soft against the dark sky behind it.
Then the breeze that had been moving across the lake reached the field.
It moved through the blossom and the petals came loose.
Not all at once and not in a rush. Slowly. One petal and then a few and then more, drifting down through the dark air in soft pale spirals, turning slightly as they fell, each one catching the moonlight for a moment before it landed on the grass without any sound at all.
You walked toward it the way you walked toward things that needed to be closer.
You did not think about it. You just went, crossing the grass steadily until you were standing under the branches, and then you stopped and you looked up and watched the petals come down around you.
One landed on your hair. You didn't even realise it was there.
You stood there with the blossom falling and the tree above you and the moonlight coming through the gaps in the branches and landing in small bright patches on the grass around your feet, and after a moment you closed your eyes.
Just to feel it.
Fred had stopped a little way back.
He stood in the field and looked at you under the blossom tree and he did not say anything and he did not come closer. He just looked. The petals were in your hair and on your cheek and your eyes were closed and your face was tipped up to the dark between the branches, and the blossom was coming down around you slowly in the quiet, and he stood there in the field, looking at you the way he had been trying not to look at you for months.
He let himself look properly.
''God, she’s beautiful''.
He thought about the back step at the Burrow. The way you had held the mug with both hands and said you had not felt lonely here, not once. He thought about the first morning in the kitchen when you had laughed at something and tried to stop and could not. He thought about the empty chair beside him in Charms that he kept accidentally saving. He thought about all of it, and he stood in the field and looked at you standing under the blossom tree, and it was not a difficult thing to understand anymore.
It had not been difficult for a long time.
He had just been waiting to say it.
---
After a while you opened your eyes. You lowered your face and looked out from under the branches at the field and the lake beyond it and then you turned and looked at Fred.
He was already looking at you.
You smiled. Not the careful smile or the composed smile. The real one, the one that happened when something had moved through you and left something good in its place.
"Fred," you said.
"Yeah," he said.
"This is the best thing anyone has ever shown me," you said. "And I do not think this is even the surprise yet."
He laughed softly. "No," he said. "It is not."
You looked back at the tree for a moment. A last few petals came loose and drifted down between you, pale and slow in the moonlight. You watched them land.
Then you turned walking back toward him, and he fell into step beside you, as you headed across the dark grounds toward the lane.
The village was a twenty minute walk down through the field and along the lane, and you walked it in the cool quiet night air with your arms close together, your sleeve brushing his with every few steps. Neither of you moved apart. Neither of you said anything about that either.
Ottery St Catchpole at night was a different place from Ottery St Catchpole in the afternoon. The same streets and the same buildings but emptied of the daytime and left with something softer. The windows of the houses were warm and lit from inside. The voices from the pub around the corner were distant and comfortable. The cobblestones were dark and slick with dew and the lanterns on the corners made small steady gold pools on the ground.
You walked through it and looked at everything.
-----
The bakery where Mrs Abbott had given Fred the cheese pastries was closed and dark but you could still faintly smell bread through the gap under the door. You slowed as you passed it without meaning to, just because of the smell. Fred noticed and did not say anything, just slowed with you.
He stopped outside a small shop halfway along the high street.
Its window was warm and amber from the inside, glowing steadily in the dark. You looked at the sign above the door and read it twice. A sweet shop, the sign said, though you could tell from the way the letters were painted that the sign was old, much older than most things around it.
"It has been here since before my grandfather was born," Fred said, looking at it. "The woman who runs it has been here for almost as long." He pushed the door open and the little bell above it rang and the smell came out to meet you.
It was extraordinary.
Warm sugar, something deep and chocolatey with a little floral underneath all of it, and something else beneath that which you could not name no matter how long you stood there trying. It was the kind of smell that did something to you immediately, something about it that went past your nose and settled somewhere else, somewhere further in.
The inside was narrow with ceilings that were slightly lower than they should have been and every wall lined with jars from the floor all the way to the ceiling, jars of every size with things in every colour inside them. A wooden ladder on a rail ran along the shelves for reaching the ones at the top.
The light came from two lamps on the counter and one hanging overhead and it made everything in the room look golden.
An old woman behind the counter looked up when the bell rang. She had white hair piled on top of her head and glasses on a chain around her neck and the unhurried, certain expression of someone who had been watching people come through that door for a very long time and was not surprised by any of them.
She looked at Fred. "Fred Weasley," she said.
"Evening Mrs Abbott," he said.
She looked at both of you.
"Well....sit down then," she said.
Fred pulled out the chair nearest the window and looked at you. You sat in it. He sat down beside you.
The shop settled into quiet around you. Somewhere near the back of it a clock was ticking and the needles on Mrs Abbott's knitting started up from the counter, a soft steady clicking. The candle between you was small and the light it made was warm and close.
You looked at the jars on the walls. All the colours of everything in them, catching the lamplight, going all the way up to the ceiling.
You could have spent a long time just looking at the jars.
Mrs Abbott appeared at the table without you having heard her approach and set down two mugs, one blue and one green, without explaining what was in them or asking what you wanted, and turned and went straight back to her counter.
You picked up the blue mug and held it with both hands and smelled it. Warm apple and something spiced and something else underneath that you could not identify no matter how carefully you tried. You took a careful sip.
It moved through you the way warmth moved through you when you came in from a cold night. From the centre outward, slow and steady, reaching your hands and your feet and the back of your neck. Your shoulders dropped before you told them to.
You looked at Fred over the rim of the mug.
He was watching you taste it, his own mug held loosely in both hands, with a small quiet smile that was waiting to see what you thought.
"What is in this," you said.
"Nobody knows," he said. "She has been making it since before my dad was born and she has never told anyone what goes into it. My dad asked her every summer for twenty years." He looked at his mug. "She never told him."
You took another slow sip.
"Did he come here as a child?" you said.
"Every summer," Fred said. "He used to bring all of us when we were small. He said some places carried magic in them even when no one was casting any. That some places built it up over time just from all the people who had been happy in them." He looked around the small warm room, at the jars and the ladder and the lamplight and the low ceiling. "He always said this was one of those places."
You looked around too. You thought about what it would have looked like to a small Fred Weasley, all those years ago, standing in this room with his brothers and his sister and looking up at all those jars going to the ceiling.
----
The clock ticked. The knitting needles clicked. The candle between you had burned a little lower. Outside the window the lane was dark and quiet when a cat had appeared from somewhere sitting very precisely in the pool of light from the street lantern, cleaning its face with great dignity.
You watched the cat for a moment.
Then Fred said, "Do you remember the last night at the Burrow?"
You turned back to him. "The one on the back step," you said. "With the tea."
"Yeah," he said. "That one."
He turned his mug slowly in his hands. He looked at it rather than at you for a moment, which was unusual enough that you noticed it.
"You were looking at the stars," he said.
"We both were," you said. "That was an extraordinary sky."
He nodded slowly. "You said they were the prettiest stars you had ever seen."
"They were," you said.
He was quiet for a second.
"And I said I had seen prettier," he said.
You frowned slightly at the memory.
"I said I was not copying you," he said.
"You said the exact same words."
He finally looked up from his mug and at you. "I said the same words," he said. "But we were not looking at the same thing."
The shop was very quiet.
You looked at him carefully. "What do you mean."
He put his mug down on the table. Slowly. Like he was making sure of something before he said it.
"You were looking at the sky," he said. "I was not."
The clock ticked.
The candle flickered once and steadied.
You looked at him and he looked back at you and neither of you said anything for a moment and the sweet smell of the shop was all around you and the light was very warm and low.
"I walked away from the Burrow that night," he said, quietly, "thinking I had been very obvious about what I meant. I thought you must have understood." He shook his head slightly. "And then later, when we were on the grounds on the way back inside, you said they were the prettiest stars you had ever seen and I said I had seen prettier." He paused. "And you spent a long time looking around the dark for what I was talking about."
The memory of it came back slowly. Standing on the grounds outside the castle. Frowning at the dark. Looking left, looking right, trying to find whatever he was looking at that could possibly be prettier than that sky.
"I looked everywhere," you said.
"I thought maybe there was something somewhere," you said, and your voice came out smaller than you meant it to.
"There was nothing at anywhere you were looking," he said.
"I thought maybe a light or something. A reflection."
"There was no reflection," he said.
"I thought you meant something in the sky," you said. "I spent a while comparing the actual stars to each other. I thought maybe some of them were brighter than usual."
He looked at you with an expression that was very soft and very careful. "I was not talking about anything in the sky," he said.
-----
The heat came into your face before you could do anything about it. You could feel it happening, moving up from your neck, and you could not stop it. "Fred," you said, very quietly. "What were you looking at."
He faced towards you.
Then he looked at you steadily and said, "You."
One word.
Just that.
"I was looking at you," he said. "You were sitting there with the moonlight on your face and your head tipped back and you were smiling at the stars like they had said something kind to you. And I said I had seen prettier because I was looking at something I thought was prettier." He paused. "I was looking at you. I had been looking at you most of the evening and I thought you knew. I genuinely thought you knew."
You could not say anything.
"You were my view," he said simply. "You have been my view for quite a long time."
The shop was so quiet you could hear the candle.
You sat there with his hands around yours and the warmth moving through your face and everything that had been building between you for months sitting right here at the surface of this moment, unhidden, nowhere left to go.
After a long moment you said, very quietly, "I compared the individual stars to each other. I thought some of them were brighter than normal and that was what you meant."
A laugh came out of him, soft and a little undone. "I know."
"I spent time on it," you said. "I was being thorough."
"I know you were," he said.
"And you watched me do all of that," you said.
"I did," he said.
"And you did not say anything."
"I was hoping it would come to me, what to say," he said. "And then we went back inside and I kept thinking I would find the right moment and then the moment kept not being right and then you started taking the east corridor and I thought I had lost you entirely before I ever said it."
You looked at him across the small table with the candle almost out between you.
"You were not looking at the sky," you said.
"No," he said.
"The whole time," you said.
"The whole time," he agreed.
You sat with that. Let it settle into all the places it needed to settle.
----
Then, without making anything of it, without announcing it or building up to it, you reached over with your free hand and picked up his mug from the table.
When you suddenly leaned towards him, slowly and without hurrying, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. You brought his mug to your lips and took a slow sip. It tasted the same as yours, warm and spiced and sweet. You set it back down carefully. Light and quick and warm and then you were settling back into your chair and picking up his mug again; looking out the window at the cat in the lamplight as though nothing had happened at all.
The shop was completely quiet.
Fred did not move.
You could see him clearly in the corner of your eye, in exactly the position he had been in, except that the quality of his stillness had changed. It was a different kind of still now. Like something in him had stopped and was deciding what to do next. Like the moment between a breath in and a breath out.
You kept your eyes on the window and your face entirely calm and took one more small unhurried sip.
----
Then, very slowly, Fred reached over and took his mug back from your hand.
You turned to look at him.
He considered your mug, sitting on the table in front of you. Then he reached over and picked that one up too. He now had a mug in each hand, one blue and one green, held out slightly from his sides, and he was looking at you with an expression that was warm and deliberate and doing something very specific to your heart.
"That is my drink," you said.
"I know," he said.
"I would like it back."
He thought about this with great apparent seriousness. "No," he said.
You looked at your empty hands for a moment. Then you looked at him. And something decided itself in you, something that was not really a decision so much as the next obvious thing, and you leaned forward slowly as he watched you come closer, he did not move back and you turned your face just slightly toward his cheek.
You were going to do it again. The same as before. The cheek. Quick and light and then back to the window.
He turned his head.
His lips met yours instead.
It was soft and warm and completely unhurried. The shop was still around it, the clock still ticking, the needles still. The kiss was not short and it was not hurried and it was real in the way that things were real when they had been true for a long time before anyone said them out loud. His hands were still holding both mugs, slightly out to either side, and there was something about that which was so completely him that when you felt yourself smile against his mouth you could not help it.
He felt it too.
When he pulled back you were both still leaning toward each other, very close, close enough to see his eyes clearly in the low light. His ears were pink. Both mugs were still in his hands.
He looked at them.
Then he looked at you.
"You did that on purpose," you said, very quietly.
"I did," he said. He looked completely unsorry.
You looked at the mugs. At his face. At the mugs again.
And then you started laughing.
----
It came out of you warm and real;a little undone as Fred laughed too, quietly, his shoulders shaking, and the shop came back into focus around you, the jars on the walls.
You reached over and took your drink back.
He let you take it.
You both settled back into your chairs and the warmth of the shop was all around you and outside the window the cat was still in the lamplight, still cleaning its face with enormous self-possession, and the lane beyond it was dark and quiet and the night was carrying on exactly as it had been.
You held your mug with both hands and looked at it for a moment.
Then you looked up.
Fred was already looking at you.
"What?" you asked softly.
" Nothing," he said, smiling smugly.
----
The candle had gone out. The only light now was the lamp overhead and the glow from the street coming through the window, the shop smelled like sugar. The clock was still ticking, and Mrs Abbott had gone very deliberately back to her knitting, neither of you going to mention that she had stopped for a while.
His hand moved until his fingers found yours.
You looked down at them.
Then you smiled and turned your hand over, threading your fingers through his.
Fred looked at your joined hands for a moment before looking at you.
" You're smiling."
"So are you."
" I know."
His thumb brushed slowly over your knuckles.
" You're very pretty when you smile," he said.
You made a face. "That's horribly cheesy."
"I know."
"And you still said it."
“I did.”
----
You tried not to smile harder and failed. There was something about the way he was looking at you that made it impossible to keep your face straight, like he had somehow made the entire room smaller until there was nothing left but the two of you and the warmth between your hands.
Fred squeezed your hand gently, his thumb brushing over your knuckles.
"I like you," he said quietly.
The words were simple, almost painfully so, but the way he said them made your heart give a little flutter. You looked at him for a moment, pretending to consider it seriously, even though the smile threatening the corners of your mouth had already given you away.
" That’s all?"
He smiled, glancing down at your joined hands as though he were suddenly shy about saying more. His fingers tightened around yours.
He thought about it for a second.
"I like you a lot."
You tried to hold back your laugh, but a soft smile slipped through anyway. You tilted your head, looking at him with the sort of fondness you would never admit to having if he asked.
"That’s still not very good."
His smile widened.
He leaned a little closer, his eyes warm and impossibly soft as he watched your reaction.
" I love you, then."
Your heart seemed to stop for half a second.
----
You looked at him, completely caught off guard, and felt your face grow warm almost immediately. It was ridiculous how easily he could do that to you. One stupid sentence and suddenly you had forgotten what you were supposed to say.
" You can't just say that."
Fred's eyebrows lifted, amusement flickering across his face.
"Why not?"
You looked down at your hands, suddenly very interested in the way his fingers were wrapped around yours. You could feel yourself smiling despite your best efforts.
" Because now I have to say it back."
His grin widened into something unbearably pleased.
"You don't have to."
There was something teasing in his voice, but his eyes had softened again, waiting for you without pushing.
You looked back at him.
For a moment, neither of you said anything.
Then you squeezed his hand.
" I love you too."
His expression changed instantly. The teasing disappeared, replaced by something so openly happy that it made your chest ache.
"I know."
---
You stared at him.
Of course he had to ruin the moment.
A laugh escaped you, and you shook your head, though you couldn't stop smiling.
"You're insufferable."
His fingers lingered for just a second against your cheek.
He smiled at you, soft and stupidly fond, like he had just discovered something wonderful.
You stared at him.
"What?"
"Nothing," he said. "You're just very pretty."
"That was awful."
His mouth twitched as he tried not to laugh.
"I thought it was romantic."
"It was embarrassing."
He gave your hand another little squeeze, looking entirely too proud of himself.
You tried to look annoyed.
You really did.
----
But your cheeks were warm, your heart was beating far too quickly, and you couldn't stop the smile that appeared.
And somehow that was the worst part.
You sat like that for a long time, hands tangled together across the table, both of you smiling like complete idiots.
The warmth of the shop, the dark of the lane, the clock ticking, and the soft little sounds of Mrs Abbott's knitting needles starting back up again.
Steady and soft.
Like a house that had been happy for a very long time and had decided, quite shamelessly, to let you be happy in it too.
It was, you thought, exactly what Fred's dad had meant.
And it was the best surprise you had ever been given.
A/n: and its the end...oh and before that the next series im writing would be an angsty george weasley fic...so comment if you would like to be tagged in it!
𝘀𝘆𝗻𝗼𝗽𝘀𝗶𝘀 : for seven years, you've been almost everything — almost chosen, almost debuted, almost enough. long after your mother's death, long after friends left and opportunities disappeared, the only thing that remained was the stubborn refusal to quit. then a last-minute decision places you in CORTIS, a group built without you in mind, and suddenly the future you've spent years chasing is within reach. but resentment has a way of lingering in crowded rooms, and belonging isn't something that can be assigned by a company. especially when you're the sixth chair at a table set for five
𝗴𝗲𝗻𝗿𝗲 : contemporary fiction, idol Industry, drama, coming-of-age, found family, slow burn, miscommunication, slightly character driven, comedic at times (I try my best okay?)
𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴 (chapter) : multiple descriptions of burn out, dissociation, slight signs of mental health issues (seek help if you need help, be smart), reader is a tea drinker, physical exhaustion, awkwardness cause this fic thrives on it, so many introverts it's physically hurting me to write ts, complicated character mindset, discussions of not eating properly and reader attempting to justify it, for more in depth warnings check out masterlist tagged above
𝘁𝗮𝗴𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁 : comment or dm to be added
cherry 🍒 speaks : I'm insanely grateful to all the people who supported fpt. so double chapters heh
Juhoon had spent an embarrassing amount of time thinking about it the night before. Not because you intimidated him—you didn't—but because he couldn't work out what the normal thing to do was. You weren't exactly a stranger anymore, yet calling you a roommate felt equally wrong. Somewhere in between, apparently. He'd eventually given up trying to figure it out and decided he'd just deal with it in the morning.
When he opened his eyes in the morning, they drifted automatically toward the mattress beneath the window. It was empty.
The blanket had already been folded neatly at the foot of the bed, your suitcase zipped shut beside it as though you'd never unpacked in the first place. He frowned, glancing at the time on his phone.
'6:50'
He could hear the faint clink of ceramic echoing from somewhere down the hall, followed by the soft hum of the kettle when his bare feet hit the cold tiled floor.
Beside his own bed, James was still dead asleep, sprawled diagonally across his bed with one arm dangling off the side and the duvet twisted around a single leg. The headphones he'd been looking for yesterday sat abandoned on his chest, rising and falling with each slow breath. Juhoon watched him for a second, equal parts amused and jealous.
A heavy wave of exhaustion weighed down his eyelids, making the early morning air feel unusually thick as he forced himself to stand and rubbed the back of his neck as he headed for the bathroom.
Somehow, knowing you were already awake made saying good morning feel more complicated than it had any right to.
A year and a half.
Outside the company, people usually reacted as though that was a lifetime. They'd widen their eyes, ask if it had really taken that long. Inside HYBE, it barely counted because there was always someone who'd trained longer. Someone who'd given up more or someone who'd been waiting since middle school.
Juhoon had never liked comparing those things. It turned gratitude into something awkward. You couldn't apologise for getting lucky, but pretending luck had nothing to do with it felt dishonest too. So he'd always settled somewhere in the middle and tried not to think about it.
Yesterday had made that difficult, He found out that you had trained for six years from their trainer. The number had followed him home without asking. Not because it made him feel guilty. But because he couldn't make sense of it. It was more than Martin's, and everyone else.
A year and a half had been enough for him to miss birthdays, forget what weekends felt like, and wake up sore often enough that he'd stopped noticing. Six years though. Now that was different. It wasn't just longer, it was long enough to become normal.
That was the part his brain kept circling back to: six years sounded different when you realised most of them hadn't happened as an adult. He wondered what kind of person that made you. Then he caught himself. You weren't a question to solve. So he should not treat you like one either.
But he still had no idea whether to say good morning nor did he know whether leaving you alone would be kinder. He'd spent far too long thinking about it while brushing his teeth. The toothpaste had foamed at the corners of his mouth before he'd reached a conclusion. He rinsed the sink, looked at himself in the mirror for a second, then shook his head.
'Get over yourself,' he thought, 'for fucks sake.'
You hadn't asked him to figure you out. Hell you had barely asked for anything at all. Juhoon wiped the last of the water from his face and draped the towel over his shoulder before stepping back into the hallway. Yesterday had ended with an announcement. This morning began with proof that you were here.
Not in the abstract way a signed contract made someone real, but in the ordinary details. A pair of shoes by the door, or a mug resting on the kitchen counter and the faint smell of tea drifting through the apartment.
From where he stood, he could only see part of you. One shoulder and the sleeve of your oversized t-shirt. Steam curled lazily between you and the window. You looked at ease. Or maybe that wasn't it.
You looked like someone who'd realised the apartment was easiest to exist in before everyone else woke up. That thought lodged itself somewhere unpleasant.
Back in the conference room, he'd watched you do what anyone would've done. Your eyes had moved from face to face, lingering just long enough to build a first impression before moving on to the next. You hadn't looked nervous so much as... careful.
Careful people were usually trying to answer the same question. 'Am I safe here?' He really did wonder what answer you'd found.
Juhoon had just existed. He'd moved his things without complaint. Made room in the bedroom. None of it had been unkind. None of it had been particularly kind, either. That was the frustrating part. He knew, with uncomfortable certainty, how yesterday might have looked from your side. A room full of strangers. Three of them trying, in their own ways. Two of them barely saying enough to leave an impression.
If he'd been a better person, perhaps he would've walked over before everyone dispersed. Asked if you needed anything, whether six years of waiting had made the past few days feel like a relief or another disappointment. Said something—anything—that wasn't technically required.
Instead, he'd done what came easiest. He'd kept to himself. It wasn't because he didn't care. It was because he was tired.
Because he'd spent the last year and a half with his head buried in practice rooms, learning choreography instead of conversation. Because talking to new people had never become easier, no matter how many evaluations he passed. Because sometimes, after a long enough day, even kindness felt like something that required planning. Back then days passed without him noticing how little he'd spoken.
Then Martin had started dragging him into conversations he would've happily avoided. James refused to let silence survive for more than a minute. Keonho asked questions about anything that crossed his mind, and Seonghyeon had a way of sitting beside him without expecting words at all.
Somewhere between late-night convenience store runs and practice rooms, they'd done the talking until it stopped feeling like work. By the time Juhoon realised it, being around them had become easy and comfortable.
He hadn't had to introduce himself in a long time and he had forgotten that, for everyone else, he still had to. None of those reasons would have mattered to you. Silence didn't come with subtitles. All you'd seen was a boy who barely spoke.
He let out a slow breath. Regret was funny like that. Adjusting the towel on his shoulder, Juhoon finally stepped into the living room.
"Morning."
The word caught him completely off guard, and Juhoon looked up a fraction too quickly. You had now turned around and he had no idea because he was too busy mentally monologuing.
The kettle had already gone quiet. Steam curled lazily from the mug in your hands as you stirred your tea with slow, absent circles, as though you'd known he was standing there.
"...Morning" he replied back, but it came a beat too late. You just lifted the mug, blew across the surface then took a careful sip, your gaze lingering on nothing in particular for another moment before setting the spoon quietly beside the sink. Unfinished silence filled in the blanks. He could've asked if you'd slept well. Whether the room had been warm enough or whether the tea tasted alright (of course it did, dumbo)
None of them were difficult questions, they only felt that way. His mouth opened, yet nothing came. The conversation, if it could even be called one, had ended almost as soon as it'd begun. Oddly enough, that should've made things easier. If anything, it made him more aware of how much thinking he'd done over a single word.
He wondered if this was the version of him you'd settled on: the one who answered when spoken to, then disappeared back into himself before a conversation could begin. The thought stung more than he expected. He couldn't even slap an 'It's unfair' onto it, because in the back of his mind he knew, that it wasn't.
Yesterday, he'd convinced himself you probably wanted to be left alone. This morning, you'd greeted him before he'd managed to gather the courage to do it himself (so much for that theory.) He'd managed to spend the better part of his morning preparing for a conversation that had lasted less than three seconds.
Now he found himself doing what he always did whenever he reached the edge of uncertainty. Nothing, because every sentence suddenly felt heavier than it should've. He'd never understood people who could talk to strangers as though they'd known them for years.
Maybe they really were that comfortable. Maybe they were just better at pretending than him. He gave a small nod you probably didn't even see, turned quietly on his heel, and walked back down the hallway.
Juhoon sat on the edge of his bed, the towel still draped around his shoulders, and unlocked his phone. The announcement was exactly where he'd left it yesterday. He stared at it for a moment before opening the comments.
hybe really found another crazy talent I'm sure
Wonder why they added him so late.
I'm getting wooyoung flashbacks oh my atiny heart 💔
Five was more than enough tho... gonna trust hybe ig
It wasn't the first time he'd read the last comment. The strange part was that he understood what people meant. Not because five was somehow better than six, and certainly not because you didn't belong. It was just that, somewhere over the last year and a half, five had stopped being a number and had become habit. Maybe that was why the last few days had felt so strange.
Nothing had been taken away from them. No one had left. They were still the same five people they'd been the days before. The only difference was that now there was someone new learning the shape of a life they'd already settled into, while they quietly learned how to make room for someone else. It wasn't resentment. If anything, it was the opposite. He found himself hoping the adjustment wouldn't be harder for you than it already had to be.
A sleepy groan pulled him from the though. James rolled onto his back with all the enthusiasm of someone personally offended by consciousness.
"Awake long?" he mumbled.
"A little."
James cracked one eye open, spotted the phone in Juhoon's hand and grimaced sleepily, "....comments?"
Juhoon gave a small hum.
"Bad idea," James muttered, scrubbing his hand over his face before rolling over and squishing his face into the pillow, "Internet's weird—" He trailed off with a loud yawn. Juhoon looked back down at the screen. His thumb hovered over the comment one last time before he locked the phone and set it beside him. Five had become effortless. He supposed six would too. Yet he wasn't sure whether that made him unfair or not.
James dragged the blanket over his shoulder with a sleepy groan before going still again. Juhoon smiled despite himself.
A moment later, footsteps sounded in the hallway. Juhoon glanced up as you appeared in the doorway, a mug of tea cupped between both hands. You didn't say anything as you crossed the room, lowering yourself onto the mattress with a quiet exhale before setting the mug carefully on the floor beside you.
It struck him, not for the first time, how little space you seemed to take up.
Your suitcase was tucked neatly beneath the window and the blanket had already been folded away. Even now, you sat close to the edge of the mattress, shoulders slightly drawn in, as though instinct had taught you to fit yourself around other people's lives rather than expect them to shift around yours.
The thought lingered longer than he expected.
James let out a low groan and rolled onto his back, squinting against the morning light. He lay there for a second before pushing himself upright, his spine protesting loudly enough to make him wince. "Jesus..." He rubbed at the back of his neck with a grimace. "I'm getting old."
Silence.
James blinked the last of the sleep from his eyes, finally noticing you sitting by the window. There was a brief pause—no more than a heartbeat—as he remembered the room wasn't just theirs anymore.
"...Oh."
James glanced between you and Juhoon, then scratched absently at his hair, looking as though he had something in mind, then seemed to think better of it. Whatever he'd been about to say dissolved into a small yawn. The silence returned, familiar enough for Juhoon, though it seemed to settle differently now. Not tense though. Just aware.
James eventually disappeared into the hallway without much ceremony. One moment he was sitting there, rubbing sleep from his eyes, and the next he was dragging himself toward the door with a vague promise to wake everyone else up. A few seconds later, the apartment started responding to him. Like a door opening, some muffled complaints. Someone telling him to stop and another insisting they were awake when they clearly weren't.
This was all familiar chaos to Juhoon, which slowly returned, filling the spaces between rooms.
Juhoon remained on his bed, phone loose in his hand. Across from him, you sat on the mattress with your tea beside you, looking out the window.
Yesterday, he would've taken your silence as a sign that something was wrong. That maybe you were uncomfortable or maybe he should be doing something to fix it. Now he wasn't so sure.
His eyes drifted briefly to the windowsill.
The stuffed rabbit sat where you'd left it, slightly worn, one ear bent differently from the other, stitched with blue thread. It didn't match the rest of the room. While everything else still looked temporary—the suitcase, the half-empty wardrobe, the mattress that had clearly been added at the last minute, that looked like something that had already survived a few places before this one.
Juhoon looked away almost immediately. It felt strange noticing something that personal when he barely knew you. He didn't ask about it, maybe because he wasn't sure if curiosity was the same thing as care.
The noise from the hallway grew louder. James had apparently succeeded in waking someone else, judging by the complaining that followed.
Time had a quiet way of disappearing inside the apartment.
Somewhere between the kettle cooling and James bullying Keonho out of bed, morning had fully arrived. The hallway had become a constant stream of footsteps, bathroom doors opening and closing, sleepy complaints, and someone insisting they were already awake while proving the exact opposite. Martin's voice drifted through it every now and then, calm enough to keep everything moving without ever needing to compete with the noise (which Juhoon admitted was slightly uncharacteristic for him.)
The bedroom, somehow, remained untouched. Juhoon had changed into a fresh T-shirt and was sitting cross-legged on his bed, absentmindedly looping and unlooping the drawstring of his sweatpants. Across from him, your empty mug rested on the floor beside the mattress. Neither of you had spoken since exchanging good mornings in the kitchen.
The tea was gone. You reached down for the mug and rose from the mattress, turning toward the door with the vague intention of taking it back to the kitchen, when the door burst open.
"Has anyone seen my black hoodie?"
James walked in, towelling his damp hair as he spoke. He didn't wait for an answer, crossing straight to the wardrobe and digging through a pile of clothes for all of three seconds before pulling something free with a triumphant, "There you are."
He turned and kept his eyes somewhere else, "Jju, catch."
The hoodie was already in the air. Juhoon barely had time to realise what was happening before it sailed straight past James. You had barely taken two steps.
Fwhump.
Something soft collided with your face, the oversized black hoodie swallowing your vision in an instant. The fabric landed squarely over your face.
James froze with one arm still half outstretched and Juhoon stared while you, very slowly reached up, and peeled the hoodie off your head, and looked at it for a second before looking back at James.
"...Right," colour rushed to James's ears.
"I keep forgetting."
He crossed the room in three quick steps, taking the hoodie back with an awkward nod before pulling it over his head. His face disappeared for a moment, reappearing through the collar with his hair sticking up in every direction.
"My bad."
He glanced between the two of you before pointing vaguely toward the hallway.
"Martin said we're leaving in... ten? Fifteen?"
"Ten," Martin called from somewhere outside the room. James winced. He scratched the back of his neck, muttered something under his breath about Keonho still being "ninety percent asleep," and wandered back out.
Juhoon looked down at the drawstring between his fingers. He let the thoughts sit for a moment before glancing up.
"...He forgets where he's throwing things." It wasn't much of an explanation.
Probably not a very good one. But it was the closest he could get.
"It's fine," you muttered, then looked at him for a moment. Just with that same quiet, unreadable expression you'd worn that day in the conference room, as though your brain had wandered off somewhere before remembering it was supposed to answer. Juhoon recognized that look.
A light knock sounded against the bedroom door. Martin didn't step inside. He rarely seemed to occupy more space than he needed to.
"The producer called," his gaze found you, "He wants to meet with you before we head to practice." You looked at him, the empty mug still in your hands.
"He said there are a few things he wants to go over."
Nothing in his expression hinted at urgency. It sounded like another item on the morning's schedule. You sighed, but it was inaudible, "Okay."
"We're leaving in ten." He glanced at Juhoon before giving a single nod and moving on. Already halfway down the hallway by the time his words were registered by the two teenagers inside the room.
You stood there for another moment before humming quietly to yourself. There wasn't much else to say.
You rinsed out your mug, changed into work appropriate clothes, slipped your notebook into your backpack, and gave your pockets a quick pat—phone, wallet and earphones. The order never really changed. It was one of the few things that didn't.
By the time you were done, the apartment was already in motion. Somewhere behind you, Seonghyeon emerged with his phone already in one hand, looking as though he'd been awake for hours despite evidence to the contrary.
Martin checked the lock of the door once out of habit, and headed downstairs. The others followed without thinking. It was the sort of rhythm that only appeared after living together long enough to stop discussing the small things.
Outside, the black Carnival waited by the curb. Martin climbed into the front passenger seat. James disappeared into one of the seats mid-conversation, picking up a story he'd apparently been telling before he'd even opened the car door, Keonho slid in after him, still looking faintly betrayed by the existence of mornings.
You waited until Juhoon settled in before you climbed in last beside the window, and closed the door, followed by the familiar chorus of seatbelts clicking into place.
Almost without thinking, you reached into your pockets for your tangled-wire earphones. You slid them inside your ears, the edge gently resting against your waiting ear. Before you pressed play on anything, shutting out the car without quite shutting out the people inside it.
The recording studio was more ordinary than you'd expected. Disappointingly so.
Computers hummed softly beneath the desk, cables coiled across the floor, and somewhere behind the glass an air conditioner rattled to itself. The room smelled faintly of coffee and warm electronics, with the sharp, almost chemical scent of acoustic foam lingering beneath it.
"Let's have a look." He sighed, while the monitor flickered to life, revealing the session file. Tracks filled the screen in neat rows, each labelled with a member's name. Harmonies stacked beneath lead vocals, ad-libs tucked into their own colours, every waveform sitting exactly where someone had decided it belonged weeks ago.
Martin's voice opened the track, steady and familiar before James slipped in on the next line. Juhoon carried the verse forward, Seonghyeon's harmony tucked neatly beneath his, until Keonho's voice rounded out the phrase. One after another, the arrangement unfolded exactly as it had been written, each part handing itself to the next so naturally that it was difficult to imagine the song any other way.
First was Go! Then was FaSHioN, and then Joyride, then the other tracks.
The producer paused the playback of 'Joyride', halfway through the second verse and dragged his cursor lower down the session. A new track appeared beneath the others, sitting there with nothing but the word Untitled beside it.
"That's yours."
The empty track looked strangely out of place beneath five finished ones, as though the software itself hadn't quite caught up with the decision either.
"The problem isn't recording another vocal," the producer said cooly, zooming into the chorus. "It's that every part here was arranged for five voices. If we simply drop another one into the harmonies, everything starts fighting for the same space."
He highlighted a handful of tracks and nudged them around, letting everyone watch the arrangement shift across the screen.
Martin leaned forward slightly. "But like," He started, pausing and glancing at the producer, "We can leave the structure alone right?"
"For the most part," the producer replied, though he didn't sound convinced. "Some sections can stay exactly as they are. Others..." He stopped, dragging the cursor over the pre-chorus before circling back to the chorus. "I don't know...something has to give."
"What about the pre-chorus?" Seonghyeon asked, leaning back in his chair. Every head turned toward the screen as the producer zoomed in.
"If we split it three ways—" He stopped himself halfway through the sentence, "...someone loses half a line."
Nobody spoke for a while.
The session file remained open on the monitor, five coloured tracks stacked neatly above a sixth that sat empty beneath them. The producer scrubbed back and forth across the timeline, stopping every few seconds to replay another section. Every answer seemed to uncover a different problem.
Martin leaned back in his chair, raking a hand slowly through his hair before letting it settle against the back of his neck. His notebook had been open for nearly ten minutes yet the page was still blank.
"If the chorus changes..." James said eventually, his eyes fixed somewhere beyond the monitor, "the formations change too."
No one interrupted him.
"The centre changes, the transitions. Partner work." He paused, mentally running through choreography only he could see. "Every camera rehearsal."
"Plus the blocking," Martin added quietly.
James gave a small nod, "Yeah."
The room fell silent again.
Across the table, Seonghyeon reached for the mouse, zooming into the chorus before sliding over to the bridge and back again. His expression hardly shifted, but his fingers lingered over the waveform a little longer this time.
"What about the harmonies?"
"They move with the arrangement," the producer replied.
"And the ad-libs?"
"We'd have to rewrite those."
"The guide track?"
"We'll cut another one."
Seonghyeon sat back, "So we're basically rebuilding the whole thing."
Your eyes never left the screen.
For six years, you'd imagined debut in a hundred different ways. Recording booths, album jackets, and music show stages. You'd never imagined watching someone else's work being pulled apart to make room for you. The worst part? Nobody even blamed you. That somehow made it worse.
The producer broke the silence by closing the session. The coloured waveforms disappeared from the monitor, replaced by a blank desktop.
"There's no point deciding anything until we know what we're working with." He looked over at you. "I've heard your evaluations."
He shrugged, "They're evaluations." Martin picked up a pair of studio headphones and held them out, and the producer gestured toward the vocal booth beyond the glass.
"I'd rather hear your actual tone."
The heavy door eased shut behind you with a soft click, muting the room beyond the glass. Someone reached for the keyboard. The producer turned back to the monitor, and the conversation that had filled the studio only minutes ago dissolved into an attentive silence. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught Martin leaning forward over the table, Seonghyeon's notebook lying open beside him. The rest became little more than reflections in the glass.
The engineer's voice crackled through your headphones, "Can you hear me?"
You adjusted one earcup, "Yeah."
A few keys clicked on the other side of the glass.
"We're not recording anything yet. We just want to hear where your voice naturally sits." It was Martin's voice. Calm and collected but you know that moments before he was rubbing the bridge of his nose, completely and utterly frustrated
The producer leaned toward the talkback, "Don't overthink it. Just sing."
You almost smiled.
Six years of training had made overthinking less of a bad habit and more of a reflex, "What do you want me to sing?"
"Start from the first verse of Joyride, Lets see."
"The original?" He nodded at your question.
The instrumental faded into your headphones.
You closed your eyes—not because you were nervous, but because it was easier to hear the pitch that way.
The first note left your mouth with the same control it always had. Careful, measured, instinctive. Years of practice had long since turned that much into muscle memory.
The producer watched the session more than he watched you, his eyes drifting between the waveform, the level meters, and the arrangement on his screen. Halfway through the verse, he dropped a marker onto the timeline before letting you finish as you faded into the chorus of Joyride.
The last note faded, and for a moment, nobody moved.
The producer rewound to the beginning of the verse, listening to the first line before skipping ahead. He paused in the middle, then near the end, replaying the same three words twice before soloing your vocal. The instrumental disappeared, came back, then disappeared again as he dragged your temporary track beneath the existing session.
Keonho frowned, "What?"
His question went unanswered. Instead, the producer muted Martin's harmony, played the section, then Juhoon's. One came back while the other stayed muted and he listened again.
Nobody in the room said a word. Juhoon had unconsciously leaned closer to the speakers, while even Seonghyeon had stopped pretending to write.
The playback ended. The producer stayed looking at the screen for another second before leaning back in his chair with a sigh, "I kinda see it."
A few of the people replied with a question, a small 'See what?' under their breaths.
He nodded toward the speakers. "Listen," He played it again.
This time, your voice settled naturally into the arrangement—not squeezing for a space above Martin's, not beneath Seonghyeon's. It filled a space in the harmony that nobody had realized was empty until it wasn't.
The producer finally looked up, meeting your eyes through the glass.
"...I get why they put you here." He nodded thoughtfully.
His hand rested on the mouse as he glanced back at the arrangement. "I thought we'd have to rewrite half this song." A small shake of his head, "Turns out we don't."
Martin let out a slow breath of relief, leaning back in his chair. "So we're not starting from scratch."
"No." The producer zoomed out, studying the session one last time before a faint smile crossed his face. "We've already got somewhere to start."
Across the table, Seonghyeon finally lowered his eyes to his notebook. This time, when his pen touched the page, it didn't stop.
"You've got a little more texture than I was expecting." He clicked the mouse, replaying the same line. "Your voice isn't chasing the top end. That's why it works."
You handed Martin the headphones as you stepped out of the booth, absently smoothing the front of your jacket. Maybe talent had always been a translation problem.
You'd spent six years trying to explain yourself, as you rounded off edges, chased notes that never wanted you, and mistaked versatility for disappearance.
Then a producer you'd met less than an hour ago listened to a minute worth of it all and translated your voice into something useful. Craftsmen rarely loved their materials. They learned what each one was built to survive, where it bent without breaking, where it fit.
Maybe people weren't so different. Maybe all anyone had ever wanted from you wasn't brilliance. Just placement.
"I'm going to get some air."
Martin glanced up from where he was slouched on the floor of the dance practice room, "Ten minutes."
You nodded once and headed for the door.
"Wait."
Keonho was already on his feet, stretching until something in his back gave an audible crack, "I'll grab drinks." It sounded less like an offer and more like something he'd remembered halfway through standing up.
By the time you reached the door, Keonho had caught up. For a brief second, the two of you stalled in front of it before he stepped aside, gesturing toward the hallway, "...After you."
You slipped past him. The studio door shut loudly behind you both.
The corridor stretched ahead, long and quiet. Neither of you spoke. Keonho kept his hands buried in the pocket of his hoodie; yours stayed tucked into your trousers. Your footsteps echoed faintly against the polished floor, falling into an accidental rhythm as you walked.
Just two strangers heading in the same direction, neither of them feeling particularly obligated to fill the silence.
The vending machines sat at the end of the corridor beneath a row of fluorescent lights that buzzed just loudly enough to be noticed. Keonho stopped in front of them, digging a handful of coins from the pocket of his hoodie, "You want anything?"
You shook your head as he nodded once, fed the machine, and pressed the button for a sports drink
The motor whirred, then stopped, whirred again—yet nothing dropped. He pressed the button again, yet again the same mechanical hum but the drink remained where it was.
He leaned forward, squinting through the glass as if that might somehow help, "Seriously?"
Without saying anything, you reached into your pocket for a coin, "I've got one."
He looked over almost immediately.
"No, it's fine."
"It didn't work."
"I know."
"Uh," He rubbed the back of his neck, already sounding faintly embarrassed, "I've already paid for this one so...I should probably get this one first."
You stared at the green Gatorade, "It isn't coming."
"I know," He stared at it for another second before giving the side of the machine a tentative tap with the heel of his hand.
His shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly, as he sighed disappointedly.
A light tap landed between your shoulder blades. Both Keonho and you looked behind you at the sudden interruption.
For a moment, your brain searched for a name before your memory caught up. Then it hit you.
"...Yujin?"
Her eyes widened.
"I knew that was you."
She laughed, half in disbelief. "I was looking at you from down the hall and I was like there's no way that's her!"
A small smile tugged at your mouth, "Hey"
"Hey?" She looked offended, "That's all I get after disappearing for, what... two years?"
You huffed a small tired laugh, "Has it really been that long?"
"Yep," she nodded, "Just about."
You smiled, for the first time in quite some time. Your cheeks ached, but it was nothing compared to the relief you felt to see a familiar face after so long.
"You look," she paused as if searching for the right word, "Older."
"Ouch?" She grinned, before adding a, "Nah- you just look tired, that's it—Oh!" She quite literally jumped, grabbing both of your hands, "I heard the news. I'm so proud of you."
Once you could've carried those words home and turned them over for weeks, polishing them until they shone. Now they reached you the same way everything else did. Slightly muffled, slightly delayed, as though they belonged to someone standing right behind your shoulder.
"Y/n?" You jumped, eyes snapping towards her in an instant. She frowned, "You're eating properly right?" Behind you, Keonho straightened suddenly, and pressed the button multiple times. Frustration bordering anger (or so you think.)
Your head shook up and down before you'd even thought about it, "Yeah." The lie slipped out clean. Not that it mattered clearly. Trainees and idols skipped meals all the time. Half the people in this building probably lived on caffeine and convenience store kimbap. There was nothing unusual about it.
Yujin watched you for another second, Then, mercifully, she let it go.
"You know..." A smile crept back onto her face. "I still remember you arguing with all those trainees back then. Good times." She sighed.
"I wasn't really arguing, " you retorted, but there was no anger behind it, "It was a minor disagreement."
"You told some of them they were wasting everyone's time."
"...cause they kind of were," You shrugged. A laughed slipped out of her involuntarily, "Some things never change."
You almost said, some things do. Instead you let the thought pass. Yujin glanced down at her watch and her smile faltered, "I gotta go back before they start looking for me."
"Mm," you nodded before she took a step back, "It was nice meeting you again, I'll see you around I guess."
"Don't disappear on me for two years again."
She laughed loudly, lifted a hand in mock salute, "I'll try ma'am," before she disappeared down the hallway.
The corridor was silent again. You glanced over at Keonho, "We used to train together.." His followed Yujin's disappearing figure down, with his eyes before humming a 'Figured so' under his breath.
"The vending machine," he said at last, "still isn't working."
The bottle was still stubbornly pressed against the glass inside the machine. Rubbing his neck, he sighed, "Guess water it is."
The walk back was as silent as the walk before but this time it didn't feel as u familiar as it did before.
When the two of you stepped back into the practice room, the music wasn't playing. That, more than anything, made you pause.
Juhoon was sitting cross-legged on the floor and Martin stood over his shoulder, one hand braced against the back of a chair as he read whatever was on the screen that their manager held out in front of him. The atmosphere was laced with confusion.
The sort of confusion that made people reread the same thing over and over, hoping it'd change the second time around.
Keonho slowed behind you, "Who died?" His attempt at poor humour was not noticed by neither the already stressed leader nor the members. James didn't look, but beckoned Keonho closer. There was no sense of urgency on his face, just bewilderment.
Keonho crossed the room, stopping beside him. "...What is it?"
Martin pinched the bridge of his nose with a slow groan, "Are you fucking kidding me?"
James let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "No, seriously."
I wanna take up all your time | George Weasley x reader
summary: You ask George to be your fake boyfriend so your family will get off your back. He says yes, even though he's not pretending.
warnings: george centric, fluff, mutual (but george doesn't know it), fake dating, fem!reader, she/her pronouns used for reader, real world au
note: first ever fic let's gooooo. longer than expected but oh well.
Part 1 of ?
∗
Bodies press together in the dim lights, a song George vaguely recognizes plays over the speakers. It's always a gamble to let Fred be in control of the music, even though it normally pays off. Like right now, with some sort of electronic pop song with a heavy synth line pulsing around the people dancing in his living room.
There's been virtually zero accidents tonight, if one counts Ron breaking off one of the legs on the dining table as an accident. George does count it, although he knows none of his brothers do. It's not uncommon for a Weasley to be a little too invested in a game of beer pong.
"Where's your girlfriend tonight? Haven't seen her yet." Lee asks, fixing himself a drink.
George doesn't have a girlfriend, but he knows Lee's talking about you. He crosses his arms where he leans against the counter, trying to look annoyed.
"Around here, somewhere. Probably dancing." He scrunches his nose and then adds, almost as an afterthought, "Not my girlfriend, though."
"Right, yeah, and I'm definitely not drunk as fuck right now," Lee replies, titling his cup towards George before gulping it all down in one go, "Absolutely disgusting. Do you want one?"
George shrugs and hands him his cup.
"I swear, man, you get this look on your face," Lee continues conversationally, "Like you're physically restraining yourself when she's around." He punctuates this last part by plopping an ice cube inside George's plastic cup.
"That makes me sound like a creep."
"Hm." Lee considers, "Not a creep. Last I checked, it's not illegal to have a crush. Just pathetic."
George barks a laugh and shakes his head. "Men and women can be just friends, you know. Maybe the concept is unfamiliar to you."
Lee remains unfazed while he pours a dangerous amount of vodka into George's already brimming cup.
"Sure they can, Weasley. I have lots of lady friends, as you're well aware. I just don't think you in particular are capable of being friends with her."
"But we are."
"But you're not. Here, try it." Lee makes a little flourish with his hand before pushing the cup back to George.
"This smells radioactive."
"Good. How is it?"
The first sip leaves a burning trail down George's throat, although it's also surprisingly sweet. "Mm. Dangerous."
Lee claps his hands together once, pleased with himself. "Excellent. You know what's also dangerous? Keeping your feelings to yourself."
George snorts and then coughs, the vodka still clinging to his throat. Lee pats his back forcefully. "Jesus, what is this?"
"It's called a Vodka Martini. I'm taking a mixology course, you know."
"What?"
"Mixology. Making drinks and shit. It's kinda like cooking but fun. Also looks good on your resume."
"Right, but you went to law school, Anthony Bourdain."
Lee waves his hand dismissively, "Job market's tough, man, you gotta get competitive."
George is not sure bartenders are in high demand right now, but doesn't stop to ponder the thought because he finally spots you.
You're wearing your hair down today, and it's a little matted with sweat on your forehead, probably because you've been dancing. His eyes trail a single drop of sweat down from your eyebrow to your neck and then your collarbone, where he forces himself to stop.
"Disgusting," Lee says once again, following his line of sight. "Definitely not creepy at all."
George kicks him on the shin.
You smile when you spot him before making your way to the kitchen, where Lee greets you with a wave. You look a little out of breath but happy. George’s hand twitches where it holds the kitchen counter.
"Georgie!"
Lee raises an eyebrow at the nickname, mouthing it back to him over your head. George pointedly ignores him.
"Hi, love," he says instead, making space for you underneath his arm. You slip into it comfortably, settling in between him and Lee. The latter hides a smirk behind the rim of his own glass.
“What are you drinking?”
“Vodka Martini,” George says, handing you his cup.
“Double!” Lee adds cheerfully.
“Oooh, I love those,” you take a big gulp before George can warn you against it. He watches as you scrunch your nose and exhale loudly, trying not to look too closely at the way your lip glistens.
“What do you mean you love those? That could probably kill a horse.”
Lee snorts loudly, “Oh, Georgie, don’t be such a wet rag. All the cool kids are drinking these!”
“I have never even heard of a drink called Vodka Martini.”
“Well, you’re not exactly a cool kid, are you?”
George feels your body shaking before he hears your laugh. He wonders if the smell of his cologne is as overwhelming to you as the smell of your perfume is to him. “Don’t be mean to our host, Lee.”
“I’ll have you know our host is a dictator,” Lee points a finger at George accusingly, his drink spilling a bit with the movement, “He hasn’t let me play a single song but still has me bartending and then on cleaning duty tomorrow.”
“I was the whole cleaning crew at your birthday party last year! You have Ron and Fred to help!”
“Oh, boys, don’t fight, you’re making me nervous!” You move to stand in front of both men, your cup already half empty.
George wonders briefly how you’ll be getting home, tries not to relish the fact that you’re well on your way to being drunk, which means you’ll probably end up sleeping over again. Not that that would involve any kind of intimacy: he always takes the couch so you can have his room and Lee the guest room. Still, the thought of your perfume lingering on his pillow case is thrilling enough.
“Besides,” you add, “I came to ask George something.”
“Ask away,” he says, secretly pleased that you came looking for him, specifically.
“It’s private.”
Lee lets out a low whistle, already backing away from where you both stand. “Have fun, then! I’ll be out there if you need me, near the sound system.”
“Play something good!” You call after him.
Lee salutes you, then winks at George, and then leaves. He has the tact to close the door behind him.
George turns to you, a bit closer than he needs to be now that the music is somewhat muffled.
"So," he says. "How much trouble are we in?"
"I haven't even asked yet."
"I know."
You shake your head, smiling despite yourself.
"It's nothing illegal."
"Oh." He fakes a disappointed sigh. "Less exciting."
"It’s embarrassing."
This catches his attention. You’re not one to get easily embarrassed, always have been the more confident, if not the louder of the two.
You look down at your shoes and he starts to lift a hand to your chin but decides against it, instead ruffling his own hair. Disgusting, he remembers Lee’s voice.
"I may have accidentally implied I was dating someone."
George’s eyebrows lift. "Accidentally."
You nudge his shoulder, "Yeah, you know. Things happen. One second you're at brunch with your family, and they don't say it but you know they're thinking about it."
"I don't think I'm getting what it is supposed to mean in this scenario."
You look away and bring a hand up to your mouth like you want to bite a nail. "It means that my family is terribly conservative and they think I'm running out of time and I resent their pity."
“Out of time for what?"
"Don't be cruel," you plead. "You know what I mean. I know Molly's the same with you, just– in her own way."
"You'll have to be more specific, love. That could mean many things,"
You look up at the ceiling and exhale through your nose. "Okay. Fine." You turn to face him suddenly, close enough that he can see the freckles on your cheek.
"I told my family we're dating, because my cousin got engaged and everyone was being weird about me not having a boyfriend to take to the wedding, like I'm some sort of..." you trail off looking for the word.
"Forty-year-old spinster?" George offers, a smile creeping up into his face despite himself.
"Like we're in some sort of Jane Austen novel, yeah."
"I thought you liked Jane Austen," he says, cocking his head, "We went to that screening one time, remember? At Chatsworth House?"
"That's like me saying you should enjoy a home invasion just because you liked Home Alone."
George looks at you and smiles, a wicked thing. He knows he’s being unfair, because you look in enough pain as it is, but he thinks he likes to see you squirm. He’s just a man, after all. A man with a crush.
You look lovely in your new dress, your makeup a bit smudged after a long day and all the dancing. He finally gets the courage to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, trying not to linger too much.
"I know what you want," he says finally, sticking his hand back in his pocket to hide his trembling fingers, “But I want to hear it from you.”
You let out a light laugh, like you were holding your breath. "Don't make me say it. I feel pathetic."
"Pathetic is a heavy word. Clueless I feel is more accurate." George shouldn’t look too pleased with himself, but he is.
"Right. So?"
"So what?"
"Will you do it?" Your tone is dangerously close to a plea, and it makes him a bit dizzy.
“Do what, love?” He smiles in a way he hopes is encouraging, masking his own nervousness with the Weasley bravado he’s spent years perfecting.
You lick your lips nervously and he tries not to follow the motion, failing miserably. George wonders if you’re aware of the effect you have on him.
"Will you go along with it and pretend you're my boyfriend?"
George looks at you and you look back at him. He tries to figure out if you’re joking, even though he knows you’re not. Your family can be conservative and pushy.
"Hm, I don't know." He knows.
"Please. Just until the wedding, I promise. It'll be fun, and my family already loves you."
He wants to say he'd do anything forever if you asked, but bites his tongue instead. Plus, it is true that your family loves him.
"What's in it for me?"
"My eternal gratitude?" You offer. You smile despite the tension, like you already know he’s saying yes.
“Already have that.”
“I’ll pay for our dates.”
George shakes his head categorically. ”Nope. My mom, as you’ve kindly brought her up before, actually raised me right, in spite of my best efforts.”
You snort and cross your arms, a picture of patience and something else he can’t figure out. “She clearly didn’t if you’re being this mean and enjoying it.”
“You don’t know how much meaner I can get.” he says before he can help himself.
You laugh. He can see you’re a little flustered, your cheeks pink under your makeup. George used to think this was enough for him, the chance to make you laugh and blush. He’s not sure that’s the case anymore.
“Please. Anything you want, just let me get this humiliation ritual over with.”
“How about a kiss?” He offers casually.
“A kiss?” You blink. “Like, right now?”
He shrugs and stands from where he was leaning on the counter, guiding you away from the kitchen and into the party.
“Whenever you feel like it.”
"You could have just asked for that, you know.” You stop before opening the door, looking up at him with a glint in your eyes. He wishes you would kiss him right then and there. “I would’ve said yes.”
"Where's the fun in just asking for things?"
"Mm.” You let him place his arm around your waist and open the door, stepping into the party.
The sound of laughter, music, and conversation grows to be almost unbearable, and George is sharply aware of the thin layer of fabric that separates his hand from the warm skin of your back.
He’s not sure what he’s just gotten himself into. He should tell Lee. He should admit, to you and to himself, that he does have a crush on you. A big one.
“Let’s dance!” You say into his ear, close enough that your hair brushes the side of his face.
Summary: Forced onto a blind date by your mum, you decide the easiest way out is to make him hate you. However, fate seems to have other plans.
Warnings: no use of y/n
Cw: a little angst
Wc: 4k+
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10 (coming soon)
A few days after the incident, you were walking down the corridor outside the classroom when you heard his voice around the corner. He was talking to Lee and George about something, laughing, and the sound of it moved through you in a way that you were not prepared for. Warm and familiar and a little too much all at once.
You turned around and took the longer route.
You told yourself it was because you had time to spare. You told yourself it was nothing, just a small detour that did not mean anything. But you walked the whole way with your hand tight around your bag strap and your heart doing something uncomfortable in your chest, and when you finally sat down in class ; staring at the board you thought, very quietly and very clearly.
This is a problem.
Not the feelings. You had stopped pretending the feelings were not there a while ago. They had come in so slowly, so carefully, one small thing at a time, that by the time you noticed them they had already made themselves at home somewhere in your chest and were not interested in leaving. The problem was something else. The problem was that you had started to think maybe it was not completely one sided, and then you had overheard a conversation.
He was like this with everyone.
He was warm with everyone. He noticed things about everyone. He saved seats and made tea, did small thoughtful things not because of you specifically but because that was simply the kind of person he was. You knew that. You had always known that. Somewhere between the Burrow and the walk back from Ottery St Catchpole and the back step under the stars, you had just quietly let yourself forget it.
So you started taking different corridors.
You ate breakfast a little earlier so the timing would not line up. You stopped going to the library at the hours you knew he went. You were not cold about it, you were not rude, you just made yourself a little harder to find and told yourself that was the sensible thing to do. That it was better this way. That you were getting ahead of something before it could get ahead of you.
And you told yourself, firmly and repeatedly, that he had probably not even noticed.
----
He had noticed on the second morning.
Fred arrived at Charms early the way he usually did and dropped into his seat and without thinking about it at all, without making any kind of decision, he left the chair beside him empty. He just did not put his bag on it the way he sometimes did. He just left it.
George sat down on his other side and looked at the empty chair. Then he looked at Fred. "You saving that?"
Fred looked at the chair. Then he looked back at the front of the classroom. "No," he said.
"Then why does it look like you are saving it."
"It does not look like anything."
George raised an eyebrow and said nothing, which was somehow worse than if he had said something. Fred picked up his quill and put it back down. He looked at the door. Someone came through it and it was not you. He looked back at his desk.
"You have been watching the door since we sat down," George said.
"I have not."
"You stopped talking halfway through a sentence when that third year walked in."
"I thought it was someone else."
"Who?"
Fred did not answer. He turned the quill over in his fingers. The classroom was filling up around them, people dropping into seats and pulling out parchment and talking over each other, and you were not there.
"She was not in the common room this morning either," Fred said. He was not really talking to George. He was just saying it out loud because it had been sitting in his head and needed somewhere to go.
George's expression changed. The teasing dropped out of it entirely. "Did something happen?"
Fred looked at the empty chair beside him. "I do not know," he said honestly. "I genuinely do not know."
----
You did not mean for it to go on as long as it did.
You told yourself it was just a few days. Just enough time to get your head straight and put things back where they belonged and stop letting yourself get carried away with things that were not real. A few days of distance and then everything would settle and you would stop feeling like this and it would all be fine.
But three days became four and four became five and every time you saw him at the end of a corridor something in you went tight and you found a reason to go another way. Not because you disliked him. The exact and complete opposite of that, which was the whole problem. It was just that looking at him had started to feel like pressing on something bruised, and it was easier not to.
You told yourself he was fine. That he was busy and surrounded by people and laughing about something with George and absolutely not noticing that you were no longer walking past him in the corridors or showing up at the usual times.
Nadia watched you take a different staircase on the third day without saying anything. On the fourth day she put a cup of tea in front of you and sat down across the table and waited.
You looked at the tea. "Do not say it."
"I was not going to say anything," she said.
"You were."
"I was going to ask if you were alright."
"I am fine."
"You have dark circles."
"I always have dark circles."
"You have been going to bed at nine and waking up at six and you still have dark circles," Nadia said. "Which means you are not sleeping. Which means something is bothering you." She wrapped both hands around her own mug. "And I notice you have stopped going to the library."
You looked at the table.
"And you took the east corridor this morning," she said. "Which you said was inefficient."
"It is not that inefficient."
"You walked fifteen minutes out of your way."
You picked up the tea and said nothing.
Nadia looked at you with the patient expression of someone who was very good at waiting. "You do not have to tell me," she said. "But you do not have to pretend either. Not with me."
You held the mug with both hands and looked at the steam coming off it and thought about the back step and the stars and the warm solid weight of his hands over yours and how none of it had meant what you had let yourself think it meant.
"I just need a few more days," you said quietly. "And then I will be fine."
Nadia looked at you for a long moment. "Okay," she said. And she did not push, because she was Nadia and she knew when to leave things alone, and you were grateful for that more than you could say.
----
Fred had stopped making sense of it by day four.
He had gone back through every conversation, every moment, every small thing he could remember from the last few weeks, and he could not find the place where it had gone wrong. He had replayed the Burrow in his head more times than he wanted to admit, looking for the thing he had said or done or not done, and he could not find it.
George had stopped making jokes about it after the second day, which told Fred more than any joke would have.
On the fifth morning, Fred was walking to Charms and thinking about nothing in particular when he turned a corner and saw Lee up ahead talking to someone about the next Quidditch match. Lee said something and laughed and then said, loud enough for Fred to hear, "Remember that blind date disaster you told us about? That girl who complained about everything?"
Fred stopped walking.
"She was unbelievable," Lee said, still laughing. "Sending back the butter and the dramatic hair twirling and then trying to proposition you over the chips."
Fred thought about it for a second, about the conversation, about exactly what had been said and who had been there and who might have been close enough to hear.
And then, slowly, he understood.
Then he found you.
Not on purpose. You came around the corner near the library and he was already there, walking from the other end of the corridor, and there was no side passage and no time to think and nowhere else to go.
You both stopped at the same moment.
The corridor was quiet. Just the two of you and the grey afternoon light coming through the windows and the distant sound of people somewhere else in the castle.
For a second neither of you said anything at all.
Then Fred smiled.
Not the wide grin. Not the teasing one that meant he was about to say something. Just a quiet, real, relieved smile, the kind that happened before you had time to arrange your face into something more controlled. Like something that had been sitting heavy on him for days had shifted just a little just from seeing you standing there.
"There you are," he said.
Three words. That was all. And yet they landed somewhere so specific and so soft that you felt them before you fully processed them. Like he had been looking. Like he had actually, genuinely been looking.
Before you could think about it you gave him a small smile back. "Hi."
He looked at you carefully for a moment, the way he looked at things when he was making sure of them. Then something in his expression shifted and he said, quietly and without any accusation in it at all, "You have been avoiding me."
You laughed. It came out too quick and too light and it did not sound convincing even to you. "I have not."
"You have."
"I have just been busy. It is nearly the end of term and there is a lot of—"
"You took three different corridors to get around me yesterday," he said. "I watched you do it."
You went completely still.
He was not angry. That was the thing that made it harder rather than easier. He was not raising his voice or accusing you of anything. He just looked tired. A little bit lost. Like someone who had been carrying something around for several days and had not been able to put it down.
His hair was a little messier than usual. His tie was loose around his neck. There were shadows under his eyes that had not been there before the holidays.
"I have been looking for you," he said, and his voice was so straightforward and simple about it that your chest hurt.
"I have just been—"
"You leave before I get to breakfast," he said. Not rushing, not listing it like a complaint, just saying it. "You stopped coming to the library. You take different corridors. And every time I think I have finally caught up to you." He let out a small breath. "You are already gone."
You tightened your hand around the strap of your bag.
He looked at you for a long moment and then he said, very quietly, "Did I do something?". There was something achingly soft in his eyes, like the thought of upsetting you genuinely hurt him.
The question landed like something dropped from a height.
----
There was no grin waiting. No joke ready to soften the edges of it. He was just standing there in the corridor looking at you and he looked completely and honestly lost, and his eyes were searching yours with the kind of desperation that only came from someone who had been turning a question over for days without finding the answer.
"I keep thinking about it," he said, and his voice was careful and low. "Going back through everything trying to find the moment I got it wrong. If I said something that upset you. If I did something without realising." He shook his head slightly. "And I cannot figure it out. But something changed and I know it did and I just." He stopped. Then he said, "If I did something, I am really sorry."
Something broke open quietly in your chest.
Because he looked tired. He looked genuinely, actually tired. Like someone who had not slept properly because he was too busy blaming himself for something that was not his fault at all. And the thing that made it so much worse was that he had done nothing wrong. He had been kind and patient and good and he had held your hands over a mug on a dark step under the stars and he had found you in a corridor and smiled like he was relieved and none of that was his fault. None of it was anything except him just being him.
"I heard something," you said, and your voice came out quieter than you intended. "A conversation. You and Lee."
Fred frowned. "What conversation?"
"About me." You looked at the floor. "You said I complained about everything. That the whole thing was a disaster." You swallowed. "You were laughing about it."
There was a pause.
Then Fred said, very slowly, "You thought I was talking about you."
You looked up. "Were you not?"
He stared at you for a second. Then he let out a breath and put his hand through his hair and said, "No." He shook his head. "I was talking about the girl you pretended to be from the blind date. The one who complained about the butter and the lighting and the chips that were not crispy enough. The one who spent the whole evening performing and then panicked when the performance stopped working." He looked at you and his voice was very steady. "I was not talking about you."
You blinked.
The corridor was completely silent.
You stood there and turned it over in your head. The conversation. Lee laughing. Fred talking about the hair twirling and the proposition and the restaurant. And you realising, with a slow and sinking and then strangely lightening feeling, that he had been talking about a performance you had put on months ago. A plan that had not worked. A version of you that you had both moved well past without either of you marking the exact moment it happened.
"Oh," you said.
"Yeah," Fred said.
You looked at your shoes. "Oh no."
A quiet laugh escaped him. "It is a little late for oh no."
For a few moments, neither of you said anything.
The heavy feeling that had been sitting between you for days had finally started to disappear. You knew now that Fred hadn't been talking about you. He'd been talking about the girl from the blind date—the version of you that had never really existed. It should have made you feel completely better.
Somehow, it didn't.
You rubbed the back of your neck awkwardly before giving him a small smile.
"So..." you said quietly. "I'm glad we managed to clear up the misunderstanding."
Fred smiled back.
"Yeah. Me too."
You nodded once, shifting your bag higher on your shoulder.
"Right... I should probably go."
"You don't have to."
"It's okay." You laughed softly, trying to ignore the strange feeling still sitting in your chest. "Everything's sorted now."
"It is."
"Good."
Another awkward silence settled between you.
You smiled politely before taking a small step backwards.
"Okay then... bye, Fred."
You turned and walked past him, already telling yourself not to think about how embarrassing the whole thing had been. It was over now. Everything was back to normal.
At least, that's what you thought.
You had barely taken a few steps before you heard quick footsteps behind you.
Then, without warning, someone gently caught your hand.
The sudden warmth around your fingers made you stop.
You turned around in surprise.
Fred was standing there, still holding your hand. He looked almost as surprised as you did, as though he hadn't really thought about what he was doing until he'd already done it.
For a second, neither of you spoke.
His eyes dropped to your joined hands before meeting yours again.
"I..." He let out a small breath and laughed quietly at himself. "I don't want this to end like that."
You blinked.
"...Like what?"
"With you saying 'bye' and walking away."
You looked at him, confused.
"I thought that's what people usually do."
"Maybe." He smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "But I've spent the last few days thinking I'd done something that made you disappear."
He paused for a moment.
"I don't really want the first proper conversation we've had since then to end after two minutes."
Your heart softened a little.
"Oh."
You didn't know what else to say.
Fred rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand before looking back at you.
----
"I am so sorry."
"You really do apologise too much," he said, and the way he said it, soft and familiar, made something ease in your chest that had been wound tight for days.
You kept your hand over half your face. You could not quite make yourself look at him fully yet. "I thought you had finally decided I was too much," you said, and you tried to say it lightly and it did not come out light at all. "That you had been patient about it and were too kind to say anything but that you had reached your limit with me."
Fred was quiet for a second.
"Too much," he repeated, like he was trying to understand the shape of it. "You thought you were too much."
"I thought I had overstayed whatever goodwill I had," you said. "Been around too long. Taken up too much space."
"That again," he said softly.
You looked up at him.
His expression was not what you expected. Not pity, not frustration. Just something open and honest and a little undone. Like the idea of you thinking that had genuinely bothered him somewhere real.
"I told you," he said. "At the Burrow. You do not have to justify taking up space. Not with us." He held your gaze. "I meant that."
You did not know what to say to that. The words just sat in you and made themselves at home next to everything else he had given you without meaning to.
"I keep saving the seat next to me in Charms," he said, and his voice had gone quieter. "Every morning I get there and I leave it empty and then I remember you are not coming. And I sit there for the whole lesson next to an empty chair that I keep accidentally saving for someone who is not there anymore." He looked at you steadily. "Do you have any idea what that is like?"
----
Your heart was doing something completely unreasonable.
"Fred," you said.
"I checked the library four times," he said. "Four separate times I walked past looking through the window. George watched me do it on the third time and did not say a single word which is how I knew it was bad."
"I did not know," you said quietly. "I did not think you would even notice."
He looked at you with an expression like that was possibly the most baffling thing you had ever said. "How could I not notice," he said simply.
The corridor was very quiet.
You looked at him and he looked at you and there was a long moment where neither of you said anything and it was not uncomfortable, it was just full. Full of five days of distance and everything that had built up behind it and the relief of standing here now without any of that between you anymore.
Then you said, very quietly, "I cannot believe I convinced myself you could not stand me."
"A bit hard to do," he said, "when I have been walking all over this castle trying to find you."
Your face went warm.
"I cannot look at you, right now," you said, and covered part of your face with your hand again.
You heard him laugh softly. And then you heard him take a step closer, and then another, and then he was very close, close enough that when he reached out and touched just under your chin with two fingers it was gentle enough that you barely felt it before your face was tipping up and you had no choice but to look at him.
He was right there.
Close enough that you could see exactly how tired his eyes were, the shadows under them, the fact that his hair was a genuine disaster today in a way that suggested he had not been thinking about it at all. And he was looking at you with an expression that was so unguarded and so careful at the same time that it made your breath catch somewhere in the middle of your chest.
----
"There they are. I was beginning to miss those eyes.," he murmured.
You could not speak.
"You have been hiding from me for days," he said softly. His thumb stayed for just a moment against your jaw before he let his hand drop, but he did not step back. He stayed where he was, close, looking at you like there was nowhere else he particularly needed to be right now.
"You know," he said, very quietly, "I would much rather look at you than watch you disappear around corners."
Your face went completely, thoroughly warm. You could feel it happening and could not do a single thing about it. "You cannot just say things like that," you managed.
"Apparently I can," he said. "I just did."
"Fred."
"You have gone all quiet," he observed.
"I have not."
"You have. You always go quiet when you are embarrassed."
"I do not always"
"You have said about seven words since I tilted your face up."
----
You opened your mouth. Nothing came out. He watched this happen with a slow and very soft smile that was making everything significantly worse in the best possible way.
"Cute," he said quietly.
Your brain stopped working entirely. Like someone had reached in and unplugged it from the wall.
You covered your face with both hands so quickly you nearly stumbled backwards. "You cannot just say that," you said, from behind your palms.
"I just did," he said, and you could hear the smile in it.
"You are the worst."
"I have been called worse."
"Fred, I cannot."
A proper laugh came out of him then, warm and real, and even from behind your hands you could picture exactly what his face looked like when he laughed like that, which was the problem, which had always been the problem.
"I think," you said, still behind your hands, "I liked it better when I thought you could not stand me."
"No you did not," he said.
"I really think I did."
"You absolutely did not," he said. "You were miserable."
You lowered your hands just enough to look at him over the tops of your fingers. He was still smiling. Still close. Still looking at you like he had found something he had been looking for and was not in any hurry to look away.
"Stop doing that," you said.
"Doing what?"
"Saying things like that. In that voice. While looking at me like that."
He tilted his head slightly. "Like what?"
"Like." You stopped. You did not have a word for it that you were willing to say out loud. "Like that," you finished, uselessly.
His smile did something quiet and warm. "Okay," he said, and he did not stop.
----
You looked at him for a moment. He looked back. The corridor was empty and quiet and everything felt like standing at the very edge of something, like the moment just before you decided to step.
Then Fred said, "Meet me after dinner."
You blinked. "What?"
"Tonight. Seven o'clock."
"Fred, what are you"
"Do not ask questions."
"I am absolutely asking questions."
"I am taking you somewhere," he said simply.
"Where?"
"If I tell you it ruins it."
You studied him for a moment, trying to read his expression, but he had put the calm settled look on that meant he had made up his mind and was waiting for you to catch up with him. "Should I be worried?" you asked.
"Probably," he said.
"That is not reassuring."
"It was not meant to be reassuring," he said. "It was meant to be honest." And then, softer, "Just trust me."
He said it so simply. Just trust me. Like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like it was not the exact thing you had been doing without meaning to for months.
"I have a feeling I am going to regret this," you said.
The corner of his mouth moved. "You said yes before I even finished asking."
----
You stared at him. Then you replayed the last thirty seconds in your head and realised with complete humiliation that he was right. You had not even hesitated. "I do not like that you noticed that," you said.
"I notice a lot of things," he said, quietly and directly, and the way he said it while looking right at you made the warmth come back to your face all over again.
"Seven o'clock," he said, and stepped back.
"Seven o'clock," you said.
He gave you one last look, that quiet warm look that you were never going to be able to stop recognising, and then he turned and walked away down the corridor. Unhurried. Like he had all the time in the world. Like he knew you were watching him go.
You stood there and did not move until he turned the corner and disappeared.
Then you exhaled, slow and long, and pressed your hand flat against your chest where your heart was doing something completely unreasonable and showed absolutely no signs of stopping.
---
The corridor was just a corridor. Ordinary stone and afternoon light and the distant sound of the castle going about its business. But standing in it felt different from how it had felt five minutes ago. The weight that had been sitting on you for five days was not completely gone but it was lighter, much lighter, and underneath it was something warm that had no intention of going anywhere.
pairing/tropes: best friend! fred weasley x fem! reader, both gryffindors(i'm self indulgent hehe), terribly slow burn, ginny is smarter and more iconic than she's given credit for in the movies!
w/c: 3.68k(short one!)
summary: you and the weasley twins have been best friends since your first year, and in your fifth year, you obviously didn't think things would change. fred was just fred; you visited The Burrow almost every summer and christmas, he took your tomatoes every time they served it at dinner…. you'd seen the boy go through puberty and be a gross teen, why would you fall for him?
tw: cursing, slight insinuation of parental issues nearing the end?
a/n: this is more slice of life/comedy than any romance...i'm sorry? i hope you laugh? the romance will follow in the later parts...eventually...! also, i know alicia isn't blonde, but i cannot imagine her not being blonde for some reason!! i read the books as a kid imagining her so, and therefore...sorry, she's blonde here too? i swear she was blonde.... anyways, enjoy... !
───── ⋆.✶
you had always been friends with fred weasley. since your first year, when you had asked to sit with him and george in the Hogwarts Express, you had become friends with the two, whether you wanted to be or not. so naturally, fred's name didn't even come to mind when alicia spinnet, your bestfriend of five years, asked about prospects for dating. you were sitting on your bed in the girls' dorm that you shared with your bestfriends, angelina jhonson and alicia spinnet. you set your hands in your lap, thinking. you weren't the type to chase after boys; your priorities lay with bettering yourself, trying to get your grades up, and friends. and besides, trying not to get the weasley twins expelled took up enough of your time as is.
"someone as a future boyfriend….? " you muse, leaning back. angelina and alicia exchange an amused look. you had been with a grand total of one boy beforehand, and that had gone up in flames after he had made a snarky remark about hermione granger's hair. you did not take your morals lightly.
"you know, y/n," giggled alicia, "you can just say you want to live in a house alone with a dog when you're 23," which earns her a playful pillow to the chest as you bristle with mock indignance.
"hey, sod off. you name me 3 guys in this sorry school that are worth dating? they all either have big egos, can't spell for shit, are quidditch obsessed, or miserable misogynists," you defend, and angelina nods.
"i have to agree with you on that… i wish i could say otherwise. but surely there might be a few good blokes around," she says optimistically. alicia perks up suddenly, her hands dropping from where she was playing with her blonde hair.
"hey, y/n, why not one of the twins? we're all friends with them, and they're…nice enough. you know their family and everything!" alicia grins, and you try to deadpan, but can't keep your obnoxious laugh in. the weasley twins! you break down in laughter as you imagine it; fred, trying to be romantic with charred flowers that were probably involved in a prank or experiment. george, trying to send you a love letter but ending up sending it to someone else. the concept of dating one of them was like asking you to imagine dating a very, very distant relative; not technically impossible, but still incredibly bizarre. alicia huffs when angelina starts giggling too. you were all friends with each other: alicia, angelina, and you, then the twins and their close mate, lee jordan. you had all formed a sort of friendgroup since the second semester of your first year, when you had conceived the brilliant idea of making the twins and their bestfriend be friends with your bestfriends. so alicia and angelina knew of how ridiculous the twins could be.
"all im saying is, you and one of the twins could look good together. just pick one or something. i vote fred, he takes your tomatoes during dinner and you make him finish atleast some homework every week. it's cute, is all," alicia shrugs, and you give her a horrified but mildly amused expression.
"you say that like you're asking me to pick a donut. and besides, i hate raw tomatoes, he loves them! it's a simple, silent agreement between friends."
"i have to agree with y/n, al."
"i hate you both. i'm the only hopeless romantic here."
"you need to stop watching romcoms, darling."
───── ⋆.✶
you sit with angelina and alicia sit at your usual section at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall, across fred, george and lee. when the trio arrives, you raise a brow as lee sits down, smoking. not like smoking a blunt…. literally smoking, with fumes. angelina helps herself to a piece of shepherd's pie, unblinking. a few moments of awkward silence pass.
"fine, i'll ask. why are your dreads smoking?" alicia asks exasperatedly, setting down her fork. lee points at the twins in mild amusement, who grin mischieviously.
"convinced him to set a firecracker in one of the suits of armor," fred begins, fishing an extra firecracker out of his pocket. george leans in, continuing from his twin.
"but he set it off too early, and it exploded in his hand," he recounts in glee, and you press your lips together to mask your amusement.
"are you alright, lee?" you ask mildly, trying to seem shocked or worried. lee wipes the soot off his hand onto his trousers, deadpanning.
"i'm splendid, y/n. the twins are a joy to be with," lee says, smiling sarcastically, and fred snags him into a playful headlock, making lee yell out, laughing. you pick the sundried tomatoes from your caprese salad, watching. you'd never understood why boys liked expressing their affection by wrestling each other into headlocks, but it seemed to be working out fairly well for them. seemingly satisfied after nearly strangling his best mate, fred lets go of lee, settling down before reaching over to your plate to scoop up the tomatoes that you had set aside; it was an unspoken thing between you two, so he didn't need much confirmation. alicia catches your eye, giving you a, "see, cute!" look. angelina catches this too and smiles, and you try to supress a snort of amusement. yeah, fred taking your tomatoes was about as cute as professor flitwick asking you to submit your homework. it was completely ordinary to you. just another tradition in your long lasting, legendary friendship.
"they're doing the looking thing again. i told you girls can communicate with their eyes!" lee mutters to the twins, who look up to see you and angelina amused, and alicia slightly disgruntled.
"what's this secret talk about, ladies?" fred asks, popping a tomato into his mouth. you swivel around in your seat sharply to hope alicia would stay silent. of course, she speaks.
"i was just saying that y/n and fred might be cute together. y'know, the traditions, shared habits, and all," alicia says, looking even more resolute to stand her ground now that the whole group was involved. you turn to fred, who meets your eyes with mischievous, brown eyes of his own.
"ohhh, me and y/n?" fred asks, wiggling his brows. you stab a piece of lettuce warily, already knowing where this was going to go. fred puts his fork down, slinging an arm around his twin with a thoughtful expression.
"well, george, i don't think it would work out, would it? she would just be far too….obsessed with me. i need a chill lady," fred jokes, and you stare at him with a poker face, expressionless but clearly disapproving. he holds his hands up in surrender, wincing. fred wasn't stupid, and he knew you had a sucker punch up your sleeve if you needed it.
"alright, alright, we wouldn't work due to other things," he relents, clearly not really that scared or remorseful at all. ginny weasley peeks over from a few seats down with her own friends, looking very curious. she was standing to look at you, red hair tied in a ponytail with flyaway strands peeking out like a messy halo of fire.
"fred? you and y/n are together??" the younger redhead practically yells across the table. the girl may have been only 13, but merlin, was she loud. coming to Hogwarts had really made her grow out of her shell, you thought. Hogwarts students, being the nosy teenagers that they were, all turn in unison to look at where you were sitting with your friends- including fred. fred couldn't stop grinning cockily, and you rub at your eyes, sighing. you loved ginny, you really did; but right now, you wished she didn't know of your existence.
"together??" fred laughs, before abruptly adopting a solemn expression. "ginny, we've been married two years next saturday," he says, and your expression flattens. angelina bites her lip to hide her smile, and alicia outwardly giggles. you elbow the nearest girl, mildly irritated.
"yeah, they haven't told mum yet. planning on it this christmas," george chimes in seriously. fred nods, looking scarily serious. ginny sits back down, look disgruntled at the lack of gossip and the influx of tomfoolery.
"you two are idiots, you know that?" she huffs, and her friends surrounding her giggle as she sits.
"runs in the family, doesn't it?" fred replies cheerily.
───── ⋆.✶
before long, the last dregs of the winter had warmed into early spring. flowers bloomed around the castle- angelina had found a 'forget-me-not' on your way to breakfast blowing daintily in the wind, having sprouted from the cracks between the stone walls of a corridor window. flowers had been planted all over the castle, likely by professor sprout. however, instead of admiring the new additions of flowers that particular tuesday morning, you were running for lesson, yet again. you and your friends were late to class, because the twins had gotten caught up in explaining one of their new prank plans at the breakfast table after stuffing their faces with toast. you sprint down the stairwell, with angelina, alicia, lee, fred and george infront of you. suddenly, you remember; the twins had left their essays in the common room. what's worse, they had only written them because angelina had forced them, and because they knew professor snape would have their heads if they didn't turn it up.
"you left your bloody essays in the common room!" you yell out, already backpedaling to run back to the common room. everyone starts yelling all at once, out of breath and panicked from being late. under usual circumstances, you wouldn't care, but this was Potions.
everyone starts running back, and you hear curses flying in all directions, especially in the twins'.
"sorry, sorry! fuck, we just did that damned essay!" george pants, long legs picking up speed. in your haste, your bookbag slips from your shoulder, nearly causing you to trip. without missing a beat, fred leans down and catches your bag, lightly yelping in shock when he does. your strides slow to take your bag, but fred keeps sprinting, grunting when you slow.
"keep going, don't stop!" he pants, and despite the situation, you almost laugh at the innuendo. "merlin's balls, y/n, what the hell is in here?" fred gasps, voice an octave higher than usual.
"actual books, you wouldn't know," you wheeze out, and fred slows, breathing heavily.
"you know what? tou-chee." fred gasps, and you burst out laughing, also slowing.
"it's touché, you absolute dingbat," you laugh, and fred's brows knit in confusion. just as he opens his mouth to reply, your little tête-à-tête is interrupted.
"will you two shut up and run?! we're going to get roasted to a char if we don't get to class in two minutes," angelina yells out.
"always thought it sounded a little french," george muses from the front, short-winded. you and fred share a sheepish look before starting to run properly again. a cluster of first years flatten themselves against the wall as your ridiculous group thunders past. fred hooks your bookbag on his shoulder, and this time you don't attempt to take it back. it was completely ordinary, alongside him saving you a seat at the benches when everyone was at quidditch practice, and you giving him your tomatoes. and besides, someone offers to carry your heavy bookbag for you? by all means, they could go right ahead. your shoulder was aching anyway.
after retrieving the twins' essays, angelina only stops to curse at them before you all start running again. fred was still carrying your bag, and you didn't even have time to ask for it back. the bigger concern at hand was professor snape breathing fire in your faces. stone walls turn into a grey blur around you, and you vaguely hear peeves cackle, "ooohh, troublemakers are late again? someone's in for detention!"
stitches forming at your side, you stumble to a halt at the dungeon doors, with fred, george, lee, alicia and angelina joining you. you gulp down air greedily along with your friends, fear making your heart lurch into your throat. swallowing your figurative heart, you knock on the door, peeking in along with 5 other heads.
"look who've finally decided to join us..." professor snape drawls from the front of the class. you hear lee audibly gulp behind you. you were all still breathing heavily, completely winded from the run.
"go inside," you hiss to fred, lightly shoving him forward. he shoves george, who shoves him back. before you could push fred forward, professor snape's voice stills your movement.
"miss y/l/n.... where is your bookbag?" he asks, which confuses you momentarily. remembering, you turn to fred, and he drops your bookbag into your hand. well, the free service was nice while it lasted. professor snape's lips curve into a sneer.
"ah, mister weasley....miss y/l/n seems to have employed you as a pack mule," he mocks, which draws snickers from a particularly petty group of slytherins. you had only accidentally dropped a barely warm potion of one of them once, and they acted like you scalded all of their and their families' faces off. you fight the urge to roll your eyes. if snape cared so much about you all being late, you would think he would just let you in and get on with his bloody lesson. but nooo, every time someone who wasn't a slytherin was late, he simply had to make a spectacle of them first. it wasn't a secret that professor snape wasn't your favourite.
"temporary position, sir," fred replies, and you shoot him a look that said, 'you are so stupid.'
"benefits and pay non-existent, sir," george chimes in, and fred elbows his twin, grinning. you hear angelina groan softly from somewhere to your left.
"do you find my classroom to be a comedic stage, both of you?" snape scowls, robe sweeping across the floor as he stalked towards you six. you always wondered if debris got caught in it. "first, all six of you arrive late," he mutters quietly.
"why did we all go for the twin's stupid essays?" alicia whispers then, her voice barely audible. you mentally facepalm. you should've just shoved the twins to their death. when it came to Potions lessons, it was every man- and woman, for themselves.
"and then," continues snape sharply, glowering. "you proceed to make a fool of yourselves, with improper dressing-" he flicks his wand in fred, george and lee's direction, and their loose, unruly ties straighten and tighten. the twins gasp in unison at the sudden restriction, and lee coughs, tugging on his now proper tie. you tense, fidgeting with the strap of your bookbag. you weren't particularly scared; getting scolded by snape was a regular occurrence for you and your friends. you just really, really didn't want detention. you had a book you had been meaning to catch up on, waiting at your bedside. you cherished your time alone at night- a warm shower, comfortable clothes, some peppermint tea from the elves in the kitchen, and your-
"detention, all of you. two hours," the sharp hiss rudely snaps you out of your reverie. you try to keep your eye from twitching in irritation.
"two hours?" alicia sighs, and you can hear her facepalming. snape's cold gaze sweeps over the six of you, with your hair messed up from the wind and clothes slightly rumpled.
"to your tables. turn to page 395," he practically spits. you didn't need any more encouragement, immediately making a hasty beeline for the nearest empty table, and the furthest one from the back. when snape's back turns to walk back to the front of the class, you set your bookbag on your desk with a heavy thump, sighing deeply.
"could kill a hippogriff, that bag," you hear fred whisper, likely to george. you turn around to where he was now sitting, shooting him a half-assed glare.
the rest of Potions sweeps by with a lot of grumbling and sulking.
"honestly, what is his issue?" alicia huffs as the six of you exit the dungeons, detention slips stuffed into your robe pockets.
"we were fifteen minutes late," lee offers helpfully, which earns him a middle finger from the blonde.
"it doesn't help that he's constantly in a bad mood. we could come a minute late and he would write us up anyway," you point out, and a chorus of agreements follow your statement.
"i'm so glad we don't have to see him over the spring break," alicia sighs happily. you nod, already thinking of the days you could spend at home reading and....reading....
"yeah, but there's still weeks to it, i don't think i can make it 'til then!" lee moans, and alicia pretends to wipe at her eyes mournfully.
"oh lee, however will you survive two more weeks in the school you've lived in for years!" she cries, and lee scowls playfully at her. the twins come up at lee's side, wearing matching grins.
"hey, we share a dorm! what d'you mean you can't survive?" george asks, pretending to be offended.
"yeah mate, we're a joy to live with," fred declares, and lee deadpans. you whisper, "allegedly" under your breath, and angelina and alicia start laughing. lee seemed less amused.
"yeah, your socks ending up in my laundry is such a joy," he mutters, crossing his arms as fred throws an arm around his shoulder. "dunno how i'll manage without it,"
"alright, no need to get your knickers in a twist, my friend," fred encourages lee, thumping him on the back so hard he trips.
"we'll nick you a cauldron cake from the kitchen, even," george promises, and lee relents, grinning slightly. the boy loved his cauldron cakes.
───── ⋆.✶
before long, topics of gossip about who was snogging who melt into the discussion of spring break activities. your group, as it happens, is also interested in this topic. trying to warm yourself with the fireplace in the Gryffindor common room, you stretch your legs out in front of you, slumped over in the squashy armchair that always swallowed you whole.
"i've already written to my mum, she's going to make her roast. merlin, i can't wait to gain a hundred pounds," angelina sighs wistfully, hugging herself.
"alright now, stay with us on earth, angelina," george teases, and angelina attempts to smack him with a throw pillow, causing him to lean into fred's side and away from angelina's attacks.
"my uncle's visiting my parents' to see me," alicia says happily, ignoring angelina still attempting to hit george behind her.
"the same one that accidentally popped a balloon animal in your face when you were a kid?" you ask quizzically, and alicia laughs, nodding.
"yep, the very same one. i can't wait to see him, i always get away with things when he's around," she muses, and you knew she was already thinking of what miniskirts she could wear despite london's chilly weather.
"what are you doing?" george asks you, finally evading angelina's pillow by sitting behind fred. fred looked like he had two heads because of his twin's one bobbing behind him. lee laughs at that.
"sleep, and i've been meaning to catch up on this book for a while now..." you think aloud, lifting your legs to sit cross legged. fred and george stare at you, seemingly waiting for a continuation. parties, food, relatives, the usual. you stare back, shrugging.
"yeah, eventful spring, really," you say simply, smiling.
"why are your holiday plans always bloody dreadful?" fred asks, looking actually sympathetic.
"i was also planning on maybe baking," you include, and fred turns to george, looking horrified.
"george, we have to ask her." fred mutters, as if planning an oath.
george nods in immediate agreement, and the twins turn to you in unison.
"come home, y/n," fred says decisively, and you cross your arms, opening your mouth. fred looked almost wistful for you to come; your spring plans weren't that bleak! you were reading a thriller novel, for merlin's sake.
"no arguments, we do this every time," george says before you can argue, and you snap your mouth shut. having been the twins' best friend for years, you had visited The Burrow many times, during which the entire Weasley family had treated you like one of their own, even if you had never stayed the night. for the one day you were visiting the Weasleys, it was always a blur of laughter, food and chaos.
"for a week," fred insists, and you make a face of pure disbelief.
"half the holiday? how could i possibly stay that long, your mum and dad-"
"love you?" fred splutters, and you pause, fighting a smile.
"well, i suppose they do like me, but i imagine they'd be tired with so many people in the house," you say considerately, knowing the whirlwind of chaos that the Weasley siblings brought with them. the twins bounce up from their seats and sit on either side of you.
"compared to us, you're practically a house cat, y/n. trust us, mum and dad'll love you around. mum writes about you, y'know," george says convincingly, and fred nods.
"mum writes about you, asking us, 'how's y/n?' and 'is y/n visiting us over the spring?'; it never ends, honestly," fred recalls, mimicking molly weasley's warm but often high pitched voice with astounding accuracy. you sigh; you did want to go, but in order to go, you had to ask your parents....
"we'll help write to your parents," george says, sensing your hesitance immediately. fred nods, already bouncing with excitement. angelina smiles from her seat.
"y/n, you know how the twins get when they want something, just go!"
fred grins, and you could practically see all the possible pranks you could help him and george with flowing in his head. "yeah, what angelina said! you know you want to, y/n! imagine it, my dear friend; mum's cooking, swimming in the lake even though it's freezing, winning at Exploding Snap-"
you finally relent happily, nodding. "i'll come! your mum's apple pie is so worth it-"
"and me. i'm also worth it, y/n."
"yes, and you, frederick. how could ever i forget."
"it's going to be a long week for you, y/n," alicia giggles, and you nod, smiling anyway.
───── ⋆.✶
thank you for reading! comment ideas below to help me write!
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Summary: Forced onto a blind date by your mum, you decide the easiest way out is to make him hate you. However, fate seems to have other plans.
Warnings: no use of y/n
Cw: a little angst
Wc: 4k+
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9(coming soon)
Breakfast was loud and warm and a little chaotic in the way that only happened when too many people who loved each other shared one kitchen. Molly always made too much food. Arthur read the paper and asked questions about what he read and actually listened to the answers. George found reasons to turn everything into a competition. Ginny won most of them.
And Fred was just there.
That was the part you hadn't planned for. He wasn't trying to be anything. He was just moving through his own life and you were moving through it beside him. He made tea in the mornings and always made enough for two without asking. He saved you the seat nearest the window at breakfast because you had sat there the first morning and he had noticed. He talked to you the way he talked to everyone, easy and warm, like what you said actually mattered to him.
The others had gone inside after lunch. Molly to start dinner, Arthur to his shed, George and Ginny into a card game that had already gotten out of hand. You and Fred had stayed in the garden without either of you deciding to. You were just still there, sitting on the back step, with the afternoon going warm and golden around the orchard.
It was a comfortable kind of quiet. The kind that did not need filling.
----
Fred was turning an old Quaffle over in his hands. You were watching the orchard. A bird was doing something cheerful in the furthest tree.
"Can I ask you something?" you said.
He looked over. "Yeah."
"What was it actually like. Growing up here."
He thought about it before answering, which was something you had noticed he always did. "Loud," he said. "Good loud, mostly. Never quiet enough to feel lonely." He turned the Quaffle over in his hands. "Sometimes too many people knowing your business."
"But mostly good?" you said.
"Mostly good," he said. "It always felt like somewhere. You know what I mean?"
You nodded slowly. "My house was quiet," you said. "Just me and my parents. Very tidy." You paused. "Papa always said Hogwarts was the loudest place he had ever been and he loved every second of it. I used to think that sounded exhausting."
Fred looked at you sideways. "And now?"
"And now I am sitting in your garden," you said. "So."
He smiled at the orchard.
After a while, you glanced over at him, watching him absentmindedly pull at a blade of grass between his fingers.
"What was it like growing up here?" you asked. "With... all of them."
Fred looked towards the Burrow, where voices drifted through the open kitchen window, and a smile appeared on his face without him even noticing.
"Loud," he said with a quiet laugh. "There was never a day where the house was actually quiet. Someone was always talking, someone was arguing with someone else, and George and I usually had Mum shouting our names from somewhere upstairs." He shook his head fondly. "It was chaotic, but I wouldn't change it."
You smiled, trying to picture it.
"My house was the complete opposite. It was just Mama, Papa and me, so it was always peaceful. Sometimes too peaceful."
"Weren't you bored?"
"Sometimes," you admitted, your smile growing. "But Papa never let it stay that way for long. We'd play chess together, go for walks around the village, or he'd insist on teaching me card tricks." You let out a small laugh at the memory. "He was absolutely terrible at them, but every time one actually worked, he'd celebrate like he'd just performed the greatest piece of magic anyone had ever seen."
Fred laughed, turning to look at you.
"I think I'd get along with your dad."
"I think you would too," you said honestly. "The two of you would probably spend hours trying to out-joke each other."
"I'd win."
You gave him an unimpressed look.
"You've never even met him."
"I don't have to." His grin widened. "I have confidence."
You laughed, shaking your head as the breeze stirred the trees around you. Somehow, without either of you noticing, the conversation drifted away from childhood stories into comfortable silence again—the kind that no longer needed filling.
----
Then Fred said, "The clock inside. With all the hands."
"The one your mum added one for me."
"Dad made it," Fred said. "Years ago when Bill was small. He added a hand every time someone new came into the family." He picked up the Quaffle again. "He is only supposed to add them for people who stay."
You looked at him.
He was looking at the orchard. "Mum decided anyway," he said. "She just decided you counted."
You did not know what to say to that. It just sat in your chest and you let it.
"She is something else," you said quietly.
"Yeah." The corner of his mouth moved. "She is."
The afternoon sun had dropped lower when Molly called everyone outside for lunch. The long wooden table in the garden was covered in empty plates and half finished drinks and the cheerful mess of a meal that had been properly eaten.
Fred and George had spent the whole lunch stealing food from each other's plates.
"You two are impossible," Molly said, collecting dishes.
"We learnt from the best," George said.
"I do not steal food," Molly said.
George reminded her about Arthur's potatoes yesterday. Molly said those were abandoned potatoes. Arthur looked up from his paper and said calmly that he had still been eating them. Fred said in his defence he had not touched the potatoes. George said only because he had already taken the carrots.
The conversation bounced around the table fast enough that you could barely keep up, and somewhere in the middle of it you stopped trying to be careful and just joined in. You laughed when something was funny. You said things when you thought of them. You stopped waiting to see if it was allowed.
At some point you reached across for the pumpkin juice.
Before your fingers touched the jug, another hand had already picked it up.
Fred. Without looking away from George, he poured some into your glass, filled his own, and set the jug back down.
You blinked. "Thank you."
"No problem," he said, still talking to George.
The conversation never stopped. Neither of you thought anything of it. Across the table, Molly hid a smile behind her teacup.
----
After lunch George convinced everyone to play cards. It lasted about twelve minutes before it stopped being cards and became something closer to a debate, with Ginny accusing Fred of having three aces and Fred saying that was just skill and George throwing cards at both of them as a kind of running commentary.
You laughed before you could stop yourself, the sound slipping out so naturally that you didn't even realise you'd made it until Fred turned towards you. He looked far too interested for someone who had only heard a small laugh, his eyebrows lifting as though he'd just caught you doing something suspicious.
"What?" he asked.
You quickly looked away, trying to hide the smile that was still tugging at your lips.
"Nothing."
"It wasn't nothing." He rested an arm against the table, studying you with an amused grin that only grew wider the longer you refused to look at him. "You laughed."
"I am allowed to laugh."
"You almost snorted."
You looked back at him immediately.
"I did not snort."
"There was definitely a sound."
"It was called laughing."
"It sounded questionable."
"It sounded perfectly normal."
Fred looked thoroughly unconvinced, though judging by the grin on his face, he wasn't actually trying to win the argument anymore. He just seemed to enjoy dragging it out because it meant you kept talking back to him.
Before either of you could continue, something lightly bounced off the side of Fred's head.
He blinked, reached up, and caught the playing card before it could fall into his lap.
George lowered the rest of the deck onto the table with an exaggerated sigh.
"If you two are done flirting," he said, "the rest of us would quite like to continue the game."
The words hung in the air for a second.
You and Fred looked at George, then instinctively at each other, before both speaking at exactly the same time.
"We're not flirting."
The sentence came out in perfect sync.
Neither of you seemed to realise it, but everyone else at the table certainly did.
George slowly turned his head towards Ginny without saying a word.
Ginny didn't even bother looking surprised. She simply leaned back in her chair, folded her arms, and gave George a look that could only be described as unbearably smug.
"Told you," she said.
Fred frowned.
"Told him what?"
"Oh, nothing." Ginny's smile only widened as she picked up another card. "Please, don't let us interrupt."
George snorted into his hand, while you frowned in complete confusion.
Neither you nor Fred understood why everyone suddenly looked so entertained.
That, according to the rest of the table, was exactly the problem.
----
The game lasted another twenty minutes before George declared the rules boring and said they should do something with more running. Nobody knew what that meant, including George, but everyone went along with it.
Fred ran past you. "You coming?"
You were on your feet before you had thought about it. "Yeah."
You were halfway across the garden before you slowed down. "Wait."
Fred turned. "What?"
"You did not tell me what we are doing."
He stared at you. Then he started laughing. "I did not, did I."
"No."
"Oh." He looked genuinely surprised at himself. "I just assumed you would follow."
You frowned. "And apparently I did."
He smiled, slow and warm. "Apparently."
Neither of you found this strange. You just kept walking together into the orchard where the afternoon light came through the trees in long golden lines, and Fred was explaining something with his hands and you were shaking your head and smiling in spite of yourself, and neither of you noticed any of it.
Back at the table, George watched the two of you disappear between the trees.
He turned to Ginny very slowly. "Did you see that?"
"They did not even notice," Ginny said.
"He made her tea this morning before she came downstairs," George said. "How did he know she wanted tea?"
"Because she always wants tea," Ginny said simply.
"He has been saving her the window seat every single morning."
"I know."
"They said the same thing at the same time today. Twice."
"Three times," Ginny said. "I counted."
George turned to Molly. "Mum."
Molly looked up.
"They keep wandering off together without planning it," George said. "They hand each other things before the other one even asks. When something funny happens they look at each other first before anyone else." He spread his hands out. "What is that."
"I noticed," Molly said.
"They are not even doing it on purpose."
"I know."
"That is somehow worse," George said.
Molly stacked a plate and smiled and said nothing.
George dropped back in his chair and looked up at the sky. "They are completely hopeless."
"Total idiots," Ginny agreed.
Arthur lowered his newspaper just enough to look through the orchard at the two of you. You were visible between the trees, Fred gesturing at something, you laughing and shaking your head. Arthur watched for a quiet moment with the look of someone who had been married a long time and knew what certain things looked like.
"I give it a month," he said, and raised the paper back up.
"A month?" George said. "Two weeks."
"I do not think they know yet," Ginny said softly.
Molly carried some plates inside and smiled to herself. "No," she said. "But they will."
The last night came without warning, the way last nights always did.
Nine days had passed and you had not noticed until it was almost over, which told you something about how it had felt to be here.
You were on the back step again, late, after everyone else had gone in. The garden was dark and quiet and the sky above Devon was full of stars. Wide and clear in a way that you did not get at school. You sat there looking up at them and felt very small in a way that was actually nice.
Fred came out at some point and sat beside you without asking. He had brought two cups of tea. He handed you one.
You took it without looking. "Thank you."
"Mhm."
The garden was quiet. The stars were very bright. Somewhere in the dark a frog was being very loud about something.
"I did not want to come," you said eventually.
He looked over.
----
"When my mother arranged this," you said. "I had a whole plan for getting through it without anything being weird." You paused. "I did not account for it being like this."
"Like what?" he said.
You looked at the dark shape of the orchard. At the warm lit windows of the house behind you. At the garden that Molly had grown over years of caring about things.
"Somewhere I did not expect to feel at home," you said.
Fred did not say anything right away. He turned his mug in his hands. The frog kept going.
"You know what is funny," he said after a while.
"What?"
"Back at Hogsmeade I could see exactly what you were doing," he said. "The whole thing, every bit of it." He looked at the orchard. "I cannot do that anymore."
"Maybe I got better at hiding it," you said.
"Maybe." He was quiet for a moment. "Or maybe you just stopped needing to."
You did not say anything to that. You just sat with it.
After a while you said, "I always thought that letting people in meant eventually getting to the part where it goes wrong." You looked at your tea. "So I kept everyone at exactly the distance where it could not hurt."
"That sounds lonely," Fred said.
"It was," you said. "It is. Sometimes."
He looked at you. "You do not seem lonely here."
"I have not been." You said it quietly. "Not once. Not even at the beginning when I was being." You paused. "A lot."
He smiled a little. "You were being a lot."
"I was being a lot," you agreed.
The garden went quiet again.
"Fred," you said.
He turned to look at you.
----
Whatever you had been about to say just left. He was looking at you and the stars were bright and the words just went. You sat there without them.
He noticed. He always noticed things before you were ready.
"You are cold," he said.
"I am fine."
"Your hands."
You looked down. Your knuckles had gone pale around the mug.
He reached over without making anything of it and wrapped both hands around yours, right over the mug. Warm and steady. He did not say anything. He did not look at you like it was a moment. He just did it the way he did most things, like it was the obvious thing to do and that was that.
Your heart did not agree that it was that simple.
But you looked at the stars and he looked at the garden and you sat like that until the tea went cold and the frog gave up and the windows upstairs went dark one by one. Neither of you moved. Neither of you said anything else.
It was the most comfortable silence you had ever been inside of.
Sunday came and you went back to Hogwarts.
Molly hugged you at the car and it was warm and real. Arthur shook your hand and said it had been a real pleasure. Ginny said see you at school like you had been coming here for years.
George put his arm around your shoulders on the walk to the platform. "You are welcome back anytime," he said, loud enough for Fred to hear. "No invitation needed. The door is always open."
"George," Fred said.
"I am being welcoming."
"You are being annoying."
"Those are not mutually exclusive." George looked at you and grinned. "You are one of us now. It is done."
You laughed and it came out warm and real, and Fred looked at you when you laughed and smiled the quiet smile, and that was the part you kept the whole ride back.
----
Hogwarts felt different when you came back to it.
Same corridors, same staircases, same everything. But you moved through it differently. You were not routing anymore. You were not tracking where anyone was. You walked through the castle the way you had started walking through the Burrow, like someone who was just allowed to be there.
Nadia was in the common room when you got back.
She looked at your face. Then she smiled, slow and knowing. "Good holiday?"
"Yes," you said.
She nodded and went back to her book. You sat down across from her and pulled out your Charms notes and stared at them without reading any of it.
"Nadia," you said.
"Mm."
"I think I am in trouble."
She turned a page. "I know."
"You knew before I did."
"Since the library floor," she said. "When you came back and your hands were still a little shaky."
You put your face in your hands.
"It will be fine," Nadia said.
"Will it?"
A pause. "Probably."
You stayed with your face in your hands for a moment.
Then you looked up.
----
Across the common room Fred came through the portrait hole with George. He said something to someone by the fire. Then he looked up and found you right away, like he already knew where you were before he looked.
He raised his hand once.
You raised yours back.
George said something quietly beside him. Fred told him to shut up. He was still smiling when he looked away.
You looked back at your Charms notes.
Trouble, you thought. Real, actual, comprehensive trouble.
The plan was dust.
It had been dust for weeks and you were only just admitting it.
----
The corridor outside Charms was crowded as students poured into it, everyone talking over one another while trying to squeeze through the moving staircase landing. Somehow, despite the chaos, you had ended up walking with Fred, George and Lee. The conversation drifted lazily between Quidditch practice, Filch's latest attempt at catching students after curfew, and George's increasingly ridiculous theories about why Peeves had stolen someone's left shoe.
By the time you reached the courtyard, Lee let out a dramatic groan, pressing a hand to his stomach.
"I'm starving," he announced, already veering towards the snack trolley parked beneath the archway. "Anyone want anything?"
George immediately called after him, asking for a Chocolate Frog, while another Gryffindor behind you requested a pumpkin pasty. You glanced towards the trolley yourself, already deciding what to get.
Before you had the chance to answer, Fred spoke up without so much as looking in your direction.
"She'll have a treacle tart."
The words came so casually that they almost disappeared into the rest of the conversation.
You stopped walking.
"...What?"
Fred looked over, only then realising everyone else had gone quiet.
"What?"
"You just ordered for me."
His brows furrowed slightly, as though he genuinely hadn't realised he'd done it.
"...Did I?"
"You did."
For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then you tilted your head, studying him with growing confusion.
"How did you know I was going to get a treacle tart?"
Fred opened his mouth before pausing, the answer refusing to come. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking oddly thoughtful.
"I..." He let out a small laugh. "I don't actually know."
He frowned to himself for another second before his expression brightened with realisation.
"You always get one after Charms."
You blinked.
"I do?"
"Mhm." He shrugged, saying it as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You stand there for ages pretending you're deciding, then you always end up buying the treacle tart."
You stared at him for a moment before looking towards the trolley, trying to remember if that was actually true.
"...I never noticed."
"Neither did I," Fred admitted, sounding just as surprised by his own answer.
A brief silence settled between the two of you. It was such an ordinary thing to remember—so small that neither of you had realised it had become a habit.
George, who had been watching the exchange with growing amusement, slowly folded his arms.
"Mate..." he said, unable to hide the grin spreading across his face. "That's either the most impressive observation skills I've ever seen..."
He let the sentence hang for a moment.
"...or you've been paying a lot more attention than you think."
Fred immediately rolled his eyes.
"Oh, shut up."
"I'm just saying," George replied with a laugh. "You remembered her snack before she did."
Fred opened his mouth to argue, but nothing came out.
Because, annoyingly...
George wasn't wrong.
----
The afternoon corridor was alive with the usual noise that came between classes. Students filled every corner of the castle, weaving around one another with books tucked beneath their arms while conversations echoed against the old stone walls. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, spilling across the stone floor in warm patches as people hurried towards their next lesson or lingered with friends before the bell rang.
You walked beside Nadia, listening absentmindedly as she talked about an essay Professor McGonagall had assigned. You nodded whenever it seemed appropriate, though your attention had already drifted elsewhere. Across the corridor, leaning casually against one of the stone pillars, stood Fred with George and Lee. The three of them were laughing over something, George bent over with one hand on Lee's shoulder while Fred animatedly retold a story, his hands moving just as much as the words coming out of his mouth.
Without even thinking about it, you smiled.
It had become strangely normal. Somewhere between returning from the Burrow and settling back into Hogwarts, seeing Fred had become part of your day. You found yourself looking for him in crowded corridors, expecting him to appear outside your classroom, or wandering over just to hear whatever ridiculous conversation he and George were having.
"I think I'll go say hi," you murmured.
Nadia followed your gaze before a small smile appeared on her face.
"I'll meet you in the library."
You nodded and headed across the corridor, weaving through the crowd of students. You were still a short distance away, hidden by the people walking between you, but close enough for their voices to carry over the noise.
Lee laughed as he nudged Fred's shoulder.
"I still can't believe your mum actually made you go on that blind date."
George immediately burst into laughter.
"I'd pay to watch that happen all over again."
Fred groaned, though he couldn't stop himself from smiling as he rubbed the back of his neck.
"It was an absolute disaster."
You couldn't help smiling too. Looking back on it now, the blind date almost felt funny. It had been awkward and embarrassing, but somehow it had led you here. Just as you were about to call his name, Fred shook his head with another laugh.
"Honestly, I couldn't stand her. She complained about everything—the restaurant, the food, even the lighting. I genuinely thought she was the most spoiled person I'd ever met."
Your feet stopped moving.
The smile slipped from your face as his words settled in your mind. You simply stood there, watching him laugh with George and Lee as though he hadn't just said something that made your chest ache.
You didn't realise he was talking about the girl he'd met months ago on the blind date. You didn't realise that, in his mind, the girl sitting with him now in libraries, walking beside him through Hogwarts and laughing with his family at the Burrow was someone completely different.
Instead, you thought he was talking about you.
Maybe everything you'd convinced yourself of over the past few months had only existed in your own head. Maybe all those afternoons together, the comfortable silences, the small habits you'd unknowingly built around one another... none of it had changed what he really thought of you. The warmth you'd been carrying ever since the holidays suddenly felt foolish, and the excitement you'd felt only moments ago disappeared so quickly it almost hurt.
For one brief moment, you considered walking over anyway. You could pretend you hadn't heard anything, smile like you always did, and hope the strange ache in your chest eventually faded. But your feet refused to move. Instead, you slowly stepped backwards, letting another group of students pass between you and the three boys before quietly turning around and disappearing into the crowd.
Back by the pillar, the conversation carried on for another minute before drifting onto something completely different. Fred laughed at whatever Lee had said, but the smile on his face didn't last. Without really thinking, his eyes wandered down the corridor as an uneasy feeling settled somewhere in his chest. He couldn't explain it. Nothing had happened, and yet it suddenly felt as though something important had slipped past him.
George noticed the change almost immediately.
"You alright?"
Fred blinked, pulling his attention back.
"...Yeah."
Even as he answered, he frowned slightly.
"I don't know... I just feel like something's wrong."
SYNOPSIS ─── After a car accident that costed you 3 years worth of memory, you find yourself trying to start a new beginning in a new city with "new" people. Only God knows why would the universe make you cross paths with the cute guy nextdoor.
𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞 : neighbor AU, fluff, slight angst, smut (MDNI)
𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 : yearner!jake, swearing, loss of memory, mention of a car accident, unprotected sex, p in v, oral sex (f. receiving), jake is an ass grabber, praising, creampie, mutual orgasm, switch!jake, loss of virginity, jake and reader's first time, fingering, riding, domestic scenes
𝐰𝐜 : 25.5k
❕# this is my goodbye gift !! Hope you’ll all like it :)
𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ──────
♯ 134340 - BTS
♯ Unconditional - JAEHYUN
♯ I.F.L.Y - Bazzi
♯ is it cool? - Steve Lacy ft. SZA
♯ pov - Ariana Grande
♯ XO (Only If You Say Yes) - ENHYPEN
♯ Get You - Daniel Caesar
♯ intro (end of the world) - Ariana Grande
♯ 3005 - Childish Gambino
♯ Tek It - Cafuné
♯ Roommates - Malcolm Todd
✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉
You wouldn't have thought that the cardboard box in your arms would be heavier than it has any right to be, given it's mostly filled with towels and a lamp that probably won't survive the move. You shift it against your hip, phone tucked between your ear and shoulder as Jungwon's voice crackles through the speaker.
"—and the landlord said the water pressure is good, but you should still check the boiler room, okay? Just in case. Mom keeps asking if you've eaten."
"I've eaten," you say, dumping the box onto the kitchen counter. The sound echoes in the empty space. "I ate a granola bar on the drive."
"That's not eating. You usually eat much more than that, Y/N."
You almost laugh. The corners of your mouth twitch, yet the energy to actually produce the sound feels too expensive. The new apartment is small, already making you hyperaware of your own breathing. White walls, beige carpet, a window that overlooks a fire escape and the back of a laundromat. It's nothing like your old place. And that's totally the point.
"There's a coffee shop down the street," you say instead, peering through the smudged glass of the window. "I saw it when I pulled in."
"Good, you should go there. Drink something with sugar and call me if you need anything."
"I will."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
The line goes dead, and the silence in the apartment rushes back in to fill the space. You stand there for a minute, only breathing, letting your new life settle into your bones. New city with a new apartment, and no memories of the last three years to trip over on your way to the bathroom.
You grab your keys and head out. The neighborhood is weirdly quiet even in the afternoon, it feels like everyone is holding their breath. Old brick buildings line the street, their facades streaked with years of rain. A bodega on the corner, a laundromat, and there, wedged between a bookstore and a clothing shop, the coffee shop. It's decorated with mismatched chairs and a counter cluttered with jars of homemade pastries. You order a black coffee because you don't trust your brain to make decisions, and you take it to a table by the window. You're halfway through the cup, watching a pigeon peck at a discarded wrapper, when the sky opens up. The rain comes down in sheets, loud and violent, rattling against the glass like it's trying to get in. You watch it for a while, then check your phone. It's already 5 PM.
"Excuse me," you say, approaching the counter. The barista, a tired-looking woman with flour on her apron, looks up. "Do you have an umbrella I could borrow? I just moved in across the street, I'll bring it back."
She blinks at you before she disappears into the back, returning a moment later with a flimsy black umbrella. It looks like the one you buy at a bodega for five dollars and immediately regret. "Keep it," she says. "We have like twelve of these."
The rain hasn't let up by the time you step outside. You pop the umbrella open, holding it tight as the wind tries to wrestle it from your grip. The street is a river now, the buildings blurred through the curtain of water. You walk quickly, splashing through puddles, your sneakers already soaked.
The apartment building is a relief when it comes into view. You duck into the alcove of the entrance, shaking water from your hair, and fumble with the umbrella to close it. The mechanism catches on something, and you jerk it, frustrated, only to have it flip open in a violent snap. A spray of water arcs outward, catching the person passing behind you square in the chest.
You freeze.
He freezes.
For an agonizing long moment, neither of you dare to move. He's standing half in the rain, half out, his white t-shirt now clinging to his torso with a growing dark patch. His hair is damp at the ends, dark brown and curling slightly. His eyes ; wide and startled ; scan your face with intensity, making you want to quickly apologize, but the words get caught somewhere in your throat.
His expression falters for the briefest moment. The certainty in his eyes gives way to hesitation, his gaze tracing your features as though something refuses to add up. His head tilts slightly, thoughtful rather than confused. You brace yourself for annoyance. For the kind of clipped anger that would be entirely justified.
Rather than that, he blinks, and a smile touches the corner of his mouth. It's not quite a smile, more like the ghost of one, uncertain and clumsy. "Hi," he says. His voice is a little rough, maybe from the cold. "Sorry, I was—do I know you?"
You shake your head, clutching the umbrella tightly. "I don't think so. I just moved in. I'm sorry about your shirt."
He glances down at the wet patch before looking back up at you. "Don't worry about it. It's just water." He's still looking at you, though. Too fucking long. His gaze lingers, waiting for...something. Whatever it is never comes. With a shake of his head, he drags a hand through his wet hair before a tiny smile finds its way onto his face, warming the corners of his eyes. "I'm Jake. I live in 9C down the hall."
"Y/N," you say. "5C."
"Welcome to the building."
"Thanks."
The rain continues to fall, filling the space between you with noise. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and you realize you're both just standing there, awkward and dripping, with nothing else to say.
"Well," he says, "I should probably go change. Before I catch a cold."
"Oh, right. Yeah. Sorry again."
"Don't be."
He heads for the elevator, and you watch him go, his wet footprints staining the floor. He pauses with his hand on the button, and for only a second, you think he might turn back or might say something else. But then the door swings open, and he disappears inside.
You stand there for another minute, the broken umbrella dangling from your hand, the rain hammering against the awning above you. The feeling of his gaze on your face lingers, unsettled, like a half-remembered dream.
You close the apartment door behind you and lean against it. The key is still in your hand. The broken umbrella is still in the other. Your socks are soaked through because you forgot to wipe your feet.
None of that registers.
Because Jake ; apartment 9C, white t-shirt, gray hoodie, hole in his jeans ; had a face that shouldn't exist outside of Renaissance paintings and the occasional fever dream. Sharp jaw and messy hair that looked intentional even though it definitely wasn't. And his eyes, soft and curious, doing that slow scan of your features like he was reading something he couldn't put down.
You slide down the door until you're sitting on the floor.
This doesn't happen to you.
No—correction. This has never happened to you. You've read about it, sure. Pages in secondhand paperbacks where the protagonist trips and falls into a stranger's arms and he just happens to have cheekbones that could cut diamonds. You've rolled your eyes at those scenes and called them unrealistic. You told yourself that real life doesn't come with lighting cues and slow motion. However, standing on those steps with rain dripping off his chin and an animal shelter's worth of grime on his wrist, he had no business being that striking. That disarming. That stupidly attractive.
Your brain caught on the way he'd looked at you. Not like he was checking you out but more like he was searching for something. A flicker of recognition that didn't meant nothing if you recoil on it. And after that the shrug, and the introduction so smooth it had to be accidental.
Jake.
You press the heels of your palms against your eyes. Are you freaking kidding me ?
"You're being ridiculous." you tell the empty apartment.
Three hours later, you've unpacked exactly one box ; where it cointained your sheets and a single mug shaped like a cactus that Jungwon bought you as a joke three birthdays ago. The mug is now sitting on the kitchen counter, empty, staring at you judgmentally.
He keeps finding his way back into your thoughts. Not because you're trying to hold on to him, and surely not because you can't move on. It happens almost absentmindedly, the way your brain revisits familiar things when it's left alone. How his voice sounded slightly wrecked, like he'd been yelling or laughing or both. The smudge on his wrist ; potting soil, probably, if the canvas bag full of clinking jars was any indication. Pickles? Jam? The man had twelve jars of something and dirt on his hands and he lived four apartment next to yours.
You catch your reflection in the bathroom mirror and frown at yourself.
"Girl, you don't even know his last name." you say.
You go to bed early because there's nothing else to do. The new apartment sounds are unusual, there's more creaks and fewer sirens. At 2:17 AM, someone in the building starts playing the guitar badly. You fall asleep to a mangled rendition of "Wonderwall".
─────────
The alarm drags you from sleep sharply. You bat at your phone until the noise stops, and lie there, blinking at the still unfamiliar ceiling, reacquainting yourself with the fact that this is your life now. Everything was going to be new now.
By the time you've wrestled yourself into something presentable, you're already running five minutes behind. You skip breakfast, grab your bag, and lock the door behind you.
The elderly home sits at the end of a tree-lined street, a squat brick building, you almost mistook it for a community center. The receptionist gives you a visitor's badge and points you toward the common room, where a handful of residents are scattered across armchairs, some dozing, some staring at a muted television, one engaged in a heated argument with a plant.
You're barely through the door when a woman appears at your elbow, small and bright-eyed, with a name tag that reads Hanni in cheerful block letters. "New hire?" she asks, already steering you toward a supply closet. "Thank god. I've been doing double shifts for three weeks. I'm Hanni. You're Y/N. I read your file. It said you have experience with dementia patients. That's good, because Jacob over there—" she jerks her chin toward a man in a cardigan who's now trying to feed his coffee to the plant, "—thinks he's a squirrel."
You blink. "A squirrel?"
"Don't ask. Just go with it. If he offers you acorns, take them."
The day unfolds. You help Mrs. Han find her glasses (they were on her head), you listen to Mr. Eom's stories about a bakery he ran forty years ago, and you learn the exact difference between the "good" applesauce and the "bad" applesauce. Hanni works beside you with effortless competence, cracking jokes under her breath and seamlessly redirecting residents who wander toward the exit. "You're pretty good at this," she says during a break, as you both stand at the nurses' station, scribbling notes. "Most new people get that deer-in-headlights look for at least a week. You just sort of absorbed it."
You shrug, not sure how to explain that this ; the slow pace, the gentle repetition, the small dignities of helping someone remember their own name ; it feels like the only thing you're certain about these days. "It's not that hard. They just want to be seen."
Hanni studies you for a moment, something curious flickering behind her eyes. Then she nods, and the moment passes.
Your shift ends, your feet ache and your brain feels pleasantly fuzzy, which doesn't leave room for anxiety. You change out of your scrubs, say goodbye to Hanni, and step out into the evening air.
The street is calm, the rain from yesterday reduced to a thin dampness on the pavement. You're walking toward your building, hands shoved in your jacket pockets, when you round the corner and nearly collide with someone coming the other way.
Fuck, it's him.
Jake.
He's wearing a different shirt ; navy this time, sleeves pushed up to his elbows ; and he's carrying a cardboard pack of beer tucked under one arm. His hair is dry, pulled up in a little ponytail at the back, and the sight of him in the golden light of early evening hits you like a delayed punch.
"Oh," you say. Why now?
He stops. For a heartbeat, something unsettles his expression, his eyes lingering on you a fraction too long. Then, it melts away, something softer taking place. "Hey. Y/N, right?"
"Oh, you remembered." The words come out flatter than you wanted them to be, yet your pulse is doing a ridiculous drum solo again.
"I remember a lot of things," he says, there's a strange weight to the phrase, like he's saying something else underneath it. He gestures with the beer. "You're heading back?"
"Yeah. I just finished my first day at the elderly home down the street."
"How was it?"
"Exhausting. Good, though. I think. One of the residents offered me a fake acorn, so I'm taking that as a sign of approval."
He laughs, low and surprised, you can see that he didn't expect to find it funny. "That's a pretty solid endorsement. I'd trust fake acorn guy over most people."
You fall into step together, and you notice how he adjusts his pace to match yours, shortening his stride just slightly. The street stretches ahead, lined with those old brick buildings, the sky above streaked with pale orange and lavender. You nod toward the beer. "Expecting company, or is that just for personal purpose?"
He glances down at the pack, a sheepish smile tugging at his mouth. "I'm having friends over tonight. A couple of guys from the shelter—I work at the animal shelter a few blocks over. We do this thing every other Thursday. It's mostly just eating takeout and arguing about which dog breed is objectively the best."
"Which one is?"
"Rescue," he says immediately. "All of them."
You snort. "I think so too."
"Right? This is why we're going to get along." He says it casually, the words land in your chest with an unexpected weight.
The building comes into view, its facade warm in the fading light. He holds the door open for you, and you step into the foyer, the familiar smell of old carpet and someone's cooking drifting through the hallway. At your door you fumble for your keys, and he lingers, shifting the beer from one arm to the other.
"Good first day," he says. "At the job, I mean."
"Thanks." You find the right key, fit it into the lock. "Have fun with your friends. Try not to let the argument escalate into a physical altercation."
"No promises. We're very passionate about this." He's already turning, already stepping back toward his door, when something makes you call out : "Jake."
He stops and looks back.
"Thanks for walking me," you say. "Even if you didn't have to."
A small shrug. "It's fine. I wanted to, anyway." And he's already gone, his footsteps echoing in the corridor, and you're left standing in your doorway, keys still in hand, watching the space where he was.
You unlock the door, step inside, and close it behind you. The apartment is mostly empty, since your laziness won over you to unpack the rest of your stuff. You press your back against the door and stare at the ceiling.
This, you think, is exactly the kind of thing I'd roll my eyes at in a book.
Regardless, you can't stop the smile that spreads across your face, slow and helpless and embarrassingly real.
You're sprawled across the couch, legs tangled in a throw blanket, the glow of the television painting your face in shifting blues and reds. Some reality show about people competing to bake things that look like other things. It's mindless and perfect, exactly the sort of programming that requires zero cognitive effort. Your oversized t-shirt hangs off one shoulder with Justin Bieber's face from his Purpose World Tour, faded and cracked from years of washing. Below that, nothing but a pair of plain cotton panties. Your hair is messy, and there's a half-empty mug of tea growing cold on the floor beside you. You're comfortable. Vulnerable, maybe, but in the privacy of your own space, and that's all that matters.
Your gaze wanders into the kitchen and lands on the trash bin that is overflowing with flattened boxes and crumpled packing paper, the remains of a move you’re still halfway through. It doesn’t look like much, but you know it’ll be the first thing to irritate you in the morning if it’s left untouched. You weigh the options. Get dressed and actually put on pants, find a bra, the whole tedious ritual, or just…go. It's a quick trip. The trash chute is at the end of the hallway, maybe twenty steps from your door. The corridor has been empty all evening. And Jake has friends over. He's occupied. He's not going to be lurking around corners, waiting to ambush you with his inconveniently-timed presence.
Nobody will see you, you tell yourself. It's fine. You're fast as fuck.
You pad to the door, press your eye to the peephole. The hallway stretches, empty. Clear. You crack the door open, just wide enough to slip through, and you're out, barefoot, the cold floor sending a shiver up your legs. The trash bag is heavier than you expected ; you hoist it against your hip, jogging in that awkward, flat-footed way of someone who's both in a hurry and deeply aware of their own exposure. The chute is a metal hatch in the wall. You heave it open, shove the bag inside, hear it clatter down into the abyss. Mission accomplished.
You turn, already planning your retreat, and—
He's standing three feet away. Oh fuck off.
Jake.
He's holding a bulging trash bag of his own, the clink of glass bottles audible as he adjusts his grip. His eyes travel from your face down to the faded Bieber shirt, then back up, and there's a beat of silence where neither of you move. Your brain short-circuits and your mouth opens. What comes out is a garbled mix of syllables that might have been intended as "hey" but emerges as something closer to "heh—uh—I—"
He blinks. Slowly, the corner of his mouth twitches. "Didn't mean to startle you," he says, and his voice is level, calm, almost like he's trying to soothe a startled animal.
"You didn't—I mean, I was just—" You gesture clumsily at your attire, then at the trash chute, then back at yourself, as if this chain of context will explain everything. "The trash was full. And I didn't think anyone would be—I mean, you said you had friends—"
"Friends," he confirms. "They left about ten minutes ago. I was just cleaning up."
"Of course you were. That makes sense." You're still standing there, bare-legged, the shirt barely grazing your thighs, and the hallway suddenly feels like a wind tunnel. You cross your arms over your chest, which does absolutely nothing to help the situation. Jake doesn’t leer nor does he joke. He meets your eyes with that same searching look, softened now into quiet amusement. "You know," he says, "you have a habit of running into me in unexpected situations."
"This is your fault," you say, and the words come out sharp without real bite behind them. "You're supposed to be busy. That was the whole point."
"Sorry to inconvenience you by taking out my trash."
"You're not sorry, are you?"
"No," he admits, his half-smile edges into fuller one. "I'm not." He steps past you toward the chute, and you catch a whiff of a clean and comforting scent, the ordinary scent of someone who's recently showered. He drops his bag in, closes the hatch with a metallic thunk and turns back. "See you around, Bieber," he says, the warmth in the nickname makes your stomach flip.
He's walking back toward his apartment door, and you're standing once again, your face heating in an inexorable crawl. You wait until his footsteps fade before you scurry back to your door, slip inside, and press your back against the wood. The television is still playing, some contestant weeping over a collapsed trompe-l'oeil. You stare at the screen, unseeing.
Bieber.
You look down at the faded face on your shirt, at your bare legs, at the utter mess of your appearance, and you press the heels of your palms into your eyes like the day before. You're still standing with your back against the door, willing your face to return to a normal temperature, when the knock comes.
Three sharp raps.
Your entire body goes still. The television babbles on, oblivious, as you press your eye to the peephole. Jake. Of course. He's standing there, hands in his pockets, looking down at the floor, he's waiting for something. He's changed into a gray sweatshirt, hood down, hair slightly mussed. You don't open the door. You can't, not after what he just witnessed. Not with this shirt still on.
"What?" you call through the wood, and your voice comes out higher, strained.
"Y/N," His voice is muffled but clear. "I know you're in there."
"I'm not opening the door."
A pause. "I'm not asking you to."
"Why are you here then?"
He pauses again. You can hear him shift his weight. "I just wanted to say—" He stops, and you imagine him running a hand through his hair, figuring out how to phrase something. "The shirt. I really like it."
You press your forehead against the door. "You're lying."
"I'm not. I had that exact one in middle school and I wore it until the print started peeling off."
"That doesn't make it better."
"Maybe not." His voice carries a smile, you can hear it, the slight lift in the vowels. "I thought you should know, though. That's all."
You stay silent, unsure how to answer. The pause settles in, comfortable rather than tense, and you notice he isn’t hurrying to fill it.
"Anyways," he says finally, "goodnight, Y/N."
You hear footsteps, receding. You wait until the sound fades completely before you let out a breath you were holding deeply. Your reflection stares back at you from the peephole's warped glass, only a blur of color, but you can feel the heat still lingering in your cheeks. You push off from the door, walk back to the couch, and collapse into the cushions. The reality show contestants are still crying about pastries. You look down at Justin Bieber's faded face. At the cracked screen print and the worn collar.
He had this exact one in middle school, what a coincidence.
You pull the hem of the shirt, stretch it, let it snap back. A small, involuntary sound escapes your throat. It might be a laugh or anything else. You grab your phone, open your messages, and type out a single line to Jungwon.
Y/N [11:52 PM]
I think I'm in trouble.
But you delete it, toss the phone aside, and stare at the ceiling until your heartbeat settles to normal again.
It takes a while.
─────────
The morning came faster than you thought. You grab the umbrella on your way out ; the same flimsy black one that started this whole foolish chain of events ; and stop by the coffee shop before your shift. The barista barely glances up as you set it on the counter.
"Thanks," you say. "For letting me borrow it."
She waves a hand, already reaching for a pitcher of milk. "Keep it next time. We've got a whole graveyard of those things in the back."
You almost tell her there won't be a next time, yet the words feel like tempting fate, so you just nod and head out.
The elderly home is already rumbling when you arrive. Hanni greets you with a coffee cup thrust into your hands and a breathless update about Mr. Eom's missing dentures. You take a sip, let the caffeine do its work, and fall into the cadence of the morning.
By early afternoon, the sun is actually warm enough to justify a walk. You round up three residents ; Mrs. Han, who's having a good day and remembers your name, Mr. Chen, who doesn't say much but mumbles tunelessly under his breath and Jacob, who offered you the fake acorn. He's wearing a different cardigan today, mustard yellow, and he keeps patting his pockets like he's checking for something. The path behind the building winds through a small garden, past benches and bird feeders and a sad little fountain that hasn't worked in years. You walk slowly, matching their pace, letting Mrs. Han point out flowers she's identified incorrectly and pretending to take Jacob's commentary seriously.
It's peaceful, nearly meditative. A moment like this makes you wonder if this new life really is as bad as you thought.
Abruptly, a dog comes out of nowhere. A golden retriever ; young, gangly, all oversized paws and manic energy ; bounds across the grass with the focus of a missile. It's not aggressive and not even barking. It's excited, and its excitement is directed straight at Jacob, who is the slowest-moving, most startle-prone member of your little group. The dog lunges up before you can react, front paws slamming into Jacob’s chest. He rocks back, arms windmilling, then drops in a slow heap, feeling like it’s happening in two conflicting speeds at once.
"Jacob!" You're at his side in an instant, dropping to your knees, hands hovering unevenly. "Are you okay? Did you hit your head?"
Jacob blinks up at you, more confused than pained. His glasses are askew. "I dropped my acorn," he says.
"I'll find it. Just—stay still. Tell me if anything hurts."
A voice cuts through the chaos, alert and breathless. "Oh god—I'm so sorry—"
You look up. Jake is sprinting toward you, the dog's leash trailing behind him like a forgotten flag. He's in work clothes ; a navy polo with the shelter's logo, dirt smudged on his forearm ; and his face is veiled with unguarded panic.
The dog, oblivious, is now trying to lick Jacob's ear.
"Leo, down!" Jake grabs the dog's collar, hauls him back with a firm yet gentle tug. "I am so, so sorry. He got loose—I was just bringing him out for a walk and he saw the—are you okay? Is he okay?"
You're already helping Jacob sit up, checking his wrists, his neck, the back of his head. No swelling or bleeding. He's still patting his pockets for the acorn.
"He's fine," you say, your voice flat. "He's just disoriented."
"Thank god." Jake exhales, and some of the tension leaves his shoulders. "I really am—I should have had a better grip on the leash. He's young, he's still learning, but that's not an excuse—"
"You're right." You stand, brushing grass from your knees. "It's not."
The silence that follows is stiffling. Mrs. Han is watching with curious eyes, Mr. Chen has stopped mumbling, and Leo is now sitting at Jake's feet, tail excitedly wagging. You turn to Jake fully. "You work at a shelter. You know how unpredictable dogs can be. Especially around elderly people. One wrong jump, one fall, and it's a broken bone or a concussion. That could actually hurt someone."
Jake meets your gaze without a trace of defensiveness or excuses. He simply nods slowly, his jaw tightening in restraint. "You're right," he says. "I wasn't careful enough. I got distracted, and I let him pull ahead, and I should have anticipated that this could happen." He glances at Jacob, who is now patting Leo's head with a delighted smile. "I'm really glad he's okay. And I'm sorry you had to deal with that."
The words settle with an unexpected weight, disarming you. You were ready for deflection, for something casual and rehearsed. Regardless, he stays still, accepting it without trying to cushion the blow.
You let out a breath. The adrenaline is fading, leaving behind a shaky residue. "Be more careful," you say, and your voice is quieter now. "Please."
"I will." He holds your gaze for another beat, and crouches down to Jacob's level. "Hey, sir. That was my dog. He's really sorry. Are you okay?"
Jacob looks at him, then at Leo before his gaze goes back at his empty palm. "I lost my acorn," he says, there's a note of genuine distress in his voice. Jake doesn't miss a beat. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a small smooth stone and presses it into Jacob's hand. "Here. I found this, it must've been yours."
Jacob stares at it. His face splits into a wide, gap-toothed smile. "Thank you," he says, and clutches it like treasure.
You watch it unfold, something uneasy tightening in your chest. Jake stands and meets your gaze again. A flash crosses his face ; rueful, or closer to hope. "I'll make sure he's more secured next time," Jake says, nodding toward Leo. "And if there's anything I can do—"
"There isn't," you say, but the sharpness has gone from your voice. "But still...keep a closer eye on him."
"Always." He turns and walks back toward the path, Leo trotting obediently at his heel. You watch him go, the way his shoulders are slightly hunched, how he glances back once before rounding the corner.
Mrs. Han sidles up to you. "He's cute," she states. "The boy. Not the dog."
You open your mouth, not a sound escaping your mouth. You try again.
"Mrs. Han," you say, "you're supposed to be on my side."
"I am on your side," she says, patting your arm. "That's why I'm telling you."
You help Jacob to his feet, find his acorn in the grass, and start the slow walk back to the building. Your thoughts drift elsewhere, replaying Jake crouching down to Jacob’s level, finding the stone without hesitation, saying 'I will' like he truly meant it.
You shake your head, focus on the path ahead.
After you end your shift, you walk back to your apartment. The sky has gone hazy, and you keep your hands in your pockets, replaying the afternoon in fragments. You unlock your door, kick off your shoes, and collapse onto the couch. The television is still on from last night. You turn it off, let the silence settle.
You decide to pull out your phone and call Jungwon. He picks up, but the background noise is a wall of bass and overlapping voices. You can hear a bunch of voice shouting "CHUG CHUG CHUG!!!" and loud cheers. You hear a door slam, the noise muffles.
"Y/N?" His voice is slightly breathless. "Everything okay?"
"Everything's fine," you say, and you mean it. "I just wanted to check in. You sound busy, though."
"I'm at a mixer party with my house and sororities. It's loud so I stepped outside." He stops for a second. "Are you sure you're okay? You never call this late."
"Late? It's like seven."
"Yeah. You're usually asleep by now."
You fairly laugh. "I've been more awake lately. I had a long day."
"Tell me about it."
So you do. You tell him about everything. You don't want to mention Jake.
"You sound good," Jungwon says when you finish. " Really good. Not just saying you're good."
"I think I am," you say, the words surprise you with their honesty.
"That's all I needed to hear." There's a muffled shout from behind him, someone calling his name. "I should get back. But call me anytime, okay? Even if it's just to complain about old people and dogs."
"Old people and dogs. The two pillars of my existence now."
"Don't let the dogs jump on you," he mentions, you can hear the smile in his voice.
"I won't. Have fun at your party."
"Love you."
"Love you too."
The line goes dead. You hold the phone for a moment before setting it aside, letting the quiet wrap around you. You stand, stretch, and gather your clothes for a shower, a clean towel, a change of underwear, the softest pair of sweatpants you own. You pad toward the bathroom, already anticipating the hot water, the steam, and the small escape from your own head.
You're two steps from the bathroom door when the lights flicker.
Once. Twice. It dies.
The apartment plunges into absolute darkness. No sound from the refrigerator, no glow from the microwave clock, just black, thick and total. You stand there, motionless, one hand gripping your towel, the other reaching for the wall. You feel along the switch, flick it up and down. There's nothing.
You step to the window to peer out. The streetlights are on. The building across the way is lit, warm rectangles of gold in every window. The coffee shop's neon sign still glows. You check your phone to see your battery at 60%. You switch on the flashlight, sweep it across the room. So it's only your apartment. The refrigerator is dead. The outlets are dead. The overhead light, the bathroom ; all dead. You flip the circuit breaker in the tiny panel by the door. Shit. You try the main switch. Nothing.
You stand there in the beam of your phone, your reflection ghostly in the dark window glass, wearing that stupid Justin Bieber shirt and holding a bundle of clean clothes, and you realize you have no flashlight, no candles, and mostly, no backup plan.
The silence presses in. 9C. A certain neighbor who might have a working outlet and a willingness to share. A part of you notes, almost critically, that this would be the kind of contrived convenience you’d hate in a book.
You sigh, grab your keys, and head for the door.
The hour stretches like taffy. You've tried the circuit breaker three times, called the landlord four times, and texted him twice, giving you no results. The voicemail picks up on the first ring, a generic recording without a name. You sit next to your door and consider your options. There's a motel two blocks away. There's the coffee shop, but they close in fifteen minutes. It got to be a joke.
And there's the door at the end of the hallway.
You pace. You argue with yourself. You list all the reasons this is a terrible idea ; all the incidents that happened and degraded your confidence, the fact that you've known this man for approximately forty-eight hours and he's already seen you at your most unguarded multiple times. But the need for a shower wins. You smell like old people and grass, with the sublte tang of anxiety sweat. You can't go to work like this tomorrow and you can't sleep like this tonight. So you put on a pair of shorts ; the longest ones you own ; and a different shirt, and you walk toward his door with the weight of your own dignity dragging behind you.
His door is at the end of the hall. You knock before you can talk yourself out of it. The door swings open. Jake stands there in a faded gray t-shirt and sweatpants, hair slightly damp, a dish towel slung over his shoulder. He's holding a half-eaten apple. His eyes land on you. Travel down to your shorts, back up to your face.
His mouth curves into a smile so wide, so unapologetically amused, that you feel it like a punch right in your guts.
"Bieber," he says. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Don't call me that." The words come out weak, deflated. "My power's out. The landlord won't answer and I absolutely need a shower."
He takes a bite of his apple. He chews slowly, considers you.
"Just the shower," you add, and you can hear how defensive you sound, how utterly transparent.
"I didn't say anything." He steps back, holds the door open. "Come in."
His apartment is small too, but lived-in. A couch with a blanket draped over the back. A stack of books on the coffee table. A guitar propped in the corner. The kitchen is visible from the living room, dishes drying on a rack, a pot of something that smells like garlic and tomatoes simmering on the stove. "Bathroom's down the hall, second door on the left," he says, pointing with the apple still in hands. "Towels are in the cabinet. Use whatever you need."
"Thanks." You pause at the threshold, suddenly aware of the absurdity of this. "I'll be quick."
"Take your time." That smile again, softer now. "I'll keep the apartment from burning down while you're in there."
You close the bathroom door behind you and lean against it, exhaling. Hot water, steady pressure, a luxurious flow that makes you forget every indignity that led you here. You stand under the spray as long as you can, letting it beat against your shoulders, your neck, the tension you've been carrying since yesterday. When you finally step out, wrapped in a towel, you catch your reflection in the mirror. Wet hair and pink cheeks. A stupid smile that you can't suppress.
Stop it. You wipe the steam from the mirror, and that's when you notice it. On the edge of the sink, next to a half-empty bottle of cologne, is a keychain. A small, plastic orange. Slightly faded, the paint worn at the edges.
Your breath catches. You have that exact same keychain. It's been on your keys for as long as you can remember. Well, as long as your memory goes back, which is not even a year. It's one of the few objects that survived the move, one of the small constants in the fog of your past.
You pick it up and turn it over. It's identical, even the little chip in the paint near the stem matches. You stare at it for a long moment. You dress quickly, step out into the hallway, and find Jake in the kitchen, stirring the pot on the stove. "Everything okay?" he asks without turning.
"Where did you get this?" You hold up the keychain.
He turns and sees it. For an instant, his expression falters into recognition before it smooths itself back into neutrality. "Oh, that." He sets down the spoon, wipes his hands on his sweatpants. "I found it, actually. A few years ago, on the street, I think. I kept it because—" He pauses, and you notice the way his eyes shift, slightly, like he's rearranging words in his head. "It reminded me of something. I don't know. I just liked it."
The explanation comes out too smooth and too rehearsed. You're wondering if he's said it before, practiced it, polished it until it sounded natural. You're not even sure why, something about how he said it, but you don't have the energy to interrogate right now. "Funny," you say, pocketing your own keys, where your matching orange dangles. "I have the same one."
He looks at you. You feel like you're standing on the edge of a cliff, for a jump you're not ready for.
"That is funny," he says, and his voice is softer now, almost distant. "Small world."
You nod, not trusting your voice. The moment stretches, fragile, and you're the one who breaks it. "I should go. Thanks for the shower."
"Anytime." He walks you to the door, and the teasing smile has returned. "If the power's still out tomorrow, you know where to find me."
"Bold of you to assume I'll survive that long."
"I have faith in you."
You roll your eyes, yet you're smiling as you step into the hallway. The door clicks shut behind you. You stand there for a moment, your keychain warm in your palm, and wonder what exactly you've just walked into. It's probably nothing, you tell yourself.
Oh it's definitely something.
─────────
A few days pass, you're unpacking one box at a time, learning where the light switches are without having to think about it, catching the same bus at the same time each morning until the driver starts to nod at you like an old acquaintance.
You see Jake in the hallways more often than coincidence should allow. Tuesday morning, you're leaving for work and he's coming back from a run, sweaty and out of breath, and he raises a hand in greeting without breaking stride. Fuck he's hot.
Wednesday evening, you're carrying a bag of groceries and he's hauling a bag of dog food toward the elevator, and you end up walking side by side without discussing it. Thursday, you don't see him at all, and you catch yourself checking the peephole before bed like a woman waiting for something she won't admit to wanting.
Friday arrives with gray skies and the particular exhaustion of a full week. You've just changed into sweatpants.
Three taps. You know who it is before you look. Jake is standing in the hallway wearing a knitted sweater and he's holding his keys in his hand. He looks different at night ; softer, somehow. The hard angles of his jaw blurred by the low light.
"I'm heading to the convenience store," he announces.
You lean against the doorframe. "It's eight o'clock."
"I'm aware. That's why I said convenience store and not, like, a sit-down restaurant." He jingles his keys. "You want to come?"
You hesitate for a second too long, and he catches it. His expression shifts into something hesitant. "For the accident," he adds. "Last week, with Jacob. I've been meaning to…I don't know. Make up for it, in a small way. This is the small way."
"You're making up for catastrophe with a trip to 7-Eleven?"
"Don't call it that. I'd rather call it a restitution." He pauses. "Also they have those frozen slushies that turn your tongue blue, and I don't want to drink one alone because that feels sad even by my standards."
You look down at your sweatpants. "Give me two minutes," you say.
"You look fine."
"I know I look fine. I want to look like I didn't just spend an hour lying on my floor thinking about nothing."
He blinks. "That's—"
"Two minutes." You close the door and change into jeans. You don't know why. It's just the convenience store after all. Although you put on real pants anyway, and you run your fingers through your hair, and when you open the door again, he's still standing there, checking his phone. "Cute," he says, not looking up.
"Shut up."
The walk is short ; five blocks, past the coffee shop with the broken umbrellas, past a laundromat, and past a house with a porch light that flickers like it's sending morse code. The air is cold enough to see your breath, and Jake walks on the street side of the sidewalk without making a thing out of it.
You two arrive at the convenience store, with the buzzing lights overhead. A bell dings when you walk in. The guy behind the counter is watching a small TV mounted in the corner, some sports game apparently.
You grab a basket and Jake grabs another. "This is a competition now," he says.
"It's always been a competition."
The snack aisle is narrow, forcing you to stand closer than necessary. You reach for a bag of chips. He reaches for the same bag. Your hands collide, and he lets you take it without a fight, which is suspicious. "You're being nice," you say.
"What do you mean? I'm always nice."
"No but, like, you're being strategically nice."
He grins. It's crooked and quick, making your chest tighten. "I just want you to let your guard down so I can steal the last bag of sour stripes."
"I don't even like sour stripes."
"Everyone likes sour stripes. That's like saying you don't like breathing."
You move down the aisle, scanning the shelves. Your fingers hover over a bag of shrimp crackers ; the spicy kind, bright red packaging, which Jungwon used to make fun of you for buying in bulk. You reach for them at the same time he does. "These," he says, pushing the bag toward you. "Get these."
"I was going to."
"They're your favorite, right?"
You stop. Your hand freezes over the bag. "I didn't tell you that."
He's already looking at the next shelf, picking up a pack of chocolate cookies, turning it over to read the nutrition facts. His expression doesn't change. His voice is casual, almost bored. "Everyone likes spicy shrimp crackers," he says. "It's not some niche preference. It's a classic. Like salt and vinegar. Or barbecue."
"That's not—"
"I'm getting these," he interrupts, holding up the cookies. "You want a drink? They have that weird melon soda. Everyone says that it tastes like liquid gummy bear."
You stare at the back of his head in confusion. He's walking toward the drink cooler, shoulders relaxed, like the conversation is already over. You grab the shrimp crackers and follow him.
The park is two blocks from your building, a small wedge of grass with three benches and a set of swings that face a community garden. The swings are old, their chains rusty, seats scratched with names and dates, but they hold your weight when you sit. Jake takes the swing next to yours. The plastic bags dangle from his wrist, crinkling every time he moves. You've split everything down the middle ; your shrimp crackers, his chocolate cookies, two bottles of the melon soda, a shared bag of sour striped that he claimed were for everyone, still you've noticed he keeps eating.
The soda fizzes when you open it. The park is empty except for the two of you and a cat sitting on a bench across the grass, watching like it's waiting for something to happen. You swing a little, just enough to rock. The chains squeak.
"My brother," you say, because the silence feels good but you want to fill it anyway. "He's the reason I moved here. Not because he lives here—he doesn't. He lives like four hours away. He helped me find the apartment and with all the packing."
Jake doesn't say anything. He's unwrapping a chocolate cookie, breaking it in half.
"He's in college now," you continue. "Fraternity guy, and he’s so serious about it, which is funny because he's also the least intimidating person I've ever met. Once he cried because I didn’t want to go with him at the dentist."
"That’s cute."
"He's sensitive." You shrug. "He'd kill me if he knew I was telling you this."
"I won't tell."
The cat on the bench yawns. The swings creak. You take a sip of your melon soda and watch the clouds move past the streetlights.
"Jungwon," Jake says.
You almost choke.
"What?"
"Your brother." He's looking at his hands, turning the cookie over and over. "His name. You said it. Jungwon."
You frown. Your brain backtracks through the last thirty seconds, replaying your own words. You definitely didn't say his name. You've been careful about that by habit. Jungwon is precious to you. His name is something you keep close, like a photo in a wallet. "I didn't say his name," you say slowly.
His chewing stops. His throat moves as he swallows. The openness on his face is convincing enough to pass for genuine, if not for the faint impression that he's worn it many times before.
"You didn't?"
"No."
"Huh." He dusts cookie crumbs off his fingers. "Maybe I heard it wrong, or you mentioned it before and I remembered. I don't know."
"I've never mentioned his name."
The silence stretches. The cat on the bench stands up, circles once, lies back down. He sets the cookie down on the plastic bag between you. He wipes his hands on his jeans. For a moment, he looks like he's going to say something else that might explain the way he looked at you that first night on the steps, like he was trying to place you.
His shoulders drop. "He came by," he declares. "Before you moved in. Your brother, Jungwon." He says the name carefully, testing each syllable. "He was checking out the building and making sure the landlord wasn't sketchy. I ran into him in the hallway."
You stare at him.
"He asked me about the neighborhood," Jake continues. "Whether it was safe. Whether people were friendly, and all that stuff." A small smile, almost self-deprecating. "I think he was doing a background check on all the tenants."
"That sounds like him."
"Yeah." He picks up his soda to take a long drink. "He mentioned you, and that you were moving in. I remembered."
It fits, it’s plausible. Jungwon would absolutely do something like that ; interview strangers in hallways, gather informations, build a mental map of everyone who might cross your path. He's been doing it since you were kids, since before the accident, before you forgot a quarter your life.
Nonetheless, something about how Jake tells it feels off. The words are right and the timing is too. Yet, his hands are still, and his hands are never still on the daily basis. He's always tapping or fidgeting or running his fingers through his hair, and right now, sitting on this swing in the dark, he's perfectly motionless. You want to push further. There's something in the back of your mind, a nagging feeling that you couldn’t put a finger on. You can’t, the evening is too nice, and he's bought you snacks. You let it go.
"Small world," you say, echoing his words from the night when you took a shower at his place.
"Small world," he agrees.
─────────
You walk into the elderly home with your hair still damp and the taste of the spicy shrimp crackers lingering at the back of your throat. Hanni's already at the nurses' station, flipping through a clipboard with focus, she’s been here for hours. "You look less dead than yesterday," she says without looking up. "That's progress."
"I slept." You hang your jacket on the hook and grab your name tag. "Almost eight hours. Uninterrupted."
"Must be the neighborhood atmosphere." She finally glances at you, there's a knowing tilt to her mouth. "Or something else."
You ignore that last part. The morning unfolds like every other morning ; the slow parade of residents who need help finding their glasses or their dentures or their way back to their rooms. Mrs. Han asks you three times if you've met her son, and you say yes each time, and each time she looks satisfied and moves on. You're in the common room, helping Mr. Chen with a puzzle he's been working on for weeks, when your gaze drifts toward the window. The street outside is quiet, the morning light still pale and thin. And there, on the other side, is Jake. Can he not look hot for just one day?
He's walking three dogs at once ; a golden retriever, a wiry terrier, and a bulldog that seems to be leading the pack. The leashes cross and uncross as the dogs weave around each other, and Jake's holding them with the practiced looseness of someone who's done this a hundred times. He's wearing a worn denim jacket and a few strands of hair are falling on his face, and when he glances up and spots you through the glass, his whole face shifts. He lifts his free hand to give you a small wave, fingers wiggling. You wave back, your brain couldn’t catch.
The bulldog tugs him forward and he's gone, swallowed by the next block. You turn back to the room. Hanni's standing beside you, arms crossed, watching the empty street with an ambiguous expression plastered on her face. "That’s him?" she asks.
"Yeah."
She hums in a considering sound. "He's fucking hot."
You snort, but it comes out wrong, sounding a bit too defensive. "Yeah. He knows it too, I think."
"He doesn't seem like the type who knows it." She shrugs, uncrossing her arms. "He's unaware of his own face."
You don't respond. You're already looking back at the window, though he's long gone. "His nose," you say, the words stumbling right out of your head. "That's the thing. I can't—" You stop yourself, shake your head. "It's nothing."
Hanni could only nod, she understands and hands you a stack of folded towels. "Focus on the towels," she says. "The nose can wait."
You take the towels and get back to work. The image of him across the street stays with you for the rest of the shift.
The sidewalk cracks under your feet as you walk, the sky a pale gray that threatens nothing in particular, hopefully not rain. You pull out your phone, scroll to Jungwon's contact, and press call. He picks up after some time, which means he's either not busy or he's avoiding something.
"What’s up?" he says. "You're calling at a normal time. That's kind of suspicious."
"I'm walking home from work and I thought I'd fill the silence."
"Fill away."
As you ramble on everything, you don’t allow yourself to bring up Jake yet.
"Yeah." You kick a pebble off the curb. "It's weird, though. Sometimes I forget I'm supposed to be starting over. It just feels like—I don't know. Like I've been here longer."
"You have been there longer. In a way." His voice drops, careful. "You lived there before. Remember?"
You stop walking. A car passes, its headlights cutting through the dusk. You do remember—fragments, not really. The knowledge that you'd been in this city before the accident and the three-year gap in your memory. You'd chosen to come back because something about it felt familiar, even if you couldn't know why.
"Yeah," you say. "I keep forgetting that part."
Silence on his end. You start walking again. "There's this guy," you say carelessly, and you already regret it. "In my building. His name is Jake. We keep running into each other."
"What kind of running into?"
"Literally and figuratively. He nearly killed one of the old folk at my work. Long story." You suddenly pause. "He has this orange keychain. The same one I have. You know, the little fruit thing on my keys."
You can hear him breathing, he's seems like measuring his response. "That's weird," he says. "That's a weird coincidence."
"Yeah, I know." You wait for him to say more but he doesn't. "He also said he met you when you came to check out the apartment before I moved in. You talked in the hallway, isn’t it?"
"I did talk to someone. I don't remember his name, though."
"Jake," you repeat. "You don't remember him?"
"Lot of people in that building. I was there for like an hour." He laughs but it sounds flat. "Why are you asking?"
You don't know why you're asking. The question hangs there, unanswered, as you round the corner and your building comes into view. "Pure curiosity," you say. "He's nice. We went to the convenience store last night."
"The convenience store at night. Like a date?"
"Not a date, it was an apology. His dog knocked over an old man at my work."
Jungwon is quiet for a beat before talking again. "Don’t tell me that you like him."
"It's not like that."
"It's exactly like that. I can hear it in your voice."
You stop at the front door of your building, hand on the handle. It’s cool under your palm. "I don't even know him. We've talked, like, four times."
"And you're already calling him by name. That's more than you do with most people."
You leave the question unanswered. The door opens, and the smell of aged carpet and lingering cooking oil greets you before anything else. "I'll talk to you later," you say.
"Okay. But Y/N—"
"What?"
"Be careful, okay? Just—" He stops. "Just be careful with yourself. You're still figuring things out. I love you."
"I know. Love you too." You hang up and stand in the foyer, phone warm in your hand. The hallway stretches ahead, empty and quiet as usual. You climb the stairs slowly instead of taking the elevator, each step slow. What is happening? Something doesn't add up.
─────────
The banging comes from somewhere down the hall. Sharp and insistent, the sound of a fist against wood or maybe a shoulder against a frame. You freeze mid-step, your keys still in the lock, heart lurching into your throat. The apartment building is usually calm at this hour with the muffled sound of someone's guitar upstairs or television, but nothing like this.
You press your eye to the peephole but the angle is wrong, the fish-eye view showing only the empty stretch of hallway directly outside your door. The banging continues, punctuated by a voice. It’s raised, female, too muffled to make out words but carrying an obvious edge of distress.
The smart move would be staying inside, lock the door, call 911 and wait it out. The sound carries a note of despair that makes you pause. Your mind drifts to the building's elderly residents and the possibility that someone is in trouble. Before the thought has time to settle, you're unlocking the door and pulling it open.
You step into the hallway.
Jake is there, about twenty feet down, his back half-turned to you. A woman stands in front of him, her posture stiff, her hands gesturing in jagged movements. She's undeniably pretty ; dark hair pulled back, a denim jacket, boots that look expensive. Her face is flushed, and even from here you can see the tension in her jaw. "It's not fair," she's saying, her voice cracking. "You can't just—I've been trying for months, Jake. Months. And you just—"
"Luna." Jake's voice is low, placating, his hands raised in that universal gesture of de-escalation. "I've told you. It's not like that. I'm not—"
She scoffs, loud and bitter. "Not what? Not interested? You've made that fucking clear."
You're frozen in the doorway, unsure whether to retreat or announce your presence. The woman's head snaps toward you, her eyes widening for a split second before narrowing.
"Oh," she says, the word dripping with annoyance. Her eyes scan you for approximately 5 seconds. "Great. She’s back." She brushes past you without another word, her shoulder colliding with yours hard enough to make you stumble back a step. The elevator doors close behind her, and it's just you and Jake in the hallway now. He's still standing there, hands lowered now, his face a mingle of exhaustion and embarrassment. He runs a palm over his jaw, lets out a long breath.
She's back. What?
"That," he says, "was not how I wanted you to meet my coworker."
You blink at him. "Coworker?"
"Luna." He points loosely toward the elevator. "She works at the shelter with me. We've known each other since we were kids."
You lean against the doorframe, crossing your arms. "She seemed upset."
"She's been upset for a while." He rubs the back of his neck. "She's had a thing for me. For years. And I keep telling her I don't feel that way, but she doesn't—" He exhales again. "She doesn't take it well."
You raise an eyebrow. "So she followed you home and banged on your door?"
"She showed up unannounced. I was trying to calm her down. She's not a bad person, she just—" He hesitates, searching for the right words. "She's stubborn, and she doesn't like hearing no."
You study him. His shoulders are still tense, his hands are shoved deep into his pockets. He looks genuinely rattled, not like someone who's been caught in a lie. "Childhood friends," you repeat. "she's been flirting with you, and you felt bad for her."
"First, I’m not flirting with her and I’m not planning on it. I felt bad because I know she's lonely. She's been through some stuff. But I can't—" He looks at you, his expression transforming invisibly. "I can't give her what she wants. It wouldn't be fair to her. Or to anyone else."
"I’ve never seen you so flustered," you declare softly. He huffs a laugh, short and breathy. "Yeah, well. You bring out the best in me."
You push off from the doorframe. "She seems like she'll be fine."
"She'll be fine. She always is." He pauses. "Thanks for not assuming the worst."
"I assumed the worst," you admit. " A girlfriend and an angry breakup."
"Not a girlfriend," he says. "Not even close."
You nod, and the moment stretches between you, comfortable but charged. "Goodnight then, Jake."
"Sleep tight, Y/N."
You close the door behind you and lean against it, listening to his footsteps retreat down the hall.
Not a girlfriend. Is he lying?
You don't know why that detail settles in your mind the way it does. You’d rather sleep it away.
─────────
You're coming back from a late shift, leaving your feet sore and your brain half-fogged, when you round the corner to your floor and find the hallway occupied. Four of them, clustered around Jake's door like they're waiting for someone to let them in. You recognize Jake immediately ; he's leaning against the wall, arms crossed, laughing at something one of the others said. The other three are strangers, but they have that easy familiarity with each other, displaying years of friendship.
Jake spots you first. His face shifts, the laugh settling into a smile that's more reserved but no less warm. "Y/N," he says. "You're back late."
"There was a lot of work to do." You slow your pace, your keys already in hand. "I wasn't expecting to see a lot of people today."
One of the strangers ; tall with sharp features and a casual slouch ; he steps forward, extending a hand. "Jay. I've heard about you."
"Good things, I hope."
"Debatable." The one next to him grins, softer, with eyes that crinkle at the corners. "I'm Heeseung. This is Sunghoon, and that's Jenna, his girlfriend."
Jenna waves from where she's tucked under Sunghoon's arm. She has a face that immediately puts you at ease, round and open and curious.
"We were about to have a drink," Jake announces. "You want to join?"
You hesitate. The exhaustion is tugging at your limbs, but the alternative is your empty apartment and the leftover convenience store chips you've been picking at for days. "Sure," you say. "Why not."
His apartment is the same as before, but with four extra bodies it feels smaller, more alive. Jay immediately claims the couch, sprawling like he owns it. Heeseung perches on the armrest. Sunghoon and Jenna take the floor, backs against the coffee table, and Jake gestures for you to take the single chair by the window.
"Drinks are in the kitchen," he says. "Help yourself."
You grab something from the fridge ; a cheap beer, nothing fancy ; and settle into the chair. The conversation flows around you, natural and unforced, as they talk about work and mutual friends and an inside joke about the shelter.
After two or three drinks, someone suggests a game. "Chug or dare," Jay announces, the glint in his eye makes you immediately suspicious. "You know the rules. Pick chug, you finish your drink. Pick dare, you do whatever we come up with. But you’re forbidden to back down."
"Really?" you say. "This is how you treat your guests?"
"Guests are the most fun," Heeseung says. "You're fresh meat."
Jake shoots them a warning look, veiled with exasperation. "You don't have to play. They're idiots."
"We’re not," Sunghoon protests. "Jake, it’s been years since we know each other. Don’t be surprised."
You look around the room. The faces watching you are expectant, amused, a little bit reckless. The knot in your chest loosens. "I’m in. I'm taking Jake down with me, though."
The first few rounds are tame. Heeseung chugs three times in a row and declares himself champion. Sunghoon dares Jay to do a handstand, which he fails spectacularly. Jenna picks dare and has to call her mom and tell her she loves her, which she does with zero hesitation and an extreme level of sincerity.
After that, the bottle lands on you. "Y/N," Jay says, rubbing his hands together. "Chug or dare?"
You weigh your options. Your drink is half-full. "Dare."
Jay leans forward, eyes glittering. "I dare you to tell us what you first thought when you saw Jake."
The room goes quiet. Jake's hand stops mid-reach for his bottle.
"That's not a dare," you say. "That's kind of embarrassing."
"It's the correct functionality of a dare." Heeseung is grinning now, too. "Answer the question."
You look at Jake. He's watching you with a curious expression.
"You want the honest answer?" you ask.
"Always."
"His nose." The words come out neutral. "I thought it was ridiculous how perfect it was. It’s like someone sculpted it. It's annoying, honestly."
A beat of silence. Then Jay doubles over, slapping his knee. Heeseung lets out a wheeze of a laugh. Sunghoon is covering his mouth, eyes wide. Jenna just shakes her head, grinning. Jake's face has gone slightly pink. He looks down at his bottle, then back at you, and his face softens. "That's not what I expected," he says.
"I had to be unpredictable."
The game continues. Jenna gets dared to chug and does it with ease. Sunghoon gets asked if he'd rather fight a bodybuilder or five horses, and he spends five minutes arguing the logistics. Heeseung picks chug three times in a row and is visibly struggling to stay upright, his ears turning bright pink.
It's Jake's turn. "Chug," he says immediately.
"Whoa, not too fast." Jay says. "You're not getting out of it that easy. I'm changing the rules. You have to pick dare."
"Since when can you change the rules?"
"Since I'm the one asking." Jay grins. "Dare : show us the most embarrassing thing on your phone."
Jake's eyes narrow. "I'm not doing that."
"Then you have to answer a question instead," Sunghoon offers. "From anyone in the room. You pick who."
Jake considers this. His gaze scans the room, passing over Jay and Heeseung, settling on you for a moment before moving to Jenna. "Jenna. Ask me anything."
Jenna tilts her head, thinking. "Why did you move back to this city?" The question lands differently than the others. The light atmosphere falters slightly. Jake's jaw tightens, and for a second you see an unguarded expression crossing his features.
"Personal reasons," he says. "I needed to be back here."
"That's vague," Heeseung notes.
"It's still an answer." Jake picks up his bottle. "I'm drinking now." He finishes his drink in one long swallow, and everyone lets it go.
The bottle spins again, lands on you. Jay's turn to ask. "Chug or dare?"
You're feeling the warmth of the alcohol now, loose and careless. "Dare."
"I dare you to kiss Jake."
The room goes dead quiet. You hear someone inhale sharply ; maybe Jenna or yourself. Jake's head snaps toward Jay, disbelief and uncertainty show on his features.
"Jay," he mumbles, his voice has an edge to it. "That's not—"
"Too late," Jay cuts him off. "She already picked. Rules are rules."
You look at Jake. He's sitting across from you, one arm draped over the back of the couch, his bottle dangling from his fingers. The light from the kitchen catches the lines of his face, the curve of his jaw, the bridge of his nose. That stupid, perfect nose. Lord, why would you make me cross paths with a guy that I obviously can’t have? He’s going to be fucking weirded out since I haven’t kiss a single soul in my entire life.
"I don't have to, right?" you say. "I can chug instead."
"You're not chugging." Jay's tone is firm. "That's not how the game works."
The silence lingers. Jake holds your gaze, his expression betraying him ; hesitation, or resolve masquerading as it. Whatever it is, it stays unspoken.
"Jake," you say, and your voice comes out steady. "What do you think?"
He studies you in silence for what feels like an eternity. Then he sets his bottle down with delicate care, rises, and slowly closes the distance between you. "Okay," he says lowly. "If you're okay with it."
You're not sure if you're okay with it. I mean, he’s hot for sure. You're lost right now, while his hand finds the back of your chair, he leans down, his breath is warm and smells faintly of beer. His lips brush your cheek. Soft, quick, almost unsure. It's not a kiss, not really ; it's the ghost of one, lingering just long enough to leave a hot mark. He straightens up and steps back. The room erupts into wolf-whistles and laughter.
"Cheater," Jay yells. "That's not a kiss."
"Mind you, those are my favorite kind." Jake says, and he's looking at you, not at Jay. You touch your cheek, where the warmth of his lips still lingers. Your face is burning, you're not sure if it's embarrassment or something else. "You're a coward," you say, your tone weak.
He smiles, slow and crooked. "You’re going to thank me later."
The game dissolves after that, the energy beginning to loosen, more rambling. Jenna falls asleep against Sunghoon's shoulder. Heeseung starts recounting a story about one of his high school exes. Jake moves to the floor, leaning against the couch, and you find yourself beside him, your shoulders almost touching. Your head starts to pound.
The game continues. The bottle spins, lands on Jay, then Heeseung, then Jenna. People chug or dare with increasing abandon, the alcohol loosening tongues and lowering inhibitions. Sunghoon admits he once cried while arguing with Jenna. You're on your fourth bottle, maybe your fifth. The edges of the room have gone soft and blurry, and you're laughing at something Heeseung said that you're not entirely sure was a joke. Your face feels warm, your limbs loose, and when you lean back against the couch, your shoulder brushes Jake's once again.
The bottle spins again to land on you. Jay's turn, because it's always Jay. "Y/N. Chug or dare?"
"Dare." You're feeling bold, the alcohol humming in your veins. Jay's grin is wicked. "I dare you to spend ten minutes locked in Jake's bedroom. Just the two of you, with no phones."
The room erupts. Sunghoon lets out a low whistle and Heeseung chuckles while nearly passing out on the couch.
Jake shifts beside you. "Okay, let’s stop here—"
"You cheated earlier," Jay cuts him off. "You’ll have to make up for that."
You glance at Jake. His expression gives nothing away, even though the tightness in his jaw wasn't there a moment ago. He watches you closely, waiting for your reaction.
"Ten minutes?" you say. "That's it?"
"That's it."
You stand, and the room tilts slightly. You steady yourself against the arm of the couch. "Fine."
Jake stands too, as hesitant as before. He leads you down the short hallway to his bedroom, and you hear the hoots and catcalls from the living room as the door clicks shut behind you.
The room is small and neat. A bed with rumpled sheets, a dresser with a lamp, a window overlooking the street. And on the nightstand, next to a half-empty glass of water, a photo frame turned face-down.
Jake leans against the door, arms crossed. "You don't have to do this. We can just sit here and wait it out."
"Where's the fun in that?" You're already wandering around, peering at books on the shelf, a guitar propped in the corner. Your eyes keep drifting back to the photo frame. You walk toward it, curiosity tugging at you. "What's this?"
Jake's body goes still. Before you can reach for it, he's there, his hand catching your wrist, turning you toward him. "No, please don’t," he says, and his voice is urgent.
"Why? Is it embarrassing?"
"Something like that."
You're close now, close enough to see the flecks of gold in his eyes, his pupils are dilated, there’s a slight sheen on his lower lip. The alcohol has made you bold and afraid of nothing.
"I want to see," you say.
He leans in for his lips find yours. The kiss is warm, lingering, carrying a soft urgency that feels almost like a plea. Even though you thought you had no experience in kissing, doing it with him nearly felt natural, as much as muscle memory. The world seems to melt around you. Your thoughts dissolve, and the photo frame slips from your mind as completely as if it had never been there. You stumble backward, your calves hitting the edge of the bed, and you fall onto the mattress, pulling him with you. He catches himself on his hands, hovering over you, but your legs are tangled and the momentum shifts and suddenly you're in his lap, straddling him, your knees on either side of his hips.
His hands find your waist, then slide down, settling on your butt. He squeezes, and you gasp against his mouth. He kisses you again, deeper and slower, his tongue brushing your lower lip. You arch into him, your fingers threading through his hair, and he groans, low and rough.
The kiss breaks for a moment, both of you breathing hard. He's looking up at you, his eyes pleading, his lips parted. "Y/N," he murmurs, your name sounds different in his mouth, sounding like it means something more.
You finally get the hang of it and you kiss him again. His hands tighten on your ass, pulling you closer, and you feel the heat of him through both your clothes. The world outside this room fades into static.
Ten minutes pass. Even longer than that.
You feel him shift beneath you, his hips rolling upward in a slow motion, sending a jolt through your entire body. His hands are still firm on your backside, guiding you, and you follow the movement without thinking, your own hips tilting to meet his.
The kiss breaks just long enough for you to gasp, and he takes the opportunity to press his mouth to your jaw, your neck, and the sensitive spot just below your ear. Your fingers tighten in his hair, and you feel the low vibration of a sound that might be his voice or yours, you can't really tell anymore.
He grinds up into you again, and you feel the full heat of him through the denim, the friction of it making your head spin. Your breath is coming in short, uneven bursts, and his is the same ; harsh and ragged against your skin. His hands slide up from your backside to your waist, then back down, pulling you closer, harder, like he's trying to fuse you to him. You're not sure who moves first, but suddenly you're both lying back on the bed, him beneath you, your legs still straddling his hips, the kiss deepening into something messier. His fingers find the hem of your shirt and slip beneath, grazing the bare skin of your lower back, and you shiver.
Someone bangs at the door. Insistent knocks on the bedroom door. Heeseung's voice, muffled but audible. "Time's up! Ten minutes are over! You're not dead, are you?"
You both stop in your tracks. Your foreheads almost touching, your breath mingling in the small space between. He laughs from half-exasperation and half-relief. He drops his head back against the pillow, and you feel the tension in his shoulders subtly ease.
"Ignore him," he says while he's already loosening his grip on your waist, giving you space to pull back. You sit up, your thighs still bracketing his hips, and run a hand through your tangled hair. Your face is burning. Your lips feel swollen. You're acutely aware of every point of contact between you.
"We should—" you start, yet you don't know how to finish the sentence.
"Yeah." He's watching you from beneath half-lidded eyes, a slow smile spreading across his face.
Heeseung bangs again. "I'm not leaving until you open the door! Jay's timing you!"
Jake groans without real frustration in it. He sits up slowly, his hands finding your waist and steadying you as you climb off his lap. You stand, smoothing down your shirt, and he gets to his feet, adjusting his jeans with casualness.
He opens the door.
Heeseung stands there, arms crossed, a triumphant grin on his face. "Took you long enough. What were you doing in there?"
Jake steps past him into the hallway. "Mind your own business."
You follow, keeping your eyes fixed on the floor, you catch Jenna's teasing glance and Jay's eyebrows have shot up past his hairline. You already have to resist the urge to hide behind Jake's shoulder.
"Drink," Heeseung says, shoving a fresh bottle into your hand. "You've earned it."
You take it carelessly. You stand there, feeling the phantom weight of Jake's hands on your waist, the lingering heat of his mouth on your neck. How the fuck am I going to face him after that?
Or any day after.
─────────
A week passes.
Seven days of routine, of work and sleep and the occasional text from Hanni about something absurd a resident did. You walk the same hallways, take the same elevator, pass the same doors. But you don't see Jake ; not in the corridor, not at the coffee shop and not on the street. It's like he's vanished into the walls of the building, existing only in the memory of that night ; the heat of his hands, the press of his mouth, and how your name rolled over his tongue in such a delicate way.
You tell yourself it doesn't matter, that it was just a game, just alcohol, just ten minutes in a locked room that somehow stretched into something you can't stop replaying. You tell yourself you're not looking for him when you walk past his door nor listening for his footsteps on the stairs.
You can’t even lie to yourself.
Jungwon arrives on Friday afternoon, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and a grin that takes up half his face. He hugs you in the doorway, squeezing too tight, and you let him because you've missed him more than you realized.
"Damn. It’s smaller then I remember," he announces, dropping his bag on the floor. "Like, really small. How do you live here?"
"I manage."
"Barely, by the looks of it." He peers at the stack of boxes still in the corner, the ones you haven't touched since you moved in. "You haven't unpacked everything."
"I'm getting to it."
"Yeah, right."
The weekend unfolds. You take him to the park, to the coffee shop, to the elderly home to meet Hanni and Jacob and Mrs. Han. He charms everyone, that's what he does the best, and by the end of the first day he's already promised to visit again.
Sunday afternoon, you're walking back from the park, the sun warm on your shoulders. Jungwon is telling you about a girl in his sociology class, someone he's been dancing around for weeks, he met her that one mixer party, and you're listening with half your attention, the other half occupied by the streets and the weight of your keys in your pocket. You round the corner into your building's corridor.
No way.
Jake.
He's standing by his door, keys in hand, like he's just coming back from somewhere. He looks up as you approach, and for a moment, A subtle change passed over his face. His eyes lit with recognition, followed by a fleeting trace of relief that was quickly replaced by his usual impassive stance.
"Y/N," he says. "Hey."
"Hi."
Jungwon's gaze flickers between you, sharp and assessing. "You're Jake," he says, there's a weight to the words that makes you look at him. Jake's posture shifts, almost imperceptibly. "Yeah. And you're Jungwon."
"You remember me."
"I remember a lot of things." Jake's voice is calm, yet there's a tension in his jaw that wasn't there before. You look between them, suddenly aware that you're missing something. "You two already know each other. From before I moved in, right?"
"Briefly," Jungwon says, and the word is clipped. He turns to you, his expression softening. "Y/N, can you go inside? I want to talk to Jake for a minute."
"What? Why?"
"I—" He hesitates. "I'll explain later. Please."
You look at Jake. He's watching Jungwon with an expression you can't read, and when he meets your gaze, there's something almost apologetic in it.
"Please," Jungwon repeats.
You hesitate, the key in your hand feeling heavier than usual. Jungwon has never asked you for much, and the look on his face is earnest in a way you rarely see. "Fine," you say, and you don't miss the way both of them exhale just slightly. "You better tell me later."
You slip into your room and quietly shut the door behind you. Remaining still, you lean close until your ear rests against the wood, listening for the hushed conversation outside. Only faint murmurs reach you, too muffled to make out.
You stand in the middle of your apartment, staring at the closed door, your hand still resting on the handle. The silence stretches, thick and heavy, broken only by the distant sound of traffic from the street. You count the seconds, then the minutes, your mind spinning through possibilities you can't figure out.
When the door finally opens, Jungwon steps inside and closes it behind him with a soft click. He doesn't meet your eyes immediately, and his shoulders are set in an unusual way ; the tension he carries when something is bothering him but he doesn't want to talk about it.
"Everything okay?" you ask.
He runs a hand through his hair, exhales slowly. "Yeah, it’s fine. It was—" He stops, shakes his head. "He's a little weird. That's all."
"Weird how?"
"I don't know." He shrugs too quickly. "It’s just the way he talks. He sounds like he knows more than he's saying. It's probably nothing."
You study him. His jaw is tight, and there's a crease between his brows that he's trying to smooth away. You've known him your whole life, or at least the parts you remember, and you can tell when he's holding something back. "Jungwon." You keep your voice level. "What did you talk about?"
He moves past you toward the kitchen, opens the fridge, and stares inside with focus. "I just wanted to get a read on him and make sure he's not some weirdo who's going to cause problems for you."
"And?"
"And he's not." He pulls out a bottle of water, twists off the cap to take a long drink. "He seems fine. Genuine, even. I just—" He pauses and sets the bottle down. "I don't know. There's something about him that feels familiar, and I can't figure out what it is."
Your stomach tightens. "Familiar how?"
"I don't know." He says it again, more frustrated this time. "It's probably nothing. I'm probably just being overprotective."
The unease that's lingered since the moment you saw the keychain resurfaces with renewed force. Jake's searching gaze keeps replaying in your mind, refusing to be ignored. Questions crowd your thoughts, but one look at Jungwon's guarded expression tells you this isn't the time to press him. You know he'd only withdraw further.
"Okay," you say. "If you say it's nothing."
"It's nothing." He meets your eyes, something in his gaze that's almost pleading. "Drop it, okay? For now."
You nod, even though every instinct is telling you not to. He relaxes for a bit, and the moment passes. Something is happening. Something you don't understand. And you're starting to think that the answers might not be as simple as you hoped.
─────────
As the door shuts behind Jungwon, the apartment returns to its usual calm. You stand quietly, replaying the fragments of a conversation you were never meant to hear. Whatever Jake said has stayed with him, but his expression is firmly closed off.
You wander into the living room, grab your phone and scroll through notifications. A news alert catches your eye ; an article about the sequel to that movie you've been waiting for, the one you've watched half a dozen times since you moved. Your stomach drops as you read the date. The premiere was last week. You missed it.
You're already moving toward the door before you fully decide to go. Your shorts are fine. The hoodie is fine. It's just a movie, and the theater is only a few blocks away. You don't bother changing or checking your reflection. You grab your keys and step into the hallway.
Jake is at the elevator, walking out as you're heading down. He stops when he sees you, his gaze traveling over your outfit, the urgency in your stride.
"Whoa," he says. "Where's the fire?"
"Movie." You're already past him, one hand on the buttons. "The sequel to that film I've been waiting for. I missed the premiere. I'm trying to catch a showing."
He watches you for a beat, then his hand lands lightly on your arm, stopping you. "Wait. Which movie?"
You tell him the title. His eyebrows lift.
"I like that one too," he says. "I actually have it. The original, I mean. On my laptop. I downloaded the sequel the day it came out."
You blink at him. "You downloaded it?"
"Yeah. I was going to watch it tonight, actually." He drops his hand and shoves it into his pocket. "If you want, you could watch it with me, at my place. Instead of running to the theater in shorts."
The simplicity of his offer makes it harder to dismiss. You think about the movie theater and everything that comes with it, but those thoughts are quickly overshadowed by the past week without him, the lingering uncertainty between you, and the rush of your heartbeat. "That's not weird?" you ask. "Watching a movie with your neighbor you haven't talked to in a week?"
He shrugs, a small smile playing at his mouth. "It's a good movie. And I promise I won't talk during the quiet parts."
You consider it. The hallway is dark, the evening light filtering through the window at the end. He's standing there, patient, and waiting for your answer.
"Okay," you say. "I don’t want to share my snacks, though."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
You follow him to his door, your footsteps echoing in the hallway. His apartment is just as you remember it ; the guitar, the books, the soft warm lights. He gestures toward the couch while he grabs his laptop from the coffee table and plugs it to the TV. You settle into the cushions, pulling your knees up, the hoodie swallowing you. The screen lights up, the opening credits rolling. He sits at the other end of the couch, a respectful distance between you, and hits play.
The movie plays on, but neither of you is really watching anymore. The scenes blur into background noise, punctuated by your shared laughter at a line you both find cliché, a character you both hate, a moment that still makes you cringe after all these years. Between scenes, you talk ; about the original movie, about other films, about nothing at all ; and the space between you shrinks with each exchange.
You barely register the moment his arm comes to rest along the back of the couch. The small brush of his fingertips against your shoulder goes unnoticed too. It's only when his hand settles there, warm and reassuring, his thumb lazily drawing slow circles over your hoodie, that you become aware of just how close he is. The blanket is draped over both of you, a thin barrier against the cool air of the apartment. His other hand slips beneath it, finding your thigh, resting there with a casualness that feels anything but like it. You lean into him, your head drifting toward his shoulder, the conversation fading into comfortable silence.
The movie continues, although you can feel your eyes becoming heavy. The warmth of his hand on your thigh, the rhythm of his breathing, the low murmur of dialogue from the TV ; it all blends into a haze of contentment. Your eyelids droop, flutter, close.
"Y/N." His voice is soft, barely above a whisper. "You're falling asleep."
"Mmm." You don't open your eyes. "I know."
"Do you want to go back?"
The room stays quiet as his words linger. Beyond the door waits a dark hallway, an empty apartment, and a bed that has already gone cold. The image settles over you like a burden, leaving you with little desire to leave.
"I don't want to move," you murmur, the words slurred with sleep.
He's quiet for a moment before he decides to speak. "You could stay here if you want. I have an extra blanket, or—" He pauses. "The bed's big enough."
You lift your head, blinking at him. His face is so close, his eyes soft in the low light of the screen. There's no expectation in his expression, no pressure. It’s an offer.
"Okay," you say.
He stands, extends a hand, and pulls you gently to your feet. You both walk shortly to his bedroom. He pulls back the covers, and you slip in, the mattress dipping under your weight. He climbs in behind you, his arm finding your waist, pulling you close. His chest presses against your back, his legs tangling with yours, and you feel his breath warm against the curve of your neck.
"You smell so good," he murmurs, the words a low vibration against your skin.
You laugh, low and drowsy. "I haven't showered."
"Don't care." His nose brushes your hairline. "You always smell good."
His arm tightens around you, his hand splayed across your stomach. His lips press a soft, absent kiss to your shoulder, then another, barely there. "Your skin is so soft too," he confies, you can hear the smile in his voice. "I wanted to tell you that before. When you got out of the shower at my place, that first time. But I didn't want to be weird."
"You're being weird now," you mumble, but you're smiling too.
"Keep acting like you don’t like it." He nuzzles into your neck. "I'm okay with it."
You feel his hand slide from your stomach to your hip, his thumb tracing slow circles against the bone. His breath evens out, his body relaxing behind you, and you feel yourself sinking into the warmth of him.
"Jake," you say, barely audible.
"Yeah?"
"Thanks for letting me stay."
He squeezes you gently, his lips pressing against your hair. "Anytime, Y/N."
Curled against his chest, you slowly surrender to sleep. His arm remains securely around you, its warmth grounding you until the last of your thoughts dissolve.
─────────
The sunlight filters through the curtains, and you blink awake slowly, your mind still thick with sleep. The bed is warm, the sheets tangled around your legs, however, the space beside you is empty. You reach out, your hand finding only cool fabric.
You lie there for a moment, orienting yourself. Jake's room. Jake's bed. The events of the night before trickle back in fragments. You check your phone on the nightstand. Saturday, 9:47 AM. Two days off stretching ahead of you, unplanned and open. You pad out of the bedroom, still in the oversized hoodie you wore last night, your hair a mess and your eyes half-opened. The smell of coffee hits you brutally. Jake is standing at the kitchen counter, a mug in one hand, his phone in the other. He's in a plain white t-shirt and gray sweatpants, his hair still sleep-tousled, and he looks up when he hears your footsteps.
"Morning," he says, his voice so soft and reassuring. "I didn't want to wake you. You looked comfortable."
"You're still here," you say, your voice scratchy. "Don't you have work?"
He shakes his head. "Day off. I figured I'd take it easy."
You close the distance without giving yourself time to hesitate. Slipping your arms around his waist from behind, you rest your cheek between his shoulder blades. Warmth radiates through him, and you feel his entire body go still beneath your embrace. He stays still. His breath barely catches, and you feel the tension ripple through his shoulders. After that, his hand comes down to rest over yours, his thumb brushing across your knuckles.
"Y/N," he says, and his voice is rougher than before. "You're going to make me drop my coffee."
"Put it down, then."
He does as you say. You hear the mug clink against the counter, and then he's turning in your arms, his hands finding your waist, his face close to yours. A flush is creeping up his neck, pink and noticeable, the sight of it makes thousands of sparks flicker in your stomach.
"You're blushing." you observe.
"I’m not," he says, his ears are red now, and he's not meeting your eyes. "I just wasn't expecting a hug. First thing in the morning. From someone who—" He stops, clears his throat. "Never mind."
"From someone who what?"
He finally looks at you, vulnerability filling his gaze completely. "From someone I really didn't want to wake up alone."
Words fail you, so you simply stay where you are. He pulls you into him, holding you with gentleness before resting his forehead against the top of your head. As he breathes in deeply, the strain he'd been carrying begins to slip away.
"Your hair smells like my shampoo," he mumbles into your hair.
"Your shampoo smells good."
"It's just generic stuff from the convenience store."
"Still smells good."
He laughs, soft and warm, and his arms tighten around you. "That sounded stupid, doesn’t it?"
You smile and chuckle against his chest. "A little bit."
You only eat eggs, toasts and drink coffee, but it feels like more than that. You sit across from him at his small kitchen table, the soft light of the sun landing on his face, and the conversation flows easily between bites.
He tells you about the shelter and problems that he had when he took care of a dog for the first time, and you do the same.
"It's a good job," you say, stirring your coffee. "Exhausting, but good. They make me laugh sometimes."
"They sound like characters."
"They are." You pause, watching him over the rim of your mug. "Can I ask you something personal?"
He looks up, a hint of wariness in his eyes, but he nods. "Sure."
"Why did you move back here? You said that night at the game—personal reasons. But you didn't elaborate."
He's quiet for a moment, his fork hovering over his plate. "I had some things to figure out," he says slowly. "Things I couldn't figure out anywhere else."
"Like what?"
He meets your gaze, something you can’t quite read passes across his face. "Like whether some things are worth coming back for."
The answer is vague and careful, yet there's a weight to it that makes you not want to know more about it. So you don't.
"Your turn," you say instead. "You can ask me anything."
He sets down his fork, considering. "What made you choose this city? Out of all the places you could have gone."
You look down at your coffee. The steam rises in slow spirals. "I used to live here. Before the accident." You say it matter-of-factly, you've learned to say it over the past year. "I don't remember it, but something about it felt right. Like I was supposed to come back."
"The accident," he repeats, and his voice is measured now. "You've mentioned it before. The memory loss."
"Yeah." You wrap your hands around the mug, let the warmth seep into your palms. "Three years. Just gone. I woke up in the hospital and suddenly I was 22, and I didn't remember being 21, 20 and even 19. My brother had to tell me who I was friends with, where I'd worked, what I'd done." You pause. "It's strange. Knowing there's a version of yourself out there that you'll never meet."
Jake is watching you intently, his breakfast forgotten. "That must have been hard," he says quietly.
"It was. Still is, sometimes. There are things I know I'm supposed to remember—people, places, moments—and I just can't access them. It’s like a locked door I don't have the key to."
He's silent for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is softer than before. "Do you ever feel like you're close to remembering? Or that something triggers it?"
You consider the question. "Sometimes it’s little things. A smell, a song, or an object." You think of the keychain, the one that matches his. "But it never sticks. It's just—there and it’s gone."
He nods slowly.
"Sorry," you say. "That got heavy."
"Don't apologize." He reaches across the table, his hand covering yours. "Thank you for telling me."
You look at his hand on yours, warm and soft. "Your turn," you say, trying to lighten the mood. "Ask me something else."
He thinks for a moment. "What's your favorite thing about this city? Now that you're back."
You smile, the tension easing. "The coffee shop on the corner. They have terrible pastries but really good lattes."
He laughs, and the sound fills the kitchen. "I'll have to try it sometime."
"Maybe I'll take you." The words come out before you can stop them, and you feel a flush creep up your neck.
He squeezes your hand. "I'd like that."
The morning stretches into a lazy afternoon. You've migrated to the couch, your phone in one hand, scrolling through nothing in particular. Jake is stretched out beside you, his head resting on your thigh like it belongs there, his own phone held above his face. The weight of him is warm and familiar now, and you've stopped overthinking how his hair brushes against your bare knee.
He's quiet, focused on whatever he's reading, his thumb occasionally swiping. You're half-watching a video on your own screen, the sound muted, when you feel his body shift. A pause. His thumb stops moving.
Then his free hand moves, quick and unexpected, his fingers finding the spot just above your knee. He digs in lightly, and you jolt, your phone nearly slipping from your grip.
"Jake!" Your voice comes out loud, a mix of surprise and laughter. "What are you doing?"
He grins, an unapologetic grin, and his fingers keep moving, dancing along the sensitive skin of your thigh. You try to twist away, but his head is still heavy on your lap, pinning you in place, and he's using his other hand to trap your leg.
"Stop—" You're laughing, breathless, trying to grab his wrist. "I'm serious—"
"Are you?" His voice is teasing and low. His fingers find your ribs, and you arch, a helpless sound escaping you.
"You're the fucking worst." You manage to grab his hand, but he's stronger, and he uses the momentum to roll slightly, shifting so he can reach your side. The tickling intensifies, and you're squirming, your free hand batting at his shoulder.
"Say I'm the best," he says, his voice muffled against your stomach.
"Never."
He doubles down, and you dissolve into helpless laughter, your phone clattering onto the floor. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes.
"Okay—okay—you're the best." The words come out in a wheeze. "You're the best, Jake. I surrender."
He stops, his hand stilling, still he doesn't move away. His face is close now, hovering over you, his eyes bright with amusement and softness beneath.
"That was easy," he says.
"Fuck you."
"You wouldn't," He settles back down, and you slap his arm for the comment. His head finding your lap again, his hand resting loosely on your knee. "Don't worry. I'll go easy on you next time."
You pick up your phone with your heart is still racing, and you can feel the warmth of his palm through the thin fabric of your shorts.
A random movie starts on the laptop screen, playing as background noise to fill the silence. You're sitting on the floor between Jake's legs, your back against the couch, your head tilted back slightly as his fingers work through your hair. He's been at it for a while now, separating strands, twisting them together, muttering under his breath when they slip apart.
"Like this?" he asks, his voice close to your ear.
"Tighter," you say. "You're not pulling enough."
"I don't want to hurt you."
"You won't. Just—here." You reach up, your hand finding his, guiding his fingers to the right section. "Hold that one. Now cross it over the middle. Yes, like that."
He follows your instructions with concentration and that makes you smile. His fingers are careful, delicate, and you feel the gentle tug as he works through a tangle.
"You've done this before, no?" you say.
"Never. I'm just naturally talented."
You snort. "We'll see about that."
Another minute passes. He's quiet, too focused, and you can feel the slight movement of his hands as he continues his work. You're both lost in the small intimacy of the moment.
"Okay," he says finally. "I think I got it."
You reach up, your fingers brushing against the braid he's made. It's lopsided, uneven, with strands sticking out at odd angles. You tug at it gently, and a section comes loose.
"It's bad," you say, and you can hear the laughter in your own voice.
He lets out a mock-offended sound. "I spent ten minutes on that."
"Ten minutes and this is what I get?"
"I'm a beginner. Tell me I’m doing good. Please."
You turn your head to look up at him. He's pouting weakly, his bottom lip pushed out, his eyes looking down with exaggerated hurt.
"Okay," you relent. "You did great."
His expression shifts instantly, the pout melting into a pleased smile. "Really?"
"For a first try. It's not completely terrible."
"High praise." His hand finds your shoulder, squeezing gently. "I'll take it."
You settle back against the couch, your head still tilted to look at him. He's looking down at you, his gaze soft, unguarded, letting you see something he usually keeps hidden.
"These past few days," he says, his voice quieter now. "They've been—I don't know. I've been comfortable. More than I have in a while."
"You're not going to get all sentimental on me, are you?"
He laughs, low and warm. "Maybe a little. Is that okay?"
You wait and watch him, the light catches his eyes, the slight curve of his mouth. The air between you feels heavier now. He leans forward, his face hovering above yours, and you feel a pull ; something that tugs at the edges of your memory. The feeling is fleeting, gone before you can grasp it, yet it leaves a warmth in its wake.
"Y/N," he says, your name sounds different on his lips.
Suddenly, his mouth is on yours, gentle and upside down, his lips soft against your own. You lean into him, your hand reaching up to cup his jaw, and the kiss deepens. His fingers thread through your hair, careful not to pull the messy braid loose, and you tilt your head further to meet him. The angle is awkward, the position of him behind you and you below making it clumsy, but you don't want to stop.
When he finally pulls back, his face above yours by an inch, his breath is uneven.
"You’re so pretty that it hurts," he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. "I could handle a little pain, though."
"You don't look bad yourself." You chuckle softly, close your eyes and let yourself feel it ; the warmth of him, the pace of his heart against your back, the small certainty that this is exactly where you're supposed to be.
Now, the movie has ended, the credits scrolling silently across the screen. Silence remains in the living room. You've shifted positions, no longer on the floor but curled together on the couch, your back against his chest, his arms wrapped around you. His legs bracket yours, and your head rests in the crook of his neck, the warmth of him seeping through your t-shirt.
His lips find your temple first, light and sweet, a barely-there press of skin against skin. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your eye. Each kiss is soft, as he's memorizing the geography of your face. You feel the slight stubble on his jaw brush against you.
"Are you still going to kiss every inch of my face?" you murmur, your eyes closed.
"Every single one." He punctuates the words with another kiss, this one on the bridge of your nose. "I have a list. It's very thorough."
You laugh, tired and content, and his arms tighten around you. His lips trail down to your jaw, then your chin, then the spot just below your ear.
"Getting distracted?" you ask.
"Completely." Another kiss, this one on your neck. "This is your fault for being here."
"I didn't do anything."
"You’re existing right now, so deal with the consequences."
You tilt your head back, giving him more access, and he takes the invitation, his mouth trailing along the curve of your throat. His kisses are still gentle, almost reverent, but they linger a little longer now.
His fingers find your hand, lace through yours, squeeze once. You feel the weight of his lips on your shoulder, your collarbone, the soft skin just above the neckline of your hoodie. Then back up, retracing the path, pausing at your cheek again.
"You're very thorough," you manage, your voice dreamy.
"I told you. I'm a man of my word."
He presses one last kiss to the corner of your mouth, soft and sweet, and then settles his chin on the top of your head, his arms still wrapped around you like he's afraid you'll disappear.
You don’t want to move. The afternoon light has shifted, growing gold, and the room feels suspended in a bubble of warmth and intimacy.
"Jake," you say, your voice barely above a whisper.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For today. For all of it."
He presses his lips to your hair, a silent reply, and you feel his smile against the strands. The last kiss lingers, right against your hair, and then you tilt your head up, catching his mouth with yours. It's not the upside-down kiss from before, this one is direct and utterly intentional, your lips finding his with unexpected certainty. He responds immediately, his hand cupping your jaw, angling you toward him.
You feel his other hand slide from your shoulder down your side, settling on your hip. You shift, twisting in his arms, and before you know it, you're turning to face him properly. Your knees find the cushion on either side of his thighs, and you settle into his lap, straddling him, your chest pressed against his.
His hands find your waist immediately, gripping you through the fabric of your t-shirt, his fingers splaying across the curve of your hips. He pulls you closer, and you feel the strong warmth of him beneath you, his breath hitches slightly as you settle your weight against him.
"You're going to make it hard to stop." he murmurs against your lips while he's smiling.
"That’s too bad." you whisper back, you could feel the vibration of his laugh.
─────────
It’s been an hour. You’re still straddling Jake, your knees sinking into the cushions on either side of his hips as your mouths move together in a heated, urgent kiss. His lips are warm and demanding, although there’s a delicious clumsiness to the way he kisses you ; teeth grazing a little too eagerly, his tongue sliding against yours with more hunger than precision. He’s so turned on he can barely focus, and it shows in every shaky breath and muffled sound.
His large hands slide down your back and grip your ass firmly now, fingers digging into the soft flesh with possessive strength. He squeezes and fondles you without restraint, kneading your cheeks as he pulls you harder against the growing bulge in his sweatpants. A low throaty moan echoes from his chest into your mouth, raw and needy, sending a rush of heat straight through you.
He breaks the kiss for half a second to gasp for air, forehead lightly pressed to yours, before diving back in even sloppier than before ; lips wet, tongue eager, hands still greedily massaging and spreading your ass as he rocks you against him. His grip is tight enough to leave marks, but the way he groans your name between kisses makes it impossible to care.
You pull back to catch your breath, your hands resting on his chest as you look down at him with flushed cheeks. His eyes are veiled with want, lips slightly swollen from the messy kiss, and his hands are still firmly anchored to your ass, unwilling to let go.
“Sorry,” you whisper, voice a little shaky. “If I’m bad at this…it’s my first time doing any of it, really.”
Jake blinks up at you, his breath still ragged. For a moment his grip on your ass loosens slightly, but then he squeezes again, almost reassuringly. A soft surprised chuckle escapes him before he leans in and presses a gentler kiss to the corner of your mouth.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice husky and sincere. “I’ve never gotten past a kiss either. So…we’re both figuring this out.”
He pulls you closer again, one hand sliding up your back while the other stays possessively on your ass, and kisses you slower now ; still clumsy with need, still moaning softly into your mouth, but now with a shared nervousness that somehow makes everything feel even hotter.
You smile softly against his lips at his confession, a warm flutter of relief mixing with the heat in your belly. Boldness comes through you, you slide one hand down his chest, slowly tracing the ridges of his abs through the thin fabric of his shirt. Your fingertips press lightly, exploring the firm muscle beneath, and Jake’s entire body jolts under you.
He gasps sharply into your mouth, hips twitching upward as a shiver runs through him. He’s incredibly sensitive there ; every slow drag of your fingers makes his muscles tense and twitch. Another involuntary moan slips out of him, breathier than before.
“S-sorry,” he blurts out by reflex, cheeks burning as he pulls back just an inch, eyes half-lidded and embarrassed. His hands tighten on your ass again, almost like he’s grounding himself. “I’m just…really sensitive. Fuck, that feels good.”
He leans in quickly to kiss you again, clumsier now from the rush of sensation, his abs contracting under your exploring touch as he rocks you gently against him, clearly fighting the urge to apologize a second time.
You keep tracing his abs, feeling them flex and twitch under your fingertips, when his breathing grows even heavier. His hands squeeze your ass one last time before sliding up to your hips. He leans in close, lips brushing your ear as he whispers softly, voice rough with arousal.
“Take your panties off for me…please?”
The words send a fresh wave of heat through you. You hesitate, suddenly shy, cheeks burning as you bite your lip and glance away. Jake notices immediately. A small affectionate smirk tugs at his lips despite how flustered he is.
“What’s wrong?” he teases gently, voice playful, his fingers tracing slow circles on your hips. “Don’t get all shy on me now…I’m dying here.”
You swallow hard, heart racing, but the way he’s looking at you ; equal parts desperate and sweet ; makes you brave. Instead of taking them off completely, you reach the hem of your shorts and throw them next to the couch, hook your fingers into the side of your panties, and push the damp fabric aside, exposing yourself to him.
“You can touch me,” you whisper, voice barely audible.
Jake’s eyes widen slightly. He nods slowly, one hand sliding from your hip down between your bodies. His middle finger gently traces along your slick folds, testing, before he slowly pushes it inside you ; careful, inch by inch, watching your face the whole time to make sure it’s okay. His breath catches at how warm and wet you feel around his finger, and he lets out a shaky moan, forehead dropping to your shoulder.
“Fuck…is this alright?” he murmurs, voice trembling with restraint as he holds still, letting you adjust.
You let out a shaky breath, hips shifting slightly against his hand as his finger moves inside you.
“That feels good,” you whisper, voice breathy and honest. “Really good…”
Jake’s eyes light up with relief and hunger. Encouraged, he slowly pulls his middle finger back, then carefully pushes two fingers in this time ; his middle and ring finger ; stretching you more. He’s clumsy about it, his movements a little uncoordinated from how turned on he is, but the gentle pressure feels incredible as he works them deeper.
He starts to pump them slowly, trying to find a rhythm, when suddenly his breath hitches.
“Wait—” he says quickly, almost like he remembered something.
Before you can respond, he curls his fingers upward, searching. The moment he hits that sensitive spot inside you, a loud, involuntary moan escapes your lips, loud and needy. Your thighs tremble around him as pleasure jolts through your body.
His face flushes deeper, a proud but clumsy grin breaking across his face even as he keeps awkwardly pumping and curling his fingers, trying to do it again. His free hand grips your ass tightly for balance, his own breathing ragged and uneven while he watches you react, completely lost in how you sound and feel.
You’re still trembling from the sudden rush of pleasure when he slows his fingers, keeping them buried inside you. He looks up at you with those wide, needy eyes, his cheeks flushed and his breathing ragged.
“Tell me I’m doing good…” he whispers, voice deep and a little vulnerable as he searches your face. “Please?”
You cup his face gently in both hands, thumbs brushing over his warm cheeks. Leaning down, you kiss him softly, tenderly, your lips lingering against his for a long moment. When you pull back just enough to speak, you gaze softens.
“You’re being so good to me,” you murmur. “It feels really good, Jake…keep going.”
A relieved moan slips from him at your words. His eyes flutter half-closed, and he presses into your touch like he’s starving for the praise. His fingers start moving again ; still a little clumsy and eager ; pumping slowly in and out while curling every few strokes to hit that spot that make you squirm. His free hand squeezes your ass tighter, pulling you closer as he kisses you back, messy and grateful.
You keep kissing him, slow and sweet, when Jake suddenly pulls his fingers out of you with a wet sound that makes you both blush. He shifts underneath you, breathing hard, and hurriedly works open his jeans.
“I need to feel you more,” he mutters, voice thick with desperation.
He lifts his hips and shoves his pants and boxers down just enough to free himself. His cock springs out, hard and throbbing, already leaking at the tip. You barely get a look at it before he pulls you back down onto his lap, lining you up so your bare, soaked pussy presses directly against his length. You start moving again, grinding with your panties still pushed to the side. The hot, velvety shaft of his cock slides perfectly between your slick folds, the head bumping against your clit with every roll of your hips. Jake groans loudly, head falling back against the couch as his hands return to grip your ass, guiding you faster.
“Fuck…you feel so good,” he moans, clumsy and desperate. He’s getting impossibly harder beneath you, his dick twitching and throbbing with every grind. His hips jerk up to meet yours, uncoordinated and eager, making wet sounds every time your slick heat drags along his entire length.
He looks completely wrecked already ; lips parted, eyes hazy with desire, fingers digging into your ass as he rocks you harder against him, chasing more of that delicious friction. You keep grinding against him, the slick sounds growing louder as both of you get messier. Your panties are completely soaked, the fabric clinging wetly to your folds, and his boxers ; now bunched around his thighs ; are dark with your arousal too.
Jake lets out a frustrated groan and lifts you just enough to shove his boxers the rest of the way down his legs, kicking them off. He reaches into his pocket, tears open a condom with shaky hands, and rolls it on quickly, his cock twitching hard as he does. You move to slide your panties down, but he catches your wrists gently, stopping you.
“Wait—” he breathes, voice hoarse. His eyes drop to where your soaked panties are still pushed to the side, the pretty fabric framing your glistening pussy. “Don’t take them off. They’re too pretty on you like this…looks so fucking hot.”
He pulls you back down onto him, guiding the head of his cock to nudge against your entrance through the shifted fabric. His hands return to your ass, squeezing firmly as he looks up at you with doe, desperate eyes, clearly waiting for you to take the next step while his throbbing length presses impatiently against your heat.
You brace your hands on his shoulders and slowly sink down onto him, taking every inch of his cock inside your tight, soaked heat. The stretch is intense, making you gasp and pause halfway before you breathe through it and slide all the way down until your hips meet his. Jake’s head falls back with a deep, broken moan, his fingers digging hard into your ass.
But after a few seconds, the latex feels uncomfortable and distant. You lift yourself off him, quickly peel the condom away, and sink back down onto his bare cock before he can protest. The raw heat of him makes you both moan.
His eyes fly open in panic. “Wait—fuck—baby—” he stammers, hands gripping your waist tightly as his cock throbs hard inside you. His face is flushed with alarm even as pleasure clouds his expression.
You can’t help but laugh softly at his wide-eyed reaction, the sound breathy and fond. “It’s okay,” you whisper, leaning down to kiss him.
You start moving ; not bouncing, but grinding slowly in deep circles with him fully buried inside you. The pressure against that sensitive spot makes you whimper, but it completely wrecks Jake. He moans loudly, the sound raw and uncontrolled, his whole body tensing beneath you.
Suddenly, his hands clamp around your waist and he lifts you straight up, pulling out of you with a wet pop. You blink in confusion, hovering above him as his cock twitches angrily in the open air, slick with your juices.
“I was about to cum,” he pants, voice strained and embarrassed. “You’re too warm and tight…and I’m really sensitive right now. Fuck, I almost didn’t stop in time.”
He looks up at you, chest heaving, cheeks burning red as he tries to catch his breath, still holding you suspended above his lap.
You hover above him for a moment, still catching your breath, then bite your lip shyly and whisper, “It’s okay…if it happens and you cum inside me, I can take the morning after pill.”
Jake looks up at you, eyes glassy from the pleasure, his chest still rising and falling rapidly. He swallows hard, then nods, his hands gently squeezing your waist. “Okay…but I’ll still try to be careful,” he murmurs. “I don’t want to mess this up for you.”
You smile softly at his sweetness and slowly sink back down onto his bare cock, taking him all the way inside again with a soft gasp. Once he’s fully buried, you resume grinding on him in deep circles, your soaked pussy clenching around his thick length.
He groans loudly, his head tipping back for a second before he looks down to where your bodies are joined. His hands slide firmly onto your hips, fingers digging in as he starts guiding you harder against him. He pulls and pushes you in longer, more insistent grinds, forcing your clit to rub against the base of his cock with every roll.
Sloppy sounds fill the room as your soaked folds slide back and forth along his shaft. The harder he makes you grind, the louder the sounds get, your arousal coating him completely. Jake’s moans turn ragged and desirous, his abs flexing under your hands while he stares at the way your pretty panties, still pushed aside, frame your pussy taking every inch of him.
You keep grinding on him, the wet sounds growing filthier with every roll of your hips, when Jake suddenly sits up straighter. One of his hands slides up your back, pulling you closer as his mouth finds your neck.
He starts licking and kissing the sensitive skin there, sucking gently at first, then harder, while his hips snap upward. He shifts from letting you grind to actively pounding into you, thrusting deep and fast from below. Each rough stroke makes you whimper, your fingers clutching his shoulders as pleasure spikes through you.
“I’m sorry—” he whispers hotly against your neck, voice strained and weak between open-mouthed kisses. His thrusts grow erratic, sloppy, and frantic. “Fuck, I’m so sorry…I’m gonna cum inside you.”
His grip on your hips tightens almost painfully as he buries himself as deep as he can, moaning loudly into your neck while his cock throbs hard inside your tight heat. His body trembles beneath you, clearly fighting it for only a second longer before he loses control.
You cry out as the intense rhythm pushes you over the edge right along with him. Your orgasm crashes through you hard, walls clenching and fluttering wildly around his cock as waves of pleasure rip through your body. At the same moment, Jake groans deeply into your neck and starts cumming, pulsing hot and thick inside you with every thrust.
Still trembling and moaning from your climax, you gasp out quickly, “Finger me—please—”
You don’t need to tell him twice. He lifts you off his cock with a wet sound, lays you back on the couch, and slides two fingers deep into your dripping pussy. He keeps them buried inside you, pumping slowly and softly, curling them gently against that sensitive spot while his thumb rests lightly on your clit.
“Fuck—that’s it,” he whispers soothingly against your ear, voice gentle even as he’s still catching his breath. “You’re doing so good. Let it all out for me.”
His fingers move in slow strokes, drawing out every last pulse of your orgasm as he kisses your neck and jaw. “So pretty when you cum…keep squeezing around my fingers, baby. I’ve got you.”
He stays close, murmuring soft praises while his fingers continue their gentle rhythm inside your soaked heat, helping you ride through the aftershocks.
An hour later, you’re sprawled on the couch with your legs spread wide, one draped lazily over the armrest. Jake kneels between your thighs, his hands resting on your inner thighs to keep you open.
He starts with broad strokes of his tongue, licking up and down your slick pussy, tasting the mess you two made earlier. Then he dives in deeper, pressing his whole mouth against you and kissing your folds like he’s making out with them ; soft, wet, hungry kisses that make filthy sounds echo in the living room.
A deep moan escapes you as his tongue swirls around your clit.
Jake pulls back just enough to grin up at you, lips glistening. “Hey, you gotta be quiet,” he teases in a joking tone, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I can’t hear the TV show if you’re moaning like that. Rude.”
You try to focus on the screen, but the pleasure is making you sleepy and relaxed. Your eyelids start to flutter, growing heavier as you sink deeper into the couch.
Without warning, Jake tightens his grip on your thighs and thrusts his tongue straight into your pussy, fucking you with it in deep, firm strokes. Your eyes snap open with a sharp gasp, hips twitching against his face as the sudden intensity jolts you awake.
He pulls back for a second, smirking. “There you go. Can’t have you falling asleep on me already,” he murmurs playfully, before diving right back in, tongue thrusting into you again while his nose nudges your clit.
His hands hold you firmly in place as he eats you out with renewed energy, clearly determined to keep you wide awake and moaning.
You can’t hold back anymore.
The steady thrust of Jake’s tongue inside you, combined with the way his nose keeps rubbing against your swollen clit, pushes you straight over the edge. Your second orgasm hits hard and fast. Your thighs clamp around his head as you cry out, back arching off the couch while waves of pleasure crash through you.
While you’re still cumming, he quickly pulls his tongue out and replaces it with two fingers, sliding them deep into your clenching pussy. He curls them gently against that sensitive spot, pumping them slowly and steadily to draw out your orgasm even longer.
“That’s it…cum on my fingers again, baby,” he murmurs against your thigh, voice low and husky as he watches you fall apart. “Fuck, you’re squeezing so tight.”
He keeps fingering you through every pulse and shudder, soft and deep, never rushing. His thumb moves up to circle your clit lazily, prolonging the pleasure until your moans turn into breathy whimpers and your body finally starts to relax.
Even then, he doesn’t pull his fingers out right away. He leaves them buried inside your warm, fluttering heat, gently stroking your walls while he kisses the inside of your thigh, looking up at you with a satisfied, slightly smug smile.
─────────
Both of you cuddling in his bed, and sleep finally gets to you. You're both tangled in his sheets, limbs intertwined, the warmth of his body a grounding presence against your back. His arm is draped over your waist, his breath slow and even against your neck, and you can feel the occasional press of his lips against your shoulder ; delicate, absent, as he's kissing you even in his sleep.
You should be content and you are content. Nevertheless, there's a dull ache beginning to throb behind your eyes, a persistent pressure that makes you wince when you shift against the pillow.
"Jake," you murmur, your voice rough. "I have a headache."
He stirs behind you, his arm tightening around your waist. "Mmm?"
"A headache. Do you have any painkillers?"
He blinks, his eyes still heavy with sleep. "Bathroom cabinet on the top shelf. There's a bottle."
You start to untangle yourself, but his arm holds you for a moment longer, pulling you back against him. "Don't go," he mumbles, his nose brushing your ear.
"I'll be right back." You press a kiss to his knuckles, and he loosens his grip.
You pad out of the bedroom, the cool air of the apartment raising goosebumps on your bare skin. You grab the shirt he'd left on the floor ; his shirt, the one he'd worn earlier ; and pull it over your head. It falls to your thighs, soft and worn, and you feel a small thrill at the intimacy of it.
The bathroom is as small as you could remember the last time you took a shower, the light harsh when you flick it on. You find the painkillers easily, shake two into your palm, and turn to get water.
You pause.
The drawer next to the sink is slightly open, just a crack, and something inside catches your eye. You don't know why you reach for it. Curiosity, maybe. The same instinct that made you want to see the photo frame by his bed.
You pull it open.
The drawer is filled with photographs ; loose, some curled at the edges, same as snapshots you'd find in a shoebox under a bed. But these aren't random. You recognize the faces.
Your face. And Jake's face.
Both of you, younger. His hair is different, shorter, but the smile is the same. Your hair is shorter too, your eyes brighter, and you're pressed together like you've known each other for years. In another, you're at a café, holding up coffee cups, laughing at something off-camera. In another, you're in a park, your head on his shoulder, his arm around you like it's the most natural thing in the world.
Your hands are shaking. You dig deeper, pulling out more photos. One with your parents. Your mother's arm around you, your father's hand on Jake's shoulder, and the four of you are smiling at the camera like a family.
Another with Jungwon. He's younger, his face rounder, and he's giving a thumbs-up while Jake ruffles his hair.
You drop the photos. They scatter across the floor, and you stumble back, your back hitting the bathroom wall.
This doesn't make sense. None of this makes sense. You don't remember any of this. You've never seen these photos before in your life. But your face is there, your smile, your eyes. And Jake is there too, always beside you, he's always been part of the picture.
The memory loss. The three years.
You feel the world tilt beneath you, the edges of your vision going fuzzy. The photos on the floor stare up at you, silent and damning.
"Y/N?"
Jake's voice. He's at the doorway, his eyes still sleep-soft, and he's holding a glass of water. He takes one step into the bathroom, then stops. His gaze drops to the photos scattered around your feet.
The glass slips from his fingers. It shatters against the tile, water spreading in a river across the floor.
"Y/N," he says again, and his voice is different now, sounding afraid.
You look at him. At the face you've come to know over these past weeks. The face you've kissed, laughed with, let hold you. The face that has been hiding everything from you.
"You knew me?" you say, and your voice comes out flat, hollow. "You knew me before?"
He doesn't answer as the look on his face says it all.
"All this time," you continue, the words spilling out now, unstoppable. "You knew everything. You knew me. You knew me and you didn't say anything."
"I was going to tell you." His voice is low. "I was trying to find the right time. I didn't want to scare you—"
"Scare me?" A broken laugh escapes you. "I've been living in a fog for a year. I've been trying to piece together who I am, and you—you've been standing right there, holding all the pieces, and you didn't tell me."
The rain starts outside, a sudden downpour that hammers against the window. You don't remember putting on his clothes, but you're moving now, past him, through the apartment, toward the door. He calls your name without you turning back.
You barge into the hallway. The stairs are a blur beneath your feet. You burst out into the rain, and it hits you like a wall ; cold, merciless, soaking through the shirt, your hair and your skin.
You don't know where you're going, and you know you can't be near him, nor look at his face and see the truth you were too blind to notice.
The street is empty, the rain turning the pavement into a river. You walk, then run, your bare feet slapping against the wet ground, your breath coming in ragged gasps. Behind you, you hear a door slam. A voice calling your name, distant and helpless.
Your legs don’t seem to want to stop. Your bare feet slap against the wet pavement, each step sending shocks through your legs, but you don't stop. You actually can't stop because if you do, you'll have to think, and thinking means facing what you just saw.
Your fingers fumble with your phone, slick with rain, and you manage to pull up Jungwon's contact. It rings once, twice, three times, and then the automated voice cuts in. Voicemail. Full. You try again and it’s the same result.
"Come on," you mutter, your voice cracking. "Come on, pick up. Pick up—"
The phone slips from your grip, clattering onto the wet ground. You leave it behind and keep walking, your arms wrapped around yourself, the thin fabric of his shirt doing nothing to ward off the cold.
"Y/N."
His voice. Behind you. Closer than you expected.
You keep walking faster, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
"Y/N, please—just stop—"
"I don't want to talk to you." Your voice is barely audible over the rain. "Go away."
"I can't do that." His footsteps are closer now. "I can't let you run out like this. It's not safe."
"You don't get to decide what's safe for me." You finally stop, spinning around to face him. He's there, a few meters away, soaked through, his hair plastered to his forehead, his chest heaving. He's stopped too, keeping his distance like you're a wild animal that might bolt.
"You don't get to decide anything," you continue, your voice rising. "You knew me. You knew me and you lied. Every single day, every single conversation—you looked at me and you knew exactly who I was, and you let me stumble around like an idiot trying to figure it out."
"I didn't lie—"
"Hiding the truth is lying." You're shaking now, from cold and anger. "You kept all of it from me. The photos, the memories—" You gesture wildly. "Everything. You let me think we were strangers." Your voice cracks. "You let me fall for you like you were someone new."
"I had to." His voice is raw. "I had to keep it from you. It was the only way—"
"The only way for what?" You're yelling now, the rain muffling the sound but not the anger. "The only way to protect yourself? The only way to make sure you didn't have to deal with the mess of my broken brain?"
He flinches like you've struck him. "No. That's not—"
"Then what? What the fuck is about?"
He's quiet for a long moment. The rain falls between you, heavy and cold, a curtain that separates you from him. When he speaks, his voice is quieter, barely above a whisper.
"Because I was scared."
You laugh, a hollow, broken sound. "Scared of what?"
"Of this." He gestures between the two of you. "Of you remembering and looking at me like you are right now. Like I'm a stranger. Like I'm someone who hurt you."
Your chest tightens. "God—Jake do you even care about me?"
"I fucking do." He takes a step closer, and then stops himself. "I loved you, Y/N. Before the accident. We were—" He runs a hand through his wet hair, his voice cracking. "We were together. For three freaking years. We lived together. We had a life."
You stare at him, the words hitting you like blows. "I don't remember."
"I’m aware of that." He's crying now, his tears mistook for rain drops. You can't tell. "I’m aware that you don't. And that's—that's the worst part. Because I've been standing here, watching you rebuild your life, and every time you looked at me like I was a stranger, it felt like losing you all over again."
"Why did you stay, then?" Your voice is barely a whisper. "Why didn't you just leave?"
"Because I made a promise." He meets your eyes. "A promise to your brother, to Jungwon. After the accident, when you couldn't remember anything—he came to me. He said that if I really loved you, I would stay away. That seeing me, remembering me, would confuse you. That it would hurt you more than it would help."
"So you just—walked away?"
"I tried. I moved to another city. I told myself it was for the best. But I couldn't." He stops, his voice breaking. "I couldn't stay away. When I heard you were coming back here, I told myself I wouldn't interfere and that I'd keep my distance. But then I saw you with that stupid umbrella, and—"
His words trail off, lost in the rain. You stand there, shivering, the weight of everything pressing down on you.
"I was scared," he continues, his voice still barely audible. "I was scared that if I told you, you'd run. That you'd look at me and feel nothing. That the person you were before—the person I loved—was gone forever, and I couldn't bear that. So I kept it to myself. I told myself I was protecting you. But really, I was protecting myself."
The silence stretches between you.
"You should have told me," you finally say, and your voice is weak, drained of emotion. "You should have trusted me to handle it."
"I know." He looks down at the ground. "I know. And I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Y/N. I never wanted to hurt you. I just—" He stops, his shoulders shaking. "I just wanted to hold onto the part of you that was still mine. Even if you didn't know it."
Your chest is heaving again and you feel the tears mixing with the rain on your cheeks. You're not sure when you started crying or maybe you've been crying this whole time.
"When?" Your voice cracks once again. "When did we—when did we first meet?"
He looks up, and you see the tears streaming down his face, indistinguishable from the rain. "Nineteen," he says, his voice raw and broken. "We were nineteen. You were wearing that oversized Bieber shirt, and you tripped over your own feet walking into that library, and I—" He pauses, a sob tearing from his throat. "I fell in love with you right there."
You feel the sob building in your chest, unstoppable and devastating. "I’m sorry."
"It’s okay." He's crying openly now, his shoulders shaking. "I—I needed you to know that you were loved. That you are loved. By me. Always."
Your legs give out. You don't realize it until you're sinking, your knees hitting the wet pavement, your hands bracing against the cold ground. The sobs are torn from you now, ugly and loud, your entire body shaking with the force of them.
He’s already moving. His feet splash against the wet ground, closing the distance between you in seconds. He drops to his knees in front of you, his arms wrapping around you, pulling you against his chest. His body shields you from the rain, his hands cradling the back of your head, pressing your face into the warmth of his neck.
"I'm sorry," he's saying, over and over, his voice broken and fragile. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, Y/N."
You feel his tears against your skin, his body shaking with the same sobs that are tearing through you. He holds you tighter, afraid you'll disappear, and you grip the wet fabric of his shirt, your fingers twisted in the material.
"I don't remember," you choke out. "I don't remember any of it."
"That's okay." His voice is a whisper, trembling. "That's okay. We can—we can start over. We can make new memories. Whatever you need. I'll give you whatever you need."
You pull back just enough to look at him. His face is streaked with rain and tears, his eyes red-rimmed, his expression open and completely unguarded.
You let him hold you, his arms wrapped around you like a shield against the world, and you feel something shift in your chest. The rain continues to fall, but you barely notice it anymore.
All you feel is him.
─────────
The next morning. You're sitting on the edge of the couch, your legs stretched out in front of you, the bruises on your knees a mottled purple from the fall the night before. The rain has stopped, but the world outside is still wet, the streets glistening under the gray sky.
Jake is kneeling in front of you, a small first-aid kit open on the floor beside him. His movements are gentle, careful, as he dabs at the scrapes with an antiseptic wipe. You flinch slightly at the sting, and he murmurs an apology, his fingers light against your skin.
"I could do it on my own." you say, your voice hoarse from crying.
"Let me do it for you. Please." He doesn't look up, his focus on the cut on your knee. "I should have done this last night, but you were—" He stops, swallowing. "You were upset. I didn't want to push."
You watch him as he works, the furrow of concentration between his brows, his lower lip catches between his teeth. His hands are steady despite everything, carefully smoothing the edges of a bandage over your skin.
"There," he says softly. "All done."
You're about to say something when the door slams open.
Jungwon stands in the doorway, his chest heaving and his eyes wild. He's still in his clothes from yesterday, his hair disheveled, his phone clutched in his hand like a lifeline. He must have come straight from wherever he was, must have run the whole way. His gaze sweeps the room and takes in the two of you. Jake kneeling at your feet. The bandage on your knee. Your tear-streaked face. And mostly, the visible tension in the air.
He looks at Jake and at you while shifting his gaze between both of you.
"Fuck." he says, the word heavy, loaded with remorse.
Jake rises slowly to his feet. He stands there, his hands at his sides, his face blank.
"Jungwon," he starts, but Jungwon cuts him off.
"What the fuck, Jake." He steps into the room, the door swinging shut behind him. "I told you—I told you to stay away. I told you it would be better for her. And for everyone. And you—" He stops, his jaw tight. "You couldn't keep your promise for even a year?"
"It wasn't like that." Jake's voice is steady yet a tremor is present beneath it. "I didn't plan this. It just happened."
"It just happened?" Jungwon scoffs. "You see her in the hallway and suddenly all your promises mean nothing?"
"Jungwon—" you start, both of them turn to look at you, and the weight of their gazes makes the words die in your throat. Jungwon's expression softens slightly. "Are you okay?" he asks, the question is directed at you, not Jake.
You don't know how to answer that. Are you okay? You're sitting in the apartment of a man you've known for weeks, who apparently knew you for three years before that, who you still can't remember, who you cried in the rain with, who bandaged your knees this morning because he cares about you. And you can’t understand any of it.
"I don't know," you say honestly.
Jungwon runs a hand through his hair, exhales slowly. "I should have told you," he says with regret in his voice. "I should have told you about him. About everything. I thought I was protecting you, but I—" He pauses and shakes his head. "I made it worse."
"He knew," you say, voice flat. "He knew and he kept it from me. You both did."
Jake flinches and Jungwon looks away.
"I had to," Jake says quietly. "I had to see if you could remember on your own. If there was any part of you that still—" He swallows, the words caught in his throat. "I needed to know if you could love me without the memories."
Jungwon's head snaps toward him. "That's not why you did it."
"Isn't it?" Jake's voice is raw. "I wanted to believe that if I just gave you time, you'd remember, and I know that it sounds stupid. That you'd look at me and see all the years we had. But you didn't. You never did." He looks at you, his eyes glassy. "And I had to accept that the person I loved might never come back. But I still loved you anyway."
The silence in the room is suffocating. You look from Jake to Jungwon, the weight of their secrets pressing down on you, and you feel something crack inside your chest.
Jungwon is the one to break it. "I'm sorry," he says, the words are directed at both of you. "I was scared. I didn't want to lose you again, Y/N. And when I saw the two of you starting to know each other I panicked." He confesses, his composure cracking. "I just wanted to protect you and I failed. I failed both of you."
Jake stays silent, his eyes fixed on the floor.
You take a breath. The air is thick, but you force yourself to speak.
"I don't remember him," you say, looking at Jungwon. "I don't remember any of it. But I—" You stop, your voice catching. "I know I felt something. Even when I didn't know who he was. That has to count for something, doesn't it?"
Jungwon meets your eyes. Then he nods, slowly.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "It does."
─────────
The afternoon has settled in, the earlier tension slowly unwinding like a knot being picked apart. Jungwon left an hour ago, his goodbye awkward but not hostile, a promise to call later that felt more like a question than a statement. You'd watched him go, the door clicking shut behind him, and then you'd turned to find Jake standing in the middle of the living room, his hands shoved in his pockets, his eyes uncertain.
Neither of you had spoken for a while. Then you'd walked to the kitchen, pulled out a cutting board and some vegetables, and started preparing something that might become dinner. He'd followed, hovering at the edge of the counter, until you'd handed him a knife and told him to chop the onions.
Now you're standing at the stove, stirring a pan of vegetables, while Jake sits on a stool behind you. His fingers are in your hair again, separating strands, twisting them together with a concentration that's become familiar over the past few days. The braid is better than yesterday ; still not perfect, but recognizable.
"You're getting better at this," you say, your voice quiet.
"I've had practice." An incredible softness in his voice. "Also, you're very patient. That helps."
You stir the vegetables, watching them sizzle and soften. The silence is comfortable, however, there's something sitting between you, a question you've been turning over in your mind since last night.
"Jake," you start, and you feel him pause, his fingers stilling in your hair. "Can I ask you something?"
"Anything."
You keep your eyes on the pan. "Last night—was that our first time?"
You feel him go still behind you. His hands are frozen in your hair, and for a moment, you think you've overstepped. You feel his breath, a soft exhale, and his hands resume their work.
"Yes," he says, and his voice is careful. "That was our first time."
The words hang in the air. You nod slowly, processing. "So we never had sex…before the accident?"
He shakes his head, even though you can't see him. "We were close, and we lived together. But we never did those kind of things." He pauses, his fingers continuing to work through your hair. "We were waiting. I don't know what we were waiting for. The right moment, maybe." His voice drops. "I never really thought about it. I just knew I wanted it to be right."
You set down the spoon, turning to face him. He's watching you, his hands hovering where your hair falls against your shoulders. His eyes are searching, cautious.
"Jake," you say. "How long did you go without doing it?" You stop, not sure how to phrase it. "Without being with anyone?"
He understands. His jaw tightens, and he looks down at his hands. "It’s been a year. Since the accident." He meets your eyes again. "I couldn't. I tried to…talk to girls, once. It didn't feel right. I mean, I didn't feel right. I couldn't even hold someone's hand without feeling like I was betraying you."
You feel your breath catch. "Even when you didn't know if I'd ever remember?"
"Especially then." His voice honest. "It didn't matter if you remembered me or not. I remembered you. I knew what we had, and…I couldn't replace that. I really didn't want to."
You look at him, this man who's been carrying this weight for three years, who stayed loyal to a ghost he didn't know would ever come back. You look at his hands shaking slightly, his eyes are glassy.
"I didn't know," you say.
"How could you?"
You reach out, your hand finding his. He looks down at your fingers intertwined, and you feel the dull trembling in his grip.
"Thank you," you say, your voice almost a whisper. "For waiting. Even when you didn't have to."
He looks at you with vulnerability in his gaze. "I never really had a choice. It was always you. It's always been you."
You pull him closer, your arms wrapping around him, your face pressing into his shoulder. He holds you back, his arms tight around your waist, and you feel the steady beat of his heart against your chest.
The vegetables are still burning. You're still wrapped in his arms, your face pressed into his shoulder, his warmth seeping through the thin fabric of your shirt. His hand is cradling the back of your head, his fingers gently threading through the braid he'd just finished.
He pulls back to look at you. His eyes are red-rimmed, his face still carrying the traces of the tears you'd both shed.
"I love you," he says.
The words are simple, unadorned. Only three words, spoken as they've been sitting on his tongue for years, waiting for the right moment to be released. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Your throat is tight, your chest aching with the pressure of everything you don't know how to say.
Noticing your silence, he leans in, his lips pressing against your forehead, lingering long enough for you to feel the slight shaking in his breath.
Then your cheek. The corner of your eye. The bridge of your nose. Each kiss is slow, like he's tracing the contours of your face with his mouth, memorizing every inch. His lips brush your temple, your jaw, the base of your neck.
"You don't have to say it back," he murmurs against your skin. "I just needed you to know."
You feel the tears pricking at your eyes again, yet they're not the same as before. "You've been carrying this for a year," you manage, your voice thick. "And you still—"
"Still love you." He presses another kiss to your cheek, then your other cheek, then the corner of your mouth. "Yes. I do. And I'll keep saying it until you're tired of hearing it."
"I won't get tired."
He pulls back, his eyes searching yours.
"That’s good for me." he says softly, the smile that tugs at his lips is small and tentative. His hands cup your face, thumbs brushing away the tears that have escaped down your cheeks. He leans in, his forehead resting against yours, and you feel the warmth of him surrounding you.
"Jake," you whisper.
"Yeah?"
"Stay with me. While I try to remember. While I figure this out." You swallow. "Don't leave again."
He doesn't hesitate once. "I won't."
His lips find yours, soft and gentle, and when he pulls back, he presses one last kiss to the tip of your nose.
You were ready to rebuild your life, with everything you’ve shared from now, with him.
