sie ⚘

Everyone knew it. No one said it out loud.

The rented-out summer home sprawls out in front of you, all whitewashed stone and terracotta roof tiles, perched high above an aquamarine stretch of water so clear it looks Photoshopped. A few bright towels already cling to the poolside chairs; someone’s left a trail of sandy flip-flops like breadcrumbs. You can hear laughter somewhere—muffled, distant, a memory you haven’t made yet.

The whole place hums under the weight of something not quite visible. A static charge. A warning shot fired low across the bow.

Oscar had won the 2026 World Drivers’ Championship, wrestling the 2025 crown from Lando in a way that was almost surgical. No drama, no big public blowout. Just a clean, clinical dethroning that had stunned the paddock stupid.

But it wasn’t clean. Not really. You’d seen the cracks up close. The stiff smiles. The way Lando’s jaw would tick when Oscar’s name got thrown around in meetings. The brittle way Oscar would pretend not to notice.

Now, with both their contracts coming up and the whole world speculating if McLaren could even keep them both, the air buzzes with something volatile. Not anger, exactly. Not yet. Just—

“You coming or what?” a voice calls out, snapping you out of your reverie. You turn to see Callum from logistics waving you in, already wearing a sleeveless tee and a grin that promises poor life decisions.

You wave back, laughing under your breath. Whatever. Let the future burn itself down later.

Right now, you’ve got one week. One week to drink bad beer by the pool, to dance barefoot to someone’s crackling Bluetooth speaker, to pretend that you’re just a marketing admin on holiday and not someone who spends their life airbrushing tensions away with pastel graphics and PR spins.

One week before everything changes.

You’re going to enjoy the hell out of it.

Except you don't even make it to the front steps before they find you.

Lando’s laugh cuts through the air first. Unmistakable, that full kind of sound that’s always gotten him exactly what he wanted. He strides across the gravel with a beer in hand, sunglasses perched low on his nose. Tan already sunk into his skin like he belongs here more than anywhere else.

Oscar is a step behind him, hands shoved into the pockets of his board shorts, mouth pulled into that familiar half-smile that never quite gives away what he’s thinking. Cool. Untouchable. But not when it comes to you.

You’ve known them both since 2023. Started the same year as Oscar, actually, back when he was still the ‘new kid’ and Lando was the anointed heir of McLaren. Watching them now, it’s almost funny how much and how little has changed.

“Well, well, well,” Lando drawls, his gaze raking down the length of you without a shred of shame. “Someone’s been hitting the gym.”

You roll your eyes, but the heat crawling up your neck betrays you. Typical. Lando always wielded charm like a blunt weapon. Flirt first, apologize later—if at all.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” you shoot back, crossing your arms to fend off the fluster you feel prickling your skin.

“You should.” His grin turns a little wolfish, a little sharper at the edges. It’s always been like this with Lando. Sharp banter, quick jabs, a constant underlying dare in his words.

Oscar, on the other hand, doesn’t say anything. He just glances at you, quick, his gaze flickering over the obvious changes. The toned arms, the tighter shorts, the way you stand a little differently now, more sure of yourself. It’s the sun you’ve caught over the spring, the way your hair is lighter. The confidence, fitting you a little easier now. 

“Ignore him,” Oscar says finally, voice dry as ever. “He thinks a compliment a day keeps HR away.”

Lando snickers, entirely unbothered. “No one’s filing any complaints.”

“Yet,” Oscar adds under his breath, and you catch the twitch of a real smile before he looks away, as if he’s embarrassed to be caught being funny.

The dynamic between them is sharper this year, the edges harder to ignore. Lando’s a little too loud; Oscar’s a little too careful. And you, well—

You shoulder your bag higher. Whatever storm is brewing, it’s not here yet. 

When Lando is pulled away by another group, you find yourself next to Oscar, the two of you naturally falling into step. “He’s subtle, huh?” you say, nodding toward where Lando is already readying to play a match of beach volleyball.

Oscar snorts. “As a brick through a window.”

Your laughter comes easier with him. No games, no showmanship. Just the same effortless back-and-forth you’ve had since you both joined McLare. Young, new, a little out of your depths. You’ve grown alongside each other in different ways, but the familiarity remains.

“You look good, by the way,” Oscar says after a beat, almost too casual.

You glance at him, but he’s already looking away. “Thanks, Piastri,” you say, nudging his elbow lightly. “Big year for compliments, huh?”

He hums noncommittally, a ghost of a smile pulling at his mouth. His expression doesn’t shift, but there’s something in his eyes. Something that makes you feel seen in a way that’s infinitely more dangerous than Lando’s brand of unashamed attention.

Voices call your names from across the courtyard. A group from the marketing team waves you over, already laying claim to beach chairs and plotting the evening’s games.

“Duty calls,” you say with a mock salute.

Oscar lifts a hand in farewell. “See you.”

The first few hours are a whirlwind of people claiming rooms, of staff trading sunblock and shots and secrets. By the time it’s evening, the beach air is thick with the scent of salt, laughter bouncing between bodies huddled in threadbare hoodies and board shorts. Someone passes a bottle of cheap rum around. Someone else suggests Truth or Dare, and against your better judgment, you let yourself be roped in.

You’re perched on a faded picnic blanket with a handful of your favorite coworkers. Marketing assistants, junior engineers, a couple of race strategy interns. A makeshift family built over late nights and endless deadlines.

“Alright, you,” Tom from engineering says, pointing at you with a grin. His cheeks are already flushed from the booze. “Truth: which of our two golden boys is more crush-worthy?”

A chorus of oohs rises from the circle. You groan, tossing a handful of sand in Tom's general direction. “What are we, twelve?”

“Come on! You have to answer.”

You make a show of rolling your eyes, sighing dramatically as if it’s the most inconvenient question in the world. Still, your heart skips a beat. You know there’s only ever been one answer.

“Oscar,” you say finally, shrugging like it doesn't cost you anything. “It’s always been Oscar.”

The teasing jeers come quick, but you just grin and take a swig from the bottle when it’s passed your way. It’s easier to laugh it off than to sink into the memories unspooling quietly in your mind.

You think about your first day at McLaren. You’d both been rookies, wide-eyed and trying not to drown in a sea of expectation. Oscar had been fresh off his earlier championships. This quiet, determined presence in a world built for louder voices. You had locked eyes across the cafeteria once, both awkwardly holding trays of uninspiring food, and he’d given you a small, tentative smile.

It hadn’t been fireworks. It hadn’t been some earth-shattering moment you could write a novel about. It had been something smaller, quieter. A seed planted in good soil.

Over the years, you’d watched him grow into himself. Sharper on track, still dry-humored and steady off it. Always polite. Always a little reserved. And always, somehow, softer towards you.

You were no fool, though. You never once mistook kindness for something more. You knew what your place was. A marketing admin, barely visible on race weekends unless a driver needed to be somewhere for a shoot. You’d been content to stay in your lane, to admire him like you admired the sunsets over the paddock, or the roar of the engines on a Sunday afternoon.

Beautiful things. Distant things.

If Oscar was nicer to you than he was to others, you chalked it up to that shared sentiment. You were both once the least important people in the room, both standing on the shaky ground of McLaren’s legacy, and rookies tended to stick together. 

Someone nudges you, laughing, and you shake yourself out of it, laughing along. The night spins onward, bright and blurry. Tomorrow, you’ll wake up with sand in your hair and regret in your bones.

But for now, you pass the bottle to the left, and let the fire warm your skin.

The next morning is slow and heavy, the sun just starting to burn off the early haze. You’re pulling your hair into a loose ponytail, half-listening to chatter around the shared bathroom when Mia from digital points her toothbrush at you and says, “You know he’s been checking you out, right?”

“Who?”

Mia rolls her eyes dramatically, toothpaste foam threatening to spill. She jerks her chin toward the open doorway. “Norris.” 

Curious and a little dubious, you step out into the hall. Sure enough, there he is, leaning against the kitchen counter, sipping from a mug. His gaze finds yours immediately, unapologetically. When he notices you catching him, his mouth quirks into a slow, confident grin.

“Morning,” he calls.

“Morning,” you reply as casually as you can manage.

He sets down his mug. “Fancy a run?”

You hesitate, glancing around for signs of anyone else. Usually, the drivers corral a whole group when they go on these runs. But there’s no one hovering by the door with sneakers in hand. It’s just Lando, looking infuriatingly fresh and ready.

“Sure,” you say before you can overthink it. He grins, and it’s the same sort of smile he has when he’s standing on the top step of the podium. 

You lace up your trainers quickly and meet him outside. The air is cooler by the beach, the ocean stretching out endlessly beside you. You jog in an easy rhythm, sand crunching faintly under your feet. It’s quiet for a while. Just the waves and the distant call of gulls.

“You look different this summer,” Lando says after a stretch of silence. His voice is low, almost thoughtful.

You laugh breathlessly. “Bad different or good different?”

“Good. Very good,” he says with a lopsided smile. “More... sure of yourself.”

The compliment lands oddly heavy in your chest. “Maybe I’m just better at pretending now.”

He shoots you a sideways glance, sharp and knowing. “Or maybe you’re better at being who you are.”

The words catch you off-guard, more meaningful than the easy flirtations you’d expected. For a while, neither of you speak. You just run, side by side, until the sun climbs higher and the morning grows warmer.

It’s always been a little different with Lando. He was the occasional headache of the marketing team, the one that warranted one or two more PR releases than Oscar. Off the track, though, you were always pleasantly surprised at who Lando could be underneath the orange race suit. 

He was the thoughtful kind, the type to know everybody’s birthdays and to stop for any kid asking for an autograph. He never minced words, but he was not unkind, either. He just felt everything deeply, whether it was a loss, or a win, or the sentiment of an unassuming summer day.

When you finally loop back toward the house, your skin is sticky with sweat and your mind is spinning. Lando bumps his shoulder lightly against yours as you walk up the porch steps.

“Good run,” he says, like it means something more.

You nod, pretending your heartbeat is only from the exercise.

Inside, the house is waking up properly now. Music playing, laughter bouncing. You disappear into the crowd, feeling Lando’s eyes on your back the whole way, and wondering, not for the last time that day, what the hell just happened. 

You try not to think of it during the day. You focus on the team exercises, the planning, the downtime. You count down the seconds until your favorite parts of these summers: the bonfires in the evening. 

Lanterns swing lazily from the wooden beams overhead, casting a dappled light over the courtyard where most of the team has gathered. It’s bright and loud, and it reminds you of why you continue to stay despite the shitty management and the questionable policies. The people here are good people. 

Lando shimmers in the center of it all. He’s a social butterfly, fluttering from interns to old-timers with small talk that makes you feel special for a few, precious moments. What endears you the most is that you know he’s not putting on a show. Lando likes the team, likes the beach and the woodsmoke and the invincibility of these moments away from the public eye. 

You feel like something’s missing, though. You wander off in search of that puzzle piece, and that’s when you spot him. 

Oscar, tucked away by the side of the house, half-shielded by the drooping branches of a tree. His hands are shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, his posture hunched as he scrolls through his phone. You smile to yourself.

“Hiding, are we?” you call out, keeping your voice light.

Oscar doesn’t start. He just glances at you, a wry smile tugging at his mouth. “Strategic retreat.”

You chuckle and wander closer, careful not to intrude too much. “Fair. You lasted longer than I thought you would,” you sya. 

“Peer pressure’s a powerful thing.”

“I’ll leave you to it. Just thought I’d come say ‘hi’ before you went full hermit.”

You’re about to wander back off to the beach when Oscar says in an uncharacteristic rush of words, “You don’t have to go.”

You freeze for a beat. When you look over, Oscar’s already looking at you—steady, earnest, like he actually means it.

“If you want,” he adds, more casually now. As if he’s giving you an out instead.

Your heart does that stupid thing it always does around him. A warm stutter you can never quite control. You move closer, sitting down a comfortable distance away. Close enough to talk, far enough not to spook the moment.

You don’t say much. You don’t need to.

The night hums around you and between it all, a quiet little space you carve out with Oscar, just the two of you. You wonder, not for the first time, if he feels it too. The anticipation when the amps turn on. The thick tension. 

It’s not something you’re willing to stake your friendship over, so you let the moment pass as many others before it. By the time the two of you are heading back to the throng, you’re only reminded of where you belong in the complex hierarchy of co-worker friendships. 

The next morning, the sun is high and hot by the time everyone spills out onto the open field just beyond the house. There’s a haphazard setup of cones, makeshift goals, and a suspicious number of foam batons. 

Classic team-building chaos.

Brian from HR claps his hands together. “Alright! Lando, Oscar, you know the drill.”

There's a collective hum of excitement as people start gathering behind them, ready to be picked. You hang back, adjusting the hem of your shorts and shielding your eyes from the sun. It’s almost a tradition at this point: drivers lead, employees follow, and everyone ends up in some over-competitive version of capture-the-flag or ultimate frisbee.

Lando and Oscar stand a few feet apart, each looking unfairly good in their McLaren-branded athletic gear.

“Ladies first,” Lando says with a smirk, tossing a foam baton into the air and catching it with a little spin. “Pick whoever you want, mate.”

Oscar just gives him a bemused look. “You’re only saying that because you want to steal half my picks.”

“It’s called strategy,” Lando replies smoothly, tapping his temple. “That’s why I'm the smart one.”

Oscar snorts, but then his eyes flick to you—brief, almost imperceptible if you weren’t looking.

You feel it more than you see it: the way the energy subtly shifts. The people around you start elbowing each other, stifling laughs. There’s no hiding it now. You’re not the most athletic, not really the kind of member who brings in the winning shot, but you’re close enough to both drivers for this squirmish to become an annual thing. 

“I’ll take—” Oscar starts, but Lando cuts in.

“Nope. Mine.” 

A ripple of amusement runs through the group. Someone whistles. You cross your arms, eyebrows raised in mock affront.

Oscar’s mouth twitches at the corner, betraying the tiniest smile. “That’s not how this works. You let me pick first.” 

“Rock, Paper, Scissors for her?” Lando says cheekily, already raising his hand into position.

I’m right here, you’re tempted to tease, but you’re already red-faced from their attempts to stake claim. Oscar sighs like Lando is the greatest burden on earth. He humors him anyway.

They square up. A few of the engineers start chanting under their breath: “Rock, paper, scissors! Rock, paper, scissors!”

They throw once.

Lando’s scissors against Oscar’s rock.

A loud cheer goes up. Lando groans theatrically, dragging his hands down his face.

“Fine,” Lando grumbles, shooting you half a smirk. “But just know, you’re missing out on being on the winning team.”

You laugh, falling into step next to Oscar as the rest of the group starts getting sorted out.

“Don’t let him fool you,” you tease under your breath. “You’re the only reason this team has a chance.”

Oscar flashes you a look. One warm enough to melt every rational thought right out of your sun-drenched head.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Wouldn't want to win without you anyway.”

You’re still brushing sand from your hands as the games kick off, a whole series of activities spread across the beach: tug-of-war, three-legged races, trivia relays. The energy is infectious, easy to get swept into, almost enough to make you forget about the heavy things hanging in the background—the contracts, the titles, the unspoken rivalries.

Oscar is relentless. Competitive in a way that most people wouldn't expect if they only ever saw his calm interviews. It’s an open secret, just how intense Oscar could get when it came to things like these.

His team moves like a machine, coordinated and precise, while Lando’s team operates with chaotic enthusiasm, making up for what they lack in organization with sheer willpower and noise.

You’re laughing as you hurl yourself into a sack for the next race, the sand hot and uneven under your feet. The world tips violently when you stumble, crashing face-first into the beach. Grit fills your mouth, your skin stings. 

When you push yourself upright, coughing, Oscar is already tossing a snide comment over his shoulder: “Maybe stick to admin work.”

It lands harder than it should. 

Maybe because it’s him. Maybe because it’s been four years of pretending you didn’t really care what Oscar thought of you. The sting rises up quicker than you can shove it down, and it only worsens when you notice Lando’s sharp gaze.

“Mate,” Lando snipes, breaking from his own team to glare at Oscar. “Bit harsh, don’t you think?”

Oscar hesitates, like he realizes it a second too late, but someone calls for the next round and the moment fractures before it can settle into anything more. You paste a smile on your face and dive back into the games like nothing happened.

Like you didn’t just realize that no matter how long you stayed at McLaren, some things might always hurt a little more than they should.

The games end in a tangle of cheers and whoops, Oscar’s team carrying their homemade ‘trophy’—an old beach umbrella someone had scrawled CHAMPIONS across with an orange Sharpie. The sun dips lower, bleeding oranges and reds across the sky, painting everyone in a warm, careless glow. Music drifts the easy beat of a summer song nobody will remember by winter.

You’re crouched at the edge of it all, nursing a plastic cup of water in a bid to fill the hollow feeling buzzing under your ribs. Oscar is somewhere in the throng, a grin splitting his face. He’s pulled into photos, hands slung over shoulders, the weight of his careless comment seemingly long gone from his mind.

You’re fine. You swear you are. 

It’s stupid to let it fester, stupid to feel the prickle of tears when you’ve fought so hard to be seen as part of this team, not just the girl who sends calendar invites and films content.

You want to believe that Oscar hadn’t meant to be cruel, that it’d been adrenaline-fueled trash talk. That the remark wasn’t some thought that’s been on the back of his mind for years now, just waiting for a moment to come to head. 

God, what does it say about you that you’re the one hurt, and you’re still making excuses for Oscar? 

You’re contemplating how soon you can sneak back to the house without making it obvious when Lando drops down beside you, kicking up a puff of sand.

“Hey,” he says, voice low, easy. The kind of ‘hey’ that slips into the cracks you've been trying to mortar over all afternoon.

You smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. Lando notices. Of course he does.

“You’re shit at hiding it, you know,” he adds, nudging your elbow with his.

You huff out a laugh, more breath than sound. “I’m fine.”

He doesn't say anything right away. Just picks at a piece of driftwood half-buried in the sand, giving you enough space to either lie again or actually talk.

The silence stretches, not uncomfortable, but patient. The sky darkens a little more. The ocean breathes in and out.

“You were killing it out there,” Lando offers eventually. “Seriously. You’ve got, like, a mean sack race face.”

A real laugh slips out this time, unguarded, and Lando grins that I-finished-P1 smile again.

“I just…” You dig your toes into the sand. “Sometimes it feels like I’m never going to be… y’know. Actually one of you.”

Lando frowns, properly frowns, like the idea physically pains him. “That’s bull.” 

“Tell that to Oscar.”

“Oscar’s a dick sometimes. We all are. Doesn’t mean we don’t see you. Doesn’t mean you don’t matter.”

It’s said so simply, so plainly, that for a second you don’t know what to do with it.

“You’re McLaren,” Lando insists, nudging you again. Gentler this time. “Always have been.”

Your throat burns. You blink hard at the horizon, refusing to cry over something as stupid as a sack race, and a throwaway comment, and Lando Norris’ sincerity.

Lando stands, brushing the sand from his shorts, and holds out a hand.

“C’mon,” he says. “Bonfire’s starting. I’ll get you the good marshmallows.”

You let him pull you to your feet, the weight in your chest easing just a little. Maybe not everything was perfect. Maybe not everyone saw you the way you wanted. But right now, Lando did.

It’s enough. 

The bonfire spits and crackles as the night sinks deeper, a hundred tiny embers dancing into the dark. Someone’s switched the playlist to slower songs, the kind you know all the words to without trying. 

Lando sticks by you the entire evening.

Making sure you get the first roasted marshmallow. Shoving his hoodie at you when the breeze picks up. Sitting close enough that your knees bump sometimes, casual but intentional. It’s as if he’s decided that tonight, you are his responsibility, and he’s damn well going to make sure you feel wanted.

You don’t care if it’s pity. You let him. You let yourself take all of it, because Oscar’s comment had been a papercut in the thick skin you’d built over the years. Lando soothes it, whether or not he’s aware. 

Across the fire, Oscar laughs at something one of the mechanics says, but you can feel it—the way his gaze finds you when he thinks you’re not looking. The way it sticks, hot and restless.

You force yourself to ignore it. You’re not going to cause a scene. Not here. Not now. Not after everything.

You’re practically sleepwalking by the time you make it back to your room, the party still humming faintly through the walls. You peel off your clothes and collapse onto the bed in Lando’s hoodie, the scent of fire and salt clinging to your skin.

You’re just about to drift off when your phone buzzes against the nightstand. Your lockscreen—a photo of the most recent McLaren 1-2 finish—lights up with a text. 

O. Piastri 🥐🐨 [2:03 AM]: You up?

You stare at it, your heart kicking once, stupid and traitorous. You think about ignoring it.

You don’t.

You [2:05 AM]: barely

The typing dots pop up immediately.

Disappear.

Pop up again.

O. Piastri 🥐🐨 [2:06 AM]: About earlier 

You bite your lip hard enough to sting.

You [2:07 AM]: it’s fine

It’s not. You both know it.

Another pause.

O. Piastri 🥐🐨 [2:09 AM]: It’s not

You sigh into your pillow, the ache behind your eyes starting to burn.

You [2:10 AM]: i don’t want to do this over text

The response comes faster this time.

O. Piastri 🥐🐨 [2:10 AM]: Can we talk tomorrow morning?

You hesitate. The safe thing would be to say no. To let it slide, bury it under the sand and sun and pretend none of it mattered.

But you’re tired of pretending.

You [2:11 AM]: yeah. ok.

Oscar doesn’t reply after that. Your screen goes dark. 

You roll onto your side, pulling the hoodie tighter around yourself, and finally, finally let sleep take you under.

The next morning, you’d been half-hoping Oscar would forget the plan from the night before—pretend it was just another drunken text with no follow-up—but no. He texts about getting breakfast for everybody else; you wait on the porch, your hands shoved in Lando’s hoodie as you groggily wonder why the hell you agreed to this. 

Oscar emerges moments later, cap pulled low, shirt wrinkled, looking like he hates everything about being awake before noon.

“Nice hoodie,” he says, deadpan, barely glancing at you as he shoulders past you and heads towards the direction of the nearest bakery.

You snort, following him into the fresh sting of morning air. “Sorry, didn’t realize there was a dress code for pastry runs.”

“Well, I didn’t realize Lando was your stylist now.”

“And I didn’t realize you cared.”

Oscar cuts a look at you, the edge of his mouth twitching like he’s fighting a smirk or a grimace. It's hard to tell with him sometimes. “I don’t,” he says way too fast.

You bump your shoulder against his as you cross the street. “You’re being weird about this.”

“I’m not being weird,” Oscar mutters, jaw tight. “I’m…” He trails off, kicking a pebble down the sidewalk. “Shit, I’m going about this all wrong.”

You blink at him, mid-step. “About what?”

“Forget it.”

The bakery is tucked into a corner of the sleepy town, all blue awnings and window boxes bursting with flowers. A little bell jingles when you push the door open, the smell of fresh bread and sugar wrapping around you like a hug.

Oscar heads straight for the counter, scanning the rows of pastries with a frown like he’s plotting a strategy. You trail after him, trying not to feel weirdly self-conscious about the hoodie swallowing your frame.

For some reason, both your claws are out. You point out the doughnuts and Oscar makes some snide comment about cavities. He surveys the croissants and you mumble about his predictability. You feel it, then, what he had said earlier. On going about this all wrong. 

You’re convinced the two of you are one sarcastic comment away from a physical altercation when a comment stops you both in your tracks. “You two remind me of my wife and me,” the elderly baker says cheerfully, wiping his hands on a flour-dusted apron as he rings your orders up.

You almost choke. “Oh, we’re not—”

“—Not like that,” Oscar says at the same time, voice a little too sharp.

The baker chuckles, clearly not convinced, and hands over the bags stuffed with pastries. Oscar wordlessly pulls out his wallet, shoving a tip into the jar. Way more than necessary.

You raise an eyebrow as you step outside. “Generous.”

“Guilt tax,” Oscar mutters.

You open your mouth to poke at that—because honestly, it’s too easy—but then you catch the look on his face. Not exactly regretful. More like… determined. Stubborn. That same look he gets right before a race starts when he’s locked in.

For the first time all morning, you wonder if maybe you’re not the only one trying to pretend things don't matter as much as they do.

The walk back to the beach house is quiet, the smell of warm bread thick between you. Just as the house comes back into view, Oscar clears his throat.

“Hey,” he says, his voice lower, realer. “About yesterday. The team games.”

You pause.

“I was a dick. I’m sorry,” he says. 

You glance over. Oscar’s staring straight ahead, knuckles white on the brown paper bag of doughnuts. The one he’d bitched about but still got. 

You let a beat pass. Then: “I accept your apology, But,” you add, grinning, “I’m still gonna tease you forever about getting weird over Lando’s hoodie.”

He lets out a groan of pure suffering. “I wasn’t being weird.” 

“You know,” you say, voice casual, “if it’s that big a deal, I wouldn’t mind wearing one of yours.”

You don’t wait for his reaction. You head towards the house, pastries in tow, leaving Oscar spluttering behind you.

It’s an exhilarating feeling, you realize. You haven’t flirted with Oscar the same way you do with Lando, out of fear that you would simply keel over and give up at first sight of the Australian’s blush. But it’s easier than you thought, and nothing amuses you more than the reddened tips of Oscar’s ears when he comes in after you.

After breakfast, you retreat upstairs for some air. You open your door and stop short.

Sitting neatly on your bed is a hoodie. Folded almost too carefully, like he wasn’t sure if he should leave it at all.

On top, a scrap of paper, the ink a little smudged:

Keep your word. — o.p.

Just like that, he’s back to having that one-up on you. 

You hastily pull off Lando’s hoodie and tug on Oscar’s without thinking. The sleeves swallow your hands; the fabric is warm in a recently-got-ironed kind of way, and it smells faintly of soap and sunscreen.

Is it too late to keel over? 

The pool gleams under the sun, finally coaxed into full operation after a solid day of half the team fighting with buttons and levers. Someone’s pulled out a portable sound mixer. Someone else has brought out mocktails. The air buzzes with a rare, lazy kind of joy.

You’re sitting on a deck chair, wrapped up in Oscar’s hoodie, sipping something neon pink through a straw. Honestly, it’s too warm to be in a hoodie, but you’ll be damned to not ‘keep your word’. Besides, the knowing smile that Oscar tries to fight is worth the sweat on your back. 

One of your co-workers, Chloe, plops down next to you.

“This is not very hot girl summer of you,” she whines, tugging at Oscar’s hoodie like a child. 

You wrinkle your nose. “It’s a perfectly fine hoodie, Chlo.” 

“You know what would be even more fine? The bikini sitting at the bottom of your suitcase.” 

“Did you rummage through—” 

“Tomato, tomato. Put on the damn swimsuit you bought specifically for this trip!” Chloe punctuates the threat with a pointed look. The kind that says, Don’t make me drag you. You have no doubts she’d do it, too, so you set down your drink with a groan of dramatic reluctance. 

“If I get sunburnt, I’m blaming you,” you grumble as she cheers and practically shoves you back into the house. 

In your room, you peel off the hoodie and shorts before swapping them for the bikini—a simple black two-piece that suddenly feels much more revealing now that you actually have to walk back out in it. 

The chatter quiets a fraction when you step out. Not dramatically, but enough that you notice. Enough that Lando’s eyebrows climb a little higher than normal. Even Oscar’s head turns, his lips parting slightly in what might be surprise if he wasn’t quick enough in hiding it.

“Finally decided to join the rest of us mortals,” Lando crows, tossing a beach ball between his hands. “Looking good, admin.”

You roll your eyes but can’t quite fight the smile tugging at your mouth. Before you can even think about easing into the pool like a normal person, Lando and Oscar exchange a look. A look you recognize all too late.

“Don’t you dare—” you’re starting, but it doesn’t matter. 

Too late.

Lando goes low, grabbing you by the ankles. Oscar effortlessly hauls you up with strong arms through your middle. You’re swung around a bit for good measure, and then you’re airborne for half a heartbeat before crashing into the pool with a splash.

The water is warm from the sun, but it still shocks the breath out of you. You surface, sputtering, as Lando and Oscar double over with laughter. Everyone else watches on with the same amusement, knowing the boys’ tendencies for mischief when they were in a particular mood. 

“You absolute menaces,” you declare, wiping water from your face. “I think I twisted my ankle, man.”

Oscar’s laughter cuts off instantly. “Wait, seriously?” His brow furrows, and before you can blink, he’s crouched at the edge of the pool, leaning down to get a closer look.

“Which one?” he asks, already reaching to haul you out.

You grab his outstretched hand and yank.

Oscar yelps—an actual, undignified yelp—as you drag him headfirst into the water beside you.

He resurfaces, blinking water from his lashes, completely betrayed. “You—”

You’re already laughing, kicking away from him. 

“That’s for the sack race comment!” you crow, paddling backward.

He shakes his head, grinning despite himself. “I thought we were past that,” he calls out, splashing water in your eyes. You retaliate before attempting to dart away. 

The afternoon blurs into sun-drenched chaos. People drift in and out of the pool, mock battles and splash wars springing up as naturally as breathing. The laughter is loud, the water warm, and for a while, everything feels suspended, easy.

Mid-afternoon, someone shouts “Chicken fight!” and it's immediately game on. Chloe clambers onto Oscar’s shoulders without hesitation, while you tread water nearby, laughing at the whole ridiculousness of it.

Before you can react, strong hands wrap around your waist.

“My turn, love,” Lando announces triumphantly, already hoisting you up onto his shoulders. “You were on Oscar’s team last time. You’re mine now.” 

You squeal, half from shock, half from trying to stay balanced as Lando’s hands steady you by your thighs. Your heart stumbles a little. His grip is firm, his fingers warm and sure against the hem of your bikini bottoms. 

You catch Oscar looking at you from below Chloe, his gaze a little too intense for something as stupid as a pool game. Your stomach flips uneasily.

Focus, you tell yourself. This is supposed to be fun.

It’s fun to have Chloe lunge at you, her giggles bright as she sinks her nails into your sunburnt shoulders. It’s fun to have Lando moving underneath you, shouting up reassurances like get her and that’s my girl. It’s fun to feel Oscar watching your every move, and not because he’s strategizing. 

You thread your fingers through Lando’s hair as Chloe tries to push you backward. Lando’s hands shift slightly higher on your thighs, nearly underneath your bikini. Maybe by accident, maybe not. You feel the difference immediately. An inch more of skin under his touch, a flash of heat that makes your breath catch.

You’re still trying to process that when, all of a sudden, Lando jerks underneath you with a loud “Oof!” and sinks halfway underwater.

Chloe shrieks in laughter, nearly tumbling off Oscar.

You slide off Lando’s shoulders in the commotion, landing back in the water with a splash. As you surface, you catch a glimpse of Oscar, looking absolutely unapologetic as he pulls back his leg. 

Lando pops up a moment later. He’s wheezing, his hands clasped over his swim shorts. “What the hell, Osc!” he rasps, the sound punched out of him after being ungraciously kneed in the groin. 

Oscar shrugs, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Slipped.”

You cough out a laugh, half in disbelief. Chloe floats past you, cackling.

Lando glares at Oscar, but that eventually cracks into a grin. “C’mere, you,” the Brit coos, lunging for his co-driver. Before his head can be shoved down, Oscar throws you a wink—quick, private.

Your cheeks burn hotter than the sun overhead, and you duck underwater before anyone can comment on it.

That day’s dinner stretches into the warm evening, the long table lined with empty plates, half-drunk glasses of wine, and the low hum of conversation. The sun dips lower, casting everything in a syrupy, forgiving glow. It feels almost perfect, if not for the gnawing restlessness you can’t quite name.

For once, neither Lando nor Oscar are by your side.

Lando leans back in his chair, laughing at something one of the engineers says, his fingers curled around a sweating can of soda. Oscar is farther down the table, deep in a serious discussion with one of the strategists, his brow furrowed in that familiar, endearing way.

You’re free to breathe, to think. It’s then that the reality of the summer settles in, heavy and unrelenting.

Everyone’s been talking about it in hushed tones when they think the drivers aren’t listening. 

Will Lando stay with McLaren? After years of loyalty, of being the heart and soul of the team, will he finally walk away for a shot at something different, something better? 

And Oscar—Oscar, who’s no longer just the promising rookie but the reigning World Champion—faces the brutal weight of defending everything he’s fought for. Will he make it? Will he relent, or will he be something greater than what was expected of him? 

You can feel it thrumming under every casual exchange, every shared joke. The quiet tug-of-war. The clash of futures neither of them are quite ready to admit they want different things from.

And yet, somehow, it’s you who feels pulled taut between them.

Lando catches your eye across the table and winks. Easy, breezy, the same way he always has. He makes it seem as if there’s nothing complicated about any of this.

Almost immediately after, Oscar glances up from his conversation and smiles at you. Soft and crooked, like you’re the one safe thing in a world that’s otherwise slipping sideways.

Your chest tightens.

You’re caught, but you don't even know what in. Caught between loyalty and ambition. Between the comfort of what’s always been and the thrill, the fear, of what might change. Between two boys who are friends, rivals, teammates and something else you’re not sure you want to name.

You pick at your food, your appetite long gone, and wonder when exactly this summer stopped feeling endless and started feeling like a ticking clock.

The summer heat is clinging to everything. It’s the kind that demands you do something, anything before you’re swallowed whole.

Plans start to splinter over breakfast.

“Surf’s up,” Oscar says, tossing a board into the back of one of the jeeps. The sun catches in his hair, making him look unfairly effortless. “Who’s in?”

“Or,” Lando calls out from the kitchen, a trail of crumbs following his words, “we could do something that doesn’t involve dying under a wave. There’s a sick hiking trail up the cliffs. Views are unreal.”

There’s a beat, and then the divide begins. Some of the team flock toward Oscar, lured by the thrill of the ocean; others gravitate to Lando, drawn to the promise of a rugged adventure.

You stand in the middle, heart hammering a little too hard for something that’s supposed to be casual. Supposed to be fun.

It feels like a metaphor you’re not ready to face.

“You’re not coming?” Lando asks, mock-offended, pulling a pout that would be funny if it didn’t make something in your chest ache. “Gonna miss you,” he adds, lighter, teasing.

Oscar, carrying two boards now, smirks over his shoulder. “Guess she’s tired of babysitting you, Lan.”

You force a laugh you don't quite feel. “Maybe I just need a break from both of you.”

They both react predictably. Lando clutches his heart in fake agony, Oscar shakes his head with a quiet chuckle. You don’t wait for more. You duck back into the house, the coolness of the shaded hallway swallowing you up.

For the first time in days, you’re alone.

You wonder if choosing yourself is just another way of choosing at all.

You spend the afternoon alone, and it’s a kind of peace you didn’t realize you needed.

The beach house creaks with the slow, easy rhythm of the ocean breeze. You move from room to room without urgency. Sometimes reading on the porch, sometimes just watching the water glitter beyond the dunes.

By the time the sun starts to slip lower, you hear footsteps, wet and clumsy on the deck. Oscar appears first, his wetsuit peeled down to his waist. Sand dusting his hair and shoulders, water still dripping from his grin.

You laugh despite yourself. “Come here,” you say, the affection leaking into your tone before you can hold it back.

Oscar ambles over, letting you reach up and card your fingers through his messy hair, brushing the sand out with a few playful tugs. His gaze is steady on yours, warm enough that you have to focus on some nondescript point past him to hide the way your face heats.

“Had fun?” you ask for the sake of asking. 

He raises his shoulders in a shrug, his eyes never leaving your face. “Could have been more fun,” he says simply, his words loaded with implication you’re not about to confront. 

Oscar opens his mouth to say something else—

The door swings open again. Loud. Dramatic.

Lando stumbles in with a theatrical groan, one hand clutching his shin. “Ow. Ow. Pretty sure I’m dying.”

You arch a brow. “You’re so full of it,” you accuse, dropping your hands from Oscar’s hair. 

“Seriously,” he insists, dragging himself toward the couch like he’s reenacting the third act of a war movie. “Tragic end to a heroic hike.”

You roll your eyes but motion him over anyway, reaching for the first aid kit you know is stashed under the side table. When Lando props his leg up, you find a scrape. Minor. Nothing to justify the Oscar-worthy performance.

Still, you crouch beside him, carefully dabbing at the cut.

“Big baby,” you mutter.

Lando grins, completely unashamed. “Worked, didn’t it?”

You look up, catching the cheeky glint in his eye. The very obvious satisfaction of having pulled your attention away from Oscar.

You shake your head, biting back a laugh. “Unbelievable.”

Lando snickers. Oscar, toweling off his hair nearby, watches the exchange with a faint shake of his head. A half-smile tugs at his mouth like he can’t even pretend to be annoyed.

You tape a bandage neatly over Lando’s scrape, pretending not to feel the weight of both of their gazes pressing into you from opposite ends of the room.

The bonfire crackles in the pit, casting gold onto every face circled around it. You’re seated between Oscar and Lando—close enough that your knees brush both of theirs. It wasn’t planned. Just the way the night unfolded. Just the way they looked at you when you arrived, and the way neither of them moved an inch as you lowered yourself into the space between.

Lando’s been chatty all evening, but now his voice takes on a teasing edge.

“So,” he says, leaning back on his palms. “You seeing anyone?”

“That’s direct,” you hum, gaze focused on the s’more in front of you that won’t cooperate. 

He grins, eyes glinting in the firelight. “I’m just saying. You’ve been dodging the topic for, what, four summers now?”

Oscar shifts beside you. Just barely.

“You always seem very invested in my love life,” you comment, though you can already feel your heart picking up.

“I’m invested in you,” Lando says plainly. “That’s not a crime, is it?”

Oscar lets out a sound that might’ve been a scoff. “Back off, mate.”

The air thins like someone’s turned off the music. Everything goes on around the three of you, but in this little corner of the bonfire, something blaze and burns in a different way. 

Lando raises a brow, turning toward Oscar. “What? We’re just talking.”

Oscar doesn’t meet his gaze. “You’re grilling her,” he grunts, shoving his stick into the sand with uncharacteristic force. 

“I’m curious.”

“You’re nosy.”

“Okay,” you interject. “Let’s not fight over me like I’m some prize, yeah?”

Lando leans forward, elbows on his knees now, attention swinging back to you. “We’re not fighting.”

Oscar speaks without looking. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You look between them. Their faces both angled toward the fire now, lit in shifting amber tones. There it is again—the live wire of tension crackling between the two of them, beneath Lando’s wicked smirk and Oscar’s bouncing knee. 

Except it’s not about racing, now, is it? 

Lando taps your knee, snapping you out of your thoughts. “So? Are you?”

You chuckle, deflecting. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Oscar huffs beside you. Lando chuckles.

The laughter and music swell again. But nothing really returns to normal.

It’s an uneasy thought that makes a home in your bones all the way until the next day. The morning sun streams through the sheer curtains, lighting the hallway in a sleepy glow. Your footsteps are slow against the wooden floor as you pad barefoot toward the kitchen, the house quiet save for distant clinks of coffee mugs.

You nearly bump into Oscar rounding the corner. His hair’s a mess, still damp from the shower, and there’s a barely-there smile tugging at his lips.

“Morning,” he greets. “Didn’t think I’d run into you before the chaos starts.”

You frown, still foggy from sleep. “What chaos?”

He blinks, then breaks out into a wider smile. Amused, fond. “You forgot?”

You stare at him, confused, until it hits you.

The annual sand rail race.

Every summer, tucked into the off-season downtime, it’s the one competition that’s just for bragging rights. The leaderboard is even scrawled on a whiteboard in the garage, a running tally of victories and sore losers. So far, it’s 2-2. Lando and Oscar locked in their own personal tie.

Oscar watches the realization dawn on your face. “Right,” you murmur. “Race day.”

“Mm.” He studies you for a beat. “Hey.”

You glance up at him.

“I know you’re not a prize to be won,” he says, voice a little quieter now. “That’s not what this is.”

You nod slowly, watching him. You don’t know where this conversation is going. You’re not sure if you want to know. 

“But, uhm…” He trails off, his gaze flicking down to the walls before finding your eyes again. “I hope you’ll be rooting for me.”

The sheer sincerity of it nearly bowls you over. It’s not a command, not an order. It’s a wistful invitation, a shy confession made by a man who typically knew how to ask for anything else. But this was not a weekend off or a car upgrade. Hell, it wasn’t even anything consequential—not a date, not anything like that. 

Just for you to root for him. And yet he asks for it as if it’s something that matters, that makes everything do-or-die, and you wish it didn’t affect you as much as it does. 

You put on a front. You tilt your head, lips tugging up despite the hammering of your heart underneath your ribs. “That depends.”

“On?”

“Whether you bring me coffee before the race.”

Oscar scoffs. “Bribery. Noted.”

But he’s smiling as he passes you, his shoulder brushing yours. And there’s coffee waiting for you when you get to the kitchen, poured into the mug that Oscar has repeatedly claimed as his. 

You sip from it, feeling the weight of the day shift. Something in the air is charged. Not just about the race, but everything teetering around it.

The sand rail track near the house buzzes with energy as the McLaren staff and team trickle in, excitement thrumming in the air. Someone brings a clipboard to track the bets. Within minutes, a frenzy of numbers and names clutters the surface. Playful taunts echo between the team members, each person rooting for either Lando or Oscar with a kind of fervor usually reserved for proper race days.

You slip your own bet into the mix quietly. You don't reveal it when one of the engineers presses you for an answer. You just shake your head and let them assume whatever they want. After all, it feels a little too intimate, too weighted, to share out loud.

When you make your way to the sidelines, Lando catches your eye. His grin is crooked, and he tosses you a flying kiss as he climbs into his sand rail buggy, helmet tucked under his arm. Oscar, a few meters away, adjusts his gloves with practiced ease, the sharp set of his jaw betraying his focus.

The start is as lawless as you would expect from the two of them.

Engines roar to life with a guttural snarl, tires kicking up dry sand as they lurch forward. Lando takes an aggressive line right off the bat, cutting tight against the first corner, his buggy tilting precariously before settling.

Oscar, ever the tactician, plays it smoother. He hangs back just enough to find a cleaner line, aiming for consistency instead of showmanship. His turns are precise, efficient, the kind of calculated risk that usually pays dividends on the track.

But Lando—Lando races like the world might end tomorrow. 

His buggy dances across the sand, skimming close to the edge of control. His reckless daring makes your stomach twist with nerves and awe in equal measure.

Lap after lap, they trade the lead in a blur of flying sand and roaring engines. The track isn't long, but it’s rough and unforgiving, peppered with bumps and hairpin turns.

On the final lap, it’s neck and neck. You can feel the tension in the crowd, everyone leaning forward unconsciously, breath held. Money is on the line, sure, but so is pride. And something else, something you’re not ready to admit. 

Oscar has the inside line on the last major turn. Lando guns it anyway, swinging wide, almost off-track—only to slingshot past in the final straight with a burst of speed that has everyone screaming.

Lando crosses the makeshift finish line a second ahead of Oscar. He throws his arms up in victory even before the sand settles. 

The cheers are deafening.

You clap along with everyone else, and your heart pounds for reasons that have nothing to do with the race itself.

Later, the house is alive with celebration. 

The playlist is one of Lando’s favorites, and a cooler filled with drinks appears out of nowhere. Lando is hoisted onto someone’s shoulders for a victory lap around the deck, soaking in the glory. Everyone is loud, laughing, riding the high of a race that felt more like a championship showdown than a friendly bout.

Oscar is nowhere to be seen. 

You slip away from the noise, letting the sound of celebration blur into the background. The beach dock stretches out ahead, wooden planks weathered and warm beneath your feet. There, at the edge, Oscar sits with his feet dangling just above the water, his arms braced behind him as he stares out at the horizon.

You wordlessly sit beside him, close but not touching, letting the silence settle for a beat.

“I should’ve had that,” Oscar mutters, his voice low and rough. He doesn't look at you. He’s not usually the type to take unkindly to losses; he’s always the type to make some comment about wanting to finish one place higher whenever he’s P2, but he doesn’t sulk. He doesn’t wallow. 

He does tonight. You don’t know why. 

“You almost did,” you offer, and Oscar scoffs. 

“Almost doesn’t count.”

You pull your legs up, crossing them underneath you. “It’s a bummer,” you concede. “Especially now that I’m fifteen dollars down ‘cause of you.” 

That earns a glance. His brows lift, eyes searching your face. “Seriously?”

You nod. “You asked me to bet on you, didn’t you?” 

Oscar huffs a laugh, but there’s something soft behind it. His shoulder brushes yours when he shifts.

His gaze drops briefly to your mouth.

It plays out like a movie scene, like something you’d imagined time and time again as some sort of maladaptive daydream. You’re frozen, focused on the way Oscar looks underneath the moonlight. How he shifts imperceptibly closer. How he leans in soundlessly, as if he might scare the moment otherwise. 

Your eyes flutter close. 

And then—

“CANNONBALL!”

Your eyes snap open just in time. Lando sails over both your heads in a blur of tanned limbs and unchecked chaos, crashing into the water with an explosive splash. Saltwater sprays over you and Oscar, dousing the moment in cold.

You yelp, shielding your face too late, and Oscar jerks back, blinking in disbelief.

Lando resurfaces with a triumphant whoop, grinning brightly. “Did I interrupt something?” he calls, treading water with the ease of someone completely unbothered.

Oscar wipes his face with a groan. “Go to hell, man.”

You can’t help but laugh, even as your heart is still hammering in your chest.

The moment’s gone, but it lingers in the edges, in the way Oscar’s hand almost finds yours again on the dock, in the way you both glance toward the water and then back at each other, unsure of what comes next. Lando, dripping in seawater and drunk on his earlier victory, pulls everybody in for a swim.

You follow, hopeful it will help you forget.

It doesn’t.

The beach house quiets into the low hum of waves and the distant buzz of the crickets outside. Most everyone is asleep or pretending to be. You toss and turn, too wired to drift off, your mind replaying the moment by the dock on a loop: Oscar’s closeness, the soft look in his eyes, the way he leaned in like gravity had decided for the both of you. 

Until Lando, in all his chaotic timing, had crashed down from the sky like a rogue asteroid.

Eventually, you give up. You throw on a hoodie—not Oscar’s, not Lando’s, just your own—and pad into the kitchen, the floorboards creaking under your steps. The fridge hums gently in the corner, and you pull out a glass, filling it with water from the tap.

You don’t notice Lando until he speaks.

"Can’t sleep either?"

He’s leaning against the counter, shirtless, a half-eaten packet of biscuits in one hand. His hair’s a mess and there’s a kind of easy, rare quiet around him.

You start, nearly dropping your glass. Squint at Lando through the darkness of the kitchen, you can’t help but hiss, “Why are you just standing there in the dark?”

“I like the dramatic effect.”

“Well, congrats. You scared me.”

He waves a biscuit like a peace offering. “Want one?”

You shake your head, and he shrugs before popping it in his mouth. There’s a moment of silence, the kind that teeters between awkward and intimate. Then Lando tilts his head at you, chewing slowly.

“Can you keep a secret?”

Your lips pull into a frown. “What kind of secret?”

He pushes off the counter and walks over. He doesn’t comment when your eyes flick over to his toned abdomen or his bare shoulders; if anything, the way he leans against the island across you means he wants you to keep looking. “Two secrets, actually,” he says conspiratorially. 

You raise your eyebrows, intrigued. In the dark kitchen, you can make out the beginnings of Lando’s toothy smile. He knows he has you hook, line, sinker. 

He holds up one finger. “First, I only just realized this summer that you—” He gestures vaguely in your direction, then clears his throat. “You’re actually really pretty. Like, ridiculously. And I don’t know if that’s new or if I’ve just been blind.”

“Oh, fuck off.” 

“I’m serious. Hey, look at me.” His eyes are surprisingly intense as he forces you to hold his gaze, willing it purely through sincerity alone. “You’re attractive. I’m not about to deny that fact just because you don’t want to hear it.” 

Your mouth feels dry. Your palms feel clammy. You suddenly wish you’d just slept off your unease.

“Second secret,” he continues, tone shifting. There’s something much more serious, now. Something consequential. “Except you can’t tell a soul. I mean it.” 

“Norris, I swear—” 

“There’s an email from another team,” Lando divulges, as casually as he might comment on the weather, “burning a hole in my phone.” 

There had been whispers, of course. In the paddock. In the McLaren garage. In the media room. Anywhere and everywhere Lando Norris’ name existed. 

Someone reported that it was Red Bull. A strategist ran numbers and alleged it was Mercedes. 

But there had been no confirmation, no slip-up from the managers or team principals. Negotiations were made behind closed doors. Decisions trickled down after the fact, and rarely were people like you aware before the news was already meant to break. 

Now, though, you find your stomach twisting as Lando stares at you through the darkness. He suddenly feels much like the sand outside this beach house—slipping right through your fingers. 

“Are you leaving?” you manage. 

He looks at you for a long beat, assessing the question you’ve decided to ask, then smiles faintly.

“Dunno yet,” he says. “Guess I’m waiting for something worth staying for.”

The air stills around you. For a moment, the two of you only look at each other, trapped in this summertime snow globe of indecision. The only sounds are the gentle clink of the glass as you set it down—the weight of it suddenly too heavy for your quivering fingers—and the ocean beyond the walls. The one that has seen you through four years of summers with Lando and Oscar. 

“What does that mean?” you exhale, even though you already have some idea. 

Lando grins, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’re smart,” he says. Not in a taunt, but in a matter-of-fact way. “You’ll figure it out.”

He bites into another biscuit, winks, and walks out of the kitchen, leaving you standing there with the world’s most damning secret. 

You’re in your head for most of the next day.

Lando’s words keep circling back, like a tide you can't fight: Something worth staying for. You wish he’d said it with a little less charm, a little less Lando. But he hadn’t. He’d said it with that easy smile, the one that hides how serious he might be underneath. The one that makes it impossible to tell whether he means any of it or all of it. 

So now you’re stuck with it. The way he looked at you in the dim kitchen light. The way he popped another biscuit into his mouth like he hadn’t just handed you a loaded gun and walked off, not even watching his back to see if you’d shoot him.

Everything feels sideways. Every time you pass him in the hallway, your pulse does something stupid. Every laugh over breakfast, every casual brush of his arm against yours. It’s like something has shifted. Something that makes your skin buzz.

And Oscar feels it.

You know he does because he’s been trying to catch you alone all day. In the kitchen, during meals, on the walk down to the beach. But you keep dodging, not even consciously. You’re just not ready to talk about what almost happened. Not while the words worth staying for keep ringing in your ears.

By the time the sun dips low and the smell of dinner wafts through the beach house, Oscar gives up. He stops chasing, stops looking for the right moment.

But he doesn’t stop looking at you.

He sits across the room that night, slouched into the cushions, nursing a drink he hasn’t touched in half an hour. There’s something quiet in his posture, something that reads like retreat. His gaze is soft when it finds yours.

No longer searching, just lingering. Like he’s memorizing you before something ends.

And you? You’re still stuck, still wondering what Lando saw in you last night that made him say it. It’s driving you crazy, and you refuse to let it give you any more grief beyond the time you’ve already dwelled on it. 

The tide whispers in and out as you jog along the wet sand, trailing the shape of Lando’s footprints.

You see him before he sees you. His silhouette cutting through the misted sun, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, curls damp with sweat. He’s always moved like this, light on his feet, like running is more instinct than effort.

“Lando,” you call out, voice too loud in the quiet.

He slows. “Morning,” he greets, brows arching as you fall in beside him, breathless and determined. It’s the second to the last day of the week-long retreat. A little over 24 hours since Lando entrusted you with the two halves of his heart. 

You don’t stutter. “I can’t be the reason you stay.”

That stops him. Full stop, mid-stride. His breath clouds between you. “Whoa. You’ve been stewing on that all this time?” 

“I don’t want that on me,” you insist. “If you stay, it has to be for the team. For you. For Osc—Piastri.”

Lando blinks. Then, his face breaks out into a knowing grin, curling around your sincerity. Not to snuff it out, but more to let it take hold. 

“You really thought I was serious?” he says, half-laughing. “I was mostly joking. Kind of.”

You cross your arms. Lando is deflecting, trying to make it seem less than it really is, but you’re not about to call him out. 

He runs a hand through his curls, then looks at you—really looks. The same way Oscar had last night, as if he’s trying to figure out which parts of you he can beg and barter for. 

“I don’t think I’m done here,” he admits, decides. “I think I can still get a couple more championships with McLaren.” 

A relieved sigh escapes you. “Okay, that’s—” 

“And as for my other secret,” he interrupts, his hands planting on his hips. His tone is lighter, but his words are not any less cutting. “There’s always gonna be something between you and Osc, huh?” 

You freeze. 

You’d almost forgotten that. The ‘secret’ of Lando realizing you’re attractive, of him seeing you some other way than what you’re accustomed to. You try to stutter out some bullshit excuse, only to realize you had two hoodies to choose from today, and the one you’re wearing is not Lando’s. 

His words land heavier than his tone suggests, but he doesn’t linger. Instead, he flashes a grin and steps back, putting space between you. Just enough to see if you’ll pull him back in.

You don’t.

“Go ahead. Have your fun with him,” Lando says. Easy, breezy. “But when I get that WDC, I’m coming back to collect.”

He’s gone before you can respond, before you can discern if his words are a threat or a promise. Sand kicks up behind him as he disappears into the dawn. McLaren’s golden boy, setting course for the sun. 

That night, the energy is heavy and sparkling—like the last few drops of something good that's about to run out.

The group piles into the living room, a mess of sunburnt faces and half-drunk laughter. Everyone is tangled up in cushions and throw blankets. An empty bottle of vodka spins over the floor, clinking against the hardwood as it points and wobbles. The rules are easy: truth or dare, no take backs, no running away.

You’re trying not to stare at Oscar.

You’ve spent the better part of the day trying to catch him alone. Every time you moved toward him, he moved away, so you gave up after a while. You couldn’t blame him. You hadn’t exactly made yourself easy to reach lately, and he had his pride.

The bottle spins again. Spins and spins.

Eventually, it teeters to a stop and points squarely at Oscar.

A whoop goes up from the group. Someone slurs, “Truth or dare, Piastri!”

“Truth,” he answers, tongue already heavy and words just a bit slurred. 

Someone from accounting leans forward, grinning wickedly. “Have you ever had a crush on someone from McLaren?”

It’s the sort of drunk, easy question everyone expects to be laughed off. Everyone expects some half-hearted dodge, some teasing deflection.

But Oscar doesn’t even blink.

“Yeah,” he says simply, his eyes steady.

Laughter ripples through the room. Someone shouts, “Who?!”

And then. 

And then. 

Oscar’s gaze finds you across the crowd, unwavering. The whole room feels like it tilts sideways. 

You forget how to breathe.

He says your name. You’re tipsy, but you’re fairly sure of it. Your name has always sounded different when Oscar said it. 

The room goes still for a moment before exploding into hoots and teasing cheers. “Mate,” Lando crows at his side, half-drunk and loud, “you’ve noticed the glow-up too, huh? She’s different this summer, right?”

Oscar frowns, almost like he doesn’t understand the joke. You feel every molecule of air between you stretch thin.

His next words are an absentminded mumble, almost lost to the clamor of activity in the circle. 

“It’s not just this summer,” he says to no one in particular. 

You don’t know what to do with your hands. With your heart. With the way Oscar is looking at you like you hung the stars. 

Has he always looked at you like this? 

You’re not sure who moves first. The bottle spins again. More shots get passed around. This is the part of the summer you’d been waiting for. 

Knowing something has shifted. Knowing nothing is ever going to feel quite the same again.

Oscar groans the moment he sits down at breakfast, squinting at his plate like it’s personally offended him. You offer him an Aspirin and a sympathetic grin. 

“Rough night?” 

He scowls half-heartedly as he rubs at his temples. “Who even brought out the tequila?”

“That would be you,” you inform him brightly, plucking a piece of toast from his plate.

You fall into a companionable silence as the rest of the team trickles in, blurry-eyed and sun-kissed from too much fun. Packing starts soon. The last full day hangs heavy, sweet with goodbyes not yet said.

Later, as you help Oscar load his things into the boot of his car, the air between you shifts. Enough to make you slow down. You fold up a beach towel, glancing at him from the corner of your eye.

You’re both dragging your feet through the sand, both trying to extend this moment before you’re thrown back into the whirlwind of race weekends and media obligations. 

“Hey, uh,” he starts tentatively, “about last night. The game. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful.”

You blink, confused. “Disrespectful?” 

“Yeah.” He tongues the inside of his cheek, looking younger than you’ve ever seen him. “You know, since you and Lando are—you know.” 

No, you don’t know. You’re not sure where the wrong impression might’ve landed, but you figure it’s somewhere between the day you spent ignoring Oscar and your lackluster reaction to his drunken admission. 

“We’re not,” you say, your words tripping over each other in their haste. “Lando and I—we’re not.” 

Oscar lifts a brow. “Really?” 

“Really,” you confirm, heart stammering now. You look down at your feet, breathe in the oceanside one last time, and you make a choice.

“I, um. I’ve liked you for a while, actually,” you manage. “I just didn’t think you felt the same. And I don’t expect anything now, I mean—people say things when they’re drunk, and—” 

Oscar Piastri wants it on record: gravity has nothing to do with him kissing you. The choice is all his. His desperation, his yearning, his urge to quiet the doubts that threaten to bubble out of you. 

It’s a quick thing. Over before you can properly respond. His cheeks are red as he pulls back; it has nothing to do with the sun. 

There’s something serious in his gaze. Something soft. “I was drunk, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t mean it,” he says, eyes still fixed on your lips. “I’ve thought you were beautiful since the day I met you at MTC.” 

You open your mouth, but all that escapes is a quiet, stunned breath.

“And, fuck, okay,” he exhales nervously, “I think I want more than just summers with you.” 

You don’t overthink it. You lean in, hands curling into the front of his shirt. “Okay,” you whisper, and then you’re pulling him in to kiss him again, for longer, for more.

This time, he doesn’t pull away.

The house is half-empty by the time you're saying your see you laters, the air thick with that bittersweet ache that always clings to the end of something golden. People are hugging, snapping last-minute selfies, pretending they’re not already thinking about inboxes and deadlines. 

You’re not pretending. Not today.

You’re watching Oscar load the last of the bags into his car, quiet and sure, the way he always moves when he thinks no one’s paying attention. There’s something unmistakable in the way he glances at you, like this week didn’t just change the rhythm of your summer but the shape of something much bigger.

You think about the other summers, the ones you thought were just fun and fleeting. You remember tequila shots Oscar took so you didn’t have to, the quiet way he always offered you the window seat on the flight home. 

That first summer, when he set down his hoodie on the sand so you wouldn’t have to sit on it, and you’d laughed and called him a grandma. 

You hadn’t seen it then. Or maybe you had, but you were too afraid to believe it.

Lando swings by with a backpack slung over his shoulder, squinting at the two of you with that trademark mischief. His eyes flick from you to Oscar, back again. He doesn’t say anything; he doesn’t have to. Just smirks knowingly and claps Oscar on the shoulder.

You grin, wide and wordless, and toss Lando a little wave as he heads for his own ride. Thank you, it says. For not making it weird. For always knowing.

Lando waves back at you. It’s strategic, too. His phone is in his hand, the screen angled towards you. You catch the glimpse of his Mail app being open. How there’s nothing unread in it, how he makes his own choice at the same time that you do. 

Your attention is drawn back to Oscar when he clears his throat. “You, uh, still need a ride?” he asks with feigned calmness. 

You lift a brow, biting back a giddy grin. “You’re going the complete opposite direction.”

“Roads are roads,” he says, like it’s that simple.

And, somehow, it is.

You slide into the passenger seat, folding your legs up as Oscar starts the engine. The breeze curls in through the open windows. It smells like salt, and sun, and something you never want to forget.

The road curves away from the coast, and still, summer clings to your skin, sinking into your bones. For the first time in a long time, you don’t dread what’s on the other side of it.

Oscar glances at you as you stick one hand out the window, letting the breeze slip between your fingers. You hadn’t noticed it then, but you do now. How he looks at you, how he saves smiles for you. 

When he recognizes the telltale signs of a newly engaged pair, he leans forward, forearms on the table, voice warm but edged with professional mischief. “Congratulations,” he says. “When’s the big day?”

They share a look. The woman says, “Oh—we haven’t set a date yet.”

“Well,” Oscar says, lowering his voice just enough to feel conspiratorial, “whenever it is, make sure you get a prenup. Best gift you can give yourselves, trust me. Think of it as insurance. Romance-proof.”

The fiancée’s smile falters. The fiancé tilts his head, as if trying to work out if Oscar’s joking. He isn’t. By the time you glance up, the conversation is mid-sentence and heading straight for a cliff. “Piastri!” you snap, sliding out of your chair like a general striding into battle. “What the hell are you doing?”

He sits back, lazy grin in place. “Just offering professional advice. You know. Free consultation.”

The couple look between you and him, confusion thick enough to stir into their cappuccinos. “Do you know him?” the groom-to-be asks carefully.

“Unfortunately,” you grit out. “That’s Oscar. He’s a divorce attorney. Which explains why he’s trying to assassinate your wedding before it even starts.”

“I’m not assassinating,” Oscar protests mildly. “I’m safeguarding. Big difference.”

You plant your hands on your hips. “You’re meddling. Again.”

The bride-to-be laughs nervously, still unsure if this is a bit. Oscar reaches into his jacket pocket, produces a sleek business card, and slides it across the table toward them with the kind of flourish usually reserved for magicians revealing the queen of hearts. Oscar Jack Piastri, it says. Associate Attorney at Brown & Stella, PLLC. 

“In case you change your mind,” he says. His tone is maddeningly polite, as though he’s offering directions to the nearest subway station.

You snatch the card before it can land. He raises both hands in mock surrender, pushes back from his chair, and retreats to his own table by the window. He glances at you one last time; you look like you’re resisting the urge to throw a sugar packet at his head. Turning back to your clients, you smooth your skirt and force a professional smile. “So,” he hears you say, as if the last sixty seconds never happened, “let’s talk about the wedding.” 

Oscar, nursing the last of his coffee, watches you slip into that peculiar rhythm you have. The one that’s equal parts dreamy and surgical. You’re talking to the couple now, voice low but animated, eyes alight. They lean in, enchanted, and Oscar can’t decide if it’s the story you’re selling or the way you sell it.

Your pen glides over your notepad as you sketch out ideas. Ivy-wrapped arches, candlelit dinners, first dances under fairy lights. You tilt your head as you listen, nodding with the kind of reverence usually reserved for religious confessionals. You treat their love like it’s sacred, like you believe in it. And maybe that’s what gets him.

It’s been a while since Oscar has been in love with you, after all.

Not that he’s admitting it aloud. He never has, never will. But it was there, once. 

Back in high school, when he’d sit two rows behind you in AP Lit and pretend he wasn’t staring while you debated the symbolism of a green light with a ferocity that could scare lesser mortals. You were sunshine with sharp edges, a hopeless romantic who didn’t mind being right about everything. He was the cynic with a dry remark always cocked and ready. You butted heads over everything. Song lyrics, cafeteria pizza, the proper ranking of Bond actors. He thought it was exhausting. He also thought it was the best part of his day. Somewhere along the way, you grew into different lives but kept orbiting the same way. Maybe that’s why it works. You stayed in love with love; he stayed skeptical. 

Present-day Oscar, watching you now as you light up over centerpieces and seating charts, feels that old pull in his chest. It’s not a sharp ache anymore. It’s softer, settled. This—what you have now—is the best possible result. A withstanding friendship, no messy confessions to ruin it. He can sit here and admire you without wanting more, without needing to risk what you’ve built.

The couple laughs at something you’ve said, and you beam, scribbling down notes. Capturing lightning in shorthand. Oscar smirks into his empty cup. 

Let them have their fairytale, he thinks. He’s already got his.

Hours later, Oscar’s halfway through drafting an email to a client when your shadow falls across his table. He doesn’t look up right away. He’s learned this is part of the performance. You standing there, arms crossed, foot tapping just enough to register as a warning sign. He lets you stew for a moment, because he knows you like to deliver your charges with maximum dramatic timing.

Finally, he glances up, all false innocence. “Problem?”

“You ambushed my clients,” you say point blank. 

“Ambushed is a strong word,” he says, clicking his laptop closed. “I prefer ‘enlightened.’”

You slide into the chair opposite him, the scrape of wood on tile sharper than necessary. “They came here to talk about centerpieces, not contingency clauses.”

Oscar leans back, folding his arms. “And yet, contingency clauses are what keep centerpieces safe in the event of an irreconcilable breakdown. No one wants a custody battle over a floral arrangement.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real heat behind it. “You owe me for that.”

“Oh? What’s the damage?”

“Dinner tonight. My pick.”

Oscar pretends to weigh his options, tapping his fingers on the table. Honestly, for all his stubborness, he can’t remember the last time he said ‘no’ to you. “Fine,” he concedes. “But if you pick that vegan place again, I’m bringing a steak in a to-go box.”

You grin, victory claimed. “Noted.”

It’s easy, this back-and-forth. Always has been. The two of you were the only ones in your friend group who stayed close after college; everyone else scattered across the map, swallowed by jobs and relationships and time zones. You’d kept in touch through blurry FaceTime calls and the occasional holiday reunion, but when you both ended up in New York, it wasn’t even a discussion. The apartments across the hall were open; you took one, he took the other. Done, dusted. 

And now, you’ve built a life that overlaps without ever feeling crowded. M-W-F dinners (alternating who cooks, though Oscar’s idea of cooking is Thai takeout artfully decanted onto ceramic plates). Quarterly road trips, usually with you in charge of the playlist and him complaining about it until track five, when he inevitably starts humming along. Sunday mornings, one of you knocking on the other’s door with a coffee and a headline to discuss. Emergency grocery runs, emergency advice, emergency laughter in the hallway when neither of you can remember why you were mad in the first place.

There’s the spare key that’s changed hands so many times it barely qualifies as ‘spare.’ There’s the unspoken agreement to check in after long days, even if it’s just leaning against opposite doorframes. And there’s the strange comfort of knowing that no matter how messy his cases get or how stressed your wedding timelines become, the other is just a few steps away.

Oscar picks up his coffee, takes a long sip, and watches you fish your phone out of your bag, already scrolling through dinner reservations. He knows you’re thinking of places that will irritate him just enough to make it fun. He should probably dread it. Instead, there’s a part of him—small, quiet—that wonders if this is what people mean when they talk about home.

When it comes down to it, Oscar doesn’t actually remember agreeing to pizza. One moment, you were tucking your phone away with that mysterious, self-satisfied look you get when you’ve made an executive decision. The next, he was being ushered out of Arrow Central, corralled into the stream of foot traffic like a particularly unwilling briefcase.

“Is this my punishment?” he asks as you stride ahead, skirt catching the late-summer breeze. “Public humiliation via grease stains?”

“It’s called dinner,” you toss over your shoulder, weaving through pedestrians without slowing down. “Also, you like this place.”

“I like the idea of it. I like it when I’m not wearing a suit that costs more than your entire outfit.”

“Your dry cleaner will survive. Also, rude.”

You’re an odd pair. He’s always known it. You, with your free-flowing skirt and unshakable knack for making mismatched colors look like a deliberate choice; him, in his uniform of suit and tie, the kind that announces courtroom even when he’s just standing in line for coffee. Somehow, walking side by side down these blocks, it’s never felt like a mismatch. It’s only you and him. An established unit.

The pizza joint isn’t fancy. Red vinyl booths worn to a soft shine, the faint smell of oregano and melted cheese baked permanently into the walls. It’s the kind of place where the outside world blurs out the moment you step inside. The air is noisy in that particular New York way: clatter, conversation, the hiss of the oven door. No one here cares about job titles, or what you wear, or whether you spent the day dismantling marriages or assembling them.

You claim a booth by the window with the casual entitlement of someone who has done it a hundred times. “Same order?”

He raises an eyebrow. “You mean the one you pretend is ours but is actually just yours?”

“It’s called a compromise.”

“It’s called you ordering half with pineapple and daring me to complain.”

“You always eat it,” you counter, already flagging down the waiter.

Because it’s easier than arguing, he thinks, though he’d never hand you that victory. Besides, he’s learned you have a habit of leaning across the table mid-meal and swapping slices without warning, like his plate is just an extension of your own. 

The order arrives, steam curling off the cheese. You’re already halfway into a story about a florist who nearly set her arrangement on fire with an ill-placed candle display, your hands sketching shapes in the air as if the details need choreography. Oscar props his chin in his hand, letting the words spill over him. 

There’s a rhythm to this—to you. The bickering, the shared meals, the comfort in the background hum. It’s the kind of thing you don’t notice you’re missing until it’s gone. At some point, you slide the first slice his way without looking. He takes it, because he’ll take anything and everything you think to give. Even the ones he claims he doesn’t want. 

The walk back is unhurried, partly because you stop at every other storefront, and partly because Oscar doesn’t mind. Tonight’s detour is a bodega window that hasn’t changed since the Obama administration, but you stand there studying it as if the oranges might suddenly reveal a plot twist. He lingers just behind you, watching your reflection in the glass, the curve of your mouth lit faintly by the streetlamp. Not that he’s about to say anything sentimental. He’s not that foolish.

By the time you make it back to the apartment building, you’re rifling through the layers of your bag. Oscar leans on the wall, arms crossed. This is the dance: you muttering about receipts and lip balm, him tossing in the occasional dry remark, neither of you breaking the rhythm.

“Lose them again?” he says, purely for sport.

“They’re in here somewhere. Don’t act like you’ve never—”

“I have a system,” he interrupts.

“You have a filing cabinet for a personality.”

“Which is why I’m never locked out.”

You glance up, one eyebrow raised. “Except that one time—”

“That was a faulty lock,” he deapdans. “And slander.”

The keys appear with a metallic jingle, your victory grin annoyingly smug. “Saturday, movie night?”

“Depends. Is it going to be another three-hour period drama where the only action is people sighing over teacups?”

“You loved that one.”

“I tolerated it.”

“You cried.”

“Allergies.”

You unlock your door, turning to fire off one last line: “Friday dinner, Saturday movie. Don’t forget.”

He watches you vanish inside, the door shutting with a soft click. The hallway feels oddly warm, filled with the low hum of pipes and the faint scent of your perfume. He imagines years of this—key hunts, snide comments, plans penciled in without asking—and a strange steadiness roots itself in his chest. 

When he finally turns his own key, he tells himself he wouldn’t mind if this were it for the rest of his life. Standing in the quiet of his apartment, he almost believes he truly will be okay with nothing more, as long as he gets nothing less.

It’s Saturday night, and Oscar’s already questioning his life choices before the opening credits even hit. He should have seen this coming. He should have known. Years of empirical evidence suggested that “You pick the movie” was never actually a gift—it was a trap. Yet, here he is, sitting on your couch, holding a paper plate with a cupcake you’d baked, watching the title card for Maid of Honor flash on the screen.

He glances at you. You’re tucked into your corner of his sofa, skirt draped over your knees, smug in that way people are when they’ve won a battle you didn’t know you were fighting. He takes a bite of the cupcake. It’s good in that sickly sweet way. Irritatingly so. “You’re not even trying to hide your agenda,” he says.

“What agenda?” you say, faking innocence so badly it should be a crime.

Two hours and several predictable plot twists later, the credits roll. You stretch, all casual, and then drop it: “So… have your thoughts on marriage changed?”

Oscar sighs. Not just a sigh. An exhale steeped in years of repetition. “Why do I even let you pick movies?”

You tilt your head, smiling just enough to make it worse. “I’ve been good. I haven’t asked in, what, six months?”

He levels you with a look. “Three.”

“Six,” you insist.

He leans back into the couch, shaking his head. This is familiar territory. Uncharted for most friendships, but well-trodden for you two. He thinks about all the other times: in cafés, on road trips, once while he was battling in an IKEA bookshelf you swore you could assemble yourself. Always the same question, always the same dance. “You’re relentless,” he says, the slightest hint of annoyance tingeing his tone.

“And you love me for it,” you retort.

The thing is—well, yes. He does. But Oscar isn’t about to scream that from the rooftops.

Oscar stacks the empty cupcake plates, balancing them like evidence exhibits, and heads for the sink. His sleeves are already halfway rolled before you even follow, trailing after him with the tenacity of a lawyer smelling a weak spot in the witness’s story. You prop yourself against the counter at just the right distance to be distracting. Not enough to be obvious, but close enough to make him aware of you in his peripheral vision.

“You can’t tell me Maid of Honor didn’t soften you up even a little,” you say, voice pitched with a teasing lilt that masks a pointed challenge.

“I can, and I will,” he replies, turning on the tap. The water hisses over porcelain, steam curling into the air. “You’re forgetting I’ve got a canned answer for this, refined over years of ambushes like tonight.”

“Oh, the infamous speech,” you say, shit-eating grin widening. “Do I get the deluxe edition tonight?”

He smiles faintly, eyes fixed on the plate he’s rinsing. “C’mon, you know this story. Grew up watching my parents’ marriage collapse in slow motion. Ten years of silences, slammed doors, and holidays you could cut with a knife. Was old enough to Google the numbers, and surprise, surprise. Half of all marriages end in divorce. The odds for second marriages? Worse.”

You grimace, as if he’s told you cupcakes are a controlled substance. “You know that’s depressing, right?”

“It’s realistic,” he says, scrubbing at a fork with the methodical rhythm of someone who likes his thoughts as tidy as his cutlery. 

Soap, rinse, stack. Facts don’t break hearts. They just prevent them from getting too ambitious.

The hem of your skirt sways as you shift your weight, brushing your legs in an idle, thoughtless way that’s absurdly distracting. “Or maybe you just like having an excuse,” you say. 

He exhales through his nose, resisting the temptation to glance at you too long. Leaning there with your hair slipping loose around your face, you look maddeningly like you belong in his kitchen. It’s an alternate timeline he’s already filed away in the ‘unwise’ drawer. “Or maybe,” he says, rinsing the last plate and shaking off the water, “some of us don’t believe in signing legally binding contracts for feelings.”

You hum. Low, thoughtful, not remotely deterred. It’s the sound of a wheel turning, of a strategy in motion. He’s not sure if you’re trying to change his mind or just enjoying the act of cornering him. 

Oscar slides the last plate into the drying rack, flicking suds from his hands and briefly feeling like the conversation is over. Safe. Ready for you to pivot to some other harmless hill to die on. 

Instead, you lean forward, bracing your elbows on the counter, eyes gleaming with a challenge he’s already certain he won’t like. “Alright,” you say, deliberate and smug. “I’ll drop it forever if you give me one wedding.”

He freezes mid-motion, wrist dripping over the sink. “I’m sorry. One what?”

“One wedding. Just one. To change your mind.” You say it with the same breezy cadence as a promotional offer. Limited time only! Terms and conditions apply! Cancel anytime!

The words take their sweet time sinking in. When they finally do, it’s like something snaps in his chest. He starts to laugh. Not polite, not even dignified. Full-bodied, doubled over, holding the edge of the counter because his knees apparently no longer feel trustworthy.

“You—” He tries, fails, tries again. “You want to—” A wheeze interrupts him, laughter tearing through the attempt. “—undo two decades of carefully cultivated cynicism with… a catered buffet and bad DJ remixes?”

You smack his arm in mock outrage, which has the exact opposite effect. He’s gone. Helpless. The kind of laughter that shakes his ribs and leaves him gasping for air, his eyes blurring with the kind of tears he refuses to admit exist.

“God, you’re—” He presses the heel of his palm to his face, still grinning like an idiot. “—ridiculous. So, so ridiculous.”

You’re still watching him with that infuriating calm, as if you’d known this was exactly how he’d react. As if the laughter was, in some small way, the point.

Oscar’s still teary-eyed and winded when he straightens, managing, “Alright, but what’s in it for me?”

The pause is telling. He can see the gears in your head stalling. You’ve clearly lobbed this dare without a single contingency plan. “What do you mean, ‘what’s in it for you’?” you ask, as though the proposition of staging an entire wedding purely to sway his opinion should be incentive enough.

“I mean,” he says, leaning back against the counter because his sides hurt too much to support him, “you’re asking me to gamble my time, dress up, and endure whatever Pinterest-board fever dream you’ve been hoarding. That’s a high-stakes request. I want terms.”

You cross your arms. “Fine. What do you want?”

You, some quiet voice chirps in the back of Oscar’s head. He assassinates its source immediately. “What do I want?” He taps his chin, feigning thoughtfulness, as he fights down a grin. “I dunno. You tell me.” 

“You can choose the movies for six months,” you try, “or I’ll pay for the next roadtrip.” 

“Wow. Nice to know what my views on matrimony are worth to you.” 

“Oscar.” 

The thought occurs to him like a lightning strike. “If I’m not convinced by the end of this wedding, you have to admit, on record,” he says, the words falling out of him in a stream, “that marriage doesn’t guarantee a happily ever after.”

Your mouth falls open. “That’s—”

“A direct contradiction of your tagline, yes,” he cuts in, feigning sympathy. “Weddings: The first chapter of your happy ever after. Catchy, but tragically optimistic.”

The man has no shame. You stare at him for a beat too long, probably weighing the public humiliation against the joy of watching him eat cake in formalwear. His expression doesn’t waver. If anything, it sharpens with the smugness of someone who knows he’s cornered you. Eventually, you sigh. “Alright. You’ve got a deal.”

He extends his hand, but just as your fingers brush his, he pulls it back with a shake of his head. “No, no. Not like this. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it my way.”

You arch a brow. “Your way being…?”

“Contract,” he says, already heading for his desk. “Drafted, signed, possibly notarized. Witness signatures optional but encouraged.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet,” he calls over his shoulder, tapping the spacebar to wake his laptop, “you still want to marry me off.”

Oscar knows the second you text him the address that this isn’t going to be a normal afternoon. 

The day’s plans are not in the city. It’s at that suspiciously photogenic park wedding photographers swear by for its natural light and timeless atmosphere, which is code for: there will be at least three other couples here today in matching beige, posing like they invented romance. Still, Oscar doesn’t expect this. To be standing ten feet away from Carmen Mundt and George Russell, whose faces he only half-remembers from yearbook spreads stuffed with pep rally candids and overwrought prom photos.

“You didn’t tell me this was going to be a high school reunion,” he says flatly, hands buried in his coat pockets. He watches George dip Carmen for the photographer, the scene so perfectly manufactured it could be the poster for a holiday rom-com. All that’s missing is a fake snow machine. 

You’re crouched two feet away, adjusting a loose strand of Carmen’s hair over her shoulder for ‘balance.’ Oscar doubts ‘hair balance’ is an actual, measurable metric, but you treat it with the seriousness of a NASA launch. “Hm?” you murmur, not looking at him.

“This couple. Russell. Mundt. You’re telling me this wasn’t intentional?” He leaves the question hanging in the crisp air, because if there’s one thing he knows about you, it’s that plausible deniability is rare currency.

You glance over your shoulder, catch the exact look he’s wearing—the one that says he’s about five seconds from declaring this whole wedding experiment null and void—and straighten. “Oh, no. God, no. Total coincidence. I didn’t even realize until they sent their headshots.”

“Headshots.”

“Pre-wedding portraits. Same thing.” You wave toward Carmen and George, now forehead-to-forehead beneath the draping limbs of a willow tree. “Also, you didn’t go to our prom. You can’t call it a reunion.”

“Because I had the foresight to avoid things like this,” Oscar says, sweeping his hand toward the setup: the strategically rumpled picnic blanket, champagne flutes brimming with something so pale and fizzless it might as well be Sprite, and the pièce de résistance—a rented golden retriever who looks like it would rather be anywhere else.

You sigh, a soft, apologetic puff that—much to his irritation—makes him feel like he’s being the difficult one here. “Look, I swear, it’s not some nostalgia trip,” you say patiently. “They booked me months ago. And they’re nice people. You’ll like them.”

Oscar’s about to tell you that liking them is irrelevant to the point when George dips Carmen again. She’s laughing into the collar of his sweater, eyes shut, the sound carrying just far enough to make the whole tableau feel uncomfortably genuine. Oscar isn’t sure he likes that. Still, there’s no denying it: they look happy. Annoyingly, effortlessly happy. If this is the couple you’ve chosen to chip away at his long-held dogmas, maybe you’re not just playing matchmaker. You’re playing chess.

The shoot winds down with the photographer packing up lenses in meticulous slow motion, and the rented golden retriever trotting off to its handler with the air of an exhausted professional. Carmen and George spot Oscar before he can retreat to the safety of the car. In hindsight, it’s inevitable. Oscar’s tall, and he’s been loitering in plain sight. George waves, cheerful in that easy, quarterback-turned-finance-guy way, and Carmen’s smile is the same one that made her prom photos look like toothpaste ads.

“You’re Piastri, right?” George says, extending a hand that could probably still throw a perfect spiral. “We thought we recognized you.”

Oscar glances at you, already halfway through winding up a polite smile. “Right,” he says, shaking George’s hand. “From high school.”

Carmen laughs. “I can’t believe this is happening!” 

Before Oscar can prepare himself, George cocks his head, all innocent curiosity. “So, how long have you two been together?”

There’s a beat—long enough for Oscar to hear the faint click of your brain short-circuiting—before you blurt, “Oh, we’re not—” at the same time he says, “Absolutely not.”

You both stop, glance at each other, and promptly talk over each other again, this time with clarifications that only make it worse. Something about being friends, something about just helping out. Oscar’s aware it sounds exactly like the sort of thing people say right before announcing their engagement. Carmen’s grin turns knowing. George looks amused in a way Oscar finds faintly irritating.

You recover first, smoothing it over with a smile that’s maybe three watts too bright. “We work together. Sort of. Different fields.”

“Opposite fields,” Oscar adds, because precision matters. Especially when one’s career revolves around making the difference between amicable and messy sound like a legal argument.

“Oh?” Carmen tilts her head to Oscar. “What do you do?”

“I’m a divorce attorney.” 

The effect lands exactly as expected: first the blink, then the snort of laughter, then the delighted realization of the irony. The wedding planner and the divorce attorney. George, grinning, throws out, “So… she starts the story, and you end it?”

“Something like that,” Oscar replies, letting the corner of his mouth tip up just enough to make it unclear whether he’s joking. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches you looking at him with that expression that’s part amusement, part something softer. He tells himself it’s just your way of keeping the bit going. But the truth is, the warmth that flickers through him says otherwise, and it’s annoyingly hard to shake.

Carmen’s smile could power a small city when she says, “You should join us for dinner. Our treat.”

That’s a bold assumption. Oscar has at least four solid excuses queued up, none of them true but all perfectly plausible. He’s already flipping through the list when you look at him. Not just look. You deploy the full arsenal: tilted head, softened grin, those eyes doing that thing that could disarm a firing squad. 

And that’s it. Game over. He exhales, already hearing the gavel in his head. “Sure,” he says, because apparently his willpower folds faster than bad origami when you’re involved.

Dinner turns out to be… something. A bizarre theatre production where Carmen and George play the leads in a romance so committed it borders on parody. They feed each other, trade bites back, and laugh in perfect sync, like they’ve been secretly training for the Olympics in synchronized infatuation. 

Across from them, Oscar sits beside you, playing the role of vaguely polite companion. He holds the door, pours your water, throws in the occasional wry remark that Carmen misses entirely but earns you a small laugh. George squeezes Carmen’s hand mid-story. “You two must have so much fun being friends.”

Oscar chews his food slowly, buying time, then deadpans, “Oh, sure. Nothing says fun like contract law and flower arrangements.”

You kick him lightly under the table. He pretends not to notice, but the curve at the corner of his mouth gives him away. Underneath all the polite detachment, he’s hyper-aware of how close your arm brushes his, of the way your laughter curls somewhere in his chest.

Carmen and George launch into a greatest-hits reel of their history. Promposals, senior pranks, late-night drives. The nostalgia is so sweet it’s practically crystallizing in the air. You lean in to listen, smiling in all the right places, your hair brushing your cheek. Oscar leans back in his chair, arms crossed, the picture of practiced disinterest. But when your knee bumps his again, he doesn’t move it away. If anything, he leaves it there.

Later, the apartment hallway is quiet except for the faint hum of an old ceiling light that flickers like it’s paid by the hour. The air smells faintly of takeout—someone’s stir-fry, maybe—and there’s a scuffed shoe print on the wall opposite your door that Oscar can’t stop noticing. You’re in front of your door, patting down your bag like the keys might have sprouted legs and made a break for it. He leans against the wall, watching you with the same patient skepticism he reserves for opposing counsel mid-argument.

“So,” he says, drawing the word out, “that was… dinner.”

You glance up briefly, distracted. “Dinner was fine. You were the problem.”

He lets out a low laugh. “I was polite. Mostly.”

“Polite is a strong word,” you mutter, rifling through your bag. A pen falls out. A crumpled receipt. Half a packet of mints, which you don’t offer him.

“Carmen and George are intense.” He pauses, pretending to search for a diplomatic synonym, but gives up. “Like a rom-com no one asked to sit through.”

That gets you to smile before you toss out, almost absently, “What if we’d been like that? Back in high school?”

The words land heavier than you probably intended, though they sound casual enough. Oscar freezes for half a second, just long enough for the thought to lodge somewhere inconvenient. 

What if he went to prom? No, more than that. Asked you to prom. Asked you out in between reads of The Catcher in the Rye and Pride and Prejudice. Would you have stayed together throughout college, throughout his time in law school? Would you have been the annoying kind of high school sweethearts posting about about seven-year anniversaries?

Would you have been happy? (He knows he would have been.) What if, what if, what if. 

“What if,” he echoes, not quite a question, not quite agreement.

You don’t elaborate. He doesn’t press. It’s not the kind of conversation you dismantle under the buzzing light of a hallway that smells like someone else’s leftovers. Your keys finally appear. You flash him a victorious smile and an off-tune sing-song of ‘good night’ before slipping into your apartment, door clicking shut behind you.

Oscar stays where he is. His eyes linger on the door as the hum overhead grows louder, or maybe it’s just the absence of your voice making the silence feel bigger. He tells himself he’s only standing there because he’s tired, that moving takes effort after a long night. But the truth is simpler: He stays because he wants to.

Oscar’s commute is, like most of his mornings, unremarkable. Train, sidewalk, coffee, the whole civilized crawl toward another day of dissolving other people’s happily-ever-afters. 

The train rocks along, every stop unloading a tide of commuters in a mix of suits, sneakers, and faces wearing that blank morning mask, all moving as though on the same reluctant conveyor belt. He wears the same look, though his coffee at least pretends to help. A man two seats over is watching videos without headphones. Oscar imagines citing him for cruelty.

The city’s already in motion by the time he hits the sidewalk. Shop shutters halfway up, buses sighing at curbs, a street vendor shouting in two languages at once. He sidesteps a puddle, considers the physics of how that much water exists on a perfectly dry street, and joins the slow drift toward the firm.

His office hums its usual chorus: phones ringing somewhere down the hall, printers coughing up paperwork, the faint scent of burnt espresso curling out of the break room. Janine at reception looks up from her desk, bright as a storefront window display. “Morning, Oscar.”

“Morning, Janine. Bribed the coffee machine yet?”

“Gave it a stern talking-to,” she says. “It’s ignoring me.”

Mick is leaning against a doorframe ahead, looking like a man allergic to chairs. “Got the Delaney file?”

“Do I look like I bring work home?” Oscar asks.

“Yes,” Mick says, without hesitation.

Frederik’s in the bullpen already, sleeves rolled, surrounded by the mild chaos of three open case files and a half-eaten muffin. “Your client’s at two,” he says.

“Perfect,” Oscar replies. “Plenty of time to remember why I chose this noble profession.”

His office is exactly as he left it. Papers stacked in controlled disorder, legal tomes on one side, mugs on the other that have begun to resemble a science experiment. The desk tells a quieter, stranger story if you bother to look closely.

A Post-It stuck to the monitor in your handwriting. Half a grocery list, half a doodle of a cat with questionable anatomy. A worn Polaroid from high school, the two of you barricading at an All Time Low concert. A single black hair tie looped carelessly around his pen jar, forgotten or maybe not.

He doesn’t touch any of them right away. Boots up his computer. Skims his calendar. Pretends to be a man with a normal Tuesday ahead of him. But his gaze keeps catching on the hair tie, like it has its own gravitational pull. You don’t put something like that in a drawer. You leave it out where you can see it, and pretend you don’t know why. Eventually, he picks up the Post-It, rereading it again as though it might have changed overnight. It hasn’t. Still absurd. Still you. He delicately puts it on the stack of other Post-Its you’ve left him this past month. 

Oscar’s afternoon is the kind of appointment that would give most junior associates hives. High-asset divorce, two parties who can’t even agree on the shape of the conference table, let alone custody. He sits at the head of the long, too-polished wood, flanked by Mick on one side, Frederik on the other, both of them looking like they’re preparing for trench warfare.

Across from him: the soon-to-be-exes, glaring through their respective attorneys. Their glares are precise. Practiced. They’ve probably been rehearsing in the mirror. The couple—Arthur  and Dana—sit on opposite ends of the table, as if physical distance will keep the arguments from ricocheting. Spoiler: it won’t.

Dana leans forward, jabbing a finger at the paperwork. “He’s keeping the cabin? After everything? That cabin was mine before we even—”

Arthur cuts in, voice sharp. “Yours? You didn’t even like going there unless the Wi-Fi worked. Which it never did, by the way.”

Oscar sets his briefcase down, calm to the point of suspicion. “Let’s try to avoid turning this into a wireless connectivity debate,” he says. “We’re here to divide assets, not discuss rural internet speeds.”

Dana huffs, crossing her arms. “Fine. Then I want the dog.”

“You didn’t even walk the dog! I walked him every morning.”

“Because you were always up at five to doomscroll!” 

Oscar glances at Mick, who’s taking notes on the far side of the room. “Remind me why we haven’t separated visitation for the dog yet?” asks Oscar, as if it’s a matter of national concern. 

Mick shrugs. “Because they can’t agree on who buys the treats.”

“Let’s focus.” Oscar doesn’t raise his, because he doesn’t need to. 

There’s a rhythm to these sessions, and he’s the metronome. Every word measured, every concession framed as a strategic victory, every flare-up dampened with a tone that’s just this side of condescending. It works. It always works. When one spouse snaps about the other’s spending habits, Oscar doesn’t flinch. He slides in a question that reframes the conversation into something quantifiable. When the other starts to cry, he doesn’t do the sympathetic head tilt. He keeps it moving. Efficiency isn’t coldness. It’s survival.

He’s not unemotional, though he lets people think that. What he is now—this calm, this precision—was learned the hard way. Back when his parents’ divorce was a slow-motion implosion and he’d been all shouting, all shaking hands, all wanting someone to pick a side and stick to it. He remembers the heat of that anger, the way it never helped. Now it’s gone, dissolved into something sharper, more useful.

The session ends with signatures and clipped handshakes. The couple leaves without looking at each other. He’s already halfway through making notes when his phone buzzes with a text from you. lol it’s us ^^, it says. 

It’s a TikTok. From the thumbnail, it seems to involve two animated penguins. Oscar can feel the corner of his mouth pulling upward despite himself. Professionalism, temporarily postponed. He pockets the phone without opening it yet, saving the video you sent like a cigarette after a long day. Something small and certain to cut through the taste of other people’s endings.

Oscar takes the train home in that post-work daze everyone wears like a second suit. Sshoulders heavy, tie slightly askew, head still full of someone else’s marital collapse. He tells himself it’s fine. It’s just the job. It’s not like he hasn’t seen worse, and it’s not like he hasn’t learned how to compartmentalize. Except, of course, he has. That’s the whole problem.

Despite all his cultivated detachment, some afternoons get under his skin. Watching two people dismantle the life they built together isn’t exactly uplifting, no matter how cleanly you draft the paperwork. He knows he’s good. Clinical, precise, quick on his feet. ‘Good’ doesn’t make it pleasant, though. The arguments echo longer than he’d like, little splinters lodging in his thoughts.

By the time the train slows near his stop, he’s already trying to shake it off, to think about dinner, laundry, anything else. He steps out into the evening air, which smells faintly of rain on concrete, and heads down the block toward home. That’s when he sees you. Through the big glass windows of Arrow Central, you’re at one of the tables by the back. Headset on, utterly absorbed. Your fingers move in quick bursts over the keyboard. You’re singing some song he can’t hear, your mouth shaping the lyrics with unselfconscious precision. 

You’re in your own world, and he’s the idiot standing on the sidewalk watching it like a scene from a movie. He doesn’t know how long he’s there. Long enough for the windows to start fogging slightly from the inside, long enough for him to realize that people probably walk by and think he’s lost. 

You look up eventually. Your eyes land on him, widening in surprise before they light up. The change is instant, like flipping a switch. You smile so wide he almost forgets how to breathe.

He manages a tired smile in return, the kind that still somehow carries all the warmth he’s been trying to keep to himself. He lifts a hand and waves, brief and almost shy.

And in that moment, the day feels a little less heavy.

“You’re my logistics team.”

Oscar narrows his eyes at you across the coffee shop table. “That’s not a real job title.”

“It is if I say it with enough confidence,” you counter, already scrolling for the address Carmen sent. “Besides, I need someone to keep track of my bag while I’m helping her. You’re perfect for it.”

“Ah, so I’m a coat rack now.”

“Don’t be dramatic. You’ll be a supportive friend.”

That’s how he ends up in the passenger seat of your car, wondering if this is karmic punishment for every time he’s told a client they ‘just need to compromise.’ You’re humming along to something on the radio, blissfully unaware that you’ve roped him into the ninth circle of hell: bridal retail.

The boutique smells like roses and champagne. An aggressive kind of luxury that makes him feel like he should’ve worn a better shirt. The sales associate greets you with an enthusiastic, “You must be here for Carmen!” and sweeps you both toward a back fitting room.

Carmen, radiant and rosy, is already mid-spin in a lace creation that probably costs more than Oscar’s rent. “You made it!” she beams.

“You look amazing,” you say, darting toward her.

Oscar hangs back, watching you fuss with the hem, adjust the veil, squeal at the beadwork. He’s not sure what his role here actually is, aside from existing quietly in the corner like an unwilling chaperone. “How do I look, Oscar?” Carmen asks, turning toward him.

He gives a diplomatic nod. “Like you’ve single-handedly funded a Parisian designer’s vacation home.”

You shoot him a look. “Translation: gorgeous.”

“That too,” he says, because apparently sarcasm isn’t bridal-friendly.

From his perch by the wall, he listens to you and Carmen debate the merits of tulle versus organza, which sounds like a legal dispute he’s unqualified to mediate. Every so often you throw a comment over your shoulder, usually to mock him for looking ‘like a dad in a mall’ or to demand he fetch the sales associate. He does it, because despite his better judgment and the fact that he’s absolutely being used as a pack mule, he’s signed a contract. One supposedly life-altering wedding which is beginning to look like an unpaid internship.  

Oscar’s halfway through deciding whether the armchair in the corner is comfortable enough to nap in when Carmen says, “You should try that one.”

At first, he assumes she’s read his mind about where he wants to nap. Then he glances up and sees you. Holding a dress against yourself, hesitant but smiling like you’ve already pictured it on even if you’re pretending you haven’t. You laugh, shaking your head. “I’m not the bride, Carmen.”

“So? Humor me.” Carmen waves a manicured hand, all command and no room for argument. The kind of gesture that once made high school teachers wilt.

Oscar leans back, waiting for you to refuse, maybe stutter some excuse about time or budget or basic dignity. Instead, you grin—a grin that’s trouble in heels—and vanish into the dressing room without another word.

He plops down into the chair and goes back to scrolling through his phone, telling himself he’s not thinking about it, about you. He’s just killing time. That’s it. Until the curtain swishes open, and you, stepping out, say, “Alright. How do I look?”

Oscar looks up. The entire room forgets how to function. Or maybe just him. 

The dress fits you like it was built around your laugh, your shoulders, the way you stand when you’re not paying attention. Fluid lines, quiet elegance, and—God help him—a certain kind of light he’s pretty sure wasn’t in the room before. Every smart remark in his arsenal packs up and leaves without notice.

You tilt your head, waiting. “Well?”

He should say something clever, something that keeps him behind the usual fence of sarcasm. But his mouth has gone rogue.  “You look…” He stops, blinks, as though the perfect adjective might appear if he stares at the floor long enough. None does. “… sufficient.”

Carmen giggles, somehow managing to disguise it as a cough instead. 

Oscar leans back in the armchair, pretending to check something on his phone. Really, he’s watching you from under his lashes. You’re a whirl of movement. Spinning in front of the mirror, adjusting the hem, babbling to Carmen about how surprisingly comfortable the dress is. You’re lit up in a way that makes the entire boutique feel warmer, like the overhead lights are conspiring with you.

It’s ridiculous, he tells himself, that his brain immediately starts filling in the gaps. Swapping Carmen out for a crowd, replacing the fitting room with some floral arch, and suddenly it’s a wedding. Your wedding. His imagination, ever the sadist, paints it in perfect detail. Your laugh, the way your hand would linger on someone’s arm, the curve of your smile. He tries—really tries—to slot himself into the groom’s position. 

But the thought catches somewhere in his chest and refuses to move, heavy and impossible. He can’t make it fit. The groom’s face blurs until it’s just… not him.

It’s pathetic. And worse, it’s dangerous. Because if he lingers too long, he’ll start wondering about timelines and choices and every stupid what-if he’s trained himself to shut down.

“Hey,” you call, jolting him back. You’re grinning at him in the mirror. “Don’t look so serious. You’re starting to scare the mannequins.”

He exhales, aims for nonchalance, misses by a mile. “I’m just wondering how you conned me into being your unpaid bridal consultant.”

“You’re logistics,” you say, prim as anything. “It’s an important role.”

“Right,” he mutters, “because when I imagined my Thursday afternoon, I definitely pictured tulle.”

You flash him that over-the-shoulder look. “Admit it. You’re having fun.”

He snorts, which is safer than answering. But his voice still comes out a little uneven when he says, “Sure. Let’s call it that.”

The wedding dress fiasco messes with Oscar so badly that he agrees to a date with somebody from law school. 

Oscar meets Isabella at a quiet Italian place in the Village, the sort of restaurant that looks like it was decorated entirely by someone’s nonna and smells like oregano and faint regret. She’s already there when he arrives, sitting at a corner table in a crisp white blouse that says she’s come straight from work, or at least wants to look like she has. “Hey, stranger,” she says, standing to greet him. Warm smile. Firm handshake. A deposition, but friendlier.

“Hey,” he says back, sliding into the chair opposite her. “You look lawyerly.”

She laughs. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all week.”

They order wine—red for her, white for him—and the conversation falls into the easy rhythm of two people who’ve survived the same hellish coursework. Law school war stories, professors they loved and loathed, nights when the library coffee tasted like burnt cardboard but kept them awake long enough to memorize the finer points of civil procedure.

On paper, it’s great. She’s great. Smart, funny, ambitious. The kind of woman his colleagues would tell him he’s an idiot not to marry. She even does pro bono work on weekends, for Christ’s sake.

But halfway through her story about a particularly messy corporate merger, he catches himself looking at the way the candlelight reflects in her wineglass rather than at her face. His mind drifts—uninvited, annoying—to you. How you’d wrinkle your nose at the breadsticks, claiming they’re ‘too chewy,’ and then steal half of his anyway. How you’d nudge his foot under the table just to throw him off mid-sentence.

Isabella smiles mid-story. “You’re quiet. I didn’t bore you with that, did I?”

“No, no,” he says quickly, forcing his attention back. “I was just… thinking about something.”

“Hopefully something good.” She smiles, and he feels that familiar twinge of guilt. She deserves someone who’s not half-distracted by a ghost.

He tries harder. Asks about her current cases, listens to her take on the latest SCOTUS decision, even cracks a joke about how law school didn’t prepare them for navigating restaurant menus with too many pasta options. She laughs at the right beats, but every time she leans forward, he can’t help thinking of how you’d do it differently. Chin propped on your hand, eyes dancing like you’ve just baited him into an argument you fully intend to win. He’s not even sure if he’s comparing, or if you’re just there in the background, stubbornly refusing to leave the room.

The date survives dinner, and now they’re roaming the streets, hunting ice cream like two people who have run out of small talk but are determined to keep pretending otherwise. The summer air is heavy, and the neon of a late-night gelato place blinks as if it’s in on the joke. Isabella is easy company. That’s the problem. Easy means Oscar can’t point to anything wrong. Easy means she’ll nod at his dry remarks, volley back something light, and he’ll smile not because he wants to but because it’s what is expected. 

“So,” she says, scanning the display case of ice cream, “how’s your best friend—what’s her name again? Oh! Right.”

The sound of your name catches him like a tripwire. He blinks at the pistachio gelato as if it just insulted him. “You know her?”

Isabella nods, scooping her hair over one shoulder. “I mean, yeah. When you weren’t stressing over moot court, you were spending time with her.” There’s a half-smile there, amused but not unkind. “We all thought she was your girlfriend.”

Oscar shrugs, which is his roundabout way of stalling. “She wasn’t,” he says, barely resisting the urge to add, End of story. 

“Mm.” Isabella takes a taste-test spoon from the server. “Funny, though. Every time I run into someone from our circles, your name and hers come up in the same breath. Like a matched set.”

The truth makes him feel like the ground beneath him is shaky. He tries to deflect. “Maybe you’ve just got a bad sample size.”

She arches an eyebrow, lets the joke hang between them, then changes the subject. He catches the flicker of something in her expression. A note of recognition, the kind you file away for later. She’s perceptive. Probably too perceptive. They both end up ordering the same flavor, which feels too much like a metaphor for him to enjoy. 

As they leave, cones in hand, Oscar wonders—not for the first time—if there’s anyone in his life you haven’t already quietly colonized.

The walk to Isabella’s apartment is pleasant in the way most well-lit, tree-lined streets are pleasant. Pretty, unthreatening, and peaceful enough to hear your own thoughts. Unfortunately, Oscar’s thoughts are not the kind you want amplified. Isabella is talking about a new case at her firm, her voice warm and animated. He listens, really listens, because she’s truly the kind of person you can imagine parents approving of in seconds. The problem is that his brain keeps running a silent parallel commentary: not her, not you.

They reach her building faster than he expects. She pauses at the door, smiling up at him. “You want to come in?”

It’s said casually, but there’s something in her eyes. Hope, maybe. He hesitates. A fraction too long. She reads it instantly, because she’s no fool. “Right,” she says lightly, smile dimming just enough to be polite instead of inviting. “Then I’ll just do this.”

Before he can ask what this is, she leans in and kisses him. He kisses back. Well, he tries. It’s competent, technically fine, like both of them are following choreography they learned years ago. But there’s no spark, no pulse of something unexpected. Just the faint, sweet aftertaste of her pistachio gelato.

When she pulls away, she studies him for a beat and then says, “Take care, Oscar.” It’s not cold, but it’s final.

“Yeah, Isabella,” he sighs, the well-wishes sounding a lot like I’m sorry for wasting your time. “You, too.” 

He watches her slip inside, the lobby light catching in her hair for a moment before the door shuts. Then he turns and starts the walk back to his own place. The night air is cooler now, brushing his skin, and his hands are sticky from where his ice cream dripped down the cone. He licks at it absently, the sugar grit catching on his tongue, wondering why something as small as this feels heavier than it should.

Oscar’s still working out how long it’ll take to get the sticky patch of melted ice cream off his hand when he unlocks his apartment and stops dead. 

You’re there. Not metaphorically. Not in some wistful, post-date replay of memory. Physically there, padding around his kitchen like you own the lease. Which, he reminds himself, you absolutely do not.

You glance over your shoulder mid-chew. “Oh. Hey. Hope you don’t mind—”

“What are you doing here?”

“I ran out of cereal.” You gesture at the open box on his counter, spoon already in your hand. “You had some. Problem solved.”

You hadn’t even bothered to dress up in any way, shape, or form. Ratty pajamas, hair a little mussed, posture loose in that way people only get when they’re somewhere safe. You look better like this than Isabella had tonight. Than anyone has, probably.

He drops his jacket on the back of the couch, still mentally tripping over the fact that you’re here at all. “You could’ve just… I don’t know, gone to the store?”

“Could’ve. Didn’t.” You point your spoon at him. “How was the date?”

Oscar hesitates. He could give the diplomatic answer, keep it vague, spare himself the self-awareness. Instead, he exhales, “Don’t think anything’s gonna come out of it.”

“Bummer,” you say, not missing a beat before going back to your cereal.

You change the subject, launching into some story about your mutual friend’s ill-fated attempt at baking bread. Oscar half-listens, half-watches you, wondering why it feels like the night only started making sense once you showed up.

You’re halfway through crunching another spoonful of cereal when Oscar says it, casual in tone, not so casual in timing. “Why haven’t you dated anyone lately?”

A smile tugs at your mouth, the kind that says you’ve already got your answer and he’s not going to like it. “Because I’ve always been date-to-marry.”

He should’ve seen that coming. He did see it coming, if he’s honest. It’s just different hearing it out loud, the words sliding into place with a kind of brutal simplicity.

Oscar leans back against the counter, nursing the chocolate milk he’d poured himself. Date to marry. Right. He thinks about your exes. Not a sprawling list, more like a curated exhibit. Each one stuck around for years, long enough to look like they might last forever, long enough for him to get used to seeing them in your orbit. 

And then they were gone, quietly, for one reason or another. Oscar, whether or not he cared to admit it, was always a little glad to see them go. You shovel the last bite of cereal into your mouth, unfazed. “Why? You trying to set me up with one of your friends?”

“God, no,” he says automatically, which earns him a raised brow from you. He swallows down the too-quick denial with a shrug. “They’re all idiots.”

You laugh—easy, unbothered—before you go to rinse your bowl in his sink like you live there. When you pad over to the door, Oscar almost says something stupid. Something like, stay. Stay the night. I never want you out of my sight, and if I could keep you here forever, I would. 

Instead, he calls out, “Good night,” and you don’t even say it back. You just wave, leaving Oscar with the bitter reminder that he never quite measured up where it mattered. 

The rehearsal dinner is not, by any stretch of the imagination, going smoothly. 

The caterer’s late, the florist’s lost in traffic, and someone apparently thought now was the time to test how much champagne a tablecloth can absorb. Oscar would feel bad for you—actually, no, he does feel bad for you—but mostly he’s impressed. You’re everywhere at once. Smoothing ruffled tempers, delegating with military precision, somehow making people think fixing the seating chart is their idea. You look like you’re running a high-stakes covert op, except your comms are a phone glued to your ear and a pen stuck in your hair.

He watches from the corner, pretending not to be entirely captivated. You point at the florist when they finally arrive, then pivot to soothe the maid of honor, then somehow charm the caterer into an apology and extra dessert. When you finally pass him, breathless but smiling like you’ve just single-handedly prevented an international crisis, he says, “You’re a miracle worker.”

You glance at him, brow arched. “Flattery won’t get you out of moving chairs.”

“Wasn’t trying to get out of it,” he says, but it’s a lie. A charming lie. The kind you both know he’s telling.

You roll your eyes, even though the corners of your mouth betray you with that quick, appreciative curve. Then you’re off again, darting back into the chaos, and Oscar follows. Partly because you told him to, partly because watching you do this is better than any dinner theater he’s ever seen.

Despite your utter salvation of the shitshow, Oscar spots the tells before anyone else does. The quick snap in your voice when someone hands you the wrong seating chart, the way your smile freezes for half a second before you glue it back on. Everyone else sees a flawless operation humming along. He sees the seams, the hairline fractures running under the polish.

You’re spinning plates, charming guests, redirecting disasters before they sprout teeth, all without breaking stride. He’s the spectator who notices your every pivot, every little flicker of irritation you think you’ve buried. He catches your shoulder, hour later, as you pass by him. Clipboard in hand, no sign of a dinner plate. “When was the last time you ate something that wasn’t pure stress?” he presses. 

“I’m fine,” you tug away from his grip, already halfway to the florist.

Oscar is not fine with that answer. “That’s not a binding statement. You can’t just say ‘fine’ and have it hold up in court,” he bites out. 

You keep moving. Rookie mistake. Two minutes later, he’s in your path again, armed with a small plate stacked like a peace offering except it’s more like evidence in a trial. “Eat,” he commands. 

“Oscar, I have a million—”

“Eat.”

Your team, the same people you’ve been barking orders at all evening, suddenly finds themselves with front-row seats to a public hostage negotiation. There’s a ripple of laughter when he steps in closer, lowering his voice but not his resolve. “I’ll wrestle you,” he threatens. “Don’t test me.”

You glare, equal parts exasperation and disbelief. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would. Happily. In front of all these people.”

The absurdity hangs between you, but there’s something else too. The way his eyes soften under the joke, the concern tucked into the stubbornness. You take the fork. One bite. Then another. Then a sigh that’s part defeat, part reluctant gratitude.

“There,” he says, smug as anything. “Miracle worker status revoked until you prove you can keep yourself alive.”

You roll your eyes, the corner of your mouth betraying you. A ghost of a smile, there and gone, meant for him alone. Then you’re off again, clipboard in hand, spinning back into the chaos like you were never gone. Except now, he knows you’ll make it through the night without fainting.

It’s not even up for debate: you save the rehearsal dinner. There’s no polite phrasing, no humble alternative. You flat-out rescue it from the jaws of chaos, and Carmen and George know it. They corner Oscar near the dessert table, beaming like proud parents. Carmen gushes about how flawlessly you handled every last hiccup, George nods so hard his tie shifts sideways, and Oscar—cool, composed Oscar—has to bite back the urge to smirk like he had anything to do with it.

He does, however, get the tiniest satisfaction in thinking, Yeah, that’s my girl. 

It takes him a minute to realize you’re not in the room. Which is odd, considering you’ve been the gravitational center of the evening all night. But Oscar knows your habits, where you’d vanish to if given half a second. He ducks out a side door, following instinct and maybe a little muscle memory. Sure enough, there you are in the garden, exactly where he expects. Among the flowers you’ve always loved, their scent carrying just enough to soften the night air. You’re not doing anything grand. You’re standing there, hands loose at your sides, shoulders relaxing for the first time all evening.

He keeps his voice low. “Just checking in,” he says lightly as a way of introduction. “Making sure you’re still breathing.”

You glance over, smile faintly. “Still breathing.”

“Good.” He takes a step back like he’s about to retreat, because maybe you came out here to be alone and he’s never wanted to be the person who ruins that for you.

But then you say, “You don’t have to go. I never mind if it’s you.”

Oh. Well. That’s… unfair.

Regardless, he stays, sliding into place beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You lean into his side. Not much, just enough for him to feel the weight of you. He pretends it’s nothing. Forces himself to keep his hands in his pockets, because holding you would be a bad idea. The worst kind of good idea.

The flowers rustle in the evening breeze, and for a few beats, neither of you speaks. Oscar decides this is the sort of silence he could live in forever.

The road out of the city unspools in long, lazy stretches, all cracked asphalt and the occasional reckless squirrel. You’ve got both hands on the wheel like a model citizen, which is funny considering you’re ten over the limit. Oscar, meanwhile, is in the passenger seat, laptop balanced on his knees, looking like he’s running a hedge fund instead of answering three mildly urgent emails.

“This is the part where I remind you,” you say, glancing at him, “that you volunteered for this.”

“I recall being threatened with cake withdrawal if I didn’t.”

“That’s volunteering.”

He snorts, not looking up from the screen. “That’s coercion with frosting.”

You let the radio fill the gap for a minute. Static, pop ballads, the occasional truck blasting past. He catches you humming along and files it away for later, because apparently even your off-key is better than most people’s pitch-perfect.

“So,” you say, eyes still on the road, “how’s it feel knowing you’re basically my unpaid intern for one more week?”

“I’ve had worse bosses,” he says. Then, after a beat: “Though none of them yelled at me for holding a bouquet wrong.”

“That bouquet was worth more than your rent.”

“And yet you trusted me with it.”

“Desperate times.”

He finally looks up, catching the faint curl of your mouth. It’s the kind of almost-smile that makes him close the laptop. Not because the emails are done, but because you’re better company than the screen. The trees outside flicker sunlight across your face, and he has the passing thought that maybe the whole lackey thing isn’t the worst gig he’s ever had.

You choose your topic with the precision of someone sliding a particularly risky track into a playlist. Light in tone, catastrophic in potential. “Divorce,” you announce, like you’re pointing out a roadside attraction.

Oscar glances out at the sprawling neighborhoods. “We’re really doing this now?”

“Better now than during the vows,” you say, one hand drumming on the steering wheel.

He exhales through his nose, the sound of a man already exhausted by a conversation that hasn’t even started. “Sometimes it’s the right call,” he says simply. “Two people know they’re not good together anymore—why drag it out?”

“Because you can fix things,” you counter, eyes steady on the road. “People just don’t try hard enough. They quit when it’s inconvenient.”

“That’s not quitting, that’s self-preservation. Staying miserable just because you swore a promise?” Something inside him churns. “That’s not noble, that’s masochism.”

You throw him a sidelong glance, half amusement, half challenge. “Wow. Remind me never to marry you.”

Damn. “Don’t worry,” he says, his jaw working in that careful way that means he’s holding back sharper words. “Mutual self-preservation.”

It should come off as a joke. It doesn’t. The air in the car cools just enough to notice. The steady rhythm of passing fields outsides suddenly becomes riveting. He leans back, eyes on the horizon, shoulders angled away like the conversation is already several miles behind you. For a while, only the hum of tires fills the space between you, along with the faint, uneven tap of his fingers against his thigh. He’s probably thinking he went too far. You might be thinking the same about yourself. The silence stretches, not hostile exactly, but brittle. Something that could break if either of you pressed just a little too hard.

The two of you pull up to the curb of your destination with the kind of synchronized silence that only two very stubborn people can manage. Oscar stares at the dashboard like it’s personally responsible for the last thirty minutes of conversational shrapnel. You’re already slipping on that brittle, party-ready smile—something shiny to hide behind—when he reaches across and catches your wrist.

“Hey,” he says, soft but pointed, as if he’s trying to sneak past your guard without setting off alarms. He’s a prideful man, but his pride is a sand castle when it comes to your tsunamis. “I’m sorry.”

Your eyes flick down to where his hand holds you, then back to his face. It’s the kind of look that could be filed under ‘Neutral’ but is definitely under ‘Weapons-Grade Silence.’ He swallows, tries harder. “Anybody would be lucky to marry you.”

The silence deepens. If it were a drink, it’d be straight whiskey, no ice. So he keeps going. “You’re smart. You’re funny—though you weaponize that, obviously. You make people feel taken care of without making it feel like a debt. You remember the little things, like who hates olives and who only pretends to hate olives because it’s trendy. You’d be the kind of bride who—” He stops, recalibrates. “—who makes the whole marriage thing actually look worth it.”

“You really think that?” you ask, voice small with disbelief. 

Oscar nods. “I’ve never lied to you,” he says delicately. “I’m not about to start now.”

You blink, slow, deliberate, and then lean in. Not to kiss him properly, but to press your lips once, briefly, against his shoulder through his shirt. It’s the kind of gesture that says, Fine. Truce. Oscar exhales, almost a laugh, and lets you go. You push open your car door, the fake smile now replaced with something just slightly realer. 

The front door to your house swings open before you’ve even knocked. Your mum has a sixth sense for arrivals, honed over years of intercepting neighbours before they ring the bell. She pulls you into a hug so tight Oscar half-expects to hear vertebrae shift. Then she turns to him, and the smile doesn’t even dip.

“Oscar, love,” she says, already pulling him in to dole out the same bone-crushing embrace. “You’ve gotten taller.”

He hasn’t. Not since he was sixteen. But he grins anyway. “And you’ve gotten better at lying.”

She swats his arm in that way that means she’s pleased. Your dad’s already at the door, hand outstretched, but it turns into a half-hug, half-back-pat before either of them can stop it. The kind of greeting reserved for family members you see less than you’d like but more than you can forget.

“Good to have you back, son,” your dad says, and Oscar pretends it’s dust in his eye. 

He’s been ‘son’ since he started hanging around after school, eating whatever biscuits your mum pretended were ‘for guests’. He never left without a Tupperware container, usually returned weeks later with something completely unrelated inside. Inside, the familiarity swallows him whole: the faint smell of laundry powder, the buzz of the fridge, the same photo frames on the wall except now with more moments crammed in. Your mum’s already fussing over both of you, asking if you’ve eaten, offering tea before you can answer, and trying to herd you towards the kitchen like two sheep that have wandered into her hallway.

Oscar catches your eye as you’re divested of your coat. It’s that look—shared history folded neatly between you—that says he knows exactly where the biscuits are kept without being told. He could play the part of guest, but why bother? He’s been part of this script for years.

“I can’t believe you’re planning Russell’s wedding,” your mother says as all of you settle into the living room. Your parents, side by side; you and Oscar, crammed into the arm chairs that are a little too small. “He was always a good fellow, that one.” 

“Still is,” you offer, sipping at your tea. “The ceremony’s going to be in town, so Oscar and I decided to stop by.”

There’s a couple more minutes of small talk. Not the forced kind, but the one that genuinely takes the stress out of Oscar’s limbs. At one point, your father asks if Oscar is dating anybody, and he nearly answers, No, sir. Too busy pining over your daughter. 

You excuse yourself to go grab some of your clothes from your bedroom. Oscar stays with your parents because they’re some of his favorite company, really. Amicable, easygoing, welcoming of his dry personality. There’s a lull in the conversation when you leave, but your mother cheerfully picks it up once the sound of your footsteps fades.  “How’s work, Oscar?” she asks. 

“Same old, same old,” he responds. “Last week, I had to help a couple settle on who gets to keep the Roomba.” 

Your mother laughs. Your father cracks a smile. Oscar thanks every higher power that led him to you, led him to them. 

“Say, son,” your father says suddenly, his voice lowering ever so slightly. Like he doesn’t want to be overheard. Oscar has to lean in to hear. He’s still halfway through a smile when your father asks in a whisper, “Do you think we could have one of your cards?”

Oscar’s grin freezes. 

Your parents, with their thirty-odd years of marriage, should not be asking Oscar that. Yet here they are, on their couch, watching him with a delicateness that dates back to when he was a teenager watching his parents’ marriage dissolve. Oscar sees you in his mind’s eye—bright smile, wide eyes, the way you used to say, I believe in true love because of my parents. 

He knows why they’d ask him. He knows. He’s had relatives and friends ask for his services. Divorce proceedings are a monster in their own right, and it helps to go through them with someone you trust. Your parents trust Oscar. They have since he was a lanky teenager, throwing rocks at your window because you were upset over something he’d said. They’ve trusted him enough to let him crash on this couch when his parents were being messy; they’ve trusted him to be your best friend, your next door neighbor, your go-to for everything in life. 

He’s not about to take their trust for granted. “Yeah,” he manages, fumbling for his wallet. “Yeah, yeah. Of course. Here.”

For the first time ever, Oscar’s fingers tremble as he hands his card over. 

Oscar spends the morning pretending he isn’t in the way. It’s not difficult; you’re preoccupied enough with hair and flowers and a checklist that’s longer than most depositions. He’s used to being told where to stand, when to speak, what papers to file. Here, you don’t tell him anything. You just move, efficient and elegant, and he hovers, cosplaying background furniture that has opinions it won’t share.

It should feel like relief. Finally, a day where you don’t conscript him into service. Instead, it gnaws. The silence from last night’s conversation with your parents presses on him like a poorly fitted suit. He had smiled and nodded and deflected, said all the right things while trying not to let the weight of implication crush him. They had praised him, teased him, looked at him with a familiarity that made his throat tight. And you had no clue. At least, he hopes you don’t. You have enough to worry about without his conscience leaking into the bouquet arrangements.

He watches you. Watches the way you smooth your dress before you even sit, the way you give orders with a smile that masks the bite underneath, the way you pause every few minutes to take a breath, reset, then whirl forward again like a clock wound too tightly. And he thinks: if anyone deserves honesty, it’s you. Then he thinks: not today. Maybe never.

You catch him staring. He’s never as subtle as he believes himself to be. “What?” you ask, not unkindly, but with that edge that suggests you’ll only allow a five-second detour from your warpath.

He shakes his head. Lies like it’s his job, because today it is. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

Your eyes linger, suspicious, as if you can smell the fabrication. But then someone calls your name, another fire to put out, and you’re gone, swallowed back into the swirl of pre-ceremony chaos. Oscar exhales slowly. Fine. That’s what he said. That’s what he’ll keep saying. Even if it’s the biggest lie of the day, and that’s including the ‘for better or worse’ someone else is about to recite.

It’s an hour before go-time when chaos gets a name and a face: George’s mother, flustered, red-cheeked, eyes darting. A hawk that’s lost its prey. She corners you near the catering table, voice pitched in a whisper that carries far too well. “I can’t find George.”

Oscar’s standing two feet away, holding a cup of terrible coffee, and he honestly thinks he’s misheard. You stare at George’s mother, steady but pale. “What do you mean you can’t find him?” you grit out. 

“He’s not in his room. I thought he was with his groomsmen, but they haven’t seen him either. He’s just—gone.”

Oscar feels the floor shift under everyone’s feet. George, of all people. Steady, buttoned-up, mildly boring George. Hardly the type to bolt. He looks at you, waiting for you to laugh it off, except you don’t. Your jaw is tight, your eyes are already flicking through contingency plans like cards in a Rolodex. “Okay,” you say, voice clipped but calm. “Nobody tells Carmen. Not yet.”

George’s mother nods furiously, like secrecy will summon him back. You turn toward Oscar, already mid-stride, ready to take charge of yet another potential disaster. He sees it. The way your shoulders square, the muscles in your jaw working overtime, the storm gathering in you. And he decides he’s not letting that storm break.

“I’ll go,” Oscar says, stepping in front of you. “You stay here. Keep things steady. I’ll find him.”

“You?” Your brow arches. “Oscar, you don’t even know where to start.”

“I’m a divorce attorney,” he counters. “Missing grooms are basically my clientele-in-training.”

Your lips twitch, but you shake your head, unconvinced. “This isn’t funny.”

“Wasn’t trying to be,” he says, softer now. He lowers his voice, just for you. “You’ve got enough on your plate. Let me handle this one.”

There’s a beat where you almost argue. He can see it in the way you open your mouth, close it, open it again. But then you nod. A sharp, reluctant motion. “Fine. But call me the second you find him.”

“Scout’s honor.” 

As he heads out of the reception hall, he feels the weight of it. Your trust, however begrudging, pressing into his back. Maybe, just maybe, he’s more rattled than he’ll admit. George better be hiding somewhere stupid, Oscar thinks, because if not, he’s not sure what the hell he’ll do. He pushes open the doors and steps into the warm afternoon, beginning the search.

The church is quiet in the way only a building this old can manage. Heavy with incense, dust, and the weight of a thousand whispered prayers layered into its walls. Oscar walks the aisle as if he’s a man on a mission, though in truth he feels more like a private investigator in an overpriced suit than a wedding guest. His shoes click against the stone, each sound bouncing up to the rafters like a tattletale. When he catches the faintest shuffle from the direction of the confession booths, well—case closed.

He stops in front of the carved wood door, ancient and foreboding, and clears his throat. “You know, George, these are usually reserved for sins. Unless you count hiding from your own wedding as one.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, muffled through the screen: “Go away, Oscar.”

“Tempting,” Oscar says, shifting his weight. “But Carmen’s about fifteen minutes away from suspecting you’ve been abducted by rogue groomsmen. I figured I’d head that off. So here I am.” He leans against the booth, arms crossed, looking casual enough that no one would suspect his stomach is twisted into knots on the bride’s behalf. “Mind letting me in on why you’re pulling a Houdini in a church of all places?”

The wood groans faintly as George shifts. He doesn’t open the door, but his voice comes clearer now. “I love her. I do. That’s not the problem.”

Oscar arches a brow even though George can’t see his face. “Funny. Usually when people vanish before the ceremony, that’s exactly the problem.”

George exhales, shaky, almost embarrassed. “I’m not scared of marrying Carmen,” he reasons. “I’m scared of… everything after. What if it goes wrong? What if I wake up in ten years and I’ve failed her? I keep thinking about what you said—that sometimes divorce is the kindest option. What if we end up there?”

Ah. And there it is. His own cynical quip coming back to haunt him, boomeranging with perfect aim. Oscar closes his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose, the irony settling heavy in his chest. “George, you’re asking the guy who pays rent watching marriages implode in real time. And yet—even I know fear isn’t a reason to bolt. If it were, no one would walk down the aisle, ever.”

The booth goes quiet, save for George’s breathing. Shallow, uneven, like he’s bracing for a blow that doesn’t come.

Oscar taps the wooden frame with his knuckle, then presses on, surprising even himself with the earnestness creeping into his voice. “Look. Divorce isn’t proof of failure. It’s proof that people tried. Tried hard, even,” he says. “And yeah, sometimes it doesn’t work out. But that doesn’t make the trying worthless. If you love Carmen—and I know you do—then marry her. Not because it’s risk-free. Because she’s the person you want to take the risk with. That’s the point, isn’t it? You’re not promising perfection. You’re promising to try.”

Another pause stretches out, thick with doubt and something else. Hope, maybe. Then George, softly: “You actually believe that?”

Oscar huffs out a laugh, low and dry, as though he can’t quite believe himself either. “Don’t spread it around. Ruins my reputation. But yeah. I believe it.”

The latch clicks, tentative but decisive, and the booth door eases open. George steps out, white-faced but steadier, like someone who’s just found the floor under his feet again. Oscar claps him on the shoulder. Firm, grounding, the closest thing he can offer to reassurance without choking on sentiment. “Now. Let’s get you married before Carmen figures out I let you stall in a confessional,” says Oscar. “Do you know how quickly she’d kill me for that?”

George manages a thin, grateful smile, the kind that says the panic hasn’t vanished but at least it’s not steering the ship anymore. “Thanks, Oscar,” the older man says shakily. 

Oscar grins in return, steering him toward the nave where the light spills like a reminder of what’s waiting. “Don’t thank me yet. I plan on charging for emotional labor. Weddings bring a premium, you know.”

By some miracle, they arrive at the wings of the church just as the final notes of the prelude swell. And then you’re there, sweeping in like a general surveying her battlefield. One glance at George, present and upright, and your shoulders lose a fraction of their tension. You brush past Oscar, fingertips grazing his arm in a quick, instinctive squeeze. It lasts less than a breath, but it’s as good as a confession. Oscar covers it the only way he knows how: by pretending it didn’t knock the wind out of him.

The ceremony begins. The church doors open, and Carmen steps through, radiant in a gown that makes even the stained glass look dull. The room collectively exhales, but Oscar—traitor that he is—finds his gaze drifting. He tells himself he’s just checking that you’re still in position, orchestrating with your clipboard and muttered commands, invisible yet entirely in control. But the truth is simpler. He can’t stop looking at you, looking for you.

Everyone else sees Carmen gliding down the aisle, but Oscar sees the invisible current you’re steering beneath it all. He catches the curve of your profile in the soft light, the way concentration sharpens your features, the way you’re biting the inside of your cheek to make sure no detail slips. Ridiculous, he thinks, that the most commanding presence in the room is the one people aren’t even supposed to notice.

The vows begin and the congregation leans forward, hungry for their words. Oscar leans back. His eyes find you across the nave, tucked discreetly by the side pews. You look up. Just for a second, maybe checking on him, maybe accident, maybe not. But it’s enough.

There it is: the moment he’s been avoiding like a hairpin curve in the rain. He imagines it. What it would be like if this weren’t George and Carmen standing at the altar. If it were him. If it were you. The thought crashes into him with the force of a spinout. Utterly uninvited, utterly undeniable.

Oscar swallows hard, forces his attention back to the couple trading promises that aren’t his. The image lingers, stubborn as tire marks on asphalt: you, a gown that would outshine every candle in this place, saying words that could undo him. To him. With him.

There’s nothing that Oscar has wanted more in his life. 

The reception is a blur of clinking glasses, distant laughter, and Carmen’s veil catching the light as if it’s made of spun sugar. Oscar’s been lurking at the edges, the way he always does when there’s too much spectacle. Half amused, half bored, wholly aware that he doesn’t belong to this carefully choreographed world of champagne flutes and choreographed entrances.

You appear about thirty minutes in, armed with two paper plates of whatever the caterers managed to squirrel away for the vendors. Professional efficiency, no-nonsense stride. You steer him to a peaceful corner near the kitchen door, away from the storm of speeches and flash photography.

“Eat,” you say, shoving one plate into his hands. “Consider it your reward for saving the wedding.”

Oscar glances at the heap of chicken skewers and roasted vegetables. “Saving the—what?” 

“George told me.” You spear a potato wedge, casual, as if you’re not detonating small bombs in his chest. “About the confession booth. About what you said. He was nervous, but you got him back in time. You saved the day.”

Oscar makes a noise somewhere between a scoff and a cough. “I didn’t save anything. I just—” He waves his fork, hunting for the right word. “Talked. That’s all. People talk. Sometimes they get married after.”

You grin, leaning just slightly into his space. “Don’t be modest. Admit it,” you say, lofty despite your obvious exhaustion. “You believe in marriage now. Or at least you believe George and Carmen will make it. Which means I win.”

“Win what?” he asks, though he already knows. 

“Our little contract.” You pop the potato wedge into your mouth, smug. “You said divorce was sometimes the kindest option. I said anything can be fixed. Guess who was right?”

Oscar stares at you over his fork, chewing slowly, deliberately, like he’s buying himself more time than the bite of chicken really requires. His brain is yelling don’t give her the satisfaction. His chest, annoyingly, is yelling something else entirely. Something softer, warmer, unhelpful. Finally, he sighs, long-suffering, as if you’ve dragged this out of him against his will. “Fine. Maybe you won. A little.”

“A little?” You tilt your head, eyes bright with victory. “That’s all I get?”

“That’s all anyone gets.” He shrugs, but the corner of his mouth twitches upward. “Don’t push your luck.”

You laugh, low and genuine. What Oscar doesn’t quite say is that he will always, always let you win. That’s long since been established.

The drive back to your place is quiet. Not awkward. Quiet, like both of you are storing the night away in some mental scrapbook, cataloging details you’ll never say aloud. Oscar’s fine with silence; he usually prefers it, really. But this silence trills in the space between your elbows brushing on the shared armrest, in the way you don’t reach for the radio, in the occasional flicker of the dashboard light across your face that makes him glance over longer than he should. He tells himself he’s imagining it. He tells himself a lot of things. None of them hold.

The house looks exactly as it always has, which is both comforting and mildly suffocating. Curtains drawn, porch light on, that faint scent of grass and cement he’s always associated with late nights here. The place hums with the stillness of sleeping parents, furniture resting in their well-worn grooves. Oscar trails you in, carrying the scent of champagne and flowers and his own unspoken thoughts. He toes off his shoes, careful to line them up neatly, because your mother notices when he doesn’t. She never says it, but he knows. 

You’re bent over, slipping your heels off, when you say his name. Soft, but not casual. Never casual. “Oscar.”

He looks up, and there it is again. That pull he’s been batting away for years. Familiar hallway, familiar you, nothing objectively remarkable happening, except every nerve in his body seems to think it is. The faded family photos on the wall, the buzz of the  old refrigerator in the background—mundane details that, somehow, are staging the most dangerous moment of his life. He’s supposed to be on the couch. He’s supposed to brush his teeth with the travel toothbrush in his bag and scroll his phone until sleep finds him. He’s supposed to.

Instead, the two of you just look at each other. Too long. Long enough that he can hear the slow shift of your breathing, notice the faint flush on your cheeks that might just be the heat of the day lingering. Long enough that he feels the weight of every almost over the years crowding into this very small, very ordinary space. He thinks of high school evenings when he lingered too long on your porch, of college breaks where you laughed just a little too hard at something he said. He thinks about every moment he could have leaned in, and didn’t.

Because apparently tonight is the night the universe cashes in on all his self-control, you both lean in. At the same time, like you’ve rehearsed it in some dream. Which, to be fair, he has dreamed off. More than once.

Oscar kisses you the way he’s wanted to since high school: certain, careful, a little incredulous that it’s real. 

The hallway smells faintly of laundry detergent and floor polish, a deeply unromantic backdrop, but none of it matters. Not when you’re this close. Not when your breath hitches against his. Not when every sharp edge inside him finally, blessedly, goes quiet. He thinks, with a rush of clarity he’ll never admit out loud, that maybe he was always meant to end up right here. Bare feet on linoleum, parents asleep down the hall, and you, finally, leaning toward him instead of away.

Oscar’s never been one for clichés. He scoffs at them, actually. Rolled eyes, muttered commentary, the whole bit. But standing in this hallway, lips pressed to yours like he’s been holding his breath for years, he has to admit: it feels like the biggest cliché of all. Dream come true, corny title card and everything. And worse, he doesn’t care. Not even a little.

You laugh against his mouth, which is unfair, because the sound shivers right down his spine and makes him kiss you harder. Greedy. That’s the word. He’s greedy for this, for you, for the taste of champagne still lingering on your lips, for the warmth of your skin beneath his hands. He’s everywhere at once. Your waist, your shoulder, the back of your neck. It’s as if he can make up for lost time with sheer persistence.

“Careful,” you murmur, tugging back just enough to breathe, your smile brushing his jaw. “We have to be quiet. My parents—”

“Are asleep,” he interrupts, already chasing your mouth again. God, he’s shameless. He knows it. He can’t stop.

You huff out a giggle, muffled by his insistence, and press a palm to his chest like maybe you mean to hold him back, except you don’t. You never do. “Oscar,” you whisper, but it’s not really a warning. More like an acknowledgment of the obvious: he’s lost the plot entirely.

“Don’t care,” he gasps, his words swallowed in another kiss. And it’s true. He doesn’t care if your dad wakes up, if your mom comes down the stairs, if the whole world finds him here in his socks and suit pants, kissing you like a man starved. The hallway could collapse around him and he’d still find your lips in the rubble.

Your laugh bubbles up again, giddy and breathless, and it tips something inside him dangerously close to joy. He kisses the corner of your mouth, your cheek, the curve of your jaw; he’s mapping a country he’s only ever seen on postcards. “You’re ridiculous,” you say softly, but your hand curls into his shirt like you’d rather die than let him go.

Ridiculous, sure. But finally, gloriously yours.

Oscar doesn’t so much lead you into the living room as stumble you both there, mouths still fused. He’s not watching where he’s going, too busy pressing into you. Which is why your back bumps squarely into the television console. The sharp clatter that follows is less romantic than he’d prefer.

You break the kiss with a laugh that sounds like an apology and a scolding rolled into one. “Watch it, loverboy.”

“Sorry, sorry,” he mutters, already trying to find your mouth again. Priorities.

But you’re ducking out of reach, bending down with a groan. “I have to pick this up before my mom sees.”

On the floor: your mother’s purse, which, apparently, had been balancing on the edge of the console. Now it’s gutted all over the carpet. Keys, receipts, lipstick, a crumpled tissue that has definitely seen better days. Oscar crouches beside you halfheartedly, though his eyes keep darting to your mouth. If you’d just stay still for two seconds—

You freeze. Your hand is hovering over something. Not lipstick, not keys. A simple rectangle of thick cardstock. His card.

You pick it up slowly, confusion creasing your brow. “Oscar,” you whisper, too soft and too sharp all at once, “why is your calling card in my mom’s purse?”

For a split second, he thinks about lying. It would be easy. Say he left it there years ago, some business pretense, some polite exchange. But the words don’t come. They stick in his throat, immovable, like the lie itself refuses to be born. He’s never been able to lie to you. 

He swallows. You’ve already noticed. The way his mouth opens, closes. The way his gaze falters, his shoulders stiffen. He’s physically incapable of bluffing his way out of this one.

How cruel. Oscar’s had you for all of five minutes, and he’s already lost you. 

Morning smacks Oscar in the face with fluorescent train lights and the smell of too many bodies packed into too small a car. He hasn’t slept much. Lando’s couch is about as forgiving as a park bench, and Lando himself is an early riser who treats the morning like a competition. Oscar, meanwhile, feels like he’s been KO’d several rounds already.

He grips the overhead rail, lets the train sway him, tries not to think too hard. You hadn’t given him the chance to explain last night. No surprise there, really. Once your temper hit full throttle, he knew better than to argue. You’d all but shoved him out the door, your voice sharp enough to cut, and he hadn’t blamed you. Not then. Not now. Still. He’d wanted to say something, anything, before the door shut behind him. Instead, he got a midnight exile and a guilt hangover to carry onto public transport.

Oscar leans back against the rattling train wall, the city sliding past the windows in quick blurs of gray and neon. He tries to tell himself this is temporary. That once you’ve cooled off, once you’re back in your own apartment, once the everyday routine pulls you out of last night’s orbit, you’ll let him get a word in. A single word. Maybe two, if he’s lucky. He clings to that possibility, because the alternative is not something he’s ready to look in the eye.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. Lando, probably, asking if he left his charger. He ignores it, eyes slipping shut for just a moment, swaying with the rhythm of the tracks. He’s tired, sure, but more than that, he’s emptied out. All the sharp edges of last night hollowed him clean. Still, there’s the faintest thread of hope wound through the exhaustion. Thin, stubborn, irritatingly resilient. Hope that when the city resets the board, when you’re standing across the hall from him again instead of kicking him out of your parents’ house, maybe—just maybe—you’ll let him explain. And maybe—just maybe—you’ll still want to kiss him after.

Except Oscar doesn’t hear from you. Not a knock, not a muffled laugh through the thin wall, not even the telltale click of your front door shutting in the evening. Nothing. The silence has weight, and it presses on him harder than any courtroom opponent ever has. He tries to tell himself you’re just busy. People are busy, people have lives.

He checks his phone again and sees the three unread messages he sent, floating there like desperate balloons. He thumbs out another one, then deletes it. Tries again. Deletes that too. There’s a limit to how pathetic he’s willing to look in writing, even for you. The thought of using his spare key crosses his mind more than once, and every time he pictures it—him fumbling with your lock, you catching him in the act, your fury doubling—he swears under his breath and shoves the key deeper into his drawer. No. That’s a line even he knows not to cross.

He’s going insane. Objectively, medically insane. Which is probably why Frederik notices first. Frederik, whose head is usually so far in case law he wouldn’t notice if the office caught fire, raises an eyebrow over the rim of his glasses when Oscar misses a joke. “You’re distracted,” he says, crisp as a verdict.

“I’m fine,” Oscar replies, which is lawyer code for I’m not fine, but I’ll bury it under paperwork until it suffocates.

Mick joins in later, plopping down on the edge of Oscar’s desk with all the grace of a Labrador. “Mate, you look like you’ve been ghosted. Or worse. Like, haunted.”

“I’m not haunted,” Oscar says, flipping through a stack of briefs. “I’m working.”

“Sure,” Mick says, leaning back. “By which you mean obsessively rereading the same contract clause and pretending it says something different.”

Oscar doesn’t rise to it. He just keeps highlighting, keeps annotating, keeps pretending the silence next door isn’t the loudest thing in his life right now. Later, he returns from work with a headache blooming behind his eyes and a shirt clinging to his back. An unholy combination of stress and the city’s humidity. All he wants is a shower, a nap, maybe something fried and terrible for dinner. Instead, he sees the moving truck parked out front of the building.

He freezes at the bottom of the stoop, pulse doing something it really shouldn’t. The side of the truck is stamped with a cheerful slogan about new beginnings. He hates it instantly.

Monica, his landlord, stands near the door, clipboard in hand. “Evening, Oscar,” she says like it’s any other day, like the universe isn’t rearranging itself in front of him. “Hot one today.”

He forces his jaw to work. “Yeah. Hot.” His eyes flick up toward your windows, where curtains flutter as a box is carried out. He’s stuck somewhere between disbelief and nausea. “What’s going on?”

“Oh, didn’t she tell you?” Monica’s tone is casual, bordering on amused, which makes him want to laugh in a way that isn’t funny at all. “She decided yesterday. Very quick decision. Signed the paperwork online. I guess she wanted to move fast.”

Yesterday. As if one day of silence hadn’t been enough, now you’ve escalated to disappearing acts. He’s not sure if it’s impressive or cruel. Possibly both. He manages a stiff nod, tries not to let the panic show. “Right. Sure. New beginnings.” He even hears himself chuckle, though it sounds deranged. 

Monica just smiles, unaware she’s chatting with a man whose internal organs have just staged a walkout. As soon as she’s distracted, he bolts upstairs, phone in hand. He dials again. And again. Straight to voicemail. Your voice, prerecorded and maddeningly calm, greets him like it hasn’t already greeted him twenty times this week. He paces the hallway, the movers clattering past, his chest tight enough to crack ribs.

By the fifth attempt, his thumb hovers over the call button, and he thinks, so this is what going crazy feels like. Not the big cinematic breakdowns, but the humiliating repetitions. The endless, one-sided conversations with a voicemail box that never talks back.

Oscar decides he’s had enough of chasing ghosts. Enough of the unanswered calls, the locked door, the movers packing your life into cardboard while he stands useless in the hallway. Enough. He isn’t a man prone to grand gestures—he hates the very idea of them—but tonight, it’s either that or let the silence swallow him whole. 

He starts knocking on doors. Not literal ones at first: your parents’, who give him puzzled looks and say they haven’t seen you since the wedding. Mutual friends, who shuffle and hedge, clearly uncomfortable. He feels like a cop working a missing-persons case, only he’s the suspect too. It’s not a great look. By the time he reaches Hattie’s building in the East Village, he’s half-ready to abandon the whole thing. It’s ridiculous. It’s invasive. It’s—

Hattie opens the door. And freezes. Which is not promising.

Oscar narrows his eyes. “Evening.”

“Uh,” she says, drawing herself up. “Now’s not… the best time.”

He tilts his head. “Not the best time, or not the best lie?”

Hattie flounders, which is confirmation enough. She tries blocking the doorway with her very average wingspan, and for a moment it’s almost funny. Almost funny. Except Oscar’s not in a laughing mood. “Hattie,” he says, tone flat enough to iron shirts on. “Move.”

“Maybe you should, I don’t know, call first—”

“I’ve called. Repeatedly. Voicemail loves me. Move.”

She sighs, glances back inside, then mumbles something that sounds like, “You owe me,” before stepping aside. There you are. Not a mirage, not a voicemail greeting, but you. Sitting on her couch like you’ve been waiting for this inevitable ambush.

Hattie claps her hands together, way too brightly. “Well! Groceries don’t buy themselves. You two—have fun.” She’s gone before either of you can object, leaving behind a slam of the door and an air thick with unsaid things.

Oscar stands there, still at the threshold, heart doing its best impression of a bass drum. He’s not sure whether to laugh, curse, or just admit he’s terrified. But at least now, finally, there’s no more hiding.

He doesn’t even get a chance to sit down before it begins. You’re already tense in the armchair, arms folded like shields, eyes sharp enough to cut through drywall. He knows that look. He’s been on the receiving end since high school debates and who gets the last slice of pizza. Only this time, it feels nuclear. “You’re fucking crazy,” Oscar blurts before he can stop himself. Smooth start. “Who just… impulsively moves out like that?”

Your scoff is immediate, vicious. “Says the man who can’t tell the truth to save his life.”

Oscar’s stomach lurches. “That’s not—” He stops, rubs a hand over his face. “Okay, fine, I should’ve explained. But you didn’t even give me the chance.”

“Oh, please.” Your voice wavers, but your glare doesn’t. “What exactly were you going to explain, Oscar? That my mother just happened to have your card in her bag for no reason? That it just fell in there, like magic?”

“You don’t understand,” he tries again, softer this time.

“No, you don’t!” The words hit sharp, but your voice cracks, and that’s what undoes him. Your arms drop, your face crumples, and suddenly you’re not furious—you’re devastated. “I trusted you, Oscar. And to find that card—of all things—in their house—” Your throat catches. “Do you have any idea what that felt like?”

He does. He knows, because it’s written all over your face now, wet and trembling. And Oscar has always been weak to this. He could win arguments, out-stubborn you until the end of time, but the second tears arrive? Game over.

“Hey,” he says, stepping forward, almost tripping over Hattie’s rug in his rush. “Don’t—don’t do that.” His hands hover for half a second before instinct wins and he cups your face, thumbs brushing at skin that’s already too damp. “Don’t cry. Not because of me.”

You close your eyes against his touch, shoulders still shaking. He swallows hard. All his practiced sarcasm, all the barbs he hides behind, dissolve like sugar in water. Right now, all he can do is hold you steady and hope you let him.

You keep going, even through your tears. Oscar doesn’t think he’s ever been called this many names in such a short span of time. Impressive, really. You’re snapping at him like it’s an Olympic event, and he’s barely keeping up. Liar, coward, snake—he’ll admit some of those fit on bad days, but not tonight. Not with this hanging over both of you.

He’s cornered, and lying suddenly feels impossible. He waits for you to take a breath, for the betrayal to temper just enough, so he can get out, “It wasn’t for them.”

You freeze, tears clinging to your lashes. “What?”

“It wasn’t for your parents,” Oscar says again, slower this time. Delicate in a way he never is. “It was for your aunt Robin. She’s the one going through the divorce. Not them.”

The words hang in the room. For a second, he can almost see the gears turning in your head. Then it hits, and you fold, shoulders shaking as the fight drains out of you all at once.

“Aunt Robin?” Your voice cracks in a way that guts him. “She’s—no, she can’t—”

Oscar pulls you against him, arms awkward at first until they’re not, until he’s just holding you as tightly as he knows how. “I know,” he murmurs into your hair. “I know. I didn’t want to be the one to tell you. They didn’t want me to tell you.”

You sob, raw and messy, and it makes his chest ache in ways he doesn’t have names for. “Why wouldn’t they tell me? She’s—she’s family. She’s—”

“They thought you’d take it hard. Which, for the record, you are.” He tries for levity, for that thin thread of dry humor, but his voice wavers under the weight of your crying. “See, they weren’t wrong.”

You shove weakly at his chest, tears wetting his shirt. “Not funny.”

“At least it’s not your parents. That has to count for something, right?”

You sag against him, still crying, but your fists unclench in his shirt. Relief slips through your sobs, uneven and fragile, and Oscar holds on, helpless but steady. He doesn’t know what else to give you except this. His arms around you, his voice low in your ear, and the unshakable truth that he’d rather be here, in this mess with you, than anywhere else.

Oscar is not a natural caretaker. He’s many things—competitive, argumentative, occasionally insufferable—but nurturing isn’t usually in his wheelhouse. Yet here he is, tripping over Hattie’s scatter of throw pillows, digging through cupboards like a raccoon in search of comfort items. Blankets? Snacks? Possibly both at once? Why not. He shoves a bag of pretzels and a blanket into your lap like he’s supplying a survivor of some great tragedy, which, to be fair, is more or less how the evening feels.

You’re quiet now, no longer snapping, no longer crying quite as hard. Just curled on the couch, eyes red and cheeks blotchy. Still beautiful, because of course you’d manage that. Oscar spreads the blanket over you with the finesse of someone trying to fold a fitted sheet. Badly, unevenly, one corner hanging off. Still, it earns him the tiniest sound from you. Almost a laugh. Almost.

“Don’t say anything,” he warns, settling beside you.

“I wasn’t going to,” you murmur, which is a lie. The smile tugging at your mouth gives you away.

He sighs, lets himself lean back, and then he tentatively slides an arm around you. For one terrifying second, he expects you to shove him off. Instead, you sink into his side with a long, shaky exhale. Relief shoots through him so fast it’s dizzying. Maybe he can breathe again.

“I may have overreacted,” you say after a pause, voice small, almost hidden in the fabric of his shirt.

“Oh, you definitely did,” Oscar replies before his brain can catch up with his mouth.

Your head tips up, glare sharp even through swollen eyes. He deserves it. He really does. Still, the corner of his mouth betrays him with a smile he doesn’t bother fighting. Absentmindedly, almost without thought, he presses a kiss to your forehead. You freeze for half a beat, then relax, settling more firmly against him. Oscar doesn’t move, doesn’t risk ruining it. He just holds on, staring at the muted flicker of Hattie’s TV screen like it might explain how he got here.

“We’ll figure it out,” he mumbles, already running in his mind what contracts will be needed to get your apartment back. 

“Promise?” you say in a small voice. 

Oscar doesn’t make promises. Regardless, he says, “Promise.” 

“Already? You rented it already?”

Monica, unbothered as ever, flips through a clipboard as if she’s grading papers. You and Oscar are seated across from her, twinning in the way your jaws are unhinged. You were her tenant for three years; did loyalty count for nothing in this damn city? “The waitlist for a one-bedroom in this neighborhood is longer than my patience for tenants who don’t read their lease agreements,” says Monica. “The minute she canceled, it was gone.”

You’re frozen, eyes wide and breath hitching, and Oscar can see it. The start of a full-blown panic winding its way up your spine. He recognizes the signs; he’s catalogued them like constellations. Because he has absolutely no filter left, because watching you unravel is unbearable, he blurts, “You should just move in with me.”

Silence follows. Even Monica looks up from her clipboard, eyebrows creeping toward her hairline.

You glance at him, stunned. Panic attack forgotten. “What?”

“You—uh—” He clears his throat, already regretting every life choice that’s led him here. “You should move in. With me. Temporarily.”

Your mouth opens, then closes again. Oscar swears he can hear the static of your brain short-circuiting. “That’s… we can’t do that.”

“Is it?” he shoots back, half defensive, half desperate. “You need somewhere to live. I have space. You like mocking my furniture choices anyway, so—perfect opportunity to do it daily.”

Monica makes a low sound, something suspiciously like a laugh, before retreating into her office. Great. Now it’s just the two of you, stranded in the echo of his impulsive offer. You stare at him, clearly weighing whether to strangle him on the spot or admit he has a point. Oscar holds his breath, heart thudding so hard it feels like it’s trying to make a break for it.

Finally, you manage, “It’s not a bad idea.”

“It isn’t,” he says, relief slipping in, “it’s just until you work things out.”

See, Oscar has always been good at compartmentalizing. Work here, groceries there, feelings in one box, whatever-this-is with you shoved into another. But apparently boxes don’t mean much when you’re dragging a suitcase through his apartment door.

You barely look around because this isn’t new to you. Your shoes already know where to live in his hallway, your hoodie has been camped out on the back of his chair for months, and the couch still carries the faint indentation from all the times you’ve claimed it as yours. In a way, you’ve been living here without ever officially moving in. Now it’s just… official.

Oscar tries not to look too obvious about wrestling your suitcase from you. “I’ll take that,” he says.

“You don’t have to,” you protest, but let him anyway, because some things are inevitable: death, taxes, and Oscar carrying your things.

By the time evening swallows the apartment, you’re cocooned in his bed. Oscar insists on the sofa bed, which is heroic in theory, masochistic in practice. He pretends it doesn’t squeak every time he breathes too deeply. He also pretends not to notice the way your snores drift out from the bedroom and makes the place feel smaller and bigger all at once.

The adjustments sneak up on him in tiny, ridiculous ways. The extra toothbrush next to his—pink, leaning precariously close like it’s trying to flirt. The rotation of extra dishes in the sink, which he swears multiply when he isn’t looking. The hair tie he finds on the coffee table, which somehow feels more intimate than the kisses you still haven’t talked about.

Ah, yes. The kisses. The ones at your parents’ house. The ones that exist in his head like a neon sign he refuses to read. Every time he catches himself staring at you—when you’re rifling through the fridge, or humming along to some awful ad jingle—you glance back, and for half a second, it feels like you’re remembering too. Then you blink, and it’s gone, like neither of you is brave enough to say the word ‘kiss’ out loud.

He doesn’t bring it up. You don’t bring it up. Instead, he tells himself to get used to the toothbrush, the dishes, the hair ties, and the silence around the thing that’s not silence at all. He lies there on the too-short sofa bed, staring at the ceiling, and thinks that if this is what going crazy looks like, he can probably live with it. Day in, day out. Being good to you, being your best friend. He can take it. He can do normal. He’s a grown man. Sort of.

Except tonight, the sound Oscar comes home to isn’t the rustle of snack wrappers or your voice humming badly over some show. It’s the faint metallic clink of jewelry. By the time he finds you in the bathroom mirror, his lungs have stopped doing their usual job.

You’re wearing his favorite dress. The one that makes him stupid, though technically most dresses you wear qualify. Earrings catching the light, lips glossed. The whole nine yards. “Wow,” he says before his brain can veto it. It comes out rougher than intended. “Big night?”

You glance at him through the mirror, casual as you please. “Yeah. Bumble date.”

Oscar short-circuits. Bumble. Of all the cursed apps. He manages to school his face, though his insides are throwing chairs. “Bumble,” he repeats, nodding slowly like this is all perfectly fine, nothing to see here. “Nice. Sounds efficient.”

You arch a brow at his reflection. “You’re not allowed to make fun.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, doing his best impression of unbothered when he’s two seconds from combusting. “So what’s this guy’s deal? Wall Street? Tech startup?”

You roll your eyes, brushing past him toward the door, perfume trailing behind. “Don’t wait up.”

That’s when Oscar cracks. He doesn’t mean to. Blocking the door isn’t in the plan. Hell, he didn’t even have a plan. His arm just shoots out, palm flat against the frame, keeping you in. Muscle memory from every bad romcom he’s pretended not to watch.

You look up at him, visibly surprised. “Oscar?”

He swallows. His heart’s going way too fast for a conversation that hasn’t technically started. “You’re not… really gonna go, are you?”

A beat. Thick, tense. He can feel the edge of it pressing into his skin.

“I mean,” he fumbles, trying to backpedal without moving his arm, “you don’t even like dating apps. Remember? You said they feel like job interviews but worse.”

“Why do you care?”

“Because—” He stops, because the truth is sharp and messy and clawing its way up his throat, and once it’s out, nothing’s going back to normal. Maybe that’s the point. 

Oscar doesn’t mean to start yelling. Technically not yelling, but the Oscar version of yelling, which is a slightly louder monotone with too much hand motion. It bursts out anyway, like pressure behind a dam finally giving way.

“You’re kidding me, right?” he says, and the frustration leaks into every syllable. “You’re dressed up, in my bathroom, using my mirror, my hairspray, by the way, to go out with some stranger from Bumble? After—after what happened?”

Your brow furrows. “What happened?”

“Oh, come on.” His laugh is hollow, sharp. “We kissed at your parents’ house. Or did I hallucinate that? Should I get my eyes checked out?”

You cross your arms, steady in a way that makes him insane. “That was—”

“That was what?” He cuts in, voice cracking just enough to betray the panic beneath. “A glitch in the matrix? A fun party trick? Because if so, you’re doing a great job pretending it never happened.” He drags a hand through his hair, exasperated. “Do you know what it’s like, sharing an apartment with you while we both pretend like we didn’t nearly set the living room on fire kissing against your parents’ console?”

Your mouth opens, then shuts again. For once, blessedly, you don’t have a comeback.

He pushes on, reckless now. “I walk in here every day, and it’s—you’re here. You’re brushing your teeth next to me, stealing my socks, eating cereal out of my favorite bowl, and instead of—of this,” he gestures wildly between you, “you’re getting dressed up to go on a date with someone else? Are you insane? Because it feels like I’m the insane one!”

Instead of answering, you grab him by the shirt and kiss him. Hard.

Everything folds in on itself and then sparks, like someone hit the emergency power switch. He stumbles a step back but doesn’t let go, doesn’t even think to. His hand finds your waist, another cradles your jaw, and then he’s kissing you back like it’s the only thing he’s ever been any good at. Fuck law school, fuck law practice. This is what he’s made for. 

The taste of your lip gloss, the stutter of your breath. It all hits at once, dizzying, disarming. He had a whole speech queued up, righteous fury and all. Gone now. Vaporized. Turns out there’s no rebuttal to being kissed senseless.

Oscar doesn’t even realize he’s moving until the back of his knees hit the couch and he drops, gracelessly, into the cushions. Then you’re on him—literally on him—straddling his lap with a mouth that leaves him gasping. His brain, poor thing, has the nerve to short-circuit at the exact moment he’d like to be saying something smart, something definitive. Instead, he clutches at your waist. 

You pull back just long enough to get words out, breathless and sharp-edged with adrenaline. “I didn’t have a date.”

Oscar is dazed, lips still tingling. “What?”

“There was no Bumble guy. I just wanted you to finally snap.”

He stares at you, stunned into silence. Then a laugh—half disbelief, half affection—escapes him. “You’re actually insane.”

He doesn’t give you room to argue it. Hands on your hips, he flips the script in one swift, unceremonious motion. Suddenly, you’re flat on your back against the couch, his weight braced over you, his mouth finding yours again as if gravity’s a law he finally understands. There’s nothing tentative in it now. No sidelong glances or unsaid caveat. It’s all the frustration and wanting, poured into the press of his lips.

You break away for air, just barely, eyes searching his. “Oscar, what is this?” you manage to ask, urgent in that way you get when something outside of your plans happens. 

What is this? What is this? It’s holy ground. It’s his undoing. It’s him being proven wrong, and gladly taking that loss. It’s vindication for his high school self who pined over you; it’s a promise fulfilled. It’s his past, his future, and everything in between. 

“Everything,” is all Oscar manages to say in the breath between your mouths. This is everything, he means, everything to me. 

It’s not a speech, not a plan, not a neat label that explains the last however-many-years of complicated nonsense. But, for now, it’s the only answer he has, and apparently it’s enough. You smile, deem it sufficient, and pull him back down to kiss you again.

Oscar should know better than to let you out of his sight for thirty seconds. 

Thirty. That’s all it takes for him to get tangled in your ridiculous coffee order at the Arrow Central counter (“oat milk, not almond, but steamed halfway, and no foam unless it’s exactly two fingers thick”) and for you to waltz your way into trouble. He turns, receipt in hand, already braced for whatever chaos you’ve conjured.

There you are, all easy smiles and animated gestures. His prospective clients—middle-aged couple, big account, the kind of people he’s been carefully courting for weeks—are nodding along, visibly charmed. His heart sinks, because of course they are. You’re charming when you want to be, and dangerous when you are.

Oscar narrows his eyes, closing the distance in quick strides. He catches the tail end of your sentence: “... and honestly, if you haven’t tried marriage counseling yet, I have a wonderful contact I could pass along.”

Perfect. Just perfect.

“Are you serious?” Oscar cuts in, sliding himself between you and the couple with a smile that looks far more polite than he feels. “Sorry, folks. She gets… enthusiastic.”

You blink innocently up at him. “What? I was just trying to help.”

“By implying my clients need therapy?” His voice is low, the kind reserved for hissing through gritted teeth in public.

“They mentioned arguing a lot,” you counter, batting your lashes as if you haven’t just torpedoed weeks of his work. “I thought I’d save them some time.”

Oscar pinches the bridge of his nose, because honestly, what’s the point of lecturing you? You’ll only twist it into something he can’t refute. Still, he tries. “They’re here to talk about life insurance beneficiaries, not—” He waves a vague hand. “—their communication issues.”

The husband, bless him, chuckles nervously. “She’s not wrong, though.”

Oscar stares at the man, briefly contemplating the possibility of evaporating on the spot. “Please ignore her,” he manages, tone bordering on pleading. 

You grin, triumphant. “See? They like me.”

“Everybody does,” he mutters, ushering you gently but firmly away from the table. Affection slips through his exasperation—because he can’t help it, he never can—but still, he leans down to whisper against your ear, voice threaded with that dangerous combination of fondness and threat. “If you ever, ever crash one of my meetings again, I swear, I’m swapping your oat milk with regular.”

Your scandalized gasp almost makes him laugh. Almost. Oscar shoos you back with a look that could double as a cease-and-desist order. One hand makes a subtle little off you go motion while the other slides into his pocket like he has infinite patience. He doesn’t, but for you, he might as well be a damn saint.

“Apologies,” he tells his couple, voice smooth enough to hide the fact that he’s ready to throttle you. “That was my girlfriend.” 

And there it is. The word drops from his mouth with all the casual ease in the world. Inside? He’s practically strutting. Girlfriend. Yours truly. Filed, notarized, and legally binding, as far as he’s concerned.

The clients exchange a look, then laugh. “That’s funny,” the wife says. “A divorce attorney dating a wedding planner.”

Oscar smiles thinly. He’s heard every joke in the book: irony, opposites attract, doom-and-gloom meets happily-ever-after. He just nods and says, “We make it work.” Short, clipped, but it’s the truth. Somehow, you and him fit.

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches you leaning against the counter, watching him. His glare finds you instantly, sharp as a spotlight. You, of course, don’t wilt under it. No, you grin, cock your head, and send him a dramatic flying kiss.

Oscar sighs internally, but his hand twitches up before he can stop it. 

Since then, there’s been a few texts. A few half-hearted excuses. Enough distance to make him think maybe that night was the sort of temporary madness you’d both agreed never to name out loud. 

Oscar pulls his hood up, fingers brushing over his headphones, ready to escape into the evening when the knock comes.

He freezes.

The sound is small, hesitant. He knows it’s you before he even checks the peephole. He opens the door, and you’re there. Date-ready. Hair smoothed, eyes lined in careful strokes, lips with the faintest sheen of gloss. A dress he’s never seen before, soft fabric skimming your thighs. It’s unfair, the way you look; it’s as if you’ve been painted in brighter colors just to remind him of what doesn’t belong to him.

He clears his throat. “Date’s over?” His voice is neutral, practiced. It’s the only way he knows how to speak to you now.

You shift your weight, the heel of one shoe scuffing against his doormat. “Yeah.”

That’s all you give him. No explanation. No mention of Lando’s name. Just yeah.

Oscar steps back, lets you in. He doesn’t say anything about how you smell like wine and night air, or how the curve of your wrist looks delicate as you shrug off your jacket. He doesn’t comment on how you’re beautiful in a way that feels deliberate tonight, not accidental like when you used to sprawl across his couch in joggers and a hoodie. 

Instead, he nods toward the kitchen. “Want some water?”

You glance at him, searching his face for something he doesn’t offer, and then you nod. “That would be nice,” you say with devastating, uncharacteristic gentleness. 

Oscar turns, every movement measured, deliberate. He doesn’t let himself look too long at the way your dress rides up when you sit on his kitchen stool, or how your knees press together like you’re still wound tight from the evening. He just fills a glass and sets it in front of you.

It feels like waiting. Again.

Oscar leans against the counter, arms folded, watching the way condensation gathers on the glass you haven’t touched. The silence stretches, taut as fishing wire. He lets it spool out until it feels almost unbearable, then cuts it clean with a simple question. “So,” he starts, “how was it?”

You look up, startled, as if you hadn’t expected him to ask. Your lips part, gloss catching the light, before you settle into a shrug. “It was fine,” you say. “Dinner was nice. Lando picked a place by the port, really good seafood.”

“Sounds riveting.”

You shoot him a look, but there’s no heat in it. “He was funny,” you add, softer. “He made the waiter laugh more than me, which was kind of impressive. And he—he opened doors. Pulled out my chair.”

“Chivalry’s not dead,” Oscar murmurs. He watches the way you twist the edge of your napkin-creased jacket on your lap. “What else?”

You glance away, as if cataloguing the evening in your head. “We walked after. Down by the water. He told me about some race weekend stories. Stupid ones, mostly. Stuff he probably shouldn’t tell a first date, but…” You pause, a small smile flickering before it slips. “That was it.”

Oscar hums. He waits, patient, until the question itches out of him anyway. “Anything happen?”

The words hang there. He doesn’t clarify. He doesn’t need to.

Your expression shifts, frustration surfacing in the downturn of your mouth. You set the glass down harder than you meant to, water sloshing against the rim. “It wasn’t—it wasn’t what I thought it would be.”

There’s a furrow in Oscar’s brow now. “What do you mean?”

You draw in a breath, shaky. Your nails tap against the counter, a restless rhythm. “I don’t know. I thought it would feel different. Special, maybe,” you huff. “But it was just… dinner. Talking. Laughing. The whole time I kept waiting for something to click, and it didn’t.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He only watches you, the weight of your words settling heavy in the space between you, like the air before a storm. He stays very still, the kind of stillness that costs him effort. You’re watching the countertop when you finally come clean.

“It felt different when Lando… when he tried things.”

His chest tightens. “Different how?” The words come out flat, careful.

You shake your head quickly, defensive. “I don’t know. Just—different. Not the same.”

Oscar’s jaw works, a muscle twitching. He keeps his tone even. “You can be honest.”

“I am being honest,” you protest, but your voice is small. Your fingers knot in the hem of your dress like you’re afraid it might betray you.

He pushes off the counter, crossing the space between you in slow, measured steps. Close enough that he can see the flush creeping along your neck, the uneven rise and fall of your chest. Close enough to feel the static hum of your nerves.

“Tell me,” he says lowly. “What did he do?”

Your eyes dart up, wide, then away again. “He… he held my hand first. Brushed his thumb over my knuckles. It should’ve been sweet…” You trail off, frustrated, as if the words won’t line up.

Oscar reaches down, takes your hand gently in his, thumb dragging once over the ridge of your knuckles. Slow. Patient. He watches your breath stutter. “Like this?”

You nod faintly. “Yeah. But when you do it, it feels—different.”

Oscar doesn’t answer. He only watches you, expression cinched, while his thumb continues its quiet path across your skin. You inhale shakily, grazing your own forearm in a way that’s almost hesitant, “Then he… he touched my arm. Here.” 

Oscar mirrors it immediately, his fingers gliding along the same stretch of your skin. He notes the way goosebumps rise under his touch, the way your shoulders stiffen and then loosen in the span of a breath.

“Like that?” 

“Yeah,” you whimper. “It didn’t—it didn’t feel like this.”

“What else?”

You hesitate, cheeks heating. “He tried to put his hand on my thigh.”

Oscar’s eyes drop, briefly, before returning to your face. He waits for your permission, silent but present. When you give the smallest nod, he lowers his hand, resting it carefully over the fabric of your dress, just above your knee.

The room goes very quiet. 

His palm is warm, grounding. His voice is barely above a whisper. 

“Here?”

You release a breath that trembles. 

“There. Exactly.”

Oscar doesn’t let himself react. Not yet. He only presses a fraction more firmly, thumb brushing once against the inside of your knee. “Keep talking,” he says softly. “Tell me everything you he did.”

You speak carefully, as if each word costs something. “After dinner, we… we walked back,” you stutter. “To his apartment.”

The words knock something loose in his chest. He tightens his grip without meaning to, fingers pressing harder into the fabric of your dress. He draws in a sharp breath through his nose, tries to even it out. “What happened there?” The question lands harsher than he intends, clipped at the edges.

Your eyes flick up to him, gauging. “Not much. He—he tried. He touched me again. Higher.” Your hand gestures vaguely toward your hip, uncertain.

Oscar’s jaw is set, but he obliges. His hand slides upward with a deliberate pace, heat trailing in its wake. It’s not smooth this time; his touch borders on rough, betrayed by the envy he’s choking on. You don’t flinch. If anything, your breath catches in a way that makes restraint harder.

“And?” 

“He leaned in. His face—t’was close. His breath on my neck.”

Oscar closes the space without thought, lips brushing the line where your shoulder meets your throat. The contact is soft, but his breath is unsteady, his mouth lingering too long to pass as imitation alone.

“Did it feel good?” Oscar asks, even though he’s not sure if he wants to hear the answer. 

You nod, barely. You sound frustrated when you repeat, “But it was different.” 

The word scrapes him raw. Different. He keeps his mouth at your neck, lets the silence stretch, teeth grazing lightly in a moment he almost doesn’t control. His lips hover, ready to retreat.

“Did you kiss?” The question is strangled, not neutral this time. 

You stammer, something shameful burning in the pause. “I… well—when he—Osc…”

Oh. There it is. 

Oscar had every part of you except that. You’d let him use your mouth, let him eat you out and make you come more than thrice, but that’d been your line. No kissing. You’d been so adamant on saving that for Lando.

It’s enough to make Oscar pull back, breath drawn through his teeth, face shuttering. Hurt threads through the restraint, makes him shift as if to step away.

But your hands snap up, clutching at his shirt, holding him there. “Don’t.” Your voice trembles with urgency, raw enough to strip his defenses. “Don’t go, Osc. I—I’m sorry. I need you. Need you to make me feel good.”

Your grip moors him, the plea louder than the warning bells in his head. He stays where he is, chest rising and falling in sharp bursts. He’s close enough to feel your heartbeat thrumming against his own, his own control threatening to crash and burn.

Oscar reads the frustration etched into your face. The tension in your jaw, the restless shift of your hands. He makes a choice. 

Without a word, he guides you toward the couch. His grip is firm but careful, a silent insistence, and when you sink onto the cushions he urges you onto your back. The air between you tightens, charged with everything unsaid, every flicker of doubt folded into silence. “You want to feel good?” he exhales, resolving himself to this. 

He leans over, lips brushing your skin in a scatter of deliberate touches. Your temple, your jaw, the line of your throat, the slope of your collarbone. Never your mouth. The discipline is calculated, punishing for him, but necessary. His voice weaves between the kisses, low and even, a steady counter to your anxious form.

“Breathe. I’ve got you,” he mumbles into your shoulder. 

Each kiss is an anchor, each word a tether. You keen softly, the sound breaking like relief, as though his touch is holding you together where you might otherwise unravel. His hand settles over your chest, palm spreading warm against the swell of your breast. The weight steadies you, and the subtle pressure draws out a shudder. When his thumb ghosts across your nipple through the fabric, the sound you make trembles on the edge between sob and sigh.

“Easy,” he murmurs, though his own control feels stretched thin, fraying at the edges with every soft plea from you. “Let me take care of you, yeah?”

He trails lower, mapping a path with his mouth. A slow, devotional descent. Each press of his lips feels catalogued, a point of reverence along your body. Your dress rides higher under his hands, and your body arches, seeking the path of his mouth. By the time he reaches the band of your underwear, your breathing is ragged, your body taut as a bowstring.

Oscar pauses there, a deliberate hesitation, lips brushing the edge of the fabric. He inhales once, catching the warm scent of you, and then mouths over the thin cotton, tasting heat through the barrier. 

Your hips jerk helplessly at the first press of his tongue, the fabric dampening under his insistence. He keeps his pace unhurried, deliberate, savoring each broken sound torn from your throat. There’s something obscene about this—Oscar, eating you out through your underwear. His nose bumps against your clothed clit and you end up gasping, the sound going straight to Oscar’s cock. 

“P-please.” Your voice cracks on your words as you squirm. “Oscar, please. Take them, hng, off.”

He lifts his head just enough to look at you, eyes dark, searching, as if confirming that you mean it. When he sees nothing but your absolute wreck of an expression, he obliges without hesitation, sliding the fabric down your thighs, letting his fingers trace as he goes. He tosses it aside, then returns to where you need him without so much of a preamble.

When his mouth closes over you properly, the difference is devastating. His tongue works with a precision that borders on cruel, deliberate strokes, designed to unravel you piece by piece. He revels in the way you break apart almost instantly, body seizing around the edge of pleasure before he’s even slipped a single finger inside. The sound you make cuts through him, raw and pleading. 

Maybe you’re all wound up. Maybe Oscar’s just that good. But you’ve barely gotten out your warning of “I’m c-close,—I’m coming!” before you’re finishing on his tongue, coating the lower half of his face with slick. Oscar hisses, hips jerking uselessly against the bottom of the couch as his cock blurts precum into his boxers. 

Your cry vibrates against his skin, and he slows, intending to retreat, to give you air. But then your legs clamp tight around his head, pulling him closer with surprising strength. Your hand fists in his hair, tugging him down, your voice wrecked and demanding.

“Don’t stop,” you say, delirious and wretched. “More, please.”

Oscar exhales hard against you, the sound swallowed into your skin. “Greedy,” he grunts, his fingers curling into the cushions. “My greedy, greedy girl.” 

Despite his taunt, he surrenders to your demand, his restraint dissolving under the urgency of it. His tongue moves deeper, firmer, coaxing new sounds from you, while one hand steadies your hip against the couch and the other slides lower, testing the threshold of your body. 

He presses a finger inside at last, slow but inexorable, careful even as desire frays his patience. Your body clenches around him immediately, another tremor racing through you, sharper, stronger. “Fuck,” you whine. “Fuck, fuck, fuuuck.” 

He feels the way you pull him deeper, the way your thighs shake against his shoulders, and knows—knows with absolute certainty—that you won’t let him leave you unfinished, won’t allow him distance or mercy until he’s given you everything you’re begging for. 

And so he obeys, mouth and hand working in rhythm, every movement tuned to the breaking point of your need, every sound you make pulling him closer to the edge of his own restraint.

Oscar works you open, his fingers moving with careful deliberation, easing into your heat as if he has all the time in the world. He keeps his eyes fixed on your face as he sucks at your puffy clit, reading every flicker of response. Every now and then, he pulls away from your cunt to coax at you. “Relax,” he says. “Don’t think too hard.” 

You clench around him, body betraying every ripple of sensation. When he adds a second finger, his pace remains unhurried, letting you stretch around the intrusion. His thumb brushes absently against your hip as if grounding you. Then, almost casually, his voice slips into something sharper.

“Did he get to touch you like this?” 

The question makes you seize, walls fluttering around his fingers. Oscar notices instantly. His mouth curls faintly, a trace of humor at the corner of his restraint. “No?” he hums. “Thought so.”

You whimper, eyes squeezing shut. He gives you a reprieve, his tone softening, coaxing again. “Don’t hide. You’re fine, baby. You’re doing so well for me.”

Your hips lift helplessly into his hand, each motion caught between desperation and shyness. He resists the pull to lean up, to kiss you where your mouth waits. Instead, he lowers his head, mouth brushing the swell of your breast through the thin fabric of your dress. His tongue drags slowly over the outline of your nipple, and he feels the shiver ripple through you.

“I remember you said you liked it here,” he murmurs, almost to himself, before catching the peak gently between his teeth through the cloth.

You arch beneath him, the sound you make breaking high. His fingers never stop, stroking deep and steady, dragging you toward the edge with a patience that borders on cruel. Every time you falter, his mouth presses reassurance into your chest, lips moving over you in silent comfort.

When you finally splinter apart again, the sound is half cry, half sob, your body convulsing around his hand. Oscar holds you through it, fingers working you down from the peak, his mouth still warm against the front of your dress. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t pull back. He stays exactly where you need him, watching you unravel, the taste of control sharp in his own mouth.

Eventually, Oscar eases his fingers from you slowly, careful not to startle the sensitivity still clinging to your body. He straightens, dragging in a breath, and shifts as though to stand. “I should get something. Clean you up,” he says, already calculating where he left the towels.

But you’re faster, desperate in the way your hand fists into his shirt and pushes him back down onto the couch. His body lands with a muted thud, surprise flashing across his face. it’s quickly replaced by something darker when he sees the look in your eyes.

“I don’t want that,” you say, voice ragged. “I want—let me… let me do something for you.”

Oscar opens his mouth to protest, but you’re already tugging at the hem of his shorts with clumsy urgency. The fabric resists, and you wrestle with it, your impatience almost endearing. He doesn’t help you. He only watches, lips quirking, chest rising with controlled breaths. Deadpan, he manages, “Careful. You’ll rip them.”

You glare up at him briefly, flushed and determined, before dragging the shorts down in a single tug. His thighs flex as the fabric gives way, and the moment his boxers are revealed there’s no hiding the strain of him, pressed against the thin cotton, already thick and demanding. There’s a wet spot where he’s been leaking since the moment he started touching you. 

Oscar doesn’t flinch under your gaze, unembarrassed by his own arousal. If anything, there’s a flicker of satisfaction in the way your eyes widen slightly, the way your breath hitches.

“It’s not your first time seeing it,” he points out. 

“I know,” you say, “but it’s still a fucking monster.” 

God, you’re going to be the reason why Oscar’s ego swells. You sink to your knees before him, hands trembling. The sight coils heat low in his stomach. When you reach for him, tugging his boxers down just enough to free him, Oscar has to resist the urge to finish then and there.

For a second, he considers teasing again, a quip already at the tip of his tongue. But then your mouth closes over him, tentative and eager, and the air leaves his chest in one hard exhale. His head tips back against the couch, jaw slackening.

You’re clumsy, a little unsteady, but you remember what he showed you that first time. How to take him in slowly, how to hollow your cheeks, how to use your hand where your mouth can’t reach. The effort makes his stomach tighten, every shift of your tongue pulling another groan from his chest.

Oscar’s hand finds the back of your head, his touch featherlight. Not to force, only to guide. His voice, rougher now, doesn’t even sound like him. “Good. Just like that,” he praises. “You remember.”

His breath stutters when you hum around him, your inexperience outweighed by the urgency in every movement. He keeps his eyes half-shut, fighting the wave of pleasure threatening to undo his composure, clinging to the rhythm you’re building with every pull of your mouth.

Oscar lets his head fall back against the couch, thighs tight, breath staggered. You’re on your knees between them, clumsy but determined, your mouth stretched around him in a way that sends him perilously close to unraveling. He keeps his voice low, guiding, the same steady tone he used that first time.

“Yeah, that’s it. Hand at the base, keep the rhythm slow. Use your tongue—good. Just like that.”

You hum at the praise. He forces himself to keep speaking, because silence might ruin him faster. “You’re doing so well. ‘S exactly how I like it.”

But then the thought slithers in, uninvited: Lando. 

Oscar should keep it buried, but his chest tightens, his jaw clenches, and before he can stop himself, the question bursts out in between restrained gasps. “Did you and Lando… did you get this far?”

You still instantly. 

You pull back, lips swollen, breath uneven. Your eyes meet Oscar’s, and then they avert. Something dangerous sparks inside of Oscar’s chest. “Oscar,” you say, “I—I’m sorry—”

He doesn’t want to hear it. Doesn’t need the details of how you were on your knees for another man mere hours ago. Oscar instead cups the back of your head and pushes himself back past your lips, shutting you up. The first thrust is shallow, cautious. He checks himself, checks you.

“You stop me if you need to,” he rasps. “Understand?”

You nod around him, eyes wide, obedient. Only then does he let go.

Oscar moves with care but without hesitation, hips rolling slow and deliberate, feeding himself into your mouth. The wet sounds of it fill the room, obscene and intimate. He watches your throat work, the tears at the edges of your lashes as you fight to keep up, the spit slicking your chin. Each time you gag, he withdraws slightly, only to guide you back down with a rougher groan.

His thoughts blur between what is and what isn’t. Between your mouth now, and the unbearable image of you on your knees for someone else. “Did you make those sounds for him?” Oscar hisses. “Did he know how desperate you get when you’re full?”

Your fingers claw at his thighs, head shaking in futile denial, but you don’t stop Oscar. You take it, all of it, until he feels your breath hitch in sync with his own. He knows he’s close. Too close.

He drags you off at the last second, jaw clenched. His hand fists over himself in rapid, desperate strokes. He comes hard across your dress, streaks of white catching on the fabric that only minutes ago had been pristine from your date.

For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of his breath, ragged and uneven, and the sight of you below him. Knees on the floor, lips parted, dress ruined. His pulse thrums with jealousy, with relief, with something he refuses to name.

His mind clears, and he’s immediately mortified. “Shit,” he spits. “I’m sorry. God, I’m—” 

Oscar’s working through his apology when you get to your feet. He blinks as if stunned, because instead of recoiling at the ruin of your dress, you tug at the straps and peel it off your body in one fluid motion. 

The fabric lands in a heap at the floor, forgotten. He’d taken off your underwear earlier, and—Jesus Christ—you’re not wearing a bra. It means you’re left in nothing, naked in Oscar’s living room with his cum across your collarbone. 

“Don’t apologize,” you say, your voice quick, almost breathless. “I don’t care about the dress. I just… I want this.”

You climb over him, straddling his lap, and the press of your bare skin against his leaves him winded. His cock twitches despite him having just finished, the line of him sliding against your folds as you start to move. The slick drag makes both of you shudder.

“I want this,” you murmur, grinding down harder, your voice fractured. “Hold me?”

His hands find your waist automatically, holding you steady as if you might slip through his grasp. The friction is unbearable, almost too much, and Oscar feels his eyes sting, vision blurring at the corners. It’s too close, too raw, and still he doesn’t let go.

“You feel… fuck, you feel good,” you gasp, burying your face against his throat. “This is what I needed.” 

Your words lance through him sharper than the drag of your body. He tightens his grip, near desperate now, whispering into your hair as your rhythm falters into primal need. “Take what you need,” he says raggedly. “Take all of me.” 

Oscar braces himself as you move over him, the steady grind of your hips unrelenting, intent. He can feel every shiver of heat dragging across him, every fractured breath you spill against his skin. It’s catastrophic in its simplicity. How you don’t ask for more, don’t demand what he can barely restrain from giving.

Instead, you work yourself against his lap until your body seizes again, breaking open on top of him.

He’s hard, painfully so, but he leaves it, neglects the throbbing insistence in favor of wrapping himself around you. His mouth finds your shoulders, the curve of your neck, his lips ghosting where words won’t reach. He breathes you in, steadying himself against the weight of your release. Your trembling ebbs, little by little, your breathing dragged back into rhythm as though he’s guiding you down from the height with each kiss he presses to your skin. His control feels thin, stretched, but it holds, because he’d rather let you come apart in his arms a thousand times than take a single step too far.

Eventually, you lift your head. Your faces are close, so close he can count the flecks in your eyes, the flush still blooming across your cheeks. The pause hangs sharp between you, a silence taut with everything he’s refused himself.

“Oscar,” you whisper, and he’s convinced his name has never sounded this good. 

You lean in, decisive, breaking the line he’s held so stubbornly. Your mouth finds his, soft and insistent.

Oscar’s breath stutters, heart collapsing into the space you’ve crossed. 

The kiss doesn’t end quickly. It stretches, deepens, becomes something unruly in its patience. Your mouths fit, pull, linger, testing how far the line bends now that it’s been broken. Oscar’s hands cradle your back, your jaw, like he’s afraid you might vanish if he doesn’t hold every part of you. The air tastes of want and restraint, of everything he’s been trying to keep buried.

When you finally break for breath, your voice is small and uncertain. “Do you… want it to happen here?”

Oscar almost laughs, a dry sound caught between disbelief and need. “On my couch?” he says. “Not a chance. You’re not having your first time like that.”

Before you can protest, he’s already shifting, sitting up with you still wrapped around him. His arms tighten, lifting you with an ease that makes you breathe out a giggle. The movement is careful, deliberate, his control stitched into every step toward his bedroom.

He lays you down gently against the sheets. You’re sprawled there, bare, the trust in your eyes knocking the breath out of him more than your body ever could. He strips his shirt without ceremony, the fabric tugged over his head and discarded to the floor. 

You reach for him instantly, tugging him down until his weight settles against you. Your mouth finds his again, hungry, pulling him deeper into the choice you’ve already made.

Oscar doesn’t give in to your urgency, not yet. You can feel the weight of him pressed against your thigh, the undeniable strain of his body saying he wants it as much as you do, but his hand moves first. His fingers slip between your legs, familiar now. The touch is enough to make you whimper, enough to make your plea stumble out again.

“Oscar,” you pout, “I want it now.”

He grins a bit. “And you’ll get it,” he laughs. “But not until you’re ready. I’m not ruining this for you by rushing.”

Two fingers slide in, slow, deliberate. You clutch at his shoulders, nails dragging lightly over skin, every inch of you fighting between relief and impatience. He keeps the pace unhurried, his voice steady against the tremor of your breath. 

“Let me do this,” he says. “You’ll thank me for it.”

When he works a third finger into you, the stretch draws a gasp, your body tightening around him. He leans in, lips brushing your ear, tone quiet but merciless. “That’s it. Open up for me, baby. If you can’t take this, you can’t take me.”

You cling harder, muffling a moan against his throat. He takes the sound as surrender, his free hand guiding yours down to his cock.

“Touch me while I’m touching you,” he instructs. “Wrap your hand around me—there, good. I want to, ah, feel you while ‘m working you open.”

Your movements are hesitant at first, but his groan betrays how quickly you’re finding him. He praises you between breaths, the restraint in his tone fraying. “Good girl,” he grunts. “That’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

His fingers curl inside you at the same time you squeeze him in your hand, the rhythm pulling him closer to the edge of patience. Still he doesn’t let go of the pace, steady and sure, determined to shape you to him.

“I’m going to finish again,” you warn, voice shaking with pleasure and impatience. 

Oscar laughs breathlessly. “Do you prefer I start edging you?” 

“You wouldn’t dare.” 

Oscar withdraws his hand abruptly, the sudden absence making your body clench around nothing. You start to protest, the sound caught in your throat, but then you see him reaching toward the nightstand. His intent is obvious, clinical—responsible in the way you always knew he would be. A condom. Of course.

Your hand shoots out, catching his wrist. His eyes flick to you, brows raised. You hesitate, then force the words past the heat rising in your chest.

“I… I want to feel all of it.” The admission is soft, halting. “I’m on the pill. I just—” Your voice falters, nervous under the weight of what you’re asking. “I want it like that.”

Oscar stills, every line of him taut. For a moment, he looks at you as if trying to read whether you understand the gravity of it. His throat works, but no objection comes. Instead, the hesitation breaks into something rawer, hungrier.

He surges forward, the restraint he’s clung to unraveling in one pull of his mouth against yours. His hands frame your face. When he finally pulls back, breath ragged, his voice is rough with certainty. 

“You don’t have to worry about anything,” he grunts. “I’m the cleanest driver on the grid.” 

Oscar holds himself above you, every muscle drawn tight, his eyes fixed unflinchingly on your face. Not on your body, though the sight of you spread beneath him is enough to undo him entirely, but on your expression. The subtle flickers of nerves and want, the way your lips part around a breath that doesn’t quite make it out.

The first push is only his tip, and already you’re thrashing under him, your hips jolting, your breath breaking apart in little gasps. He stops instantly, teeth gritted, forcing his own body into check. His voice comes out broken. “Breathe, baby,” he coaxes. “Let me in.”

“I’m trying,” you choke out.

Your legs tighten around him, a plea and a tether both, and he presses forward again, his chest brushing yours as if the closeness alone might ease you open. He whispers between kisses at your temple, your cheek. “You’re fine. You can take me. We’re gonna make you take me, yeah?”

Each inch feels impossible, a stretch that makes your nails dig crescents into his back. He winces, but it anchors him, sharp pain grounding him against the molten pull of your body. He eases in further, patient even as his control frays, every fraction of movement wrung out with care.

By the time he bottoms out, he’s trembling with the effort of holding still, your nails sunk deep into his skin. He presses his forehead to yours, swallowing hard against the rush of heat and relief, and murmurs, “There. You’ve got all of me now.”

Oscar stays still, every nerve alive, forcing himself into patience. Your body tightens, then loosens by degrees, your small sounds shifting from ragged gasps to something softer. He keeps whispering into the space between you, his voice low, coaxing. “Okay?” 

For a moment, it feels endless, this suspended stillness. But then you nod, eyes opening to meet his. “I can take it,” you say shakily. “You can move.”

He exhales like it’s a prayer answered. The first motion is cautious, a shallow pull and press, barely any distance at all. He watches every twitch of your face, every flicker of response, adjusting to each of them as though you’re speaking without words. The restraint is brutal, but he clings to it, steady as he eases into a rhythm.

“How do you feel?” His voice is strained, though he tries for evenness.

Your arms are tight around him when you whisper back, almost breaking on the word. “Full.”

Something inside him gives at that, a low groan caught against your throat. He presses deeper, still careful, but there’s no hiding how the praise slips free of him now. “That’s what I wanted you to feel,” he pants. “You’re taking me so well. Hold on, okay?”

You cling tighter, nails biting into his skin, your body arching up to meet his slow thrusts. Every movement is tempered with care, yet each one builds, layering want against want against want. And through every shiver, every tremor, he stays with you, guiding you through the rhythm as though the only thing that matters is that you feel exactly how completely you belong here, wrapped around him.

Oscar keeps himself buried inside you, but the tension beneath his restraint is starting to fracture. He reads the nerves in you easily—the way your nails bite deeper into his shoulders with every whispered praise, the way your gaze flits between his face and the place where your bodies are joined. 

He softens his voice, keeps it steady, but something slips through, unguarded. “Did you ever imagine Lando…?” 

The name lands like a stone. Your body jerks, clenching tight around him, your voice breaking into a startled sound. “Don’t,” you start, but it’s too late. 

The reaction shoots straight through Oscar, sharp as a blade. Jealousy floods him, sudden and unrelenting, and the careful pace he’s kept wavers. He drives into you harder, sharper, as though punishing the question, punishing the thought, punishing himself for even letting it out.

Your eyes widen, shame flickering there, but your lips part only to release a choked whimper. Oscar’s jaw locks. He knows you’re innocent—knows he has no claim over you, not yet—but the flare in his chest won’t quiet.

“You probably did,” he grits, but he doesn’t slow. If anything, his rhythm grows more pointed, his hips snapping with a certainty that shakes the frame of the bed. “But it’s, ah, me you’re in bed with right now, isn’t it? You let him sit there thinking he had a chance.”

He feels the shift in you before you even make a sound. The sharp edge of pain softens, melts into something that has you arching into him rather than shying away. Your muscles spasm around his cock, and the sensation drags a hiss from his throat. He’s watching your face, the tremor in your lip, the way your lashes tremble like you can’t decide whether to keep your eyes on him or shut out the weight of what you’re feeling. Every flicker of your expression is another pull at the tight wire of his restraint.

He doesn’t give you the chance to retreat. His words press harder than his body does, voice curling against your ear like a hand forcing you open. “Is this what you wanted from him? For him to fuck you like this?”

You shake your head, desperate, breath breaking as you whisper, “Don’t mention—please don’t—” The plea collapses into a moan, traitorous in how it curls upward, shivering with pleasure. The contradiction only fuels him. His chest tightens with the knowledge that you can’t control how your body answers for you.

“Why did you even go?” His voice is low, rough, each thrust punctuating the question, each movement heavier than the last. “Why let him put his hands on you when this—” He pulls nearly all the way out before sinking back in, groaning when you grip down on him. “—is what you needed?”

Your thighs quiver around his hips, caught between wanting to deny him and wanting more of what he’s doing to you. Your head tips back against the pillow, throat tight, a cry caught halfway between shame and want. You manage another broken, “Stop—” but it’s ruined when you keen at the very next stroke. 

Oscar’s mouth twists into something almost like a smile, except there’s no humor in it, only disbelief at how much he wants you undone, how much he’s willing to press until you admit it. “You don’t want me to stop,” he hisses against your jaw, his teeth grazing lightly before he pulls back enough to see your expression. “You’re clenching around me just from hearing his name. Fucking pathetic.”

The words make you shudder, your voice faltering, caught between begging him not to speak and begging him not to stop. Tears catch at the corners of your eyes as you writhe beneath him, pulled taut between shame and unbearable want. Your nails leave crescents on his back, dragging against the sweaty heat of his skin, your body betraying every protest your mouth tries to form.

His jealousy distills into possession, every thrust stamped with claim. “You feel that?” His hand slides higher up your thigh, gripping hard to pull you open wider for him. His voice carries both accusation and hunger. “This is mine. Not Lando’s. Not anyone’s. Just mine.”

You writhe, nails dragging red crescents into his back, and he swears you’re holding onto him like the words themselves tether you in place. Your head tips back, throat bared, and the sounds you make tumble out helpless, unrestrained. Each noise cuts through him, proof that the truth is already written into your body.

“Tell me,” he pushes, eyes narrowing as he watches every shift in your expression. “Tell me this is what you want.”

“Yes—” The word bursts out of you like air from underwater. “It’s you, Osc. Only you.”

The admission strikes him deeper than he expects. His chest feels tight, almost painful, but the drive in him doesn’t falter. He leans down, fucking you with a rhythm that borders on desperate. His breath comes ragged, his words breaking between thrusts. “Good. I’m going to make sure you don’t forget that.” 

You’re shaking now, clinging to him as if he’s the only thing holding you together. Oscar watches you unravel beneath him, every gasp and tremor etching itself into him like proof. His jealousy burns into reverence, frustration transmuting into a kind of worship he can’t disguise. He moves with a force that feels inevitable, each stroke declaring what he can’t stop repeating in his head—you’re his, his, his.

The sound of your moans mixes with his labored breathing, the room thick with the truth neither of you can take back. Oscar, locked on your face, feels the words steady inside him as certain as the rhythm of his body: this is where you belong, and he’ll carve that into you until there’s no space left for doubt.

Oscar feels the rush building, heavy and urgent, the rhythm of your body pulling him closer with every clench, every tremor that runs through you. His jaw locks as he watches you, the way your chest heaves, the way your thighs tremble, the way you give yourself over despite the fracture of your voice. He buries himself once more, feels the fluttering heat of you clamp around him, and it nearly breaks his control. 

With a groan, he drags himself out at the last second, fist tight around his throbbing cock as he spills hot over the trembling swell of your cunt. The sight of it—your body marked, flushed, spasming for him—makes his chest cave with something tighter than relief, something dangerous in its pull. His stomach knots, heat spreading in waves as he drags his release across your skin, unable to look away.

His breath comes ragged, his hand steadying against your thigh as though he’s holding himself up. His chest heaves, sweat dripping down his temple, his eyes locked on you even as he fights to catch air. He’s still watching you, as though the mess he’s made of you isn’t the end but only the beginning of something he can’t stop wanting, can’t stop chasing.

Oscar doesn’t catch it at first. Your voice is thin, words running over themselves, half-formed and tumbling out too quickly. It’s only when your hand presses against his chest like you’re holding him back from some invisible blame that he realizes—you’re apologizing.

The sound of it is almost frantic, defensive. “It was good,” you’re saying, “so, so good. I don’t know why—why I didn’t—” 

For a moment, he just stares at you. And then he laughs, low in his chest, the sound warm and unbelieving. He leans down until his breath touches your cheek, where he plants a chaste kiss. “You think that matters?” he says, affectionate even now. “You think that changes what this is?”

“I didn’t—” you start, voice cracking. “I thought I was supposed to. I don’t want you to think I can’t—”

He kisses you before you spiral further, steady, grounding, as if he can bring you back into yourself. When he pulls away just far enough to speak, his voice carries that clipped, dry calm he uses when he’s stating the obvious. “Not everybody finishes from penetrative sex. Doesn’t mean you won’t. Doesn’t mean I’m leaving you like this.”

“But it was good,” you insist, almost pleading, your eyes wide on his. “I swear it was. I don’t want you to think you didn’t—”

“I know it was,” he cuts in softly, thumb brushing your jaw. “I could feel you. I know.”

Your confusion flickers in your eyes, brows drawing, lips parting like you’re about to question him. He doesn’t let you. 

His hand slides lower, steady and practiced, and then you gasp when his fingers press into the swollen heat of your clit. You jolt under him, body clenching again, impossibly sensitive. “Oh my God. Oscar.” The words spill out helpless, half a whimper, half a plea.

He’s using what he left on you, slick and messy, his touch circling slow until you’re trembling. He spreads his cum over your clit, using it as lubrication. “You don’t have to—” you try to protest again, but your voice breaks into a moan, betraying you. “Oh, that—d-don’t stop, please—”

Oscar covers your mouth with his, kissing the sound away, swallowing every broken noise like he’s collecting proof. He doesn’t waste time. He already knows where to go, what to touch, how to have you spiraling under him, and he gives it to you. 

His hand cups your breast, thumb teasing over your nipple until it pebbles; the way you arch into his palm makes heat flare sharp in his chest. He bends his head, mouth closing over the soft swell of you, sucking your nipple between his teeth just to hear the strangled gasp you give. Every sound you make feels like it brands him, burns straight through to the core. Your fingers claw against his shoulders, needy, almost frantic, and it only spurs him on.

His other hand works between your thighs, sliding through the mess there with slow, unhurried strokes, each one sinking deeper, curling until your back bows. The glide is obscene, slick with his cum and yours together, the sound wet and shameless. His cock twitches against your thigh, leaving streaks of warmth, and he grinds it there deliberately. Just so you feel every throb of him, just so you know what you’re doing to him.

“Look at that,” he mutters, voice rough, caught between reverence and taunt. “Taking me back in. You’re so selfish, aren’t you? Can’t get enough of me, even now.”

He presses deeper, fingers curling hard, knuckles dragging against your walls until your whole body trembles around him. His cock smears more of himself over your skin, leaking hot against you. “That’s it—suck my fingers in, take it all,” he pants. “You like that, don’t you? Me pushing my cum inside of you.”

You moan something that could be his name, cracked and broken, your thighs trembling around his wrist. The sound pulls a low laugh from him, muffled against your breast where he leaves another sharp bite. “Let’s use our words, baby. Do you like the way I fill you up? Do you like it when I use you?”

Your voice stumbles over itself, wrecked, words tumbling free without shape until finally, you choke out, “Please—yes, I love it, I love it—”

The admission guts him. His cock throbs helplessly, smearing precum down your thigh in messy streaks as his fingers drive harder, deeper, fucking his cum inside you. He can feel how soaked you are, how your body can’t decide whether to cling tighter or push for more. His mouth roves hungrily across your skin—breast, collarbone, throat—kissing, biting, soothing as though he can’t bear to leave any part of you untouched.

“That’s it,” he rasps, need fraying his voice. “So fucking tight on my fingers. Drenched for me. You’re going to come all over me, aren’t you? Going to fall apart—the way Lando couldn’t get you to.”

The pressure builds quick, relentless, your body clutching at his hand as though terrified of losing it. You’re babbling again, high and frantic, words dissolving into cries that he swallows with desperate kisses. His thumb circles your clit, merciless, coaxing the tension until it breaks sharp and overwhelming.

Your body locks hard around his fingers, pulsing, dragging every spasm out of yourself against the unyielding curl of him. The sound you make is ragged, shivering straight into his mouth as your nails rake down his back, carving him open. 

He keeps working you through it, dragging you over the edge until the last tremor leaves your thighs quaking, your body limp beneath him. When he finally pulls back just enough to look at you, your face is flushed, damp with sweat, lips parted and wet from his kisses. His fingers are still inside you, glistening, holding the mess of both of you there as though he doesn’t want to let go. His cock presses hot and swollen against your thigh, twitching with every shallow breath he takes, but he doesn’t push it further. Not yet.

Later, steam fogs the small bathroom, curling around Oscar as he steadies you under the warm spray. His hands are careful, washing away every trace with a gentleness that surprises even him. You sway, drowsy on your feet, so he holds you closer, lips brushing your temple. He rinses you slowly, as though there’s all the time in the world, as though this moment deserves to stretch itself out and live in memory.

He doesn’t let you lift a finger after. He steers you to the kitchen, pressing snacks into your hands before you can protest, watching with satisfaction as you eat what you can. There’s a stubborn part of you that insists you’re fine, that you don’t need this much fuss. “It was just sex,” you huff, cheeks tinged with pink. “It’s not like I’m sick or anything.” 

He only shakes his head, that small, flat smirk pulling at his mouth. “Humor me.”

When he’s finally satisfied, he shepherds you into his bed, piling blankets over you until you’re swaddled in them. You laugh at the absurdity, muffled under the layers, but he only tucks the edges tighter, leaning down to kiss your cheek. 

“This is ridiculous,” you protest.

“Not ridiculous,” he says matter-of-factly. “It’s necessary.”

You end up face-to-face, eyes soft and heavy-lidded. The air hums with something softer now, the tension dissolved into intimacy. His fingers trace idle shapes against your arm, a rhythm meant to soothe. You search his expression, trying to pin down what comes next, but he beats you to it.

“We don’t have to know right now,” he says, voice low, steady. “We’ll figure it out in the morning. Whatever this is.”

There’s nothing left in you to argue. 

Warm, fed, and cocooned in him, you let your eyelids drift down. 

Just before sleep pulls you under, you murmur drowsily, “You’ve ruined me for anyone else.”

He only smiles, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. He’s not even sure if you’re awake to hear his response. 

Not when you turn up on his doorstep tonight, eyes glinting with something soft and nervous curling behind your lashes. He knows that look. It’s the one that makes his stomach sink and his throat tighten because he’s seen it before, but never has it been directed at him.

You perch on the edge of his kitchen stool like the ground might shift under you. You twist the end of your sleeve in your hands. He hates that you’re fidgeting. He hates that you’re nervous. Mostly, he hates that it’s not because of him.

“Lando asked me out,” you breathe. 

Oscar resists the urge to frown. “Okay.”

You look up at him, a hesitant smile twitching at the corner of your mouth. “That’s all you’re gonna say?”

“Should I say more?” he asks, deadpan, leaning against the counter. His arms are crossed over his chest, mostly so he doesn’t do something stupid. Like reach for you.

“I don’t know. I thought maybe… you’d be surprised. Or weird about it.”

“I’m not weird about it,” he lies, “and I’m not surprised. Lando would be stupid not to want you.”

You smile again, soft, grateful. It kills him.

Then the smile drops, and you sigh—one of those long, full-body exhales. Your fingers tap against the countertop. Once. Twice. “I’m nervous,” you admit.

He studies you. I can see that, he nearly says, but he settles instead with, “Why? You’ve known Lando for years.”

“Yeah, but not like this.”

You won’t look at him. That tells him everything. Still, he waits. Patient, as ever. “I haven’t really done… a lot,” you murmur, eyes trained to the ceiling.

“Done?”

You glance at him then, briefly, face hot. “Sex. Stuff.”

He has to look away for a minute. Heat licks up the back of his neck, settles low in his gut. His arms tighten over his chest. The air shifts between you, dense and humming. You’re still talking, voice too delicate, too open.

“I just don’t want to disappoint him,” you babble. “Like, what if he expects me to know things? Or be a certain way? And I’m just me?”

Oscar turns his head, slowly, forcing himself to meet your gaze. You’re chewing your bottom lip raw, eyes downcast. There’s that part of you—unguarded, genuine, scared—that you never show anyone else. He knows it like he knows his own hands.

“You’re not just anything,” he says. It comes out harder than he meant it to; his throat feels like it’s lined with glass. “You’re…”

You finally look at him, just as he lamely finishes with, “... you. You’re you.”

He’d be more articulate, but his brain is kind of shutting down on itself.

Because now he’s picturing it. How Lando will touch you. If Lando will see the way your breath hitches when someone brushes your wrist. If he’ll know that you go quiet when you’re turned on. If he’ll think to ask before he undoes you.

Oscar shouldn’t want to know those things. He does, anyway. And now you’re here. Asking him—indirectly, innocently—for reassurance. As if he could talk you through this without wanting to burn the world down.

He swallows. “What if you didn’t have to worry about that?”

You tilt your head. “What do you mean?”

His heart punches against his ribs. Stupid. Reckless. Absolutely not the plan. “What if someone you trusted showed you?” he says, voice sounding not quite like himself. 

You stare at him for a beat, gauging what he’s offering, whether he’s kidding. When you laugh out his name, a breathless, playfully scandalized “Oscar,” he can hear the strain beneath the two syllables.

“You said you were nervous because you haven’t done much,” he says. Carefully. “What if you didn’t have to go into it blind? What if you could learn with someone who already knows you? Who cares about you?”

He waitswaitswaits. 

You blink. Your breath stutters. Your eyes flick to the serious set of his mouth, the immovable force of his arms. And then. 

You nod. 

It’s small—barely there—but it changes everything. The air feels heavier now, like the pressure before a storm. Oscar doesn’t move right away. He lets the weight of your decision settle, lets it braid itself between the quiet inches of space still left between your bodies.

You’re still watching him. Like you’re waiting for him to flinch, to take it back. Like you think he might regret offering.

He doesn’t.

He only steps closer.

“Okay,” he says, voice low. Gentle. “Then we’ll go slow. You tell me what you want to know. What you want to feel.”

You nod again, firmer this time. “Maybe… maybe we shouldn’t kiss,” you say shakily, brows drawn together adorably. “If we want to keep this from getting complicated.”

Oscar’s jaw tightens. He nods. “Got it.”

You’re close now—closer than you’ve ever been without an excuse. Oscar can feel your warmth, the subtle rise and fall of your chest as you breathe, the almost-touch of your body to his. The two of you shuffle over to the couch, silent and in sync, just to make things easier. 

You sit side by side, knees pressed against each other.  Oscar watches your fingers pause just above the waistband of his joggers. You’re not trembling, not exactly, but there’s a hitch in your breathing that makes him want to reach out. Press a hand over yours, ground you. Not to stop you. Just to let you know he’s here, that he’s not going anywhere.

“You don’t have to rush,” he says, voice roughened at the edges. “We’re not in a hurry.”

You glance up at him. He sees it again—that flicker of uncertainty, of unspoken questions. So he speaks first. “How far have you gone?”

Your voice is so, so small when you admit, “Not very. A little bit of making out here and there.”

There’s heat in your cheeks, in the way your eyes dart away like you’ve admitted to something shameful. Oscar hates that. He hates that you think your inexperience is something to hide.

“That’s good to know,” he says plainly. 

You fidget with the drawstring on his joggers, eyes still cast down. “Just so you don’t expect me to know what I’m doing.”

“I don’t expect anything from you,” he says. “This is just for you to learn. For you to feel safe. That’s all.”

You nod, your mouth twisting into a rueful smile. “Still no kissing, though.”

Oscar swallows the protest that almost rises to his lips. “Right,” he rasps. “No kissing.”

It’s the only thing keeping this from tipping over into something else. Into something it can’t come back from.

You reach for him again, fingers tentative as they trace the curve of his oblique, just above the V of his hips. Oscar sits still, arms loose at his sides, letting you explore him.

“That’s a good spot,” he murmurs when your fingertips pass over the sharp line of muscle there. “Most people don’t realize how sensitive that area can be. Especially when someone’s paying attention.”

You hum thoughtfully and trail your hand upward, brushing over his ribs. He shivers. “Ticklish?” you ask, a touch amused. 

“A little. But in a good way.”

Your fingers drift again, this time along his chest, pausing at his pecs. You press your palm flat against him, and he instinctively tightens the muscle under your hand. “You flexed,” you say.

Oscar smiles. “Didn’t mean to. You caught me off guard.”

You trace your thumb over his nipple. A light brush. He exhales through his nose, his jaw tight. “That’s another good spot,” he mumbles. “Sensitive. A little underrated, honestly.”

You glance up at him, and for a second, Oscar forgets the rules. Forgets the line he’s supposed to be toeing. But he doesn’t lean in. Doesn’t let his eyes drop to your mouth. He is patient, he is patient, he is patient. 

You explore lower now, hands skimming the trail of hair leading beneath his waistband, but you don’t go further. Not yet. Oscar feels his pulse in his throat, in his fingertips, in the way his cock is already hard and straining against the fabric.

Still, he waits.

“You okay?” he checks in.

You nod.

“Good,” he says, voice low. “Do you want to keep going?”

You hesitate for a fraction of a second before nodding again.

“Need you to use your words, gorgeous,” he says, light and teasing, drawing a bashful laugh from you. 

“Yes,” you concede. “Wanna keep going.”

Oscar nods. “Then let me show you more.”

He reaches for your hand again, gently guiding it to his bicep, then his forearm. “Different parts of the body respond to different kinds of touch,” he murmurs, watching your expression all the while. “Here’s strong. Solid. But if you drag your fingers lightly—like this—”

He demonstrates on your arm, the softest touch over your skin. Goosebumps prickle over where his fingers had been. 

He mirrors it on himself, guiding your hand to follow. “It’s not always about pressure. Sometimes it’s about presence,” he says. “Letting someone feel you. Letting them want more.”

Your pupils are blown now. He wonders if you even realize you’re leaning into him. He doesn’t say it. He just lets you keep touching, keep learning, and he pretends he’s not falling apart from it.

Oscar sees it happen in your eyes before you say anything—the worry creeping back in, like doubt tugging at the corners of your mouth, pulling you inward. You’re still touching him, still warm and close, but your gaze is far away.

“I just…” you start, voice unsteady. “I keep thinking about what Lando might expect.”

Oscar doesn’t flinch, but it cuts anyway. A dull slice just beneath the skin.

You keep going. “What if he wants someone confident? Someone who can—who knows how to, I don’t know, use their hands or say the right thing or—”

He stops you with a firm, “Hey.”

You look up at him, startled.

Oscar’s expression is calm. Too calm, maybe, because he’s holding back everything. Every petty surge of jealousy, every instinct that wants to pull you away from this hypothetical version of Lando and remind you that he’s right here. That it’s his body under your hands. His pulse you’ve got racing.

“You don’t have to be anything but yourself,” he says. “And if you want to learn absolutely anything, I’m here. That’s it. That’s all this is.”

You nod, slowly. Still, your fingers hover—undecided, unsure. He stays where he is until you’re finally out of your head enough to move. 

You hook your fingers into the waistband of his joggers and tug them down.

Oscar’s breath catches. He helps you, pulling them off, leaving him in nothing but black boxers. Tight enough to leave very little to the imagination. He’s already half-hard, the outline of him thick against the fabric. He sees your eyes go there, linger, and it takes everything in him not to react.

You reach out. Palm first, hesitant. You touch him over the cotton, soft pressure at the base, and Oscar’s stomach tenses instantly.

“Fuck,” he breathes, head tilting back against the couch cushion. He tries, valiantly, not to come undone from just this. 

Your hand immediately stills. “Too much?”

“No,” he says quickly. “Not at all. You’re doing fine.”

You start to move again, stroking him through the fabric. Oscar’s eyes flutter shut for a moment. He has to steady himself, fists clenched at his sides.

“Pressure’s good,” he grunts. “But don’t be afraid to explore. You can use your palm... or your fingers. Try different things. I’ll tell you what feels nice.”

You trace along the length of his cock, fingers curving lightly around the shape of him, then back down to the base. He’s thick and growing heavier in your hand. You’re watching closely, brows drawn in concentration, like you’re studying him.

“You’re really hard,” you say, almost to yourself.

He huffs out a dry laugh. “Yeah. That happens.”

Your gaze flicks up to him, quick. But he sees the shift in you. The awareness, the realization of the power you wield. Your hand moves more confidently now, a little more pressure. His hips jerk subtly out of instinct, reaction. 

Oscar breathes out through gritted teeth. “That’s good. Fuck, that’s—really good.”

You’re gnawing your bottom lip. “You like it?”

“I like you,” he says, before he can stop himself.

You laugh like it’s a fucking joke. You probably think he means it as your best friend, when the thoughts running through Oscar’s mind are far from friendly. 

You keep touching him. Slower now. More focused. Oscar—still pretending this is just for you, just a favor—lets it happen, lets you learn him one stroke at a time.

After what feels like forever of just you working him up, Oscar realizes he’s barely breathing.

Your hand is still wrapped around him through the thin fabric of his boxers, stroking him in slow, uneven movements. Unsure, but so eager. It takes every ounce of restraint not to buck into your touch. Not to groan louder than he should. Not to lose himself.

But then you pause.

Your fingers hover, nerves creeping back into your expression. And when you look up at him, your expression flayed open with such heartbreaking earnestness, his heart stutters in his chest.

“Can I—” you start, voice barely audible, “can I see it?”

Oscar exhales slowly, like it’ll keep him tethered.

“Yeah,” he manages. “‘Course.”

He hooks his thumbs into the waistband and slides the boxers down. It takes effort—his cock is hard now, thick and straining against the cotton—but eventually they fall, pooling at his ankles. He’s already leaking at the tip, unable to resist the way you do him over.

You go very, very still.

Oscar watches you take him in. How your eyes track the length of him, how your lips part like you’ve forgotten how to close them. He resists the urge to shift under your gaze, to adjust himself, to do anything that might break the moment.

“Jesus,” you whisper. “It’s… bigger than I thought.”

He tries not to smile. Tries not to let it get to his head. He can feel it, anyway. The way the pride simmers under his skin, low and satisfied.

You keep looking, eyes full of something like awe, something almost reverent. He stores it in his mind for future reference. 

“Bigger than in videos?” he teases.

Your face goes even redder, and Oscar bites down a groan. You’re killing him.

“Sorry,” you mutter. “I just... I didn’t expect—”

“It’s okay,” he says, scooting closer just a bit. “I like that you’re curious.”

You reach out, slowly. Your fingers brush against the base of him, tentative at first. The contact makes him suck in a sharp breath.

“Still okay?” you ask.

He nods. “Careful with your nails. Not too sharp.”

You pull back immediately. “Sorry.”

“No, no, you’re fine,” he assures, voice a little strained. “Just—try using more of your palm. Yeah, like that.”

You adjust, cupping him with both hands now, dragging one slowly up the shaft while the other stays low. You trace a vein with your thumb, and Oscar’s hips twitch before he can stop them.

“Fuck,” he mutters, jaw tight. “That’s good. Sensitive there. ‘Specially near the tip.”

You take him at his word. Your thumb circles the head, a little clumsy, a little too dry. He winces. “Okay—wait, hang on,” he says, voice catching. “That’s good, but you need to slow down. Think less pressure, more glide. Use your fingers gently here, like you’re… coaxing.”

“Coaxing?” you echo.

“Yeah,” he huffs. “Like you want it to give you something.”

You giggle under your breath. The sound goes straight to his spine.

Still, you follow instructions well. Your fingers soften, the rhythm more fluid now. You explore at your own pace, brushing over the head, down the length, to the base again. You cup him. He twitches, bites back a moan. 

Oscar looks down at you—your flushed face, your blown pupils, your bottom lip caught between your teeth.

He wants to say something, anything, but all that escapes is a ragged, “You’re learning so fucking fast.”

He means it. Every shaky breath of it. Because if this is how you touch someone when you’re nervous and new, he can’t even imagine what you’ll be like when you’re not holding back.

And here’s when we realize Oscar is not as good as he ought to be: 

Oscar shouldn’t be thinking about Lando. Not now.

Not when you’re right next to him, eyes wide and mouth slightly parted, hands wrapped around the base of his cock like you’re still trying to make sense of it. But the thought wedges itself into the back of Oscar’s skull, ugly and persistent. Lando, waiting in the wings. Lando, clueless and grinning. Lando, who might never know what it took for you to get here.

Oscar breathes through his nose, grounding himself in the present.

You’re looking up at him like you’re waiting for permission.

He doesn’t want to be bitter. Doesn’t want to ruin this. So he softens his voice, makes sure you’re still there with him. “Good?” 

“Good,” you say, fingers still curled around his throbbing cock. “I—do you think I should try my mouth?”

Oscar cups your cheek. His thumb strokes along your jaw, reassuring. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” he says simply. “But if you want to try, I’ll help. I’ll talk you through it. Just go slow. I’m not going anywhere.”

You nod, take a breath like you’re about to dive into deep water.

He watches as you lean in, lips brushing the tip of him. Just that alone sends heat curling through his belly. Your mouth is warm, soft. You press a kiss there, awkward and unsure, and Oscar exhales sharply.

“That’s good,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to take much. Start with your tongue. Lick, taste me a little. Get used to it."

You follow his instructions, tongue flicking out, tracing around the head of his cock. It’s messy—your spit catching against the ridge, your lips dragging slightly too dry at first—but you’re trying. Concentrating.

“Good,” Oscar grunts. “That’s really good. Try using your hand around what you can’t take in your mouth. Keep it around the base."

You wrap your fingers tighter, your other hand bracing on his thigh. Your mouth opens wider and you take him in, slowly, maybe an inch or two. Your lips stretch around him. Your brow furrows.

“Too much?” he asks, voice tight.

You shake your head, but you gag a little when you go further. You pull back quickly, a breathless, embarrassed laugh spilling out of you. “Sorry,” you say. “I didn’t—wasn’t expecting that."

Oscar laughs with you, quiet, breathy. He smooths his hand over your hair.

“Nothing to be sorry about. That’s normal,” he says through his teeth. “Just go at your pace. You don’t have to get it perfect."

You try again.

This time, you take him into your mouth slower, lips stretched, tongue pressed flat against the underside. Your hand keeps a steady rhythm where your mouth can’t reach. It’s clumsy—your jaw is working too hard, your cheeks hollowing with effort—but it’s erotic in a way Oscar’s never experienced.

Because it’s you.

You, trying for him.

You, so obviously inexperienced and so desperate to learn.

He can’t help the sound that escapes him. Half groan, half whimper. His hips twitch forward, but he forces himself still. His hand stays gentle on the back of your head, not guiding yet, only grounding. “Good. Just like that,” he groans. “Little slower. There you go.”

Your spit’s everywhere now—slick on your chin, trailing down his cock, wetting your fingers. You look up at him again, eyes glassy, lips swollen, and Oscar feels something dangerous stir in his chest.

Lando won’t get this version of you.

Not the way Oscar has you now. Mouth stretched, blush deep, fingers trembling slightly from how much you’re trying to impress. He cups your jaw again, thumb stroking over your cheekbone.

“You’re doing so well,” he whispers. “So, so well.”

You hum softly around him—accidental or deliberate, he doesn’t know—and Oscar nearly comes undone. He has to breathe. He has to last. But it’s getting harder with every second you stay on your knees, letting him fall apart in your mouth.

Oscar’s voice is tight when he speaks next, tighter than it’s been all night.

“Can I—” he starts, and then pauses, swallowing hard. He forces his voice careful, normal. “Can I use your mouth a little?”

Your brows pinch, lips still swollen and wet, and he continues, nervous now. “Not rough, just… guiding a bit. Like Lando might. So you know how it feels.”

He hates himself for saying it like that. 

Hates invoking Lando’s name when your lips are red from him, when your hands are still trembling from the weight of him. But it’s the only way he knows you’ll let him. The only way to justify the way his cock aches to fuck into the willing shape of your mouth.

You nod. You pull away from him for a moment, voice barely carrying as you say, “Okay.”

Oscar cups the back of your head gently, fingers threading into your hair, thumb brushing the hinge of your jaw. “I’ll go slow. You breathe through your nose, yeah?” he instructs. “If it’s too much, just tap me.”

You nod again, and he rocks his hips forward.

The first slide into your mouth is shallow, but Oscar feels it in his spine. The heat, the resistance, the obscene sound of spit and breath catching. His grip tightens slightly in your hair, steadying himself. You’re warm and wet and pliant, jaw relaxing more the deeper he gets.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “That’s it. Doing so fucking good, baby.”

He watches your hands scramble to his thighs, gripping him for balance. Watches your lashes flutter as he fucks forward again, deeper this time. The sound your throat makes as you try to take him fully is sinful. He doesn’t go all the way—won’t push you there, not yet—but he can’t help the slow, hungry rhythm he sets. A gentle grind of hips. A firm pull of your head toward him.

You gag slightly. He pauses. “You okay?”

You nod, watery-eyed, lips stretched, breath shaky through your nose.

“Good girl,” he whispers, brushing your hair back from your face. “That’s it. Use your tongue. Just a little more… hng, fuck. Right there.”

He starts again. Small thrusts. Controlled. Letting you adjust. Letting himself adjust. Your throat convulses around him once, and he sees stars. He’s saying things now, low and unraveling, almost incoherent.

“Mouth so fucking perfect.” 

“My pretty girl. My pretty, pretty girl.”

“Can’t believe I’m the first one—holy shit.”

The idea hits him again, harder this time. He’s the first. First one you’re letting in like this. First one whose cock you’ve taken into your mouth, messy and unsure and eager to learn. He’s the one who gets to show you what it’s like, what you’re capable of. What you deserve to be praised for.

His hips snap forward a little harder. You choke, just slightly. He slows again, hands gentling.

“Shhh. That’s it. You’re doing so good,” he rushes to praise you, hands stroking you soothingly. “My good girl, taking it so well. You’re making me feel so—fuck, I can’t even—”

Your hands squeeze tighter around his thighs, fingernails digging in, grounding yourself. Your eyes water more, and it makes you look somehow even more devoted. Even more his.

He groans, low and ragged, tipping his head back. “ I’m not gonna last much longer if you keep looking at me like that.”

And you—so innocent, so unknowing—you blink up at him through the tears and hum around his cock, sending a vibration so sharp it makes his knees weak.

He has to stop. Has to pull back. Has to catch his breath before this ends too soon. But he doesn’t. He can’t.

Not when you’re letting him fuck into your mouth like it’s the only thing you were made for.

Oscar’s voice is more gravel than words now.

“Open wider for me,” he whispers, breath ragged, thumb stroking the hinge of your jaw. “Exactly like that. Keep looking at me—fuck, yeah, don’t look away.”

He’s rocking into your mouth, riding the edge, and you’re so obedient it wrecks him. Jaw slack, tears shining in your lashes. There’s saliva at the corners of your lips, a glossy sheen along your chin. Your hands grip at his thighs like you’ll float away if you don’t anchor yourself to him.

“Touch yourself,” he says lowly. “You don’t have to finish. Just… want you to feel what you’re doing to me.”

You hesitate, shy even now. But you obey, hand sliding down to cup yourself over your shorts. And that’s what makes Oscar nearly come right then and there.

The idea of you squirming with your fingers buried between your thighs, while your mouth is so warm and wet around him? His stomach clenches, jaw tight. He feels his orgasm cresting fast, too fast, and he can’t hold it back anymore.

“Gonna come—fuck. Keep still for me, y-yeah? Please, baby?”

You do.

You hold perfectly still when he buries himself deep and comes with a broken sound. It’s not neat. It’s not silent. It’s breathless and shaky, his fingers curling hard in your hair as he pulses down your throat. You take all of it like a champ. Throat flexing. Moaning from somewhere deep down. 

When he finally pulls back, you’re panting, licking your lips without realizing it. He can’t help the groan that escapes him at the sight. “Shit,” he breathes, immediately crouching, hands cradling your face. “Did I hurt you?”

You shake your head, a little dazed. Voice hoarse. “No, no. That was just… intense.”

Oscar presses his forehead to yours, laughing softly, giddy and exhausted. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, no kidding.”

Your tongue pokes out again, tasting the corner of your mouth, and his eyes flick down.

“There’s still some—” He trails a thumb along the edge of your lips, catching the mess and rubbing it gently against your bottom lip. You shiver, lapping up what’s left of his cum.

“I thought it’d taste worse,” you say after a moment, honest and curious.

Oscar huffs out another laugh, leaning back on his heels. “What, were you expecting battery acid?”

You snort. “I dunno. It’s kinda… salty?”

Oscar tilts his head, grin lazy. “That’s what I get for not drinking pineapple juice.”

You slap his shoulder, but you’re smiling, and so is he. His thumb swipes again at your mouth, this time lingering. “Still messy,” he murmurs, and he means more than your lips. You’re flushed and blinking slowly, your hand still resting on his thigh like it belongs there.

He kisses your cheek gently. “Come on. Water, now. And then…” He lets the words hang, his voice suddenly quieter. “Then we can talk.”

Because even if your mouth is still sweet with the taste of him, even if his heart’s still sprinting, there’s something else beneath the surface.

Moments later, you’re curled up beside him on the bed, knees hugged to your chest, one of his hoodies drowning your frame. Oscar’s already brought you water, wiped your mouth clean, even insisted you lie down while he fetched you a snack you didn’t ask for. The air between you is light, made tender with the weight of what just happened.

You’re quiet, not awkward exactly, but distracted. Fidgety. Your fingers play with the cuffs of your sleeves like they’re something to disappear into. Oscar watches you closely.

“Hey,” he says, careful. “You okay?”

You nod a little too fast. “Yeah, just… yeah.”

Oscar waits. You always do this—start saying something only to retreat, like you’re testing the water first. He lets the silence stretch long enough before trying again. “You’re squirming.”

Your brows lift, startled. He keeps his voice soft. “You’re uncomfortable?”

You don’t answer right away, but you do shift again, thighs pressing together tightly. The tension in your body isn’t something he can ignore. Not after everything. Not with how hard you tried to do well for him.

“Hey,” he murmurs, sitting up and brushing the back of his hand against your arm. “Talk to me.”

You bite your lip. It takes a breath, maybe two, before you mumble, “I think I made myself sore.”

Oh.

It hits him all at once. How long you were down there, how hard you were trying to do everything right, how nervous you must have been. How wet the inside of your thighs must be now, how much slick had probably gathered with no relief, how the pressure must be lingering between your legs. He swallows, shame curling low in his gut.

“I—fuck. I didn’t think. I should’ve asked.”

“It’s not your fault,” you say, trying to wave it off, but you don’t meet his eyes.

He hesitates.

“I could… help,” he offers, and hates himself a little for how it comes out, too eager and too unsure. He forces himself to do better. “Only if you want. It might help, just—relieving some of that. So you’re not in pain.”

You blink at him. He sits back, pretending like he’s reasoning it out with you, when really it’s all he can think about.

“I mean—Lando’s not gonna be hands-off forever, right?” he says through gritted teeth. “If you’re still planning on saying yes to him. And this way, you’d know what it’s like before he tries anything. You won’t be surprised.”

It’s petty. The words taste like vinegar in his mouth. But it’s the best he can do to mask the heat coiling in his chest.

You contemplate it, glancing at him—quick, uncertain, like you’re scared to name what you want. “Okay,” you say after one too many seconds. “Yeah, that makes sense.”

And Oscar feels it down to the marrow.

Not triumph. Not desire.

Just the raw, aching privilege of being the one you trust to make this feel okay.

Oscar sits beside you, palm warm where it rests lightly against your knee. He’s still watching you too closely, still trying to balance every inch of his desire with the care you deserve. It burns in his chest, the knowledge that you trust him with this. That you’re letting him learn your body before anyone else.

“You know you can stop me at any point, right?” he reminds you, thumb tracing idle circles into your skin. “Doesn’t have to mean anything. Doesn’t have to go anywhere.”

You stare up at him, so trusting that it’s devasting. “And still no kissing.”

It stings. He smiles anyway. “No kissing,” he agrees. 

He lets you lie back on the bed, positioning yourself however’s most comfortable, and then follows your cues. He starts with your arm—his fingertips brushing the inside of your wrist, then the crook of your elbow, slow and methodical. His hands are always warm, always clean, always careful. And when you shiver, just slightly, he clocks it.

“That one?”

You let out a low sound of approval. “It’s weird,” you say. “No one’s ever touched me there before.”

Oscar hums, lips parting in thought. He bends to press his mouth to the same spot. Not a kiss, just a hot breath and a drag of his lower lip that makes your arm twitch.

He keeps going, skimming over your collarbones, mapping the line where your shirt starts underneath his hoodie. His hand slides under the hem—slow, deliberate. “Still okay?”

“Yeah,” you breathe.

He palms over your stomach first. Then higher. You’re not wearing a bra. And when his thumb brushes the underside of your breast, you gasp.

“Oh.”

Oscar pauses. His eyes flick to yours.

You look vaguely horrified. “I—I think I like that a lot.”

He fights back a grin. “That’s good.”

“No, like. A lot a lot.”

He huffs a breath through his nose—somewhere between a laugh and a moan—and cups you properly. Weighs the softness in his hand, just to hear your little intake of breath. “You’re sensitive here?” he asks, brushing his thumb lightly across your nipple.

Your hips shift. “Jesus,” you groan. “Yeah.”

He’s going to file that away forever. Instead of teasing you more, he pulls your hoodie and shirt up properly, lets it bunch above your chest. His hands return, this time more focused, both of them. He tests how you react to pressure, to circular motions, to the pad of his thumb versus the flat of his palm. He listens to every sound you make. Every hitch in your breath. Every flutter of your lashes.

“You weren’t kidding,” he says almost reverently.

You laugh, flustered. “Shut up.”

He leans in, face close enough to see the heat blooming across your cheeks. “I think they’re my favorite thing about you,” he says, matter-of-fact.

“You’re only saying that because you’re touching them.”

“I’m saying that because it’s true.”

You whimper, but you don’t stop him. You arch into his touch. And Oscar knows—this is only the beginning of how you’ll learn each other.

Oscar’s hands settle over your chest, the weight of his palms grounding you as your breath quickens beneath him. He takes his time, leans down just enough to latch his mouth over you. Rolling one nipple between his fingers while his lips drag across the swell of your other breast, tongue flicking just barely where he knows it’ll make you squirm.

The first sound you make is soft. Barely audible. The second is more of a whine, your hips shifting with increasing urgency. He grins against your skin. “Feels good?”

You nod, lips parted, eyes unfocused. “Mhm.”

Oscar’s mouth closes around your nipple, sucking lightly, then a little harder, just to test how far he can push. Your hands are in his hair before you even realize, fingers tugging when he sucks deep and slow. He lets his teeth graze, and you buck beneath him.

“Fuck,” you gasp.

He pulls back slightly. “Too much?”

“No, no,” you say, breathless. “No, it’s—I don’t know.”

He raises an eyebrow and brings his hand lower, resting it over your shorts. You’re panting, devastated in how you’ve unraveled, and Oscar can feel it before he even presses down.

Wet.

When he applies the slightest pressure, you jolt again, eyes wide and embarrassed. Your thighs squeeze together instinctively, and your mouth opens like you might explain yourself. “I didn’t mean to,” you whimper. “I didn’t think I was that close. I’m sorry—”

He cuts you off, voice low and impossibly warm. “Don’t apologize. That was hot.” Oscar leans in, brushing your temple with his nose. “You got off just from that?”

“I didn’t mean to,” you repeat, quieter.

He presses a soft kiss to your shoulder, affectionate, still tracing lazy circles over the damp fabric. “Can I move these?”

He feels you nod, feels the way your voice cracks when you say, “Yeah.”

Oscar is careful, fingers hooking under your waistband, dragging the shorts and your underwear down in one slow motion. The air hits you first, then his gaze, heavy and adoring.

He doesn’t say anything right away. He only settles beside you again, fingertips brushing the inside of your thigh, already planning how to show you there’s nothing wrong with wanting like this. He watches the way your stomach still flutters with the aftershocks of your orgasm, how your breath stumbles, how your eyes glass over as you try to refocus on him. Your hips twitch when his thumb accidentally grazes your clit.

Oscar shifts closer, his palm warm against your thigh as his fingers trace the soft skin, inching upward like he’s trying to memorize you. Your shorts are pushed down now, panties too, and he still hasn’t looked away from you—not really. He watches the way you squirm, your mouth parting, your gaze flitting from his eyes to his hand like you don’t know which part of this you should be more overwhelmed by.

“You good?” he checks in again.

You nod, then hesitantly add, “Yeah. Just… nervous.”

He smiles reassuringly, thumb brushing the inside of your thigh. “That’s okay.” A pause, then, gently, “Can I ask something? When you touch yourself… how do you do it?”

The question makes your whole face turn an incandescent shade of pink. You laugh, a little out of discomfort, covering your eyes with one hand. “Oscar.”

“I’m serious,” he says, still smiling, but there’s a real curiosity in his voice now. “I wanna know what you like.”

You mumble something about how you usually just rub circles, nothing fancy. Oscar hums, clearly thinking.

“Like this?” he asks, finally dragging his fingers over your folds, slow and feather-light. He finds your clit with an ease that makes your hips jerk, and he chuckles under his breath. “Jesus. Sensitive.”

You gasp, one hand clutching at the bedsheets. “It’s d-different when someone else does it!”

He’s already testing pressure, rhythm, the edge of your comfort. You try to help, stuttering out what feels good, what doesn’t, but the more he listens, the less coherent you become.

He spreads you open a little further, fingers slick with the mess you’ve already made. “You’re soaked,” he mutters, half in awe. “And this is just my fingers.”

You arch when he grazes your clit just right, thighs twitching as he keeps a steady pressure there. It doesn’t take much before your hips start moving with him, chasing each slow, teasing circle.

“You’re so quiet,” he whispers. “Trying not to make noise?”

You whine, breath catching. “It’s embarrassing.”

Oscar leans over, kisses your jaw. “Nothing to be embarrassed about. You don’t have to be quiet.”

Then he slides lower, one finger dragging down to tease your entrance, not pushing in, just circling. Your breath stutters again.

“Here?” he asks, thumb still gliding over your clit.

You nod frantically. “There, there, there—”

He doesn’t push in, not yet. Just keeps rubbing you, watching your thighs tense and your chest heave, and when he finally slips the tip of one finger inside, your whole body jolts.

It’s not long. It’s not even deliberate. Your legs tense, your mouth drops open, and you come a second time with a high, shocked sound, like you didn’t know you were close until it was already happening.

Oscar groans, biting down on his bottom lip, hips twitching with restraint. He’s hard in his joggers, achingly so, and he has to breathe through it, through the image of you coming around nothing but his hand.

“Can you handle more?” he asks, the pads of his fingers still slick with you. His voice is tight, like he’s barely holding himself back.

You look at him, dazed but trusting. “I think so.”

He smiles—relieved, reverent, wrecked. “Tell me if it’s too much, alright?”

Oscar starts slow. He pushes a finger in, shallow at first, just letting your body adjust to the stretch. Then he draws it back out, slick with arousal, and adds another. Your thighs tremble.

“You’re so tight,” he murmurs, like he’s talking more to himself than you. “So warm.”

His free hand steadies your hip as he starts to move his fingers—slow and steady, curling just slightly. Then he presses his thumb back against your clit, circling softly, like he’s trying to soothe and tease you at once. The combination makes you cry out, hips jerking, your hands fumbling for something—his wrist, his arm, the bedsheets.

“Oscar,” you pant, voice barely above a whisper.

“I know,” he says. “I know. It’s a lot.”

But you take it. You whimper and clench and rock against his hand, and he watches in disbelief. Watches the way you squirm beneath him, overwhelmed but hungry for it anyway.

“You’re doing so good,” he rasps, kissing your collarbone. “Taking me so well.”

Then, like it’s an afterthought—but it’s not, it never is—he glances up at you again. “Can I try one more thing?”

You hesitate, still breathless, but nod.

Oscar shifts, lowers himself until he’s between your legs, face hovering close to your core. He breathes you in, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. Then he ducks his head, mouth closing over your clit.

The instant moan that rips out of you is loud, uncontrolled. Your back arches. You grab at his hair, not pulling away, just trying to ground yourself.

He groans into you, the vibration sending a shiver up your spine. His fingers keep moving, scissoring slightly now, stretching you open as his tongue flicks and presses and licks.

You fall apart. There’s no other word for it. You come again, around his fingers. Crying out, shaking, the pleasure so intense it borders on unbearable.

He should stop.

Your legs are twitching on either side of his head, breath hiccupping in your chest like you’re trying to pull yourself back down to earth. But Oscar can’t. Not yet. Not when your thighs are caging him in. Not when the taste of you is still on his tongue. Salty-sweet, slick, utterly intoxicating.

He licks deliberately, slow and broad this time, from the base of your entrance all the way up to your clit. Then he does it again, fingers still buried inside you, curling with intent.

You let out something between a sob and a moan. “Osc,” you cry, barely a hiccup. 

He hums against your cunt. The vibrations make your hips buck.

“You’re sensitive,” he says, voice hoarse. “I know.”

You squirm, trying to close your legs, but his hands are firm, holding you open at the hips. He mouths at your clit with a little more gentleness, his fingers coaxing what else he knows you can give.

“C-can’t,” you whisper, eyes squeezing shut. 

“Yes, you can,” he breathes, kissing over the swollen bud. “You’re doing so well for me.”

Your fingers tangle into his hair. You’re not pulling him off, but there’s a bit of an edge to your tug. “W-wait, don’t eat me out,” you squeak. “It’s—you don’t know how that tastes—”

He lifts his head just long enough to look at you. His mouth glistens as he grins, just on the right side cocky. “You think I care?”

Your face burns.

“You’re perfect like this,” he says plainly. Then he ducks his head again, tongue working you open, pushing inside while his fingers slide back in, finding that spot again. That one spot that has you gasping.

The overstimulation hits hard. You writhe against the bed, thighs trembling violently as he holds you still. He alternates between licking your clit and sucking it, his fingers never slowing. You can’t form words anymore. All that’s left are fractured sounds, guttural and high-pitched, your hands fisting the sheets.

Oscar’s lost in it. In you. Your taste, your scent, the way you pulse and clench around his fingers, the way your body jerks when his mouth hits just right.

“You’re so good,” he groans into you, his voice vibrating against your cunt. “So sweet. Can’t believe you’ve never… holy shit.”

When your third orgasm crashes down, full-body and violent, only then does he lift his head. Chin glistening, eyes dark and glassy with want.

Oscar drags himself up your body slowly, carefully, kissing the warm stretch of your stomach and the slope of your ribs, nose brushing against the curve beneath your breast. He keeps his mouth from your lips—like you asked—but not without effort. It’s instinct, habit, the way he wants to kiss you when you’re like this: glowing, boneless, trembling beneath his weight.

Instead, he lets his mouth drag over the skin of your collarbone as he adjusts himself between your thighs. His joggers cling to his hips, but the strain in them is unmistakable. A thick, hard ridge pressed tight to the slick heat of your core. 

He rocks his hips forward—just a little—to feel it. To feel you.

Your cry breaks sharp in the air.

“Fuck,” he hisses, forehead falling to your shoulder, jaw clenched tight. “I—can I? Just—this. Let me have this. Please.”

You nod, too dazed to speak, too desperate to deny him. “Go,” you say, equal parts merciful and needing, “take what you need, Osc.”

Oscar’s thrusts stay controlled, but the friction is filthy. Raw cotton dragging along your clit in time with the heavy flex of him beneath the fabric. You’re soaked and sensitive, and every pass of his hips makes your body jerk, back arching as your cunt clenches around nothing.

His hand settles on your thigh, spreading you wider, keeping you steady as he ruts forward again with a helpless whine. “You’re so good,” he pants. “Being so good for me. Feels like you’re made for this, for me.”

Each grind is punctuated by low groans in your ear, Oscar’s voice dissolving into breathless praise and curses. He presses his forehead to your temple, eyes squeezed shut, fighting to hold on, to make it last. 

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Take it, baby. Let me feel you. Just like this. Just—fuck, just like this.”

Your nails dig into his shoulders, and he thinks he could die like this, right here. Held between the ache in his chest and the heat of your cunt under his cock. Still not inside, but it’s enough. Yours to give, and his to ruin.

Oscar doesn’t know if it’s shame or worship that makes him move like this. He kisses down your sternum instead of your mouth, like he promised, but it doesn’t stop his desperation from bleeding into every motion, every panting breath fanned against your skin.

You’re too perfect, with your breath catching in little sobs each time he drags his hips forward. He almost doesn’t hear it over the slick sound of your bodies, but it’s there. You, whispering his name. Moaning it.

“Oscar,” you whimper, nails clawing down his back like you’re marking your territory—and it nearly pushes him over the edge. “Oh my God, O-Oscar.”

He chokes on a groan and hides his face against your shoulder, but the thoughts swarm him. Every disgusting, shameful fantasy he’s kept buried over the years spills into the forefront of his mind.

You, crawling into his lap asking for help like this. 

You, naked in his sheets, lips wet and eyes glassy as you beg him to show you how to please someone else. 

How many nights has he gotten off to the image of your hands down your shorts, whispering his name without realizing? How many times has he thought about bending you over his kitchen counter, your voice broken and pleading?

This is the closest he’ll ever get. This—this lesson. This half-sin under the guise of helping, of making sure you won’t be surprised when Lando touches you.

He’s not supposed to want it. He’s not supposed to want you.

But your cunt is dripping for him, and his cock is rock-hard beneath his joggers, and when he feels your hips stutter up against him like you’re meeting him halfway, like you might want it just as much as him—

Oscar bites down on the curve of your shoulder, just to keep himself tethered. You cry out, raking your nails down his back so hard it leaves trails of fire. And then he’s coming, rutting forward through the cotton, wet warmth soaking between you two as his body convulses with it.

He knows he shouldn’t. He knows this wasn’t supposed to happen. But God, he’d do it all over again. He’d do worse, if you let him.

And he still won’t kiss you.

Oscar goes through the motions of aftercare. He’s a lot of nefarious things, but he’s not evil. 

The bathroom is still warm with the steam of your shared shower, water droplets clinging to the corners of the mirror. Oscar’s fingers are soft where they glide along the towel he’s wrapping around your shoulders. He crouches a little to meet your eyes, his gaze searching. Not for anything dramatic, but for signs. Of your comfort. Your peace. Maybe even your joy.

You’re sitting on the closed toilet lid, legs tucked in close to your chest, hair damp and curling at the ends. He’s rubbing at your calves with another towel, not even bothering to hide the adoration on his face. He still hasn’t let go of your hand. Not since he washed you gently between the legs, murmuring quiet apologies you kept telling him weren’t needed.

Oscar sits on the edge of the tub eventually, elbows on his knees, letting out a breath like he’s been carrying the world. The silence stretches in a syrupy way. You’re the one who breaks it.

“You don’t have to keep looking at me like that,” you groan, cheeks flushed. “Like I’ll float away.”

He smiles, slow and devastating. “I’m not letting you float away.”

You try not to melt, fidgeting with the edge of the towel instead. You’re smiling now too, though, and it knocks him out. 

“Hey,” he says, gently. “Can I say something kind of cheesy?”

You glance at him, waiting.

“Don’t ever settle for someone who doesn’t treat you like this. Okay?” Oscar manages. “Like you’re precious. Like they know how lucky they are just to get to hold you.”

Your mouth trembles a little, and he catches it with his thumb before it can turn into something shaky. His touch stays steady, thumb against your cheekbone.

“That goes for Lando, or anyone else,” he goes on. “If they don’t take their time with you—if they don’t care to learn what you like, how to care for you—then they shouldn’t get to have you.”

You blink rapidly, eyes too bright. “You’re going to make me cry,” you complain, but the appreciation bleeds into the curve of your laugh. 

Oscar kisses your shoulder, still damp from the towel, and whispers, “You deserve only the best of things. Always.”

You lean into him then, and his arms wrap around you like they were always meant to. “Thank you,” you sigh into the crook of his neck. “You’re the best friend ever.” 

Does it sting to hear? Of course.

But, like we’ve established—Oscar is a patient man. 

He doesn’t say it. He doesn’t have to. The selfish, godforsaken truth pulses in his chest like a second heartbeat: 

Oscar hopes you’re ruined for anyone else. ⛐

The dim lighting from the nearby lamp post didn’t shroud his grim expression. From your view, his side profile looks sharper than the soft ones you've gotten used to. Instead of the anticipated looks from him whenever he sees you, he's looking straight ahead, at the mountains beyond, to maybe clear his head before you arrive. Occasionally, he glances but the closer you approach, the more you feel the heated glares he’d been throwing at your way, amplifying your nerves the closer you are to him. 

"For a second, I thought you wouldn’t show up."

The accusation made you pause. Jeno's voice lacks any other emotion other than the sardonic smile he wears after. He looks away afterwards, timing to drop those words as soon as you're on earshot but he occasionally glances at you until he deems the ground you're walking on is fully safe. Even when he’s annoyed, his habit of making sure you’re okay never fails to deliver.

"Jen, I would never stand you up." Your response came out soft, a bit sluggish, the trace of sleepiness still following you. His blatant insinuation didn't even dissuade you, stepping closer to him to appeal your point. He hasn't looked at you yet so now you're hesitating, the instinct to touch his shoulder halted by his indifference.

But this allowed you to check him out.

He looks great as always, the tight white shirt hugging his big frame, the belt strap around his strong bicep—

Wait.

“Recognized something?”

Your ex boyfriend's question jolted you fully awake. He's eyeing you now like a hawk, looking smug as he focuses on your nervous stance. The surprise on your probing eyes were evident as you're putting together why his fit is familiar.

You only remember one person who wore the same top he did. One of the guys you were “seeing” in the last few months had that on at the last house party you went to. 

Heeseung.

But how did he know?

"What, are you stalking me now?"

You slightly berate yourself for sounding defensive. You shouldn’t even feel any guilt at all but here you are trying to mask the slight guilt bubbling up inside your heart at his question. You’re single and certainly you didn’t owe your ex-boyfriend any sort of explanation. 

Jeno's just testing you and you fell right into his trap. He's aware that you couldn’t hide your facial expressions well, choosing to confront you before you can touch him. You don't know why the simple question is affecting you this much. Probably because he's aware that you're having flings and he's making you feel like you’ve been caught.

And it twists something in you that your accusation barely did any damage on him.

"You re-posted it to your story." Jeno scoffs then it clicked.

You remember Giselle tagging you in that random selfie she took at the said house party earlier this month. In it, Heeseung was all over you, wearing the identical shirt and arm belt your ex boyfriend is clad in tonight.

“Then you decided to wear a similar fit to what? Taunt me?” Your voice rises in response to his contempt. Honestly, you don’t know where he’s going with this. You're already frustrated, your mixed emotions slowly piling up and he's still getting to the point. It didn’t help that his simple goading already provoked this much from you. 

Maybe that’s what he wants. His plan all along.

“Is he the one you’re dating?” 

So he's choosing to ignore your interrogation with another question as he walks towards his motorbike. He unloads the picnic basket to the ground while waiting for your answer. 

“I wouldn’t be here if I already am, Jeno” you reply with resignation, wanting to give up this conversation already.

This is not the yearly catch up that you’ve been looking forward to.

Jeno’s never this adamant to know of your dating life as you are to his. It’s one of the conditions you’ve discussed after promising to stay in touch. No bringing up of people you’re seeing unless it’s official.

Because only then, it'll matter.

“Thought you’d end it once you arrived.” 

The simple comment almost offended you but you forced yourself to calm down. You don't want to be overwhelmed this early on and Jeno's not letting you breathe with his rapid assumptions. The way he said the words however is too calm. Nevertheless, you can feel the anger lingering around even if he’s not facing you.

“Again, I’m not dating anyone...just playing around...you?"

Skirting around the question stirs an embarrassment inside your chest. You're fully aware that your ex boyfriend does the same as you. The fact that you sounded unsure despite your indignation pushes you to stay quiet when he hasn't answered. There's a slight hesitation on his face that you caught briefly, but you tried to ignore it. You're no better if you pointed it out.

"Here and there." He says quietly after almost a minute of silence.

You fight to keep your face neutral. 

It stings to hear him confirm it and you feel like a hypocrite for feeling it this way. If it weren't for his best friend you wouldn’t have known. You unexpectedly bumped into Jaemin at a party in freshman year and there he accidentally spilled how Jeno's been doing. You knew how Jaemin was and you refused to be affected by such news.

But it did sparked your willingness to try with others, resolving the guilt that you once had for considering it after the break up.

You wouldn't lie that it didn't affect you. He's your first and only boyfriend, the first relationship—your first love. That's not something you can just erase especially when your break up was mutual.

On your first meetup since breaking up, you were anxious that Jeno wouldn’t show up but he did and even reassured you that he always will unless of course, things change. It's the reason you never brought it up since then. There was no need to and you didn’t want to waste the limited time you have together for something that shouldn’t matter.

However, the anxiety lingered since you found out and it magnifies whenever this time of year arrives.

Jaemin may have discreetly clarified that Jeno tends to cut off anyone he’s seeing when this time comes around. You’ve merely retorted that it’s the typical “spring cleaning” everyone does before the school year ends but the truth was, it never erased your worry.

It's like a waiting game between you and Jeno. Just like the previous years, you’ve tried your best to not care and not ask about any girls in Jeno’s life. And you've adapted his method, entertaining boys occasionally, until recently. This year, you haven’t cut off ties with any of them yet and you have no idea why.

Jeno wasn’t annoyed that you’re late—maybe a little but he’s used to it. He's mostly anxious but that absolutely doesn't mean he was stalking you either. He thrifted that top combo before he saw your story so why not put it to good use? Won't you be delighted to see that he and your newest fling are twinning?

The timing’s too perfect for him to not wear it for you.

And it's so fun watching you try so hard to look unaffected when he can read through you.

Right now, he's watching your gaze on the pavement after hearing his answer, contemplating whether to confront you further or not. You were already late and the confrontation went longer than he expected but as much as he didn’t want to find out why, he had to ask or else it’ll never leave his mind. 

Not that anything about you ever did really.

“Last question and be honest with me on this one. You forgot didn’t you?” he asks, noticing your eyes fixated on the grass this time.

"I didn't. I'm literally here” you lamely respond and the guilt in your voice tells him enough.

“Don’t lie to me.” He seethes, looking away from you.

“I'm not, what reason would I have?”

To not hurt his feelings? 

Again, Jeno couldn't find any suitable answer. The best possible answer he could muster is only his assumptions. He knows that's nowhere near the truth because you’ve always been so considerate, one of the qualities he’s admired about you.

He hears your steps and turns to you. He probably has been quiet for a while because you're watching him intently. He sends a challenging stare and watches you close the distance between you.

The motorbike wobbles when you lean against the space beside him. 

Jeno should say something—anything but sometimes silence is also an answer. He waits for you to say anything but you remain quiet—your form of retaliation.

This won't do.

He takes a deep breath and faces you.

"Did you fuck him at that time?"

“You said the last question was the final one.” You pointed out with a little whine, still trying to find a way to end this conversation but he’s not having it.

This is truly Jeno's last question, for his peace of mind.

“Answer me.”

You pondered playing with him a little, a small yes to get back at all the accusations he’d thrown at your way earlier. A part of you wants to know how he'll react if you lie because he already knows the answer. The nerve of him to ask you this "last" question when he’s the one who broke your no contact rule that night.

A part of your rules before breaking up is to not communicate unless it's necessary, like when your yearly meet up is near in case of emergencies. Birthdays and special occasions are optional but then out of nowhere, you received a text from Jeno after a few months.

Your mood soured as soon as you did and it remained for the rest of the night. You couldn't even enjoy the party anymore, the shots you've taken only made you overthink about everything more than usual.

Thankfully, none of your friends noticed but you still felt bad how occupied you were. Your latest fling had been all over you but you didn't end up fucking him. Heeseung understood without you having to explain which was a relief on your part. He even offered to drop you home but you declined, opting to walk instead to clear your head.

It didn't work at all. Sleep didn’t come easy that night. Neither were the following days.

“Almost. It never happened.” 

You whisper the words Jeno's been raring to hear. He doesn't know why but he likes to torture himself this way, prying you about things that annoy him.

The confirmation made him smirk.

“Sure didn’t? How about the other ones?”

His eyes drop on your bare thighs, the skirt and knee-high boots you're wearing doing just enough to not let the cold air affect you that much. You didn’t answer right away, the stubborn side of you resisting to respond but that's also because you were waiting for his next move.

Jeno senses this and rests his fingerless-gloved hand on your thigh, the leather skin of the glove making your body squirm the moment it brushes your skin.

So this is how he’ll pluck the answer from you this time.

You watch him stand up fully, his hand still on your thigh while the other lifts your face, forcing you to meet his eyes. Yours flit to the small mole below his left eye, your throat closing up in nervousness. Jeno's looking for something you already knew so you brave yourself to finally meet his intense stare.

His dark brown eyes lures you to spill the words he wanted to hear. 

“No, I haven’t.” 

There it is. This is why you avoid looking into Jeno’s pretty eyes. They always compel you to do stupid things and now you're spreading your legs willingly without him asking, causing your skirt to ride up.

“Yeah, I can tell.” He chuckles a little, his tone not giving away if he believes what you said.

Your ex boyfriend moves closer to your body, standing in between your legs until your chests are mere centimetres apart. The proximity made your heart flutter, and instead of looking at his face, your eyes shifted to his permed hair. You reach up to part them a little and the gesture startles him a bit. But he recovers immediately, leaning in for a quick kiss. He's been on a quest to distract you but it's not enough, targeting your neck next after a couple of more inviting kisses. 

Jeno doesn’t give you time to process. His lips trail your jaw up to your mouth, biting your lips down to ask for entrance. You did after through a sharp gasp that you couldn’t hold anymore. He sneaks a hand inside your leather jacket, to the bare skin below your top, to hold your waist down on his motorbike seat. Your body reacts immediately, shuddering from the warm touch of his palm against your shivering skin. His other hand starts pulling off the collar of your jacket, not fully peeling it off yet, just enough to keep you warm from the breeze.

Your ex-boyfriend is still painfully sweet, making sure you wouldn’t fall off his bike and your stupid heart flutters at that. But how can you not when his gentle hold contrasts the way he’s nipping your skin harshly, determined to leave prominent marks on your neck.  

“J-Jeno..”

“Look up.” He instructs and you do, tilting your neck to encourage him.

It wasn’t hard for Jeno to find that sweet spot of yours, pulling out that delicious sound from you that his ears missed. Having known your body for years, it’s the first thing he learned when you first dated back in your senior year of high school.

It delights him that you’re struggling to focus on the pretty sky above you, the mix of your quiet whines and gasps with your heavy breathing sounds melodious to his ears.

There are no clouds on sight so you’re trying your best, your eyes desperately hunting prominent stars to start with or familiar patterns because Jeno’s going to ask you about constellations again later. It’s a habit he developed way before you started dating, asking you randomly when the sky is clear, and it stayed even after you both called it quits. 

Right now, you’re having a hard time recognizing any of them thanks to Jeno's bolder ministrations. He's definitely doing this on purpose, making it difficult for you as punishment. You wouldn’t rule that out, knowing your ex's petty nature. But none of that matters because you didn’t even want to focus on them anymore.

Jeno will have to bear with your possible mistakes later because all you want right now is for him to touch you where you need it the most. Aside from the catch ups and wanting to see him in person, you’ve always looked forward to sleeping with him, to check if he still wants you the way you want him—that no matter how many girls he’s fucked in the last year, he still wants you.

Maybe then it’ll also convince him to believe you. That you're telling the truth.

“Jeno please,” You’ve widened your legs when his hands stayed where they are, hoping he’ll get the hint.

He already did. He'll always know what you wanted but he’s enjoying your squirming body under his touch too much. You’re never not needy when you fuck but not often like this, so he’s got to prolong it as much as he can. 

"Why are you this needy, hmm? You certainly were fucking others this week."

Jeno teases his question. His voice sounds more like goading, his hands are barely touching your bare thighs.

And you want to break down. 

You were right. He is doing this on purpose. You're starting to panic at the possibility that he might not fuck you in the end. Because of it, you almost missed another accusation he's throwing at you. To your luck, the panic helped sharpen your focus.

Your ex might have the upper hand this whole time but there’s always a way to fight back. He’s not the only one with leverage. You know each other in and out after all. 

"I'm always needy for you..." 

Jeno's hands stop immediately. Your voice is breathy, almost to a whisper and paired with the neediest eyes you could muster, he didn’t stand a chance. The way your pretty eyelashes are batting at him, there's no other way but to give in. You pulled up that "innocent" look that has always worked on him in the past.

He doesn't even care whether you’re getting back at him or not, it always will.

“Mhmm, yeah, you always are. That didn’t change at least.” He grins down at you, his gloved hand now moving from your inner thighs to your damp core. Feeling your slick made him almost forget that you technically didn't answer his question. But nevermind that, he’d make sure this year’s catch up would be memorable for you. 

Jeno’s fingertips continued tracing your clothed pussy lips that've been getting puffier the more he presses on them. He parts your panties to the side the same time his lips return to yours, swallowing the little gasp that escaped your mouth as soon as his pads meet your glistening core.

He starts in with a finger and then another, moving them right away before adding a third one. Your brows furrow when he doesn’t go all the way, stopping right before the edge of his gloves touches your pussy lips.  

“Jeno—,” you cry, mouth gaping after realizing what he’s doing. You can take his punishment but not this time. There’s no way he’ll finger you like this. Yes, he can make you cum by playing with your clit alone but you've missed those thick fingers of his. The ache to be filled with them rises in you, your eyes welling at the frustration.

“Not enough,” you whine, your hips bucking desperately to have his fingers knuckle deep.

“I can’t stain my gloves baby,” he explains, his patronizing tone almost reviving your irritation from earlier. He can’t possibly be serious can he? You're contemplating your next move, thinking of actually getting back at him but the silent threat that he won’t fuck you continues to hang in the air. 

“Not even for me?” you tried again, dismissing your initial idea, the worry overriding after that reminder. 

Weren’t you desperate enough? It’s not enough for him?

Jeno was taken aback when you pulled his neck down to kiss him feverishly. You’re bolder than before, the desperation showing through your kisses and should’ve made him glad but it's the opposite. He isn't sure what to feel about it. On one hand, he’s glad you’re like this with him. Between the two of you, he was the bolder one and with this side of you coming out, it brings his own insecurities to the surface. 

Being each other’s first, you’ve explored sex together until the day you decided to part ways. It’s inevitable; entering college fresh from breakup so you’re bound to learn more with other guys instead. Jeno would be a hypocrite if he judges you for it. He certainly tried to distract himself as his friends have advised him, the possibility that you could be doing the same thing drove him to consider it.

Jeno just didn’t think the whole thing would bother him this much. Seeing this new side of you stirs that small regret from the back of his mind.

He’s the one you should’ve learned this with.

Determination fires up in him to prove that he’s way better, that he’s still the best. Without answering your question, he pushes his fingers all the way, coaxing a sharp moan out of you. 

“Shit, you’re gonna drench my bike at this rate,” he comments, pretty surprised. His teasing only spurs you to get off his bike, allowing his fingers to reach you all the way. You didn’t waste any more time and grabbed his wrist to move it at your own pace while he’s still stunned.

“Mmmm, it’s what you prefer, right?”

You let out a giggle after, clearly enjoying how your ex is struggling to keep his face neutral at the little show you're putting up for him. He’s very much affected by you still, if his tightening grip around your waist is to be considered.

But that didn’t last.

His free hand moved up to your neck after he recovered, his large palm wrapping around your throat. You feel the ring on his index finger, the scratch from the metal pulling you to meet his eyes. His pupils are blown out making you gulp, expecting another taunt but underneath his hardened gaze, the hunger is palpable. 

“Nervous?”

“No.” 

“Prove it then. Move, babe.”

He challenges you and flicks your hand out of his wrist. You whimper at that but Jeno didn't pay you no mind. Though his eyes are full of lust, he's staring you down with a quirked brow and your pussy clenched around his fingers, pulling another smirk from his chiseled face.

You don’t know what he’s playing at but you move your hips anyway. The edges of the leather skin of the glove rubs deliciously along your pussy lips, brushing your swollen clit. Your hips roll faster to chase the friction, your whole body assisted by a hand leaning on Jeno’s bike for extra support. The other claws at his bare arm, your nails digging in his pale skin when you think he’s about to squeeze your throat.

But Jeno doesn’t. His hand is perfectly still, but still in control, rooting your upper body. The anticipation has been killing you but his stare didn’t falter. He could be teasing you again so you swivel your hips more, afraid he’ll change his mind any minute. He’s giving you the full control on your pace but whose to say he won’t punish you for it later?

It’s what Jeno loves the most—watching you like this.

Almost half dressed with your askewed top, your face flushed from his ministrations, mouth gaping at his fingers scissoring you. Your dazed eyes are pleading for him to do more, your pussy has been clamping around his fingers when he stopped moving his gloved hand.

But Jeno’s attention’s not even on that.

His eyes are on the red lines adorning his pale arm, the result of your endless scratching. Not that he’s complaining. He’s actually hooked—to the pain from your nails, to the way your body unravels under his fingers without much effort from him and how beautiful your face contorts from pleasure to shock of betrayal when he suddenly pulls them off.

"J-Jeno?” 

One second you were about to cum, the next, you were feeling empty that you almost screamed. You didn't get to react much, too confused and shocked at what your ex-boyfriend did. He didn't answer you, only stepping back from your shaking form. He’s got that wild look in his eyes as he eyes you down, the smug smile returning to his chiseled face, making your knees buckle. Your legs are wobbling, your hand clutching the leather motorseat as panic rises again in you when you realize that Jeno removed himself completely from your body. The instinct to reach for him is there but your body’s convulsing from the impending orgasm he just denied you.

And he’s out here wiping his slicked gloved fingers over his denim pants instead.

As a last resort, you peeled your jacket off and fling it over the seat, immediately reaching under your top to unhook your strapless bra hoping you’ll convince Jeno. He gives you an impassive stare and turns away, like you’re a mere nuisance that was too needy for him to take care of. You watch him in horror as he proceeds to pick up the basket with his clean hand, ready to head towards the field. 

The indifference almost made you cry but you bravely tried again.

“Wait,” you blurted out, chest heaving. “Why?”

The resentment is evident in your voice but Jeno only gives you a sly smile. He's aware how cruel he's being but there’s a sick part of him that wants to test your limits. He wanted to see if he can still break you down like before—a reminder that your body is still his. There’s nothing he hates more than labelling you as his mere ex, something his friends love to remind him whenever they find him moping about you. 

"You don't want to eat? Chenle helped me prepare these." He raises the basket in front of you, treating this like another normal conversation. You definitely don't want what he's offering even if Chenle's dear to you. Shifting his attention to the food supposedly made for you escalates the betrayal in your chest.

He’s acting like his fingers weren’t in you a few minutes ago.

If he thinks this faux concern will excuse him from his behaviour, he’s wrong. The game’s not over and he’s tested you to the brim already. All your mind can think about is how to convince him to let you cum. Undressing’s not even gonna work at this point but you still have a chance. Being bratty will only push Jeno to continue punishing you and that's the last thing you want so you let the frustration fizzle, knowing you’d have to play along if you want him to fuck you. 

Shaking your head at him, you turn to his precious bike to refocus. It's one of your favourites to be fucked on which was probably why he’s acting this way. He treats it about as equally as you and he's fully aware how much you love riding it with him.  

"Later..fuck me here first, please.."

You managed to stop Jeno from walking further, pulling him back to you. He returns but doesn't answer, just looking at you intently. You didn't waste any more time and loop your arm round his muscled one. You cling to him, pressing your whole body in desperation, letting him feel your chest.

You hear the hitch in his breath and you smile triumphantly, resting your head on his broad shoulders to nuzzle yourself on him even more.

It took Jeno a moment to realize that you’ve removed your bra, feeling your soft breasts rubbing against his arm. He looks down at your needy face, then to your chest, noticing your nipples getting perky at the friction through your thin top. He couldn't tear his gaze away from them until your other hand reached out for his belt, your hands tugging the loop which pulled another chuckle from him.

He was right. It is only a matter of time.

"You could've just told me you wanted to be fucked on my bike."

Jeno scoffs as he drops the picnic basket back to the ground. He has a knack of keeping his voice too leveled that you couldn't tell if he's mocking you or just amused unless he wants it to be. But it doesn't deter you. Instead of letting the sting from earlier linger, you give him your most seductive smile and press yourself on him more, your eyes flitting up to his lips.

"Thought you'd figure it out by now." 

The clap back slips from your mouth before you can stop it. But instead of worrying at Jeno's retaliation, you feel a little pride in you as you whisper them into his lips. You’d have to at least clap back a little at him a little and this might be your best one so far.

Plus, it doesn't take much to get into your ex's skin.

Jeno’s eyes darkened at your remark and before you know it, he spins you around, bending your body over his motorbike. You can't see him but his focus is solely on you, his hands roaming around your body while you're grappling to hold yourself and his bike steady. Your pulse quickens, the excitement coursing through your veins at the way he’s maneuvering your body. 

"You're saying I don't?"

Rage erupted in Jeno along with his insecurities at your implication. That he doesn’t know you anymore. His voice lacked that usual neutral tone, the frustration’s bleeding into him and it only excites you more. Jeno prides being patient among his friends, being the calmest when everything’s in chaos around him.

Not when it comes to you though. A few words or a gesture is enough to break his composure. 

"N-No! That's not what I meant—fuck" 

Jeno cuts you off with his palm meeting your backside, earning that loud moan from you. He flips your skirt after, exposing your damp core to the cold breeze. 

“Then what did you mean hmm? That you’re still my slut?” 

“Y-Yes! Yes I am!”

You were hoping the admission would make him touch you but to no avail. He's still not touching you, letting the silence swallow you as he contemplates what to do. Humiliation starts creeping in but you were far too desperate to give up now. You push your hips back and you swear you heard a stifled groan from him.

Another plea threatens to leave your mouth but his hands move to your clutch your waist. 

“Really?” 

His voice is low, as if he didn't hear you clearly. You badly want to turn around to see his handsome face but you don't want to risk another delayed orgasm.

“Yeah. I want it, want your cock in my slutty pussy,” you emphasize with another wiggle of your hips. That should be desperate enough for him to finally fuck you.

But Jeno's hands remained. Only when you try looking back at your ex do you feel his hold tighten. He’s prolonging this for whatever reason, not even letting you look at him. His firm grip keeps you still and you're tearing up again.

“Of course you do…” he mused and began unbuttoning his pants. He stares down at your enticing body displayed in front of him, admiring how pliant you are.

Shit. His hard cock twitches at the view.

“You let any guy have this while I’m away..” he pauses, hands spreading your cheeks to see more of your sopping pussy. You feel the blunt of his tip, tracing along your wet folds, slightly dipping in then out again. “Do I even need to fuck you?”

You wanted to cry in frustration.

“Not bare..never, please Jeno, I only do that with you. Please fuck me.”

Your admission pushes Jeno to finally enter you, the both of you emitting a loud moan, the stretch from his cock knocking out your breath. Oh how you’ve missed his cock. Despite having good fucks with other guys, no one can reach you this deep aside from him. Exploring has been good but Jeno just does it differently. He’s had years learning your body that no other guys have and won’t ever have.

“Damn, still so tight,” He groans, both hands returning on your waist. Once he reached the hilt, he stayed still. "Big—Jen..fuck" you cry and Jeno couldn't help but draw his hips back slowly until the tip of his cock almost leaves your pussy then pushes back again.

Being the good ex-boyfriend that he is, he waits until your hips begin moving. He starts off slowly at first to let you adjust, that sick part of him resurfacing watching your pussy struggle in taking him in.

Good. It’ll always be a reminder for you and your pussy that he’s the biggest you’ll ever have. 

Despite being sensitive from your ruined orgasm, you've been responding to his thrusts, your hips meeting his with every stroke. Jeno’s trying to be careful but you’re making it too hard with the way your walls are clamping around his dick. Your breathy whines only spurs him to fuck you harder, his pace gradually increasing. 

Something’s different this year. You and Jeno had fucked many times during your catch ups but tonight, he feels like he has to prove something. It’s odd but a small pride booms inside your chest. No matter how many girls he fucked since you broke up, he still cares about how he fucks you.

Jeno's always been confident. Not the flashy kind but the quiet one because he knows his skills and the efforts he puts in to developing them. He’s excellent at many things, particularly in satisfying women’s needs. It's why many of them return, begging for another chance and Jeno sometimes does, depending on what he feels at that time. But most of the time, he's too occupied to entertain them.

Then there's you.

He knows you well enough that whenever you meet, you’d still count on him, at least for a good fuck. That should be enough to appease his insecurities but that nagging thought continues to irk him; that there could be another man who can match the standards you’ve set; that soon, someone else will be able to replace him. 

The scenario made him pour out his frustrations on you—in rapid snaps of his hips. 

“Oh, so good, baby..” you moan the words with sharp gasps, snapping Jeno out of his thoughts. His thrusts almost paused, his mind reeling if heard the last word correctly. After your break up, you never once called him again with those pet names that he loves to call on you. You’d only call him his name or nickname, nothing else even if you’re fucking.

Until now. Jeno's regaining all that privilege, while you’re fucking back at him.

“Yeah? Bet you miss me fucking you like this,” he grunts, delivering another hard thrust. You nod profusely, struggling to breath with how fast he’s going at it. “Yeah, I do, fuck—miss you…ah” 

Jeno’s heart swells to know that you miss him even if he only hears it when you’re fucking. He doesn't mind any of that though but hearing it straight from your mouth is different. Don't get him wrong, he does know you miss him. Even if you don’t outright tell him, your body language is enough. The longing looks and lingering touches when he's around; the way your tone changes when talking to him unless you want to be a brat. They haunt him every time your yearly meet up is over and he misses you even more. He’s always fighting for his life to not text or call you until that slip up.

Jeno never regretted sending those texts. In fact, he was fucking happy that he slipped. That him texting you bothered you enough to the point that you flaked on your fling that night. Small things are always a big deal for Jeno when you’re involved. He couldn’t afford to be choosy when he agreed to break up with you. 

It wasn't like he really wanted it but again, it's for the best.

“You’re taking my cock well.” He muses, pounding into you more. Jeno's hands move up to cup your breasts, massaging them through your top. He's tempted to pull off your top but you're determined tonight.

Jeno’s not sure if he’ll get used to this although he should be. A part of him is glad that he’s able to bring this side out of you but another part doesn’t want any man to see you like this. The mere thought of others having this view prompts Jeno to grab your shoulder blade for him to raise your upper body, arching your spine more in the process.

The instant change knocks you out of your breath, pushing you to lock your elbows straight. Jeno reaches you deeper at this angle, his cock hitting that soft spot inside you that had you seeing stars. All the taunting he threw at you loops in your mind too, that desire to please him magnifying with each roll of your hips.

“Jeno—I’m close, nngh..” 

You tried. You really did, to not cum this quickly but you’re too sensitive and he denied it to you already. 

“Me too, babe..fuck” 

A moan of relief leaves your lips at his words but that didn’t last long. Your laboured breathing and Jeno's groans join in the series of skin slapping that echoes through the dark but neither of you care. No one passes here around this time of night anyway, more privacy for you and Jeno although it's far from it.

You've been too focused to keep everything in, your legs shaking from the intensity but then your ex sneaks his hand around to rub your pebbled clit. 

“In me, Jeno, please!” you managed to mutter when you feel him pulling out. Your ex-boyfriend pushes back in, pressing his muscled body against yours. “Fuck, fuck—okay, shit..” he rasps against the shell of your ear, punctuating each word with a thrust and the dam breaks. Your body collapses over the leather seat as your pussy milks him dry. 

Jeno follows your suit, pumping all his cum inside you like you asked, his pace eventually slowing down as you both ride your highs. He peppers your bare shoulders with open mouth kisses, his palms caressing your waist to offer some comfort. As sweaty as you both are from the intense fucking, Jeno couldn’t stay apart from you yet, enveloping you in with his whole body, careful not to put his weight on you nor on this bike.

“You did so well baby.”

He whispers against your temple, kissing your flushed skin as he gently delivers his final thrust.

“Am I forgiven?”

Shock hits Jeno in the face at your question. Your voice sounded so small that the remaining lust coursing through his body dissipates. He freezes, his attention fully on your body’s current state. He badly wants to turn you to face him but he's noticed the tight grip of your hands on the motor seat. Although you tried to hide your hiccups from crying, they still slip out and his chest tightens. 

“What? For what?”

You didn't answer.

Jeno did this to you.

He gives you time before pulling out slowly, gently squeezing your waist, hoping you'll finally face him. Fear joins the worry he already feels, scared of what he’ll find when you do. Your body turns around right away, offering him a meek smile but he wasn't convinced. He scours your face and you turn away, clearly afraid to show him what you feel but he catches your chin.

Jeno lifts your head and there he notices the tears streaking your flushed face. The urge to ask you again strikes him but you look like you’re on the verge of crying. So instead, he kisses you; hesitant but soft, he waits for you to reciprocate which you instantly did, clutching his muscled arm for support. 

Although the kiss erases Jeno’s worries, it also shows him that you need a little break. Your reluctance to answer his question cracked his heart into pieces. He doesn’t know what you mean by this, the only assurance he got was you not pushing him back when he initiated the kiss. Clearly, it's not the time to have this conversation here. You’re still recovering from the oversensitivity and he didn't wanna push you emotionally too. The talk needs to be handled with care and he wants you to be comfortable when the time comes.

When you both separate to catch your breath, you share a warm smile with your ex-boyfriend before he moves to open the underseat storage. Immediately, your chest tightened at the sight of a very familiar helmet. When your eyes landed on the intricate design circling the visor, memories flashed at once. Not just when you were wearing it but also designing it when Jeno first got his bike.

“Do you want it back?”

“I don’t have a motorbike, Jeno.”

“For decorative purposes.” 

You didn't know what to respond to that so you chose not to. The lump in your throat that you were hoping to disappear after the kiss stayed and you don't know why. You never worry when it happens because your ex-boyfriend never pushes you to answer. In both times, Jeno merely waits for you which you'll always be grateful to him for.

He takes a glance at you before pulling down the seat to close it. You lean back on it right away to rest and Jeno’s hand reaches for your thighs. He spreads them with his gloved hand and you widen your legs for him to kneel in between them. Like clockwork, you crumpled up your skirt to assist him. 

Your ex-boyfriend takes his time wiping down your pussy and inner thighs in silence. Jeno's brows furrow in focus and it reminds you of how meticulous he is with everything he does. Watching him like this flutters your heart, to see the both of you naturally swinging back to your habits with one another. 

After pulling your skirt back down, Jeno opens his palm for you to take. You grab it and give him a squeeze, a small form of reassurance that you're okay. He gives you that soft smile then proceeds to retrieve the picnic basket from the grass. You both walk hand in hand towards the area near the cliff, in silence while admiring what's around you.

Jeno lets you be once you dropped his hand the moment the skyline was visible. Your face brightens as excitement immediately fills you up, running off weakly to the fence without looking back at him. He watches you fondly although the urge to remind you to slow down bubbles up. But then, he doesn’t want to kill the fascination on your face while breathing in the view.

The plain field offers enough space that you’re surprised how no one really comes here except you and Jeno. Maybe they do when you're not around but in a way, you’re grateful because this became a special place for you and him. Jeno found this secluded area from your hiking date before you started dating. Right before the sun sets, he asked you to be officially his. Since then, it has become your favourite place to relax, returning there from time to time whenever you both feel like hiking.

It's also the reason why you both chose to catch up here after your breakup. 

The view has always taken your breath away on each visit. You can see the entire city from here, the sprawled tapestry of lights from the buildings contrasting the darkness around you. It’s only once a year that you get to experience this beauty because you refuse to come here without Jeno. It feels weird coming here alone, you’ll just miss him and will try to contact him which is against the rules.

It took you almost a minute before realizing that Jeno didn’t follow you. Usually he does and that’s how your catch up begins. The worry resurfaces until you turn around and find him laying out the contents from the basket. You head towards where he is and immediately notice the snacks you’re going to devour tonight. Watermelon slices, glazed doughnuts, a pack of jellies and gummies and some almond bites—his favourites.

Now you feel a little bad for not bringing anything. You could've brought yours to share with him too but you both never plan your meet up though. You and Jeno preferred your catch up to flow naturally to avoid stress on you both.

However, it still did. This year’s meet up does, like the first time.

The heavy tension lingers in the air and the silence has been stressing you. 

Your ex-boyfriend hasn’t talked since you joined him. He hasn’t even looked at you and the silence, once comforting to you, is starting to eat you up. Even if Jeno brought out some of your favourites too, your eyes stayed on him, waiting while your heartbeats’ gradually became faster. You want to start talking like usual but at the same time, you're afraid to break the silence. It’s peaceful right now, a perfect time for you to also recover from the intense fucking earlier.

The moon above is shining just right tonight—the ideal atmosphere to ease a conversation and yet Jeno’s fighting to maintain his composure. He’d been feeling the weight of your stares since you returned and for some reason, he couldn’t open his mouth to say anything. Thankfully, you didn’t catch him earlier as you were too enthralled with the view to notice he stayed back to watch you instead.

Jeno lets out a quiet sigh after emptying the basket. He lies on his side on the picnic mat, looking up at the sky to gather his thoughts carefully. He knows you’ve been waiting for him to say something. Perhaps he was too but he couldn’t even look at you yet.

The nerves are kicking in.

He’s fucking up again and you’re already hurt. Your last question replays in his head and right now, he can’t believe he’s begging the stars to give him some direction like how they did to humans since the beginning of time. 

You noticed. Of course you do, you always do. Your eyes have never missed any subtle changes in Jeno's body language. You wonder what’s on his mind this time. When you saw the guilt in his eyes earlier, you didn’t understand it right away, your brain still high from the rush of orgasm. When he doesn't follow you to the edge of the cliff, you remember that there are many things you need to talk about tonight.

You mimic his position, your bare legs fully on display, hoping it’ll get his back his attention. It worked. Jeno’s eyes went straight on them but to your dismay, he still hasn’t said a word.

This night can’t go on like this.

You're giving him the time but maybe he’d been waiting for you too. A talk about the constellation would surely break the tension and divert both your attention to it.

“I can’t do this anymore.”

Your body freezes at his words. You couldn’t believe you’re hearing his words right when you were gonna talk. 

“What?”

The turmoil inside you got worse, multiple emotions surging at once but mainly the shock and panic are getting you overwhelmed again. Jeno’s confession pulled one of your biggest fears. 

Losing him for good. 

Is this it? Will this be the final time you’ll ever see him? Does he not love you anymore? Is there a new girl in his life that he’s about to tell you about and this meetup's for a closure?

All those questions must've shown on your face but Jeno's too nervous to notice which is better for your part. You brace yourself for his next words when he shifts his anxious eyes back on you.

"Pretending that I'm okay with this setup when all I've ever wanted is you." 

“Oh.” 

It is a closure but not the kind you have in mind. You reacted so soon and Jeno has caught on now that he's looking at you, his eyes shifting from nervous to worry. You've been speechless for a close to a minute but you were just surprised. Between the two of you, you didn’t think he’d be the one to admit first, fully expecting him to skirt around the topic at least.

“But aren't you mad?”

"No baby. I was jealous and scared I lost you for good." He quietly admits, his voice shaking a little. This is so atypical of Jeno and you would've teased him if you weren't still overwhelmed.

"We had an agreement, remember? Plus, you literally just fucked me."

"I know but I can't help it, I'm sorry."

The slight whine in his apology should've melted you. Instead, you’re struggling with how to react. You were ready to adjust like always but why is he confessing now? You thought you’ve calmed down from the simultaneous emotions but confusion, in particular is eating you up. On one hand, you’re happy at his honesty and apology but the uncertainty is still there. Yes, he wants you but how?

“Let’s eat Jen, I'm starving.” You smile awkwardly at him when you can't find the right words to answer. Jeno looks away with a rueful smile and a nod, then hands you a tupperware of fruits to start off. It’s both annoying and endearing how attuned you and your ex boyfriend are. Confusion aside, he understood that you’re still not ready and had been patient with you.

The one trait he had that made you fall for him in the first place.

“Are they good?” He asks hesitantly, pertaining to the dumplings he made with Chenle.

“Yeah, surprisingly. Thank Lele for me.” You muse, munching another one. Jeno chuckles before taking a quick picture of you and the remaining pieces, knowing he’ll get an earful from his friend if he doesn’t document your reactions to it. 

For a while, the two of you have gone back to silence. The mood now is different, the heaviness easing up a little. It’s comfortable like this, enjoying your favourites while watching each other discreetly. The awkwardness gradually dissipated which you’re grateful for. You thought the night was already ruined and you’d have to end this catch up sooner.

What a relief that the tables have semi-turned.

A snicker escapes you while Jeno's munching a pack of gummies. You find him fixated on your legs again as he chews each gummy bear absentmindedly. With your giggly outburst, his eyes averted back to you instantly, blinking slowly that made your smile wider.  

Like he’d been caught. Cute.

You can sense his impending protest and immediately lean closer, still giggling but your attention’s fully on his lips now. He meets you halfway, pressing his sugar coated lips from the glazed doughnut he just devoured. You savour the sweetness in between kisses, biting his plump lower lip to ask for entrance, which he did with a groan. 

Jeno can not only taste the saccharine in your mouth but on your actions too. You’re holding his face, fingers tracing his sharp jaw with delicate a touch that tugs his heartstrings more than he likes to admit. In return, he tugs your body, his palm finding your waist to pull you closer. 

The emotions he’d been caging in starts to spill out and any hesitation vanishes the moment he meets your longing stare. He wants more of you and he’s frankly tired of holding himself back anymore.

"I still love you,” he whispers before diving in for another kiss. ”I don’t think it ever stopped." 

"I love you too."

You’re tearing up as you say the words. It’s been years since you’ve spoken the phrase out loud, at least to another guy. One made it close to that and if this yearly meetup you have with your ex hadn’t existed, there’s a chance that you'll say the phrase again sooner but not to Jeno. You even remembered the last time you said it, on your last date before your break up. 

Thinking about the phrase made you recoil ever since.

Jeno beams at your response. The corners of his eyes crinkle up into half-moons that have always lightened up your mood. Watching him intently, you notice the relief creeping up to the slight nervousness in his eyes. He looks like he wants to say more, and with an encouraging nod from you, he starts.

Jeno then reaches out to your thigh, finally touching the bare skin he’d been eyeing the whole night. His touch feels warm despite his hand shaking but you didn’t bother to point it out. He never does when you’re nervous around him. 

“If you're done here, I would want you to come with me.” 

He looks away after saying it, kneading the meat of your thigh while waiting for you to answer. 

So this was why he’s nervous, unsure.

"You won't mind if I say goodbye?” you test it out with a hint, see if he’ll let you. “To wrap up things here…properly." 

You watch his nose scrunch as you drop another hint but instead of confronting you with it, he nods with another firm squeeze of your thigh.

Jeno truly surprised you tonight.

"Go ahead, I'm not in the position to stop you. I have no right, not yet."

Your ex boyfriend didn’t argue like you expected. He didn't try to convince you to change your mind, to demand reasons why you couldn’t just leave with him right away. The Jeno from years ago would've vehemently opposed the idea. He would question you the details until you’re left to tell him everything but now…he truly did change for the better. 

So did you. 

“You’re really fine with it?” 

“I can wait. I was able to wait for years. This is nothing.”

He pretended to sound offended and you merely chuckled. Jeno has been waiting this whole time—like you did. Honestly, you find the whole situation funny enough.

“We’re both so stupid.” you shake your head, sighing out loud. "We wasted so much time when we still love each other." You deadpanned but Jeno shakes his head.

“You and I needed to grow separately and we’re still growing babe,” he squeezes your thigh for comfort. You raise a brow at him, that mischievous smile returning on your lips before grabbing a piece of almond bites to throw his way. He annoyingly caught it with his mouth, smirking at you as if to ask for more.

How dare he use his sharp jawline to distract you.

“Definitely more mature than before.” You chuckle and take the last piece for yourself, much to his faux disappointment. “Enough to try again?” He queries, his smirk turning into a hopeful smile. “I, too, am tired babe.”

“We’ll be better, baby. We’ll communicate better.”

“And we don’t need to rush Jen, we’ll get there, together.”

Jeno’s truly happy with your decision. His main dilemma was finally resolved. Still, he hates how the nerves linger despite the result he was hoping for. He was unsure if you’ll say yes earlier and even if you just did, the fear of fucking up again looms over him and will probably stay for a while. That's something he'll definitely work on with you.

Trusting himself more that is.

Now that you’re both a little bit older, you finally feel ready to rekindle what you had, frontal lobe developing and all. You’re clearly still in love with one another so going back and forth is no use anymore. This time around, it’s going to be better and you both promised to take things slow, not repeat your old habits that prompted your break up.

It would never happen again. He’ll never let you go unless you want to.

That’s how much Jeno loves you.

“I was within and without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life.”

— F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

Hogwarts had always held a certain allure, with its ancient stone walls and magic that seemed to permeate every nook and cranny. For six and a half years, you'd wandered those hallowed halls, immersing yourself in a world so far removed from the mundane that at times it hardly seemed real.

Yet, for all its wonder and mystique, Hogwarts was not without its dangers. 

There were cursed objects that lurked in shadowy corridors, waiting for an unsuspecting student to stumble upon them. Staircases that shifted without warning, leaving the unwary stranded or, worse, deposited in some unknown part of the castle. The Whomping Willow that stood sentinel on the grounds, its gnarled branches poised to strike at any who ventured too close. Even Peeves the Poltergeist roamed the halls, cackling with malicious glee as he wreaked havoc and sowed chaos in his wake.

In the face of such peril, you had thus far emerged unscathed, a feat that was nothing short of remarkable given the castle's rather alarming mortality rate. You attributed your survival to a simple yet effective strategy: be invisible, be boring, and for the love of Merlin, stay away from anyone interesting.

Interesting people, you had learned, were magnets for trouble. They ended up in the hospital wing with alarming regularity, usually victims of rogue hexes or potions experiments gone awry. They attracted drama the way honey attracted flies, their lives a constant whirlwind of rumor and intrigue. Interesting people had complicated social lives, with networks of friends and enemies and romantic entanglements that required constant upkeep.

You, on the other hand, were perfectly content with your quiet, unassuming existence. You had one close friend, one beloved cat, and a comfortable routine that rarely demanded more of you than attending classes and avoiding human interaction as much as possible. It wasn't a particularly exciting life, but it was safe and predictable and suited you just fine.

At least, it had until this particular moment, when your sole friend had apparently taken complete leave of her senses.

"Are you having some sort of episode?" You peered at Jo over the top of your book, brow furrowed in concern. "Should I fetch Madam Pomfrey? Is this what happens when you inhale too many potion fumes?"

Jo rolled her eyes with an exaggerated huff. "Please!" she wheedled, her voice climbing to that particular pitch that never boded well. "Please please please, I swear on Merlin's saggy ba—"

You held up a finger, cutting her off before she could complete that thought. "I'm going to stop you right there..."

"I'll never ask you for anything ever again!" She pleaded, clasping her hands together. "I'll do your Potions essays for a month! I'll clean Whiskers' litter box! I'll—"

"I don't think you heard me the first time," you interrupted, fixing her with a pointed stare. "Are. You. Mental?"

The Gryffindor common room was mercifully empty save for the portrait of a tongue-less lady, who watched your exchange with rapt attention. Having gotten her tongue cut out in 1642 for "seditious gossip", the painted woman had developed a keen appreciation for drama in all its forms. Judging by the way she clutched at her pearls, this was the most excitement she'd witnessed in decades. Whiskers was curled up in your lap, observing your best friend with as much judgement as you probably were.

"Come ooon," Jo cajoled, undeterred by your apparent lack of enthusiasm. "When do I ever do things like this? You're always telling me to try new things!"

"I meant take up knitting! Join the Gobstones Club! I did not mean sneak out of the castle in the middle of the night to meet some potentially lycanthropic stranger you've been corresponding with!"

"He's not a stranger, I've been writing to him for months—"

"Which is exactly what every person who's ever been murdered by a pen pal has said—"

"And he's not a werewolf, he's perfectly lovely! I saw him in Hogsmeade last month, I just couldn't say hello because McGonagall was watching me like a hawk."

"Seeing someone from a distance hardly counts as a proper introduction," you argued, pulling your blanket tighter around yourself as if to punctuate your point.

This was the problem with having just one close friend. You knew Jo too well, could read her every expression and intonation better than anyone else. That gleam in her eye, the set of her chin, the way she twisted her fingers in her lap - you recognized the signs of a course already plotted, a decision already made. She would go through with this mad scheme with or without your help, and if you refused, she'd likely end up dead in a ditch somewhere and you'd be left to drown in guilt for the rest of your days.

Guilt, you thought grimly, was a most effective motivator.

With a weary sigh, you closed your book and met Jo's hopeful gaze. "Fine. Fine. What exactly do you need me to do?"

Jo's answering grin could have lit up the entirety of the Great Hall. "Just swap patrol shifts with Sophie Crockett tomorrow night? She's an absolute nightmare, and if she catches me out after curfew she'll go straight to McGonagall."

You could feel a headache blooming behind your eyes. "And when Sophie asks why I'm suddenly so eager to take on the worst patrol slot in existence?"

"Just make something up! She's not going to turn down a chance to skive off for an evening, is she?"

Rubbing your temples, you silently cursed the fickle twists of fate that had led you to this moment. "And the other prefects? I'll still have to deal with them, you know."

Jo waved a hand dismissively. "Nah, you're all right. The only other one scheduled is Na Jaemin, and everyone knows he never actually patrols. Just goes and snogs girls in the library all night, doesn't he?"

You raised an incredulous eyebrow. "How would you know that?"

"Everyone knows," Jo said with a shrug. "It's common knowledge."

"Well, I didn't know."

"That's because you never pay attention to gossip," Jo pointed out, flopping down beside you on the couch. "Honestly, you're missing out on prime entertainment. Anyway, I'm sure Jaemin's got better things to do than patrol corridors. You'll probably have the place to yourself.”

You made a noncommittal sound, trying not to think too hard about Na Jaemin and his extracurricular activities.

It was funny, really. Or rather more like cosmically ironic. First and second year, Jaemin had been an absolute pest. Always lurking around corners, waiting to charm your bag so your books would spill everywhere, or jinx your quill during tests so it would only write rude limericks. He’d found you endlessly amusing, apparently, a never-ending source of entertainment. You’d gone to bed countless nights fuming, plotting revenge you’d never actually carry out, wishing he’d just leave you alone.

And then, somewhere around third year, he just stopped. He stopped seeking you out, or looking at you entirely. As if you’d ceased to exist the moment you stopped being fun to torment.

By fourth year, he’d transformed into a whole different person entirely. Suddenly he was all smoldering glances and that insufferable “playboy” swagger, a different girl on his arm every week. Too cool for pranks and too sophisticated for something as juvenile as tormenting students. He’d become exactly the sort of person you’d made it your mission to avoid: interesting, magnetic, drowning in attention and drama.

You supposed you should have been relieved. You’d wanted him to leave you alone, after all. But there was something particularly galling about being so thoroughly dismissed, about going from his favorite target to utterly beneath his notice. At least when he’d been pulling pranks, you’d existed to him.

Now you were just… nobody. Which was exactly what you’d wanted, you reminded yourself firmly. Exactly what you’d worked so hard to achieve.

“You’re probably right,” you said to Jo, pushing thoughts of Jaemin firmly out of your mind. “I’ll probably have the whole patrol to myself.”

Privately, you rather doubted that. In your experience, the universe had a way of placing you in the path of people and situations you'd much rather avoid. Still, Jo was clearly determined to see her plan through, and short of physically restraining her (a tempting prospect, but ultimately impractical), you saw no way to dissuade her.

"Fine," you said again. "I'll take Sophie's patrol. But if this goes sideways, I reserve the right to say 'I told you so' in the loudest, most obnoxious voice I can muster."

"You're the best." Jo pulled you into a rib-cracking hug, her hair tickling your nose. "Seriously, I owe you one."

"You owe me several," you grumbled, but you returned the hug all the same.

Later that night, as you lay in bed listening to the soft snores of your dormmates, you tried to ignore the sense of foreboding curling in your gut. Rationally, you knew the odds of anything truly catastrophic happening were slim. It was just one night, one patrol, one tiny favor for your best friend. Surely the universe wouldn't be so cruel as to upend your careful, boring routine over something so trivial.

But then, you thought wryly, life did seem to have a twisted sense of humor where you were concerned.

With a sigh, you rolled over and buried your face in your pillow, willing sleep to come. Tomorrow would bring what it would. For now, all you could do was hope that, just this once, the cosmic forces that governed your life would decide to give you a break.

Poorly planned rule-breaking never worked out the way you expected it to.

There was the first year incident, for instance, involving a misplaced curiosity about the Restricted Section and a borrowed invisibility cloak that was, crucially, not yours. You’d lasted exactly twelve minutes before knocking over a stack of cursed folios and alerting Madam Pince.

Second year had been defined by an ill-advised attempt to brew Pepper-Up Potion in a bathroom sink, resulting in steam, screaming, and a week-long ban from practical spellwork. Jo still insisted it would have worked if you’d stirred clockwise instead of counterclockwise. You maintained that the problem was attempting potion-making in plumbing never designed for magic.

After those things, you'd like to say you saw the impending disaster coming from a mile away, but honestly? You were too preoccupied with figuring out how to convince Sophie Crockett to swap shifts without making her suspicious.

As it turned out, Sophie was pathetically easy to persuade. You caught her after Charms, mentioned something vague about "wanting to study for the Divination exam in the morning" (there was no Divination exam, but Sophie didn't take Divination, so she was none the wiser), and she agreed immediately, no questions asked. Just a breezy "Oh, thank Merlin, I've got an Astronomy essay I haven't even started" and that was that.

In hindsight, that should have been your first warning sign. When things fell into place too smoothly, it usually meant the universe was just winding up for a truly spectacular cosmic sucker punch.

At nine sharp on Saturday you pinned your prefect badge to your robes and made your way down to the Entrance Hall, silently cursing your inability to say no to Jo's puppy dog eyes.

The castle took on a different character at night. Not peaceful, exactly. More... haunting. The portraits whispered conspiratorially as you passed, and the shadows in the corners seemed to stretch and deepen weirdly. You'd walked these corridors countless times before, but they never quite lost their eerie quality after dark.

You were supposed to meet Jaemin at the main staircase to divvy up patrol routes. But in theory, if the rumors about his extracurricular activities were true, you'd never actually know have to interact with him at all.

That was the theory, anyway.

The reality was that when you arrived at the designated meeting spot, Na Jaemin was already there, leaning against the banister and looking distinctly un-snog-ready.

Jaemin was the sort of boy who looked like he was born in moonlight and named by a poet. Even in the sallow torchlight, his hair glowed, silver-gold and a little too long for regulation. There was always something quietly triumphant in the angle of his jaw, the tilt of his smile, as if every corridor was a stage and every passing student a captive audience.

You stopped short, your feet suddenly rooted to the spot.  Some ancient, reflexive part of your brain was screaming at you to turn around, to flee, to avoid him the way you’d been so carefully avoiding him for the past four years. The last time you’d been alone with Na Jaemin you’d been twelve years old and he’d been too entertained by your mortification to let you escape.

Now you were seventeen, and he was looking at you with an expression that was completely different and all too intense. He was supposed to be off in some secluded corner of the library, doing unspeakable things with whatever girl was lucky enough to be on his arm that week. He was absolutely not supposed to be here, looking alert and purposeful and like he was actually planning to do his job.

Even more concerning, he looked annoyed.

"You're the Gryffindor prefect," he said, and it sounded more like an accusation than a question.

"...Yes?" Really, what else could you say?

"Where's Crockett?"

"We swapped shifts."

His eyes, a rather striking shade of dark brown that you'd never had occasion to notice before, narrowed suspiciously. "Why?"

"Does it matter?"

He closed his eyes briefly, and you got the distinct impression he was counting to ten in his head. When he opened them again, he fixed you with a look that could have flash-frozen a cup of tea. "I needed Crockett on duty tonight."

Well. That was... odd. Extremely odd. Highly, suspiciously odd. Why would Na Jaemin, Slytherin prince and general too-cool-for-this-nonsense type, care which prefect was patrolling with him?

"Well," you said, channeling every ounce of polite defiance you possessed, "we've already swapped, so I'm afraid you're stuck with me. Unless you've got a Time-Turner hidden somewhere, which would be highly illegal, so I'm going to assume you don't."

Jaemin's jaw clenched almost imperceptibly. "This is—" He stopped himself, visibly recalibrating. "Fine. Right. You take floors three through five then. I'll handle the lower levels and the grounds."

And that's when your brain, which had been operating at half capacity due to stress and sleep deprivation, finally caught up with the situation.

The grounds.

Jaemin wanted to patrol the grounds.

The same grounds where, at this very moment, your best friend was likely rendezvousing with her mystery man.

Oh no. 

"Actually," you heard yourself say, the words tumbling out in a slightly manic rush, "I was rather hoping to get some fresh air tonight. Bit stuffy in the castle, you know. Mind if we swap? You take the upper floors, I'll do the grounds."

His expression shuttered faster than a shop window in Knockturn Alley. "No."

"No?"

"No."

"Well, that's not very cooperative of you," you said, mentally calculating how quickly you could sprint to the grounds to warn Jo. "Aren't prefects supposed to work as a team?"

Jaemin raised one perfectly arched brow. "Why so keen on the grounds all of a sudden?"

"No reason." Your voice came out at least an octave higher than usual. "Just thought it would be nice to get some air. Lovely night for a stroll, don't you think?"

"You're an atrocious liar," he informed you, taking a step closer. You were suddenly, acutely aware of the fact that he was quite a bit taller than you, and that the height difference was doing absolutely nothing to bolster your confidence in this situation. "What's going on?"

"Nothing's going on."

"Of course not. And I suppose you just happened to swap shifts with Crockett tonight for no particular reason, and now you're coincidentally desperate to patrol the grounds."

Okay. This was getting out of control. You needed him. away from the grounds, away from Jo, away from this entire situation. And there was only one thing you could think of that might actually work.

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “What?”

“You know.” You waved a hand vaguely, heat creeping up your neck. “It’s Saturday night. I just thought you might have… plans.”

“Plans,” he repeated flatly.

“Yeah, well… You don’t actually patrol on Saturdays.” The words came out in a rush, ungraceful and desperate. “So if you want to go do whatever it is you usually do, I can handle this. Really. You don’t have to—”

“Whatever it is I usually do,” Jaemin said, his lips twitching. “And what exactly do you think that is?”

Oh god. Why had you started this?

“I don’t know. I don’t keep track of your schedule.”

“Clearly not, or you wouldn’t be standing here trying to… what? Give me permission to skive off?” He was definitely smiling now, the bastard. “How thoughtful of you.”

“I’m just saying, if you have other commitments—”

He laughed, short and sharp. “Is that what we’re calling it? Commitments?”

Your face was absolutely burning now. “Look, what you do with your time is none of my business.” 

“You’re the one who brought it up.”

“Because I’m trying to be helpful!” You gestured wildly at the empty entrance hall. “The library’s right there. I’m sure whoever you’re supposed to meet would appreciate you actually showing up—”

“Ah.” Jaemin’s grin widened, showing teeth. “You think I’m supposed to meet someone in the library.”

“That’s what people say,” you muttered, unable to meet his eyes.

“People say a lot of things.” He leaned back against the banister, looking thoroughly entertained now. “And you believe all of them?”

“That’s not the point—”

“Tell me, what else does everyone say about me? I’m curious.”

This was a disaster. A complete and utter disaster. “Forget I said anything.”

“Oh no, I don’t think so.” He pushed off the banister, taking a step closer. “You started it. Come on, don’t be shy now. What exactly are these Saturday night activities I’m supposedly abandoning patrol for?”

You wanted the floor to open up and swallow you whole. “You already know what people say.”

“I do. But I want to hear you say it.” His eyes were dancing with so much glee. “Go on. Don’t spare my delicate sensibilities.”

“This is ridiculous—”

“Go on.”

You took a breath, lifted your chin, and forced the words out with as much dignity as you could muster. “Fine. People say you spend your patrol shifts in the library doing…things.”

“Things?” Jaemin repeated, his grin positively wolfish now. “How delightfully vague.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I really don’t. You’ll have to be more specific.”

He was enjoying this far too much, the absolute prat. “They say you… meet girls there.”

“Meet girls,” he said thoughtfully. “Like a book club?”

“Not like a book club,” you gritted out.

“Then what?”

You threw your hands up. “They say you snog girls in the library instead of doing your prefect duties! There! Are you happy?”

Jaemin laughed. “Merlin’s beard, is that it?”

“That’s what everyone says.”

“And you believed it?” He shook his head, still grinning. “That’s adorable, really.”

“Don’t call me that,” you snapped.

“Well, you are when you’re trying to delicately inform me about my own scandalous reputation.” His eyes glittered with delight. “How very considerate, giving me an out like that. ‘Oh Jaemin, don’t let me keep you from your library assignations.’”

He said it in a high pitched tone, clearly trying for a very inaccurate impression of you.

“I was only trying to be nice.” You huffed.

“You’re trying to get rid of me,” he corrected, but he didn’t sound annoyed about it. If anything, he seemed more intrigued. “Which brings us back to the question of why you’re so desperate for me to not patrol the grounds tonight.”

Damn it. You’d played right into his hands. “I’m not—”

“You just tried to use my supposed promiscuity as an excuse to get me to leave.” He tilted his head, studying you. “So either you’re deeply concerned about my social life, or there’s something on the grounds you don’t want me to find.”

Your heart was hammering again. He’d out-maneuvered you completely, turning your own attempt at manipulation back on you.

“Well?” he prompted. “Which is it?”

“The first one,” you lied weakly. “I’m very concerned about your social life.”

“Right.” His smile was sharper now, more predatory. “In that case, you’ll be delighted to know I’m completely free tonight. I have no library dates or clandestine meetings. Just a nice, thorough patrol of the grounds.” He paused. “With you, apparently, since you seem so determined to tag along.”

You rolled your eyes. “You are so irritating.”

“There’s the Gryffindor honesty I remember,” he said cheerfully. “Come on then. Let’s go catch whoever it is you’re trying to protect.”

Wait. What?

“I’m not—there’s no one—”

But he was already turning toward the entrance hall, and panic clawed at your throat. You needed to try something else, anything to keep him from the grounds.

“Look,” you said, a note of genuine desperation creeping into your voice, “patrolling the grounds is easily twice the work of the upper floors. I’m offering to take on the extra effort here. What’s the problem?”

He paused, glancing back at you with an expression of exaggerated surprise. “You? Volunteering for extra work?” He pressed a hand to his chest in shock. “I’m sorry, have we met? I’m Na Jaemin, and you’re the girl who once hid in a broom cupboard for twenty minutes to avoid helping set up for the Yule Ball.”

“I did not—” You stopped, because you absolutely had done that, and he somehow knew about it. “That’s not the point.”

“Isn’t it though?” He was grinning again, clearly enjoying himself. “Come on, admit it. You’ve spent six years perfecting the art of doing the absolute bare minimum. I’ve seen you let third years wander the corridors after curfew as long as they promised to go straight to bed.”

Your face burned. “I was tired that night—”

“You’re always tired.” He tilted his head. “So forgive me if I’m a bit skeptical about this sudden burst of civic responsibility. It’s very out of character for you.”

The sheer audacity. The unmitigated gall. To accuse you of apathy and then dismiss you without so much as a backward glance? An ember of indignation flared to life and burned away the last vestiges of your tattered patience. He had no right. No right to stand there and act like he understood anything about you when he was the reason you’d learned to make yourself invisible in the first place.

And now here he was, cataloging your flaws with that same amused smile, like you were still just entertainment to him.

“Fine,” you bit out. “Don’t take my offer. See if I care.”

“Oh, I won’t.” He turned back toward the entrance hall, waving a hand dismissively over his shoulder. “I’m patrolling the grounds. You can join me or check the upper floors. Your choice.”

“Why do you just get to decide that on your own? The grounds aren’t even part of the standard patrol route!”

"They are tonight," he tossed over his shoulder, not even bothering to turn around.

"Why?"

"Because I said so."

And with that spectacularly unhelpful explanation, he walked out the front doors, leaving you standing slack-jawed and sputtering in his wake.

This was it. The moment of truth. You had approximately five seconds to make a decision that would either save your best friend from expulsion or doom her to a fate worse than death.

Option one: let Jaemin go off on his own. He'd catch Jo, she'd be expelled, and you'd spend the rest of your life weighed down by the guilt of your inaction.

Option two: follow him, try to run interference, and most likely fail spectacularly but hey, at least you could say you tried.

In the end, your choice was clear. The reckless, devil-may-care loyalty that had landed you in Gryffindor in the first place reared its noble head, and before you quite knew what you were doing, you were hurrying out the doors after Jaemin, resignation and foreboding dogging your every step.

"I'm coming!" you called after him.

Jaemin spun around, one eyebrow quirked in a way that suggested he'd interpreted your words in a decidedly less innocent manner.

"To the grounds," you clarified hastily, feeling your face heat up. "To patrol. With you."

“I gathered that much,” he said, his tone dripping with amusement. “Though I appreciate the clarification. Wouldn’t want any misunderstandings.”

You glared at him, but he’d already turned back around, that damned smirk still visible in profile.

Beyond the castle corridors, the night grounds felt twice as ominous. Shadows stretched from the Forbidden Forest, where twisted branches reached toward the sky like gnarled fingers against the dark. Nearby, the Black Lake remained a silent mirror, its surface only occasionally broken by ripples that hinted at the heavy, mysterious life lurking in the depths.

Jaemin had conjured a floating orb of soft white light to guide your path, which was considerate yet irritating, as it seemed to delight in hovering mere inches from your face and nearly blinding you. He walked with an easy grace, hands in his pockets, looking for all the world like this was just a casual evening stroll and not a patently absurd situation that could land you both in a world of trouble.

You, on the other hand, were so tense you could practically feel your muscles vibrating. Your mind raced as you tried to remember what Jo had told you about her planned rendezvous. 

They’d be in the grounds, obviously, but beyond that? Hogwarts' grounds spanned nearly a thousand acres and included everything from dense forest to rolling hills to a literal giant-squid-infested lake. If you were going to have any hope of intercepting Jo before Jaemin did, you needed a clearer idea of where exactly to look.

And you needed to keep him distracted.

“So,” Jaemin said, his voice cutting through your rising panic, “care to tell me what’s really going on here?”

“We’re patrolling,” you said, keeping your eyes fixed firmly ahead. “That’s what’s going on.”

“And I suppose you always volunteer for extra patrols on Saturday nights, do you? Just for the exercise?”

“Maybe I do. Fresh air is good for you.”

“Right.” He didn’t sound like he believed you for a second. “And here I thought you preferred to spend your evenings in the Restricted Section, avoiding human interaction as much as possible.”

You shot him a sideways glance. “Have you been spying on me?”

“It’s called being observant,” he said lightly. “You should try it sometime. Although I suppose that would require you to take an interest in something beyond your very busy schedule of going through the motions and avoiding anything that might resemble effort.”

There it was again, that annoying assessment of your character, delivered with a smile that made it impossible to tell if he was genuinely criticizing you or just winding you up for his own amusement.

Bristling, you planted your hands on your hips and glared up at him. "I put in effort when it matters."

"And I'm sure swapping shifts with Crockett was a matter of utmost importance, then?" His lips curved into a smirk that made you want to hex it right off his unfairly symmetrical face. "Go on. What’s so crucial about tonight? Did you lose a bet? Secret passion for night-time groundskeeping?”

“Why do you care so much?”

“Because you’re terrible at being subtle, and watching you try is genuinely entertaining.” He grinned at your affronted expression. “Plus, I’m curious. You’ve spent the better part of six years being aggressively unremarkable, and now here you are, practically begging to patrol the grounds with me. It’s very out of character.”

“Stop acting like you know everything about me.”

“I might not know everything about you,” he said, his voice taking on a knowing tone, “But I know you’re trying to protect someone.”

Your heart skipped. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you?” He stopped walking, turning to face you fully. The floating light cast strange shadows across his features, making his expression harder to read. “Here’s what I think is happening. There’s someone out here meeting someone they shouldn’t be meeting. You agreed to swap with Crockett to cover for that person, expecting me to skip patrol like I apparently always do. But I didn’t, so now you’re stuck trying to run interference while pretending this is all perfectly normal.”

You stared at him, your mouth going dry. He’d worked it out. As expected, Na Jaemin might be annoying and smug and entirely too pleased with himself, but he’d never been stupid.

“That’s…” you started, but your voice came out weak. “That’s a very creative theory.”

“You’ve gone red again.” He tilted his head, studying you. “Dead giveaway.”

You opened your mouth to retort, but closed it again, floundering. There was absolutely no way to explain your actions without either incriminating Jo or making yourself look even more suspicious. You were well and truly cornered, and the triumphant gleam in Jaemin's eyes told you he knew it.

But before you could cobble together a halfway coherent response, a sound drifted through the night air that made you stop cold.

Laughter.

More specifically, Jo's laughter, bright and carefree and coming from somewhere worryingly close by.

Jaemin froze too, his eyes narrowing. "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?" you asked, feigning ignorance even as your heart threatened to beat its way out of your ribcage. "I didn't hear anything. Probably just the wind. It howls around the turrets sometimes..."

"That wasn't the wind." He was already moving again, long legs eating up the ground as he strode purposefully toward the source of the sound. "That was a person, maybe two, from the sounds of it"

"What? No, that's—I really think it was just the wind. Or maybe Peeves playing a prank. You know what a menace he is, always causing trouble, we should probably go back inside and—"

But he wasn't listening. Because he'd caught the scent of rule-breaking, and Merlin forbid he let it go in favor of the much more appealing option of minding his own damn business.

You had no choice. You were either going to have to physically stop him (a laughable notion - he had a good six inches and probably thirty pounds of muscle on you), or you were going to have to get to Jo first.

The words were out of your mouth before you could think better of them. "Wait!"

Miraculously, he actually stopped walking and turned to look at you, one eyebrow arched expectantly.

"I—" Your mind raced, grasping for any excuse, any diversion, anything to keep him from taking another step. "I think I saw something. Over there." You pointed vaguely off to your left, in the opposite direction of Jo's laughter. "We should go check it out."

Jaemin regarded you with exasperation. "You know, for someone who's spent the better part of six years avoiding attention, you're shockingly bad at subterfuge."

"I–I'm just being cautious. It's dark out here, and there could be...things. Dangerous things. Like snargaluffs, or...or a moke on the loose."

"A moke," he repeated flatly. "An invisible lizard the size of a mouse. You think I should be worried about a moke ambushing me.”

 “They can be vicious!”

“They’re ten inches tall.”

“Size isn’t everything,” you shot back, then immediately regretted it as his grin widened into something positively wicked.

“I’ll have to take your word for that,” he said smoothly, and you felt your face flame.

“That’s not—I didn’t mean—oh, for Merlin’s sake.” You covered your face with your hands, wondering if it was possible to die of embarrassment. “Can we please just check the trees?”

“Why?” He took a step closer, and you had to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. “What are you so afraid I’m going to find if we keep going this way?”

You hesitated, weighing your options. On the one hand, the truth was unthinkable. You couldn't just throw Jo to the wolves like that, not after you'd promised to cover for her. On the other hand, you were rapidly running out of plausible lies, and Jaemin clearly wasn't buying any of them.

“Nothing,” you said, but it came out weak and unconvincing even to your own ears.

“Nothing,” he echoed. “Right. So you won’t mind if I just—”

He made to move past you, toward where Jo’s laughter had come from, and you did the only thing you could think of.

You grabbed his arm.

The moment your fingers closed around his sleeve, you realized what a monumentally stupid mistake you’d made. You could feel the warmth of his skin through the fabric and the solid muscle beneath. He stilled instantly, his gaze dropping to where your hand clutched at him, then slowly lifting to meet your eyes.

“Please,” you said quietly, all pretense abandoned. “Don’t go over there. Just—just forget you heard anything, and I’ll explain later. I promise.”

He studied you for a long moment. You were acutely aware of how close you were standing, of the way his eyes seemed to catch every flicker of emotion that crossed your face.

"So you are covering for someone," he said at last. "A friend, I'm guessing. The one you're always with? The loud one, with the"—he gestured vaguely—"the hair?"

"Her hair is perfectly normal, thank you very much, and I don't see how that's any of your business."

"It absolutely is my business, seeing as there are students out of bed and I'm a prefect. I'm supposed to report this sort of thing, you know."

"Yes, well, I'm also a prefect, and I'm asking you not to." Desperation bled into your voice, and you hated it, hated that you were practically begging him for something that you had no right to ask for. “Please, Jaemin. Can't you just...look the other way? Just this once?"

He was silent for a long moment, and you braced yourself for the inevitable. For the sneer, the cutting remark, the gleeful reminder that he was a Slytherin and Slytherins didn't do favors without expecting something in return.

But when he finally spoke, his voice was surprisingly soft. "You really care about her, don't you? Your friend."

You swallowed hard, caught off guard by the gentleness in his tone. "She's my best friend. I'd do anything for her."

"Even lie to a fellow prefect and risk getting in trouble yourself."

"Yes." You met his gaze squarely, unflinching. "Even that."

Another long silence, and then he sighed. "All right, fine."

You blinked. "Fine?"

"Fine, I won't report her. But"—he held up a hand as you opened your mouth to thank him—"I want something in return."

There it was. You should have known it wouldn't be that easy. Slytherins always had an angle, and Jaemin was Slytherin to the core.

Wariness crept into your voice as you asked, "What sort of something?"

His lips curved into a smile that could only be described as predatory. "A favor. One favor, to be determined by me, at a time of my choosing. Do this, and I'll conveniently forget I heard anything tonight."

Your stomach dropped. A favor. An open-ended, unspecified, could-be-anything favor, owed to Na Jaemin. Well. This was how you died, not in a blaze of glory like a true Gryffindor, but in the thrall of a serpent's forked tongue and devastating jawline.

But what choice did you have? If you refused, Jo would be caught for sure. And then she'd be expelled, and it would be all your fault, and you'd have to live with the guilt for the rest of your life. A life which, frankly, was looking shorter and shorter with each passing minute as Jaemin stared you down, waiting for your answer.

"Fine," you said through gritted teeth. "One favor. But nothing illegal or dangerous or humiliating."

His smile widened, showing far too many teeth for your comfort. "Look at that. You’re negotiating. Will wonders never cease?"

"Those are my terms. Take them or leave them."

"Oh, I'll take them." He held out a hand, long fingers uncurling in an inviting gesture. "Shall we shake on it?"

You glared at his hand like it might bite you (and really, with Jaemin, who knew?) but reluctantly reached out and grasped it. His skin was warm, his grip firm, and you tried very hard not to think about how nice his hand felt in yours.

"Pleasure doing business with you," he murmured, and was it your imagination or did his thumb just stroke across your knuckles?

You snatched your hand back like you'd been burned, face flushing. "Yes, well. You'd better hold up your end of the bargain."

"I'm a man of my word." He sketched a mocking little bow. "Your friend's secret is safe with me for now."

The words 'for now' hung there as a silent threat, and you suppressed a shiver. What had you just agreed to? What price would you have to pay for your loyalty?

As if reading your thoughts, Jaemin's smile turned sly. "Don't look so worried. I promise I won't ask for anything too dreadful. Probably."

"Probably," you repeated faintly.

"Probably," he confirmed, and then he turned on his heel and started back toward the castle, leaving you to trail after him in a daze.

The rest of the patrol passed in a blur. You walked in silence, Jaemin seemingly content to let you stew in your own anxiety, and by the time you returned to the Entrance Hall, you were a nervous wreck. You kept imagining all the horrible things he might ask for—doing his homework for the rest of the term, being his personal servant, confessing to McGonagall that you were the one who'd let those nifflers loose in the staff room last year (even though that had been entirely Jo's doing and you'd just been an unwilling accomplice).

At the foot of the stairs, Jaemin paused and turned to face you. In the dim light of the entrance hall, his eyes were pools of shadow, unreadable and fathomless.

"I'll be in touch," he said, his voice low and full of dark promise. "Sweet dreams."

And then he was gone, melting into the shadows like he'd been born from them, leaving you with a racing heart and the sinking certainty that your life was about to become a lot more complicated.

The next morning, you cornered Jo in the common room before breakfast, pulling her into the corner by the window where no one could overhear.

“Tell me everything went okay last night,” you demanded without preamble. “Please tell me you didn’t do something insane—”

“Whoa, whoa!” Jo held up her hands, her eyes wide. “I’m fine! Everything went perfectly. Well, mostly perfectly. There was a weird moment where I thought I heard someone coming, but then nothing happened, so…” She trailed off, then grabbed your shoulders. “Wait. What happened to you? You look like you haven’t slept.”

“That’s because I haven’t.” You started pacing anxiously. “Jo. I think I might have done something really, really stupid.”

Her expression changed from concern to dread in the span of a second. “What kind of stupid?”

“The kind that involves Na Jaemin and a debt to repay.”

“Oh no.” Jo’s face went pale. “Tell me you didn’t.”

“I did.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did.” You tugged at your hair, feeling the full weight of last night’s decision crushing down on you. “He wanted to patrol the grounds, Jo. He would have found you. I couldn’t let that happen, so I… I made a deal with him.”

Jo stared at you like you'd just confessed to murdering the Minister of Magic. "You made a deal with Na Jaemin. The boy who once convinced half the school that Professor Flitwick was secretly a goblin in disguise."

"To be fair, he has a dash of goblin blood..."

"Not the point!" She grabbed your shoulders, forcing you to stop pacing. "What kind of deal are we talking about here? What did you promise him?"

You took a deep breath. "A favor."

"A favor," she repeated slowly. "What kind of favor?"

“The unspecified kind. The ‘to be determined at a later date’ kind. The ‘I now owe Na Jaemin a debt that he can collect on whenever he wants’ kind.”

She looked about two seconds away from fainting. “You didn’t.”

“I panicked!” you wailed, not caring that you were probably drawing attention from the other early risers scattered around the common room. “It was either agree to the favor or let him catch you with Mr. Mysterious! What was I supposed to do?”

“Not sell your soul to a Slytherin, for starters!” She released you and began pacing, chewing on her thumbnail in that way she only did when she was truly stressed. “This is bad. This is really, really bad. Na Jaemin with a favor from you? He could ask for anything. Anything.”

“You think I don’t know that?” You dropped your head into your hands. “I’ve been up all night imagining the horrible things he might ask for. What if he wants me to do something illegal? What if he wants me to sabotage someone? What if he wants me to—” You shuddered. “—publicly humiliate myself somehow?”

Jo stopped pacing, her expression shifting from panic to determination. “Okay. Okay, we’re not going to catastrophize. Yes, this is bad. Yes, owing Jaemin a favor is potentially disastrous. But it’s not the end of the world.”

“Isn’t it though?”

“No.” She sat down beside you, taking your hand. “Listen to me. You did this to protect me. You put yourself on the line because you’re a good friend, the best friend, and I’m not going to let you face this alone. Whatever Jaemin asks for, we’ll figure it out together. Okay?”

You wanted to take comfort in her words, in the fierce loyalty shining in her eyes. But deep down, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you’d just made a deal with the devil, and the bill would come due sooner rather than later.

“Okay,” you said quietly, squeezing her hand. “Together.”

“Together,” she confirmed. Then her expression turned mischievous. “Besides, who knows? Maybe he’ll ask for something simple. Like help with his Potions essay or something.”

You snorted despite yourself. “Jaemin doesn’t need help with Potions. He’s annoyingly good at everything.”

“Well then maybe he’ll ask you to—I don’t know—organize his sock drawer? Polish his prefect badge?”

“Jo.”

“I’m just saying, it might not be as bad as you think!”

But even as you tried to let her optimism buoy you, you couldn't shake the feeling that your life had just changed irrevocably. That in agreeing to owe Jaemin a favor, you'd set into motion a chain of events that you couldn't possibly predict or control.

Whatever he wanted from you, you had a feeling it wouldn’t be something as simple as organizing his socks.

A haze of anxiety and paranoia defined the following week, one that had you reaching a level of vigilance that would have impressed even Mad-Eye Moody.

You jumped at every sudden noise, flinched every time a Slytherin so much as glanced in your direction, and spent an inordinate amount of time scanning the Great Hall for any sign of Jaemin’s blonde head bent in whispered conversation with his housemates, plotting your doom.

To avoid him, you mapped out convoluted routes to class, opting for deserted corridors even when they made you late. Mealtimes were rescheduled to avoid the rush—breakfast at dawn, lunch in the late afternoon, and dinner only when the Hall had emptied to a few stragglers. In Potions, which was the one class you shared with him, you positioned yourself as far from his usual spot as physically possible, practically pressed against the dungeon wall, and refused to so much as breathe in his direction.

Not that it mattered… Because he didn’t approach you at all.

He just watched you.

From across the courtyard, his gaze would find you through a flurry of Slytherin green. Other times, your eyes would drift upward in Potions only to find him already staring, head propped lazily in his palm. He looked for all the world as if you were far more entertaining than any lecture Professor Slughorn could provide.

You started second-guessing everything. The way you sat, the way you spoke, the way you tugged at your sleeve or tucked your hair behind your ear when nervous. You found yourself becoming a caricature of yourself: rigid, overly cautious, desperate to give nothing away.

By the end of the week, you were a nervous wreck. You’d bitten your nails down to the quick. Developed a stress-induced rash on your neck that no amount of Essence of Dittany could soothe. And even started having vivid nightmares about Jaemin cornering you in increasingly absurd locations like the Prefects’ bathroom, or memorably in the middle of a Quidditch match where he’d swooped down on a broom to demand you juggle puffapods while the entire school watched.

“You need to sleep,” Jo said on Friday night, eyeing the bags under your eyes with concern. “This is getting ridiculous. You look like you’ve been hit with a Confundus Charm.”

“I can’t sleep,” you muttered, your third cup of coffee cooling forgotten beside your Transfiguration essay. “Every time I close my eyes, I just see his face. That stupid, smug, infuriatingly perfect face.”

Jo’s eyebrows shot up. “Perfect?”

“Putrid,” you corrected hastily, feeling your face heat. “I meant putrid. The point is, I can’t relax knowing that at any moment, he could just… appear and demand whatever horrific thing he’s been planning.”

“Maybe he’s forgotten about it,” Jo suggested, though she didn’t sound convinced. “Maybe he was just messing with you, and he never actually intended to collect.”

You wanted to believe that. You really did. But you’d seen the satisfied glint in Jaemin’s eyes when you’d shaken hands.

No. He hadn’t forgotten. He was just biding his time, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

The weekend dragged on with NEWTs studying, failed naps and increasingly creative avoidance techniques. By Sunday morning, you were so on edge that when an owl swooped down at breakfast and dropped a letter directly onto your plate, you actually screamed.

Half the Gryffindor table turned to stare.

“It’s just the post,” Jo said soothingly, though she was eyeing the letter with nearly as much suspicion as you were. “Probably from your mother.”

Your hands shook as you picked up the envelope. The handwriting was your mother’s, thank Merlin, and you sagged with relief as you broke the seal.

“See?” Jo said. “You’re being paranoid.”

“Can you blame me?” you muttered, scanning your mother’s cheerful recounting of your aunt’s latest garden gnome infestation. “It’s been a week, Jo. A whole week of nothing. It’s unnatural.”

“Psychological warfare, that’s what this is. Classic Slytherin mind games. He’s letting you stew, letting the anticipation build, until you’re so wound up that you’ll agree to anything just to put yourself out of your misery.”

“Thank you, Jo,” you said through gritted teeth, stabbing your sausage with enough force to make your fork screech against the plate. “That’s incredibly comforting.”

“I’m just saying, it’s textbook manipulation.” She reached for the marmalade, unbothered by your glare. “My cousin Fergus dated a girl from that house once, and she used to—” 

But you never found out what Jo's cousin's Slytherin ex-girlfriend did, because at that moment, a hush fell over the Great Hall. You looked up, already knowing what you'd see, and felt your stomach drop straight through the floor.

Jaemin was walking toward the Gryffindor table with purpose and intent, his long strides eating up the distance between the Slytherin table and yours. His eyes were fixed on you with such singular focus that you couldn’t have looked away if you tried. 

There was a small satisfied smile playing on his lips.

He was enjoying this, the utter bastard. Enjoying the way every eye in the hall was now fixed on you, the way whispers erupted in his wake like the hissing of a hundred snakes.

He came to a stop directly across from you, and you had to crane your neck to meet his eyes. They were dancing with amusement, and you had the sudden, wild urge to tip your pumpkin juice into his lap.

"Good morning," he said, for all the world as if this were a perfectly normal interaction and not a blatant violation of the unwritten rules that governed breakfast seating arrangements. "Sleep well?"

You gaped at him, too stunned to formulate a response. Beside you, Jo made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort hastily disguised as a cough.

Jaemin’s smile widened, showing a flash of teeth. “I’ll take that as a no.” His gaze swept over you, taking in the bags under your eyes, the coffee stains on your robes, the general air of sleep-deprived panic you’d been cultivating all week. “Have you been avoiding me?”

The question was delivered lightly, almost teasingly, but there was an undercurrent to it. A knowing edge that said he was perfectly aware of every corridor you’d ducked down, every meal you’d skipped, every desperate attempt you’d made to stay out of his path.

“Avoiding you?” you repeated with a nervous laugh. “Of course not. I’ve been—I’ve been busy. Studying and stuff.”

“Mm.” He didn’t sound remotely convinced. “Well, you’re not busy now, are you? I need to talk to you.” He paused, letting his gaze sweep meaningfully across the rapt faces surrounding you. “Privately.”

Oh no. Oh no no no.

"Huh?" you said eloquently.

"Talk. Privately," he repeated, enunciating each syllable as if you were a particularly slow-witted troll.

“I’m eating breakfast,” you said weakly, gesturing at your plate where your eggs had gone cold and congealed.

“You can eat later.” It wasn’t a suggestion. “Come on. This won’t take long.”

Every fiber of your being wanted to plant yourself in your seat and force him to either leave or make a scene. But you could feel the weight of the entire school’s attention pressing down on you. 

You glanced around, taking in the avid stares, the blatant eavesdropping, the gleeful anticipation on every face. Even the staff table looked uncommonly interested, with Professor McGonagall peering at you over her spectacles and Flitwick not even pretending not to listen in.

"Fine," you bit out, shoving back from the table with enough force to make the dishes rattle. "Lead the way."

Jaemin inclined his head, that infuriating smile still playing about his lips, and turned to walk out of the hall. You followed, determinedly ignoring the explosion of chatter that erupted in your wake.

He led you out of the castle, across the dew-damp lawn, all the way to the edge of the lake where a lone beech tree stretched its branches over the water. It was, you noted sourly, an incredibly picturesque spot for a clandestine meeting. Almost as if he'd planned it that way.

"All right," you said, crossing your arms and fixing him with your best glare. "What do you want?"

He leaned against the tree trunk, the picture of nonchalance, and regarded you with a calculating expression. "I think you know."

"The favor," you said flatly.

"The favor," he agreed. "Time to pay up, I'm afraid."

Your heart began to race at this, palms turning clammy as every horrible scenario you'd imagined over the past week came rushing back.

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself. "Fine. What is it? What do you want me to do?"

Jaemin pushed off the tree and took a few steps toward you until he was so close you could see the individual flecks of gold in his dark eyes. 

He looked down at you, his expression turning serious, almost solemn. "I need you," he said softly, "to be my girlfriend."

What the fuck. 

You stared at him dumbly. Surely he'd said something else—"be my guard friend" or literally anything that made more sense than what you thought you'd heard. But after several seconds of awkward silence he simply stood there, staring back.

"I'm sorry," you said at last. "I must have misheard you. It sounded like you just said—"

"Be my girlfriend," he repeated, enunciating each word carefully. "That's the favor I'm asking."

You searched his face for any sign that this was a prank, or at the very least a bizarre figment of your overtired and overstressed imagination.

But he looked deadly serious, his eyes never leaving yours, his jaw set in a way that suggested he was bracing himself for your reaction.

"Right," you said slowly. "Okay. So you've clearly been hit with a Bludger recently. Or maybe you inhaled some dodgy spores from the Forest?" You peered at him more closely, genuinely concerned now. "I think you might be having some sort of mental episode—"

"I'm not having a mental episode."

You started backing away slowly, hands raised placatingly. “Just stay there, I'm going to go get help. Maybe Madam Pomfrey has an antidote for whatever's happened to your brain—" 

"My brain is fine," Jaemin said, and he actually had the audacity to look amused. "I'm completely serious."

"That's even more concerning!" You threw your hands up. "Jaemin, you can't just—I mean, we barely even—we're not even friends! You spent two years torturing me and then four years pretending I didn't exist! And now you want me to be your girlfriend?"

"Fake girlfriend," he corrected.

"Oh, well, that changes everything," you said, your voice dripping with sarcasm. "Fake girlfriend. Of course. How silly of me. That makes perfect sense."

"It does, actually, if you'd let me explain—"

"No. Absolutely not. This is—this is insane. You've lost your mind. Gone completely round the bend." You started pacing frantically. "You could have literally any girl in this school. Any girl! I’m sure there’s probably a waiting list even. And you want me to pretend to date you?"

"Yes."

"Why?!"

"Because you're perfect for this," he said with a shrug.

You let out a slightly hysterical laugh. "I'm what now?"

"Perfect," he repeated, and there wasn't a trace of humor in his voice now. "Think about it. You're a half-blood—"

"Oh don’t start with that blood purity crap—"

"No, I mean that it works perfectly because you're not involved in pureblood politics. You're not part of my usual social circle. You have no reason to want anything from me or my family beyond this one favor." He was ticking points off on his fingers now. "If we start dating, it'll be believable precisely because it's so unexpected."

"You think people will just believe that we're dating. You and me."

"Why not?"

"Because—" You gestured wildly between the two of you. "—because look at us! You're you, and I'm—I'm me! I spend my free time reading in corners and avoiding human interaction! You spend yours being disgustingly popular and having your pick of the female population! We have nothing in common! We don't even like each other!"

"All excellent points for why no one will suspect it's fake," he said smoothly. "If I were trying to stage a relationship, I’d pick someone more obvious. Someone from my house, someone I'm already friendly with. The fact that it's you makes it more authentic."

You stared at him, your brain struggling to process this absolute madness. "Have you been Imperisued or something? Seriously, I'm genuinely worried about you right now."

"I appreciate your concern," he said dryly. "But I assure you, I'm thinking perfectly clearly."

"Then explain it to me," you demanded, throwing your hands up in exasperation. "Because from where I'm standing, this makes about as much sense as trying to teach a troll how to read. Why on earth would you need a fake girlfriend? You're Na Jaemin! Half the school is in love with you! If you wanted a real girlfriend, you could probably just point at someone and they'd swoon into your arms!"

"That's actually part of the problem," he muttered, and was that... was that a hint of frustration in his voice?

You blinked. "What?"

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "There's a girl. Yuna. Her family and mine... they move in the same circles. Have for generations. Old pureblood families, lots of money, all that tedious rubbish."

"Okay...?"

"And lately, she's gotten it into her head that we're meant to be together. That it's our destiny to unite our families, carry on the pureblood tradition, produce the next generation of perfectly bred wizarding heirs." His voice was slightly tinged with disgust. "She won't take no for an answer."

Despite yourself, despite the absolute insanity of this entire situation, you felt a bit of sympathy. "And you don't want that."

"I'd rather wrestle a Hungarian Horntail," he said flatly. "But she's not listening. Every time I tell her I'm not interested, she just smiles and says I'm playing hard to get. That I'll come around eventually."

"That's..." You searched for the appropriate words. "That's actually kind of disturbing."

"It's extremely disturbing," he agreed. "And I can't just tell her to fuck off, because our families... it's complicated. There's business deals, social connections, generations of intertwined pureblood nonsense. If I publicly reject her, it could cause all sorts of problems."

"So you need a girlfriend," you said slowly, finally starting to understand. "A visible reason why you can't be with her."

"Exactly." He gave you a hopeful look. "Someone who won't get caught up in the drama and then can walk away clean when it's over. Someone like you."

You covered your face with your hands and sighed. "This is still insane."

"Is it though?"

"Yes! Completely, utterly, absolutely insane!" You started pacing again. "Jaemin, in case it's escaped your notice, we can barely stand each other! We've barely had a conversation longer than five minutes that didn't involve you annoying me or me wanting to hex you! How exactly do you propose we convince anyone we're madly in love?"

"We don't have to be madly in love," he said. "Just... dating. You know, just act like a regular couple, sit together at meals, go to Hogsmeade on weekends. People see us together, word gets back to Yuna, she backs off. Simple."

"Simple?” you repeated incredulously. "You think any part of this is simple?"

"More simple than the alternative." His expression turned serious. "Look, I wouldn't ask if I had any other choice. But I'm running out of options here, and you're—" He paused. "You're the only person I can trust with this."

That brought you up short. “You barely know me."

"I know enough," he said quietly. "I know you're loyal. I know you'd do anything for your friends, you proved that when you made our deal. I know you're not interested in status or popularity or any of the things most people want from me. And I know that when this is over, you'll keep your word and walk away."

The sincerity in his voice caught you off guard. This wasn't the smug, teasing Jaemin from the patrol or the cold, dismissive one from your earlier years. This was someone... genuine. Vulnerable, even.

"I think I need to sit down," you said faintly.

There was a convenient rock nearby and you sank down onto it, your head spinning.

"So just let me make sure I got it right," you said, staring out at the lake. "You want me to pretend to be your girlfriend. To protect you from an obsessive pureblood heiress who won't take no for an answer and so you won’t get trapped into a marriage of convenience.”

"That's the gist of it, yes."

"For how long?"

"A month? Maybe two at most."

"Two months?!" You whipped around to stare at him. "You want me to pretend to be your girlfriend for two months? Are you completely off your rocker?!"

“Come on, two months isn’t even that long—"

"Two months is eight weeks! Sixty days! Over a thousand hours of my life spent pretending to be in love with you!" You were nearly hyperventilating now. You shot to your feet, pacing again. 

“Again, no need to be madly in love—"

"And have you thought about the logistics of this?" You spun to face him. "Every girl in this castle is going to hate me! They already probably think we're shagging or something after your little breakfast stunt, and that was two minutes! Imagine two months of that! I'll need to go into witness protection!"

“I think that’s a bit of an overreaction.”

"Jaemin, people will actually want to murder me. There will be attempts on my life. I'll have to taste-test all my food for poison. Sleep with one eye open. Practice a good shield charm—"

"Nobody's going to try to murder you."

"You don’t know that!"

“And we wouldn't even be together the entire time," he continued as if you hadn't spoken. "Just... in public. Where people can see us. The rest of the time you can go back to pretending I don't exist."

You let out a laugh that bordered on hysteria. "Oh, well, that makes it so much better. Thank you for that generous concession."

"Are you finished panicking?" he asked mildly.

You glared at him. "No. No, I'm not finished. I'm just getting started. Do you have any idea how exhausting this sounds? How mortifying? I've spent six years perfecting the art of being invisible, and now you want me to voluntarily become the center of attention? The subject of gossip and speculation? Do you know what that will do to me?"

“Come on, it won’t be that bad.”

He seemed too casual about all this. It made you wonder if he did this sort of thing often. Not that it would be surprising, purebloods had weird customs that you could never begin to understand.

"Okay," you said slowly after a few seconds of gathering what little patience you had. "Okay. Let's say—and I'm not agreeing to anything—but let's say I did this. Don't you think people would find it a bit suspicious? Us dating out of nowhere? We've barely spoken in years. We're not friends or even friendly. People aren't stupid, Jaemin."

"We'll say we've been keeping it quiet," he said, like he'd already thought this through. "We didn’t want the attention, wanted to make sure it was real before we went public. No one will question it if we sell it right."

"And how exactly do you propose we do that?" You fixed him with a glare.

“Easy. We make it look like we can't keep our hands off each other. You know, hold hands, and that sort of thing. Make it look convincing."

“You want me to hold your hand?”

"Among other things."

"What does that even mean…?”

"Well, we'd have to play it convincingly," he said reasonably. "Couples don't just hold hands. They sit close. They touch. They..." He paused, his eyes glinting with amusement. "They kiss occasionally."

"KISS?!" The word came out as a strangled shriek. "You want me to kiss you?!"

"I mean, not right now necessarily—"

“Oh, you’re barking mad if you think I will kiss you!”

"Come on, y/n. It's just a bit of acting. Surely a clever girl like you can manage that?" His voice dropped, turning silky and persuasive.

You bristled slightly at the blatant flattery even as some traitorous part of you warmed at the compliment. "And what's in it for me? Besides the joy of being glared at by every girl in this castle and kissing your dumb face?"

"The fact that I won’t tell McGonagall about your little friend’s nocturnal escapade isn’t enough for you?” he reminded you.

You froze, shoulders tensing. "You're really going to hold me to that? For something this insane?"

"A deal's a deal. I helped you and nowI need your help."

"I don't know," you said slowly. "This is...it's a lot to ask."

"I know." He took another step closer, his eyes intent on yours. "But I'm asking anyway. I need your help, y/n. Please."

You had agreed to this. You had shaken his hand, accepted his help, promised him a favor. And now he was calling it in.

"This is blackmail," you said weakly.

"It's really not."

You stared at him, at his stupidly handsome face and his infuriating certainty, and felt the trap closing around you. You still could refuse,  tell him to shove his favor and walk away. But then he could—would—tell McGonagall about Jo. And Jo would be expelled. And it would be all your fault.

"Fuck," you groaned.

"Is that a yes then? he said. 

You truly hated everything about this.

Still, you heard yourself say, "Two months. That's it. And we need to set ground rules, boundaries. I'm not going to do anything that makes me uncomfortable."

Relief flashed across his face, there and gone so quickly you might have imagined it. "Okay, that’s fair."

"And when it's over, we go back to normal. No hard feelings. We just... end it and move on."

"Agreed." He held out a hand, his eyes never leaving yours. "So. Do we have a deal?"

You hesitated for a long moment, your heart pounding so hard you were certain he must be able to hear it. This was, without question, the most insane thing you had ever considered doing. It was reckless and impulsive and had the potential to blow up in your face in a truly spectacular fashion.

But looking up into Jaemin's eyes, seeing something that might have been hope or desperation or both, you found yourself reaching out and taking his hand anyway.

"Deal," you said, and sealed your fate for the second time in a week.

"Excellent." His smile was pure satisfaction. "I'll pick you up for breakfast tomorrow. Try to look a little pleased to see me and not like you want to murder me."

"I make no promises," you muttered.

As you walked back toward the castle, your mind whirling with the absolute insanity of what you'd just agreed to, one thought kept circling back:

Na Jaemin, Slytherin prince and general menace to your sanity, wanted you to be his fake girlfriend.

Jo was never going to believe this.

A waking nightmare—that was the only way to describe the days following the grand revelation of your supposed relationship.

It felt as though Hogwarts had contracted a plague, a virulent strain of "Y/N-and-Jaemin" fever that consumed everyone from the dungeons to the astronomy tower. No one could quite wrap their heads around the unlikely pairing of a Gryffindor nobody and the Slytherin prince, and that confusion turned into a collective obsession.

Everywhere you went, eyes followed. First-years openly gawked as you passed. Third-years whispered behind their hands, their eyes following your every move with ravenous curiosity. Even the portraits seemed more interested in your comings and goings, their painted heads swiveling to track your progress through the corridors.

Horrible as the attention was, the rumors were worse. Wild, baseless theories seemed to spawn from thin air, multiplying with the rapid, disgusting speed of Horklumps in a garden.

“They've been secretly dating since third year,” one voice hissed in the corridor, “before he was even popular, I heard.”

The theories only grew more ridiculous from there. According to a Ravenclaw, you had saved his life during a Quidditch match—or perhaps from a rogue curse. One Hufflepuff swore on her life she’d seen the two of you kissing in the Astronomy Tower a year ago. Most sinister of all were the whispers of blackmail or pranks, culminating in the one theory that nearly made you choke on your pumpkin juice: “Oh Merlin, do you think she’s pregnant?”

The attention was suffocating, oppressive, like being trapped in a greenhouse in the middle of summer with no windows and too many people pressing their faces against the glass. You couldn't breathe without someone noting it, vouldn't eat without a dozen pairs of eyes watching every bite, and couldn't so much as sneeze without someone speculating about whether Jaemin would find it endearing.

And as if the whole thing wasn’t a nightmare already, there was Jaemin himself. Whatever level of insufferable he had occupied before was nothing compared to this new persona: the devoted boyfriend that was attentive, affectionate, and clearly determined to make the charade as mortifying as humanly possible.

He'd materialize at your elbow between classes, his arrival heralded by the subtle scent of broom polish that never quite left his robes and that you were beginning to recognize with Pavlovian dread. He'd fall into step beside you with that athletic grace of his, his hand finding the small of your back with proprietary confidence.

“There you are,” he’d say, his voice carrying an affected breathlessness as if he’d been searching the entire castle rather than simply memorizing your schedule. “I was looking for you.”

“Were you,” came your flat reply, as you struggled to ignore the sudden weight of a hundred curious stares pinning you to the spot.

“Mm.” Without an ounce of hesitation, his hand would slide around your waist, hauling you firmly against his side. “Missed you in Charms. You disappeared before I could catch you.”

“I was in a rush,” you’d mutter, omitting the fact that the rush was specifically to escape him.

“I know.” His smile would be warm and intimate, a masterpiece of conviction. “Let’s walk together next time. I can’t stand being away from my princess for too long.”

A collective swoon would ripple through the nearby students at the display.

Mealtimes offered no reprieve. He'd bypass his usual spot at the Slytherin table entirely, crossing the Great Hall with long strides to slide onto the bench beside you at Gryffindor. The first time he'd done it, the entire Hall had gone silent, hundreds of heads swiveling to watch as Na Jaemin—too cool for cross-house fraternization—planted himself among the lions.

“Morning, princess,” he’d announce, his voice projecting just far enough for half the table to catch. A casual kiss to your temple followed, delivered with such affection that you nearly lost your balance on the bench.

A sharp kick from Jo connected with your shin under the table. Smile, her wide-eyed expression screamed. You’re supposed to be in love with him, remember?

Obediently, you’d attempt a smile. Though it likely looked more like a pained grimace, Jaemin seemed satisfied enough. His arm draped across your shoulders as he reached for the orange juice, acting as if this were the most natural routine in the world.

Every meal followed the same suffocating pattern. He was always there, a solid line of warmth pressed against your side. Beneath the table, his thigh would brush against yours, making you hyperaware of his every shift. Often, his hand would rest on your knee, his thumb tracing absent patterns that felt far too intimate for public consumtion. Occasionally he’d lean in, murmuring something pointless like “Pass the salt” or “Your hair looks nice today” into your ear—but to the rest of the room, it looked like he was whispering sweet nothings.

The Great Hall devoured every crumb of the spectacle.

But while the general student body watched with wide-eyed fascination, you were forced to contend with a far more dangerous audience: the inner circle.

Jaemin’s friends were not merely students; they were the closest thing Hogwarts had to a royal court. To exist within the castle walls was to know them by reputation—a collection of wealthy, beautiful purebloods who navigated the drafty corridors with the effortless entitlement of aristocrats. Yet, observing them from the safety of the Gryffindor table was entirely different from being the direct target of their scrutiny.

Giselle led the first offensive.

She didn't walk so much as glide, approaching the Gryffindor table like an elegant snake. Everything about her was designed to intimidate, from the lethal sharpness of her cheekbones to the glossy waves of hair that fell perfectly down her back. Even her uniform defied the rules; her tie was knotted into an oversized, rebellious bow that no prefect would ever have the courage to cite as a dress-code violation.

“Jaemin,” she purred, ignoring your existence entirely as she draped herself against the table. “We’ve missed you at breakfast. The Slytherin table is positively bereft without your presence.”

“I’m sure you’re all managing,” Jaemin replied, his tone conversational and mild. He didn't move his arm from its proprietary position across your shoulders.

“Barely.” Only then did her eyes slide toward you in a slow, assessing sweep that made you feel like a piece of furniture being appraised for auction. “And this must be the famous girlfriend. Y/N, was it?”

“Yes,” you managed, forced to swallow against the sudden dryness in your throat to keep your voice from cracking.

“Mm.” Her smile was sharp enough to cut glass. “How… unexpected. I don’t think we’ve ever spoken before, have we? What house are you in again?”

The question was a blatant insult, considering you were currently sitting at the Gryffindor table draped in scarlet and gold.

“Gryffindor,” you ground out through gritted teeth.

“Oh, right. Of course.” She paused to examine her dark green nails. “I always have trouble keeping track of the… quieter students. You must be one of those studious types. The ones who hide in the library all day.”

Boring. Forgettable. Beneath notice. The implication was clear. Beside you, Jo’s hand whitened as her grip tightened around her fork.

“I suppose so,” you said, choosing caution over a confrontation you weren't prepared to win.

“Cute.” Giselle’s smile widened, though it never reached her eyes. “Jaemin’s never been much for books, have you, Jaem? More of a... social creature. Though I’m sure you two have found something in common to keep things interesting.”

Beside you, Jaemin remained a statue of calm, taking a slow sip of his tea as if he were watching a particularly dull play rather than a verbal execution.

The pressure didn't let up as the days went on. A few days later, Changmin intercepted the two of you in the crowded corridor between Ancient Runes and Arithmancy. Towering and broad-shouldered, he possessed the rugged, athletic build of a seasoned Beater. He didn't need words to dominate the space; his presence alone caused younger students to scatter like leaves. When he looked at you, his smile was so predatory and sharp it made you think of a wolf finally closing in on a scent it had been tracking for miles.

"So this is her," Changmin said, his eyes traveling over you with clinical detachment. "Have to say, mate, when you said you were seeing someone, I pictured… I don't know. Someone different."

Jaemin’s voice remained light, though his eyes turned piercing. "What do you mean?"

"Just… different." A shrug followed, along with a dismissive flick of his gaze. "No offense, of course."

"Of course," you echoed through a tight jaw.

"It’s just surprising, is all." Changmin gestured vaguely with one hand. "You’ve always gone for a certain type, and she’s… well, not that."

Not pretty enough, you knew he meant.

Jaemin’s arm hooked around you, pulling you into his side. "She’s exactly my type," he countered. "Perfect, actually."

His words were meant to be reassuring but they'd just made you feel more like a prop in whatever game he was playing.

A shift in strategy occurred by the following week. The subtle snubs evolved into a coordinated siege as Changmin and Giselle began appearing together, a united front of immaculate hair, expensive robes, and thinly veiled hostility.

They seemed to materialize in every common space you frequented, armed with false smiles and poisonous pleasantries. Every interaction was a minefield; every question was a calculated probe designed to expose the fraying seams in your story.

Their interrogation didn't stop at the legitimacy of your relationship. They began taking aim at the very fabric of your life... Quite literally.

"Those robes," Giselle remarked during a chance encounter in the corridor, her eyes sweeping over your silhouette with a look of practiced pity. "Are they... vintage? They have that distinctive, worn quality. That 'hand-me-down' aesthetic."

The fabric felt suddenly heavy and scratchy against your skin. They had been your mother's, mended with care and kept clean through sheer effort, but they lacked the shimmer of new silk. Heat flooded your face, a hot prickle of shame you hated yourself for feeling.

"They're fine," you muttered, clutching your books tighter to your chest.

"Oh, I'm sure they're perfectly serviceable," she added, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. "Not everyone has the luxury of replacing their wardrobe every season, after all."

Changmin leaned across the table, his expression open and conversational, though his eyes remained predatory.

"So, what does your father do for work?" he asked, swirling the pumpkin juice in his goblet as if it were a fine vintage. "My father sits on the Wizengamot, of course. And Giselle’s family runs one of the largest potions corporations in Europe. It's always so interesting to hear what other families do."

"He works for the Ministry," you said shortly, keeping your eyes fixed on your plate.

"Oh? How prestigious. Which department? International Magical Cooperation? The Auror Office?"

"Magical Maintenance."

The silence that followed was heavy enough to suffocate. You didn't need to look up to feel the shockwave of silent communication passing between them. You could practically hear the click of the mental locks falling into place: the suppressed smirks, the shared glances, and the smug, knowing silence that broadcast exactly what they thought of your family’s status. You weren't just the 'wrong type' for Jaemin; in their eyes, you were a glitch in the social order.

"Very honest work, I’m sure," Giselle added finally, her voice carrying just enough to be heard at the neighboring tables. "Someone has to keep the toilets functioning."

Jo who'd been next to you the whole time, bolted upright, her face flushed a dangerous shade of scarlet. You moved instinctively, grabbing her arm and hauling her back into her seat before she could cause a scene.

The real ambush, however, didn't come until Friday evening.

You'd been in the library trying to calculate the magical decay of a complex curse for your Arithmancy assignment. Beside you, Jaemin had been hovering for the better part of an hour, his presence a persistent distraction.

"If you carry the nine there," he whispered, his long finger hovering over your string of equations, "doesn't the probability of a backfire increase by 12%?"

"No, Jaemin," you huffed, rubbing your temples where a dull ache was beginning to bloom. "This isn't Divination. You cannot simply guess your way through Arithmancy. Seven is a powerful magical prime, but in an inverted sequence, its weight is halved. I am trying to ensure you don't accidentally liquefy your own bones during the NEWTs."

"Right, right. Half the weight, double the trouble," he murmured. He wasn't even pretending to look at the numbers anymore; his gaze was fixed on the way you were biting your lip in concentration. "Explain the Pythagorean bridge to me again? That was very sexy."

A sharp retort about his lack of focus was halfway up your throat when the shadows fell over the table.

Giselle and Changmin. They were flanked by Sungchan, another Quidditch type you vaguely recognized, and a fourth person whose presence made the air leave your lungs in a rush.

Yuna.

She stood there, ice-blonde and perfectly beautiful. You felt Jaemin’s posture stiffen beside you. You hadn't known. He’d never mentioned she was part of his circle, that she was this close to the people he spent every waking hour with. The "fake" part of your relationship suddenly felt dangerously flimsy.

"Study date?" Giselle asked, sliding into the seat directly across from you. "I’m sorry, is that a textbook, Jaemin? I thought you used those as coasters."

Jaemin didn't look up from your parchment. "We're just working."

"It’s Friday night," Sungchan cut in, leaning heavily against a nearby bookshelf. "The guys are sneaking kegs of firewhisky into the common room as we speak. There’s a party starting in ten minutes, mate. We’ve been looking for you for an hour."

"I'm clearly busy, aren’t I?" Jaemin finally looked up, his voice hardening.

Yuna stepped forward, her dark eyes narrowing as she focused on you for the first time.

"Y/N, right?" she said, her voice a soft, melodic contrast to the tension. "What exactly have you done to him? Jaemin hasn't missed a Friday night since third year. And yet, here he is, looking at... what is that? Arithmancy?"

"It’s important for the exams," you said, your voice sounding steadier than you felt. "And he's actually quite good at it when he tries."

A snort of pure skepticism escaped Yuna. "Since when is calculating the weight of a hex more entertaining than a party?"

"Since I realized I was failing," Jaemin interjected smoothly, reaching out to lace his fingers with yours atop the table. You knew it was a calculated move, a public display for the one person who mattered. "Y/N pointed out that if I don't pass the Arithmancy boards, I won't be able to take the advanced Theo-Magic track next year. She's very persuasive when she wants to be."

"Persuasive, huh?" Giselle repeated, though her eyes flicked toward Yuna to gauge her reaction. “I can only imagine the things she can do, if she’s managed to make you skip every single party since you started dating.”

Giselle’s implication was blatant, dripping with enough tawdry subtext to make your cheeks flame. You looked at Jaemin, waiting for him to shred her with his notorious silver tongue. Instead, he remained maddeningly static. Only the slight tightening of his jaw betrayed his irritation.

“Did you know there’s actually a betting pool regarding how long youll two last?” Yuna asked, her tone conversational, as if she were discussing the Quidditch scores than your social execution. “The smart money says two weeks. That is, if the novelty doesn’t wear off by Tuesday.”

The news hit your stomach with a cold, hollow thud. “There’s a what?”

“Don’t look so scandalized.” she waved a hand, her emerald ring catching the light. “It’s nothing personal, darling. People adore a spectacle, and this is a bewildering one. Jaemin has spent years as the prize everyone was chasing, and then he suddenly chooses...”

She trailed off. Her silence was more eloquent than any insult.

"The weird girl who hides in corners," Sungchan supplied helpfully. "No offense."

"Loads taken," you snapped before you could stop yourself.

“So defensive.” Yuna chuckled cruelly.

“That’s enough,” Jaemin said. His voice lost its playful lilt, replaced by a low edge. It was the sound of a predator deciding a conversation had reached its conclusion.

“We’re just teasing, Jaem. Don’t be so sensitive.” Giselle stood, smoothing her robes. “If Y/N is going to be part of our inner circle, she’ll need a thicker skin. We aren't known for our gentleness.”

“I am dating Jaemin,” you said, your voice finally steady. “Not applying to be your friend.”

The temperature at the table dropped approximately ten degrees.

“Well,” Yuna said, her delicate features arranging themselves into an expression of theatrical, wide-eyed surprise. “It seems the little bird has claws after all."

They had successfully poked at the seams of your composure and were now departing before the scene became truly messy.

"A little parting advice, Y/N," Giselle said, pausing as she turned. "The more defensive you become, the more it appears as though you’re hiding something. And in this school, secrets are the only currency that matters."

Then they were gone. The only sound left was the rustle of their expensive robes fading into the library stacks. You sat there, shaking, while Jaemin’s fingers remained locked with yours.

“They’re foul,” you muttered, the sharp thud of your textbook echoing too loudly against the mahogany table. “Your friends are actually vipers, Jaemin.”

“I know.” His reply was flat, lacking any of the heat you were looking for. “Look, I’m sorry.”

“Are you?” You yanked your hand away from his, suddenly angry at him. “Because you just sat there like a statue. You let them say all that, and you didn't even blink.”

“And what did you want me to do? Start a row in the middle of the library?”

“Oh, I don’t know—maybe defend me!” The words burst out, earning a sharp, hawk-like “Shh!” from Madam Pince.

You leaned in, dropping your voice to a fierce whisper. “Tell them they’re being cruel. Tell them to sod off! But you just sat there looking like you were enjoying the show.”

Jaemin didn't answer right away. He leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking as he studied you with those dark, unreadable eyes.

“If I get too defensive, they’ll know something’s up,” he said eventually. “You heard Giselle, she's looking for a reaction. That’s what they’re all doing. They're looking for proof that we’re lying. The more I protest, the more suspicious they get.”

“So I’m just supposed to sit there and take it?” You felt a hot sting behind your eyes and hated yourself for it. “I have to let them slag me off and talk rubbish about my family, all to keep your precious cover story alive?”

“Just for a bit,” he insisted. “Once they’re convinced it’s real, they’ll back off. But right now, they’re testing us. They’re testing you. And if we want this to work, you have to pass.”

“I’m trying to pass the bloody test!” you hissed, your voice rising again.

“Trying, yeah.” He leaned forward, his shadow falling over your parchment. “But you’re not being very convincing, Y/N.”

Your face flushed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you always look uncomfortable.” He ran a hand through his hair, his composure finally fraying. “You look miserable, Y/N. Constantly. Like being near me is a form of torture.”

“Well, it isn’t exactly a holiday,” you shot back.

“I know this isn’t ideal,” he continued, ignoring the jab. “I know you didn't want this. But we made a deal, and if you keep acting like I’m a Dementor every time I come within a foot of you, no one is going to believe this.”

“So what? You want me to swoon? Hang off your arm like a mindless doll?”

“I want you to look like you can at least tolerate me,” he cut in, his tone sharpening. “I want you to stop flinching when I hold your hand. Lean into me instead of going rigid as a board. Smile, Y/N. A real one, not that grimace you do when people are watching.”

“That’s the best I can do.”

“Well, your best isn’t good enough.” He looked at the library door, then back at you. “Giselle asked me why you’re so tense all the time. I told her you were shy about public affection, but that excuse only works for so long.”

You stared at him, your chest tight with a cocktail of fury.

“Maybe you should’ve picked someone who actually wanted to be your girlfriend.”

“I picked you because I thought you were smart enough to pull this off, but if you can't... ” He trailed off, shaking his head. "If you can’t even manage to stay in the same room as me without looking like you’d rather be drowning in the lake, the whole thing falls apart.”

"So will you be satisfied if I start kissing the floor you walk on? " you asked bitterly.

“It’d be a start,” he said simply. “Look, I know they’re awful. But you need to try harder. Stop pulling away. Stop acting like my touch is burning you.”

“It is burning me,” you muttered. You didn't mean to say it out loud, and you immediately wished you could swallow the words back down.

Jaemin’s eyes widened slightly. “What?”

“Nothing.” You stood up abruptly, gathering your things with fumbling hands. “Forget it. I’ll try harder, alright? I’ll be more convincing. I’ll smile and lean in and act like I’m absolutely mad about you. Is that what you want?”

“Y/N, wait—”

“I’m going back to the common room.” You slung your bag over your shoulder, refusing to look at him. “I’ll see you at breakfast. I’ll be sure to put on a proper show.”

“That’s not what I—”

But you didn’t stay to hear the rest. You turned and walked away, your vision blurring slightly as you navigated between the towering bookshelves, Madam Pince's disapproving glare following you all the way to the exit.

Behind you, you heard Jaemin sigh, but he didn’t call after you.

Just as well. You needed to be anywhere but near him.

Expectations of a smooth public performance next morning were shattered the moment Jaemin actually appeared. You had braced yourself for the usual, the effortless slide onto the bench, the heavy weight of his arm claiming your space, and that charming attitude that suggested your library row had been nothing more than a minor blip.

Instead, the Jaemin who approached the table looked like he’d gone several rounds with a rogue Bludger. His tie was a shambles, hanging loose around his collar, and his hair was a chaotic nest of blonde strands as if he’d spent the early hours of the morning dragging his hands through it in frustration. He didn't sit, but lingered at the edge of the bench with a strange, jittery energy.

"Can we talk?"

The question was a mere breath under the noise of clattering plates and the morning owl post.

You looked back down at your porridge. "About what?"

"Yesterday." He sounded nervous, not the polished Pureblood prince, but a boy who was genuinely out of his depth. "Please?"

Jo delivered a sharp kick to your shin under the table. Why did she keep doing that?! You winced, the sting jolting you out of your stubborn trance. Against your better judgment, you found yourself nodding.

"Fine. Where?"

"Third floor. The corridor by the one-eyed witch statue." He checked his watch, his fingers drumming a frantic rhythm against the wood of the table. "Ten o'clock?"

"That’s oddly specific," you muttered, finally meeting his eyes.

"Just—trust me on this. Please?"

There was that word again. Please. It was a far cry from the boy who had told you your best wasn't good enough yesterday. And because you were apparently a glutton for punishment, you felt your resolve crumble.

"Ten o'clock," you agreed.

He didn't offer a smirk or a wink for the benefit of the watching Great Hall. He simply gave a tight nod and sat down, keeping a conspicuous gap between your shoulder and his.

Stone walls and guttering torches made the third floor just as drab as the rest of the castle. A few portraits dozed in their frames, and the statue of the one-eyed witch stood sentinel at the far end, her painted eyes seeming to follow your every move with an almost unsettling intensity.

Five minutes of waiting had already passed, which was roughly four minutes and fifty seconds longer than it took to start feeling like a total idiot.

Just as the urge to bolt back to the safety of the common room became overwhelming, the rhythmic scuff of boots echoed against the flagstones. Jaemin rounded the corner, his usual swagger replaced by a stiff gait. You drew a breath, ready to tell him exactly where he could shove this clandestine little meeting, but he hoisted a hand to silence you.

"Before you lay into me," he started, coming to a halt just out of arm’s reach, "I want to apologize. Properly. For yesterday."

The anger you’d been carefully stoking for the last twelve hours flickered and died, leaving you feeling strangely hollow. "Oh."

"I was frustrated, and I took it out on you. It wasn't fair, and it wasn't right." He dragged a hand through his hair, a sign of genuine nerves that made him more like a tired teenager. "You’re right. This situation is mental. My friends are absolute vultures, and I’ve been asking you to stand in the middle of the pack without giving you a single bit of support."

"I mean... yeah." You leaned against the cold stone wall, trying to hide how much that small bit of validation actually mattered. "That has been the arrangement so far, hasn't it?"

"Well, it’s a rubbish arrangement." He stepped into your personal space, his eyes searching yours with an earnestness that felt far too real. "I want to make this bearable for you. But for that to happen, I think we need to... practice."

"Practice?"

"At being comfortable," he explained, as if he were simply suggesting a bit of extra Quidditch drills. "You said my touching burns. Not literally, I hope, but—" He gestured between the two of you. "There’s this tension. This massive wall between us. People can see it, Y/N. It’s written all over you."

"Right. So your grand plan is..."

"Exposure therapy," he said. "We need to get accustomed to one another. And we need to do it without an audience watching your every flinch."

A snort almost escaped you as you processed the sheer absurdity of the suggestion. It felt like a scene ripped straight from one of those tawdry novels Jo kept hidden in her trunk, the ones with titles like The Warlock’s Wicked Whim.

But beneath the embarrassment sat a cold, hard logic you couldn't ignore. Every time his skin brushed yours, your heart panicked. You went rigid, your breath hitched, and your pulse became a frantic drumbeat in your ears. If you could feel that visceral wrongness vibrating through your bones, then vipers like Giselle and Yuna could definitely tell too.

"And you want to do this here?" A wary glance down the drafty corridor followed, half-expecting a gaggle of students to peek around the corner, eager for a glimpse of the castle's most talked-about couple. "What if someone comes by?"

"They won't." Jaemin started walking again, gesturing for you to follow. "That’s the whole point of meeting on this floor."

Confusion was about to mount into another argument when he came to a sudden halt in front of a completely unremarkable stretch of stone wall. Without a word, he began to pace. Back and forth, back and forth, his brow furrowed in a look of intense concentration.

For a moment, you just watched him, convinced that he'd finally cracked under the pressure and that this whole fake relationship scheme had driven him round the bend. You were seconds away from suggesting a firm dose of Calming Draught from Madam Pomfrey when the masonry began to ripple.

Solid stone blurred and shimmered like the surface of the Black Lake under a midday sun. Then, with a low, tectonic grind, an ornate wooden door bled into existence.

Your mouth fell open. You'd heard of this, of course. Read about it in 'Hogwarts: A History'. But reading about something and seeing it happen right in front of your eyes were two very different things.

"The Room of Requirement," you breathed, awe temporarily overriding your general state of irritation.

"The Room of Requirement," Jaemin confirmed, and there was a note of satisfaction in his voice. "I figured if we're going to do this, we should do it somewhere we won't be interrupted."

"Unless you don't want to?" he asked, and there was a carefulness to the question, an unspoken offer of an out. "I know this is... I know it's a lot to ask. But I really think it'll help. I do."

You stared at the door, your mind whirling. This was insane. Completely, utterly, certifiably insane. Practicing feeling comfortable with Na Jaemin in a magical room that appeared out of thin air? This was your life now? This was what your Hogwarts experience had come to?

But what was the alternative? Continue on as you had been, flinching and grimacing your way through this charade until even the most gullible Hufflepuff could see right through you? Let Jaemin's awful friends pick and prod at you until you broke?

No. No, as much as it pained you to admit it, Jaemin was right. If you were going to make it through this with your dignity remotely intact, you had to stop being the weak link. You needed to become a better liar. 

And if that meant subjecting yourself to Merlin knows what kind of 'practice' in a secret magic room... well. So be it.

“I swear if this is some kind of prank…”

"It's not." He pushed open the door, warm, inviting light spilling out into the corridor. "I promise."

The moment you crossed the threshold, you felt a strange sensation wash over you. Like stepping into a warm bath after a long, cold day. The room was...not at all what you expected. It was smaller, cozier. There was a plush sofa against one wall, a few cushy armchairs arranged around a low coffee table. The lighting was soft, emanating from no discernible source, and the air smelled faintly of vanilla and old books. It felt safe, somehow. Comforting. Which only served to put you more on edge.

"So," you said, crossing your arms over your chest as the door swung shut behind you with a soft, final-sounding click. "You brought me here to practice. Practice what, exactly?"

Jaemin had the grace to look slightly abashed. "Intimacy."

"I'm sorry, what?”

"Not—not like that," he said quickly, and was that a hint of a flush on his cheeks? Surely not. Na Jaemin didn't get flustered. It must be a trick of the light. "I mean... being close.. and comfortable enough to casually touch each other. You know, the things couples do in public that you keep shying away from."

"You make it sound so simple," you muttered, feeling a blush rise to your own cheeks despite your best efforts. 

"It’s not that big of a deal." He gestured to the sofa. "Look, we're going to have to spend the next two months being physically affectionate in front of the entire school. And right now, every time I so much as brush against you, you look like you'd rather be facing a herd of centaurs. So we need to practice. To make it feel normal."

Normal. What a ludicrous concept. There was nothing normal about this. But you bit back the sharp retort on the tip of your tongue. You’d agreed to this madness, and backing out now would only make you look more pathetic.

"Right. So you want me to get used to you pawing at me."

"I do not paw—" He cut himself off, taking a visible breath to steady himself. "I want you to get used to me touching you in a completely respectful, non-pawing way.

You stared at him and he stared back. You could practically hear the seconds ticking by, feel the weight of the impasse settling over the room.

"Fine," you said at last, the word feeling like it was being dragged out of you with fish hooks. "Fine. What do you want me to do?"

His shoulders relaxed, the tension in his jaw easing just a fraction. "Just… come sit with me. We'll start slow."

He settled onto the sofa and patted the cushion beside him. You approached warily, lowering yourself onto the opposite end and putting as much distance between your bodies as physically possible. Jaemin looked at the three-foot chasm of empty space and raised an eyebrow.

"You're going to have to get closer than that."

"This is close."

"You’re barely sitting on the couch."

"Baby steps," you muttered.

"We don't have time for baby steps." But his voice was gentle, coaxing. "Come on. I don't bite."

That remains to be seen, you thought. But despite every instinct screaming at you to run, you scooted closer. Then a bit closer still. You stopped in the middle of the sofa, a foot of space still separating you, but closer than you'd ever voluntarily been to him outside of your mandated public displays.

"Better," Jaemin said, and the soft, approving lilt in his voice sent a traitorous flutter through your stomach. "Now, I'm going to put my arm around you. Like I do at meals. And I want you to try not to tense up. Okay?"

You nodded, not trusting your voice not to shake.

Slowly, broadcasting his movements like he was approaching a skittish animal, he lifted his arm, draping it across the back of the sofa. His hand came to rest on your shoulder, the weight of it startling in its warmth, its solidity.

Instantly, you felt your entire body go rigid, your muscles locking up like you'd been hit with a full body bind curse. Every nerve ending was suddenly alight, hyper-aware of the exact dimensions of his palm, the precise pressure of each individual finger.

"You’re doing it again," he murmured. His voice was much closer than you’d expected. "Tensing up."

"I know," you gritted out. "I’m trying."

"Here." His other hand hovered just shy of your arm, hesitant. "Just breathe. Focus on that."

Breathe. Right. You could manage that.

You sucked in a breath, held it for a count of three, and forced it out. You repeated the cycle until the iron bands of your muscles began to slacken, slowly adjusting to the foreign sensation of him.

"Good," Jaemin whispered. "See? Not so terrible."

"It’s weird," you countered. It was unsettling and entirely too much. "You’re weird. This whole thing is mental."

"Noted." There was a definite streak of amusement in his tone now. "But you aren't flinching. That’s progress."

He was right. The initial shock of the contact was fading, replaced by a strange sort of...not comfort, exactly. Awareness, maybe. You were intensely conscious of the weight of his arm, the warmth of his body seeping into yours, the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathed next to you.

The feeling wasn't the searing, blistering heat you'd stupidly mentioned yesterday in a moment of unthinking frustration. But it was a lot. Intimate in a way you weren't at all prepared for, in a way that made your heart thud traitorously against your rib cage.

"Okay," Jaemin said after the silence had stretched out just long enough to teeter on the edge of uncomfortable. "Next step. I'm going to pull you a bit closer. Like I do when we're walking to class."

"Do you really need to narrate every little thing?" You couldn't help the note of exasperation that crept into your voice.

"I'm trying not to spook you."

"I'm not a skittish woodland creature."

"Could've fooled me," he muttered, but there was no real bite to it.

Before you could formulate a properly scathing response, he drew you firmly into his side. Your instinct was to lock up again, but you fought it. This close, the scent of him was overwhelming—clean linen, and a subtle hint of broomstick polish.

It was disorienting. Overwhelming. But...not entirely unpleasant, if you were being honest with yourself. Which you absolutely were not going to be, because that way lay madness.

"Are you okay?" Jaemin asked, and his voice lacked his usual arrogance, sounding instead like he was actually concerned about your boundaries.

For a dizzying second, you wondered if there was more to him than the unflappable, silver-tongued Slytherin. Was this just as strange and unsettling for him? You pushed the thought away immediately. Thinking of Jaemin as a real person with real nerves was a one-way trip to jagged rocks and shark-infested waters. He was a means to an end. A necessary evil.

"It's fine," you said, and if your voice came out a little breathier than usual, a little less steady, well. That was nobody's business but your own. “Not terrible, I suppose."

"High praise, coming from you," he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice, could practically feel the curve of his lips where they brushed against your hair. 

You chose to ignore that, focusing instead on keeping your breathing steady and your heartbeat under control.

Time passed, seconds or minutes or hours, you couldn't quite tell. The room had narrowed down to the weight of Jaemin's arm around you, the heat of his body pressed against yours, the soft sounds of your breathing intermingling in the quiet room.

The whole thing was almost peaceful, provided you let yourself forget exactly who he was and why you were here.

“How much longer do we have to do this?” you asked eventually, when the silence and the sensation started to feel like too much.

Jaemin shrugged, the movement jostling you slightly. “Until it feels normal, I guess. Or at least not horribly awkward.”

You let out a long sigh. “We’re going to be here a while, then.”

He laughed, the sound warm and resonant in the small room. “Probably. But look on the bright side—at least the couch is comfortable, right?”

You made a noncommittal noise, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of an agreement.

“Just think,” he continued, a teasing lilt returning to his voice, “a few more of these sessions and we’ll be the most convincing couple Hogwarts has ever seen. We’ll put the real ones to shame.”

“Be still my beating heart,” you deadpanned. “What a glittering future.”

“We’ll practice the basics for now. Then we’ll work our way up.”

“Work our way up to what, exactly?” You regretted the question the moment it left your lips. His arm tightened slightly, and his voice took on a silkier quality.

“Well,” he said, “eventually, we’re going to have to practice kissing.”

You practically launched yourself off the cushions at that. You scrambled to the very edge of the sofa, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. The distance between you was back to a yawning three feet in a matter of seconds.

He’d mentioned kissing when he proposed this mad arrangement in the first place but you genuinely thought he’d been trying to ruffle you. The prospect of actually kissing Na Jaemin was so far outside your comfort zone it felt like another planet.

“Absolutely not!” you gasped, your eyes wide with genuine alarm. “Not happening. Not in this lifetime.”

Jaemin stared at you, his arm still draped over the empty space where your shoulder had been a moment ago. He looked startled by your sudden flight, but it only took a second for that lazy amusement to crawl back onto his face.

“It’s going to come up, Y/N,” he said, dropping his arm and leaning back comfortably, as if he hadn't just suggested something world-ending. “Couples kiss. Especially 'new' couples who are supposedly mad about each other. If the first time I kiss you is in front of the entire Great Hall and you look like you’re about to be sick, the game is up.”

“I get it,” you snapped, your face feeling like it was being held over a Bunsen burner. “I get it. But we’re not—I mean, we don’t need to do that. It’s way too much.”

“We don’t have to do it today,” he agreed, his voice surprisingly gentle as he watched you vibrate with nerves at the end of the sofa. “We’ll work up to it slowly. Baby steps, remember?”

“I hate this,” you mumbled, slowly sinking back into the upholstery, though you stayed firmly out of arm's reach.

“I know,” he said, his eyes tracking you with a look that was far too observant for your liking. “But you’re getting much better at pretending you don't.”

The witching hour, that eerie stretch of night when all respectable souls should be tucked safely in their beds, found you instead padding down the darkened corridors of Hogwarts, your dressing gown pulled tight around you and your wand tip illuminating the way. 

It was a terrible idea, really, wandering the castle at this hour. You were a prefect, for Merlin's sake. You knew the rules better than most. Out of bed after curfew, risking detention or worse, all for what? A craving for something sweet that couldn't wait until the civilized hours of morning?

But sleep had proven elusive, your mind refusing to quiet, insisting instead on replaying the events of the past week in excruciatingly vivid detail. The practice sessions with Jaemin in the Room of Requirement featured most prominently, of course. The steadily shrinking distance between your bodies, the way his touch was beginning to feel almost... familiar.

You were making progress. Which was precisely the problem.

So now, at an absolutely unreasonable hour, you found yourself seeking solace in the kitchens. If you were going to be awake anyway, you might as well have a biscuit to keep you company.

You reached the portrait of the fruit bowl, tucked away in a corridor no one ever noticed, and tickled the pear. It squirmed and giggled, as it always did, before transforming into a door handle.

The kitchens were a welcome oasis of warmth, the vaulted ceilings echoing with the industrious sounds of house-elves going about their nightly duties—kneading dough for the morning's bread, organizing the pantry, scrubbing the massive cauldrons until they shone. They looked up as you entered, surprise evident on their wrinkled little faces.

"Miss!" squeaked a particularly diminutive elf, hurrying over to you, her tea towel toga flapping about her knees. "Miss should be in bed! Is Miss hungry? Was something not to Miss's liking at dinner?"

"No, no," you assured her quickly, crouching down to her level with a smile. "Dinner was wonderful, as always. I just couldn't sleep and thought a little something sweet might help."

The elf's large eyes widened further, a delighted smile stretching her mouth. "Oh yes, yes! Dipsy can help! We has treacle tart left over from dinner, and chocolate biscuits, and Dipsy can bring fresh cream for Miss's tea—"

"Just a biscuit or two would be lovely," you said. "And maybe a bit of that apple tart, if there's any left? I don't want to make extra work for you."

"Is no work at all!" Dipsy insisted, already scurrying off toward the enormous cooling racks that lined one wall. "Is Dipsy's pleasure to serve! Miss sit, sit! Dipsy will bring tea!"

And so you found yourself perched on a stool at one of the long preparation tables, watching with a mix of amusement and awe as Dipsy and two other elves fluttered about, assembling a plate of biscuits and tart and a pot of fragrant, steaming tea.

"Thank you," you said sincerely as they presented you with your midnight feast. "This is exactly what I needed."

Dipsy beamed, her bat-like ears quivering with pleasure. "Miss is always so kind, so polite! Not like some students, so rude and demanding they is. But Miss is a good student, yes she is!"

You felt a pang at that, remembering all the times you'd seen your classmates treating the house-elves like mere servants. "You work so hard," you told her. "The least I can do is be polite."

The ancient elf in the tea towel toga shuffled up then, setting a small pot of jam next to your plate. "Special raspberry preserves," he croaked. "Made 'em myself. Good for what ails you, they is."

"That's very kind, thank you," you said, touched by the gesture.

You passed the next quarter hour in the warm bustle of the kitchens, savoring your illicit snack while the elves worked around you, peppering you with questions—did you need anything else, what did you think of the new recipe they'd tried at lunch, would you like to take some extra tarts back to your dormitory? It was soothing, the cheerful chatter and clatter, so different from the brooding silence of your room.

By the time you'd drained your teacup and consumed a frankly inadvisable number of biscuits, you were feeling considerably more yourself.

"Thank you," you said again as you rose to leave. "I feel much better."

"Miss is welcome anytime!" Dipsy assured you earnestly. "Dipsy is always here if Miss needs a little pick-me-up!"

You left with a smile and a promise to visit again, slipping back out into the dark and drafty corridor.

It was deserted, as you'd expected. Or so you thought, until a voice emerged from the shadows some twenty feet ahead, stopping you in your tracks.

"Out for a midnight stroll?"

You nearly leapt out of your skin, your wand raised defensively before you'd even fully registered the words. But then a familiar figure stepped into a pool of torchlight, and your racing heart stuttered for an entirely different reason.

Jaemin. Even in the middle of the bloody night, he managed to look put together, his school robes immaculate and his prefect badge gleaming. His hands were tucked casually in his pockets, and there was a glint in his eye that might have been amusement.

"Merlin's beard, Jaemin," you hissed, lowering your wand. "Are you trying to get hexed? You can't just lurk in the dark like some sort of—villain!"

"I'm not lurking, I'm patrolling," he countered. "It's my job to accost students out of bed after hours. Which, need I remind you, you currently are."

"I’m a prefect too," you shot back, though you were painfully aware that your current attire—dressing gown, fluffy slippers, and basically a bird's next on your head—didn’t exactly command authority.

"A prefect who's very much off duty," Jaemin pointed out, his eyes sweeping over you in a way that made you acutely conscious of your bare legs and messy hair. "And wandering the castle at two in the morning, no less."

You crossed your arms, trying to salvage some shred of dignity. "I couldn't sleep. Not that it's any of your business, but if you must know, I was hungry. I went to the kitchens."

"The kitchens," he repeated slowly.

"Yes, the kitchens. You're familiar with the concept, I assume? Big room, lots of elves, food comes from there?"

Jaemin, looking awfully like he was trying not to smile, said again, "You went to the kitchens. At two a.m. In your dressing gown."

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt a little. "Yes, that's what I just said. Is there an echo here I'm not aware of?"

"Y/n y/l/n, prefect and notorious rule-follower, snuck out of bed and all the way down to the kitchens in the dead of night...for a biscuit?"

"What, like you've never had a late-night snack craving?"

"No, I can't say I have." He was definitely fighting a smile now. "I'm just surprised. I didn't take you for the type."

"Yes, well, there's a lot you don't know about me," you muttered, brushing past him to continue your trek back to Gryffindor tower. To your great chagrin, Jaemin fell into step beside you, long legs eating up the distance effortlessly.

"And here I was thinking I had you all figured out... Now I come to find you have a dark side. Late-night wanderings, clandestine trips to the kitchen...so scandalous. Merlin only knows what other secrets you're hiding behind that prim prefect exterior."

"Oh, yes," you agreed dryly. "I'm a woman of endless mysteries. Careful, Na, or I'll file you away in my mental 'too curious for his own good' cabinet with all my other deep, dark secrets."

It was possibly the most ridiculous thing you'd ever said, made all the more absurd by the fact that you were padding through the halls in slippers, being relentlessly followed by the boy you were supposed to be pretending to date. Who was going to write your biography one day? They'd have a field day with this.

"So why are you lurking about in the dark, anyway?" you asked, feeling the need to shift focus away from your own nocturnal misadventures. "Isn't this usually when you abscond to the grounds to catch hapless rule-breakers?"

"Wasn't in the mood," Jaemin said with a shrug. "Thought I'd switch it up tonight. Catch hapless biscuit thieves instead."

You shot him a withering look. "I'm not a thief. The elves gave me those biscuits fair and square. And anyway, you're one to talk about avoiding the grounds. What, did our last excursion awaken a sudden fear of the dark?"

"Hardly." A pause. "Just wasn't the same without my favorite patrol partner, I suppose."

Your steps faltered a bit at that, and you hoped desperately that the darkness was enough to hide the flush you could feel creeping up your neck. Favorite patrol partner. He had to be mocking you. Nevermind that he'd said it almost...softly. Sincerely, even. A trick of the acoustics in this drafty old castle, no doubt.

“I’m flattered,” you managed, arranging your face into an expression of arch disdain. "Though I think we both know I'm likely the only patrol partner you’ve terrorized on the grounds. Bit of a low bar, as far as favoritism goes."

“I'm grading on a curve," Jaemin said with a smirk. "Bumping you to the head of a class of one."

"How magnanimous of you."

"I'm choosing to take that as a compliment."

A slow shake of the head was the only response you could muster. Between the amusement and the sheer exasperation, it was hard to keep track of your own feelings. This boy. This ridiculous, irritating, unfairly handsome boy. How had your life come to revolve around verbally sparring with him in darkened hallways in the middle of the night?

You'd reached the stairs leading up toward Gryffindor Tower, and you paused at the base, turning to face Jaemin. He was looking at you intently, as if he wanted to say something.

"You've been better this week," he said abruptly.

You blinked, caught off guard by the change in topic. "What?"

"At pretending," he clarified. "You don't flinch anymore when I touch you. That thing you did yesterday, with your hand on my chest when you were laughing at Jo's joke - that was good. Natural."

Heat crept up your neck at the memory. You'd surprised yourself with that gesture, the easy intimacy of it. It had just...happened. No thought, no awkwardness. For a moment, it had felt real.

"Oh," you said eloquently. "Um. Thanks?"

Jaemin nodded. "I can tell the practice is helping. People are buying it. Even Giselle's backed off a bit."

"Only a bit," you muttered. Jaemin's prickly best friend had been keeping a hawkish eye on you. She'd cornered you just yesterday, demanding to know Jaemin's favorite Quidditch team. You'd guessed the Falmouth Falcons, only to be informed with a triumphant sneer that he was actually a die-hard Montrose Magpies supporter, had been since childhood, and really, what kind of girlfriend doesn't know that?

"She's protective," Jaemin said, as if reading your thoughts. "But she's coming around. Slowly."

"Hooray for small mercies," you said dryly.

Jaemin's lips twitched. "Anyway, I didn't just track you down to compliment your acting skills."

"So why did you track me down, then?" You folded your arms, trying to ignore the way your pulse had picked up at his words. "Other than to save me from death by biscuit overindulgence, of course."

"Next weekend is a Hogsmeade weekend," he said.

You nodded slowly. "I'm aware."

"It's also Valentine's Day."

"Oh." You blinked. "Right." Somehow, in the midst of all the fake dating drama and NEWTs prep, you'd completely forgotten about the most romantic day of the year. "That's...a thing."

"A thing we should probably do together," Jaemin said. "I mean, it would look weird if we didn't, wouldn't it? The whole school will be there, all the couples will be out in force..."

Suddenly your hands felt clammy. He was right, of course. If you were really dating, you'd be all over each other on Valentine's Day. Holding hands, sharing butterbeer, probably snogging in some corner of Madam Puddifoot's like every other disgustingly happy couple.

But you weren't really dating. And the thought of upping the ante on this charade you were already barely keeping up with...it made you feel a bit sick.

Jaemin must have seen some of this on your face, because he quickly added, "We don't have to make a big deal of it. Just walk around together, maybe get lunch at the Three Broomsticks. I could buy you some chocolate from Honeydukes, let people see me being a good boyfriend. That's all."

"Right," you said faintly. "Sounds...great."

He studied you for a moment. "I mean, if you had other plans, or if you think it's too much—"

"No," you said, more firmly than you felt. "No, you're right. We should go together. For appearances' sake, if nothing else."

His eyes flickered at your words, a brief shadow passing over them before he straightened up. "Great," he said briskly. "It's a date then."

You took a step back, suddenly desperate for the safety of your dormitory. "I should go. It’s late."

Jaemin nodded. "Get some rest, Y/N. I’ll see you in Potions."

"Can't wait." You started up the stairs, but paused at the landing to look back. "Goodnight, Jaemin."

"Goodnight." He waited a beat, his voice dropping to a low, melodic murmur. "Sweet dreams, baby."

You huffed a laugh to hide your skyrocketing pulse and hurried up the stairs, feeling his gaze on your back until you turned the corner.

Valentine’s Day with Jaemin. It was just another scene in the play. You could handle it.

Right?

But as you climbed the stairs to your bed, you had the sinking feeling that 'sweet' dreams were the last thing you were going to get.

The Hogsmeade trip came around quicker than expected. It had barely stopped raining for weeks, but on Saturday the sun was a weak golden disk behind a scrim of clouds, and every student with even a shred of romantic aspiration was queued up to be let out the gates, Gryffindor and Slytherin and the rest all jostling close, careful to keep up appearances for whatever audience they believed themselves to have. 

You, on the other hand, spent the first half of the walk pretending that the clumps of snow along the path were of great zoological interest, then the next half pretending you couldn’t feel Jaemin’s hand cradling your elbow, like you were some frail Victorian damsel and the uneven ground posed a mortal peril.

 “This is a bit much, isn’t it?” you muttered, as you reached the crest of the hill and saw the town below. 

Every shop window had been transformed into a shrine for Valentine’s Day: Sugar quaffles in the shape of anatomically correct hearts, boxes of chocolates spelled to whisper eternal devotion when opened, bargain bouquets of roses that swatted at you if you tried to walk by without paying them a compliment. Even the cobblestone streets seemed to have been scrubbed up for the occasion, each puddle reflecting a film of pink and red banners strung overhead.

Jaemin grinned at your side, unbothered by the spectacle. “You’re nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” you insisted, though you eyed the brightly colored display tray warily. “I just don’t want to accidentally eat one of those chocolates that makes you recite poetry. Last time Jo had one, she spoke in haikus for three hours. It was a nightmare.”

“That sounds amazing, actually,” Jaemin said, a devilish glint in his eye. He veered off the main path, his long coat swishing around his ankles as he approached the sugar-dusted worker hawking the tray. “Let’s see if we get Lord Byron or... Byron-but-make-it-sexy.”

“Those are the same thing, Jaemin.”

He snagged two samples before you could protest, pressing a heart-shaped truffle into your gloved palm. The chocolate was dark, dusted with shimmering pink edible glitter. “Go on. What’s the worst that could happen? A little rhyming couplet never killed anyone.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smell of rich cocoa was overpowering your common sense. You took a tentative bite.

The chocolate was velvety, melting instantly over your tongue with notes of dark cherry and espresso. For a second, you thought you were safe. Then, a strange warmth bloomed in your diaphragm. It wasn't the heat of the candy, but more like a physical compulsion, like a marionette string tugging at your vocal cords.

Your lips parted against your will. You tried to say ‘It’s good,’ but your voice, suddenly projecting with a nasal, theatrical vibrato that echoed off the cobblestones, intoned:

“Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove!”

Jaemin doubled over, nearly dropping his own sweet, his laughter bright and loud in the crisp air. “Oh, brilliant! Shakespeare it is! Give it some more feeling, come on!”

“Shut up!” you tried to hiss, but the magic ignored your intent completely. Instead, you threw a dramatic hand over your heart, your eyes fluttering shut as you bellowed, “O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark that looks on tempests and is never shaken!”

You slapped a hand over your mouth, mortified, as a group of Ravenclaws walked by, giggling. The spell finally sputtered out, leaving you breathless and flushed.

“I hate you,” you mumbled into your palm, though the lingering taste of cherry was admittedly delicious. You looked up at him, realizing something didn’t add up. “Wait. How do you even know that was Shakespeare? Or who Lord Byron is?”

Jaemin finally straightened up, wiping a tear of mirth from the corner of his eye. He popped his own truffle into his mouth, looking entirely unbothered.

“We have a library at the Manor that rivals the one at Hogwarts,” he said casually, chewing with a thoughtful expression. “My parents… well, they’re traditionalists, obviously. But my mother has always insisted that a true wizarding education is incomplete without understanding the ‘arts of the common man.’”

He swallowed, and for a second, his eyes went wide. You braced yourself for a poem, but he just cleared his throat and smirked. A dud candy. Typical luck.

“She thinks Muggles are tragically fascinating,” he continued, offering you his arm. “She insisted I read the classics. ‘If you are to rule the world, son, or simply live in it, you must understand how the other half feels.’ Or something like that.”

You stared at him in slight awe. You had never really considered that wizards from old, sacred twenty-eight families cared much about the Muggle world, other than to look down on it. As a half-blood who spent most of your childhood navigating the regular world and reading paperbacks, you assumed Jaemin’s world was entirely insulated.

“I’m just glad they’re using good material this year,” he finished, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. “Sonnet 116? ‘It is the star to every wandering bark’? Very romantic choice, Y/N. Is there something you’re trying to tell me?”

You tried to glare at him, to maintain your annoyance at being made a public spectacle, but his smile was so wide, so full of genuine delight, that your irritation evaporated like breath on glass.

“I’m telling you that you’re paying for these sweets,” you said, linking your arm through his.

“Fair enough,” he hummed. “Where to next?

Before you could answer, a shrill voice cut through the chatter of the crowd. "Jaemin! Yoo-hoo, over here!"

You turned to see Yuna Bae waving at you from the doorway of Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop. She was resplendent in robes of pale pink, her dark hair arranged in perfect curls. Beside her, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else, was a Ravenclaw you recognized from your Charms class. Taehyun, you thought his name was.

Jaemin's grip on your arm tightened imperceptibly. "Yuna," he said, his smile never wavering. "Fancy seeing you here."

"Oh, you know me," Yuna trilled, her eyes raking over you dismissively. "I never miss a Hogsmeade weekend. Taehyun was just treating me to tea. Why don't you join us? I'm sure we could squeeze you in."

The way she said that made it clear she was referring solely to Jaemin. You might as well have been a Flobberworm for all the attention she gave you.

“Y/N and I were just heading to Tomes and Scrolls. She’s been telling me about the new research into the Goblin Wars that just arrived and you know I can never resist a good history tome.”

Well, that was a blatant lie. You’d mentioned the book in passing a week ago, but Jaemin would rather drink Bubotuber pus than read a dry history text. Still, you appreciated the save. Yuna’s smile dimmed a fraction, her eyes flicking to the modest storefront of the bookstore as if it were a contagious ward at St. Mungo’s.

“Is this what you’re prioritizing now, Jaemin? This… little excursion into the mundane?”

Her eyes raked over your clothes down to your scuffed shoes. “I’m simply fascinated, Jawm. Your family has spent generations cultivating a certain standard, and you're playing the role of the benevolent saint. Taking pity on the less fortunate is a fine hobby, but surely you’re bored of the charity work by now?”

You felt your heart drop to your stomach. You started to speak, but Jaemin’s voice cut through first.

“Yuna.” The word was a warning, low and dangerous. “Watch yourself.”

“I’m being perfectly transparent,” she snapped, her feline eyes flashing. “It’s embarrassing, Jaemin. People are laughing. They’re wondering how long this little ‘experiment’ has to last before you regain your senses and return to your own kind. You’re a Na. Act like it.”

“I am a Na,” Jaemin said flatly, his arm sliding from your elbow to wrap firmly around your waist, pulling you flush against his side. “And Y/N is my girlfriend. She isn't an experiment, and she isn't someone you get to talk down to. If you can’t show her the respect she’s earned, then you and I have nothing left to discuss.”

Yuna’s jaw tightened, her composure finally cracking into a mask of pure venom. “Earned? She’s a nameless Gryffindor with nothing to her name but a few decent marks and a tragic wardrobe. Don’t think for a second this won't reach your father, Jaemin. He won't be as ‘charmed’ by your rebellion as you are.”

“Send the owl tonight if you like,” Jaemin countered, his voice steady. “Tell him I’m busy.”

Yuna’s eyes flicked to you one last time. “Enjoy your biscuits while you can, darling. The higher you climb, the harder the fall.”

You simply smiled, though your chest was tight with fury.

"Oh, I’ll keep that in mind. Do enjoy your tea, Yuna. I hear the service is wonderfully… swift today.”

As she turned on her heel to sweep into the tea shop, you kept your hands tucked inside your coat pockets, your fingers curling around the smooth wood of your wand. With a sharp, silent flick of your wrist and a jagged thought of Ventus, you sent a precise jinx whistling through the air.

The effect was instantaneous.

Just as Yuna reached for the heavy brass handle of the shop door, an invisible, violent gust of wind caught the hem of her pristine pink robes. They billowed up like a startled peacock’s tail, tangling around her head and blinding her just as she stepped forward.

Thwack.

She walked straight into the doorframe with a dull thud. Her scream of outrage was muffled by her own silk skirts, and as she scrambled to untangle herself, her designer boots skidded on a patch of black ice you’d surreptitiously greased with a bit of Glacius. She performed a frantic, uncoordinated flailing dance that sent her expensive handbag flying into a nearby slush pile.

Taehyun made a strangled noise that was either a cough or a repressed sob of laughter.

Jaemin stood perfectly still beside you, watching as a disheveled Yuna finally managed to shove her way inside the shop, her perfect curls now looking like a bird's nest and her dignity in tatters. He slowly turned his head to look at you, his eyes wide delight.

"Did you just…?"

"The wind in the Highlands is so unpredictable this time of year," you said, keeping your gaze fixed on the shop window as Yuna frantically tried to wipe slush off her bag. "It’s a real hazard for those who aren't used to the climate."

"You're terrifying," Jaemin whispered, a grin breaking across his face. Absolutely terrifying. I love it."

"I told you," you said, finally meeting his gaze with a defiant spark in your eyes. "I'm a woman of endless mysteries. And I really, really hate being called a charity case."

"Fair point," he laughed, steering you away before she could recover enough to look back. "Come on, Shakespeare. Let's check out the books."

Tomes and Scrolls was blessedly quiet, the heavy wooden door acting as a silencer against the bustle of the High Street. You inhaled deeply, loving the smell of aged parchment, beeswax, and the faint, ozone-like spark of old magic trapped in ink. This was your happy place.

You moved instinctively toward the back, trailing your fingers along the spines. Some books hummed under your touch; others, like the Compendium of Common Curses, seemed to shy away.

“There,” you whispered, spotting a thick, midnight-blue spine with silver embossing The Iron Quill: Unfiltered Testimonies of the 1612 Rebellions.

You pulled it from the shelf, cradling it like it was made of glass. “I’ve been waiting for this for months, Jaemin. It’s based on the personal journals of Ug the Unreliable that were found in a sealed vault in Gringotts last summer.”

You opened it to a random page, your eyes lighting up. “Look at the diagrams! Everyone thinks the rebellion started because of the wand-ban, but these letters suggest a secret trade embargo on silver-threaded lace. It could completely rewrite the seventh-year curriculum. If the economic tension preceded the legislative one, it changes the entire motive of the Goblin liaisons!”

You turned a page, your voice gaining speed and volume as the academic thrill took over. “And look at the footnotes! There’s a cross-reference to The Tales of Beedle the Bard that suggests the ‘Warlock’s Hairy Heart’ was actually a coded political allegory for the Minister of Magic at the time. It’s brilliant. It’s... it's...”

You broke off, suddenly aware of the silence. Jaemin wasn't looking at the book. He was leaning against the mahogany shelf, watching you with with interest.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, the heat rushing to your cheeks. You started to close the book. “I’m boring you to death, aren't I? You probably want to go look at the Quidditch supplies or–”

“No,” Jaemin said softly. He stepped closer and reached out, not to take the book, but to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “Not at all. I like seeing you like this. Passionate. A little bit nerdy. It’s... it's really cute, Y/N.”

You froze, the heavy tome suddenly feeling very light compared to the way your heart was thudding against your ribs. You looked down, pretending to be intensely interested in a footnote about goblin-wrought armor, trying to ignore the way his thumb lingered near your temple.

“It’s just history,” you whispered, though your pulse was racing fast enough to win a broom race.

“But you love it,” he countered, his voice dropping an octave. “And that’s why I like listening.”

You didn’t quite know what to say to that so you busied yourself with the book, pretending to be engrossed in the table of contents, trying to ignore the way your pulse was racing.

It was just an act, you reminded yourself. A show for the onlookers. Jaemin was a good actor, that was all. There was no real feeling behind his words or his looks.

You lingered by the history section for a moment longer before a small, unassuming sign caught your eye toward the very back of the shop, nestled under a low, sloping ceiling: "Non-Magical Curiosities & Literature."

“Wait,” you said walking towards it. “I didn’t know they kept a Muggle section here.”

Jaemin followed as you navigated the narrowing aisles. This corner of the shop was more cramped, the books bound in plain cloth or faded dust jackets rather than dragon-hide or shimmering silk.

You scanned the titles until your eyes snagged on a familiar, battered spine. You pulled out a well-loved copy of Wuthering Heights.

“Since you’re so well-versed in Byron and Shakespeare,” you said, holding the book out so he could see the cover, “did your mother ever make you read the Brontës?”

Jaemin took the book, his long fingers tracing the silhouette of the moors on the cover. “I don’t think this one made the library list. Is it another tragedy?”

“The best kind of tragedy,” you sighed as you leaned back against the shelf. “It’s about a love so intense it’s practically a curse. Heathcliff and Cathy... they’re terrible for each other, really. They’re vengeful and cruel, but they’re also part of the same soul. There’s this one line—” you paused, closing your eyes for a second to recall the words that had lived in your head since you were twelve. “‘I am Heathcliff. He’s always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being.’”

When you opened your eyes, Jaemin was staring at you with an intensity that made the air in the cramped corner feel suddenly very thin. The playful smirk was gone, replaced by something much more sincere.

“That’s a bit more intense than a Honeydukes poem,” he murmured, his thumb brushing the edge of the pages.

“Muggles don’t have magic to fix their problems,” you explained, feeling a rush of that deep-seated passion again. “They don’t have Amortentia to force a feeling or Cheering Charms to dull a heartbreak. They just have words. They have to build these massive, sweeping worlds of emotion just to explain how it feels to be alive. I think… I think sometimes that’s more powerful than any spell we’re taught.”

Jaemin looked from the book back to you, a small, thoughtful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You talk about them like they’re the ones with the real power.”

“In a way, they are,” you whispered.

He handed the book back to you, but as your fingers met on the cover, he didn't pull away. “Well, if it’s that good, I suppose I should read it. But only if you promise to highlight the best parts for me. I want to see the world the way you see it.”

His words caught you off guard. You looked down at your joined hands, the scent of old paper and Jaemin’s expensive, woody cologne swirling around you.

“I can do that,” you promised softly.

The afternoon bled away as you drifted from one storefront to the next. It was…nice. More than nice, actually. Despite yourself, you found yourself relaxing and enjoying the banter.

Despite the frantic warnings screaming in the back of your mind, you found the armor around your heart beginning to flake away. You were relaxing, leaning into the sharp cadence of his banter and the way his shoulder occasionally brushed yours

As the sun began to dip towards the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of pink and gold, Jaemin suggested one last stop.

“Three Broomsticks?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. “Isn’t that a bit cliché?”

Jaemin shrugged, a smile playing about his lips. “It’s tradition, isn’t it? Can’t come to Hogsmeade and not have a Butterbeer.”

He had a point. The warmth of the pub sounded inviting after the chill of the February air. “Lead on, then.”

The place was packed to the brim with students crowding every table, their cheeks flushed from the cold and the Butterbeer. You wove your way through the throng, Jaemin’s hand at the small of your back.

“Y/N! Jaemin! Over here!”

You turned to see Jo waving at you from a table in the back. Beside her, was a handsome boy you vaguely recognized as a seventh year Hufflepuff. Won-something? 

“I didn’t know you’d be here!” Jo said as you approached, her eyes bright. “Y/N, this is Wonbin. Wonbin, this is my best friend, Y/N. And her boyfriend, Jaemin.”

Wonbin smiled at you. “Nice to finally meet you, Y/N. Jo’s told me a lot about you.”

“All good things, I hope,” you said, sliding into the seat across from them. Jaemin settled beside you, his thigh pressing against yours under the table.

“Oh, definitely,” Wonbin said, grinning. “Though she did mention something about an incident with a Niffler and a bottle of Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion…”

You groaned, shooting Jo a look. “That was one time! And it wasn’t my fault the Niffler got loose, I maintain that to this day.”

Jo laughed, leaning into Wonbin’s side. They looked so comfortable together, so at ease.

Not for the first time since you arrived at Hogsmeade and finding yourself surrounded by dozens of loving couples, you felt a pang of something that might have been envy. What must it be like, to have that? To not have to question every look, every touch, every flutter of your heart?

You glanced at Jaemin, only to find him already looking at you. His eyes were the color of dark mahogany in the firelight.

If this were a real date, he would lean in. If you were a real girlfriend, you would let him.

The thought of his lips on yours, not as a tactical maneuver to thwart Yuna, but as an answer to the restless, poetic ache that had started in the bookstore, sent a shiver through you that was violent in its intensity. You wondered if his mouth would taste like the dark chocolate he’d eaten earlier, or the butterbear he was having now.

Your heart hammered a frantic rhythm against your ribs, a drumbeat of "what if" that threatened to drown out your common sense. You looked away quickly, grabbing your Butterbeer and taking a long swig to hide the sudden heat in your cheeks.

The conversation kept flowing around you, but you found it hard to concentrate. Everywhere you looked, couples were leaning into each other, hands entwined, heads bent close. All you could hear around you was the sound of laughter and the soft smack of lips meeting in chaste kisses.

Suddenly, your skin itched with a restless sort of energy. You were hyperaware of Jaemin beside you, the solid warmth of him, his hand on yours on the table.

This was supposed to be a date. A fake date, yes, but a date nonetheless. And what did couples do on dates?

They kissed.

The thought was terrifying and… exciting. Kissing Jaemin, how would that feel? Putting your mouth on his mouth in front of all these people.

“Y/N?” Jaemin’s voice was barely audible over the din, but it vibrated through your very bones. He leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear, his scent of cedar and winter air enveloping you. “You’ve gone very quiet. Where did you go?”

You took another gulp of Butterbeer, trying to drown the sudden dryness in your throat. There was no need to get so worked up about it, really. It was all part of the act. Just one more scene to play, one more line to deliver.

You could do this.

Setting your tankard down with a thunk, you turned to Jaemin, determination surging through you. His eyes widened slightly as you leaned in, your hand coming up to rest on his chest.

“Y/N,” he said carefully. “What are you doing?”

“Improvising,” you murmured, and kissed him.

For a moment, he was utterly still beneath your lips. Then, just as you were about to pull away feeling completely humiliated, he came to life, his hand cupping your cheek, his mouth slanting over yours.

It was…Merlin. It was everything. His lips were soft and warm but still demanding, the scrape of his calluses against your skin sending goosebumps down your arms. You melted into him, your fingers curling into the soft wool of his sweater, anchoring yourself lest you float away entirely.

Someone wolf-whistled, probably Jo, and you jerked back to reality, breaking the kiss with a gasp. Jaemin looked as dazed as you felt, his eyes dark, his lips kissed-red.

“Well,” he said, his voice rough. “That was…something.”

“Um… yeah,” you said weakly, trying to catch your breath. “Gotta be convincing, right?”

Jaemin’s pupils were more dilated than before. “Right,” he said. “Of course.”

He turned back to his drink, and you did the same, trying to ignore the way your lips were tingling, the way your heart was doing a complicated tap-dance against your ribs.

That wasn't real, you reminded yourself as you gulped down the rest of your Butterbeer, the alcohol doing little to steady your nerves. None of it was real.

Jo was grinning at you across the table, her eyes knowing. You glared at her, silently daring her to say something. Wisely, she didn’t, but her smile spoke volumes.

As the evening wore on and the empty tankards accumulated, you found your tongue loosening, your inhibitions lowering. The pub seemed overly warm, the laughter too loud, the press of bodies too close. You needed air, needed space. You needed…

“I need to pee,” you announced loudly, lurching to your feet. The room swayed around you, and you grabbed the edge of the table to steady yourself. “I’ll be…I’ll be back.”

You wove your way through the crowd, ignoring Jo’s concerned call of your name and the way Jaemin slightly rose from his seat, his hand outstretched as if to stop you.

You didn’t need his help or anyone’s help. You were fine. You were absolutely, totally fine.

Outside, the night air was a blessed slap of cold. You took in great lungfuls of it. Merlin’s beard, how much had you had to drink? The empty tankards swam before your eyes in a hazy blur. Three? Four? More? It was hard to keep track when the Butterbeer had been so sweet and the pub so warm and Jaemin’s lips so soft against yours…

Oh no. Oh no no no. You’d actually kissed him, right there in front of everyone. What were you thinking?

Well, it didn’t matter now. What mattered was getting away, finding a quiet place where you could think. Somewhere without Jaemin’s eyes on you.

You picked a direction at random and started walking with unsteady steps. The high street was nearly deserted now, the lovebirds gone home to their castles and their common rooms and their cozy little romances.

Leaving you alone with your thoughts and your too-fast heartbeat and the sinking realization that you were, perhaps, a bit drunker than you’d initially thought.

“Y/N!”

You closed your eyes briefly, both thrilled and terrified by the sound of his voice.

“I’m fiiiiine,” you slurred without turning around. “I just need a minute.”

Jaemin caught up to you in two long strides, his face tight with concern as he reached out to steady your swaying frame. "You're completely blasted. Please, just stand still for a second before you fall into a ditch."

"I am not blasted," you informed him with great dignity, though you tripped over your own feet and ended up slumped against his chest. You looked up at him, your eyes unfocused but swimming with a sudden honesty. "You're the one who’s blasted— Blasted with... with your perfect hair and your Byron talk."

“Let’s just get you back first, okay?”

“I can get there by myself, thank you very much.” You slurred, starting to walk in the opposite direction of the castle.

“I’m sure you can. But I'd rather help you get there in one piece.” He said, sliding his arm around your waist and gently veering you in the right direction.

You tried to pull away, a whine building in your throat. “Don’t wanna. M’having fun.”

“I think you’ve had quite enough fun for one night,” he replied, his voice dripping with that dry, aristocratic patience that made you want to kick his shins.

“Are you mad at me…” You said softly after a second. “Because of the kiss? I—I didn’t mean—”

Your eyes smarted. Tears, sudden and hot, pooled and fell freely. You felt mortified and ridiculous and very impervious at once. The laugh you tried to force came out more like a sob.

“M’sorry,” you hiccuped. “What was I thinking? I’m awful.”

He stopped walking and turned to face you. For a moment, he was quietly furious and perhaps even a little bewildered, which made him look achingly human.

“Don’t say that,” he breathed. He did not sound like someone who believed in platitudes. “You’re not awful. You’re just tired and you’ve had too much to drink.”

“M’drunk, not dumb. I know I shouldn’t have kissed you. Jus’ got…got lost in the moment.”

“Let’s just go back to the castle first” he said, his tone brooking no argument. “We can talk about this tomorrow, when you’re sober.”

You sniffled weakly, wiped at your face with the back of your hand, and let him shepherd you back toward the castle.

By the time you reached the portrait of the Fat Lady, you were barely keeping your eyes open, your body growing heavier with each step.

“Password?” the Fat Lady trilled, eyeing Jaemin suspiciously.

You tried to form the word ‘Flibbertigibbet,’ but your tongue felt like a thick piece of wet paper and it came out as something closer to "Flub-a-dub". The Fat Lady, mercifully, just sighed and allowed you access anyway.

“I’ll help you,” Jaemin murmured, his arm tightening around your waist to keep you upright as the portrait swung open.

But as he made to step over the threshold, you planted a hand firmly on his chest.

“You can’t come in,” you said, shaking your head slow and wide.

He raised an elegant eyebrow. “And why’s that?”

“Cause you’re a snake,” you told him seriously. “And the Fat Lady… She doesn’t like snakes. Nope! No snakes ‘llowed in the lion house. S’the rules.”

You dissolved into giggles, finding this logic unbearably funny. The look on Jaemin’s face only made you laugh harder, a snorting, hiccupping thing that had you clutching at the portrait frame for support.

“Right. God forbid I upset the natural order,” he said, a reluctant, lopsided smile finally tugging at his lips.

He reached out, gently tucking a messy strand of hair behind your ear. “I think that’s quite enough out of you. Go on, get to bed.”

You sketched a salute, barely avoiding smacking yourself in the face. “Aye aye, cap’n,”

And with that, you let the portrait swing shut, cutting off the sound of Jaemin’s laughter. You made your way up to your dormitory on unsteady legs, collapsing into bed fully clothed.

As sleep claimed you, dragging you down into dreamless oblivion, one last thought chased itself around your fuzzy brain.

No snakes in the lion’s den. Not even pretty ones with soft lips and warm hands.

It was a good rule, you decided muzzily. A very good rule indeed.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Long, lithe fingers cradled the back of your head as you threw it back, their grip steady and strong. Your mind was half-gone from the sensations ripping you apart that you almost wished they would grab your hair to anchor you back to this moment. Instead, you felt the ghost of lips trailing over the length of your bare throat, teeth just slightly grazing over your flesh and leaving goosebumps in their wake.

"Jeno..."

Your walls fluttered around him, an instinct that comes with the whisper of his name. The effect on him was immediate. The muscles on his back undulated under your fingertips and he leaned back just a little to drop and press his forehead against your collarbone. He was trying to steady and pace himself and he was barely winning. You didn't want him to.

"I could live inside you," his breathless baritone sent shivers straight to your core. Those were his first few words since you both wordlessly crashed against each other and stumbled into your quarters, hidden and safe from the eyes of the rest of the world.

"Please. Move..."

This time, he didn't need telling twice. His one hand that was resting on your hip moved to cup the swell of your ass and with gentle strength lifted your weight up before sheathing himself to the hilt again. The movement made sparks of pleasure burst behind your closed eyelids like fireworks and soon enough your hands settled on to his shoulders, scratching, in your silent but wrecked plea for more.

Jeno got the message loud and clear. Slowly, he built a pace that was both infuriatingly still too slow but delicious for you. Your pleasure didn't just come in bursts every time he would bury to the deepest parts of you, he made sure he dragged it every time he split you again and again.

He had always been that kind of lover. Steady, silent, but thorough in every way. You could lose yourself only when you're one with him, because in a way, you two are one part of another.

"More. Deeper..." you gasped now as your hips started dancing more ryhthmically with his. You sounded ruined and it took him everything not to pin you right there and fuck you until your mind was filled by nothing but him. Instead, he moved the hand that was cradling the back of your head to gently tip you back. The new angle made you let go of his shoulders, your hands scrambling to settle on his knees instead. He took the new angle as a chance to dip his head lower, his lips immediately capturing one of your hardened peaks. His tongue made love to it, circling your sensitive nub before he bit on it gently.

The new sensation made you choke a soundless gasp. It sent a shockwave of pleasure straight to your toes that you reached an unexpected climax, your body freezing for a half-second as your brain short-circuited. Jeno knew you have come undone from the way you fluttered around him and you felt him smile against your skin as he continued to thrust into your heat.

"You feel so warm," he said then as your first high settled. In the midst of the after-effects of your pleasure, you felt him move and lift you up gently from his lap. You weakly protested with a whine, but he was quick to soothe you with a kiss to your temple.

"Let me just move you, love. Your legs are too tired."

Jeno had barely settled you in between his legs when a creaking noise shattered the sinful rhythm of breathing that clung between you both. Looking up, your eyes went to your door as it slowly opened in the darkness. You watched as a heavier shadow slipped inside, silent and graceful as the others in the room.

You froze. Its owner stood there, unbothered, almost way too relaxed for someone who deliberately walked into the middle of this. All of a sudden, you felt the urge to close your legs but Jeno's hands kept them steadily open with his gentle grip. Getting the message, you slightly turned to look at him.

"You... asked him?"

He simply answered by pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. His eyes flickered to the new guest before humming an answer.

"Do you want him to?"

The question hung heavy in the air. You turned to look back at the other who remained standing on the foot of your bed, unmoving and waiting. Outside, the cloud shifted and a wash of moonbeam slightly grazed the angle of his lips. You watched as it slowly curled into a smile.

You didn't give words. Instead, you leaned back against Jeno, your form very slightly relaxing against his chest. The shadowy figure caught it and he finally gave a low chuckle as he stepped into the light.

"I thought you were going to hurt my feelings today, Princess."

Jaemin looked every bit a dangerous dream as he finally sat on the edge of the bed. Behind you, Jeno started running his finger up and down your folds in an almost lazy manner as he watched you reach out for the other. Jaemin has always been a welcome party to your nights, and despite your initial shyness earlier, you looked pleased that he is here. He welcomed your fingers against his cheek now and kissed them one by one as you ran them over his lips.

"Jaemin..."

"Did you cum already, princess? Did Jeno already spoil you?" He asked softly before he captured your middle finger and gently sucked on its tip.

You nodded weakly. Your last orgasm was still making you a bit soft in the edges, but you could already feel the simmering new fire starting in the pit of your stomach.

"But Jeno hasn't cum yet," you said, guilt tingeing your voice. Jaemin laughed softly again while Jeno pressed another kiss to your temple as if telling you not to worry.

"Well, we have to fix that, right?" Jaemin almost cooed. His eyes grazed all over your moonlit-kissed form slowly, bidding his time. Still, the flash of hunger didn't escape you when it landed on your glistening core that Jeno was still lazily playing with. As if to tease him, the latter slipped two fingers between your folds, which caused you to jump a little. Jaemin gave a soft scoff upon catching the action and raised a brow at his best friend.

"Jeno, don't be mean. She wants you to cum."

"I will. But I want her to have one more."

At that, the other boy rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "You can never do anything without me, can you?" He asked as he stood up to quickly peel off his night shirt. You watched, throat parched, as he finally crawled into the bed and positioned himself in between your legs. His beauty had always been the type that was borrowed from angels, but he looked like every bit of the devil now as he slipped out his tongue and languidly circled at the bundle of your nerves.

Pleasure shot into your body like a bolt of lightning again. It didn't take too long for him to find his pace and before you know it he was sucking and alternating between making out with your clit and fucking you with his tongue. You arched your back, eyes rolled to the back of your head as you instinctively tried to escape the sensation but two pairs of hands kept you back.

"Oh my god, Jaemin!" You moaned louder as your hands flew and tangled against his silver locks. He was a picture of sin, and it wasn't helping that your other lover's fingers continued gently pumping inside of you. At one point, Jaemin stopped to suck on Jeno's fingers as if he never wanted to miss a single drop of you.

Behind you, Jeno was rock hard. You could feel the weight of his cock pressing against the small of your back, angry but waiting. The truth is that he is like any regular man. When he wants someone, he wants them as his and his alone.

But sometimes, he also wants to watch.

And Jaemin is never just a stranger nor a rival. He is connected to him and you by something bigger than any reason can capture. You fit together like three puzzle pieces—an open secret that lives in shadows and between slivers of moonlight.

It didn't take long for your legs to start to shake again and your moans to turn into soft sobs. When Jaemin peered over his feast and saw your glassy eyes, he knew what would come next. With not so much as a quick glance at Jeno, the two knew what to do like well-practiced clockwork.

You barely noticed it when Jaemin shifted and stood up from his kneeling position. He didn't hate it, because if not you would have seen how hard he was too under his joggers, the print of his cock now very much visible against the pre-cum that had stained it. Not that he was ashamed of it though. Eyes locked on you, he softly cursed to himself at the look on your face. He ran his hand aggressively through his silver locks while his other shoved his pants down to shamelessly free himself. With hunger, he watched as Jeno moved with equal precision behind you.

Your dark-haired lover easily scooted himself down the bed so that his back was flat on the mattress. As if you weighed nothing, he made you relax against him before hooking his arms up behind your knees. He didn't give you any warning before he slightly lifted your hips and buried himself in you again. You gave a louder scream this time as his tip split you apart. He was so deep, you could almost feel him in your navel.

This time, there was no gentleness in his movements. Jeno moved you up and down on his cock with his sheer strength alone. The angle pressed something deep inside of you again and again that tears finally started spilling down your cheeks.

"Fuck. You're crying," Jaemin cursed as he watched the scene. He had started pumping his own length earlier, but now he needed more. Moving over, he climbed to the bed again and hovered over you, his strong arms caging you and Jeno both. Not a second after, you were screaming louder against his lips as he started rubbing the length of his cock against your folds. He pleasured himself freely against your wetness, his tip hitting your clit again and again in time with Jeno's thrusts. One of his hands grabbed at your breasts and started teasing and pulling at your bud.

"Shit. She got tighter," Jeno growled behind you as he continued pummeling his length inside of you. You knew from the way his pace stuttered that he was close, but the knowledge was almost overwhelmed by your own cresting pleasure. At this point, you don't even know the words that were coming out your mouth as you screamed and begged. Jaemin pulled back just a little to look at your face and almost regretted it. You were the most sinful he had ever seen in a long while that he almost exploded all over you right then and there.

"Fuck, Jeno. Her face. She's close—"

Before he could even finish, Jaemin's words were swallowed by both you and Jeno's voices, yours high and breathy and his, low and guttural. You shook on top of him, arms locked around your hips as he spilled himself inside of you. You were still in the middle of your high when you heard Jaemin growl on top of you. In a move that you were too lost to track, Jeno pulled himself out of your dripping core only for your other lover to bury himself to the hilt inside your warmth. He pumped himself twice, thrice, before finally unloading inside too, his voice whiny and soft as he pulsed between your walls.

It took a moment before all of you went back to earth. When your small tremors finally subsided, Jaemin pulled himself out of you with a satisfied, almost pained-sounding groan and fell beside you.

Jeno very gently moved you after so you could finally settle on the mattress. You whined at the loss of close contact and reached out to him when you saw him about to sit up in your peripheral vision. He looked back at you patiently but you just pulled on him harder until he fell back beside you.

"I need to clean you up."

"Later," you gently protested. You were already cuddling against him, your face pressing on the crook of his neck. You didn't have to worry about Jaemin on your other side at least. The man was already curled around you, spooning your tired form. He looked on the verge of sleep.

"Sunrise will be in a couple of hours," Jeno said, though he finally did relax again. You knew the implication of his words. In a few hours both him and Jaemin will have to slip out of this heaven you three are currently sharing and resume your masks of normalcy to the rest of the world. But that will be for later. Right now, you still have your stolen hours. His eyes went over your face as you fluttered your eyes closed. In your tired, messy state, you are still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

"I know," you answered softly as you melted against him. You always know. You know that once the moonbeams start to fade and the sun peeks in between your curtains, you have to go back to being each other's secrets. That time will and always come.