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vigilvntes · 2 years

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A World Alone - Bruce Wayne x Reader

Masterlist

A/N: i went from bruce wayne finger-banging to 8000 words of fluff, mutual pining and a lil bit of angst. i am not ok <3 also can you tell i listen to lorde :// anyway come talk to me about batman or the riddler or adrian chase <3

Word Count: 8.1k

Warnings: Language, mentions of alcohol, not beta read idc we die like men, spoilers for the batman, cringe fluff and i don't CARE because bruce wayne deserves loves ok???? (i think that's all <3)

Summary: Bruce makes his first public appearance since the memorial service, with you by his side.

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The creaking of floorboards behind you catches your attention instantly. You place your teacup on the table gently (avoiding another lecture from Alfred about taking care with his finest China) and twist your head, a small smile crawling on to your lips when you see him approaching slowly. “Oh, look who's finally emerged from his cave.” You tease, glancing over at Alfred in amusement. He doesn't find it that funny, though.

“I can only offer my apologies, (Y/N). I did call him up an hour ago.” Alfred says pointedly, shifting to stand up from the seat beside you. You recall sitting at the table, listening to Alfred bicker back and forth with Bruce, until a few stern words and the slamming of the telephone had him making his way back to you, informing you that Bruce would be up in ‘just a moment’. An hour, in Bruce Wayne terms. “Tea, Bruce?” He offers, his hand already on the handle of the teapot.

“No. Thank you, though, Alfred.” Bruce says, his voice quiet yet polite. Like a child who's been scolded by their parent.

The room falls quiet. He hasn't made any moves to sit down, to join you at the table. He's just lingering behind you, probably wondering why the hell you're here. You know he's suspicious, you can tell by the way his gaze flicks between yourself and Alfred. Then, his eyes land on the small envelope in front of you. Now he's definitely suspicious.

You're not so sure what to say. It's been a while since your last visit, since you last saw Bruce Wayne without the cowl or the suit. You see him on TV screens much more than you see him in person, nowadays. While he's been busy helping the people, working with Gotham P.D. on search and rescue missions (you're sure he's been patrolling the areas with high crime, too), you've been working closely with the mayor and politicians. You spend most of your days in conferences and meetings, negotiating donations to whoever and whatever cause. You don't care. As long as it helps, as long as it contributes to the rebuilding of Gotham, you're game. You always wanted to do good with your money, and now you're doing exactly that.

Alfred breaks the silence, the quiet cling of his teacup against the saucer echoing around the room. You watch him down the rest of his tea quickly, more than eager to leave before your conversation with Bruce can even begin. You curse him internally for that. You always found it easier to negotiate with Bruce in Alfred’s presence. Bruce would break out the classic 'you're not my father’ line, (as if that's ever deterred Alfred from advising him, or telling him what to do), but in the end he'd always buckle. And you… well you'd sit there with a smug smile, watching the whole thing go down. You're on your own this time, evidently.

“Well…” Alfred starts, picking up the saucer from the table, “It's certainly been lovely seeing you, (Y/N). Unfortunately, I can't stay and chat any longer. The Wayne household doesn't run itself, you know.” He jokes. Though it's not really a joke.

You smile up at him, “It'd be lost without you.”

“Oh, I know that.” His gaze lands on Bruce for a moment, before flickering back to you.

“It's been so great seeing you, Alfred. And thank you for the tea.” You say.

“My pleasure.” He squeezes your shoulder before he begins making his way out of the room. His footsteps stop after a few moments, and you hear whispering, though you can't quite catch what's being said. Then, the gentle tap of his shoes resume until they're out of earshot.

You suddenly feel incredibly awkward without Alfred by your side. You can feel Bruce’s eyes burning into the back of your skull like lasers in the mist, cutting right through you. Your palms are sweaty, you can practically hear your heartbeat, feel it pounding through your entire body. “Why don't… why don't you come and sit down?” You ask, patting the backrest of the seat next to you. Nothing. “Please?”

He moves then, slowly circling the table, though he walks right past the seat you gestured to. Instead, he sits himself down two seats away from you. You can't help but scoff at how petty he's being. “Really?” You shove your tongue into your cheek in annoyance. He doesn't respond. Instead, he turns his attention to the window, seemingly taking in the scenery in the bright light of morning. Which is funny, really, because he never cared for the view.

You're getting a good look at him now, and he looks like shit, to be quite frank. Like he hasn't slept, showered or even been out of the literal cave underneath the mansion in days. All of those things are probably true. In fact, you know they're true. Except for that last one, you're sure you saw Batman on the news yesterday. Either way, he looks like he hasn't seen the light of day in, well, days. There's dark circles under his eyes, and he's squinting against the natural light flooding in through the window. He looks tired. You're starting to feel bad for what you're about to spring on him.

You're staring at him, and he's staring out of the window. You're trapped in some kind of deadlock. Neither of you know what to say or do, how to break the silence or cut through the tension. You figure out pretty quickly that he has no intention of cracking first, so you decide that it's up to you. You'll take the fall, happily. Anything to feel like you can breathe again. “Look, I know it's been a while—"

“Two months.” It's quiet, barely above a whisper, but you hear it loud and clear.

Two months.

You nod your head, “Yeah. Two months.”

Two. Whole months. Fuck. The last time you saw him was at the hospital when Alfred was hurt. You remember that not much was said between the two of you. You just sat next to him quietly, holding his hand in yours and hoping for the best.

“Listen, you know as well as I do that things just got really crazy. We've both been busy, and—”

You almost jump when he snaps his head to you, but you have no plans to back down under his intense gaze. “We have?”

“Yes, we have.” You say through gritted teeth. “And you know that.”

“Do I?” His voice is soft, quiet, yet there's a certain degree of animosity in his tone.

You huff out a laugh, though there's no humour in it. You're smiling, but you're far from amused. “Can you just let me fucking finish?” One more snide remark, one more interruption, and you would be walking out. Judging by the slight nod of his head, he knows that too. “Look, I know it's been a while, okay? I know that. Two months is… it's crazy. And I'm sorry, okay? I am sorry. I just... I needed some time to think. I felt like I was losing my mind here. The sleepless nights, the worrying... The isolation. It just… it got a little too much for me. Two weeks. That's all I wanted. But then shit got so crazy. I think—… I think both of us just lost track.”

He drops his head, focusing his gaze on the table and the intricate patterns in the wood. “Yeah.” He mumbles under his breath, but you hear him loud and clear.

You've known Bruce your entire life. Family friends, as cliché as that may be. You're not sure when your little affair started, but you remember the moment you found yourself in his bed as clear as day. It was an unspoken thing, as far as you knew. Neither of you mentioned relationships, becoming something more wasn't a topic either of you wanted to broach. It kind of happened naturally, though. He sought you out after spending his nights on the streets, and sometimes you'd make the trip to the mansion to be there for him when he got back. You'd have sex, and then you'd have breakfast together, sometimes dinner, and then he'd drive you back to the city in the evening. It was… nice. Really fucking nice. You might've called it love. But it didn't come without its fair share of grievances. Evidently. You just needed to be away from him for a while, to clear your head. Things had gotten really intense, and you needed some time. But then the Riddler happened, and the flood. You'd managed to get on with life for a while, doing what needed to be done before dealing with personal matters. But a part of you felt— feels empty, like you're missing something. There's a huge, obvious hole in your heart in the shape of Bruce Wayne, and you can only hope that it's able to be fixed at some point.

“What's that?” He asks quietly, gesturing to the envelope on the table.

You're thrown off by that, yet it's so typical of him. He never did like to talk about his feelings, or give you anything deeper than an 'I'm fine’, even when he clearly wasn't fine. Whatever. You know him well enough to know that he'll come around at some point, that he'll talk when he's ready. You shake your head quickly, pulling yourself together. “That would be your invitation to tomorrow night’s charity ball. We're raising money for people who lost their homes in the flood.” You tell him, sliding it across the table slowly.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you have it?” He questions, picking up the invitation, pulling the seal gently.

“Because I told the mayor I'd personally deliver it to you. She's getting tired of being ignored and sent to voicemail, Bruce. She wants to talk to you.” You lean back in your seat, your shoulders finally relaxing as you let out the breath you didn't realise you were holding in.

“So that's why you're here.” He says, unfolding the invitation, his eyes scanning over it quickly. You know he isn't reading it, that he has no interest in reading it.

“That's part of the reason why I'm here.” You shrug.

He huffs, raising his eyebrows at you and dropping the invitation back on to the table, “There's another reason?”

You shove your tongue into your cheek for the second time, suddenly understanding why Alfred was so quick to leave. You forgot that dealing with Bruce sometimes feels like dealing with a moody teenager. “I heard Batman dabbles in detective work now.” That gets his full attention. “Y’know, I always thought you to be a little more… What's the word?” You pause for a moment. “Hm. Intuitive.”

No response. Just his eyes staring straight through you.

You sigh, “Yes, I'm here on behalf of the mayor. I told her I had a personal connection to you, and that I'd deliver the invitation myself.” You pause, tugging your bottom lip between your teeth. “But… I'm also here because I wanted to see you, Bruce.” You admit.

“You needed an excuse.” He says, finally catching on.

You drop your head, huffing out an awkward laugh, “Yeah. Sounds kinda pathetic, now that you're saying it out loud. I mean I could have just called, or… stopped by. I don't—”

“It's not.” You glance up at him. He clears his throat, repeating, “It's not pathetic. I'm… I'm glad you're here.” He doesn't meet your eyes, but it's okay. You don't feel uncomfortable or awkward anymore. You feel relieved. You're certain there's no way he'll want to talk about… anything. That you're better off just moving past it, at least for the time being. You are glad to see him, and he is glad to see you. Middle ground.

“I'm glad you're here.” He repeats, and you brace yourself. “But—” there's always a fucking ‘but’. “I'm not going to the charity ball.”

“Bruce—”

“No. I'll make a donation, but..” He shakes his head.

“Look, I know going out isn't really your thing. But the mayor wants you to step up—”

He cuts you off, “I am stepping up. I'm already playing my part.” There's a certain bite in his tone.

That's true. There's no denying that it's true. Almost everyday you see that familiar cowl on the news or in the papers. Everyday you see headlines about the Batman, about how he's doing the right thing for Gotham, protecting the people and the streets. But that's Batman. Not Bruce Wayne. Well, it is Bruce Wayne. But it also isn't, as far as the people and the mayor are concerned.

“Batman is playing his part.” You say gently, leaning forwards and resting your hands on the table. “I know what you do for this city, I've seen everything. You're working so hard and I feel so guilty being here, asking for more. But as far as the mayor is concerned Bruce Wayne is living outside of the city, sitting in his ivory tower and doing nothing.” He seems to straighten up. “You— Bruce Wayne, were mentioned by name. He had a whole— I don't know even know what to call it, a… a whole presentation dedicated to you and your family. Whether you like it or not Bruce Wayne played a part in what went down.”

“That's not— It's not—… I didn't know. I had no idea about—…” He tries to argue but voice breaks.

You push your chair back and stand up, plopping yourself down in the seat next to him. The one you asked him to sit in earlier. You take his hand, feeling him tense up for a moment before relaxing into your touch. “I know. I know it's not your fault. I can't—… The people know it's not your fault, too. They just… they just want to see you. He tried to ruin you, but I promise you that the people are still on your side. You just… you need to make an appearance.”

He's silent for a moment. More than a moment, actually, and you hope that he's considering you. Or he's thinking of a way to let you down gently. Yes, definitely that. “I'm not accepting the invitation.” He mumbles, pushing the invite away. Ouch. Okay. That wasn't gentle.

You were quite convincing just then, you think. It didn't seem to be enough, though. It's okay. Because you came prepared. You anticipated this from the moment you agreed to give him the invitation yourself. “Oh, well that's perfect.”

He narrows his eyes at you. “Why's that?” He asks slowly. He knows. Oh, he knows you have something up your sleeve.

“Because I kind of, sort of, maybe… already have you down as my plus one.” His stare is blank, but it says everything. He's less than impressed. “And my driver might have the night off.” You add, placing the cherry neatly on top of the already-pissed-off-Bruce-Wayne-Sundae.

“I suggest you fix that.”

You shake your head. “Uh-uh. No. I don't think so. It's his daughter’s birthday so… special occasion. I wouldn't want to ruin any plans.” You shrug.

“Well you're ruining my plans.” He comments, sitting back. He hasn't dropped your hand, though.

“And what are your plans for tomorrow?” You ask. He glances away, and you can practically see the cogs in his head grinding against each other as he tries to think of something— anything that he could possibly be doing tomorrow night.

“Gordon needs me.” He answers, finally.

“That's a lie.” Blatant, actually. You're offended that he thinks you're stupid enough to fall for that.

“It’s not a lie.”

“You're lying. Your nostrils flare when you lie.” You can't help but smile at him. You know him, and you've always known him. You know when he's lying, when he's being truthful, when he's happy, when something’s bothering him. You know him like the back of your hand. Like you know the alphabet. “And even if Gordon did need you, the event starts at six. So I was thinking we get there at six thirty, leave for eight. You show face, and it leaves you plenty of time.”

He's staring at you. You're staring at him. He's silent, you're waiting for a response. He sighs quietly, “I'm not getting out of this, am I?”

You shake your head, “I don't think so. I think I've backed you into a corner enough. But I have more excuses and reasons if you wanna hear those, too.”

His lips twitch, and soon enough he's breaking out into a smile. It's not a big grin, but you can see his teeth and that makes you grin right at him. He drops his head for a moment, shoulders shaking as he laughs quietly. “You're unbelievable.”

You squeeze his hand gently. “So are you.” You really mean that, too. Maybe not in the way he means it. “So, I expect to see you parked up outside of my house at five thirty tomorrow. It's black tie, so do what you will with that.”

“Fine.” He mumbles, though his smile still hasn't dropped, and he's staring down at your intertwined fingers.

The two of you sit there in silence for a minute, finally comfortable in each other’s company. Without the tension, the awkwardness, the uncomfortable elephant in the room. It feels nice, you think, to just sit there for a moment and be. It makes you realise how much you've missed him. How much you've missed just sitting at his table in a comfortable silence, eating breakfast together in the late afternoon while Alfred scolds you for being lazy. You hope this is the first step to fixing things, getting things back to how they used to be. Maybe you would become more.

You don't want to go. You want to stay right there with him. But you have to go.

You chew on your bottom lip for a moment. “I hope you don't mind but… I have to leave. I have a meeting soon.”

Bruce shakes his head, “No. No, of course. You—… Do you need a ride back to the city?” He asks.

You shake your head, “No, I'm good. Patrick’s waiting for me.”

“He's been out there the whole time?” He asks, his eyes widening in surprise and… probably guilt. It did take him an hour to bring himself to leave the cave.

“Uh-huh. Even more reason for me to give him the night off.” You stand up, and he doesn't let go of your hand. In fact, his grip seems to tighten. You feel guilty for leaving already. You really don't want to fucking go. You want to sit with him, kiss him, wrap your arms around him and tell him how much you've missed him and how you think about him every single day. But you have to go. “I'll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay.” He mumbles.

You start to walk away, and he still has your hand in his. Right up to the moment you're no longer in reach, his arm is outstretched. You swear you see him lean his body back, so you're fingertips can graze against each other for just a moment longer. You drop your hand down by your side slowly, the ghost of his touch lingering on your skin. Fuck, you miss it already. “If you stand me up tomorrow, I'm telling every magazine and newspaper in Gotham.” You tease.

“I wouldn't dare.” He reassures.

And then you're gone, your footsteps fading as you make your way down the hall.

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Bruce doesn't disappoint. You didn't think he would, anyway. He was parked outside at exactly five thirty, looking far from impressed, but his frown dissipated as soon as his eyes landed on you. You smiled at him, and he managed to smile right back. He's wearing a simple black suit and tie, that long coat of his over the top. You remember it's the one he wore to the memorial service, too.

Now, you're sitting in his car, dressed to the nines, waiting in the traffic. You feel like you've been here for two hours already, but really it's only been ten minutes. It's quiet in the car, which doesn't surprise you. He's nervous. So, so nervous. You can see it in his furrowed brows, his tense jaw. In the way his eyes flick between you, the road and his own hand on the steering wheel. You do feel guilty for dragging him out, for making him leave the comfort of his own home, the comfort of his armour and cowl. Tonight, the eyes of Gotham would be on Bruce Wayne, not Batman. People would talk, because that's what people do, and they'd talk for a while. But at least he'd only have to do it once. One public appearance is enough to cause a stir, you think.

“How are you feeling?” You ask gently, glancing over at him.

“M’fine.” He mumbles in response, nostrils flaring every so slightly. You know he tried so hard to hide that. His eyes are focused on the road now, the traffic moving along just a little. There's only five or six cars in front of you now. They'll know it's him immediately, just from the model of the car. You swear he's the only person in Gotham who drives himself to events.

“Okay. That's cool. Now tell me the truth?” He looks at you, then, almost incredulously. You shrug, “Why do you always forget that I know exactly when you're lying?”

He sighs. You're right and he knows it. “I'm feeling okay. Just… Just a little nervous.” There's more truth to it. Not the full truth. You know he's shitting bricks, to put it quite plainly. But you'll let him have that. You figure that's the most honest answer you're going to get.

“You'll be okay.” You reassure, but he doesn't look so convinced. “It's just for tonight. You don't have to answer any questions, if you don't want to. We'll go right in there, talk to whoever you need to talk to— definitely the mayor, and then we'll get out of there. Sound good?”

“Yeah.”

Soon five or six cars turn into two or three, and before you know it, you're right in front of the steps. You turn to look at him, to make sure that he's okay one last time before you step out, but he's already opening the car door, getting out quickly and slamming it shut behind him. Never mind then. You watch him walk around the front of the car, keeping his head down the whole time as all eyes and all cameras are pointed directly at him. He opens the door for you and offers you his hand, which you gladly take, mumbling a quiet ‘thank you’. And then you're in the thick of it, too.

Cameras flashing in your face, reporters shoving microphones in front of you, everyone’s so desperate to get anything from either you or Bruce. He has his back turned to the press, handing his keys to the valet while you try and offer your best smile. It's pointless though, all attention is focused on the prince of the city, as they like to call him. You don't even register that he's turned his attention to you until he's tugging on your arm, pulling you gently towards the steps.

The ball is being held at some fancy hotel just outside of the city. It's big and bright and lavish, lit up from top to bottom, totally opposite to everything else in the city. It looks so out of place, honestly, compared to the monochromatic nature of Gotham. Oh well. You'd have plenty of time to complain about the ugly venue later.

You loop your arm around his, pulling him close to you, and immediately you feel him relax against you. The two of you ascend the white, marble staircase arm in arm. You smile and occasionally wave, answering any questions directed to you as quickly as you can. Bruce, on the other hand, ignores all of them. He doesn't even smile, you don't think. He just keeps his head down, blocking out the screams of his name.

“Mr Wayne!”

“Mr Wayne! It's so good to see you!”

“Mr Wayne, why are you here tonight!?”

“Mr Wayne, how are you contributing to the effort to rebuild Gotham?!”

“Mr Wayne, are you dating (Y/N)?!”

“Mr Wayne, you're the only one mentioned by name that survived the attacks. Is it true that you were working with Edward Nashton?!”

You feel him tense up.

“Mr Wayne, how does it feel knowing your father’s a murderer?!”

Fuck.

That one gets to him.

He stops dead in his tracks, and you stop too. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck. You don't know what to do. He's frozen in place, breathing heavily, cheeks turning red with anger, giving the reporter who asked that question the deadliest glare. Seriously, if looks could kill, this guy would be dead one million times over. He'd be six feet fucking under. The only thing that comforts you is the fact that Bruce makes a conscious effort to not kill. You still fear that he'll lunge over the barriers, though. Give the reporter a piece of his mind with his fists instead. Warranted, though not entirely ideal, and you know he has enough sense to not go through with any acts of violence running through his head right now.

It’s your soft voice, the gentle tug on his arm that snaps him out of it, that quells his rage for just a moment. “Hey, let's get inside.” He looks between you and the reporter for a brief moment, then nods his head. You sigh quietly in relief as the two of climb the last few steps, making your way into the building quickly.

He's shaking. You can feel him shaking against you. You assume it's because he's angry, but then you see his eyes, red and glassy, and you realise he's on the verge of tears. You're not sure whether he's upset, or whether he's just really fucking wound up. Or both.

“So much for ‘the people are on your side’.” He mumbles under his breath, but you hear him. Oh, he's pissed off. Rightly so, but you don't appreciate his snide comment. He tries to pull away from you, but you don't let him. You keep your arm firmly locked around his, wrapping your hand around his bicep and squeezing gently. The moment you allow him to let go of you will be the moment you lose him. You don't trust him to not bolt straight out of the doors, to fly back down the steps, get back into his car and drive home. You've only just got him back, and you'd like to keep him for good this time.

You're in the fancy lobby, now. Bright red carpets, golden wallpaper and large paintings in golden frames hanging on the walls. It's ugly even on the inside, you think, but it's far nicer in here than it is out there. In here, you're surrounded by ugly decor, politicians, socialites and pretty much anyone who's anyone in Gotham. But you're safe. Out there… you're like pieces of meat to a pack of wild dogs. They're hungry, desperate for anything they can get from you. At least inside you're away from the flashing lights, the microphones being shoved under your noses and the screaming of your names.

The large, wooden doors that lead to the hall where the event is being held are just up ahead, but you pull him to the side before you even think about going right in. “Hey…” You whisper, looking up at him through your lashes.

“Don't.” He warns, refusing to meet your eyes.

“You just have to ignore them, Bruce. I know it's hard—”

“You don't know.” He's trying to be cutting, actively trying to ward you off. The same way he does with Alfred. But just like how it doesn't work with Alfred, it doesn't work with you, either. You know that deep down he's desperate for some kind of reassurance, but he only knows how to fight against it.

You bring your hands up to his face, cupping his cheeks with your palms. “You're right. I don't know. But what I do know is that not everyone thinks like that.”

“But some people do.” He sounds genuinely hurt. Bruce spent his entire life idolising his father. He started the Gotham Project for his father, to continue his family's legacy. He knows the truth about what went down with his father and Falcone and the reporter who had dirt on his mother, and that should be enough. But it isn't, and you can understand why it isn't enough. It has to be, though.

You nod. “Yeah. Some people do. They'll believe the gossip and the lies and the fucked up shit they hear over the truth, as long as it lines up with their ideals. You know the truth, and the majority of the city knows the truth, too. And they're on your side, I promise you.” You take his hand, intertwining your fingers with his, squeezing gently.

The two of you stand there in silence for a moment. He seems to be calming down, which is more than a relief to you. His cheeks are returning to their normal, pasty colour and he's breathing deep and slow now. He's okay. He's going to be okay. He's going to get through the next hour, at least, and then you'd be free to leave.

You bring his hand up to your lips and press a soft kiss against his knuckle, “Are you good, Bruce?” You ask gently. You don't want to push him if he's not ready yet.

“Yeah. I think so.”

“Are you sure? Because—”

“(Y/N).” He speaks your name so softly, and it commands your full attention. “I'm okay.” He brings your hand up to his lips now, pressing a kiss against your knuckle just like you'd done only seconds ago.

You almost melt.

God. Just being with him, touching him and talking to him, makes you wonder why you ever spent so long away from him. Two fucking months. You can't even comprehend it, but you know it's never going to happen again. You're never going to spend that long away from him ever again. It's Bruce, it always has been and it always will be. You're certain of that. You'll never miss anyone like you miss him, crave anyone’s attention like you crave his, buckle under anyone’s touch like you buckle under his. You're not sure if the same can he said for him, but he's here with you, and that's all that matters.

“Okay. Do you wanna head in?” He nods his head, and this time he moves to take hold of your arm first. You smile up at him, and you see his lips twitch upwards. That's enough for you.

The two of you make your way towards the wooden doors. Most, if not all, guests are already in there, you assume, since the lobby is almost barren. “Are you ready?” You ask. He nods and without a second of hesitation you're pushing open the doors. It feels like there's a spotlight shining directly on you, or maybe that's just the effect of the bright lights and golden walls meshing together to create some kind of optical phenomena that has you blinded for just a moment. Fuck, if you thought it was light out there, you have no idea how to describe this. Though, it's prettier in here than in the lobby, you think.

People are staring, and he's incredibly tense, unsure of what to do. So, you just pull him along, out of the doorway and into the crowd. “People will talk, and they'll stare, but it's because they probably weren't expecting to see you here tonight. So you're gonna say hello, you're gonna say 'I'm doing fine thank you, how are you?’ and then we're gonna move along. Okay?”

And that's exactly what he does. He's still quiet and mildly awkward, but there's a charming edge to him, too. One that doesn't come out so often in public but it's there and tonight, as he chats to politicians and friends of his father, with you by his side for comfort, you see it. You know he wants to leave, to be out of there as soon as possible, you can see it in his eyes, but he's pulling it off. He's playing the part and he's playing it well. He's latched on to you, his eyes never seem to leave you, but you're more than happy to be his safety net. Though that won't last much longer.

“(Y/N), you must work miracles.” An oh-so-familiar voice calls from behind you. You turn around, dragging Bruce with you, and you're met with the eyes of the mayor, Bella Reál. She's beaming, smiling brightly at the two of you, but you can't help but notice she's eyeing Bruce from head to toe. Almost in shock. “Look who it is. Mr. Wayne himself.”

“In the flesh. I thought I'd never get him out of that tower.” You tease, a grin on your lips as you squeeze him closer to you. You can feel his unimpressed stare, but you're not intimidated.

“I always had faith in you.” She reassures. “Do you mind if I steal him from you? I've been dying to speak with him.”

“Oh, no. Of course not. He's all yours.” You try to pull your arm away from him, but his grip tightens. He won't let go, he doesn't want to let go. But he has to. You give his bicep one last squeeze before you yank your arm away from him, careful to keep your elbows to yourself. “You'll be fine. I'll talk to you later.” You mumble. He isn't happy, his tongue is pushed against the inside of his cheek in annoyance, but there's nothing you can do.

“I promise I'll bring him straight back.” She jokes, giving you one last smile before she turns and starts walking away, with Bruce reluctantly in tow.

You're not so sure what to do now that you're on your own, so you pick up a flute of champagne from a waiter and make your way through the crowds of people. You talk to family friends, introduce yourself to unfamiliar faces and chat about any new plans or projects you have in the works to aid the city. You keep a smile plastered on your lips and a glass in your hand at all times, ready to greet anyone and everyone. It's exhausting, you have to admit that, but it's what you do. Occasionally, you feel Bruce’s eyes on you. When he's not in conversation, and even when he is, you feel him staring right at you from across the room. You're surprised he can even find you amongst the crowd of black suits and dresses, but he does. Every single time. You always look back, give him a reassuring smile and watch as he visibly relaxes. You're glad he's making an effort, that he's finally giving the mayor a chance to speak to him and discuss how he's going to help the city (though if she knew even half of what Bruce had done for Gotham, you're sure there's no way she'd be on his case about it). You can't wait for him to be back by your side, though. He's a comfort to you just as much as you're a comfort to him.

You're at a small table in the corner that's covered with champagne flutes, your back turned, when you feel hands grab on to your waist from behind. You gasp and jolt backwards, bumping against a firm chest. You're about to swing your elbow back when you hear a familiar huff in your ear, the fingers on your waist digging into your flesh lightly, forcing a quiet giggle out of you and making you squirm in his grasp. You curse the day he realised you're ticklish. “You're an asshole.” You mumble, but there's no real anger or annoyance in your tone. “How'd it go?” You ask, picking up a flute and bringing it to your lips.

“Terribly.” He says simply, though there's amusement laced in there somewhere and you know he's messing around.

“Hm. I'm sure it was awful. I bet she had you talking about all sorts of diabolical shit. Like going outside, making more public appearances, attending meetings, doing inter—”

Bruce squeezes your waist gently, cutting you off, “Yeah, yeah. I get it.” A pause. “Can we leave now?”

You pry his hands from your waist and turn around, your eyebrows raised in amusement. It's not a shock to you that he's already so eager to leave. “You wanna go? Already?”

He nods his head once. “I did what you asked me to do. I spoke with the mayor. You said we could leave early, so let's go.” He tries to tug on your arm, but you stay firmly in place.

God, you've only had two or three glasses to drink but you're already feeling slightly fuzzy. You give him your best pout, “You wanna get rid of me already?”

A beat of silence. His brows furrow, “That's not— I didn't—”

“We should dance.” You tell him. There's an orchestra playing in the background, certainly not anything yourself or Bruce would typically listen to, but that's not a problem to you. There's other couples dancing in the middle of the room, stiff and looking far from happy. Probably talking about some important matter or another that would be too intense to discuss without the distraction of dance.

“I can't dance.” A lie, for sure.

You scoff, shaking your head, “Do not disrespect Alfred like that ever again. I know he's taught you how to dance.”

He sighs, fully aware that you're right. Alfred would scold him for that. “Fine, then I don't dance.”

“You could.” You retort.

“I don't like dancing.” He says.

“Do you like anything?” You ask playfully.

His mouth opens and closes for a moment, as if there's something he want to say, but he's just not quite sure how to say it, or if he can at all. “I just don't want to.” He says, as if it's final, but you know he'll cave.

“I think it'd be fun. Just one dance.” You hold up your index finger, as proof that you truly mean just one dance.

He's silent for a moment, and you hope he's considering you. “People will talk.” He mumbles. About him, about you, about your maybe, sort of, kind of relationship. About your outfit, his hair. About why he's here tonight, why he came with you on his arm. You can understand why taking your hand and allowing you to lead him into the middle of the room, to have him wrap his arms around you and pull you close in front of so many people would be so daunting, but—

“Fuck it.” You say confidently. “People are always gonna talk. They're talking right now and we're just standing here.” You bring your hands up and cup his cheeks, looking up at him. “Let them.” You grab his hand suddenly and begin leading him to the dance floor. He tries to pull against you, to tug you backwards, but you don't care, you know he'll give up eventually. And he does. He reluctantly lets you guide him around small crowds of people and couples dancing together until you're right in the middle of… everything. The room, the dance floor, the crowd. The song that's playing is something classical. You think you recognise it, though you can't quite put a name to it. You don't really care to. You're more focused on Bruce. He looks so fucking awkward, and you can't help but feel guilty. But then you remember that if he really didn't want to dance, he would have said so. He's a big boy, and you're sure he can make his own decisions.

So, you wrap your arms around his neck, and after a moment of hesitation and a barely audible sigh, his hands find their way to your waist. You're quiet, just watching him and his facial expressions. His eyes are flickering around the room, his lips pressed into a thin line, and there's a slight tinge of pink in his cheeks. Completely different to the angry red you saw earlier. You can feel the stares, the whispers and the conversations, and you're sure not all of them are about you but you know he probably thinks otherwise. You know he wants nothing more than to sink into the floor. “Hey…” you whisper, catching his attention. “It's okay. Forget about them. It's just us. We're alone. Just me and you.”

He doesn't respond, but he sways when you sway, he moves when you move, breathes when you breathe, until the pressure releases from his shoulders and he relaxes into the dance. He still looks anxious, and slightly uncomfortable, but you're just grateful he's still entertaining you. He never did know how to say no to you, after all.

“I'm sorry.” His quiet voice cuts through the silence between the two of you. It's so sudden, and it almost makes you jump.

You're confused, though. “You're sorry… for what?” You ask slowly. You're not trying to make him admit anything, you're genuinely baffled. He hasn't made any sudden moves to leave, he hasn't left you stranded, or done anything wrong at all.

“Yesterday… when you said you were sorry for leaving for so long. I never said sorry. So I'm saying it now.” He's not looking at you, instead choosing to look straight over your shoulder, but you know he's being sincere. “I missed you.” He breathes out.

You screw your eyes shut for a moment, shaking your head. “No— You don't— Please don't be— We're both at fault.”

“I guess we are.” He looks at you, finally. Wanting you to know that he really, truly means every word. “I thought about you every day.”

You glance up at him, slightly taken aback by that admission. “Y-you did?” You curse yourself internally for stuttering over your words. God, you must sound so pathetic.

“Yeah. I did.”

“Well… you could have called.” You shrug. “I don't bite.”

“I wouldn't say that.” He's teasing you, and he's trying so hard to stop himself from grinning at his own joke.

“Wow, your comedy career’s really coming along, huh?” You bite back (fitting), but there's no malice. You take note of the fact that he doesn't even entertain the idea that you could have called him. He's somewhat self aware, at least.

“Hm. It could use some work.” A beat of silence. “I'm sorry, though. Truly. I—” He stops himself, because he knows you're about to cut him off. The look he gives you is stern, and you back down instantly, deciding to stay quiet. “I'm sorry for driving you away. It shouldn't ever be that complicated.”

“I don't mind complicated. I just— I just needed a little time. I was always gonna come back because— Fuck. Because I can't stay away from you. I'd go through forty sleepless nights in a row for you.” It's all coming out now. You're just talking and talking and you can't stop it, you're not even sure that you want to stop it.

“You shouldn't have to—”

“But I want to. I just— I want you. And everything that comes with having you.” You admit quietly, barely above a whisper. It occurs to you then that you've become the couple on the dance floor having an intense discussion. But it's not about finances or divorce or whatever the hell else, it's more along the lines of love. “I want you.” You repeat, reaffirming it to yourself and to him.

He's silent, and you fall silent too. You're not sure what to do, what he wants you to do. You're just staring at each other, and you only realise now that you stopped swaying along to the music a long time ago. You feel his hands move to your hips, pulling your body closer to his, and you take the opportunity to slide your hands from the back of his neck to his cheeks. He's leaning down, and you’re standing up on your tiptoes to meet him in the middle. Everything's so fucking loud, now. You can hear every word of every conversation around you, your heart thumping in your ears, though you can't hear your own breathing. Are you even breathing? Fuck. You don't know. Fuck. Are you breathing? It's all too much. You feel like you're going insane. You can't think or do anything. It's getting louder and louder, to the point where even quite exchanges seem deafening.

Until your lips meet his, and then the room falls quiet. Well, not really. But it feels like it does. You can't hear anything now, you're so focused on him and his lips and how they mesh perfectly with yours. It feels like the first time. It's not. It's far from the first time you've kissed the prince of the city, actually. But those sparks you felt in your stomach the first time, the ones that sent tingles through your entire body and made your legs feel like jelly are back in full force. You don't want to pull away, to be reminded that you're in a room full of people you don't know and probably don't like, to be reminded that people are watching. You want to stay in this little world that you've created forever, where it's just the two of you alone together.

He pulls away first, and you almost whine in protest as you pull him back in for another. And another. And another. Just one more. One more. His shoulders are shaking in silent laughter as you refuse to let him go, to let your lips part from his just yet. When you eventually pull back, you grin at him. It's lazy and love-drunk, and you're sure he's looking at you in the same way. “I want you.” You tell him again.

He doesn't need to say it back, and he probably won't. At least, not here. It's okay, though. You don't need him to. You know he feels the same way. You can see it in the way he looks at you. He's smiling. Like, actually smiling. In public. And that's enough for you to know that he feels the same way. He wants you too.

“Hey, do you wanna get out of here?” You ask, smiling to yourself because just ten minutes ago you were practically begging him to stay. Now, you just want to be alone with him.

“Yeah. I do.” He breathes out, and within a second he's grabbing your hand gently. He leads the way this time, weaving you through the crowd, ignoring everyone's stares and calls of his name or yours, dead set on making it to and through the wooden doors without interruption. You're giggling the whole time, and from the few glimpses you catch of his face, you think he's smiling.

When you make it outside, still hand in hand, you're not exactly thrilled to see that the press are still there, camera men and journalists focusing all of their attention on the doors, ready to capture any and all swift exits. You notice that the guy from earlier, the one who called Bruce’s father a murderer, has gone, and you thank your lucky stars for that. The attention is on you immediately, from the moment you step foot through the doors. They're shouting his name, snapping pictures, vying for any trickle of attention they can get from him, for anything to talk about in their gossip columns or front pages. He's intent on leaving, but you're more than happy to give them something to talk about.

You stop right in the middle of the marble staircase, and he stops too when you tug his arm back. “What are you doing? What's wrong?” He asks, his brows furrowed.

“Come here.” He doesn't move. “Just come here, Bruce.” You encourage.

Slowly, he makes his way up the few steps between you, and you waste no time in flinging your arms around his neck and planting a kiss on his lips. You can hear the cameras snapping photos, and even with your eyes closed you can still see the faintest flash of white light.

You know he won't be happy when he wakes up the next morning and reads the headlines, when he sees the photos plastered in every newspaper and magazine, but you can't really bring yourself to care. You're his, and he's yours, and you don't care who knows it anymore. It's your world, and you're alone together. People will talk, so let them talk.

#bruce wayne x reader #batman x reader #battinson x reader #bruce wayne #batman #the batman #battinson #bruce wayne imagine #bruce wayne one shot #batman one shot #batman imagine #bruce wayne x you #batman x you #bruce wayne fluff #bruce wayne fic #batman fic #i'm so sorry this is so cringe #<33

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suga-kookiemonster · 2 years

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this christmas | myg

part of the happy ho-lidays collab with @floralseokjin @sugaurora @underthejoon @winetae @btssavedmylifeblr and @kpopfanfictrash!

summary⇢ it's been a while since you've been home for the holidays, but this year, you finally plan on rectifying that. things are going well for you—great job, great friends, and a new boyfriend who you have a pretty great feeling about—and it seems everything in your life is finally slotting into place. but, of course, the past is a relentless specter and the universe always has a way of humbling you. in a ridiculous twist of fate, you soon find yourself stuck in a car with the very reason you have avoided coming back in the first place. pairing⇢ yoongi/reader word count⇢ 30.1k 🥴😭 rating⇢ 18+ genre⇢ smut | exes!au | road trip!au warnings⇢ angst, sexual content, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, fingering, men being assholes, an instance of underage drinking, lots of passive aggressiveness, jimin meaning well, yoongi having absurd amounts of patience and thus being very on brand, phewww does oc really go through it 😭 a/n⇢ *casually strolls in months late, sipping on eggnog* HELLO, FRIENDS 🥴 yeah, so. in true ashley fashion, this fic exploded and sprinted wayyyy past what i thought the word count would be, so now here we are 😭 😭 decking the halls in black history month LMAO! this was truly a labor of love because y’all know i don’t have the patience to write things like this in one go. but here we are!! we made it!!! 😮‍💨 🎶AND THIS CHRISTMASSSSS...WILL BEEEEEE 🎶 🎄❄️✨ of course, the title of this fic is from this holiday classic, but i would say the mood is more this. thank you for being so patient and i hope you enjoy! 😊

The restaurant Jimin chose for lunch somehow manages to straddle the line between upscale and super trendy, every seat surprisingly occupied despite the menu prices being a bit much for the way your bank account is set up.

You frown a bit in thought, curious how they get so much foot traffic during the lunch rush when most people just want something fast and cheap. The restaurant is in a prime downtown location, but you suspect the true reason is the same one that had Jimin so excited to bring you here—the food is reportedly amazing.

Leah’s eyes are kind of round too as she browses the menu. “All I can say is that I’m glad you’re treating,” she tells Jimin lightly. “I’ve been meaning to come here for forever, but I could never get a table.”

“I know a guy,” Jimin dismisses easily with a shake of his head, “and when I heard you guys have never tried their sweet potato fries, I had to take matters into my own hands. That is unacceptable.”

Twelve bucks for a single order of fries seems excessive to you, but not to your friend, apparently. You can tell from the look on his face that he’s completely serious, and you can’t help but smile at his dramatics. It’s one of the things you love about Jimin—he’s friendly and silly and fun, but when it comes to things he’s passionate about, there is no room for games. When you first met him years ago, you noticed right away how sweet and welcoming he was, and while him chatting you up had certainly been a bit off-putting at a 9am meeting before your coffee had even had a chance to hit your bloodstream, you got used to it pretty quickly. Jimin is a definite mood setter, and you have always appreciated that quality in people, especially when in rooms full of pessimists and grumps. It didn’t take very long for him to declare himself your work husband, and the two of you became fast friends.

“Sweet potato fries,” you hum, scanning the menu. “What else is good here?”

Leah clicks her tongue thoughtfully. “I’ve heard the pork belly sandwich is literally orgasmic, so that is what I will be ordering. I need something to spice up my Wednesday.” She doesn’t even attempt to lower her voice, but that’s the reason why the two of you became friends—aside from being smart as a whip, Leah says what she means and means what she says. You really respect that about her, although at this current moment, you wonder if you should worry about her actually getting off in front of everybody in this nice restaurant. “_____, you should get one too.”

“I have no issues in that department, thank you,” you scoff.

“You don’t want a little variety?” Leah teases with a taunting brow. “Give a delicious sandwich a go instead of your hand?”

“Now Lee, that’s not fair,” Jimin smirks, not even bothering to look up from his menu. “You know she has a new plaything.”

“For the last time, his name is Alex,” you huff. “And he’s not a plaything.”

That gets Jimin’s attention—he perks up, excitedly leaning over the table towards you. Hell, even Leah’s looking at you now. Fortunately for you, your waitress chooses this exact moment to come over and take your orders, so you have a few more seconds to prepare yourself for the third degree you know is coming.

The conversation has distracted you from properly scoping out your choices, so, not wanting to waste the waitress’s time, you simply order the pork belly sandwich with sweet potato fries. Your friends quickly order the same.

“Not a plaything?” Jimin demands, focus whipping back to you the moment your waitress’s back is turned. “What does that mean? Is this one getting serious?”

You’re not offended by your friends’ surprise. A little sheepish that it has come to this, but not offended. You don’t blame them, really—in the years you’ve known them, you’ve never really kept the same guy around for very long. Leah in particular has always encouraged your rather nomadic dating style, seeing nothing wrong with you having fun and playing the field.

But shuffling through men like playing cards has never been your intention. From the outside in, it certainly may look like you’ve been happily flitting about, carefree. But the truth?

Nothing in these past few years has ever felt quite right.

So you just kept trying. Hell, you’re not proud to admit it, but you had even scoped out Jimin when you first met him, strategically just happening to be printing something or getting more coffee at the same times he was. (The universe shut that down for you real quick. One casual mention of his long-term boyfriend and you realized you were barking up the wrong tree. And honestly? It was all for the best.)

But are things getting serious with Alex? “…Maybe,” you carefully answer Jimin. Because you don’t want to jinx it, but if nothing else, things with Alex have seemed different than your other fleeting dalliances. You’ve actually been consistently seeing each other for three whole months now, and that’s the longest you’ve been with someone since—

Since.

“Wait,” Leah gasps. “You guys have talked about being exclusive?”

“Not exactly,” you admit. “But if we’re not at work, we’re with each other, so I don’t think he’s seeing anyone else. And I took a chance and invited him to come home with me for Christmas, and he seems excited to go.”

You don’t miss the look your friends shoot each other, and you steel yourself for your bubble to be burst. But to your surprise, they’re both uncharacteristically silent for a moment before Jimin simply lets out a low whistle. “Damn, meeting the parents.”

“He would have met my family already if we lived in the same city,” you reason, trying not to sound defensive. Trying not to be defensive.

“The holidays are a big step though.” There is a slight furrow to his brow. Is he judging? You can’t tell if he’s judging.

Even though your hackles are threatening to rise, you truly do appreciate your friends’ skepticism. It’s not like you don’t have the same concerns. You’re not proud of some of the choices you’ve made in the past few years, and you’re rightfully wary about the fact that things with Alex have been going so well.

But at the end of the day, life is a journey that sometimes has you lost in the weeds. Still, this time, you really think you may finally be navigating back to the right path. And so you’d rather not overthink it.

More quickly than you expect, your food arrives. “Three pork belly sandwiches,” your waitress chirps, easily distributing plates from her expertly balanced tray. “Let me know if I can get you guys anything else!”

The three of you dig in immediately, hungry and cognizant of the time restraints of your lunch break. Unsurprisingly, you find everything lives up to the hype.

“Oh my god,” Leah moans, mouth full of meat. You really hope she was joking about the orgasm thing, because that might make for a pretty awkward meal.

Jimin smiles from ear to ear, looking between the two of you so he doesn’t miss any of your reactions. “Right? Isn’t that the best pork belly you’ve ever had?”

It’s not. It’s amazing, for sure, but you can’t help but remember you’ve had better.

Leah moans again in agreement. You hum noncommittally, refusing to acknowledge the memory dangerously whispering from the corner of your mind.

“So.” Jimin smirks, leaning conspiratorially towards you again. “Tell us more about Not-a-plaything-Alex.”

Your eyes narrow, unamused. “I’m not really sure what you want me to say—I’ve literally been telling you about him for months.”

He waves a hand dismissively. “Yes, yes, but I wasn’t really listening. But now that I know he’s important, that changes everything.”

“…Really, Jimin?” you deadpan, turning to Leah in your indignation, but only find her sheepishly avoiding eye contact and stuffing a fry in her mouth. “Are you guys being serious right now?”

Leah holds up her hands placatingly. “Okay, but in my defense, I didn’t know if this one would stick!” A twinge of hurt goes through you at her laugh, but you push it down. “We haven’t even met him yet. But if you think this one’s a keeper, I’d love to. Gotta see if the lucky bastard who’s won my girl’s heart is good enough.”

Your lips quirk. “Maybe after the holidays. Remember, I’m going to be working from home through most of January.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot about that. That’s a long time,” Jimin mused.

“I haven’t been back home in a while,” you admit. Your friends share another knowing look, but you pretend not to see. “I’ve had short visits, but it’s been a few years since I’ve actually been back for the holidays. Christmas is such a big deal in my town that I figured I’d just stay a little longer.” Plus, you were extremely guilty when you saw just how excited your mother got when you told her you were thinking of coming home this year. You didn’t have it in you to make excuses again when you know how much it means to her. It’s time.

“Aw, that’s really nice,” Leah smiles. “I’m glad you and your family will be able to spend some time together.”

“Yeah, hopefully we don’t end up driving each other crazy.” You take a sip of your water. “I love my family, but when we all get together for long periods of time, sometimes we get on each other’s nerves.”

“That’s why me and Joon are just gonna drop by both of our families this year,” Jimin says with a knowing nod. “It’s harder for them to trap you if you have multiple houses to get to. We did the same thing on Thanksgiving and it worked like a charm.”

“Well, I’m driving in, so if it gets too bad, I can just leave,” you laugh. Because that’s definitely a joke. The drama that would result from you dipping out early wouldn’t be worth the couple hours of short-lived peace. “Besides, since Alex is coming, I’m sure my family will keep their dramatics to a minimum.”

“That’s exciting,” Jimin says, and you can tell he means it. You can tell both of your friends are being sincere, despite their caution.

“Yeah. We’re happy for you, _____,” Leah says softly. “Because you seem happy.”

And she’s right. You are, and you haven’t truly been in a while.

“Thanks, babe.” You give her knee a squeeze, clearing your throat. “Anyway, I would just like to point out for the record that, while delicious, there has been zero stirring in my nether regions, and I was promised a much different experience.”

“She’s just been spoiled by the not-a-plaything plaything,” Jimin says dismissively.

“Yup.” Leah pops the p, takes another bite. “Because I’m having a great time.”

You pull a face. “Please don’t.”

After lunch, the three of you head back to the office. Leah technically works for a different company, so she leaves the elevator a few floors before you and Jimin do, waving a lax hand at you as she departs. (It’s not really a goodbye, though. The holidays being so near means that everyone is pretty much coasting until their supervisor overlords deem it time to free them, so you know she’s probably going to use her precious procrastination time to send something weird and or scandalous to your groupchat later this afternoon.) You and Jimin exit on your floor and separate to return to your respective desks in your respective departments.

You’re full, almost uncomfortably so, so you can barely focus on your emails, too busy digesting to really act on anything pressing. You decide instead to use the professional breathing room the holidays provide to work on an ongoing project that always gets pushed to the bottom of your to-do list.

It’s when you’re a couple hours into this task that you finally get interrupted.

“Hey.”

You hum in acknowledgement at the familiar voice, but you don’t look up right away, in the final leg of balancing a spreadsheet and not wanting to get distracted in the middle of typing a formula. It’s only when you confirm that everything looks as it should that you turn around. Jimin is leaning comfortably against the wall of your cubicle, seemingly in no hurry to get back to his own area.

“What’s up?” you ask, curious why he didn’t just email or chat you.

“You’re from Northdale, right?” he asks thoughtfully.

You pause a bit in confusion, wondering where he’s going with this. “Yeah.”

His face lights up. “That’s what I thought! Wow, crazy small world. Listen, I have another friend from Northdale who decided last minute to go home for the holidays, but because he waited so long, the flight prices are ridiculous now. Would you and Alex be willing to let him ride with you?”

“Alex is actually going to meet me down there,” you say, biting your lip in thought. “He still has to work for a couple more days later than I wanted to wait.”

“Oh.” Jimin blinks a bit at this news. “Well, even better, because you shouldn’t have to make that drive alone. He said he’d be more than happy to pay you.”

“Have I met him before?” you ask curiously. You’ve been out clubbing with some of Jimin’s friends before, and they’re all delightful. If anything, it would be a nice switch up to the hours of mindless driving you have planned.

Jimin looks to the ceiling in thought. “No, I don’t think so.”

Hmm. You’re a little more wary about being stuck in the car with a stranger for six hours, let alone a strange man. But Jimin is a good guy, and you know he would never associate with any psychopath murderers, much less put them in a car with you. Unless he’s still mad about you eating his donut last week, that is.

Jimin holds up his hands reassuringly, as if reading your mind. “He’s cool, I promise! He’s a generally quiet guy who I am 99% sure will just sleep the whole way.”

Well, that detail certainly sweetens the pot. Get paid to go where you’re going anyway, and not even have to entertain anyone in exchange? Sounds like a no-brainer to you. Still, you want to be sure to confirm the logistics before you promise anything. “He’d probably have to find a way back here,” you point out. “You know I’m gonna be there well after New Year’s.”

“He only mentioned needing a ride there, so he must already have a way back,” Jimin continues. “But hey, seriously. Don’t worry about it if this is something you’re not interested in. Just thought I’d ask because it seemed like a win-win situation for both of you!”

“Yeah,” you agree slowly, still considering the situation from all angles.

“Besides,” Jimin continues, “you know I would never suggest it if I thought he was dangerous or obnoxious or liable to snore or anything like that.” His head tilts in thought. “I think the two of you would get along really well, actually. Same humor.”

Oh, what the hell. Might as well make some easy money—you did go a little overboard with buying presents this year. “Well in that case,” you shrug, “send me his address—tell him I can pick him up tomorrow at 9am. I’m trying to beat traffic out of the city.”

“Perfect! I’ll have Joon send you his number,” Jimin winks.

“Thanks.” You eye him warily, suddenly suspicious that this might be a setup. Jimin has always enjoyed dropping eligible bachelors in your lap, but it’s been a while since he’s done so. Plus, now that you’ve told him your situation with Alex is moving in a more serious direction, it’s probably more likely that he’s winking simply because he’s Jimin and an incorrigible flirt. (It’s been years, but Jimin still loves to tease you about your previous, doomed crush on him. Even though you’ve long since mentally cemented him in the friend category, you still have eyes. Jimin is handsome and he knows it and he loves to use all of this knowledge to periodically fluster you because he loves the attention.)

But if your friend clocks your suspicion, he doesn’t say anything. He simply waggles his fingers at you and meanders back to his desk.

Even though it was ultimately your decision to leave so early, it doesn’t make it any easier when your alarm drags you, kicking and screaming, back into consciousness. Your hatred for packing means that, as per usual, you put it off until you had absolutely no choice but to do so. (Which, of course, translates to the night before, after you had eaten dinner and watched some tv and taken a shower and were good and ready to go to bed.) As a result, you were up until well after 1am, cranky about your procrastinating ways and how you were now forced to sort through your belongings and choose a month’s worth of necessities at ass o’ clock at night.

Never a morning person in general and your current sleep-deprived state now making you even less so, you know the only way you’re going to survive your upcoming journey is good old fashioned caffeine. (Preferably injected straight into your veins, but since you doubt you can find someone willing and able to do so on such short notice, you guess coffee will have to do.) You scroll your phone as you start your morning routine, searching for the number Namjoon provided you with the day before.

You reached out last night, simply asking for his address so you can swing by to get him, but now you have other plans, awkwardly typing out a text with one hand as you brush your teeth.

[8:04] Hey, it’s _____, your ride for today! I feel like literal death rn, so I’m going to need some coffee. Do you mind meeting me at that cafe on 2nd?

[8:05] We can leave from there!

To your surprise, you see the little text bubble pop up right away, the hovering gray dots clueing you in that he’s typing. Looks like he is much more of an early bird than you. God, you hope Jimin’s prediction that he’ll be quiet the whole drive comes true, cause you are nowhere near being in the mood to be fake friendly right now.

[8:05] 🚘 Sounds like a plan. I was up late working last night, so I’m probably worse off than you

[8:05] 🚘 Was actually just about to run out and get us some, so that works out. I’ll meet you there!

Us? Wow, that’s super thoughtful of him. Maybe you’re being a little too judgmental of this stranger you know absolutely nothing about. Well, nothing except the fact that you have the same humor as him, apparently. You’ve always been a rather wary person, but sleep deprivation is definitely loosening the reins on your inner bitch.

“Let me hurry up and get this coffee so I can turn into more of a decent person,” you mutter to yourself, rinsing your mouth of foam.

[8:06] Great. See you soon!

Saying you wanted to meet at the café on 2nd made perfect sense when you suggested it, but that is easier in theory than practice. Turns out, your sluggish brain completely forgot that, unlike other times you have dropped by to satisfy your caffeine fix, you would now have a car that you needed to deal with. And finding parking near one of the busiest intersections in the city is no easy feat.

It takes you an extra fifteen minutes of circling the area before a spot around the corner opens up, and you basically have to block the flow of traffic to ease your car into it. You’re usually pretty decent at parallel parking, but your skill gets put to the test when there is a line of impatient cars watching you try to quickly maneuver out of their way. It’s stressful, but you make it into the spot on your second try, agitated, but markedly more awake.

The coffee will still be nice for when your nerves finally calm, though, so you don’t hesitate to make your way to the café, curious if your new road buddy is already here. You purposely padded in some time when you left your house this morning, so as long as he meets you in the next ten minutes or so, the two of you can still leave on time.

The café is bustling when you enter, the holiday season undoubtedly luring more people than the typical morning rush out of their homes. You hover a bit by the entrance, mulling over whether you should go for a festive holiday drink or simply just get what you always do. But just when you’ve decided and are about to join the line, someone further up catches your eye.

Your breath halts, whole body locking up as you stare in disbelief at the man waiting to order.

No way.

There’s no fucking way.

From this angle, you can only see a bit of his profile, his face partially obscured by the way he has tucked his chin to better focus on scrolling his phone. But the set of his shoulders under his beige coat is hauntingly familiar, as is the lax stride he has when the line moves forward a bit. It’s when he happens to shift just enough, head reflexively turning when someone accidentally bumps into his suitcase, that your suspicions are proven correct.

You rush back outside, hands shaking as you scramble through your coat pockets for your phone.

“Hello?” He answers on the second ring, his quiet greeting still colored with sleep. He’s usually not out of bed this early and you have likely woken him up, but you don’t give a single shit about that right now.

“Jimin,” you hiss into the phone, heart thundering in your ears. You’re leaning on the side of the building, mostly to be sure you can’t be seen through the windows, but you’d be lying if you said the cold brick wasn’t also helping to support you. Wasn’t helping to ground you.

You don’t wait for your friend’s reply. The words leave you, rushed and desperate. “Please tell me that the friend you have arranged for me to be stuck in the car with is not Min Yoongi. Please.”

There’s a long pause, one long enough for the panic coursing though you to rapidly be joined by dread.

“Jimin?” you press, bulldozing over his obvious confusion. “Is Yoongi your friend?”

“Um, well he’s mostly Namjoon’s,” he answers cautiously, your urgency clearly freaking him out a little. And as soon as he says the words, you feel like you’ve been socked in the gut. “Why, what’s going on? Do you know him?”

“Do I know him,” you repeat. Hands still trembling a bit from the adrenaline. “Do I know my ex-boyfriend? Yes. Yes, I think so.”

“Shit,” Jimin breathes, immediately recognizing the source of your distress. “That ex?”

“Yes, that one.” Your mouth is too dry, and it’s making it hard to swallow down the sudden lump in your throat. “Jimin, is this some kind of joke? Because I’m not laughing.”

“What? Of course not!” He sounds properly alarmed, and that smooths your frayed edges just a little. “I thought you’d be cute together, but—”

“Yeah, well so did I,” you snap. “And look where that got me.”

You can’t believe this is happening to you. This is a nightmare. “Are you seriously trying to set me up with someone a single day after I told you I’m in a relationship?” You know Jimin loves playing matchmaker, but you really thought he’d stop his meddling once you told him things were getting serious with someone.

“I just wanted you to keep your options open,” he says, voice small. “But _____, I promise I didn’t know, I swear to god! He works with Namjoon. We’ve had him over for dinner a handful of times, but I’ve never realized—you’ve never even told me his name—”

Jimin continues to nervously babble his defense, sounding appropriately guilty, but you only partially listen. Because you know this isn’t entirely his fault. No, because that’s not how your life works. This is obviously another case of the universe amusing itself at your expense, throwing you a sudden curveball just when you thought you were starting to get the hang of the game.

Merry Christmas to you.

“And Yoongi has never mentioned anything that would make me realize—I swear, I had no idea—”

“Okay,” you interrupt with a long exhale, closing your eyes. Trying to center yourself, to think things through.

There’s another extended silence, one empty of speech but screaming with your jumbled thoughts. Because your mind is nothing short of racing trying to work through this sudden problem.

Jimin’s thinking too—you can practically hear the rapidly spinning wheels over the phone—and it’s him who finally interrupts the quiet. “What are you going to do?” he murmurs worriedly.

One beat, two. Then you open your eyes, resolute. “I’m going to do exactly as I planned.”

“You’re going to drive down with him?” he asks, surprised and incredulous.

“It would be shitty of me to strand him here for the holidays. So I’ll just suck it up.” You exhale slowly. “Besides, once I reveal who exactly his ride is supposed to be, he might not come anyway.” He was the one who broke up with you, after all. That very fact implies that he no longer wants anything to do with you, including—but not limited to—being stuck in small spaces with you for hours on end.

“Yeah,” Jimin says, though he doesn’t exactly sound convinced.

“It’ll be okay,” you promise, trying to reassure you both. Trying to speak it into existence.

“I wasn’t lying when I said he’ll probably sleep the whole way! It’ll be really awkward at first, but maybe after that it’ll be fine.”

“I’m sure it will be.” You swallow, a little bit more calm now that you’ve had time to talk through the situation and let it marinate. “Okay, I gotta go, or I’ll be late.”

“Let me know when you make it home,” he stresses. “And call me if you need anything.”

You agree, hanging up before he can start to fall into another string of apologies. While appreciated, at the end of the day, his groveling isn’t going to change anything.

You might as well get on with it.

Mentally steeling yourself, you pull open the café door, warm air from inside rushing out to meet you. The length of your phone call means that Yoongi is now almost at the front of the line, and you determinedly put one foot in front of the other, making your way to him before you can change your mind.

The direction he’s facing means he doesn’t see you right away, and if you hadn’t seen his face earlier, you might not have noticed him either. Yoongi has always loved to experiment with hair dye—growing up, you remember him having a different hair color every time you happened to see him around town, so much so that he has been every color of the rainbow and you often worried whether it was straight up going to start falling out. It was light brown when he walked out of your life, but now, the strands he idly ruffles as he waits to order are black. The rare occurrence of him wearing his natural shade somehow just adds another layer to the surreal experience of seeing him, in the flesh, after all this time.

Yoongi reflexively looks in your direction as you approach him, his eyes widening after a few seconds when he realizes who he’s looking at. His lips part then quickly close, seeming to think the better of it. But ultimately, at this point, it would be too awkward for both of you if he pretended he didn’t see you when it’s clear he has. “Hi,” he offers reservedly.

It’s been a long time since you’ve heard his voice, and the familiar timbre of it strikes something deep inside you. You clear your throat, refusing to acknowledge how you’re being needled from the inside out. “You’re waiting for your ride, right?”

You see the exact moment when Yoongi’s surprise at running into you morphs into realization of what exactly is going on here. His eyes close for a second too long, letting out a slow exhale before opening them again. “And that’s you,” he acknowledges, expression carefully smoothed out. Nonthreatening.

But that does nothing to pacify your rising hostility, despite your best efforts. Rage starts to creep through you, ice cold at first, then quickly morphing to searing. “That’s me,” you parrot, tone clipped. “So. You live here now?”

You must be making some sort of face, because Yoongi says with a huff, “I’m not stalking you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Wow, how can a person be this obtuse? Of fucking course he’s not stalking you. But out of all the justified reasons you have to be pissed at him, why would that be his first thought?

Don’t let him get to you, you remind yourself, biting your tongue hard enough to taste metal. You force yourself to push your rising feelings down. It doesn’t matter. Clearly it hadn’t mattered to him then, so it shouldn’t matter to you now.

The two of you just look at each other, the silence between you charged and smothering. There is only one other person in front of him in line now, moving up to speak to the cashier. Finally, Yoongi lets out a long breath, shaking his head. “You know what? Don’t worry about it. I’ll find another way home.”

You thought time would have softened the blow of his rejection, but his easy dismissal only makes embarrassingly familiar emotions flare through you. Don’t let him get to you. “Yoongi, how else do you expect to get home? Christmas is in a few days.”

“I don’t know,” he says shortly, “but that’s not your problem. I’ll figure it out.”

Does the idea of being near you repulse him that much? This is ridiculous. It’s been three years. Three fucking years, so it shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. You’re over it.

You rub your temples, trying to will down the indignant embers threatening to spark into a raging wildfire. “We’re both adults,” you say evenly. “That was years ago, and whether or not you come with me, I will still be headed to the place you need to be. So unless you have a backup plan for last-minute transportation so close to Christmas, you might as well come with me.”

He stares at you, face unreadable. The person in front of him moves to wait for their drink at the other end of the counter, and you take that as your cue.

You’ve been as civil and reasonable as you can, considering the circumstances, but you’re not going to beg this man to come with you—you didn’t do it then, and you sure as hell aren’t going to do it now. Resolute, you turn on your heel and start walking out of the café, gracing him one last look over your shoulder. “Up to you, though. I’m parked around the corner and will be driving away in ten minutes.”

With that, you leave him there, satisfied that you’ve done your part in being a decent human being. The ball is completely in his court, and either way, there will be no skin off your back.

It’s not until you’re back in your car, blasting the heat in attempt to dispel the chill that it had taken on while you were gone, that you realize your mistake. In your flustered state, you’ve somehow managed to forget the single thing you had come here for in the first place—your coffee. Goddamnit.

Now even more irritated by the situation, you distractedly drum your fingers against the steering wheel, watching the clock. When you said ten minutes, you meant it. You refuse to give this man any more of your time or energy than explicitly necessary.

The simultaneous feelings of hurt and relief that come over you as his time limit dwindles is bizarre. But just as you’re about to pull off, there he is, suitcase and coffee in tow. He clearly recognizes your car, heading directly towards it, and with a shuddered breath, you unlock the doors.

Yoongi opens the passenger side, leaning over to hand you the cardboard coffee carrier he’s holding. You silently take it, side-eying the two large cups balanced inside. He’s always been a rather avid coffee drinker, but this amount of caffeine feels a bit excessive to you.

Oh well. None of your business, unless he’s going to make you stop for a bathroom every five minutes.

“Can you pop the trunk?” he asks quietly, looking in your direction, but not quite at you. You push the button in answer, eyes unwittingly trailing him in your side and rearview mirrors as he moves to the back of your car. You know from experience that he’s expertly rearranging everything you heedlessly threw in there so that his will fit as well.

After a bit, he slams the trunk closed, and your heart startles against your ribcage at the noise and its implications. Then he’s back, sliding into the seat next to yours and buckling his seatbelt.

“Here,” you say, handing him back his coffee.

He takes the carrier, but then removes one of the cups and holds it out to you. “This one is actually yours.”

“What?” you croak. A flurry of emotions rush through you, too many to name and too quickly to grasp.

Yoongi just shrugs and waggles the cup until you take it from him. He looks away, something more interesting apparently outside his window. “You forgot to get yours, so. I wasn’t sure if you wanted one of the holiday drinks, but figured this was a safe bet.”

“Thanks,” you murmur after a beat, blinking at the cup in your hands. It’s appropriately festive, with bursts of red and green and snow. You shake your head in an effort to dispel the thoughts swirling there, deciding to busy yourself with setting your phone in its designated holder so you’ll be better able to see the directions as you drive. A few taps as you enter your mom’s address and you’re finally ready to go, signaling and pulling from the curb.

It’s quiet for a while as you navigate your way out of the city, headed to the highway. Quiet, just as Jimin predicted. But this isn’t the same type of quiet you’re used to experiencing with Yoongi. It used to be comfortable, but now it feels anything but—you simply don’t know how to act around him anymore. Don’t know how to make this any less awkward. Even though just this morning you hoped for a silent driving companion, the current reality of that is starting to look a lot more like slow torture.

Distractedly, you take a sip of your coffee, and your gut immediately clenches when you recognize it to be your favorite.

He remembered.

Flustered at this realization, you chance a look at him from the corner of your eye. He’s idly tapping his fingertips against his knee, still staring unseeingly out his window.

You can’t help but think about how different this is from the last time the two of you were in this car. Similar, too, looking back.

You can’t help but wonder how you got here.

The car was quiet. Quiet, save the annoying, autotuned warbling of a Top 40 pop song that you knew he hated, yet for some reason was allowing to accompany your drive. Usually, Yoongi would immediately switch from the radio to one of his carefully curated playlists. (“You can literally pay to get radio play,” he had told you once. “Do you know what that means? It means that industry politics are constantly forcing you to listen to nothing but a steaming pile of vapid, overproduced garbage.”)

After the two of you got back in the car from the last rest stop, though, Yoongi never bothered to switch over to bluetooth. And so, vapid, overproduced garbage was what the two of you were listening to on your last leg of the trip, and you couldn’t help the growing sense of unease that settled in your stomach the longer you did.

“Babe,” you finally hedged. “What’s the matter?”

Yoongi blinked at the sound of your voice, awareness returning to his eyes as he was pulled from deep in his thoughts. He ruffled his light brown locks absently, gaze sliding from the road to you, in the passenger seat. “Hmm?”

“You just seem distracted.” Even now, even as he idly laced his fingers through yours, your joined hands resting on your thigh, it felt like he was simply going through the motions.

He squeezed your hand, looked away. “Just thinking of logistics.”

This was a fair response—this was an enormous leap for you, packing up all your things and moving to a new city hours away. You had mailed some of your stuff, and any boxes that you didn’t manage to squeeze into your car were due to arrive over the next few days. Yoongi was coming with you to make sure you got settled in okay, and that everything was set up the way it should be.

But alongside unease, hope cautiously bloomed. Because maybe, just maybe, your new apartment, your new city, would help Yoongi see. It had been hypotheticals ever since you told him about your job offer. But maybe seeing how real this was about to be would finally help him see just how easy it would be for him to be your constant amongst your growing list of new.

Maybe he would finally take the leap you were too scared to ask him to take.

You were a coward. Yes, you may have easily made the decision to move six hours away from your family and friends and everything else you’d ever known. But whenever you thought about putting all your cards on the table and pleading with the one who you quickly realized mattered most to come with—

You shook your head of the negative thoughts, ignoring the anxiety crawling up your throat. You hadn’t asked, but still, he was here. With you. And that had to mean something.

It didn’t, you came to realize days later. Days later, when, after he made sure you were all settled, Yoongi kissed you on the lips, wished you luck, and hopped on a plane back home. (You hadn’t even known he had bought a ticket.) And it definitely didn’t when a week after that, after your new job kept you busy and your conversations with him became sparse and dry, he finally sent you the text that shifted your world completely on its axis.

I think we should see other people.

The silence back then had been off-putting, but the silence that envelops the two of you now is just this side of excruciating. You don’t think can take this level of awkwardness for five hours.

There’s no reason to linger on the past. He hurt you, but it’s been three years and you’re over it. You’ve moved on, and as you know from your totally random, totally casual happenings across his social media, so has he! So there’s no need for this to be awkward.

Nodding to yourself, you decide to prove just how over it you are. “So how’s it going?” you hedge, the words settling lamely on your tongue, despite your best efforts.

Yoongi lifts an incredulous eyebrow at your poor attempt at conversation. He doesn’t answer, and for a few moments, you think he’s going to ignore you completely. But then, turning his attention back out his window, he says, rather mildly, “I should have known this was a set up.”

Your hackles raise, gaze snapping to his form. “I didn’t know it was you,” you say shortly.

“Obviously,” he snorts. “Or you would have never said yes.” There’s no bitterness in his tone, no malice. He just sounds a little amused and matter-of-fact, though you don’t find any of this funny. “And I didn’t know it was you either. Namjoon has mentioned you once or twice, but there are plenty of people with your name in a city that big.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, pushing down that petty part of you that wanted to ask him why, knowing he had left you in that exact city, his first instinct wasn’t to just assume it was you. As much as your ego hates to hear it, he’s right. It was much more likely for it not to be you than the alternative.

“How do you know him, by the way?” he asks. “I never would have pictured you running in the same circles.”

That’s a fair question. The common link that brought you back together, despite your best efforts. “I’m actually really good friends with his boyfriend,” you answer honestly. “We work together.”

“Huh. Small world.” He shakes his head, the corner of his lips dipping a bit in thought. “Actually, that’s probably why we’re here. My fault for letting it slip to Jimin the other day that I’m single. Cause now that I’m thinking about it, he seemed way too excited about helping me find a way home.”

You’re not really sure how to process this new information—not really sure what you’re supposed to do with it. Nothing, you remind yourself. Absolutely nothing. His relationship status has nothing to do with you. “…He means well,” you say instead, taking a sip of your coffee. “And if it makes you feel any better, this was definitely much more about trying to set me up than you. You just got caught in the crossfire.”

He’s quiet for a bit, that last tidbit left to marinate. But then he suddenly asks, “Did you change your number?”

“What?” is your immediate response, not prepared for the seemingly random subject change.

“I didn’t realize that you were the one I was texting, because I didn’t recognize your number. Did you change it?”

You restlessly drum your fingers against the steering wheel, willing the stoplight to turn green. It does, so you’re free to keep looking straight ahead as you reply, “I did. I changed carriers and they fucked up the transfer and I had to get a new number.”

“Oh. I thought you had just blocked me.”

That comment catches your curiosity enough that you do look at him now, eyes sliding over to his form. You can’t help but quirk your lips wryly at the way that now it’s him who’s now clearly avoiding eye contact. You look back at the road. “I did that too.”

What little rapport you were starting to gain fizzles out at that. The mood between you is quickly awkward again, heavy.

“So.” You clear your throat, not quite ready to return to silence, especially since he seems to be willing to answer your questions. “If you’re not stalking me, how did you end up back in the city?”

From the defensive lock of his body, Yoongi doesn’t seem to be amused by you throwing his words back into his face. Interesting, because he used to be one who could take a ribbing—teasing had been one of the cornerstones of your relationship, after all. Guess he doesn’t find this funny. “Work,” he replies tersely. “I got offered a position as an in-house producer about a year ago.”

And there it is.

For months afterwards you obsessed over it, night after sleepless night spent staring unseeingly at your tv with nothing but a bottle of wine keeping you company. For years you tried to justify it—to justify why, when things seemed to be going so ridiculously well, he would dump you out of the blue. Why, when his field of work could be done from literally anywhere, he wouldn’t want to come with you. Maybe he didn’t like the city, you desperately reasoned. And maybe he didn’t want a long-distance relationship.

But clearly you had been foolish in more ways than one. Hearing him so easily admit to moving for a job, it clearly wasn’t the city itself that was the issue.

It was you he didn’t want.

“Oh,” you croak, breath stuck in your throat. You see Yoongi glance at you in your peripheral, but you refuse to look in his direction, too busy trying to control the dejection creeping through your veins, threatening to settle deep in your marrow.

“Freelancing gave me more freedom, but benefits are hard to beat.” He pauses, clearly sensing your change in mood, but still continues, “I wasn’t looking for something here, you know. It just worked out that way.”

“Mmmm.” You take another sip of coffee, cup tight in your grip. And that’s all you can give him right now, because if you look at him, if you open your mouth, all of your repressed feelings will burst out. And you refuse to give him that satisfaction.

Yoongi takes the hint from your non-answer and doesn’t say anything else. You finally turn onto the highway ramp, immediately regretting it because now that you don’t have aggressive city drivers to look out for, there will be nothing else for you to focus on. You have to take another exit to get on the correct highway, but once you do, it’ll be nothing but you and Yoongi and an endless road for hours.

After a few more minutes, the uneasy silence is broken by your phone ringing through the car’s speakers. You glance down at the screen, and sigh when you realize just who’s calling. Your mother.

In her defense, you told her you would let her know when you were headed out, but Yoongi’s appearance threw you for such a loop that you completely forgot. You really don’t think talking to her now, with Yoongi in the car, is a good idea, but you also don’t have much choice—she’s only going to keep calling.

Resigning yourself to the awkwardness you know is about to occur, you click the answer button on your steering wheel. “Hello?”

“Hi sweetie.” Her voice is a bit loud through the speakers, but you can hear her blasting her Christmas playlist in the background, so that’s likely the culprit. Anyone who thinks she’s ever going to turn the volume down on The Temptations is in for a rude awakening. “I just wanted to check on you! Have you guys headed out yet?”

“Just turned onto 55,” you confirm. “So we should be there in five hours or so.”

“Perfect. Your sister wants to have pizza, so I’ll try to have it delivered around then.” She pauses, then asks slyly, “Is Alex driving?”

Yoongi had been busy quietly scrolling his phone, but now he shifts a little in his seat, suddenly more interested than he was moments ago.

“No,” you say, irritated. “I am.”

“Well then, why did you pick up the phone?” your mother asks sassily. “If you’re driving, then you need to focus.”

“I picked up because you called me,” you sass back. “And if I hadn’t, you would have panicked and assumed I was dead on the side of the road or something. So I just saved us both the trouble.”

“Well.” She huffs, and you laugh at that, because you both know you’re right. “Well, tell Alex I said hi and I can’t wait to meet him.”

“I'll be sure to tell him later,” you say, a bit uncomfortable at having this discussion in front of Yoongi.

“What, is he sleeping or something?”

“He’s not with me.”

Your mother pauses. “_____, what do you mean he’s not with you?”

“I mean, he’s not with me. He’s gonna come in separately in a few days.”

“So you’re making the drive alone?” There’s worry in her tone, clear as day. “You didn’t tell me that before.”

You let out a long exhale, wishing you were anywhere but here, having this conversation. “Because it’s not a big deal,” you say levelly. “And I can make the drive perfectly fine alone.” You hear her revving up to protest, to lecture you, but you are truly not in the mood to hear it. So before she can even start, you say, “But don’t worry. I’m not alone.”

That clearly throws her, because she’s quiet again as her brain processes that. “What?”

“I’m driving in with Yoongi,” you reluctantly admit.

“Yoongi?” Her shock is palpable, and honestly? You don’t blame her.

Me too, Mom. Me too.

But you know your mother. The second her shock wears off, she’s liable—and likely—to say something crazy and embarrassing. So before she regains her bearings, you quickly tack on, “So watch what you say! You’re on speaker.”

Your mom is a chatterbox, and she has also always loved Yoongi. That is a recipe for disaster, and you really hope you’ve nipped it in the bud.

“On speaker?” she repeats. Her surprise lasts a grand total of one second before she’s saying, “Yoongi, sweetie! How have you been doing?”

Your mother is truly a force, but for all his mellow personality, Yoongi has always enjoyed her. His lips quirk. “I’ve been doing really well, Mom. How about you?”

The word zaps through your body you like you stuck a fork in an electric socket, your heart clenching in your chest. When you were still dating, your mother insisted he call her that. It appears old habits die hard.

Neither of them notice your mounting distress, continuing to chat as if you aren’t there. “Oh, you know,” your mom laughs. “Can’t complain! You know, I was just talking to your mother the other day and she said you’ve been working a lot. You need to be sure you take care of yourself and get enough rest.”

“I will, Mom.”

You roll your eyes, irritated. How did she call you, and then immediately forget about you in favor of Yoongi? “Mom,” you interrupt. “We should go. I need to focus, remember?”

It is very obvious to everyone that you’re trying to rush her off the phone, but, though she’s privy to your shenanigans, your mother agrees to let you go. “Yeah, you’re right. Call me when you’re close, okay? And Yoongi, you take care of her, okay?”

The two of you lock eyes. You let out a long-suffering sigh.

“I always do,” he finally replies, and a tempest starts brewing within you at how sincere he sounds.

Living in a town that was relatively on the small side, it was pretty impossible for you to grow up without being aware of Min Yoongi’s existence. He lived a couple blocks away from you, after all, even though the arbitrary school district mapping meant that you ended up at different high schools. Still, being aware of him and knowing him were two different things. Your memory of him was erratic and infrequent—he was the quiet kid who moved to town in third grade and once let you borrow a pencil in class, and he was the mysterious guy you’d spot around town with hair that would be different shades every time—red, orange, green, blue.

You had never really given him much thought—never really had a reason to—and hadn’t realized that you had forgotten about him completely until one day, at a house party your junior year of college, you walked into the kitchen to refill your cup and oh. There he was. That guy.

You might not have noticed him at all if it wasn’t for his hair. He was standing alone, distractedly lifting his snapback and carding his fingers through his locks. The soft pink of the strands piqued your interest and unlocked memories that your brain had long ago deemed unimportant. Clearly intending to refill his cup as well, he just so happened to be standing right in front of the counter that had handles and mixers and everything else you needed to get properly tanked, and as he watched you approach, you could see a spark of recognition in his eyes.

Casually, he stepped out of your way, but his eyes still scanned your form in an effort to place you. After a moment, he nodded to himself, the slant of his mouth morphing his expression from uninterested to suddenly much more so. “_____,” he said, head tilting to the side a bit in thought. “Right?”

“Yeah.” You were surprised he even remembered you—never thought he had paid you much attention. But, you supposed, if you remembered him in passing, it wasn’t a stretch to think the same may have been true about him. That you weren’t as invisible as you always thought.

Yoongi nodded again, slowly. “Small world.” You hadn’t seen or thought about him in years, but it was strangely as if no time had passed at all. Just like back then, he was dressed head to toe in black—hat, shirt, skinny jeans, his favorite leather jacket—and this only made the cotton candy of his hair stand out even more in the poor lighting. Still, it was his lips that had your attention, your gaze drawn to the cocky curl of them as he leaned toward you. “What are you drinking?”

Those lips were what pressed into yours twenty minutes later on the couch, eager, yet unhurried. And in your bed an hour after that, they were all you could think about when he fervently licked a stripe up your slit, tongue hot and wet, long fingers digging into the meat of your thighs to keep you spread for him.

You thought that would be it. Yoongi was gone by the time you woke up, and that was perfectly fine with you, because you weren’t deluded into thinking what had happened was anything more than a romp of convenience. Some liquored up fun. But when you stumbled out of bed and found his phone number, scrawled on an old receipt, stuck to the front of your fridge with a magnet your roommate had gotten at a thrift store—

You realized it could be more than that.

Weeks went by, your attention easily stolen by your classes. Your long list of assignments kept you busy—much too busy for you to consider venturing out to any more weekend parties. But it also kept you stressed, anxiety bubbling beneath your skin at the looming deadlines, and you knew that wouldn’t do. That wasn’t productive.

One Friday night, after struggling for hours to focus on some assigned reading, you finally just gave up and decided to go to bed. Ideally, a good night’s rest would be the reset you needed, would calm your neurotic brain down enough for you to try again tomorrow. But awake you stayed, unable to stop the flurry of thoughts even for a moment.

You groaned in frustration. There was one option you could try, but to your chagrin, it hadn’t been very helpful lately. Usually, some quality time with your hand would mellow you out enough to fall right asleep, but you discovered over the past few days that your stress was at the point that not even pulling out your vibrator would do much more than leave you frustrated, unsatisfied, and still awake.

Fuck being responsible! Look where that had gotten you. You should have just gone with your friend to the party she had been trying to convince you to ditch your reading for. You hadn’t been to a proper party since—

You paused at the thought, considering. That was the last time you had gotten such a great night’s sleep, too. You had been fucked so properly, your body hadn’t had much of a choice.

It was an interesting idea, at least in concept. He had left you the number because he wanted you to use it, right? So why not contact him? Worst that happened was that he didn’t answer, and you were no worse for wear.

Curious now that you had the thought in your head, you texted Yoongi, even though a glance at the time told you he was probably well into his Friday plans.

[10:47] Hey, it’s _____. We met a few weeks ago

[10:47] what are you up to tonight?

It surprised you when his answer came a mere ten minutes later.

[10:58] Unknown we met a long time before that, babe

You blinked at his response, lips quirking at his easy flirtation. Huh.

[10:59] Unknown not doing much. But what do you have in mind? 😉

In fifteen minutes, Yoongi was toeing his shoes off by your front door. He calmly greeted you, body language completely lax, and it was as if he was merely coming over to help you study.

But the look in his eyes when he finally caught your gaze…your skin prickled in excitement at the promise in them.

And he more than held up to his end of the bargain. Yoongi fucked you just as thoroughly as the last time, though he was a bit more rough. Almost impatient. His hands, large and calloused, roamed every inch of you—fingers digging into the meat of your ass, sinking into your hips, resting on the column of your throat—all so he could properly maneuver you over his unrelenting cock. He licked a path up your jaw and into your mouth, swallowing your moans like a starving man. And it was only after your pussy had clamped down on him twice that his biology finally responded to yours, whole body shuddering as he came into the condom.

For a few minutes, the two of you laid there in silence, sweaty and satisfied. And that’s when the endorphins did exactly what you needed them to do—you started to feel the blissful fatigue that often preceded a good night’s rest. Before you drifted off to dreamland, though, you rolled out of bed and made your way to the bathroom for your post-sex pee.

To your surprise, Yoongi was still there when you returned to your room. Honestly, it looked like he hadn’t even moved a muscle, though the used condom in your trash can told you otherwise. He just looked so comfortable in your bed, the pink of his hair a stark contrast against your gray sheets.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, voice a content rumble.

And so the two of you ordered a pizza from that one place in Collegetown that wasn’t really that great, but was fast and open late. You ate it together in your bed, naked, and chatted about back home. And when you finally fell asleep that night, it was to the sound of his heartbeat, lulling you under with its soothing rhythm.

It was never explicitly stated that the two of you were exclusive. The dick appointments kept occurring more regularly, sometimes initiated by you, sometimes him. But whatever was happening between you quickly grew to be something more than just sex, and it hit you one day when you realized Yoongi had allocated a whole drawer of his dresser to your things for those nights you stayed over. If that wasn’t enough, it became obvious in the way your texts, originally only sent around the weekends, morphed into weekdays, and then every day, multiple times a day. Morphed into calls, too, because even though you weren’t one who enjoyed talking on the phone, Yoongi apparently was, calling you when he knew you were home from classes just to ask how your day was. And then that changed to him not calling you as much, because he was with you, your time after classes spent in each other’s company, either in his apartment or yours.

It finally occurred to you just how serious it all had become when you showed up to Yoongi’s apartment one night and found him fussing over pork belly that he had been slow roasting for you for hours. When it was you who called him, at the store trying to choose the perfect gift for his niece’s birthday party.

It felt like you blinked, and what had started off as a few nights of no strings attached fun became almost two years full of nothing but strings, your lives so intricately entwined at that point that it was hard to spot where you stopped and he began.

And it was wonderful. So fucking wonderful to wake up in his arms everyday, to be regularly blessed by the brush of his lips and the slant of his crooked smile. You had never felt a connection like that before, and haven’t felt it since. Something that powerful and all-consuming. Something that absolute.

You were so happy that you had been terrified to rock the boat, afraid to ask questions that might rip it all away from you. Yes, the two of you were content and comfortable, but that was to be expected in your cushy little college cocoon, where nothing too serious could test your relationship. There was the looming threat of graduation that both of you tiptoed around, but you convinced yourself that the idea of After wasn’t really a big deal. Because at the end of the day, you knew you would be together, just like you had been.

The lesson you learned was hard and swift—all it took was for you to get a pre-graduation job offer that would require you moving to a city hours away. Yoongi seemed so proud of you, so happy for you. He made sure to tell you so, made sure to take you out to dinner to celebrate.

But he was unusually quiet that night. Unusually subdued. That night, instead of slipping his hand below your waistband like he usually did, he just held you. Just rested his lips against your collarbone and breathed you in.

Thinking back on it, you were definitely naive. Even as you planned your big move over that last month, Yoongi never inserted himself. Even though you wanted him to. Even though he could. He could have worked from anywhere in his field of work, but it would have been particularly easy for him to find a job in your new city. Still, he stayed passive. Still, he didn’t show any interest.

Still, you hoped.

Nothing is ever a sure thing. Clearly, the two of you had been feeling wildly different things. Clearly, you had been on two different wavelengths. Because even though he could have easily just come with you—

In the end, Yoongi left your life just as casually as both times he had entered it.

“Hey,” Yoongi says, his sudden baritone startling you from your thoughts. “Do you mind if I connect my phone?”

Your brain scrambles to put meaning to his words, but luckily, Yoongi clarifies, “I would just rather we not sit in silence for five more hours.”

Oh. You haven’t even noticed, but in your initial shock at reuniting with him, you completely forgot to turn any music on. He’s right. “Yeah, sure. Go ahead.”

He pushes some buttons on your dashboard from memory, and you’re kind of annoyed to find your traitorous car still has his phone programmed to work with the bluetooth. Soon, mellow lo-fi hiphop filters through the speakers. You raise an eyebrow in surprise, knowing Yoongi’s penchant for battle rap and expecting something a lot more uptempo and aggressive. You’re both too tired for that, you suppose.

The next few hours somehow pass by both quickly and slowly. Despite Yoongi previously telling you just how little sleep he got the night before, he doesn’t nod off, instead choosing to lean back his seat a little and idly watch the landscape rush by as he drains his coffee. The silence between you isn’t uncomfortable, necessarily. Now that Yoongi has added the buffer of background music to fill the empty space between you, it actually feels pretty neutral. Inwardly, you wish the rest of the trip can go exactly like this—the two of you quietly tolerating each other’s presence until you can make it home. But, of course, the spell gets broken before your dream can be fulfilled.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” Yoongi says suddenly. “Can we stop?”

“Sure,” you reply agreeably. You will have to go soon too, and you should probably stretch your legs after three hours of driving. “Are you hungry?”

“Not particularly.” Yoongi has never been much of an eater, so distracted by everything he needed to do that day that it was often you who had to remind him to sit down and eat. Old habits die hard, and at the disapproving look you shoot his way, he sighs and amends his previous statement. “We can get some snacks, though.”

You can also go for some snacks. You get off at the next exit and pull into the gas station, not seeing any harm in topping off your gas tank even though it’s still a little over half full. Kill two birds with one stone. Yoongi shuffles into the building as you pump gas, amazed as always that the price is so much cheaper than it is in the city. Fucking capitalism with its fucking taxes.

“I got you these,” you hear just as you’re putting the nozzle back and printing your receipt. A look over your shoulder procures Yoongi, on the passenger side of the car and holding up a plastic bag for you to see. You raise an eyebrow in question, and he clarifies, “Doritos and gummy worms.”

Exactly what you like eating on long trips. You bite your lip, ignoring the emotion that flashes through you before you can will it down, down. “Thanks.”

He gives you a nod, but you quickly look away and mumble something about the bathroom before hustling into the building.

You take longer than you need to in the bathroom, trying to give yourself time to regain your bearings as you thoroughly wash your hands. When you finally think the tightness in your chest is subsiding, you go back out, stopping to buy a couple water bottles before returning to the car at last.

Your phone, unthinkingly tossed into your coat pocket, vibrates repeatedly on your way back to the car, and you absently fish it out, not surprised when you see the name lighting up its screen.

The texts had started pretty much as soon as you two left the city and continued until about five minutes ago. And, of course, you hadn’t noticed because…you were driving. Like Jimin knew you were.

Chimothy 🥰 [9:11] How’s everything going?

Chimothy 🥰 [9:30] Yoongi’s not being mean to you, is he?

Chimothy 🥰 [9:30] I wouldn’t think he would, but I would also never peg him to be a bastard ex-boyfriend so

Chimothy 🥰 [9:31] wtf do I know

Chimothy 🥰[11:43] Why are you so quiet?

Chimothy 🥰 [12:12] Oh god, he murdered you, didn’t he 😭

Dear god, is this man dramatic.

[12:17] Not murdered 🙄

[12:17] Just driving

The response is immediate, as if he’s been glued to his phone all day and was waiting for your reply with bated breath. The three little dots dance as he types.

Chimothy 🥰 [12:17] Thank god

Chimothy 🥰 [12:17] I was trying to plan out my outfit for your funeral, but was having a hard time because your favorite color is yellow

Chimothy 🥰 [12:18] and you know that washes me out

[12:18] Jimin, people usually wear *black* at funerals

[12:18] but it doesn’t matter anyway because I’M NOT DEAD

Chimothy 🥰 [12:18] Well, now that I know you’re not dead, you can dish

Chimothy 🥰 [12:19] What are you guys talking about? on a scale of 1-10, how awkward is it? Do you need me to call you with a sudden emergency?? 🥺😤

[12:19] nothing, currently about a 6, and no!!! I’m totally fine, Jimin. I appreciate the concern

Chimothy 🥰 [12:19] Yeah ok, send me the old lady emoji at any point if you need me to call you and tell you your granny broke her hip

[12:20] hey!!! Don’t speak that mess on Grandma like that

[12:20] besides, I’m literally en route to her, so I don’t see how that would at all help

Chimothy 🥰 [12:20] send me 🔥 and I’ll tell you your apartment is on fire

Chimothy 🥰 [12:20] Hell, send me 🥯 and I’ll tell you the deli down the street from the office is out of your favorite bagel

Chimothy🥰 [12:20] That’s an emergency if I ever heard one!

[12:21] omg, I’m FINE, jiminie. I promise! We’re already halfway there

[12:21] but I’m also losing time talking to you. Gotta get back on the road

Chimothy 🥰 [12:21] Okay 😩 Let me know when you make it home!

Chimothy 🥰 [12:21] And call me if you need anything 🥺💕

[12:22] Will do 🙌

Yoongi, lounging in the passenger seat and waiting for you to come back, immediately notices your distraction when you reenter the car’s cabin. He probably also noticed how slowly you walked to the car from the building, and the way you hovered by the gas pump as you went back and forth with your best friend. “Is everything okay?” he asks, brows furrowed.

“Yeah,” you say, rolling your eyes in amusement as you put your phone back in its designated holder. You hand Yoongi one of the water bottles and pretend you don’t notice his surprise. “It’s just Jimin.”

“Oh.”

Yoongi is quiet as you finally put the car in drive. You think that’s the end of it, but once you’re back on the highway, he speaks up again. “How exactly did you meet Jimin again?”

“We work together,” you say matter-of-factly.

“Oh wow,” he says, his interest clear in his tone. He’s not looking at you, too busy ripping open the Doritos bag and propping it against the center console. You know that’s for you. “You both work for Sigma Limited?”

Against your will, your body locks up at the name. The name of the company that uprooted you, that changed your life forever. “…No,” you say quietly. “I only stayed there a year. I met him at the company I’m at now.”

Yoongi’s not dumb—far from it—and you know he can probably glean from what you’ve said and everything that you haven’t that Sigma Limited was nowhere near what you thought it would be. You see him frown in your peripheral, but you merely reach into the Doritos bag and stuff some chips in our mouth, hoping to dissuade him from any further probing.

That had been a really hard year, filled with not much more than self-doubt and self-loathing. With Yoongi leaving you and your insufferable boss always pushing you past your limits and demanding the impossible, your mental health took a sharp nosedive. Alone in an new city with no support system, you were beyond lucky that you received another job offer when you did. Beyond blessed that Jimin and his soft smiles and softer heart became your anchor, chased away the elephant that had made itself at home right on your chest and had you struggling to breathe.

Yoongi nods slowly, and after a beat, simply says, “He’s a nice guy.”

That’s an understatement. Jimin may be dramatic and constantly meddling in other people’s lives, but he’s your dramatic meddler. He’s seen you at your lowest and loved you anyway. Simply coaxed you back to the surface.

“Yeah.” You clear your throat. “And you say you work with Namjoon?”

“Yeah—he’s one of the songwriters there. We’re often either working on the same tracks or staying late in the studio at the same time, so I got to know him. He’s a really cool dude.”

“He is,” you agree. “A little bit of a hot mess, but honestly, that’s probably why he and Jimin work so well. Jimin has always enjoyed a little chaos.”

“Hot mess?” You hear the amusement in his voice, and when you glance over, he’s definitely smirking at you.

You hold up a hand defensively. “Hey, don’t be taking things out of context—that was said fondly! Who isn’t a hot mess nowadays? Present company included.”

Yoongi breezes right past you trying to soften the blow. “And what makes him a hot mess?”

“Don’t get me wrong! He’s extremely intelligent and hilarious and fun to be around.”

“But?”

“But he’s also super clumsy and liable to destroy anything in his path,” you sigh. “They’ve had you over for dinner, right?”

Yoongi nods, not at all perturbed that you seem to know this tidbit.

“Guarantee you neither of them cooked jack shit. Jimin can’t do much more than eggs and Namjoon has been banned from picking up anything sharper than a fork. Listen, I’ve seen that man attempt to chop an onion. It was extremely stressful.”

“For him?”

“For me,” you correct.

He laughs, and something inside you flutters. You ignore it, focusing instead on merging into the passing lane to speed past an ambling truck.

“We always ate takeout,” Yoongi admits with a tilt of his head. “I guess that makes sense now. Not that I give a shit. That’s mostly what I eat anyway.”

“Takeout?” you repeat disbelievingly. “You?”

Yoongi is a great cook. While you definitely used to order in, it was mostly him who prepared dinner for the two of you (because he claimed it was unhealthy for your to eat so much cup ramen, but also because he really enjoyed it). It blows your mind that he now eats out so much.

Your surprise must be evident, because Yoongi rubs the back of his neck. “It’s a little weird cooking for one,” he says sheepishly. “And plus I’ve been so busy lately that I’m hardly at home anyway, so. It’s just easier to have something delivered to the studio.”

You want to point out that it’s his own fault that he’d have to cook for one, but you bite your tongue, reaching for more chips instead. You’ve been having such a pleasant drive that you’d rather not sour it when you still have a ways to go before you make it home.

The two of you chat for a while, carefully keeping to safe topics. You gossip a little more about Namjoon and Jimin, both of you trying to one up the other with a ridiculous story about them. Belatedly, you realize you probably shouldn’t be talking about your best friend with a man who essentially is the enemy, but that’s the problem, you suppose.

Even after everything, Yoongi has never felt like the enemy.

Jimin wouldn’t care that you’re talking about him—would probably preen at being the topic of conversation, honestly. And the fact that it’s his fault that you have to talk to Yoongi in the first place adds to the likelihood that he would let this slide. That’s not really what the issue is.

It’s just so easy talking to him—has always been so easy—that the words keep slipping past your lips before you can give them much thought. You hadn’t meant to revert to this, revert to those days when it was just you and him, talking about anything and everything, comfortable and safe in the knowledge that whatever you said to each other would never be repeated.

Yoongi’s a quiet guy, but that also means he’s pretty observant. He also tended to be rather chatty once he got going, and since the two of you often liked to wind down by telling each other about your days, having long talks with him—both about nonsense things and much deeper ones—became second-nature to you.

Clearly, even after all this time, it still is.

It’s unnerving, how easily you fell into old patterns. It must be the proximity, you reason with yourself. It’s been years since you’ve been this close to him, but your brain has been conditioned. It still remembers.

You are well aware that things are nowhere near the same though, and that it’d be for the best for you to stop acting like they are. So, with that in mind, you casually shift the conversation to something else that you’ve been mulling over. Clear proof of things being different.

“Your hair’s black,” you observe neutrally.

If Yoongi’s thrown by the sudden shift in conversation, he doesn’t show it. But he doesn’t answer you right away either, instead choosing to sit in silence until you casually glance his way. He’s looking at his hands in his lap, but from the way his lips twist slightly into a frown, you’re not sure if he actually sees them.

“That’s new,” you prompt again. “What happened? Got tired of all the upkeep?”

“Something like that,” he finally says. “I just didn’t feel like doing it anymore.”

It’s a simple answer to a simple question, but you still feel like there’s more. Ultimately, you just nod in response. It’s none of your business, you suppose. You were just trying to make small talk.

Without warning, the song playing through the speakers immediately steals your attention. You visibly perk up, eyes scanning your console’s screen in an effort to figure out what the song is. Yoongi notices your distraction and stops talking so you can better listen, a smile touching his lips.

You didn’t recognize the melody, but you damn sure recognize the velvety voice that croons through the car. Your eyes widen, turning to Yoongi in surprise. “Taehyung?”

“Yup.” He must have remembered how you stumbled upon the artist’s Soundcloud when you were dating, how you used to have him on repeat. You were a bit obsessed, if you’re being honest, but that was to be expected for something you liked, your personality dictating that you fixate on new things you love to the point of exhaustion. You even remember repeatedly teasing Yoongi that you would dump him immediately should Taehyung ever give you the light of day. (“Shit, me too,” he would answer, straight-faced and wholly unconcerned. He would still tease you about “your boyfriend” whenever he popped up on your playlists, though.)

You frown a bit in thought. “Hmm…I don’t remember this song.” And you’ve listened to all of them.

(Listen, when you said fixate, you meant it.)

“That’s because it’s not out yet,” Yoongi replies matter-of-factly. At the confused scrunch of your brow, he continues, “I’m actually producing this for him right now.”

“You’re working with Taehyung?!” you practically screech.

“Don’t sound so surprised,” he laughs. “I’m actually pretty good, remember?”

“I know you’re good it’s just—” It’s just that Taehyung has actually blown up over the past few years, what used to be only song covers buried on Soundcloud now two professionally made EPs, with singles constantly on rotation on national radio stations. He’s become the superstar you knew he would be, and Yoongi has apparently risen in the ranks as well if he’s making music for him. This is batshit insane.

Your mouth flaps open and closed uselessly as you attempt to process the fact that Yoongi apparently works for Big Hit, the same company Taehyung signed to last year, and is actively making music with him. What the fuck?! What. The. Fuck.

“Wanna meet him?” Yoongi smirks.

Your eyes bug out of your head and you have to actively pay attention to the road so you don’t accidentally crash into something in your shock. Because there’s no way he’s being serious. Did you want to meet!!!! him?

“I can probably arrange for it after the holidays,” Yoongi continues casually, completely oblivious to the catatonic meltdown you’re currently having in response. Either that or ignoring it for his own amusement. Probably the latter. “He’s been trying to finish his first album, so we have a good amount of studio sessions scheduled over the next couple months.”

“I…” You have no idea what to say, so flabbergasted at this turn of events that you can do nothing but gape at him like a fish.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he laughs, chuckling harder at the stupefied look on your face. “I’ll keep in touch. Just make sure you don’t block me this time.”

You don’t even have a good response to that, still partially convinced that you’re actually asleep and your subconscious is going HAM and this whole day has been nothing more than a very bizarre, very detailed dream. “…Restart it,” you say instead. “I wasn’t paying enough attention the first time.”

Yoongi grins, and he does. Immediately, you get lost in the jazzy notes and the sweet voice, not saying anything else until the music swells and fades back away.

“Can you tell him I think it’s amazing?” you ask dreamily.

“You can tell him yourself,” he reminds you.

This is weird. You haven’t seen him in literal years, but he’s talking about meeting up with you so casually that it’s like he does it all the time. Doing you favors like that’s something that’s normal now. “What’s the catch?” you ask suspiciously.

Yoongi scoffs. “Why does there have to be a catch?”

“Because nothing is ever truly free.”

A long pause. “You really think that?” He looks at you, expression neutral, and you hold his gaze for a few moments before looking back at the road. Then, he lets out a laugh that sounds suspiciously like a sigh. “I guess you’re right.”

“So?” you prod. “What’s your price?”

“Hmm.” He ruffles his hair with a hand as he thinks. “Who’s Alex?”

The sound of the name on his lips startles you a bit, immediately putting you on guard. “Why?”

“Your mom was expecting him to be in the car with you,” he shrugs. “Just curious.”

None of your business, you want to snap. Because he lost the right to ask you that a long time ago. But you were the one who pressed him to name his price, and he did.

You reach around the center console for the bag of gummy worms, and Yoongi easily grabs it and holds it open for you so you can grab a few. “…He’s this guy I’m seeing,” you finally admit.

“You’re seeing someone?” he repeats incredulously.

Annoyance starts to bubble under your skin. “Why do you sound so surprised? Yes, I am seeing someone.”

What did he expect? For you to be lonely and miserable the rest of your life simply because he didn’t want you?

Yoongi clocks your rising animosity and holds his hands out placatingly. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Really? Well then, how did you mean it?”

“I’m just surprised you’re seeing someone and he let you take a six hour drive all by yourself.”

Your anger flares. “He doesn’t let me do anything,” you retort. “I do what I please. And clearly I’m not alone. Against my better judgment.”

His eyes narrow at the dig, but he doesn’t rise at the bait. “If I wasn’t here,” he points out instead, “you would be. And this isn’t a matter of you physically being able to do it. Anything can happen in six hours, and it’s dangerous for anyone to drive it alone.”

He didn’t say it, but you heard the especially because you’re a woman loud and clear, and though you logically know he’s right, that only ruffles your feathers even more. “What do you care?” you seethe.

He hadn’t really been looking at you, but at that, Yoongi’s head snaps in your direction. His body angles that way, too. “Are you serious right now?”

You bristle at the underlying offense in his tone. Because you’re the one who’s allowed to be offended right now, not him. “So that’s why? That’s the reason you got in the car? Some misplaced sense of chivalry?”

Yoongi doesn’t say anything, but the way his gaze shifts away from you is damning enough. Your gut clenches, and you’re pissed that it does.

Because of course that’s why he came with you. What other reason would there be? He didn’t want to be around you then, so he damn sure wouldn’t want to be around you now. And you don’t want him to! So whatever. You don’t need his pity.

You don’t say anything else, preferring instead to silently stew in your indignation. And Yoongi backs off, but you can tell from the twist of his mouth that he is not happy.

Well woopdeedoo. He can just join the fucking club.

It’s quiet again after that. Whatever lighthearted mood that was cautiously starting to build is completely gone now, immediately soured by your mutual irritation. You don’t know what Yoongi has to be mad about, though. He’s the one who insinuated that you’re incompetent. He’s the one who thinks he can come and go from your life as he pleases with no consequences.

Your aggravation simmers the longer you two sit in silence, the more time you have to hype yourself up in your head. You only make it another half hour before you’re pulling off at the next exit. You need a breather.

Yoongi still doesn’t say anything when you pull into the rest stop, though he does look at you. You ignore him, putting the car in park and grabbing your phone before shrugging back into your coat and opening your door.

The temperature has dropped a lot since the last time you stopped, and you can actually see your breath as you continue your mission into the building. You hear the beep of a car door locking, and a reflexive glance over your shoulder reveals that Yoongi has taken the key out of the ignition and is following you inside.

You scowl, throwing open the door and immediately being blessed by the heat rushing out.

Whatever. He can do what he wants. Just like he always has.

You don’t know where he goes, but you’re purposely not keeping tabs on him anyway. You just need some time to breathe and regroup. To remind yourself of the progress you’ve made, of all the good in your life, so you won’t allow yourself to be dragged back under with all the bad. With that in mind, you walk past the restrooms and food court and over to a little seating area where you can have a little privacy.

Sighing, you sit down on one of the benches and pull out your phone. The screen is full of notifications—some more texts from Jimin, asking how things are going, asking if he needs to beat Yoongi up (or better yet, enlist Namjoon to do it, because he’s been in the gym lately), apologizing again for putting you in this mess. You can’t help but smile, endeared by his persistence to make his goof right. And also his offering up Namjoon for the job, knowing damn well his boyfriend was the most uncoordinated motherfucker on planet earth and everyone knew Yoongi would stomp his ass the fuck out. The gesture is sweet, regardless.

There are also a flurry of texts from Leah, and you know before you open them that she’s already talked to Jimin.

Leah 👯‍♀️✨ [1:15] Omg, i TOLD jimin that trying to set you up was a bad idea

Leah 👯‍♀️✨ [1:15] And his dumb ass ended up setting you up with your EX??!?

Leah 👯‍♀️✨ [1:15] Girl, are you okay??

You don��t really have the energy to talk to her about it right now, so you simply heart her last message and type out a quick note that you’ll reach back out to her when you get home.

It doesn’t surprise you that your friends are looking to get the tea—hell, you know you would too. This is a ridiculous situation. Absolutely crazy, so much so that it’s the kind of thing you only see in bad romcoms. Yet here you are, stuck in the crazy in real fucking life. If this were happening to either one of your friends instead of you, you absolutely would be on the edge of your seat trying to get updates, cause what the fuck.

What does surprise you, though, is that though your phone is full of your friends’ tittering, there are zero notifications from Alex. You would have thought he’d check on you by now, especially since you sent him a text this morning letting him know you were headed out. One look at your message history shows he never even responded to you, though he read it.

You frown, trying to shake off your irritation. Because yes, his silence is annoying, but you know the reason you’re actually so riled up is Yoongi, and there’s no reason to take it out on Alex.

The phone rings and rings, and you actually think you’re going to be sent to voicemail, but right as you’re mentally preparing the message you’re going to leave, he picks up.

“Hello?”

“Hey,” you breathe, smiling for the first time in what feels like forever. “Just wanted to check in—haven’t heard from you all day.”

A slight pause. “Yeah, I’m sorry. I’m a little swamped over here.”

He does sound a bit distracted. “Don’t worry, I get it,” you reassure him. You’re just happy to hear his voice, to have something ground you in the here and now when the current chain of events has forced you to revisit the past, and your brain is threatening to keep you there. Happy to have a reminder of how far you’ve come, and a promise of how much farther you can go.

It’s loud in the background, indistinct voices causing buzzing noise behind him. You wonder where he is, with that many people, especially since he told you he’d have to work today.

“I’m almost home,” you continue. “Finally. It’s been a really long and taxing trip, and it would have been so much better if you could have come with me.”

“_____,” Alex sighs, tone edging on disapproval.

“I know, I know, I totally understand why you couldn’t! Not trying to make you feel guilty, just letting you know that I miss you,” you reassure him. “And you honestly have no idea how much I can’t wait to see you.”

If you were paying attention, you would have started to pick up on just how quiet Alex is being while you tell him about your family plans for the night, as well as what he should expect on Christmas Eve, when your entire town traditionally gets together for its holiday festival and Christmas tree lighting. But as it is, you just keep talking, letting the compounding stress you’ve been harboring all day start to ebb away at the reminder that someone is still in your corner. “When does your flight come in again? I can pick you up from the airport.”

He doesn’t say anything for so long that you would have thought the call dropped if you didn’t hear the muffled sound of a woman loudly laughing coming through the receiver. Unease starts to tickle your consciousness, starts to creep across your skin.

“I’ve been thinking,” Alex finally says. “And I’m not sure me coming with you for the holidays is such a good idea.”

“What?” you ask hollowly. Sure you heard him wrong. “What do you mean?”

“I’m just not sure it would be appropriate.”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” You laugh, the sound taking on a bit of a manic edge, even to your own ears. “My family knows you’re coming and they’re excited to meet you and have promised me they’ll be on their best behavior. So you don’t worry about it.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about.”

“So then what is it?” you press, trying to curb your exasperation. You really do not need this today. You just need one thing to go the way it was supposed to. One thing to not fight you. “It’s Christmas. It’s kind of expected for people to spend time with their partner’s family during Christmas. How is that not appropriate?”

Alex lets out a sigh, and you don’t appreciate the condescension you sense in the action. “See? I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Spit it out.” Your tone has hardened, none of the previous warm fondness leftover from mere moments ago. “What are you talking about?”

But while your survival instincts are rapidly walling up your defenses, are resharpening your smoothed edges, Alex is attempting to do the opposite. “Babe,” he says gently, and you want to strangle him. You don’t want his gentleness. You want him to explain what the fuck is going on.

“What?” Subconsciously, you already know where this is going. But you want him to say it. Your exhausted brain must be playing tricks on you, so you want him to say it.

“We’ve been having fun.” He sounds distinctly uncomfortable. Good. “But I think you think this is more than it really is.”

And there it is. Your blood slowly turns to ice, your stupid heart continuing to pump the jagged crystals though your veins anyway. Scraping you raw from the inside out.

“Really. I wonder what gave me that impression,” you retort, humiliation seeping into every atom of you and threatening to swallow you whole. He doesn’t say anything, just audibly sighs again like you’re the one being difficult. “Alex, I asked you if you wanted to come, and you said yes! Why the fuck would you do that if you didn’t want to?”

“Because I wanted to try. For you!” This is rich. This is so fucking rich, and you refuse to let him pin all of this on you. Because if you were picking up on signs when there weren’t any, he damn sure has been letting you do it.

“You didn’t think that you should tell me you felt this way before, I don’t know, I told my entire fucking family that you were coming?”

“I was gonna come, even though I didn’t think it was a good idea,” he says defensively. What the fuck did he want, a medal? “But I’m sorry, the longer I sat with it, the more it just didn’t feel right. And I just don’t feel good about meeting your family if I don’t see this going anywhere.”

“Oh wow, thanks for your consideration, then,” you scoff snidely.

“_____,” he says, and the pity you hear in the way he says your name makes your blood boil. You refuse to be patronized.

“I get it.” The volume of your voice is brought back down to something that feigns indifference, the words clipped. “I hear you. Fine, whatever. Merry Christmas.”

You hang up before he can try to talk his way out of the dick move he just pulled. Because you don’t want to hear it. He doesn’t want you, so that’s that. No need to waste any more of your energy on it.

He’s not a plaything, you insisted to Jimin, but now, you can only laugh at your own stupidity. Clearly Alex never got that memo.

Clearly, the two of you have never been on the same page.

How could you have read the situation so wrong? How do you always read the situation so wrong?

Why do you always ignore clear signs of disinterest? Why do you always offer yourself to men who just want to fuck you and be on their merry way?

Well, you think as you stand, woodenly heading back to the car. At least I’m consistent.

Distantly, you recognize the familiar crooning of Mariah Carey, audible through the speakers despite the din of travelers hustling their kids into the restrooms or chatting in the food court. All I want for Christmas is you, she sings, and you can’t help but scoff at her timing. You both may be alone at Christmas, but unlike you, she at least has those song residuals to keep her warm at night.

The temperature has noticeably dropped even more in the short amount of time you were inside, and you reflexively huddle deeper beneath your coat, dipping your head against the wind and stuffing your hands into your pockets. Of course, it isn’t until you make it back to the car that you remember that you left your keys with Yoongi. Your responding exhale is visible in the air, and you close your eyes, desperately trying to control the firestorm of emotion that has been swelling within you all day and is now threatening to erupt. Your hands clench into fists, tears of frustration starting to build behind your eyelids as you stand out in the cold, unable to open your own goddamn car. “God fucking dammit!”

You just…you just want to make it home so this day can be over. You’re so, so tired.

“Are you ready to go?” a voice asks from behind you.

Of course. Of course he’s here when you’re about to fucking lose it. You’re not sure whether it’s relief you feel or rage, so, with another long measured breath, you simply hold your hand out, not bothering to turn and face him.

If Yoongi notices the stiffness in your posture he certainly doesn’t comment on it, obediently dropping the keys in your hand and moving to the passenger side.

Silently, you unlock the doors, dropping into your seat and shoving the key in the ignition. The heat turns back on once the engine comes back to life, but you dial it up even more in an effort to chase off the chill that crept in your car since you left. You turn out of the parking spot before Yoongi can even put his seatbelt on properly.

Yoongi is concerned. He doesn’t say anything, but over the years, you’ve become an expert at deciphering his body language, and his concern is clear as day in the glances he keeps shooting your way, in the way he’s sitting up straight, his perpetual piss poor posture suddenly cured. In the restless fingers he drums without pattern against his knee. In the parted lips that hesitate for a wary tongue.

What you want to tell him, since he so obviously wants to know, is that you’re pissed. Pissed that he has the audacity to stroll back into your life just as casually as he left it. Pissed that he’s stirring up all these feelings that you thought you had finally moved past.

You were doing better, and here he comes, deadset on ensuring you stay fucked up in the head.

You grit your teeth as you turn back onto the interstate, in complete disbelief of your situation. There was a time in your life where you actually thought about what it would be like to marry this man, and yet here you are, the constant butt of all cosmic jokes.

This was a mistake. You should have never agreed to let him back in your car. Back in your life. Should have never reopened old wounds that had never properly closed.

How hilariously absurd to think you could be the bigger person when you knew damn well that he left you so small.

Yoongi’s eyebrows pinch as he continues to study the look you must have on your face. “Is everything okay?” he finally hedges.

“Yeah.” You breeze right past the question, the word sounding like a blatant lie even to you. There are so many things you want to say, but you can’t deal with this right now. You need to get home. You just need to get home. “Just peachy.”

“If you say so,” Yoongi murmurs. “Here. You should eat.”

A glance at the bag he’s holding out you shows that he apparently spent his time at the rest stop in the food court. The insignia on side declares it to be from Wendy’s, and you already know that your favorite burger awaits you inside.

What the fuck is he trying to do? Trying to confuse you? Because if that’s the case, he’s certainly succeeding. But you truly aren’t in the mood for his games right now.

You look away from his offering, refusing to touch it. “Why do you keep buying me things?” you snarl.

Yoongi blinks, hesitating at your sudden hostility. “Because you’re driving. It’s the least I can do.”

“Well, don’t! I’m not hungry.” And you’re telling the truth—though you haven’t eaten anything other than junk food all day, your stomach is currently twisting in on itself too much for you to even think about food.

“_____,” he says evenly, nonplussed at your increasing fury. “You’re cranky right now because you’re hungry. You have to eat.”

You don’t answer him, your rage only further brewing at thought that he thinks that’s the problem. Your life is falling apart again, but that’s the problem? You haven’t seen him in three years because he decided he wanted nothing to do with you, but that’s the problem?!

It’s while you’re pointedly ignoring him, internally stewing, that you notice the first snowflake. It appears out of nowhere, drifting from the sky and melting easily against your windshield. Your breath catches in your throat, eyes widening slightly in alarm when you realize that single snowflake is quickly being joined by others, visibility rapidly decreasing as you apparently drive straight into the storm.

“Shit,” you breathe. “Was it supposed to snow today? I don’t remember anyone saying it was supposed to snow today.” You also can’t recall checking the weather reports over the past few days, though, too preoccupied throughout the week with making sure you got enough of your work done that you wouldn’t be overwhelmed after the holidays. And then, today, too busy trying to convince yourself not to have a meltdown by the sudden reappearance of your ex-boyfriend.

Your ex-boyfriend who apparently still knows you well enough to recognize your building distress. “Pull over,” Yoongi says simply.

Anxiety thrums through you as the snow continues to fall, showing no sign of letting up. Your hands tighten on the wheel. “I can do it,” you snap.

“I know you can,” he says easily. Gently. “But you don’t have to.”

“I don’t need you!”

A pause. One long enough that you dare to take your eyes off the road to look at him. There is a strange expression on his face, one that immediately shutters away once he realizes you’re looking. “I know you don’t,” he agrees quietly.

Your eyesight blurs. Your bottom lip trembles.

“_____, can you please pull over?”

You pull over.

One night, when you were a teenager, you were driving home from your part-time job when you slid right through an intersection. The conditions had aligned perfectly for this to happen: it had just started snowing an hour before, the powdery stuff that looked benign and pretty as it fell, but also made the roads slick. It was dark, winter dictating that the sun had set well before you were allowed to go home, despite it still being early. You were well overdue for new tires, but also completely unaware of this fact.

You were driving well under the speed limit, creeping home, but that didn’t matter much when you were faced with a red light and brakes that suddenly started to pump in their valiant attempt to slow the car. Terrifyingly, you just kept sliding into oncoming traffic.

Luckily for you, the people going the other way had seen you coming and noticed your inability to stop, so no one was hurt. You didn’t even hit anything, pulling over only so you could attempt to calm the heart that had migrated into your throat and clear the whooshing in your ears.

But ever since, you’ve always been more of a nervous driver. Totally fine under normal conditions—in the day to day. But the moment it gets too dark or it rains too hard or there’s too much snow, driving to you becomes less of a common task and more of an exercise in curbing your anxiety.

Yoongi has never had this issue. He’s a good driver, one who enjoys doing it and has no qualms about doing so, no matter the conditions. When he learned this about you early in your relationship, he easily took the reins, happily relieved you of that burden. Years later, despite no longer wanting you, this has apparently not changed.

It’s Yoongi who slowly navigates through the worsening storm for the final stretch of your trip. You say nothing from the passenger seat, just tighten your hands in your lap. When he glances over at you one too many times, you lean your head against the window and close your eyes.

That night had been foreshadowing, you suppose. A warning from the cosmos of what the rest of your life was going to be like. A reminder that ultimately, just because you’re behind the wheel, it doesn’t mean you’re in control.

You close your eyes, but you don’t sleep.

“We’re here.”

His voice startles you, loud and a little raspy from an hour and a half of disuse. You hadn’t expected him to say anything at all, because it’s obvious you’re home—you watched Yoongi get off at the familiar exit, turn down a familiar street. Park in a familiar driveway. Up until relatively recently, you’ve lived here your whole life. You know exactly where you are.

But he knows that. Yoongi’s words are less of a statement and more of a placeholder—something to fill the space your extended silence has left. Something to tide over until he can muster up the resolve to say what it is he actually wants to say. Unfortunately for him, you don’t want to hear it.

“Thanks,” you mutter, not meeting his eyes and unbuckling your seatbelt. “Can you pop the trunk?”

He hesitates, clearly not wanting to let you go so easily, but ultimately, he sighs and does what you ask. The trunk is popped, and you open your door, easily slipping away from him.

You take a few moments to gather some of the trash that has accumulated over the day and stuff it into a plastic bag before climbing out of the car. Yoongi follows your lead, taking the keys out of the ignition and moving to the rear.

You watch him silently, biting the inside of your cheek thoughtfully as he carefully takes the bags—yours and his—out of the trunk. It’s almost over, you remind yourself. Still, you can’t help but think about how while you’re finally home, he’s not.

“Do you…” You swallow, unsure, even if the weather makes you feel obligated to ask. “Do you want me to take you home?”

“Nah, don’t worry about it,” he replies, not looking up from his task. “It’s just a few blocks.”

You know that. He knows you know that. “Okay,” you say anyway.

Yoongi unloads the last bag, slamming the trunk closed. He turns to you then, cheeks dusted pink by the bite in the air. Eyes dark and unexpectedly intense when he holds your gaze, waiting for something you’re not sure how to give. Finally, he looks away, and you’re set free from his spell. Your car keys are held out, then a wad of cash, and you reflexively take them both. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” you repeat hollowly.

With one final nod, Yoongi grabs the handle of his suitcase and walks away. You watch him until he turns the corner of the block, then dazedly look at the money in your hand, almost surprised that it’s there.

Oh yeah. The reason you agreed to this nightmare in the first place.

Woodenly stuffing the bills into your coat pocket, you trudge your way to the front door and open it with your old house key. Warmth immediately washes over you, but you still feel so cold.

Your sister Sierra, having heard the door open, curiously pops her head out of the living room, a smile overtaking her face at the sight of you. “Mom!” she yells. “_____ made it!”

And then you’re wrapped in your family’s embrace, the familiar motions of your sister squeezing you tight and your mother kissing your forehead making a smile inch across your face. You can’t help but be amused by their excited chattering, the thing inside you that has been wound tight all day slowly relaxing at the comfort of being where you’re safe and loved.

“Where’s Yoongi?”

And just like that, your mother’s curious inquiry locks you back up. It’s not her fault, you know. You’re sure you would ask the if your daughter was suddenly driving home with her ex-boyfriend who she refused to speak about for years.

“He went home.” You let out a grounding sigh, using the action of taking off your coat as an excuse to not have to meet her eye. “We’re not back together, if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s a long story, but he needed a ride.”

“Hmm,” is all she says, but you know from her tone that the subject won’t be forgotten, just dropped for the moment. The way Sierra smirks when you glance at her confirms that at the very least, she’s gonna want you to tell her the tea.

But you’re exhausted and they know that. So they allow you to slip your boots off and hustle you further inside, where the previously promised pizza is waiting for you.

You end up going to bed not too long after eating dinner, good and truly wiped. And when you finally awaken the next morning, you’re surprised to find you slept a full twelve hours. Getting dumped while being stuck in the company of someone else who also dumped you really takes a lot out of a person, you suppose.

And speaking of…you’re really, really not looking forward to admitting to everyone that Alex isn’t coming. The wound is still fresh, your own mind still spinning in disbelief that it happened at all, so how can you possibly explain it to someone else?

You don’t really have a choice, though. Luckily, you know your friends are good and distracted with their own holiday activities, so a quick text letting them both know you made it will give you a few more days before they start asking questions. But your family? There’s no fucking way for you to simply avoid the subject when your entire family is expecting to meet him.

There’s no way around it, so you might as well rip off the bandaid and get it over with.

As you make your way downstairs, you can hear that your family is already up, chatting over coffee in the living room. With an internal sigh, you dip into the kitchen to pour yourself a cup as well before joining them, curling up in the corner of the couch next to Sierra. She distractedly greets you when you do, still in her pajamas and in the middle of a rant about how the children who live in the apartment above hers are so unbelievably loud that there’s no way they’re anything but demons.

You sip your coffee and listen, lips quirking in amusement at how animated your sister is getting the more riled up she gets. An idle glance out the window surprisingly reveals that the driveway and sidewalk in front of your house have already been cleared, which you’re relieved to see, because you’ve been dreading having to shovel ever since you arrived last night. Your mother must have hired someone to do it, and you’re glad—she’s getting older, and now that you and your sister aren’t always around to help, you really don’t want her to do all that shoveling by herself.

“_____?”

The tone in which your mother says your name in indicates that this is not the first time she’s tried to get your attention. You turn away from the window, blinking out of your thoughts. “Hmm?”

Your mother smiles, clearly aware that your attention lays elsewhere. “I was just asking when we should expect your little friend to be here. I’ve already changed the sheets in the guest room, but if he’s coming this evening, I want to make sure dinner is ready. And you know the festival is tomorrow—is he gonna make it?”

Your next gulp of coffee has nothing to do with you needing more caffeine and everything to do with you attempting to prolong the inevitable. But, like it always does, time ultimately runs out. “He’s not coming,” you admit hesitantly.

There’s a beat of silence where your family attempts to make sense of your words. But then, your mother tilts her head in confusion. “What do you mean he’s not coming?”

“I mean,” you say slowly, struggling to get the words out. They’re reluctant to leave you, thick and sticky on your tongue like molasses. “I mean he’s not coming. Told me he would and then broke up with me on my drive here.”

No one says anything again, the shock throwing them both off, and the face Sierra pulls moments later would have had you cracking up if you weren’t already discomfited by the situation.

“You’ve been together for months and he dumps you via phone?” she asks incredulously.

“Don’t even worry about it, Si. It’s not like this is the first time this has happened to me,” you joke weakly, but it falls flat, only stirring up the growing tension.

“Yeah, but…” She’s thrown off. The reminder of how depressing your love life is has thrown her off. God, are you pathetic. “During the holidays, though? What an asshole!”

“Watch your mouth,” your mother reminds her, but it’s clear her heart isn’t in it. She’s too busy turning her concerned gaze in your direction to continue scolding her adult daughter.

“Sorry Mom, but he is! Who breaks up with their partner during the holidays?”

“People who don’t want to buy presents,” you muse unhelpfully. “People who want to dip out before Valentine’s Day.”

“So. Assholes,” Sierra insists.

“Men,” you correct, and your sister nods in agreement.

Your mother, however, has been frowning throughout your entire sisterly exchange, and doesn’t seem as gung-ho about the conclusion as the two of you. “Sweetheart, I promise you,” she murmurs, eyes sad. “Not all men are like that.”

Her clear pity triggers your defenses to shoot way up. “Really? Because that hasn’t been my experience,” you scoff. “And that hasn’t been your experience either.”

Your sister sucks her lips in her mouth, eyes wide in surprise at your utterance. “_____,” she belatedly chastises, though it’s obvious her heart isn’t in it.

“What? Dad’s an asshole. You want me to pretend that he isn’t?”

But unlike you, your mother doesn’t get defensive when she’s faced with her failures. Instead, she just looks at you, eyes sad, and moves from where she’d been lounging on an armchair to sit between you and Sierra on the couch. “I chose wrong,” she admits quietly. “But I would do it again in a heartbeat, because I got you two out of it.”

You allow yourself to be pulled into her embrace—you tucked under one arm, Sierra under the other. You reflexively melt into your mother’s familiar warmth, tucking your face in the hollow of her neck, just like you used to do when you were little.

“I chose wrong, but that doesn’t mean that you always will. So don’t give up, okay? The right one will come exactly when he’s supposed to.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you mutter dismissively, ashamed that you’re ashamed.

“I’m serious, baby. You need to not be so quick to shut down. You’re missing out on opportunities.”

“Yeah! Like Yoongi.” You can hear the mischievous grin in your sister’s voice, though you refuse to lift your head and entertain her. “Him suddenly popping back into your life? That can’t be a coincidence.”

“Considering the fact that we’re both home for the holidays and he lives around the corner, I beg to differ,” you scoff. “Besides, there’s no opportunity there. Just disappointment.”

“Yeesh, when did you become so bitter?” Sierra moans, pulling out of the hug so she can lean over your mother and look you in the eye.

You pull out of the hug too. “When men decided to ruin literally everything and make me bitter.”

“_____,” your mother sighs, already weary of so much of your negativity so early in the morning.

“Don’t even worry about it, Mom. I’ll just attempt to be a lesbian or get a bunch of cats or something.”

Sierra laughs, but your mother isn’t amused by your joke that you’re still not sure is actually a joke. Still, she ultimately decides to let it go when you hurriedly ask, “But anyway. What’s for breakfast?”

Her eyebrow lifts in challenge. “Who said I’d be making breakfast?”

“I haven’t been home in forever,” you pout, “and I just got dumped. Don’t you want to make me pancakes?”

“You’re grown—you can make your own pancakes,” she snorts. But even though she’s rolling her eyes, she’s also still vacating the couch and headed straight to the kitchen, a smile touching her lips.

A warm hand on your arm has you turning back to Sierra, who still has a concerned slant to her brow. “You sure you’re okay?”

“No,” you answer honestly, and go to get more coffee before she forces you to elaborate.

That day you go see more family, and as much as you try to downplay it, it’s a bit of a big deal. Over the years, you’ve sporadically been back home for short visits, but you’ve never come back for Christmas, even though it’s such a big holiday in your family. Everyone congregates at your grandma’s house, and she cooks a big meal full of your favorites and smiles contentedly while watching you eat it. Some of your younger cousins, still in high school and thinking about college applications, pepper you with questions about the city you live in now, and whether you regret going to school so close to home.

(“No,” you answer honestly. “I had a lot of fun, and being closer to home means you can come back whenever you want. Besides, locations aren’t what make great memories.” Memories that are threatening to creep up at this very moment, but you refuse to acknowledge. You swallow. “It’s the people.”)

Here, in your grandmother’s home, surrounded by so much love and laughter and support, something in you slots back into place. Something you hadn’t realized was knocked loose to begin with.

Here, the persistent chill in your bones warms, just a little.

You actually almost get through the day completely scot-free, but, of course your nosy but well-meaning uncle can’t help but ask about the date you said you were bringing. Your mother saves you from answering by cutting in with a curt and final “There is no date”, but experience, along with all the pointed looks being exchanged across the room, tells you that there is most definitely going to be a flurry of phone calls over the next few days. Oh well. Your mother gossiping with her siblings about your nonexistent love life is something to be expected. At least you don’t have to be the one to say anything. Small mercies.

You have such a nice time with your family that you find yourself not protesting very much when, the next day, your mother insists you come with her to the annual Holiday Festival. Wheedling you with a put-upon pout and a “You’re never back home”, and you don’t have it in you to deny her.

(You said the same words at breakfast yesterday, but it sits differently on her tongue. Sits differently on your chest. You suppose you owe her at least one of those.)

Just as the holidays are a big deal in your family, the same is true of your town. Every year—well before November has the chance to make its exit—streets begin being lined with lampposts decorated with wreaths, begin being filled with houses touting lights and festive signs and inflatable snowmen and santa statues. Your childhood is filled with memories of all of the fun activities held in Town Square the week leading to Christmas—the ice skating and ice sculptures; the pleasant bite in the air and the hot chocolate to combat it.

And, of course, in the center of it all, the forty-foot artificial Christmas tree whose lights are only turned on during the final day of the festival, right on Christmas Eve.

Today is Christmas Eve, and now that you’re in town and your family is on vacation from work, they intend to honor your yearly tradition and bring you with. It’s better this way, you know. Better that you’re not left with too much time to think about what has happened over the past few days, the past few years. Better to distract yourself so that the dark cloud you thought you had long chased away doesn’t creep back.

So you willingly join your mother and sister at the festival, meeting up with your aunt and some cousins as well. As it’s the last day, Town Square is teeming with people—people visiting all of the little booths and perusing the merchandise being sold by town businesses, buying hot drinks and fair snacks, renting out ice skates, watching little kids happily sled down stretches of grass that are sloped just enough to be considered hills.

You, Sierra, and your cousin Jasmine break away from the rest of the group and meander through the vendor stalls, sipping on hot toddies. (Jasmine is technically only nineteen, but she also enrolled at a university in the fall, and from what you’ve seen on her social media, she has already been thoroughly tainted by things much stronger than a simple hot toddy. So, as a good older cousins, you and Sierra simply shrug and order an extra when she asks for one.) The drink is surprisingly delightful, though you’ve never had it before—the combination of the liquor, cinnamon, and temperature warms you from the inside out, which really comes in handy as it gets later into the night and the temperature continues to drop.

It’s so delightful, in fact, that you decide you want to get another one while the three of you are browsing through a collection of handmade ornaments. Your cup is almost empty—and definitely will be by the time you make your way back to the other side of the ice skating rink, where all the food stalls are located. So you preemptively start heading in that direction, a small, contented smile touching your lips as you maneuver your way through excited children racing to the sledding hill and onto the ice.

One such child crashes into your legs, and when you reflexively look down, a hand reaching out to steady them, you can’t help but be surprised by the familiar eyes that meet yours.

“Sua!” someone calls, and you freeze at the voice, realizing immediately why this seemingly random child looks familiar.

It’s too late. There’s nothing you can do but hope this encounter passes quickly.

“Sua,” the voice calls again. “Slow down! You need to be careful!”

Just as you expected, it’s Min Junki who emerges from the crowd, a bit winded from chasing down a speedy toddler. Surprise colors his features when he realizes it’s you who has halted the enthusiastic whirlwind that is his daughter. “Oh wow, _____. I heard that you were back in town! How have you been?”

Your smile is a bit more forced now. A bit more on edge. “Just for the holidays,” you reply, trying not to make this awkward. But how can you not be awkward when you’ve just run into Yoongi’s older brother, who you haven’t spoken to since the breakup?

Shit. If Junki’s here, Yoongi probably is too. You don’t know why you’re surprised—the whole goddamn town is here, just like they are every year.

“But I’ve been doing okay. How about you?” you offer politely, though really, you’re praying to whoever is listening that he gives you the Sparknotes version so you can dip before you cross paths with anyone else.

Sua, abashed that she ran into you, utilizes the distraction of the grownup conversation to scuttle back to her father, hiding behind his legs instead. Wow, you can’t help but think, mind struggling to match the baby of your memories to the walking, talking, mini person in front of you. What is she, four now?

Junki chuckles at her antics, but unfortunately isn’t diverted from his task of chatting with you. “Pretty good. Minji and I were hoping the festival would wear Sua out a little.” He gestures over to the food area, and there is his sweet, soft-spoken wife Minji, chatting with Yoongi’s parents with what looks to be a sizable baby bump shielded by her winter coat.

Wow. Wow, wow.

You take a drink from your cup, not sure how to react. Would it be rude of you not to go over and speak? Would it be weirder if you did?

But the older man keeps talking, momentarily saving you from overthinking. “We need to be sure she gets some sleep, but she’s really excited about Santa coming. Aren’t you, Sua?”

The toddler nods timidly. Her hesitance is definitely a change from when you last saw her—of course, she was just a baby then, but you still used to be one of her favorite people. Time has a habit of creating distance, you suppose.

Her father must be on the same wavelength as you. Must notice how out of place you’re now feeling in a space that used to be carved out, just for you. “Sua,” he says, gently nudging her. “Do you remember Auntie _____?”

“No,” she says, body twisting timidly. She’s curious though, that much is sure. She looks like she’s itching to get closer to you, but her shyness is overriding her own instinct.

“Well, I remember you. You got so big!” you gasp dramatically, kneeling down until you’re eye-level with her. “Last time I saw you, you were thiiiiiiis small.”

The space between the tips of your thumb and forefinger shrinks, no bigger than a pea. Your ridiculous declaration works to break the ice—she giggles, daring to inch out from behind her father. “Nuh-uh!”

You pretend to think. “Really? Hmm, I guess you’re right. Maybe it was this small?” A little bigger.

“Auntie,” she says smartly, “I was never that small.”

“Sure you were,” you say matter-of-factly. “We all were. But you’re right. I think you were actually about this small.” This time, you actually hold your hands out to a rough estimation of how tall she was when you she was a year old. Sua takes that as an invitation to dash into your arms, taking you by surprise and throwing you off-balance. With a startled oof, your ass hits the snow, your arms reflexively circling the child to ensure you took the brunt of the minor tumble.

Sua just giggles at the whole ordeal, her grip around your neck locking you in the chokehold-type hug of little kids who don’t realize their own strength. But then suddenly, she’s shouting “Uncle!” and you immediately freeze, dread seeping through your veins.

Please let Yoongi have another brother that you never knew about. Please let this just be a Christmas miracle where the long lost Min is finally reunited with his family. But no, a turn of your head produces exactly who you expect it to be—Yoongi, holding two cups. There’s a strange expression on his face as he looks at you, but it quickly disappears into careful neutrality.

“Uncle Yoongi, do you remember Auntie _____?” Sua practically yells in her excitement. You flinch, her mouth too close to your ear, but to be honest, the words would have been loud regardless. They’re too pointed, aimed straight for your heart.

You hear Yoongi huff out an amused breath as he gets closer. “Yes, I remember her.”

Suddenly awkward, you detach yourself from the little girl’s death grip while your ex-boyfriend approaches. Yoongi just gives you a polite nod of acknowledgment before turning his attention to his obvious target—Sua.

“Your order is ready, Miss,” he says with the formality of a waiter, eyes softening. He’s always been soft for Sua. “One cup of hot chocolate, extra marshmallows.”

She giggles, reaching for the cup excitedly.

“Be careful,” Yoongi warns as he gently hands it to her. “It’s hot.”

“Sua, what do you say?” Junki prompts.

“Thank you,” she dutifully responds, looking up at Yoongi like he gave her the world.

Oh, to be young again, and see everything through such pure eyes. To go back to when everything was so simple.

Yoongi fondly pats the top of his niece’s head, giving the pompom on her hat a playful tug, and you look away, suddenly realizing just how out of place you are right now. It’s time to make your exit.

But before you can make any excuse, Junki is reaching for his daughter. “Come on, Sua,” he urges, holding a hand out. The little girl obediently takes it. “Let’s go before they run out of sleds to rent.”

He’s not slick. The way his eyes pointedly shift between you and Yoongi makes his intentions obvious, but all you really want to do is desperately cling onto his kid so you won’t be left alone.

That would be a new low, you think. Using oblivious toddlers that aren’t even yours as a shield against uncomfortable social situations.

You don’t even have the opportunity to feel guilty about it, though. Sua happily lets herself be led away, waving ferociously at you and yelling “Bye!” at the two of you in her wake.

“That was subtle,” Yoongi snorts sarcastically. You don’t reply, and that results in a few moments of awkward quiet between you before he ultimately clears his throat. “So…”

“I’m gonna go look for Sierra,” you interrupt, turning on your heel. “I let her hold all of my drink tickets, but I haven’t seen her in a while, so she probably spent them all.”

He grabs your arm before you can get too far, and you immediately freeze, immobilized by his touch. Slowly, you look back at him, at the hand that tethers him to you.

Yoongi follows your line of sight, eyes widening when he realizes what you’re looking at. As if he didn’t realize he put it there. He retracts his appendage, but still says, “Wait.”

You sigh, already exhausted, the breath visible in the frosty air. “What do you want, Yoongi?”

“I just wanted to check on you. The last time I saw you, you seemed pretty upset.”

“Just having a bad day.”

You can tell by the slight tilt of his head that he doesn’t fully believe you, but you don’t really care what he believes right now. You just want him to leave you alone.

No such luck, though. Yoongi scans your face for a little longer and then says, “Where’s Alex? I don’t think I’ve seen him all night.”

You stiffen, shaking your head in disbelief. He’s never met Alex—has no idea what he looks like. So what does that mean? That he’s been watching you all night, trying to catch a glimpse of him? And, now that he’s fully aware that he’s not here, he has to make a point to bring it up to you?

Of course he does. Rub salt into your open wound. Be smug at your humiliation.

But you’re truly not in the mood to play his games right now. Your tone is clipped when, after a moment, you reply, “Not here, obviously.”

Yoongi just blinks at the news, but you can see the cogs turning in his head as he mentally puts together the pieces of the puzzle.

“Starting to to realize I’m the problem,” you continue with a self-depreciating laugh. Might as well guide him to the obvious conclusion, try to end this interaction as quickly as possible. “They always leave.”

Yoongi’s brows furrow, clearly dismayed. “What?”

You shake your cup, the absence of any movement inside confirming that you’re officially out of alcohol. And that certainly won’t do, if you’re going to make it through the rest of the night. “I’m gonna need another one of these,” you mutter to yourself, already turning again to continue to the beverage stands.

“The problem definitely isn’t you.”

The conviction in his voice is what stops you in your tracks. Is what makes you slowly turn your head, what makes you lock eyes with him over your shoulder.

“…It’s not me,” you repeat incredulously.

He’s frowning a little, having the gall to actually look irritated. “No. Of course not.”

You stare at him, a rage so visceral toiling in your belly that you can practically taste the fumes of it. All of this time you’ve been searching, desperate to find a connection that is a fraction as satisfying as what you had with Yoongi. And he really has the audacity to act like he hadn’t snatched that from you, hadn’t built you up solely to have the pleasure of blasting you to smithereens?

Your next words are quiet, so quiet you can barely hear them over the roaring in your own ears. “Fuck you, Yoongi.”

He seems visibly thrown by your response, and that only pisses you off more. Now he wants to play dumb?

The world around you erupts in applause and cheering, and distantly, you realize that while the two of you were having this exchange, you’ve apparently missed the Christmas tree lighting ceremony. But you don’t give a shit. Any and all holiday cheer you previously harbored has been ripped from you, and honestly? This is probably your cue to go home.

“Get out of my face,” you hiss. “Just…just leave me alone.”

And when you turn to leave this time, Yoongi doesn’t stop you.

You do decide to go home after that. You consider merely thugging it out, drinking hot toddy after hot toddy until your family decides they’re ready to call it a night, but your mood is now so soured that all of the warmth that has been slowly building within you since you’ve been home has been effectively snuffed out. There’s no reason to ruin anyone else’s night.

Your house is a couple miles from Town Square and the temperature continues to drop the later it gets, so you send Sierra a quick text and then call an Uber. She finds you already in bed when she and your mom get home, and though the clear reason she pokes her head into your old childhood bedroom is to try to figure out what’s wrong with you, you simply pretend to be asleep so you don’t have to deal with it.

Because ultimately, it’s not a big deal. It’s nothing new. You’ve long since gotten used to the sting of Yoongi’s rejection, are well-practiced in ignoring the way it constantly simmers beneath your skin. You know that if you leave it alone, if you don’t give it any attention, eventually, you will no longer feel singed from the inside out. What you’re feeling now? With time, it eventually will pass.

But in your reasoning, you forget one important detail.

Time is a luxury that is very rarely granted to you.

The next morning, you awaken to the sound of a revving motor, and a curious glance out your window reveals to you that it’s snowed again, and your neighbor across the street is dutifully clearing his driveway. While snow and everything that comes with it—cold temperatures, shoveling, a harder time traveling—usually irritate you, this is admittedly the one day a year you’ll allow it. Everyone loves a white Christmas, and you’re no different. Trudging to brush your teeth, you idly wonder if the snowblower you know is sitting in your mother’s garage has enough gas, or if you’re just going to do it by hand. Maybe your mother’s snow service will take care of it before you even step outside—you should ask her if they’re coming today, even though it’s the holiday.

Sierra pops her head into the bathroom when she notices that you’re in there, smiling big. “Mom!” she yells, much too loudly for your still awakening brain. You flinch, but she ignores you, her childhood excitement for Christmas morning having followed her well into adulthood. “_____ is up!”

And so the morning starts off just as Christmas morning has for years and years—as soon as you’re all awake, you, Sierra, and your mother gather around the tree and eagerly exchange gifts. There aren’t many surprises, as the three of you provided each other a list of options and you all faithfully stuck to it. What does surprise you, however, is when Sierra disappears from the room for a few moments, only to return with a bottle of tequila and three shot glasses.

You snort, amused. “Are you serious, Si?”

“It’s tradition,” she says pointedly. And she’s not wrong—one year, she jokingly suggested taking a birthday shot for Jesus, and, amused, you easily agreed. But the silly ritual somehow returned year after year, and at some point stopped being a joke and started simply being what your family did after opening gifts and before eating breakfast. “A tradition that we’ve had to skip the past few years because somebody refused to come home.”

You wince a little. “I did come home,” you attempt to counter, but the words sound guilty even to your ears.

Rightfully so, Sierra doesn’t buy it. She narrows her eyes at you. “Yeah, but not for Christmas, which is when this is carried out! So we have to do it now.”

You look at your mother, and though she shakes her head good-naturedly at you, she clearly doesn’t oppose the proposition either. “It is tradition,” she points out.

“It is,” you agree.

So tequila shots it is.

The liquor burns the whole way down, your eyes threatening to water as you try not to gag. Sierra grimaces, a guttural noise coming from the back of her throat as she mutters to herself about getting old and not being able to hang anymore.

“This was your idea,” you helpfully point out, still pulling your own face.

But while the two of you gripe over the alcohol, your mother barely reacts. She merely swallows it down like it’s water and starts gathering stray wrapping paper off the floor and stuffing it into a garbage bag. A little tequila has nothing on her old sorority days, you suppose.

You and Sierra share an amused look, watching your mother pause in her tidying up when something outside the window catches her eye. She waves, her lips lifting into a soft smile.

“Who are you smiling at?” you tease, snickering. “Mr. Wilson about to be our new daddy?” But your mother doesn’t react to your good-natured jesting the way you assume she will, her delayed response immediately piquing your interest. You walk over, curiously peering out the window yourself and predictably spotting Mr. Wilson pushing his snowblower back into his garage.

But to your surprise, there is also someone else, bundled under a winter coat and scraping a shovel against the end of your driveway. Your eyebrows furrow. “Who’s—”

Your unspoken question immediately gets answered when the person finishes their row and turns to start the next. Yoongi. Your breath sticks in your throat, rage reigniting at the pure audacity.

“_____,” your mother says cautiously, but you ignore her, already stepping around her to grab your boots. You’re so mad, you can practically feel steam coming out of your ears.

Is this a joke? Does he think this is some kind of game?

Just a few days ago, Alex pressed down on an old wound you had assumed was long healed, but it’s only in this moment, as you stare at the person who had stabbed you in the first place, that you realize how naive you’ve been. All this time, you have been actively ignoring the knife Yoongi had indifferently slid between your ribs, hoping that if you pretended it wasn’t there, everything would eventually be okay.

But things were never okay. They’re not okay. You’re hemorrhaging, and Yoongi apparently thinks it’s funny to waltz back into your life just so he can slowly twist the handle.

This time, you’re tired of pretending. This time, you refuse to let him toy with you while you quietly bleed out.

“_____,” your mother pleads as you bound for the closet and rip your coat off its hanger. “He’s just trying to be nice. Please. Just let it go.”

You whirl on her, breathing fire. “I’m your daughter,” you snarl furiously. “Me. Your allegiance is with me.”

She at least has the good sense to look contrite, but you don’t care to hear anything else from her right now, yanking your front door open and stomping down the porch stairs. You’ve turned entirely reactionary, a tempest just barely restrained by your prison of a body.

Yoongi reflexively looks over his shoulder at the sound of the your screen door slamming open against the side of the house, watching you blankly as you march your way to him, still in your pajamas. A runaway train whose path he doesn’t realize he needs to get out of.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” you hiss.

He doesn’t answer right away, blinking owlishly at your hostility. But then you see the guard shutter in his eyes, and he pointedly turns back to his work. “Shoveling.”

“Stop being such a smartass. You know what I mean.”

“I don’t, actually.”

“Let me rephrase then. Why are you oh-so-conveniently shoveling here, at my house, right after I very clearly told you to fuck off?” You swallow, struggling to keep the tremor out of your voice. “Why won’t you just leave me alone?”

He stares at you for a few moments, almost as if he can’t believe what you’re saying. Then he scoffs, shaking his head disbelievingly as he mutters under his breath, “Typical.”

“Excuse me?”

“Typical,” he mockingly repeats louder, eyes narrowing. “Only thinking about yourself.”

“EXCUSE me?!”

“Not everything is about you, _____,” he bites out. His cheeks are rosy with color, and you don’t know if it’s from the cold or his clear irritation. “I didn’t shovel your driveway to make you mad, or to get your attention, or any other ridiculous fucking reason you insist on making up in your head. I did it because I always have, even after you left. Because I know your mom has a bad back, and despite what you may believe, I’m not a dick.”

He’s mad. Yoongi doesn’t often get truly mad—it takes a lot to even make him raise his voice—but you clearly have gotten him there.

Well, fine. You’re mad too. He can join the fucking party.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” you snarl. Across the street, Mr. Wilson has paused in closing his garage door to nosily watch the scene you’re making, but you don’t even see him right now. Don’t see anything but Yoongi and his stupid haughty face. Don’t see anything but red.

Instead of responding, Yoongi takes the time to push the last bit of snow out of the way and into the grass. Then, to your absolute fury, he breezes past you like you’re not there and starts walking home.

Seething, you don’t think twice before following him down the sidewalk, steps quick to catch up with his slightly longer stride. “And now you’re just gonna run? That’s fucking typical!”

His jaw clenches. “I’m not doing this with you.”

“Not doing what?” you taunt. “Not communicating? Oh, wow, just like old times!”

If looks could kill, you probably would have been struck dead a few houses ago, on Mrs. Henderson’s front lawn. But as it is, you’re too stubborn to let this go. Have been letting this go for so fucking long that it’s been eating you up for years. And you refuse to let it consume the scraps of you that are left.

Yoongi shakes his head, scoffs. Refuses engage with you the last couple blocks, even though you do your very best to provoke him, to force him to feel even a fraction of what you are. He’s clearly over it, but when he opens his garage door and you follow him in, he doesn’t try very hard to stop you.

But in his defense, you are a force to be reckoned with. Nothing but pure rage and sorrow and humiliation, a cyclone of self-loathing that will not be impeded by any half-hearted efforts.

Yoongi puts his shovel in its designated corner and then opens the door to the house and stomps inside. There’s a mudroom, you know, that separates the attached garage from the rest of the house, and Yoongi takes minimal time to rip off his hat, slip off his shoes, unwind his scarf, throw his coat aside. Still not looking at you, but not shutting the door in your face, either.

When he moves further into the house and leaves you standing there—not looking back, and not even bothering to press the button to close the garage door—you reflexively take your shoes and coat off too. But it’s like you have blinders on, hyper-focused on the sight of him turning his back on you and walking away. Always walking away. Heart drumming a staccatoed beat in your ears like it’s revving you up for war.

And you are, you suppose. You’re tired of avoiding him—fucking exhausted of spending years ignoring the extremely obvious elephant in the room.

It’s time to call a spade a spade.

The house is quiet when you pad in, the carpet in the living room completely swallowing the sound of your footsteps. Yoongi knows you’re behind him anyway, if the visible stiffness of his spine beneath his sweater is any indication. He ignores you for a bit more, focusing instead on making his way into the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water, but that facade is forced to drop when you’re suddenly close enough to touch him and blocking his path to the room’s only exit.

“Go home, _____,” he growls, eyes narrowing.

“No,” you snap. “Not until you tell me why you refuse to leave me alone.”

He pauses, a storm visibly rolling over his expression. “You don’t have to worry,” he says, voice quiet. Eyes steely. “It won’t happen again.”

“Not good enough! That doesn’t answer my question and I’m not leaving until you finally learn to use your words like a grownup.”

“I’m sorry, but can you please just spit out whatever you keep alluding to that’s upsetting you?” Yoongi scoffs. Your vexation flares at his obvious contempt. “Because I really don’t have the patience to play one your little guessing games right now. And we both know that if anyone should be pissed, it’s me.”

The audacity. The audacity. “What could you possibly be pissed over?” you fume. “Oh no, I wanted you to get off my property, poor you!”

His jaw ticks. “You really want to go there?”

“Go where, somewhere where you’re finally honest with me?! Yeah. Yeah, I want to go there!”

You’re owed that, at least. After all these years, you know you’re owed at least that.

Without breaking eye contact, Yoongi drains the rest of his glass and sets it in the sink. Carefully, he angles his body towards you, and instantly, the oh-so slight-change in his stance results in a massive change in intention. Defense to offense. “I just don’t understand why you’ve been so hostile,” he says slowly, “when you were the one who left me.”

Of all the things you could have expected him to say, this never, ever was anywhere near your radar. Your jaw drops, brain scrambling to make sense of it. Because clearly you heard him wrong. “I left you,” you repeat flatly, eyebrows furrowing. “I left you?”

You wait for Yoongi to correct you, to repeat what he actually said, and not the absurd thing you heard. But he does nothing of the sort—simply continues to stare at you as you struggle to digest his ludicrous accusation.

“…Are you smoking something?” you ask incredulously. “Did I miss it when we entered an alternate dimension? Yoongi, YOU left ME!”

“Excuse me?” He’s clearly baffled, but from the way his jaw ticks again, you can tell he’s pissed too. “I left? Or you wanted me to leave?”

“What the fuck are you even talking about?” This is ridiculous. So unbelievably absurd that you would laugh if you weren’t already fighting off tears of frustration. “What did I ever do to give you the impression that I wanted you to leave?”

Your gut twists when Yoongi actually does laugh, though the sound rings hollow. He shakes his head at you in disbelief. “Are you serious? _____, you literally built a whole new life and didn’t bother to leave a space for me in it. Didn’t even give me the courtesy of going through the motions of pretending to consider how I would fit in it. Because obviously, I was never meant to.”

The shock that runs through you at his words is ice-cold, quickly dousing the fires of your fury into embers. “What?” you whisper.

“What, did you expect me to stay where I’m clearly not wanted?” Yoongi scoffs, glaring at you. “You know, I almost did. Because I’m weak. You make me weak.”

Not wanted. He actually thought–thinks–that you didn’t want him. Your mind races at this new development, so many thoughts rushing past that you struggle to properly grasp any of them.

Your disoriented silence does nothing to dissuade Yoongi, who has apparently opened the floodgates and now can’t stop his onslaught of resentment. “Not one time did you ask me to come with you,” he continues, tone perfectly level. Perfectly level, but the words slash you anyway, the implications sharp and barbed. “Didn’t say a single thing that alluded to wanting me there. To wanting me. So I took the hint.”

You don’t know what to say. The truth of why he left has been something you’ve lingered on for years, sometimes in passing before you could whisk the thought away, but always coming haunt you in your darkest of moments. You’ve just assumed it was one of those things—that the universe worked in mysterious ways and you won’t always get all the answers.

But now that you know, you wonder if ignorance had been better. Because now, you feel like you’ve been punched in the gut. Now, your mind is shuffling through all the moments between when he left you and two seconds ago and coming to the dawning horror that everything could have been different.

But no. He can’t put this all on you. You’ve now been called out for your part in it, but he was there too. He made choices too. “Yoongi,” you finally say, forcing the words out, “you never, ever told me you wanted to come with me. I can’t read minds. How do you expect me to know that’s how you felt if you didn’t tell me?”

Yoongi looks completely mystified, as if it’s unfathomable to him that such a thing would ever need to be said. “Because I love you.” His stare burns. “And you know that.”

Your eyes widen, hardly believing your ears.

Present tense.

Your heart pounds as you wait for him to correct himself, but Yoongi does not waver, simply keeps looking at you as if what he just said was obvious.

“Don’t do that,” you whisper. “You don’t get to do that.”

“Do what?” he retorts, pushing forward. Flustered, you scramble backwards in turn, trying to restore the space that he seems set on negating. Trying to restore your sanity. “Communicate? Tell you exactly how I’m feeling? I thought that was what you wanted.”

You shake your head, disbelieving. No. No, no no. “You don’t get to do that,” you repeat, a tremor in your voice.

Yoongi ignores you, advances even closer so that your back hits the pantry door and you have nowhere to go. So that you’re forced to look him straight in the eye when he says, voice cracking, “I may have been the one not to come back, but you were the one who left.”

Back then, you had been terrified to push too hard, fully aware that the house of cards you spent years pretending was made of brick could easily crash down with one misstep. But apparently, you had not been alone in that. Apparently, the same had been true for him.

Tense seconds stretch between you as you stare each other down. Weeks, years. You’re trembling, body buzzing with too much of everything at once. And within the span of a breath, your lips are molded to his.

You’re not sure who technically closed the scant inches between you, but from the way your hand now curls around the back of his neck, winds into his hair and pulls his mouth down to your level, you can safely deduce it was you. Yoongi doesn’t seem to protest though, melting into you immediately. Easily slotting into place like a puzzle piece cut from the beginning to fit you.

But it’s not enough.

You’ve been slowly suffocating, and it’s only now that you’re finally breathing him in that you realize it. You’re not close enough–can never be close enough–and it turns you desperate, quickly devolving things into a collision of lips and teeth and tongue, your body arching into the comforting weight of his.

And it’s as if no time has passed between you at all, Yoongi easily matching your urgency with his own. His pull effortlessly meeting your push in an encore performance of your well-practiced dance. His hands wisp over the flare of your hips, meander over the curve of your ass and squeeze, pulling your pelvis solidly into his. And oh. This is familiar. Years later, but oh-so-familiar, and you groan appreciatively into his mouth, one of your legs eagerly wrapping around his hip.

Everything is heated now, primal. Things happening too fast and not fast enough, the two of you reduced to nothing but your baser instincts, the pantry door rattling behind you as he roughly grinds himself into your core. You pant, sparks of pleasure racing across your skin, the hold you have on his hair reflexively tightening. A noise rumbles from his throat at the action, low and guttural, and that only deepens your lust. Only makes you want more. More, more, more.

And Yoongi knows. He must know, can probably tell from your haggard breaths, from the little desperate whines that escape you before you can stop them. He knows, and he’s eager to give you exactly what you’re asking him for.

Yoongi swallows your whine of protest when his hips slightly cant away from yours. But it doesn’t take you long to realize he’s simply giving himself room to slip his hand past the elastic waistband of your pajama bottoms, simply giving himself room to touch you right where you need him most. And when you gasp, skilled fingers stroking you exactly how you like, Yoongi swallows that too.

He’s deliberate in how he circles around your clit, pace meandering, but pressure sure. It sends electricity running down your legs and need pooling at your core. The careful press of the first finger inside you makes you dizzy; the second makes your knees tremble. You almost lose your balance entirely, but he simply leans his body against yours again, the pressure between him and the wooden door successfully holding you up enough for you to regain your bearings.

And regaining your bearings is not an easy feat. Not with his fingers inside you, long and lithe and knuckle deep. Not with his palm being forced against your clit by the insistent press of his cock. You whimper again, rocking against him and forcing him impossibly deeper.

Yoongi just watches you fuck yourself on him. Watches the tease of movement beneath fabric, the twist of frustration on your face. Watches leisurely, like he has all the time in the world.

But you don’t. Hurriedly, you push against his chest. Yoongi goes easily, stepping back at the insistent pressure and removing his hand from your pants. He eyes you, pupils blown with lust despite his confusion. Head tilted slightly in question.

And you answer him by reaching for his waistband, hands trembling a bit in your haste to unbutton his pants. He starts to help you, but you’re in a haze. On a mission. And so you scramble to move his pants out of the way just enough to pull him out, spurred by the feel of him in your hand, just like you remember. Hot, thick. Heavy with promise.

His dick twitches excitedly in your hold when you give him a few cursory strokes, muscle memory gliding your hand over the velvety skin, your grip just as firm as he used to like. And apparently still likes, his breath stuttering in his throat as you quickly work him to full mast.

Yoongi’s eyes flutter, and then he regains enough sense to return his attention to you, hands swiftly returning and yanking your pajama pants over your hips and down your legs. You eagerly step out of them, easily spread your thighs when a wandering hand slips between them.

Suddenly, one of your legs is lifted and tucked into the crook of his elbow. The move surprises you, his cock momentarily forgotten as you scramble for his shoulders and lean a bit more heavily against the pantry in an attempt to regain stability. And that’s the only warning you get before, after he gives himself a few more pumps, he settles at your entrance and breaches you.

It burns. You’re wet, but not enough—was too impatient to allow him enough time to work you up properly. So now, as a result, his entry burns, breath catching in your throat, nails digging into his shoulders. Yoongi notices your discomfort immediately and tries to retreat, but you won’t let him, one of your hands scrabbling down his back so you can grab his ass and push.

Want. You want and you need, groaning at the satisfying pressure of his thick length separating your walls, inch by inch. You’ve been hollow, but now you’re not, Yoongi your long-missing piece. Slotting right where he’s always belonged. Where he’s always meant to be.

Yoongi leans down and kisses you, trying to help you adjust. Trying to distract you from any discomfort with his wicked tongue. And you let him, easily meeting and matching his languid movements.

But there’s only so long you can try to restrain your hunger. And when he’s finally fully-seated, it becomes blatantly clear that you’re ravenous.

“More,” you whisper. Body trembling and dusted with goosebumps. You’re whole again, but you need.

And, never one to deny you, Yoongi gives you what you beg him for.

Slowly, he pulls out enough to thrust back in, the upward angle making his cockhead easily tap your g-spot.

“Ahhhhh,” you moan, sparks dancing across your vision. Arms circling his neck in an attempt to bring him impossibly closer. “M-More—”

Yoongi groans too, spurred by your reaction. Immediately pulls back out and slamming back in, harder this time.

You keen, everything about you encouraging his increasingly frantic pace. It still kind of burns at first, sparks igniting your lower-half every time he thrusts and scrapes against your insides, but you revel in that burn. Revel in the way the breath is knocked out of your lungs, revel in the way the pain rapidly gets swallowed by pleasure as he sucks color down the column of your throat, coaxing you soft and open. The angle assures your clit drags across his pelvic bone with every stroke, and you just whine and bask in it all. Bask in his reverent touch, in his feverish worship.

Ultimately, you can only cling to him as he pistons within you, your pussy the willing victim of his long pent up frustration. His hands greedily slide up your shirt, and you whimper at the additional stimulation, toes curling.

Yoongi shushes you. “Tell me what you need from me, baby,” he murmurs against your jaw. “Anything you want. You just have to tell me.”

“You,” you groan.

“You have me.”

No, he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand. “You,” you repeat, the word cracking a little.

Yoongi stops kissing you, pulls back so you can see the sincerity in his eyes. Stops the roll of his hips so you can hear the sincerity in his words. Takes a moment to rest his forehead against yours. “You have me,” he throatily says again. Sharing your breath. “You always have.”

You close your eyes, relishing in the heat of him. The weight of him. Instinctively, your hips cant down, body chasing its high, and he obediently reaches for them. His fingers digging into the meat of your ass only gives him more leverage to properly yank you down. To frantically and repeatedly spear you onto his cock. A particularly deep thrust has you letting out another desperate whine, but Yoongi merely shushes you again.

“I know, baby. I know.” He’s breathing hard with his efforts, pressing soothing pecks across your damp skin.

And then finally, you come undone, eyes rolling back, cunt locking around him. You convulse, only held up by Yoongi’s bodyweight and the door behind you. He curses, loudly, the hot grip of you triggering him into his own frenzy and as he continues to pound into you, deep deep. With a final, shuddering groan, he cums too, hips circling as he rides it out, pantry door rattling with each movement.

And you’re blissfully taking it, your pussy eagerly sucking him in like a vacuum. Milking him for everything he’s willing to give you.

A lot. What he’s willing to give you is a lot, because you feel him, shooting hot and sticky inside you, but even after he’s done he doesn’t stop fucking you. Just breathes hot against your neck and continues to fuck his cum deeper inside you, swiveling his hips like he’s in a trance. Like if he tries hard enough, he can make it stay.

Eventually, he calms, softened cock slowing its fevered roll, and he starts to regain sense of himself. Insecurity settles as soon as he pulls out and pulls away, both of you unsure of where you stand with these recent developments. You awkwardly grab paper towels to wipe at his mess while he tucks himself pack into his pants.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and you pause, thrown off guard at hearing him say the words. But then he continues, “I should have asked before I did that.”

Of course. Of course that’s what he’s sorry for.

Whatever warmth you’d been starting to feel only moments before is doused right out. Sex means nothing, your mind whispers. When will you finally fucking grasp that?

“It’s fine.” Your reply is frosty, even to you. “I’m on birth control.”

Yoongi’s lips thin, no doubt recognizing that he is no longer the one you are on birth control for. That annoys you, and it annoys you that it annoys you.

You’ve finally said your peace, and thought that you would feel better about it. Hell, you’ve even fucked the guy. So why is your chest still tight? Why does this feel so wrong?

You can finish cleaning up when you get home—you need to get out of here. Need some time and space to regroup. “I meant everything I said,” you murmur, pulling your pants back up.

His expression is guarded. “So did I.”

So that’s it, then. For how long are you going to allow yourself to be made a fool of? For how long are you going to offer pieces of yourself, chipping way until there’s nothing left? You can’t do this again. You don’t think you can survive doing this again.

With a slow nod, you move to turn away. “This was a mistake. I’m sorry.”

Yoongi immediately steps in your path. “What do you mean, a mistake?” he demands.

“I mean just that.”

“Oh, no no no. We’re not doing that. You had no problem saying what was on your mind two seconds ago. Why can’t you do the same now?”

“There’s nothing to say,” you reply defensively.

“What do you mean, there’s nothing to say?”

“Nothing has changed, Yoongi.”

He shakes his head, bewildered. “What are you talking about? Everything has changed. It was clearly all just a miscommunication.”

“So what,” you scoff. “You think we can just say oopsie and move on like it never happened?”

“I didn’t say that.” He’s frustrated. So are you. “I just—”

Something starts insistently vibrating, stealing both of your attention. It’s closest to you, and you quickly recognize the culprit to be the phone Yoongi tossed onto a counter, what feels like eons ago. Silently, you hand it to him.

He reflexively takes it, but gives you a look that tells you he’s not done with you before shifting his gaze to the screen. “Shit,” he mutters, immediately answering. “Hey, sorry. Yeah, I’m coming, I just lost track of time. Yeah, I know. But I’m on my way now.” He listens silently for a bit more, the way he shifts from foot to foot betraying his impatience. “Okay. Okay. I’m on my way right now. Okay. See you in a little bit.”

You raise a brow at the long breath he lets out when he hangs up, an agitated hand ruffling his inky strands.

He answers your unspoken question. “I’m supposed to be at my brother’s right now. My parents went ahead because they wanted to watch Sua open all her presents, but I told them I’d catch up with them after I finished shoveling.”

It is Christmas, isn’t it? And you were so mad when you entered the house that you forgot to even take into account that his parents might be inside, and also failed to notice when they weren’t. Hell, your own family is likely waiting for you too, and you didn’t even bother to bring your phone when you stormed out of the house.

“Oh,” you say, suddenly very embarrassed. You duck your head, turning to leave. “Of course. Don’t let me hold you up—”

Yoongi grabs your wrist before you can get too far, his touch halting your quick escape. “I just think we need to talk this out some more,” he says hesitantly. “Or, at least, I’d like to.”

Your deeply-honed defenses have your lips reflexively parting to tell him to fuck off. But there’s something new whispering in the back of your mind that makes your tongue hesitate. Something new and hopeful and very likely naive.

He’s right. While both of you just aired out some your grievances, you’re not deluded enough to think that wasn’t the tip of the iceberg. Besides, you were both so mad, you doubt either of you did much listening. At the very least, you can admit, his request sounds genuine.

“...I’d like that too,” you reply honestly after a few beats, strangely shy. Like you haven’t known him for years and just got done letting him fuck your brains out.

He shifts, an agitated hand running through his hair. “And I’d really love to do that now but—”

“Yoongi.” You hold up pacifying hands to his visible frustration. “It can wait. It’s waited this long.”

An amused puff of air escapes his lips. “I guess you’re right,” he agrees after a moment, something fluttering in your ribcage at the soft way he looks at you. “Then we can talk later?”

“Talk later,” you confirm. And this time when you try to leave, he lets you.

Your walk from Yoongi’s feels much different from your walk there. There was a tension in your body before that had you wound tight, tight. That’s gone now, your relaxed limbs now making you feel almost boneless. You’re dazed, and with the newly-fallen snow making everything glow, it’s like you’re in a dream. Like none of this is real.

But you know as soon as you enter your house and are met with your mother’s worried face that that’s not the case. That what just happened with Yoongi did, in fact, happen. She and Sierra have been waiting for you to come back, as the three of you are supposed to meet at your aunt’s house to open the rest of your gifts.

“I’m okay,” you assure her quietly, staring your boots. “And I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled at you and I shouldn’t have yelled at all.”

She doesn’t agree with you, though she should. She doesn’t tell you that it’s okay, because it’s not. Instead, your mother just gathers you in her arms and holds you there. “You’re human,” she murmurs. And that’s enough.

That night—after you’ve showered and gotten dressed and spent the whole day with your family and lugged all your presents back home—your phone rings. You pick it up, curious, only to freeze at the 🚘 on the screen.

Yoongi.

You never bothered to correct his contact info from when Namjoon had given it to you, what felt like forever ago. Now, the seemingly innocuous emoji sends your blood pressure skyrocketing, your body teeming with nerves.

Swallowing, you watch the phone ring and ring, and right before he gets sent to voicemail, you take the leap and answer the call. “Hello?”

“Hi,” he breathes. “It’s Yoongi.”

You find yourself smiling despite your sudden jitters. “I know.”

“Oh. I just—” He’s flustered. It’s reassuring to know you’re not the only one. “Sorry. I forgot you had my number.”

“Haven’t had enough time to block it yet,” you tease, but then immediately want to smack yourself. It’s much too soon in whatever…this is to start say something like that. Yoongi pauses, and you rush to rectify your mistake. “Um, that was a joke.”

This time, it’s him who’s amused, a puff of laughter escaping him. “I know.”

“Oh. Um, good.”

“Mmmm.”

“Did you need…” You hesitate, not wanting to accidentally dissuade him from reaching out to you when your newfound truce is so fresh. “Is something wrong?”

“Wrong? Oh, no. No. Well, kinda, yeah.” He lets out a long breath. “I know we agreed that we have a lot of things to talk about, and I still want to do that. But my job just called me and I need to fly back tomorrow.”

“They called you on Christmas?” you ask, annoyed for him. “Why are they contacting you at all during the holidays? Weren’t you supposed to be on vacation until New Year’s?”

“Yeah. But Taehyung’s release date is moving. Apparently, some popular popstar has decided to release her album at the same time, and now A&R is worried his buzz will be buried by hers, so our schedule now has to jump ahead a few weeks. I would just mix things from here, but he still has some songs to record, so it’s just better if I go back.”

“Jeez, that sucks. I’m sorry.”

“Eh, it’s fine. They paid for the ticket back, and I’ve already told them we’re going to renegotiate my royalty amount. So it is what it is.”

“It still sucks. Do you…” you hesitate, inwardly debating on your next words. “Do you need a ride to the airport?”

“I—yeah,” he says, your offer clearly surprising him. “Yeah, that would be great. My flight is early though. Are you sure?”

“Yeah, it’s no problem.”

“Cool. Okay.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll send you my flight info.”

“Sounds good.”

There is a long, long pause after that, one that neither of you is sure how to fill. This is uncharted territory, and you don’t know how to navigate it.

Yoongi finally clears his throat, mercifully setting you free from limbo. “Okay then. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “See you tomorrow.”

Another pause. Then, softly, he says, “Merry Christmas, _____,” and hangs up.

The sun is just starting to breach the horizon, soft rays filtering teasingly through your blinds and dusting your room with speckles of light. It’s pretty, you muse as you watch the gentle glow spread, chasing away the darkness. Crazy to think that something so beautiful is an absolute. That one merely has to have the patience to wait for it.

You’re never up this early on your days off—and certainly not during the holidays—but it’s not like you got much sleep last night anyway. So you get ready quickly, merely throwing on some jeans and the first sweater you touch. You don’t plan on getting out of the car, in any case.

Sierra, trudging down the hallway on her way to the bathroom, pauses in your doorway when she sees you’re fully dressed already. She rubs her eyes, raises an eyebrow. “What are you doing up so early?”

You bite the inside of your cheek, hoping you give off an air of nonchalance when you reply, “I have to take Yoongi to the airport.”

That wakes her right up, both eyebrows now seemingly attempting to shoot past her hairline. “Your ex-boyfriend who you just cussed out in front of everybody and then fucked in his kitchen, Yoongi? That Yoongi?!”

You facepalm, groaning in embarrassment. “Say that a little louder, why don’t you.” God, you’re really starting to regret telling her the whole story when she cornered you in one of your aunt’s bathrooms yesterday.

Your sister waves a hand, unconcerned. “Mom’s still knocked out and she fell asleep with the tv blasting. She can’t hear shit.”

“That doesn’t make what you said any less embarrassing.”

“Wasn’t embarrassing when you did it,” she quips, and you’re mad because you can’t even be mad. Because she’s right.

“…Yes,” you finally admit, trying not to pout. “That Yoongi.”

Sierra grins, looking entirely too happy this early in the morning. “You know, I always knew you two would get back together.”

You scoff at her assumption, face warm. “First of all, rude, considering he literally dumped me via text. And nobody said anything about getting back together—I’m just driving him to the airport.”

“But you’re thinking about it?” she pushes, watching you expectantly. And you don’t know what to say. Are you? It’s way too early to even think about that, literally and figuratively.

…But would it be the worst thing?

Sierra just smiles like you gave her the answer she was fishing for and promptly turns away, continuing her trek to bathroom. “You’re going to be late,” she throws smugly over her shoulder.

The ride to the airport is quiet.

Normally, this wouldn’t be surprising—Yoongi is even less of a morning person than you are, and if he’s ever seen up and about this early, it’s probably because he never went to bed. But the quiet that settles between you now is different from expected lethargy. Is more jittery, antsy. Just on the edge of breaking itself.

You’ve already made small talk about Christmas, of course. Got that out of the way early, chatting about how generous Santa was to Sua this year, how your aunt got tipsy on moscato and sang loudly and off key. Safe topics. But now that those are all out of the way, the only thing left, aside from what you’re both dancing around, is silence. So silence is what you sit in for the rest of the ride, you ultimately turning on the radio halfway through just to have something to cut through the unspoken tension.

It isn’t until you’ve navigated to departures and pulled up to curb drop off that you finally break it.

“Well,” you say awkwardly. “Looks like this is you.”

God, this is weird. It’s weird, and you hate that it’s weird. Hate that this is what the two of you have come to, when things used to be so easy and effortless.

“Thanks,” Yoongi says, but he doesn’t make any move to leave. Instead, he stares at the dashboard for a bit and then finally turns to you, startling you with his sudden intensity. “I want you to know that I’m sorry I didn’t communicate better back then.”

You stare back at him, wide-eyed at this turn of events. Dazed at finally hearing the words you’ve been waiting an eternity to hear.

But Yoongi doesn’t wait for your response, just continues to tell his truth. “Our lives were at a turning point when we graduated, and it terrified me that everything was changing. It really hurt that you didn’t seem to care if I was with you or not. It really hurt that I needed you more than you needed me.”

His confession shocks you into action, protest immediately tumbling out of your mouth before you can even process it. “Yoongi, of course I needed you, are you crazy? You have no idea how much you leaving fucked me up.” You let out a disbelieving laugh, gesturing at nothing. “But for you to feel that way, I clearly am not very good at communicating either. So I’m sorry too.”

His expression softens, lips parting to respond, but you’re not done. You need him to know.

“I’m sorry if I ever made you feel unloved or unwanted,” you profess sincerely. “Because that honestly couldn’t be further than the truth.”

Yoongi holds your stare, something akin to hope swimming in his irises.

You let out a long exhale, nervous to say what needs to be said. “But it’s not the same. We’re not the same. And we can’t just pretend that we are.”

Your words hover between you, their truth heavy in the resulting silence. A Top 40 song uses the opportunity to warble vapidly in the background. But then, after a few harrowing moments, Yoongi gives you a slow nod.

“You’re right. We’re not,” he agrees, expression adamant. “But I’d still love the opportunity to get to know you again, if you’ll let me.”

Something warm flutters in your chest, and you duck your head, once again shy. Why are you shy? It’s just Yoongi. Just your Yoongi. “I’d like that,” you admit.

He smiles then, first small and hesitant, but quickly widening into too much gum when you smile back. Unwavering, he unbuckles his seatbelt and opens his door, one leg already out before he pauses and backtracks. Before you realize what he’s doing, he’s leaning over the console, his face getting closer and closer and making you crosseyed.

Your eyes reflexively flutter shut when his hand reaches up to cradle your cheek, when the distance between you rapidly disappears. You feel his thumb rub a few gentle circles into your jawline, and then, after a beat, his lips press rather tenderly against your forehead.

Stunned, you can only watch him, wide-eyed, when he pulls back, unabashedly meeting your astonished stare. Then, with one final, resolute nod, Yoongi climbs out of the vehicle and shuts the door. You watch him as he grabs his suitcase from the trunk, rolling it the short way to the automatic doors. You watch him as he disappears inside without looking back.

And that’s how, for the second time in your life, Min Yoongi walks away and leaves you behind.

But it’s going to be okay, you know. As you pull away from the curb, merging into oncoming traffic, you can tell that it’s different this time. That this time, his departure settles your heart much less like a goodbye and much more like a see you later.

That this time, it feels like a promise.

⇢ collab masterlist | my masterlist

#yoongi smut #yoongi angst #yoongi fic #bts smut #bts angst #bts fic #min yoongi #fic: this christmas #gimme some suga #collab #mine

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gukyi · 3 years

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the art of the rom-com | jjk

summary: FILM395, the art of the rom-com, was supposed to be an easy a with one of your favorite professors, but it’s not. it’s actually a sisyphean torture that comes in the form of fellow film student jeon jungkook, who has no problem responding to every one of your discussion posts about the consumerist ideals underlying every romance movie with his own paragraphs on the beauty of love like the hopeless romantic he is. and when the two of you find yourselves partnered up for your final project, which is to create a short film on rom-coms, jungkook decides to take it upon himself to show you what love is really like.

{enemies to lovers!au, college!au}

pairing: film major!jungkook x film major!reader (female) genre: fluff, comedy, slight angst, this is literally a rom-com in fic form word count: 33k warnings: college alcohol consumption, discussion board posts, emotionally constipated characters, film major shenanigans, blonde jungkook who’s also in a hip hop dance troupe, miscommunication, if you hate rom-coms do not read this fic

a/n: i am so so so excited to share this monster of a jungkook fic (tho let’s be real, 30k is pretty standard for me now ;-;) with you all! this is basically rom-com trash, but it’s my rom-com trash, and i hope you all enjoy!

on a sadder, less exciting note: after this fic i will be taking an extended writing hiatus until at least the beginning of may. my semester is picking up and i unfortunately just don’t currently have any upcoming fics planned for you guys. i hope you understand!! maybe i’ll do a couple of ask games here and there to see if anything piques my interest, but other than that please do not expect major works of writing for a while. love you all!

500 Days of Summer is a movie you all have probably seen before. That being said, I encourage you to respond to this discussion board from a film perspective as opposed to a viewer’s perspective. How did 500 Days of Summer alter the classic narrative of boy-meets-girl? Do you think it was a smart move, on the parts of Webb, Neustadter, and Weber, to do so? Why or why not?

Jeon Jungkook on February 12th at 9:53PM

I thought that the change in the boy-meets-girl narrative that had been popularized by rom-coms of the 1990s definitely contributed to his popularity and its attractiveness towards viewers in general. The film makes it clear that the story does not have a so-called happy ending, but despite that, it still brings into discussion the idea of love and soulmates and true connection. And that’s important, because despite the film’s not-so-happy ending, it makes it a point to emphasize that those things are real. That love is real. I thought it was an excellent move on the parts of the writers and director, because they both broke standards in terms of happy endings in rom-coms and they stayed true to the message at hand.

Y/N Y/L/N on February 12th at 10:29PM

I have to disagree with Jungkook. It’s obvious the movie is not going to have a happy ending because Tom is so obsessed with the version of Summer he has created in his head that he doesn’t even see who the real girl is anymore. It doesn’t have a happy ending not because they weren’t soulmates, or because their love wasn’t right. They break up because what Tom wants and what Summer wants are fundamentally different, and Tom just can’t accept the fact that Summer doesn’t love him the way he wants her to. In a desperate quest to keep her, though, he manifests this version of her and replaces the actual Summer with it, ultimately destroying their relationship. How could viewers ever have faith that Tom would eventually get his happy ending if the only proof of his commitment to relationships they have is him manufacturing a different girl to fall in love with?

When you walk into class, Jeon Jungkook is already there.

He sits in the front row, the seat closest to the door in your puny little classroom, much too small for twenty-students to fit comfortably, let alone watch movies on the pull-down projector screen above the chalkboard. You’re convinced he’s chosen that seat just so he can grin at you whenever you walk in the room, always later than him because apparently, he has nothing better to do with his time than show up to class early and smirk at you when you arrive.

As you shuffle past his seat towards your own—second row, middle of the room, centered with the lecturer’s podium—with your usual scowl drawn neatly across your face, Jungkook says, overly bright and cheery, “Good morning, Y/N.”

The sound of his voice alone is enough to make your nose scrunch up in further disgust. “Shut up,” you grumble back, stuffing yourself into your chair and pulling out your laptop. One row in front of you and five seats to the right, you see Jungkook chuckle.

Glowering, you open up your Notes document for the class and try to avoid staring at Jungkook’s side profile, the way he’s slouching lazily in his seat, and what looks to be a lengthy paragraph on his computer screen, a task that proves to be particularly difficult because he happens to sit in the exact spot you have to look in order to see your professor enter the room. What the hell is he even writing, anyway?

He straightens up the moment she does, cheerful as always as she smiles at everyone. “Good morning, everyone.”

The lot of you respond with halfhearted smiles and waves.

“I can just feel the enthusiasm radiating throughout the room,” she jokes, clenching her fists together in success. At least that gets a couple of you to laugh. “Which is great, because before we get to anything today, we’re gonna talk about the final project.”

You smile to yourself, immediately pulling up the copy of the syllabus you had downloaded to your desktop, scrolling right down to where she had outlined information about the final project in big, bolded letters. There are a lot of reasons you’ve taken this class, not the least of which is the fact that you have had Professor Pollack three times prior to this and she’s loved you in every class, but the final project was definitely one of the major selling points.

Pollack pulls up a more detailed final project document on the projector as she steps out from behind the podium. “As you guys know, your final project is a thirty-to-forty minute short film involving rom-coms. You guys have a lot of freedom, it can be a rom-com, it could be a documentary about rom-coms, anything. It just needs to involve the topic of rom-coms somehow. I know a lot of you have actor friends who would be more than happy to have a star-crossed lovers fling or whatever. Go wild. Just keep it PG-13, because I can’t in good faith have nude bodies of your fellow college students on my screen.”

You snort to yourself. Makes you wonder how many times Pollack has seen sex scenes of college students on her screen before. Too many, probably.

Unintentionally, your eyes drift over to Jungkook. He seems to be working on that hefty paragraph of his, typing something you assume is completely unrelated to the topic at hand and is further proof that Jungkook just doesn’t give a shit about anything involving this class. Whatever. You turn back to Pollack.

“Good projects not only capture the essence of what a rom-com is, but also put their own twist on the story and bring into question the topics we discuss in class, like truthfulness, realistic portrayals of love, and viewer interpretation,” she continues, and with every word you feel heart beat faster in excitement. “I know you’re all excellent filmmakers. That’s why you’ve taken this class. But what I want you to do is get into the nitty-gritty of the makeup of a rom-com and distill it as much as possible. We’ll be watching them all in class during the last week. Yes, Celia?”

You all turn to look at Celia, who sits in the third row, second seat from the left. “This is a partner project, right?”

Well. That’s the one downside. As much as you know that cooperation is an important life skill, you would much rather prefer to produce the entire movie yourself. But you love Pollack and you already know you’re on track to get a good grade in this class, so whatever. You’ll deal.

As long as you can pick your teammate.

“Yes,” Pollack affirms, “and with that excellent segue, I will now announce your partners.”

Shit.

Pollack pulls out a folded piece of paper from her back pocket, like she had just come up with the arrangements on the morning train ride to campus, and begins reading. Slowly, as she ticks off names one by one, everyone begins to turn around, locking eyes with their partners and exchanging guess-it’s-us-two-huh? smiles. Everyone except—

“And lastly, Jungkook and Y/N.”

You freeze in place. You look up at your professor, eyes wide and shocked, because nobody knows better than her how much the two of you have been butting heads this entire semester. But when you meet her eyes and she smiles knowingly, shrugging her shoulders, you know you’re doomed. Hesitantly, almost like you’re scared to find out what happens when you do, you shift your gaze towards where Jungkook sits in the front right corner of the room. Only he’s not just sitting. He’s turned a full one hundred-and-eighty degrees just so he can smirk at you from across the room, a glint in his eye.

Jungkook laughs at your cold-stone, shellshocked reaction. Like he knows how much you’ll hate this, and you know how much he’ll enjoy it.

From here, you actually have a pretty good view of his laptop screen, brightness turned all the way up because he apparently doesn’t care who reads his screen. Or maybe he just likes showing off how much he writes so he can establish dominance over everyone else. Except you, of course. But when you look a little closer, you notice he’s got the class discussion board for the week up on his Chrome window, two paragraphs typed into the text box.

Right above is your response to his comment.

Is that what he was working on? His reply to your reply? Right now? He has the audacity to draft it right here, in front of you, where he knows you can see? He doesn’t even care that you’re blatantly staring at it. In fact, he actually seems to be relishing in it.

You’re so caught off guard by the contents of his computer screen that when you look back up at him on instinct, you catch a wink in your direction.

Your fists tighten by your side.

Class is rather uneventful after the whole partner fiasco, as Pollack transitions into your usual dose of a short lecture on the film and then a class discussion that goes absolutely nowhere because everyone is too concerned with the final project to care. Whatever you talk about, you will be hard pressed to know, because you spend the entire rest of the period scowling at the blank page of your Notes document as you try to formulate a way to convince Pollack to change your partner. Would she accept a dozen doughnuts as a bribe? A box is only ten dollars from Dunkin’.

When Pollack finally shuts her laptop screen and begins her weekly goodbye spiel, you are the first one out of the room. Hastily, you stuff your laptop into your bag, zip it up as best as you can (which means that the tops of your water bottle and umbrella are sticking out, but who cares), and shuffle out the room right as Pollack is bidding you all farewell, just so you don’t have to look at Jungkook’s stupid, smug little grin on the way out.

Faintly, you remember Pollack saying something about getting your partner’s contact information so you can start working, but fuck that. Jungkook knows your name. He can find you. If you must spend the entire semester communicating through Instagram DMs, then so be it. You’ve communicated with men in worse ways. Like through LinkedIn.

There’s a small seating area half a flight down from where your puny little classroom is, a few tables and a bench that wraps around the wall, posters splayed out on the corkboard to the right, staples littering both the board and the floor it rests above. Nobody ever seems to use this, despite the innumerable posters advertising everything from dance troupe shows to financial literacy talks, which makes it the perfect place for you to brood and gather your thoughts. It’s also in the direct opposite direction of the exit. So that’s good.

Taking your anger out on your personal belongings (as opposed to that bitchass smirk on Jungkook’s face), you begin to shove your umbrella and water bottle into the pocket of your backpack, fighting to nestle them amongst your other worldly possessions, like your pencil case and what looks to be a small nest of receipts at the bottom of the back. No wonder it’s so clogged up down there.

If anything gives you a sense of control, it’s cleaning. One by one, you pluck out the receipts from your bag, nose scrunching up as you try to remember every purchase you’ve made in the past three months. Plus, one of these receipts is from when you bought some dryer sheets from CVS, so that means the five inches of actual information are also accompanied by three feet of coupons that expired two weeks ago. Ugh, what a waste.

“Don’t look so angry, you’ll have to get used to seeing this face a lot.”

You look up from where you’ve been inspecting an old receipt from a midnight McDonald’s trip to find Jungkook standing in front of you, backpack hanging loosely on his bomber jacket-clad shoulder and that same stupid grin written all over his same stupid face.

“Can I help you?” You drawl. Great. Now Jungkook can add “saw all her receipts” to the list of embarrassing things he’s caught you doing.

“Can I help you?” Jungkook fires back with a scoff, blonde hair bouncing as he jerks his head flippantly. “Looks like someone needs to take an Accounting class or something.”

“I’m just doing some spring cleaning,” you sneer. It’s February. “What do you want?”

“What, no ‘Hello, partner’? ‘So excited to be working with you this semester’? I’m hurt,” Jungkook says, placing a hand to his heart as he shakes his head disapprovingly. “I thought we had something good, Y/N. Isn’t that why Pollack paired us up?”

You’re pretty sure she just likes watching the world burn.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you chide, knowing that Jungkook already must get enough of a kick out of just seeing the annoyed look on your face.

“Please, like I even need to. You think I don’t notice the way you stare at me during class? I know you must like what you see,” Jungkook flirts, just to be extra irritating.

While he’s stroking his own ego, you tear off a piece of that CVS receipt, one of the expired coupons for Three Dollars Off Any Shampoo or Conditioner, and scribble your number on the back. The rest of the receipts you scoop up and dump in the trash can to your right before you zip up your backpack and hike it over your shoulder.

“Here,” you say gruffly, shoving the paper against his chest as you head towards the stairwell.

“How forward of you, Y/N, you know you could have just asked—”

Pausing right before you turn the corner and head out the door, you turn back to look at Jungkook, already exhausted from having to interact with him for five minutes. “And when you’re done jerking yourself off,” you say pointedly, “text me.”

You storm out the door.

[February 13th, 1:24PM]

Unknown Number: guess who ;)

You: Wow I have NO idea You: Keanu Reeves?

Unknown Number: haha very funny Unknown Number: it’s jungkook

You: Damn shame You: You done jerking off yet

Maybe: Jungkook: what makes you think i’m not doing that right now ;)))

You: You don’t have the coordination to text me and masturbate at the same time You: What do you want

Jungkook: ouch, harsh Jungkook: can’t i just want to talk to my final project partner? :D

[February 13th, 2:17PM]

Jungkook: alright fine Jungkook: just wanna see when you wanna meet up

You: Guess I don’t have a choice do I

Jungkook: unless you wanna facetime

You: Is that an option?

Jungkook: how about friday at 3 Jungkook: in one of the greene gsrs

You: You think you can manage to reserve one of those?

Jungkook: watch me

[February 13th, 2:21PM]

Jungkook: [screenshot sent] Jungkook: done

You: Do you want a gold star for all that hard work you just did? All that manual labor? You: Fine. See you then.

Jungkook: miss you already <3

Y/N Y/L/N on February 12th at 10:29PM

Jeon Jungkook on February 13th at 7:35PM.

You make a good point, Y/N, but I think you missed the whole point of the movie. It’s not about their breakup or the not-so-happy ending or even Tom’s problems. It’s about the journey they go on and what Tom learns in the process. If you watch the trailer then you’d go into the movie knowing they weren’t gonna last. The results of whatever Tom and Summer do to contribute to their eventual breakup should not come as a surprise to the viewer. The whole point of the movie is that they spent five hundred days together and Tom is now recounting those days to anyone who will watch. And you know who’s watching? People who want to hear a story. About love. And loss. And everything in between. Isn’t that the whole reason we watch romance movies anyway?

Sometimes, you wonder if the garishness of Professor Pollack’s shoebox-sized office is the reason not very many students attend her office hours. The walls are lined with movie posters taken from a theater going out of business, the shelves stuffed to the brim with Disney World trinkets and old film memorabilia. She’s installed these thick red velvet curtains along her single window, making the whole room look like some sort of 1950s movie lair.

In a way, you suppose it kind of is.

You hear the taps of her Converse shoes as they come down the hallway and round the corner into the office.

“You know, Y/N, I was surprised to see you signed up for my office hours when I logged in this morning,” Pollack says as she enters the room, handing you the coffee in her right hand as she takes a sip out of the one from her left. Last year, the film department bought a Breville coffee maker with the leftover funds from a movie showing fundraiser and it is, in your humble opinion, the best investment the department has ever made.

“Why? I see you all the time,” you ask, eyebrows raised. You and Professor Pollack are not lacking in social connection. She’s written you a letter of recommendation and she knows your coffee order.

“The very first time we ever spoke outside of class, you sat down at my Starbucks table while I was eating lunch just so you could introduce yourself and ask me about my opinion on the Mamma Mia remake,” she deadpans. “We don’t exactly speak through official forums.”

Well, she’s got you there.

“I know…” you begin, trailing off awkwardly as you take a sip of your coffee. It’s burning hot and scalds your tongue a little, but it’s nice. It’s been cold recently. “But I just thought we could talk… privately.”

Pollack rolls her eyes as she reclines in her chair, back hitting the padding of the chair with a thud. “Goodness, I wonder what you’re here to talk to me about.”

“Okay, please pardon my French, but what the freak, Professor?” You say, because the words have been sitting hot on your tongue ever since you walked into your office and you didn’t think sending an email that looked like:

To: [email protected] From: y/[email protected] Subject: what the freak

Dear Professor Pollack,

What the freak?????????

Cheers, Y/N

would be very professional on your part.

Pollack lets out this honk of a laugh, loud and sudden, shaking her head fondly. “Come on, Y/N. You must have known I would have partnered the two of you up.”

“I was hoping you’d let us choose?” You emphasize.

“And miss out on what very well may be one of the best final projects of the class, produced by my two best students of the semester? Absolutely not,” she says, smiling knowingly at you.

Even her sudden reveal that you happen to be one her best students this semester isn’t enough to soothe your worries and calm your anger. You’re honored, but you have bigger problems. Problems that start with ‘Jeon’ and end with ‘Jungkook’.

Pollack looks at your beaten-down expression and leans forward, placing her coffee cup on the wooden desk in front of her. “Listen, Y/N. You’re an excellent student and one of the most talented filmmakers I’ve seen in a long time. Your discussion posts are detailed, well-written, and thought-provoking. I know that the two of you will make a great project.”

You scoff. “We can’t agree on a single thing.”

“Sometimes that happens in life, and you just have to deal with it,” Pollack says sagely.

“So I can’t change partners?”

“Not unless you’d like to fail the final,” Pollack comments, shrugging. How rude of her to say such a thing, not taking the option to change partners off the table entirely but making it so that if you do, you’ll pretty much be shooting yourself in the foot. Or worse.

You narrow your eyes at her. “That’s low.”

“That’s life,” she corrects.

“Ugh.” You get up out of your seat, taking angry sips of your coffee as you desperately try to think of another way to get out of it. Are doughnuts still an option?

“I have full faith that the both of you will come up with an excellent project,” Pollack says like it’s some sort of consolation as she walks you to the door to her office. Yeah, right. You and Jungkook spend your free time making snide responses to each other’s discussion posts like it’s nobody’s business. You’re probably the only two people at your entire university that care enough to make replies to each other’s replies. Like Tinder from hell. “You shouldn’t be worried, Y/N.”

“I’m not worried,” you say, completely worried. “I just—I don’t know how Jungkook and I will get along.”

Pollack grins to herself. Does she know something you don’t? Is she up to something? She looks at you as you linger in the doorway, feeling utterly helpless after a meeting that accomplished absolutely nothing, and she smiles.

“You’ll find a way.”

Reserving a group study room in the Greene Library and Collection should not be some gymnastics act that involves a warm-up, practice, a routine, and song and dance. In theory, all you have to do is log onto the library’s homepage, navigate to the reservations tab, enter your name and ID number, pick a date and time, and profit.

Of course, the demand for the study rooms does tend to outweigh the supply. There are over ten thousand students at your university. And only twenty rooms.

And still, you have the unfortunate luck of being stuck in one of them for an hour and a half with none other than Jeon Jungkook.

You see him coming into the library at 3PM sharp through the opposite entrance, a little surprised he didn’t show up ten minutes early like he does in class, just so he would have an excuse to complain about having to wait for you. Feeling a little threatened, you pick up the pace so that you can meet his lengthy stride, keeping an eye on his direction so you know which room he’s aiming for.

You arrive at Greene GSR #18 at the exact same time.

“So nice to see you,” Jungkook says, too cheerful, as you reach out to open the door.

“Mmm,” you mumble in response as you enter the room, flinging your backpack onto the floor by your chair with a thud as you take a seat. The faster you start, the faster you can get this over with.

Jungkook, not at all outwardly discouraged by your clear disdain for him, rallies on happily. “So, what were you thinking for the project?” But he doesn’t even let you open your mouth to answer before he says, “Oh, wait, let me guess: a social commentary on the consumerist ideals that underline every modern movie and encourage the pursuit of an empty dream by abandoning concrete career and personal goals in favor of romantic fulfillment.”

You scowl at him, even though that’s exactly what you were thinking of doing. You’re almost positive Pollack’s had enough of seeing college students try to engineer the craziest fake dating scenarios they can imagine just for a class project. Why not do something outside of the box?

“Well, then what do you want to do?” You challenge, already bristling. Like Jungkook has a better idea.

“Maybe something that doesn’t scream ‘killjoy’ as much as you do,” Jungkook retorts easily. He opens his mouth to spit out something else but then rolls his eyes and shrugs, shaking his head. “Forget it. I shouldn’t have even asked.”

“Don’t pin this on me,” you immediately rebuke, pointing at him. “You’re the one who wants to make some sort of generic rom-com for our final project. Besides, I’m pretty sure every idea you even think of will have been done already.”

“Just because something is cliche doesn’t make it bad,” Jungkook says. “I swear, I don’t think you understand what the word cliche even means. A cliche thing, by default, is something that lots of people like. Therefore, it is largely well-received by the general public.”

“Oh, then that must mean that all rom-coms are deserving of a People’s Choice Award then, right?”

Jungkook frowns, getting exasperated. You aren’t much farther off. “I don’t know why you’re being so—so resistant! You know that romantic comedies are supposed to be fun, right?”

“They’re not that fun to me,” you comment snidely.

“That’s because you’re a stick in the mud who takes everything way too seriously,” Jungkook replies like it’s some sort of known fact. “Have you ever even been in a relationship?”

“That’s none of your business,” you tell him firmly. Who does he think he is, going around asking that sort of thing? Especially to you! Like you could care any less about what Jungkook thinks of your love life. Intrusive, much? “Besides, you asking that is exactly my point. Not everything has to be about finding love and searching for your soulmate or whatever bullshit like that. Some people don’t really care that much.”

“You act like wanting to find love and wanting to be successful are mutually exclusive,” Jungkook points out. “You don’t have to abandon all of your life goals just to find love, you know. It doesn’t have to be the most important thing in your life for you to even care about it a little. It’s natural for people to want love.”

“Then I guess I’m just a robot.”

“You sure are acting like one,” Jungkook comments easily. “What, are you about to ask me to pick out all of the pictures with traffic lights?”

“I’m allowed to have my own views on love, just like you,” you say. Isn’t that the whole point of your discussion boards? A forum where you can discuss these sorts of things through an academic lens? A barrier that keeps the two of you from going at each other’s throats when you’re engaging in the class material? It doesn’t take a genius, or even half of one, to know that you and Jungkook can’t seem to agree on anything in your FILM395 class.

Jungkook scoffs. “What do you mean, ‘your own views on love’? As far as I’m aware, your view on love is that you don’t have one! What do you even think love really is?”

You frown at him. “Does it matter?”

“Yes,” Jungkook says like it’s obvious. “This project is about filming a short romantic comedy, about people falling in love with each other. How do you expect me to do that if we don’t reach a mutual agreement on what love is?”

You scoff. “There is no way in hell I am going to agree with you on anything concerning love.” Jeon Jungkook still thinks love is all rainbows and sunshine. Cries at the end of Love, Actually even though he’s seen it five times already. Believes in soulmates. Believes there are people out there that were built for each other. He flutters from one person to the next like a butterfly, even though he’s more like a moth drawn to any open flame within a five-mile radius. He’s convinced he’ll find his true love here, in college, just like his parents found each other.

Yeah, right.

“Then what are we supposed to do, huh?” He says with an eyebrow raised. “We have a month to make a movie that’s fifty percent of our grade.”

“The social commentary is still on the table,” you point out. Sure, it’s not at all a romantic comedy, but it’s about them, which Pollack said was totally fine. Besides, she has been teaching you the entire semester, hasn’t she? She should know by now not to expect some cushy lovey-dovey story about two people who were destined to be with each other and can overcome all obstacles with their love.

Deep down, a part of you wonders if that’s why she paired you up with Jungkook. If she’s had enough of the sappy love stories that Jungkook probably wanted to do, didn’t want to see another cynical commentary on capitalism in Hollywood.

“Wow, what a thrilling idea,” Jungkook deadpans. “Please, tell me more.” His voice is lifeless.

“Oh, shut up. It’s not like your idea would be any better. Who would we even get to star in a rom-com we filmed? It’s not like the two of us could do it.”

You regret the words the instant they come out of your mouth. In horror, you watch as they sink into Jungkook’s brain, etching themselves into his mind as a lightbulb turns on, a bright idea popping into his thoughts.

He opens his mouth, but you get there first. “No. Whatever you’re thinking, absolutely not. I am not starring in a rom-com with you.”

That is something you can say with one-hundred percent confidence. Something that you know will never change.

“Just hear me out,” Jungkook pleads, looking a little desperate as he wrings his hands together, aching to spill the bubbling plan that’s been stewing in his head.

You narrow your eyes in suspicion but lean back into your chair, a silent signal for him to continue. It’s not as if you have any better idea.s

“Okay. It’s not a rom-com. It’s a mockumentary,” he says, something that (and you can’t believe you’re saying this) actually piques your interest. Moreso than anything else he’s ever said to you. “You think love is totally manufactured, right? That Hollywood creates the illusion of it to sell to people paying twenty dollars for a movie ticket?”

“Yes.”

“Then let’s do that. Let’s prove it’s manufactured.”

“And how do you plan on doing that?” It’s not like you can walk into a factory and ask them to make the “love” emotion for you.

“We’ll be the stars.”

He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Like it’s your best idea by a long shot, the home run of all home runs, your golden ticket to an A.

You scrunch up your nose, hesitant. “Wait, I don’t know—”

“It’s perfect!” Jungkook exclaims, eyes wide with excitement. “Think about it. It’ll be a mockumentary of a stereotypical rom-com. Except it won’t be this big Hollywood production, it’ll be real life. And it won’t be between two paid actors with years of experience under their belt, it’ll be us.” His eyes are practically bulging out of his head, big brown eyes glinting with excitement.

“So what are we gonna do? Act out our own rom-com in an attempt to see if either one of us will fall in love with the other?” You say, an eyebrow raised.

Jungkook shakes his head. “Not necessarily. It’s a mockumentary, right? So it’s grounded in real life even if it is based upon the stereotypical boy-meets-girl rom-com. It won’t be super scripted or anything. Think of it more like… a chronicle.”

You scoff. “Of what?”

“Of us,” Jungkook says easily. “Of the time we have to spend together to film this damn project anyway. I say that rom-coms are emblematic of the natural human desire for love, and that deep down love is the thing that makes us happy. You say that rom-coms are consumerist propaganda, or whatever it is you think they are—”

“They are, and you can’t change my mind about that,” you interrupt, just for clarity. Can’t have Jungkook thinking he’s going to somehow convince you otherwise.

“—so, with this project, let’s see which one of us is right. If the time we have to spend together, making this mockumentary rom-com, will really change how we feel about each other, or if it won’t.”

How you feel about each other? You almost laugh when Jungkook says it out loud. There’s no room for questioning in your mind when it comes to how you two feel about each other. Two desperate-to-please students with opposite views on the entire structure of a class and three years of experience arguing your points in essays under your belts.

Jungkook believes in destiny, right? Then he must know that the two of you are destined to never get along.

“You should be a car salesman,” you joke. Jungkook’s certainly excellent at pitches.

“So, you in?”

You narrow your eyes, still a little wary of whatever it is Jungkook’s putting down. But it’s not like you have any better ideas. And the sooner you agree on something, the sooner you can get this goddamn project over with and never have to sit in class with Jeon Jungkook ever again.

“Only because this’ll finally prove to you that not everything can be solved by finding love,” you say. It’s about as good of a ‘yes’ as he’s going to get out of you.

Jungkook grins, mischievous as always. There’s certainly something else he’s plotting, you just aren’t sure what. Maybe he’s in cahoots with Pollack. “Or,” he begins, lips curling upwards, “you’ll just fall in love with me.”

You scoff. “Yeah, right.”

“Well, then I guess we’ll just have to see, won’t we?” He holds out his hand, palm facing up as he waits for your response, that devilish glint that you hate twinkling in his eyes.

As if you’re going to fall in love with Jungkook. For this stupid project? No way. Just because it’s a filmmaking project doesn’t make it any more bearable than your other assignments. It’s a partner project. They are, by their very nature, excruciating. You’ll be surprised if you end this project and you aren’t even more irritated with Jungkook. Does he really think you’ll actually develop some sort of affection for him?

You take his hand on your own, palm pressed against his, and you eye him carefully. Just because Jungkook’s got something up his sleeve doesn’t mean you don’t. Finally, finally, Jungkook will see why love is stupid and manufactured and fake. Why it doesn’t bring people together but instead tears them apart.

Maybe then he’ll leave you and your discussion posts in peace.

You smile up at him.

“I guess we will.”

When Ruby Rhodes is not six feet deep in The Princeton Review’s MCAT test prep book, she can usually be found at the small bakery five blocks west and two blocks north of your little campus, a family-owned place passed down through three generations. It’s her favorite place, and yours, too, because the coffee is delicious and the pastries are even better.

Plus, hardly anyone from your school ever comes here, which means the wifi speed is eons better than the Starbucks inside the main food court.

She’s halfway through a tiramisu and a rerun of The Bachelor from two seasons ago when you sit down across from her.

“Any good?” You ask, pulling out your laptop and squeezing it onto the tiny marble table in between the two of you.

“The food or the show?” Ruby asks over a mouthful of cake.

“Either.”

Ruby swallows down the piece sitting on her tongue before responding. “The tiramisu is delicious, and The Bachelor is eh. I’ve seen this episode three times already.”

“Then why are you watching it again?” You ask, laughing. Does Ruby think something different is going to happen?

“Because we’re in between weeks right now and honestly, The Bachelor is kind of dry this season,” Ruby says with a frown.

“You’ve got some tiramisu on your cheek,” you tell her, pointing to the left side of her face where the bright mascarpone cream sticks out like a sore thumb against her dark skin.

“It’s just so yummy, I can’t help but stick my whole face in it,” Ruby jokes as she wipes her face with the napkin on her lap. The Bachelor rerun plays on in the background, and you can hear the gasps of the women through Ruby’s discarded headphones.

You roll your eyes. “Why do you even watch that show still? You know it’s all crap.”

“Just because you think it’s crap doesn’t mean I do,” Ruby insists, playing out an argument the two of you have had plenty of times over the course of your friendship. “Watching it makes me happy. So I do it.”

“But it’s all fake,” you say, frowning in disapproval. “The couples don’t even stay together in the end anyway.”

“It’s a totally pre-constructed show, but it’s not fake in the moment. And I don’t expect the final couple to stay together.” She shrugs nonchalantly. “Believe me, I’ve seen enough Bachelor seasons to know those odds. I just like watching the ride. It’s cute.”

“You say that about everything.”

“That’s because everything is cute,” Ruby says pointedly. “I like seeing the good in people.”

Ruby’s always been the exact opposite of you in terms of worldviews. The embodiment of a real-life fairy. She puts butterfly clips in her hair and buys herself bouquets of daisies and lilies. She sits in cafes with her headphones in and sketches the people she sees outside the window. She’s studying to be a doctor so she can spend the rest of her life helping others.

And you?

Well, the Oscars have always been a bit of a long shot.

The curiosity eating at you, you pose a question to her. “Hypothetically, if there were to exist a mockumentary on rom-coms and love, would you watch it?”

Ruby pauses for a second as she furrows her brows. Then she shrugs and says, “Only if the two leads fell in love at the end. Why?”

“No reason,” you say, looking away.

There’s no fooling Ruby and her eagle eyes.

“What is it?” She asks, a grin playing at her lips as she looks at you. “Come on, you don’t just ask me shit like that without a reason.”

“It’s for a final project,” you explain succinctly. No need to go into details.

“You’re making a rom-com for a final project?” Ruby sounds about as skeptical as you did when you spoke to Jungkook.

“It’s a mockumentary about rom-coms.”

“But… it’s a rom-com, right? Like, you’re going to be making a rom-com? Where people fall in love?”

Hopefully not.

“Sort of?”

Ruby squints her eyes, trying to process all the information. You’re not surprised that she has to take a moment to think—you are certainly the last person on earth to ever admit to filming a rom-com. But, as you’ve stated, it’s not a rom-com. It’s a mockumentary about them. That distinction is vital.

“Wait, is this for that class with Pollack?” Ruby asks. “I remember you telling me you were taking it. You said this was a partner project, though, right? So who are you working with?”

Curse Ruby and her knack for remembering things. She’ll make a great doctor, that’s for sure, but right now you wish she would just forget things like everybody else.

You sigh. “Jungkook.”

Ruby doesn’t need to think twice about who that is. “Wait, seriously? You’re working with him? Isn’t he the guy that responds to all your discussion posts?”

“Yes,” you say, rubbing your temples with your fingertips. You don’t even like thinking about him, let alone saying his name. The fact that he has to occupy any part of your brain at all gives you a headache.

“Damn, that sucks,” Ruby says, not feeling very sorry for you at all. “So you’re filming a rom-com with him?”

“It’s a mockumentary,” you specify, feeling yourself getting irritated. “It is fake.”

“Just like my shows, huh?” Ruby muses to herself, too analytical for her own good.

“Listen, you don’t need to fall in love to make a mockumentary about it,” you say, refusing to consider any sort of alternative.

“Don’t you?”

You sneer. “Just shut up and eat your tiramisu.”

Ruby lets out a laugh at that, this wonderful mix between a wheeze and a honk that makes you smile every time you hear it, even if it’s at your own expense. Ruby decides she’s had enough of mentally torturing you with the thought of feeling anything but extreme distaste towards Jungkook and goes back to her show, letting you brood in peace.

You don’t need to fall in love to make a film about it. Just like you don’t need to be a masterchef to film Gordon Ramsey screaming at someone who undercooked chicken. You’re a filmmaker. You can make a film out of anything. Including love. Even if it is with someone like Jungkook.

Can’t you?

Jeon Jungkook may be a disillusioned college student in love with the idea of love itself, but at least he’s not too shabby of a filmmaker.

Funnily enough, it actually sort of surprises you that you’ve never encountered each other before. Especially considering you’re in the same major program at your school, a program that only accepts about fifty students per year at most. You suppose that in whatever general program classes you had to take in freshman and sophomore year you just never crossed paths. Plus, he’s a filmmaking concentration and you’re doing screenwriting, so it’s very possible that you would have just never spoken had the two of you not registered for the same semester of FILM395.

Huh. Imagine that. A life without him.

Sort of makes you wish you had put this class off for one more semester.

As the two of you kickstart your project, you both immediately agree that you need a third person’s help. You and Jungkook can do plenty, but you are only two people. And there’s nothing in the final project guidelines that says you can’t enlist other people to partake in the production. But you don’t need help with the filming and editing. You need help with the interviews.

“Is this bedsheet good enough?” Kim Taehyung, a senior in the film program, asks as he’s Command-stripping a queen-sized black bedsheet to an empty wall in the living room of his tiny one-bedroom apartment.

“As long as it fits into the frame,” Jungkook responds from where he’s standing behind the camera, set up on a tripod to capture a specific angle. “You’re not going to be in the shot anyway. You’ll just be asking the questions.”

“Good, because I look really ugly right now,” Taehyung says with a grin. You roll your eyes. Taehyung must know he always looks good. Even you can’t deny him of that.

“This is ridiculous,” you say, seated on the singular couch in his apartment. You’re leaning on your elbow as you watch Taehyung fiddle with the bedsheet and Jungkook futz with the camera, the two of them repositioning themselves over and over again until everything’s perfect. “What are you even gonna ask us?”

“I came up with some… preliminary questions,” Taehyung says suggestively. “But I haven’t told either of you what they are so that your reactions can be more genuine.”

“Great,” you deadpan.

“Wow, someone’s excited,” Jungkook comments snidely.

“I know we agreed on periodic interviews for the sake of the mockumentary but I don’t know why we have to be so… so serious about them,” you say with a frown.

“We have to promise to be honest with what we say, alright? Like, actually honest. This sets a guideline for the rest of our relationship,” Jungkook says like it’s no big deal. Like the foundation of your relationship isn’t the fact that the two of you have been engaged in discussion-board war ever since the semester began.

“Our ‘relationship’?” You say with a scoff.

“Do you promise?” Jungkook says.

You roll your eyes. “Yes, I promise.” Whatever. “What do you even think is going to happen between us in the next few weeks?”

Jungkook smirks. “Guess we’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?”

You don’t like the sound of that.

Over the next ten minutes, Taehyung gets the sheet attached to his wall and pulls over two stools from his kitchen counters, old-timey wooden ones he got from a thrift store for five dollars a pop, one for him and one for the poor soul who has to be interviewed. You’ve agreed to do them separately but Taehyung’s apartment is only so big and you are only three people, which means that whoever isn’t being interviewed still has to be behind the camera, listening to the other person.

Makes you sort of nervous about whatever’s stewing up inside Jungkook’s mind. Wonder what the hell it is he’s plotting up there.

Once everything is settled, Taehyung looks at the two of you as he asks who’s going first.

You turn to Jungkook, who’s already grinning. “Ladies first.”

For someone who has spent their whole life watching and making movies, being in front of the camera feels weirdly uncomfortable to you. You’re so used to being behind it instead, directing others as they move around the frame, telling them how to feel and how to act and what to say, that having the spotlight shone on you is like picking through your thoughts with a fine-toothed comb.

You adjust awkwardly in the bar stool seat as Jungkook stands behind the camera, twisting the lens until he gives you the thumbs-up. Quite frankly, it doesn’t make you feel any better.

“You ready?” Taehyung asks as he takes a seat opposite you, just out of frame.

“Well, we’ve gotta start somewhere, right?”

“That’s the spirit. Alright, Jungkook, start whenever you’re good.”

“Okay,” Jungkook chirps up. “Three, two, one—” He points to the both of you.

“So, Y/N,” Taehyung begins, his voice suddenly much clearer. He sounds sort of like a news anchor. It’s oddly fitting. “Are you excited to begin the filming for this?”

“I don’t really have a choice, do I?” You muse.

“That didn’t answer my question,” Taehyung points out. Good thing the camera can’t see the way his eyebrows raise.

“I suppose that there are worse things I could be doing,” you reason, which is about as good of an answer as Taehyung’s going to get. What was he expecting you to say? That you were thrilled to be filming this not-a-rom-com with your class nemesis? That you couldn’t wait to see what would happen?

“Loving the enthusiasm,” Taehyung jokes. You wonder what your classmates will think when they watch this back, hearing this unidentified deep male voice ask you and Jungkook questions about your relationship. “Let me ask you this: what’s your current relationship with Jungkook?”

“Uh…” you begin, nervous. Behind the camera, Jungkook has that same stupid, shit-eating grin plastered all over his face. You sneer. “It’s… it’s professional.”

“Can you explain what you mean by that?”

“I mean we’re classmates. That’s the relationship.”

“That’s it?” You can hear the skepticism in Taehyung’s voice, almost like he’s egging you on to say something more.

“We’ve had some personal disagreements on topics discussed in class. But yes, we’re just classmates,” you elaborate slightly. It’s not as if anyone needs reminding of that, anyway. They all see your discussion board posts.

“And how do you expect that relationship to change over the course of this project?”

“I don’t think it’ll change at all.” It’s the easiest answer so far. Requires no energy nor brain power for you to think about it.

Taehyung nods his head in intrigue. “And why’s that?”

“Because this is a project for a class, not a life lesson.”

“Who says it can’t be both?”

You frown. “Whose side are you on?”

Five feet away, Jungkook laughs.

Taehyung chuckles. “Alright, moving on. What do you expect from Jungkook over the next few weeks as you start working on building your relationship?”

“I hope he becomes less unbearable,” you say, though you suppose that’s more of a general life goal than one that’s project-specific. But it would be nice if he became a little more… palatable. Just so you don’t have to feel the urge to sock him in the face every time you speak to each other.

“‘Less unbearable’, excellent,” Taehyung repeats. “Anything else?”

“Well,” you say with a shrug, not sure what else to say. What do you want from Jungkook? Obviously the two of you are about to embark on your own rom-com adventure, no doubt most of it his doing, but it’s hard to imagine that he himself (or you, for that matter) will change. If anything, the rom-com setting will just exacerbate the worst parts of both your personalities. Like some sort of curse. “I guess I just hope that the project goes smoothly.”

“I hope that it does, too,” Taehyung says with a smile. “Okay, last question.” Thank God. This interview couldn’t have been more than five minutes, but it feels like an eternity to you. “Do you think you and Jungkook will fall in love at the end of this?”

“No.” You don’t leave any room for hesitation. “I don’t.”

“Why not?”

“We’re very different people with very different interests,” you explain succinctly. You’re sure Taehyung will grasp that once Jungkook has his turn and answers all the same questions. “He can try his hardest, but some things are just meant to stay the way they are.”

“Okay, thank you, Y/N, that’s all. I hope you found our conversation illuminating,” Taehyung says, his cue for the camera to stop rolling. You and Taehyung both turn to Jungkook, waiting for his signal, letting out a sigh when Jungkook gives you a thumbs-up.

“Thank fuck,” you say, hopping off of the barstool happily. You head towards the camera, ready to kick Jungkook off of it, because it’s your turn to stand behind it with an annoying look on your face as you react to every stupid thing Jungkook says. You find that you’re actually sort of looking forward to it. Being behind the camera is where you feel most at home. Making faces at Jungkook is just a bonus.

Jungkook’s still grinning that same goddamn grin when you approach him, making you narrow your eyes.

“‘He can try his hardest’?” Jungkook teases, voice all high-pitched to mimic yours. “Sounds like a challenge.”

“Ah yes, my mission in life,” you retort easily. Maybe goading him on isn’t the best course of action, but you’re so confident that you won’t change your mind you find yourself actually anticipating his efforts. “Think you have what it takes?”

“Believe me, I do,” Jungkook says with a devilish glint in his eyes.

You roll your eyes and kick him off the camera with a shove, pushing him towards Taehyung as he waits diligently on that chair of his.

“So, Jungkook, same questions,” Taehyung says as Jungkook gets ready in his seat, fixing the blonde strands of hair that curl around the side of his face, framing his cheeks.

“What? That’s no fair, he got to think about all his answers,” you exclaim, positively indignant.

“Don’t worry, Y/N,” Jungkook says, voice sickly smooth, honey falling off his lips. “I’ve actually been thinking about the two of us for a long time.”

You pretend to throw up on Taehyung’s hardwood floor.

As Taehyung promised, he asks Jungkook the same questions. And, as predicted, his answers about as far away from yours as the sun is from Pluto:

“Are you excited to begin the filming for this?”

Jungkook grins. “Yes, definitely. I actually took this class after hearing from a friend that the final project was a lot of fun.”

Taehyung beams. That friend was him. No wonder he was so happy to sign onto helping the two of you.

“And how would you describe your current relationship with Y/N?”

“We’re soon-to-be-lovers.”

“How forward of you.”

“Isn’t that my job?”

You have to stop yourself from bursting out into laughter behind the camera and ruining the interview. At least he’s not hiding anything. You’ll give him that.

“So I suppose you expect the two of you to fall in love over the course of the project?”

“Yes, that’s going to happen.”

“And you seem pretty confident when you say that.”

Jungkook smirks as he turns to the camera. Or, more accurately, you. “Confidence is attractive.”

You shake your head back at him.

The rest of the interview falls pretty much into the same vein as the first few questions. Jungkook is so brazenly determined and hopeful and optimistic it actually pains you in a way, watching him make all of these promises both to you and himself that this project is going to turn out the way he hopes it does. His answers remind you of his discussion board posts, always looking on the bright side of every movie you watch, always finding the silver lining, the light at the end of the tunnel. A movie could be total Hollywood crap, filled with cheating scandals and misunderstandings and betrayals, and Jungkook could still find beauty in it.

It’s strange.

For the sake of you not actually throwing up in Taehyung’s lovely apartment, you tune out the majority of the middle of the conversation, having zero desire to listen to Jungkook wax poetic about your non-existent relationship like he’s saying his wedding vows. Only when Taehyung finally remarks that they’re on the last question do you finally come to again, ready to turn the camera off as soon as Jungkook finishes his answer.

“Jungkook, do you think you and Y/N will fall in love at the end of this?”

“I do.” Wow, what a shocker. “I do, because I hope that by the end of this Y/N will have opened her eyes to the beauty of love, and will find joy in the feeling as something that makes her feel happy and warm. I’m going to do everything I can to make sure the things we do together are meaningful. And even if we don’t last, I hope that her memories of us together will be ones she can look back upon fondly and be grateful for.”

You purse your lips together. If only it were that easy.

“Alright, cut,” you say, voice distant as Jungkook thanks Taehyung for his time and hops off the bar stool. “Thanks, Tae.”

“Anytime, you guys,” Taehyung says with a grin.

Jungkook comes over to where you’re standing, possibly to grab his camera and tripod but most definitely to rub his obnoxious personality all up in your face.

“You really think you’re gonna get me to fall in love with you, huh?” You muse, an eyebrow raised as you look up at him. “Just so you can prove a point?”

“Believe it or not, Y/N, but I actually think that all people deserve the chance to experience love and that happens to include you, as well,” Jungkook responds easily.

The words put a sour taste in your mouth. “You think I deserve it, huh?”

Jungkook nods, face solemn as he looks at you, gazing into your eyes with those big brown ones of his own. It makes you feel something unfamiliar. Like he’s reading right through your chest, into your heart. You don’t like it. “Everyone deserves love.”

“You guys are coming back, right? So I can leave the sheet up?” Taehyung interrupts after he’s moved both of his bar stools back to his kitchen counter.

“Yeah, we’ll be back,” Jungkook answers quickly. “Thanks for setting everything up, by the way.”

“Of course. Plus, this is a good background for my nudes,” Taehyung says casually, like he’s mentioning what he’s having for dinner. “Looking forward to seeing you guys again.”

“Us, too,” Jungkook says. “Ready to go?”

“Only because it means I don’t have to see you anymore,” you retort pointedly, grabbing your backpack from where it sits on his couch as you head towards the door.

“Just you wait, Y/N,” Jungkook says as you leave Taehyung’s building, one of those old-timey Victorian houses that was converted into a whole bunch of apartments. “You’re gonna see that I’m right.”

“Really? About what?”

“About us,” Jungkook says. You come to the stoplight, where Jungkook keeps going straight and you turn right.

“Us?”

Jungkook grins as you turn in the direction of your own apartment. And, just as the light turns green, he says, “Just you wait. We’re gonna fall in love, you and me.”

If he says so.

“Hey! Y/N!”

You whip your head around at the sound of your name just as you’re opening the door to your local Starbucks, wondering who the hell is calling out to you at nine-thirty in the morning on a Wednesday.

As it turns out, you don’t have to wonder too much, because the moment your eyes adjust to the blinding sunlight coming from the east side of campus you see Jungkook hurtling towards you, heavy black boots stomping down on the pavement as he rushes to catch up with you.

“Can I help you?” You ask, thoroughly unimpressed, as you pull open the door, looking at Jungkook heaving beside you as he holds the door open for himself.

“Just glad I caught you,” Jungkook gasps out between breaths. “Figured this might make a good scene for the movie.”

“It’s a mockumentary,” you remind him easily, getting in the line.

“Whatever,” Jungkook says. “What do you normally get here? I don’t really go to Starbucks often.”

“Whatever will give me the most caffeine for the least amount of money,” you retort.

“How efficient,” Jungkook comments.

“You know that’s how I like to be,” you tell him with a pointed look.

Jungkook mumbles his acknowledgement as he fumbles around in his backpack, fishing through the large pocket until he whips out his Canon, holding it out in front of him like he’s a dad about to film an embarrassing shot of his child. You look down at the camera just as he pans up to you, a confused frown written across your features. Jungkook laughs.

“Do you really need to do that here?”

“I’m not even filming,” Jungkook says with a smile, like he just pulled his camera out so he could look at your unimpressed face through a different lens. “Look, you’re up.”

You turn around to find that the woman ahead of you in line has just moved towards the pick-up side of the counter, so you shimmy over towards the barista, ready to get this over with so you can dart out of the Starbucks as soon as possible.

“Just a grande Americano, please,” you request simply, fingers grasping for the wallet inside your coat pocket.

“Me too,” Jungkook chirps up from behind you. The closeness of his voice makes you jump, and suddenly you become keenly cognizant of how he’s practically pressed up next to you as he leans over towards the counter. You catch a glimpse of the debit card in his hand. “Here.”

“You don’t have to pay for me, it’s fine,” you quickly say, holding out your own card to the barista.

“No, it’s okay, I want to. Here.” Jungkook pushes your hand away as he tries to stuff his card into the reader.

“No, I won’t let you. I’m a big girl, I can pay for my own coffee,” you rebuke, feeling yourself growing oddly defensive.

Jungkook sighs from behind you. “Oh, come on, you can’t let me do one nice thing for you?”

“Will one of you please pay, you’re holding up the line,” the barista asks in a desperate tone, clearly too overworked and too underpaid to be dealing with two bratty college students like yourselves.

Jungkook manages to shove his card into the reader before you get the chance to do it yourself, pushing you to the side as he verifies all of his information and takes his receipt. Next to him, you seethe to yourself, feeling a personal loss even though you just got your coffee paid for. It’s not about the money. It’s about your pride. Never in your life have you wanted to so badly pay for an overpriced Starbucks coffee.

You and Jungkook mosey over to the other side of the counter, waiting for your identical drinks to be made as you try and calculate how much longer you have to stand in the same room and breathe the same air as Jungkook. Seeing him in class, on your discussion board posts, and for your arranged final project meetings apparently isn’t enough, so now he has to invade your personal life, too.

“What are you doing?” You huff out angrily, turning to Jungkook even as he holds his camera out in front of him, filming the Starbucks.

“Recording our first meeting, obviously,” Jungkook says like it’s some kind of no-brainer. Like you were in on that from the moment he called your name out on the street.

“What do you mean, ‘our first meeting’?” You scrunch up your nose in confusion. “We’ve known each other since the semester started.”

“I know, but…” Jungkook trails off unhelpfully, but you pick up what he’s putting down regardless. Right. This is supposed to be a mockumentary rom-com. And rom-coms always start with an introduction.

The barista behind the counter calls out Jungkook’s name as he places two same-sized cups down at the pick-up station. The cup is burning hot, even with the little cardboard holder wrapped around it like a leg warmer, so you immediately move over to the station up against the wall with all of the sugar packets and napkins and little green splash sticks. Jungkook joins you without question, whether it be due to the fact that he doesn’t come here very often or because he just wants to keep invading your space, you couldn’t say. Grabbing one of the wooden sticks, you tug the plastic lid off of the cup and give the coffee a swirl. Watching you, Jungkook takes the lid off of his as well.

“Are you just going to copy everything I do?” You deadpan.

“Not everything…” Jungkook trails off suspiciously, looking down into his coffee like the two of them are conspiring something.

“What are you talki—”

Without warning, Jungkook slams half of his body into you, and without a lid or one of those little green sticks, the coffee sploshes over the side of his cup and drenches the front of your exposed hoodie, hot liquid burning through the fabric of the hoodie and the t-shirt you have on underneath. You watch in horror as Jungkook plays it off like an accident, feet fumbling around on the hardwood floor like he had just tripped. But he didn’t just trip. He dumped half of his Americano onto the both of your fronts.

“Jungkook!” You say instantly, resisting the urge to scream because you’re in a public place but feeling your skin go as hot as the coffee against your torso as you look up at him, fuming.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry, I’m such a klutz,” Jungkook says, somehow able to regain his balance, hold his coffee cup, and film the whole adventure all at the same time. “That was totally my fault, let me help you with that.”

The camera is from his perspective, which you suppose is about as real as it gets for something grounded in reality like a mockumentary, but in this position he’s able to make conversation with his eyes, big brown ones wide as he tries to signify what exactly he means when he purposely spills coffee all over the two of you.

You get it. You’ve seen enough rom-coms to know why he just did what he did, but you still find your mouth agape as you stare up at him, smoldering and angry and a little shocked he would dare be so bold, especially in the middle of a Starbucks coffee shop.

“For God’s sake,” you say with an exhausted sigh despite it not even being ten in the morning yet. Unable to form any other comprehensible words, you settle for just pulling out napkins from the dispenser and dabbing the front of your hoodie as Jungkook looks at you apologetically. You can’t even tell if he’s truly sorry or just putting on another one of his shows.

“I feel so bad,” Jungkook says, and you calm yourself down enough to nod. At least he isn’t blatantly laughing. “Can I pay for dry cleaning?”

“You’re really gonna offer to pay for my dry cleaning?” You ask, an eyebrow raised.

“It was my fault,” Jungkook admits. Now that you can agree on.

You shake your head. “It’s okay. It’s just an old hoodie, it’s no big deal.”

“I’m still sorry,” Jungkook insists, and the more he says it the more you actually find yourself starting to believe him. Even if he did just spill coffee all over you. “Here, let me give you my jacket—”

“That’s not necessary,” you say as he shrugs off his backpack and begins to remove the bulky denim jacket he’s wearing, fabric worn and soft from years of use. “Seriously, it’s okay, it’s just a hoodie.”

“Yeah, but now you have coffee all over your clothes and you probably have class soon, right?” He says, an apologetic smile lacing his lips. He tugs off his jacket and holds it out towards you.

“Jungkook, I’m fine, alright? I appreciate your concern, though,” you assure him. You throw away the last of the coffee-stained napkins in your hands and reach down for your backpack, which you had taken off your shoulders somewhere in the chaos.

Jungkook rolls his eyes, almost as if he was expecting resistance, and leans over you anyway. His arms extend outwards as he wraps his enormous denim jacket over your shoulders, the fabric draping loosely over your body. The damn thing was big on him, so on you it practically eats you up. You stand there, silent, as Jungkook adjusts the jacket on your torso, pulling underneath the hood of your sweatshirt as he makes sure it’s snug across your figure.

“There,” Jungkook says.

“Thanks,” you say, a half grin playing on your lips. The gesture makes you wonder if Jungkook really was planning on giving up his jacket this early in the morning for the sake of your movie. “That’s nice of you.”

“I hope it makes up for the fact that you smell like coffee now,” Jungkook says, a hand coming up to rub at the nape of his neck.

“I appreciate it,” you say.

“I have class, too, so I have to go,” Jungkook says, hoisting his backpack on his shoulders as he tucks his camera away. “I’m sorry again! See you around?”

Like you even have a choice.

“Yeah, see you around,” you say as Jungkook darts off just as quickly as he arrived, rushing out the door before you have the chance to change your mind and give him his jacket back.

When he leaves you, you find yourself at a loss for words. You stand there, lips pursed, coffee cold, as the weight of his jacket rests heavy on your shoulders.

It smells like him.

You should have known he would do something like this. Spill coffee all over the two of you, offer you his jacket, dash off like Cinderella at midnight. Like the opening of the world’s worst rom-com. The start of what is no doubt going to be the most unbearable final project you have ever done.

Plus, the other thing it’s ensured is a second meeting. How else is he going to get his jacket back?

And you know what the worst part is?

This is only the beginning.

This time after FILM395 ends lecture for the day, it’s your turn to catch Jungkook lounging around after class.

He’s lingering around the outside of the building, scrolling through his phone, a heavy leather jacket resting over a flannel that goes down to his knees and a baseball cap sitting firmly on his tuft of blonde hair. He’s obviously not paying attention to any of his surroundings whatsoever, because he doesn’t even notice you exiting out of the door he’s standing by until you say his name.

“Jungkook,” you say, arriving in front of him.

“Wha—oh, hi,” Jungkook says, jumping at the suddenness of it all.

“Here,” you say, holding out his oversized denim jacket in between the two of you. “Thanks for letting me borrow it.”

“Oh, I didn’t know you were going to give it back so soon,” Jungkook says, looking a little surprised and… is he touched?

“I was going to give it to you a couple days ago but I thought I should give it a wash first,” you admit to him.

Instinctively, Jungkook brings the jacket up to his nose to sniff it. “Smells like lavender.”

“Yeah, it’s my detergent. Hope you don’t mind. It’s a little wrinkled—I let it air dry since I was worried it might shrink in the dryer.”

“Thanks,” Jungkook says, a genuine smile lacing itself across his features. It’s not one you see too often, and definitely not the kind of smile he usually flashes in your direction. Those are all so obnoxious, so full of himself. This one’s different. It’s appreciative. Kinder. Softer. In a lot of ways. “I was thinking, if you don’t have class now, do you wanna grab some coffee?”

You narrow your eyes. “Only if you promise not to spill it on me this time.”

Jungkook laughs, throwing his head back. “Okay, I got it. I won’t spill it on you.”

“Promise?” You prompt.

“Promise.”

The walk to Starbucks this time is in relative silence, but neither of you seems to mind it very much. You aren’t dashing to catch up with each other and heaving snarky comments as you catch your breath. Jungkook even notices you shiver in the cool March breeze and wraps his jacket around you again anyway, although this time you make a mental note to make sure he doesn’t leave without it. Even though a lavender scent wafts off of the denim, it still smells a little bit like him. That boyish sort of aroma. You don’t think any detergent would ever be able to get rid of that.

You and Jungkook both get americanos again because you’re predictable and creatures of habit, and Jungkook actually seems to quite like them. He pays and you don’t spend two minutes standing in front of the barista fighting over it. Jungkook seems so determined to pay the extra four dollars for your drink that you aren’t sure if it’s really worth arguing over it for the sake of pride anymore. What you and Jungkook put into making this project a success is what you’re going to get out of it.

He picks one of the longer tables in the back of the study space, empty because it’s just after the lunchtime rush and most people have classes now, sets up the camera at one end, and you sit down at the other.

“So,” you begin, not sure where to start because your coffee is too hot to take a sip from it.

“So,” Jungkook echoes.

Silence.

You purse your lips in that awkward, I-don’t-know-what-to-say kind of way. “What do you want to do?”

Jungkook grins. “This is the part where we get to know each other.”

“We already know each other.” You frown.

“Do we?” Jungkook poses, an eyebrow raised. “I mean, yeah, I guess we aren’t strangers, but I don’t know anything about you. Other than you’re a film major in a rom-com class who hates rom-coms.”

“I don’t hate rom-coms,” you object. “I just think it’s important to look at them from a critical lens.”

“Okay, whatever,” Jungkook says, shrugging you off. “The point is that we don’t know anything else about each other. Like, what’s your favorite color, for example?”

“Purple.” It’s an easy answer. You wore purple princess dresses when you were five, painted your bedroom lilac when you were ten, and still make sure to keep a purple highlighter in your pencil case now. “What’s yours?”

“Red,” Jungkook responds.

“Cool,” you say, effectively ending the rest of the conversation.

Jungkook, sensing that same awkward silence, suggests something. “How about you ask me something now? We can go back and forth.”

You shrug. It’s not like you have anything better to do. “Alright.” You think for a moment, but then you have the perfect question. “Why film?”

Jungkook was clearly not expecting something so loaded, because his brows furrow, knitting themselves together as he begins to figure out a good enough answer. “Hmm,” he says, lost deep in thought. “I suppose the standard answer would be that I’ve always been interested in it, but I think I chose film because I want to be able to have the gift to tell other people’s stories. Being a filmmaker doesn’t just mean you stand behind a camera. It means you immerse yourself in the lives of other people to create something new. And… I don’t know. I guess I really like doing that.”

You nod.

For once, you understand him. Understand why he chose to major in film, why he chose to be in this tiny little program. Because there is so much out there, so much that you will never know, people you will never meet and things you will never see. And it’s a filmmaker’s job to make them turn into things you will see, people you will meet. Who knows the world better than the people who study it? The people who have devoted their lives to learning all its secrets?

“What about you?”

“Same as you,” you tell him. “Film is an art but it’s more than that to me. It’s a new way to look at the world. It’s several new ways to look at the world, depending on what kind of film you want to create and what kind of story you want to tell. I think it’s important to show people that all of the things they see in the media every day are not always reality. And that real people deserve to have their stories told, too. I don’t know. That’s what I think.”

Jungkook grins, a twinkle in his eyes. “Real people like us?”

“This project is different,” you insist.

“I don’t think it is,” Jungkook says. “You said it yourself, we’re making this because it’s important to show people that the Hollywood entertainment they consume is not reality. This is. This is reality.”

You frown, kicking yourself in the shin because what was supposed to be a harmless conversation has now turned into an opportunity for Jungkook to try and convince you that you will, in fact, fall in love with him. You’ve dug your own grave and Jungkook was the one who handed you the shovel.

“You’re not giving up, are you?” You say, shaking your head, flabbergasted. “Reality is the fact that this project is not going to make me fall in love with you. Nothing is.”

“Don’t be so sure about that,” Jungkook warns. “I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve.”

“You mean like spilling burning hot coffee all over me?” You ask, an eyebrow raised, a grudge still held.

“We had to start somewhere,” Jungkook defends. “And you seemed to understand what I was doing pretty quickly.”

“It’s not the worst thing someone’s done to me,” you concede, only slightly. “Besides, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but throwing hot coffee all over me is not really a good way to start off your plan to get me to fall in love with you.”

Jungkook smiles. “All in due time, Y/N. All in due time.”

“I can’t believe Pollack actually paired us up together,” you say with a sigh. “You know she did it on purpose.”

“Of course she did.” It’s not really a surprise to either of you.

“I met with her right after she announced our partners,” you tell him, “she said it was because she wanted to see what kind of project we would come up with. How we would address our… differing views on love.” That’s one way of putting it. A rather nice way, if you do say so yourself.

“Speaking of which,” Jungkook says, something suddenly flashing through his mind, “what do you really think about love? You know, other than it’s unrealistic and ruins people’s lives.”

“You make me sound like Ebeneezer Scrooge.” You frown at him.

“I’m serious,” insists Jungkook. “Why are you so pessimistic about it? Have you ever been in love? Have you had bad experiences? You couldn’t have just developed this worldview over time.”

You scowl, feeling yourself getting defensive. “Well, maybe I did. Maybe that’s just what I think. Why do you care?”

“Because people don’t just hate love for no reason,” Jungkook exclaims. “Come on, there must be something.”

Your body stiffens. Who is he to be asking you this sort of shit? Why does he care so much? It’s not like it will have any effect on the outcome of your project. Not like you explaining yourself will change the way either of you look at the world.

“What’s it to you?” You challenge. “Why do you love love so much? Have you ever fallen in love? Do you think it’s suddenly going to solve all of your problems?”

“I love it because I think it brings people real joy,” Jungkook answers simply. “It makes people happy and it’s beautiful. I love love and I’m not ashamed to say that out loud. I believe in it. I believe in love, and in destiny, and in soulmates. I want that. I think everyone deserves it.”

You scoff to yourself. “You believe in soulmates?”

“I think we all have our people out there.” Jungkook nods. “Don’t you?”

You roll your eyes, arms crossed over your chest. This conversation has gone nowhere, and Jungkook looks as equally dissatisfied as you do.

“I think love can make us do stupid things,” you tell him succinctly, if a little jaded. No need to say anything else. Your explanation is right there. “We’re just different, I guess. You and I.”

Jungkook blinks at you, eyes wide and a little desperate. Your conversation has remained stagnant and there’s almost nothing left to say.

Almost.

“Don’t you ever want to fall in love?” He asks, like it’s a last-ditch effort to get you to believe.

You freeze. Let the words sink in for a moment. Before you push them out the door and toss them into the garbage. Just thinking about it gives you a headache. Puts a sour taste in your mouth.

Quickly, you push yourself out of your chair and stand up, grabbing your coffee with one hand and your backpack with the other. “I have to go, sorry. I just remembered I’m meeting up with a friend to help her with a photography shoot,” you fumble out quickly, the legs of the chair screeching as you scoot them across the hardwood floor. “Oh, here’s your jacket, too. Thanks for giving it to me again. I’ll see you in class.”

You whip around and head towards the exit, and only when you’re outside of the Starbucks and passing by the window do you dare look back. Do you dare let your gaze drift back to Jungkook, who is sitting there like he still doesn’t understand you. Still can’t.

You and Jungkook are final project partners and maybe, if you’re pushing it, acquaintances-slash-friends. But there are just some things better kept to yourself.

We’re reaching the halfway point in this semester and, as you all know, I don’t do midterms. That said, I still want you to reflect on what you’ve learned, discovered, and thought about thus far in this class. What portrayal of love did you find the most realistic? The least? How have they changed the way you think about love, both from a personal and a film perspective?

Y/N Y/N on March 3rd at 6:08PM

Purely from a film perspective, I really did enjoy watching Juno. It was funny and raunchy and just the right amount of vulnerable. It certainly felt the most real. So far, no film in this class has topped it for me. 500 Days of Summer, on the other hand, was in my opinion extremely unsatisfying and left no positive impression. The ending was a bore and Tom had absolutely no spine. It was a shame, because the direction and production was actually quite good.

I guess I’m starting to realize how real love is not pretty. It can make people just as sad as it can make them happy. Why don’t we show the sad sides of love, too? The sides where your room is covered with a pile of clothes because you can’t bring yourself to do the laundry? Where you cannot cook a meal because it reminds you of a breakup? Rom-coms are, obviously, not the most realistic. But why are there not more films that do cover what’s real? How can we love love if all we know is a lie?

Jeon Jungkook on March 3rd at 11:13PM

Of course, I thought The Big Sick did an excellent job of their portrayal of love, adult life, and the problems that plague us all in the twenty-first century. It was also just as emotional and touched on concepts of race, illness, and being in your twenties and having no idea what direction your life is going in. The Princess Bride, on the other hand, as much as I love it, I do think created a more circumstantial kind of love. Westley and Buttercup mostly fall in love because of their situations. But it remains a classic nonetheless.

I’m satisfied with the way the film industry has produced rom-coms and handles love. The beauty of it is that love is different for every person who goes through it. It can bring the greatest joy and the most painful sorrow. We do not just figure out what love is by what we see on film. We see it in our real lives, in our parents, in our friends, in couples in coffee shops and cars and on sidewalks. We can love love because we want that joy for ourselves. Because we know that true love will be worth any heartbreak we endure. Is it not impossible for the portrayals of love in these rom-coms to not be real? The way everyone experiences it is different. The only way you can know what real love is, and what it is not, is if you fall in love yourself.

Early on in your project development, you and Jungkook exchanged class schedules to optimize your productivity and skip over that stupid, terrible part of partner projects where you’re just going back and forth trying to pick a time that works for the both of you until you eventually settle on something ridiculous like eleven o’clock at night outside of the McDonald’s two blocks off of campus.

It’s been working very well. Neither of you have adventurous-enough friends to invite you out on spontaneous picnics and restaurant dates that fuck with your pre-scheduled meeting times, and Jungkook already seems to have mastered the art of screaming your name when he catches you on the sidewalk so that you can film something.

In fact, you’re actually beginning to wonder why you haven’t done this with all of your long-term partner projects. Send each other your schedules so that you can settle on a time in advance. No muss, no fuss.

You and Jungkook are supposed to meet up again tonight, after the two of you are finished with all of your classes, to discuss what scenes you should be filming next. Edited down, you’ve already got about ten minutes worth of footage, but it’s mid-March and the project is due at the end of April. So you need to get this show on the road.

The door slams shut behind you as you exit the business building, your film industry class having just ended a minute ago. You’ve got an hour to kill before your next class, just enough time to dash to the food court in the center of campus and grab something from the Japanese place in the back corner. You might even have time to browse the shelves in the bookstore if you’re fast enough.

You round the corner to the main pathway through campus when a voice stops you in your tracks.

“You’re just too good to be true…”

“Can’t take my eyes off of you…”

It’s not Jungkook. Instead, in the middle of the walkway are the Eighth Notes, one of the fifteen-thousand (you don’t know for sure, but if you had to estimate) acapella groups on campus. They’ve got mic stands and a table set up and everything. Maybe they’re promoting an upcoming show…?

You almost breeze right by when one of them, the one in the middle of the group, points right at you, a lopsided grin lacing his features. You aren’t one to normally stop in the middle of a crowded footpath, but when, one after another, all six of the boys start pointing at you, you have no choice.

“You’d be like Heaven to touch…”

“I wanna hold you so much…”

“At long last, love has arrived…”

“And I thank God I’m alive…”

“You’re just too good to be true…”

“Can’t take my eyes off of you…”

Their voices are smooth like honey, warm and deep, romancing you through their mics as each one of them suddenly manifests a rose from behind them. Around you, people are starting to stare, gawking at you as they walk by. There’s even a small crowd starting to gather, and you swear you can see some people filming on their phones. The fact that this is happening in the busiest ten minutes of the day, as half the student body is walking from one class to another, isn’t helping. At all.

The rest of them singing in the background, each one steps out from behind the set of microphones to hand you the rose, smiling their classic, old-timey smiles like those old jazz singers from the 1960s, until you’ve got half a dozen in your hands as they continue to sing.

“But if you feel like I feel…”

“Please let me know that it’s real…”

“You’re just too good to be true…”

“Can’t take my eyes off of you…”

And then, suddenly, all of them are shutting their traps and turning to the left, looking down the pathway as the song begins again, but from one-hundred feet away.

“I love you, baby, and if it’s quite alright, I need you, baby, to warm the lonely night…”

Your mouth drops. At the other end of the walkway is Jungkook, one of those wireless microphones in his hand, grinning as he saunters down the path like a prince at a ball, voice sweet and thick as the words dance off of his lips.

“I love you, baby, trust in me when I say…”

Your eyes lock from opposite ends of the path, Jungkook stepping closer with every beat the Eighth Notes gives him. It sort of feels like your impending doom and a wedding proposal, all at once. By now a rather substantial audience has gathered, lining the walkway with their phones out, filming Jungkook as he waltzes past them, occasionally turning to capture your gobsmacked expression.

Every step that Jungkook takes makes your heart race something fierce, cheeks warming in embarrassment, trapped in your least favorite thing in the entire world: a public serenade. You can’t really do anything except look at him in shock, feeling his steady gaze resting firmly on your figure, looking right at you. Into you.

“Oh, pretty baby, don’t bring me down, I pray…”

Oh, pretty baby, now that I’ve found you, stay…”

Jungkook, on the other hand, is clearly relishing in this. In the spotlight. In the music. Or maybe just in the fact that you’re on the receiving end of his over-the-top advances. His grin is wide as he takes those last few steps, microphone gripped neatly in his hand, the lyrics warm and weighty as they tumble from his lips.

“And let me love you, baby…”

One final step and he’s right in front of you, staring into your eyes, letting himself bask in the look on your face. He produces a rose himself—cherry red, like his favorite color—and holds it out in between the two of you. In the background, the Eighth Notes go quiet, leaving Jungkook on his own for the final line.

“Let me love you…”

The words drift above your heads, disappearing into the sky as he lingers on them, on that last note, beaming down at you. He looks at you, so hopeful, so happy, so endeared, and what else can you do? What else, besides taking the rose from his hand and smiling back up at him? Who are you to deny him of that?

The crowd around you cheers when you do, applauding both Jungkook and the Eighth Notes, with whom he is apparently in cahoots, before they all decide that they ought to get on with their day and head to class. No doubt you’ll be on several dozen Instagram stories by nightfall.

Only after everyone has dispersed do you notice Taehyung, who must have been here since the beginning, because he’s just turning off the camera dangling from his neck. Of course Jungkook got him to film. Other than your project, what else would this be for?

“Is that the best you can do, Jungkook?” You smirk up at him, only saying this because you can’t have him knowing that you actually kind of enjoyed it.

“You’re still here, aren’t you?” Jungkook responds easily. “Thought I would do something spontaneous.”

“And now you’ve taken up ten minutes of my lunch,” you say, shaking your head to yourself. “How spontaneous, indeed.”

“How was that, Jungkook?”

Behind the two of you, the Eighth Notes are packing up, clearly more than happy to have aided Jungkook on his quest for so-called love and getting to promote their group in the process.

“Great, thank you so much, Jimin,” Jungkook says to the one in the middle, the very first one to sing when you walked out of the door.

“Anytime, dude. Glad we could help,” Jimin responds. He waves hi to Taehyung, too, as they store their microphones and go on their way.

Jungkook bids them goodbye as they head down the path, smiling at all of them before he turns back to you, notices the distant, faraway look in your eyes as you twirl the rose between your fingers, press it to your nose to pick up its scent.

“You gotta admit, I’m a pretty good singer, eh?” Jungkook says with a nudge to your shoulder.

“You’re alright.”

Jungkook laughs to himself. “I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Don’t get a big head,” you warn.

“Think I’ll have to sing for you more, now, hmm? Since you liked it so much?” He suggests, eyebrows wiggling.

You roll your eyes. “Only if you can get Jimin and the Eighth Notes to back you up, again. Then maybe I’ll allow it.”

Jungkook grins. He’s far past the point of being deterred by your deadpan comments. If anything, they only encourage him more. But you, for obvious reasons, cannot give in. At least, not yet, anyway.

“Okay, go eat your lunch,” he says, nodding as you begin to part ways. “I’ll text you later, okay?”

You smile. “Okay. See you.”

“See you, too.”

The moment you get back to your apartment you put all seven roses in an old vase filled with water. They brighten up your bedroom instantly, soft scent freshening up the air. And when you go to bed that night, it is to Jungkook’s sweet, delicate voice, like walking on clouds, like satin and silk, that you fall asleep.

“Good morning, Y/N,” Jungkook greets like always, smiling at you as you walk in the door for FILM395.

“Good morning, Jungkook,” you say in response.

Then, you take a seat right next to him.

It’s an act that clearly catches everyone off guard, if the bewildered looks of your fellow classmates and Jungkook’s confused expression are anything to go by. Even Pollack, when she walks through the door, gets a bit of a shock, eyes widening when she sees the two of you seated next to each other.

You suppose all the fuss is understandable. After all, you both sort of hate each other.

Other than the sudden change in seating arrangement, however, the rest of the class goes off without much issue. Pollack lectures for an hour before you move into discussion, at which point it becomes a class participation free-for-all, with you and Jungkook almost definitely in the lead. Just because you’re now sitting next to each other doesn’t mean either of you are suddenly going to stop raising your hands to rebuke each other’s points. Some things never change.

Sitting next to Jungkook is not as bad as you thought it would be. For one, he is, for the most part, a rather diligent student. Other than his occasional flicks to his email, an essay he’s working on, or your discussion board, he mostly sits and takes notes and doesn’t do anything else. That, you can at least give him credit for. And even though your elbows almost always nearly crash into each other’s when you’re raising your hands to respond to a point Pollack’s made, discussion isn’t so bad either.

One of the perks of sitting directly beside each other is that whenever he says something stupid, or saccharine, or just overly unrealistic, you don’t have to just roll your eyes from the back of the classroom while you wait to be called on. You also get to kick his foot with your own, nudge your elbow into his side. And he does the same to you. You and Jungkook are like those neighbors in sitcoms that spend all their free time shouting at each other from opposite windows. Just because your seats have gotten closer doesn’t mean your viewpoints have.

A notification pops up on your laptop.

[March 17th, 11:05AM]

Jungkook: wanna meet at the tables outside after class?

You look over at Jungkook with a frown.

You: Why are you texting me? We’re sitting right next to each other

Jungkook: because we’re in class obvs Jungkook: dont wanna be disruptive

You: Since when has that ever stopped you before?

Jungkook: haha very funny Jungkook: tables sound good?

You: Only since you asked so nicely :)

Jungkook: thoughtful as always i see

After class, you and Jungkook both hang around, waiting for each other to pack up your belongings so you can walk to the tables together. Everyone else seems to sense this weird, uncomfortable tension in the room, because they all book it out of the door much faster than either of you do. You’re almost convinced Jungkook purposely takes extra time to zip his backpack, just because.

The tables are, as per usual, empty. But you don’t have a pile of receipts to spread out, this time. You and Jungkook take a seat at one of them as you pull out your laptops, ready to outline the rest of the project.

“We should probably meet with Taehyung a couple more times, too,” you suggest as you begin to brainstorm.

“Sounds good,” Jungkook agrees. “But we can’t meet at night on weekdays anymore. My dance group’s show is coming up and we have practice then.”

You stop typing and turn to him. “I didn’t know you were in a dance group.”

Jungkook shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “I don’t really talk about it that much.”

“You should.”

He looks up at you at that, eyes wide as he faces you.

“I don’t know, it seems like something you should be passionate about,” you say. In the same way that you promote the Film Club to every freshman you know, force all your friends to mark that they’re Interested in your event pages on Facebook. Jungkook should want to tell everyone about his dance group. Doesn’t he love it? Isn’t he proud to be in it?

Jungkook doesn’t look like he knows what to say to that. So he doesn’t say anything at all.

“We can meet on weekends too,” you say, adjusting to his new change of schedule easily. “This project isn’t as all-consuming as I thought it would be.”

“You mean I’m not as all-consuming as you thought I would be,” Jungkook corrects.

You shake your head. “No, you are.” He laughs. “But yeah, on weekends is fine. You know my schedule. What else should we do, besides talk to Taehyung?”

It’s like a lightbulb goes off above Jungkook’s head. “Let’s go on a date.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “No.”

“What do you mean, “no”? It’s the natural progression of our relationship! It’s the next step in the rom-com! We have to,” Jungkook insists.

“First of all, it’s a mockumentary, not a rom-com,” you say with a sigh, finding yourself having to correct him rather frequently. “Secondly, we are not in a relationship. I am not dating you and you are not dating me.”

“Okay, but at this point in rom-coms the two leads would definitely go on a date,” Jungkook says, punctuating every word for emphasis. “What’s the harm? It’s not like you’re committing yourself to a future with me.”

“Thank God,” you mutter.

“Oh, shut up. You probably haven’t been on a date in years, anyway. Why not spend a night out?”

You frown at that. “Who cares if I have or have not been on a date?” Why does Jungkook care so much about the history of your love life? He’s always saying stuff like this, always telling you things as if you’ve never been in a relationship at all, don’t know left from right, black from white. Who is he to be making those assumptions?

“Please, Y/N,” Jungkook begs, looking desperate. “Just one evening. And then if it really goes terribly and you end up hating me again, then we don’t have to do another one.”

You sigh, shoulders slumping. Well, what else are you going to do? You don’t have any other ideas. And you’ve already spent so much time with Jungkook this semester, what’s another evening? Just something else to cross off of your list of things to film. Maybe you can get him to take a cute photo of you to post on social media.

“Fine,” you concede. “One date. And I still hate you, by the way.”

Jungkook clearly does not believe you. “Really? You still hate me? I’m sure you do.”

“Okay, I don’t hate you. But still,” you relent again. Perhaps you’re just being oddly soft today. Too lenient for your own good.

Jungkook grins, cheeks little round circles as his lips curve up. “I know you like me. You just can’t admit it to yourself, can you? Can’t take that blow to your dignity.”

“Don’t think so highly of yourself,” you chide.

“Who knows?” Jungkook tacks on, just to be extra annoying. “Maybe you’re actually starting to fall in love with me.”

You scoff. “You wish.”

“Well, are you?”

Jungkook doesn’t ask the question the same way he’s asked all of the other ones. Doesn’t say it with a shit-eating grin on his face or that glint in his eyes. He’s asking because he’s curious. Curious if what he’s been doing has been working. Curious if this project is really accomplishing anything at all.

Funnily enough, you find yourself wondering the exact same thing.

Silent, you pausing for a moment to think, chewing on the inside of your lip. Jungkook’s looking back at you, lips curled upwards as he waits for a response. Ugh, you’ll just have to give it up. What else can you say? “I guess…” you begin, hesitating.

You aren’t sure why you’re so scared to respond. Maybe you’re just worried that things will change if you say something. If you tell him the truth.

But it’s just Jungkook. He’s sitting in front of you patiently, waiting for your answer. What could happen?

You confess. “I guess you’re not so bad after all.”

Even though this is not the first time you’ve ever been out on a “date” (you’re using that word tentatively), picking out what to wear isn’t any easier than the last time.

“Is black too, you know, sexy?”

Ruby shrugs on the other end of the video call. Her phone is propped up on her desk as she works on something on her laptop, glancing over every now and then whenever you prompt her to respond. “Well, that depends. Do you wanna fuck?”

“No.”

“Then it might be too sexy,” Ruby says easily. “What are you even doing? I thought you didn’t go out on dates.”

“It’s not a date,” you insist, although you’re not exactly sure which of the two of you you’re trying to convince.

“You’re asking me what kind of sexy dress to wear for a night out with a guy. It’s a date,” Ruby reminds you, economical as always. “Who are you even going out with, anyway? You just called and asked me to pick between two dresses I have literally never seen you wear before.”

“That’s because I don’t go out on dates, which this is not,” you tell her, even expending the energy to stare into the camera to hammer your point home. “And it’s with Jungkook.”

Ruby shuts her laptop at that. You can hear the sound of her keyboard clacking as the lid hits them. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Do I need to remind you that this is not a date and therefore, you don’t need to be acting like I just told you I’m getting married.” You frown at her. “It’s just for our movie. Jungkook wants me to dress nicely, though.”

“Wear that nice summer dress you have,” Ruby instructs instead, shooing away the two much sexier options you’re currently holding in your hands. “Just put tights on underneath if you’re cold.”

“This one?” You ask, shuffling through your closet until you produce the gingham dress, plaid a pale yellow that matches gold jewelry rather well.

“Yes, that one. I like that one,” Ruby says with a nod. “You look good in it.”

“I don’t know, I feel like it’s not appropriate.” You hesitate. It’s a cute dress, sure, but it seems too… casual. Too everyday. Jungkook’s taking you out to dinner, and no doubt he’s got something else planned for the rest of the evening.

“I mean, you did say you had no plans on fucking him tonight,” Ruby reminds you coarsely.

“I have no plans on fucking him at all,” you reiterate. “This is not a date. It is for our movie.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Ruby brushes you off with a wave of her hand. “Wear whatever you want, but I like your yellow dress the most. It looks really nice on you. And if it’s not a date, then neither you nor Jungkook should care.”

“Ruby—”

“I gotta go. Enjoy your not-date!”

She hangs up.

You end up wearing the yellow dress. Jungkook knocks on your apartment door just as you’re closing the clasp to your necklace, a gold choker your mother had gifted you for a birthday a couple of years ago. It’s nothing much. You grab a jacket on your way to answer the door, wrapping it around your figure as you twist the knob.

On the other side is Jungkook, all decked out in black jeans and a clean-cut leather jacket, the black ensemble striking against his warm-toned skin and bleached, blonde hair. You hate to admit it, but he actually does look rather good. For Jeon Jungkook.

“Hi—whoa,” Jungkook says, doing a little whistle when he sees you, eyes bulging out of their sockets.

You chuckle. ��‘Whoa’ yourself.”

“You, uh…” Jungkook stammers slightly, a hand coming up to rub at the nape of his neck. The movement lifts his arm up just enough for you to see the line of his waist, the seamlessness of his body. He’s always been rather fit. “You look nice.”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” you chide, stepping outside and pulling the door shut behind you. “You don’t look half bad yourself.”

“Cleaned up just for you.” He grins.

You press a hand to your heart dramatically. “I’m touched.” You begin walking down the hallway of your small apartment building, feeling your hands brushing by your sides due to how skinny the corridor is. At least, that’s what you assume.

“Where are we going?” You ask as Jungkook opens the door to the passenger side of his car for you.

He winks, that same gleam in his eye. He grins something wicked. “Don’t you remember?” He asks. “It’s a secret.”

The secret turns out to be a small Italian restaurant on an off-road in the center of town, a family joint with those plaid red tablecloths and dark wooden chairs. You’d never heard of the place before tonight, but Jungkook insists that it’s delicious and says it has a four-and-a-half star rating on Yelp, which is obviously gospel when it comes to restaurants. It’s so empty that he even has room to prop up the camera a couple of tables away to get that wide-angle shot of the both of you, two souls in a tiny little restaurant, enjoying a night out on the town. You’re sure that by the time production and post-production rolls around you’ll edit out most of your dialogue, but you like the idea of keeping in snippets of the audio, overlaying the scene with a soft instrumental.

From a director’s point of view, of course. No other reason to romanticize your night with him.

It’s nice. Objectively, it’s definitely one of the more exciting things you’ve done in a while, even if it’s just a dinner out in town, away from campus. It’s new. Adventurous. Jungkook convinces you to try his vodka shrimp linguine and you offer up some of your truffle-flavored gnocchi, which he devours happily. One thing you do learn is that no matter how much time passes, no matter how much food is on his plate, Jungkook eats and eats and eats. He never seems to fill up. This is one of those restaurants that pile your bowls high with pasta, give you at least three servings, send you home with to-go packages that will last you for days, and he still somehow manages to eat every last bite. He even has some of your leftovers.

Jungkook pays because he insists and says that you shouldn’t fight on camera, which you have no choice but to agree to. However, you do look him up on Venmo and send him twenty dollars to cover your half of the bill, because the idea of him paying for you doesn’t sit right with you. It was fine with the coffee, a small token of repayment after spilling it all over you, but dinner just feels like too much. Like he’s carrying most of the weight and you aren’t shouldering enough. Like he’s putting in all of the effort and you are just bandwagoning off of him.

And partnerships aren’t supposed to be like that. Jungkook isn’t supposed to do all of the work. You aren’t supposed to do nothing. You and Jungkook may not agree on much but you both know that you are equals. That what you put in is what you get out.

It’s a lesson you think you learned too late, but you won’t make those mistakes again. You’ll get it right this time.

“That was nice,” Jungkook says after the dinner. You’re walking through the park just across the street now, the sun having set and the streetlamps illuminating your path. The city has strung up lights along the trees, draped them over the branches like stars, like snowflakes. It’s picturesque.

“Yeah.” You nod. “Thanks for taking me.”

“Thanks for coming.”

“How did you discover that place?” You ask, just out of curiosity. It’s not exactly the kind of restaurant that would be front and center on Google.

“I went out on a date in freshman year there,” Jungkook admits, lips pursed awkwardly. “Yeah.”

“Did it at least go well?” You ask, trying to be hopeful.

“If it did, do you think I’d still be here doing this with you?” Jungkook poses, an eyebrow raised.

You chuckle to yourself. “You don’t mean that. I’m sure you’ll find your person.”

“You actually believe in that stuff now?” Jungkook asks you, skeptical.

“I don’t know,” you say, shrugging your shoulders. “You do. I don’t wanna ruin it for you. Your person’s out there somewhere.”

“How do you know I haven’t already found my person?”

You stop in the middle of the path, feet coming to a halt on the pavement. Jungkook looks at you and you look back at him, letting his question sink into your skin, etch itself into your thoughts. He’s asking you because he wants to know. He looks so genuine, so patient, like he’s trying to find an answer somewhere in your eyes but you can’t give him one.

“Wouldn’t you be able to tell when you did?”

Jungkook sighs. “I don’t know if it always works like that.”

You smile, soft and small. Musing, you say, “well, when you figure it out, let me know.”

“Do you think you’ve found your person?” Jungkook asks you.

“You know I don’t think about love like that,” you remind him.

“Well, how do you think about it?”

You gaze up at him once more, that same soft smile playing on your lips. Who is he to be asking you these questions, you wonder to yourself. What would the point be in answering him? It’s better if you just both moved on. Especially since stuff like this has no relevance to your project.

“I don’t really think about love at all,” you say curtly.

“I wish you did,” admits Jungkook.

The look in your eyes is distant. “Yeah.” You wish you did, too.

“How about we do a couple of quick shots, right here?” Jungkook suggests, pulling out the camera. “Just here, the lighting’s nice.” He jogs back a couple of feet, lining himself up with where you stand, kneeling on the pavement with the camera held up to his eye.

“What do you want me to do?” You call to him, feeling like a fish out of water in front of the lens, thumbs twiddling.

“Just smile,” Jungkook requests simply. “Say hi to me.”

Sounds easy enough. Under the twinkling lights of the trees, in the haze of their warm yellow glow, you wave to Jungkook, smiling happily. You aren’t exactly sure what the purpose of these shots are, but you suppose you could always use some artistic frames in your movie. Grinning, you keep your eyes trained on him, on the way you can see him smiling back at you even from behind the camera. His eyes are covered, you can’t see those, but you hope they’re smiling too.

“Okay, my turn,” you say when a little too much time has passed, when it’s just past the point of filming for the sake of a movie and more for the sake of something else. “Get over here.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you idiot.” You scurry over to Jungkook, taking the camera from his hands and pushing in in the general direction of where you were just standing. Situating yourself, you kneel right where Jungkook was, bringing the camera to your eyes.

Through the lens, you can see the entire width of the pathway, the grass that borders it, the lights decorating the branches of the trees, and Jungkook, front and center. He looks like he has no idea what he’s doing there, waiting awkwardly as he gazes around, eyes drifting everywhere but exactly where you need them: you. He looks good like this, looks much taller, much more romantic. Like a real movie star. Like a model. His clothes make him blend in with the darkness of the night but his eyes are still shimmering, golden flecks twinkling, even from all the way over here.

You have to admit it. He’s beautiful.

“Smile,” you say, pressing film.

Jungkook grins your way.

Afterwards, you give him his camera back and continue walking, turning the corner as you reach the edge of the park, ready to circle around the perimeter.

“How about we hold hands, too?”

“Excuse you?” You say, an eyebrow raised.

“Come on, just for a second,” Jungkook pleads. “For the artistry. I’ll film us holding hands like all those Los Angeles boys do in YouTube vlogs.”

You look at him suspiciously. Is he sure it’s just for the artistry? “What a great example.”

“Please? Promise I always put hand cream on,” Jungkook asks, bottom lip turned outwards.

It’s getting harder and harder to say no to him.

“Fine,” you cave rather easily this time around. “Just for a minute.”

“Excellent.”

Jungkook lifts the camera up to his eye with his right hand as he holds out his left, palm facing the sky as he waits for you to rest your own in his. You narrow your eyes to the camera before your gaze drifts downwards to his open hand, almost like you’re afraid it’s going to jump out and bite at you if you get any closer. But it won’t, because it’s a hand. And it won’t, because it’s just Jungkook.

The first thing you realize when your fingers intertwine with his is how big his hands are. They are massive. His left one dwarfs your own, wrapping around it securely, enveloping it like a king-sized comforter. The second thing you realize is how soft they are (he must not have been lying about the hand cream). The third thing you realize is the way they send sparks up and down your body, send tingles through your skin, shocks through your veins. You seize up a little bit at the feeling before your body finds it in itself to relax, letting the sensation wash over you like a wave from the ocean.

It’s new.

It’s strange.

You haven’t felt that way in a long time. Felt those sparks, those jolts of energy. Like lightning has struck.

Jungkook moves so that your hands are held out in front of you, making sure to adjust the lens just so he can get the exact right angle, but all you can focus on is the way your fingers interlock, the way your hand settles into his.

You wonder what that means.

The moment Jungkook lowers the camera you pull your hand away, overwhelmed and scared and shocked all at once. Like you’re afraid that if you reach out to him again, your whole body will freeze in place, shake like the wind.

Jungkook looks at you, concern lacing his features. “You alright?” He asks, genuine and worried.

You shake your head, willing those thoughts away. “I’m fine, I’m fine. You get the shot?”

“Yeah, I did,” Jungkook says.

“And how do they look?” You ask because you can’t help yourself. Because you just have to know.

Jungkook pauses, not sure how to respond. He chews on his lips like he’s running through all the possible answers, trying to figure out which one is right. You almost think he’s not going to reply at all, but then he smiles, and he says this:

“Magical.”

It feels weird for you to be arriving at Kim Taehyung’s door without Jungkook by your side. Doesn’t sit right in your stomach.

Of course, Taehyung is as hospitable as always, welcoming you inside with his signature warm grin as he sets up the bar stools by the bedsheet, which you assume he will just not take down until your project’s over. Hopefully he’s getting use out of it otherwise, shooting nudes or whatever it is he said he would do.

“Thanks for having me,” you say, resting your backpack against the foot of his couch as you set up the tripod, arranging it in just the right spot. It’s not Jungkook’s fancy camera that you’ve got with you, just your own from a couple years ago, but it’ll get the job done. You couldn’t ask Jungkook to borrow his, anyway. You’d pass away before he found out you did this.

“We might not use this footage,” you warn in advance. “I just figured it’s safer to film everything just in case.”

“Why wouldn’t you use it?” Taehyung asks, genuinely curious.

“Because I don’t know if this conversation will really have a point,” you say nervously, fingers fidgeting with the settings until everything’s just right.

“I’m sure it’ll be important,” Taehyung assures you. You’re not so confident. “Ready to get started?”

“Yes, everything’s all set up,” you say, concentrating on your breathing as you make your way to the stool. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. Why are you so worried?

“So, Y/N, how are you feeling right now?” Taehyung begins.

You sigh. “Confused.”

“And why is that?”

“I… I don’t really know what direction I’m going in anymore for this project,” you say, letting yourself be candid and honest because it’s just Taehyung, and because you may not even use this footage, and because Jungkook’s not here. He doesn’t know you’ve asked Taehyung to do this for you. He doesn’t need to.

“And is this because of Jungkook?”

“Yes.” Another easy answer.

“How are you feeling about him?”

“I’m…” you don’t know where to begin. “I’m not sure. I just know that something’s changed.”

“Your feelings have changed?” Taehyung isn’t reacting, just asking questions in response to your answers and pretending that everything is normal, that this is just another interview.

“I guess they have,” you admit. Even just saying that feels like a weight off your chest. A small one, five pounds out of a thousand. But it’s a difference. “I… don’t really know how I feel about him anymore.”

“In a good or bad way?”

Taehyung told you he would ask tough questions, but you don’t know if you can answer these anymore.

“I don’t know,” you say, feeling yourself growing desperate with impatience. “I don’t feel the same things about him that I used to. He’s different to me now.”

“Do you think he’s changed?”

“Something has.”

“Have you considered the possibility that maybe you’ve changed, too?”

You frown, caught off-guard by his question. No, you haven’t. You haven’t thought about that at all. Why would you? Your stance is the same. Your opinions on love haven’t changed. And neither have your convictions about this project, about the way it will end.

“No,” you say, nose scrunched up.

“Well, I’m no expert, but I think there might be something between the two of you that wasn’t there before,” Taehyung says, nodding. “I think that the ways the two of you have changed have brought you together.”

“I don’t know about that…” You trail off. You can feel yourself growing hesitant again, pulling back from saying too much because you’ve never been a very good speaker. Because you’ve always preferred being behind the camera to being in front of it.

“Don’t you think you should tell him how you feel?”

You scoff. At least that’s got an easy answer. A no-brainer. “No,” you say matter-of-factly, obvious because it is, stern because telling him was never an option anyway. Why else does Taehyung think you’re here without him? “Jungkook said he would get me to fall in love with him and I told him I would never. How could I ever let him think he was actually winning?”

Taehyung sighs.

You haven’t seen Jungkook since your class on Wednesday. Granted, it’s only Saturday, but it feels like it’s been a weirdly long time. Like you’re so used to him barging into your life on the daily that there’s something off about even going three days without seeing him. Maybe it’s just because you’re nearing the beginning of April and your project is finally picking up steam. Between the two of you, you almost definitely have more than two hour’s worth of footage, but the hard part will be paring it down and turning it into a forty-five minute documentary. No doubt you and Jungkook will be spending a lot of time together the week before it’s due.

Just out of curiosity, you text him. Because you have no idea what he’s been getting up to.

[March 28th, 1:05PM]

You: Hey, do you think we need to get together sometime this weekend?

Jungkook: i don’t think i can Jungkook: it’s my dance group’s show this weekend

You: Really? You: You didn’t tell me

Jungkook: been too busy

You: What time is your show tonight?

Jungkook: 7pm

You: Sounds good, I’ll be there

Jungkook: oh Jungkook: you don’t have to

You: I want to You: I’ll see you there!

That night, you drop by the grocery store beforehand to pick up a bouquet of flowers. You haven’t been a performing arts show for years now, especially not one where you actually know the people performing, but flowers are customary. Or so you’ve heard.

You don’t know a single soul who has plans on seeing Jungkook’s dance group either, but the theater is a ten-minute walk away from campus and you’re happy to make the trek alone, especially because you know you’ll find someone you know soon enough. Sometimes it’s nice to walk by yourself, letting the streetlamps above your head illuminate your path, a faceless figure passing by others. It brings peace. And it gives you time to sift through your thoughts, organize them into neat little piles and brush away all of the dust.

Admittedly, you are not much of a connoisseur of the performing arts. You aren’t even much of a consumer. In another universe, under different circumstances, you wouldn’t blink twice if you heard that one of the dance groups on campus was having their show. But this is not another universe, and these are not different circumstances.

Jungkook will be there. He is taking something he’s worked tirelessly on and presenting it to the world. Now that you think about it, it’s actually a lot like film. And if Jungkook has devoted so much time, put so much energy into this performance, what kind of person would you be if you didn’t go and watch his creation?

You pick a seat in the far back corner, the venue so cozy that even despite being the furthest away you’ve still got an excellent view, sit down, and wait for it to begin.

[March 28th, 6:58PM]

Jungkook: hey are you here?

You: I guess you’ll just have to wait and see, won’t you?

Jungkook: always such a tease

You roll your eyes at that, turning your phone off and stowing it away in your pocket. Two minutes later, the lights dim.

The moment Jungkook steps out onto the stage, you recognize him instantly. He’s wearing all black again, but it’s not the same skinny jeans and leather jacket he had on when he took you out to dinner. It’s a loose long-sleeved shirt and sweatpants that hang low on his hips, highlighting the blondeness of his hair, the red in his lips. He’s one of at least a dozen people on stage but he’s the only one you focus on, the only one who your eyes follow. Booming throughout the theater is a Drake song, the beat thick and low, but it’s background noise when compared to the way he moves, the way he twists and turns his body on stage, angles sharp and crisp.

The whole song goes by so quickly that by the time you find it in yourself to blink the stage is already darkening as they move onto the next song, switching out the performers and changing the spotlight colors to a sultry red. Jungkook disappears for this one, vanishing behind the curtains and forcing you to pay attention to the performance as a whole instead of just him. But you have to hand it to his group: they’re excellent. You’ve been missing out.

Jungkook returns with the next song, having had just enough time to change into an all-white ensemble. He’s easy to spot even with that ridiculous bucket hat on, blonde hair bouncing with every step he takes, every jerk of his body. You can see it all the way from where you sit, see the way he loses himself in the music, lets the rhythm radiate through his blood, lets his heart match the beat that booms through the speakers. This, all of it, the music, the dancing, the energy—it’s all his. It belongs to him. Jungkook may love film but he is passionate about this. It is something that must bring him all the joy in the world.

The next hour and a half goes by quickly, the songs jumping from one to another to another, Jungkook dashing on and off stage, each time returning in a different getup than the one prior. Makes you wonder just how many clothes he has. But before you know it the final song is playing and every one, every single member is on stage, jumping and cheering and celebrating a job well done. And they should, because they deserve to.

When the lights in the theater come on, nobody leaves. Instead, everyone rushes towards the stage to say hello to everybody, congratulate them on their performance and take pictures with their friends. That’s why everyone else is here, isn’t it? Because the people they care about performed tonight.

Isn’t that why you’re here, too?

Jungkook has plenty of other friends already wrapping their arms around him, giving him high-fives and pats on the back, but you’ve got a bouquet of assorted flowers in your hands and you have no plans on bringing them home. So you squeeze your way through the crowd, push yourself in between bodies, and you shout,

“Jungkook!”

Jungkook looks up instantly at the call of his name, the round shape of his lips curving upwards into a smile when he sees you.

“Hey, you made it!” He exclaims happily. He’s so pumped on the adrenaline that he pulls you into a hug without either of you even realizing it, wrapping his arms around your torso and squeezing you tight for a few moments before the two of you remember just exactly who you both are. Quickly, you pull away, chuckling awkwardly. Jungkook scratches at the back of his head. “Thanks for, uh—thanks for coming.”

“Of course,” you say happily. “You were amazing.”

“What can I say, I’m a man of many talents,” Jungkook schmoozes, annoying as always.

You scoff slightly. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. Here, I brought this for you. It’s traditional, right?” You hold out the bouquet in front of you, pink plastic wrapping crunched up from where your fingers gripped the stems.

“Wow, thank you,” Jungkook says, in awe as he takes the flowers from you, pressing his face into the petals instinctively. “No one’s ever gotten me flowers before.”

“Really?” You say, genuinely surprised at his admission. He’s never been given flowers before? Not even for a performance? You didn’t know that, either. “Then I’m glad to be the first.”

“You know you didn’t have to do that,” Jungkook says, though he looks grateful nonetheless.

You shrug, acting casual. “Aren’t we supposed to be falling in love, or something?”

He grins.

“Did you guys film this? Maybe we could incorporate it into the movie,” you suggest, thinking it might be interesting to add in glimpses into your normal lives, into the things you do when you aren’t trying to one-up each other.

Jungkook shakes his head. “We did, but I don’t think we need to add it in.”

“Why not?” It seems like a perfect addition.

Jungkook pulls out a single flower from the bouquet, a pale yellow daisy, and hands it to you. You smile your thanks, twirling the stem in between your fingers.

“I don’t know,” he says, looking oddly soft, cheeks turning cherry red. He looks at you and it makes your heart flutter, quickens the drum of your chest. “I just think I’d like to keep this moment to ourselves.”

You suppose he’s got a point. You don’t think you’ll forget this night, either.

The bouquet you gave him sits on Jeon Jungkook’s bedroom windowsill, bathing in the afternoon sun. Taehyung gave him some plant food the morning after you came to his performance, a little bottle that he can spritz into the water whenever the flowers look a little droopy. Jungkook adds some every day, determined to keep them alive for as long as possible. He also makes sure he’s got a rather heavy book or two, something he can use to press one of them when they’ve all shriveled up.

It was really nice of you to come to his show, he thinks to himself. Jungkook can’t remember the last time someone outside of his group of close friends went to see him perform, not any of his past dates or even that one girl he was seeing semi-seriously for a couple months last year until she told him she wasn’t interested in him anymore. You’re the first one who’s made the effort, who’s told him that you would come and kept that promise. The flowers are just a happy reminder.

As a celebration for completing their last show, Jungkook and some of the other juniors in his dance crew decide to go out the following weekend, determined to waste away their Saturday nights at a bar just off of campus where they can take as many shots of as many different types of alcohols as they want. The place even has soju, which makes Jungkook’s heart happy.

Despite the temptation to drink until his brain is empty, however, Jungkook holds off. He’s got a lot of work tomorrow, most of it consisting of editing the footage you have for the project, and doesn’t really feel like staring at a computer for eight hours straight with a headache. So he limits himself. For the most part.

“Who was that girl that came to the show?” One of his friends, Andrew, asks as he downs another shot of what is undoubtedly vodka, if the smell is anything to go by. “With the flowers?”

“Is she your girlfriend?” Jesse pipes up, red in the face from the alcohol in his system. He’s always been one to turn into a tomato after drinking.

Jungkook chuckles awkwardly, shaking his head when the bartender offers him another shot glass full of soju. “No,” he says, forcing a laugh. “Just a friend.”

“I don’t know, you guys looked pretty close to me,” Andrew points out, like it wasn’t already obvious enough that Jungkook is head over heels for you.

“She and I are working on a film project together,” Jungkook explains, though that does absolutely nothing to convince his friends of your completely platonic relationship.

“Sounds fun,” Jesse says, swallowing another shot and wincing. “It was nice of her to bring you flowers. My girlfriend didn’t do that.”

“Shut up, your girlfriend is studying abroad in Paris right now,” Andrew says, giving Jesse a good-natured shove. “I’m gonna tell her you said that.”

“What, please don’t—”

“She’s not my girlfriend, guys,” Jungkook repeats himself, feeling his cheeks heat up the longer the conversation drags on. He chalks it up to the soju in his system and the fact that it feels like a sauna in here. “Seriously, we’re just friends. People can be friends and bring each other flowers.”

Jesse pumps his fist in the air. “Yeah!” He rounds on Andrew. “Where are my flowers, hey Andrew?”

The two of them start bickering as Jungkook laughs, shaking his head fondly. At least he’s not drunk, so he can remember nights like these, ones where he’s drinking with his stupid idiot friends, celebrating a show well done.

Jungkook stays at the bar until eleven that night before he makes the executive decision to go home and sleep, because as much as he would like to party until three in the morning, he’s got a pile of work that’s telling him to be a real adult. So he bids his friends goodbye and begins to make the trek back to his apartment, passing by the row of frat houses on his way.

Even though he’s out on the sidewalk, Jungkook can feel the ground rumble from the music, every frat on the block joining together to make some booming, bass monster. From here he can see the flashing blue and purple lights in the windows, see the brothers standing on the steps of each house and turning away whoever they deem unfit to enter.

In a weird way, it makes Jungkook nostalgic. Reminiscent of when he was a freshman, when he would group up with all of the people in his hall and parade around the frat row on Saturday nights like they owned the place, getting drunk on shitty tequila and jumping until they sweat out their body fluids. He remembers those nights in flashes, bits and pieces that make up his memory of freshman year as a whole. Remembers kissing other girls, other girls kissing him. Remembers the way he would lock lips with them for a second and then forget about it by the next day.

Jungkook wonders why he ever thought he would meet his soulmate at a frat party.

He’s just passing the last frat house now, nodding to the guy on the step when they accidentally meet eyes, when he hears you call his name.

“Jungkook!”

He whips around to see you on the other side of the road, waving at him excitedly while your friends all laugh, sending smiles Jungkook’s way.

Jungkook isn’t exactly sure what the protocol is for a scenario like this, so he does what he thinks is right and waves back.

“Come over here!” You shout at him, loosely gesturing for him to join your group. Jungkook is hesitant, not sure if that’s necessarily the best course of action because even from here he can tell that you’re drunk, leaning over to one side and giggling at nothing. But even if he isn’t sure what will happen he can’t help but fall into the way you’re beaming at him, waving excitedly because you saw him on the street and you wanted to say hello.

He’s never been able to resist you.

“Hey, what are you doing out here?” He says as he jogs over, greeting the rest of your friends with a patient smile.

“Went out with my friends,” you say. Jungkook can smell the alcohol on your lips. “And then I saw you, which made me happy!”

You stumble over nothing, shoes skipping as they drag along the pavement, and before any of your friends can react Jungkook is reaching his arms out, catching you before you fall flat on your face. Your hands press against his torso as he lifts you back to your feet, and all Jungkook can do is pray that you can’t hear the way his heart races, beat drumming in his ears. You giggle in his hold, disoriented but not at all uneasy, looking up at him as your eyes sparkle in the glow of the streetlamps.

“Thanks,” you manage to cough out.

“Sure,” Jungkook says, breathless. He stands you up and tries to let you go, but you keep your hands tight around his wrists. “I think we need to get you home.”

“Can you come with me?” You ask innocently, eyes wide.

“Y/N…” One of your friends says, voice hesitant. She places a hand on your shoulder, looking concerned. Jungkook doesn’t take any offense to it, he doesn’t know your friends well and imagines that they would much prefer being the ones to drop you back at your place.

You shrug her off. “No, it’s okay, Ruby,” you assure your friend, hand inching down Jungkook’s wrist until it rests firmly within his palm. “I’ll go with him.”

Ruby eyes Jungkook suspiciously and her gaze is so intense that it actually makes him doubt his ability to walk you home for a moment. But you seem intent on walking with him, and the sooner you go home the better, so Ruby relents and lifts her hand from your shoulder. “Alright, if you want to.” She keeps her eyes trained on Jungkook. “Text me when you’re back.”

“I will, I will,” you say, brushing her off and waving her away. “Let’s go, Jungkook. I’m sleepy.”

“Okay, come on,” he says. You smile happily at your friends as you say goodbye, cheerful and drunk and tired, all at once, and you begin to walk towards your apartment.

“I’m glad you’re here,” you tell him, positively filter-less.

“I’m glad I’m here, too,” Jungkook assures you. “What did you have to drink tonight?”

“Not sure,” you admit happily. “Just a lot.”

“I can tell.” Jungkook nods. “Were you at a frat party?”

“Several,” you correct him. “They weren’t that fun but at least the drinks were free.”

“Why were you at a frat party if you don’t like them?” Jungkook asks you, nose scrunched up. You certainly aren’t the kind of person to hide your distaste for things. That is something that Jungkook is intimately familiar with.

You shrug. “It’s the cheapest place to get drunk.”

“Why did you want to get drunk?” This is seeming more and more out-of-character for you. Going to a place you despise, taking shots until you can’t walk straight, meandering around campus with Jungkook. All of these are things Jungkook could never in a million years picture you doing out of free will.

Well, all of them except maybe the last one. You did come to his dance show, after all.

You sigh. It’s thick and heavy and Jungkook has a feeling you won’t want to divulge any more. “I just wanted to forget.”

But the curiosity is eating at him.

“Forget what?”

Your grip on his hand tightens. Jungkook fully expects you to dodge the question like you’ve dodged all of the ones prior, say something else to change the topic so you can sweep this discussion under the rug like all of the other ones you’ve had. But you don’t.

Instead, you say, “You wanna know why I don’t love love the way you do?”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Jungkook quickly assures you.

“I had better options than this place,” you say, voice hollow and empty. “There were better universities that accepted me. Ones with higher-ranked film programs and bigger scholarships. I could have gone to any one of them and been just as happy. Maybe more.”

“But you didn’t,” Jungkook clarifies.

“My ex-boyfriend goes to school ten minutes away from here,” you say, words that are most certainly news to Jungkook. You had a boyfriend? “He and I dated all throughout high school. I thought I was gonna marry him.”

The words sound so sad. It sounds like they don’t even belong to you. Like you’re recalling the memories of a different person, someone you’ve killed and buried, someone you were certain you would never have to face again. Yourself. Your past self.

“And then he broke up with me at the beginning of last year and it was too late to transfer out.” Your words are slurred and garbled, like all you want is to get over with saying them in the first place. It’s not a dramatic revelation. It’s not something you’re crying about, sobbing into Jungkook’s chest as you remember, miserable, a time where you were once happy. You just sound lifeless.

Jungkook blinks at you expectantly, waiting for you to continue. It doesn’t feel right for him to speak up. Not when you’ve just revealed to him something so personal, so drunk that you probably won’t even remember saying anything when you wake up tomorrow morning.

What is he supposed to do with this knowledge? What is he supposed to say? To do? It’s not like Jungkook can change your past. It’s not even as if he can change the near future. Your project is almost finished—the semester is almost over. And then you will return to the time where you never even knew each other.

“You can say something,” you tell him.

“What do you want me to say?” Jungkook says.

“Something to make me feel better, because now I’m sad,” you request simply. “Seeing you made me happy.”

“Maybe I should just keep my mouth shut and smile, then,” he muses to himself.

“No, please keep talking,” you plead, leaning into his body with your bottom lip puffed out, eyes big and round and desperate. “Listening to you gets me to stop thinking about this stuff.��

Hearing that, Jungkook says the first thing that comes to mind. And that is, “You don’t have to think about that stuff anymore at all.”

“Hmm?” You murmur into his chest. Jungkook sees your apartment building up ahead. Just another block or so.

“Well, that was your old love story,” he begins tentatively. Jungkook’s almost fully sober by now but he feels like he won’t ever get another opportunity to say this, and maybe whatever soju is left in his system is enough to get him through this conversation. Enough for him to muster up the confidence to tell you what he’s been wanting to tell you for a while now.

Even if you forget it by tomorrow. He knows this is his only chance.

“And it didn’t have a happy ending, but that’s okay. Because ours will.”

You’re just coming up to your apartment complex, the rusted gold doors of the entrance sticking out against the beige of the building and the sidewalk, shimmering in the light of the streetlamps. You pause right outside, taking cover underneath the red awning above your heads. Looking up at him, you blink expectantly.

“How do I know you mean that?” You ask.

He almost does it.

Jungkook doesn’t really know what washes over him in that moment, what takes his heart and mind prisoner for a split second, grip tight and unforgiving. But he’s staring straight into your watery eyes, glossy and glimmery and glowing, lost in the way you press your lips together, the way you gaze up at him and wait for him to tell you what he’s always wanted to say, and he almost does it. His hands press at your sides, holding you close, like he’s afraid that if he lets you go you’ll vanish without another trace and this night will all have been for naught.

But he doesn’t.

He doesn’t for a lot of reasons. You’re drunk. When you wake up tomorrow, you will not remember this conversation. But Jungkook will. And if he does it, if he kisses you, if he presses his lips to yours it will be burned into his thoughts, carved into his heart, and you will be none the wiser. Jungkook can’t do that to himself. And he can’t do that to you, either. He will never take advantage of your company. He never has.

“Because,” Jungkook says instead, having hesitated for far too long. “I promise you.”

It’s good enough for him.

He tucks you into bed at 12:17AM that night, feet padding along your hardwood floor so he doesn’t wake up your neighbors, guiding you to your bedroom and reminding you to text Ruby that you made it home safely. Jungkook’s never gotten a very good look at your place, and even now it’s hard to make out most things without the main ceiling lights on, but he doesn’t really want to snoop. Even though you invited him in, he still feels like he’s intruding. You’ve always been so private. There were a lot of things said tonight that Jungkook is going to have to reckon with.

Once you’re curled up beneath your sheets, eyes drooping, Jungkooks turns off the light on your nightstand and nearly, just about nearly, presses his lips to your forehead. He manages to avoid doing that, too.

Instead, he pulls up your duvet and heads towards the main room, making a beeline for your front door. But before he can leave the room, he hears you mumble out his name.

“Jungkook?” You call, voice groggy.

“Yeah?” He looks back at you from where he stands in your door frame, one hand on the knob, ready to pull it closed.

You smile, eyes fluttering. “Thank you,” you say.

Jungkook grins.

The next morning you wake up with a pounding headache and three missed calls from Ruby, which undoubtedly means that something positively terrible happened last night. Unfortunately, you have no idea what happened at all last night, good or terrible, so whatever Ruby has to say will be news to you.

Rubbing your eyes as you wrack your brain in the hopes of figuring out how you even ended up back at your apartment (when you swear you told Ruby you would stay at hers), you press on Ruby’s contact and call her.

“Y/N? Hello? Are you there?” Ruby answers on the first ring.

“I’m here,” you mumble out, words jumped and barely intelligible. You wince as your eyes adjust to the harsh blue light of your phone screen, squinting as you look at the time.

Shit, it’s 11:43AM and you’re meeting Jungkook for coffee at noon.

“Good, I called you three times last night after you texted,” Ruby wastes no time diving into her interrogation.

“Why?” You ask, scrambling out of bed with your phone pressed between your shoulder and your ear. Your head throbs so you quickly take some Ibuprofen, splash your face with water, and start looking for something clean you can put on.

“Because texting me ‘home’ is not enough!” Ruby exclaims. “Jungkook walked you home last night, I wanted to make sure you were tucked in bed and feeling alright.”

You frown. You don’t remember that. Granted, you don’t remember a lot of things, but you can’t recall Jungkook walking you back. You saw him last night? You didn’t even know. Scratching your head, a part of you vaguely pictures him standing in your apartment in the dark, resting against the door frame to your bedroom in the warm yellow light of the lamp on your nightstand. Can just barely see him tucking you into bed, placing the sheets over your figure and making you text Ruby that you’re home. You thought you were just imagining it at the time, but it must have happened anyway.

“Jungkook walked me home?”

“Yeah, you insisted,” Ruby says. “You probably don’t remember, though.”

“No,” you say dumbly.

“Well, I appreciate you texting me that you were home but I would have preferred something more explanatory,” scolds Ruby. “I thought maybe Jungkook was gonna do something.”

“Oh my goodness, no,” you immediately interject, pulling on your shoes and stuffing your laptop into your backpack. Just the thought of Jungkook doing something like that sends your stomach for a whirl. “He would never do that. I trust him.”

“I mean, I see that now,” Ruby points out. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“I’m fine,” you promise. “Everything’s good.”

“Alright, if you say so,” Ruby says, still sounding a bit like an overprotective mother. You love her, though. You know she just wants the best for you. “Take it easy today, okay? You had a lot to drink last night.”

“I will,” you assure her. “I’m just on my way to meet up with Jungkook now. Getting coffee.”

“Make sure to eat, too,” Ruby reminds you. “And tell Jungkook that I said thanks for walking you home.”

“Anything else, Mom?”

You can practically see Ruby frowning on the other end. “Oh, shut up. I’ll see you, okay?”

She bids you goodbye just as you’re dashing out the door, your usual stride quickening so you make it to the cafe in time, not wanting to keep Jungkook waiting. You make it there in a record five minutes, pulling open the door frantically just as the clock strikes noon.

Jungkook’s already there, of course, sitting by a little round table in the corner of the room with two americanos on the table. He waves when he sees you standing by the entrance, and the mere sight of him makes you smile, shoulders relaxing.

“Hey,” you greet, a little out of breath as you settle into the chair across from him.

“Hey,” Jungkook says back. “How are you feeling?”

“My head is killing me, but other than that I’m alright,” you admit, taking a sip of the drink. It’s piping hot but just the right amount of scalding, warming your insides after a night of filling them with pure poison.

“Good.” He grins. “It’s nice to see your face.”

“Oh, yeah, speaking of which,” you say while still on the topic, “did you walk me home last night? I can’t remember.”

Jungkook nods. “Yeah, I bumped into you and your friends while I was on my way back from a bar.”

You wince. The fact that you don’t even remember that happening tells you enough. “I was super drunk, wasn’t I?”

Jungkook, nice as always, says, “I’ve seen worse.” It only makes you feel the slightest bit better.

“Hope I didn’t say anything embarrassing,” you say, knowing you have a tendency to lose your filter almost entirely when you get wasted, letting any sort of mental reasoning fly out the door the moment you down another shot. And the thought of having told Jungkook something deeply humiliating or personal, or even him witnessing something stupid, makes you feel weirdly exposed.

Jungkook freezes for a split second, almost like he’s buffering, like he’s about to say something but it’s just taking him an extra step to get the words out of his mouth. Then he takes a quick sip of his americano and shakes his head. “No, you didn’t. You were just very drunk. And clingy.”

“I’m so sorry you had to deal with that,” you apologize. You can’t imagine the hell you must have put Jungkook through last night.

Jungkook laughs. “It’s okay. I’m glad we got you home safe.”

“Me, too.” You nod. You send a grateful smile his way. “Thanks for walking me, by the way. I really appreciate it. Ruby says thanks, too.”

“Anytime,” Jungkook says. It doesn’t sound like something that people say just to say it. The way that people say ‘anytime’ just so they can be friendly and amicable. He says it and he means it, says it genuinely and honestly, like it’s a real promise that he’s making. That he would be happy to walk you home again. No matter the hour. No matter how drunk you are. No matter what he’s doing.

And that means a lot to you.

“We should probably wrap up filming soon, huh?” You say, getting onto the topic at hand. Of course, the project is the whole reason you’re even talking to each other in the first place. “It’s due in three weeks.”

“Yeah, I was thinking of another outing? And maybe one more thing with Taehyung?” Jungkook suggests.

You narrow your eyes suspiciously. “‘Another outing’, Jungkook? What exactly do you have in mind?”

He grins.

This time, Jungkook is the one with the flowers.

When you open your front door they’re the first thing you see, an enormous bouquet of an assortment of spring flowers in a variety of colors—pinks and purples and oranges and yellows—gripped neatly in Jungkook’s hand. They stick out against his otherwise rather formal attire, a simple black dress shirt and jeans, nice shoes that compliment his figure. Black truly is the world’s most slimming color, and Jungkook is no exception. He looks good.

“For you, m’lady,” Jungkook says dramatically as he holds out the bouquet in front of him.

“How thoughtful of you,” you muse to yourself, grinning. You take the flowers and press your whole face into them, breathing in the fresh scent. “The one I gave you wasn’t nearly this big.”

“Go big or go home,” Jungkook teases. “You look nice, by the way.”

“You always sound so surprised when you say that,” you comment snidely, shaking your head as you grab your bag from the shelf next to your door. “What are we doing tonight, Jeon? Gonna keep it a secret from me like last time?”

“That depends,” Jungkook says knowingly. “Do you like secrets?”

“You should know what I like by now,” you remark.

“Then prepare to be wowed.” He grins, taking your hand in his as he pulls you out the door.

The restaurant you go to this time does not require a ten minute drive to the center of town. Instead, it’s a five minute walk from campus and actually happens to be a place you’ve been to before. It’s a busy little thing on a Friday night, waiters bustling about with trays in their hands, people laughing and smiling under the dim light of the chandeliers. You’ve only been here once, long ago, for a club dinner paid for by the finance chair, and for good reason. It’s not the kind of place cheap college students looking to get the most food for the least amount of money go to.

“Isn’t this a bit out of budget for our rom-com?” You ask as the host seats you at your table, a little booth in the middle of the restaurant, lanterns resting on the corners of the seats.

“I thought this was a mockumentary,” Jungkook jokes.

“Yeah, yeah,” you say, resisting the smile that fights its way across your face. Trust you to make that sort of blunder in front of him. “I mean it, though. This place is expensive.”

“It’s manageable,” Jungkook promises. “I’ve been saving up. Plus, I thought you deserved a nice night out.”

“How generous of you.”

“Oh, come on, I know you’re excited,” he narrows his eyes at you. “You don’t have to act like a stone-cold robot anymore.”

“Well…” you suppose enough is enough. Jungkook can see right through you anyway, so there’s no point in keeping up this indifferent facade of yours. “Only because you’re treating me so nicely.”

“Just please don’t order the steak,” he requests simply.

You laugh. “No problem. Maybe we could just share a couple of appetizers?”

Jungkook likes the sound of that.

Luckily, this is not one of those restaurants where the appetizers cost an arm and a leg and are the size of your pinky finger. You and Jungkook split three different ones, happy to scoop out portions for each of you and indulge in them together.

Dinner dates—of which this is only sort of one—are always awkward because you spend half of the time shoving food into your mouth, but you and Jungkook don’t seem to mind the silence at all. Only, Jungkook does look sort of like he’s holding back.

“Is this enough food for you?” You ask him halfway through, distantly remembering how he absolutely devoured a whole plate of pasta last time and still having enough room in his stomach to finish yours.

“What do you mean?” Jungkook asks over a mouthful of vegetables.

“You ate so much at the Italian place, I just want to make sure you aren’t still hungry,” you point out.

“Oh.” Jungkook pauses, swallowing down the bite in his mouth. “No, I’m okay. Thanks for thinking of me, though.”

“Yeah, of course,” you say. You hesitate for a moment, not sure if you should say anything else. But what the hell, right? It’s Jungkook. It’s Jungkook and he walked you home when you were drunk, he gave you flowers, he let you borrow his jacket. And you feel as though you must return the favor. “Anytime.”

He smiles.

Despite the pure ecstasy you both experience when eating delicious food, Jungkook makes sure not to waste this time and grabs a few frames of you eating with his camera. He always seems to have that with him whenever he’s with you, hanging around his neck or stuffed into his backpack or crammed into his pants pocket. Sort of makes you wonder just how much footage the two of you have of each other.

He insists on paying but you send him some money anyway, just because letting him shoulder the burden of a place as expensive (for college students, at least) as this just doesn’t sit right with you. Whenever he receives the Venmo notification on his phone, Jungkook frowns and says that he’ll send that money back to you, but he never does and you can tell that he really does appreciate it.

You don’t think you have any plans on stopping that for a while.

The only downside of going to this restaurant is that there is no gorgeous, light-strung park in the vicinity the two of you can wander around. Just your campus, which you have no doubt walked a thousand times over, and the streets surrounding it, which you have memorized like the back of your hand.

It almost makes you think that Jungkook is just going to drop you back off at your place and the night will end there, but you know better than to expect something like that from Jungkook. Instead, as you’re walking, you point out the cafe that you and Ruby always go to, see that it’s closing in half-an-hour, and Jungkook decides then and there that it’s your next destination.

“You’ve never been here before?” You ask when you walk inside, eyes immediately drifting to the display of pastries beside the register.

“I’m not normally on this side of campus,” Jungkook admits. “You’re the only reason I’m ever here.”

“Then hopefully after finding this place, you’ll have two reasons,” you say cheerfully. The baristas behind the counter know you on a first-name basis, are happy to help you out even though they’ve no doubt been working long hours and are ready to close up shop and go home.

You split a tiramisu and sit at that same corner table you and Ruby always pick, empty now that it’s so late at night. Other than the employees, you and Jungkook are the only ones in here, a far cry from the hustle and bustle of the restaurant, filled to the brim with people, the smell of cooked food wafting through the air.

The tiramisu isn't as fresh as it would be bright and early in the morning, but you suppose that that just means you and Jungkook will have to come back. Besides, Jungkook obviously does not seem to mind, scarfing it down ruthlessly. You’re in and out just as they close up shop, the employees bidding you goodbye like old friends, sending you on your way. There’s not really much else either of you have planned for tonight, and Jungkook isn’t coming up with any new ideas as he checks his phone. Instead, you just begin to head back to your apartment, all wrapped up in each other. You place your hand in his own and feel yourself relax when he squeezes, a silent little reminder that he’s still here, and that so are you.

Funnily enough, holding hands feels natural to you at this point.

“Tonight was fun,” you comment, breaking the quiet.

“Yeah, glad we could do this,” Jungkook agrees. “Makes me kind of sad to know that this thing is almost over.”

“What, the project?”

Jungkook shrugs. “Yeah. And the class. And the semester. It’s kind of scary. We’ll be seniors next year.”

You chuckle. “Ugh, don’t remind me. I still have no idea what I’m going to do after we graduate.”

“You don’t have to know everything,” Jungkook reassures you. “As long as you’re happy with what you have now.”

“Are you?” You inquire, looking up to meet his eyes.

Jungkook beams down at you. “I am.”

The walk from the cafe to your apartment is short, just under five minutes, but it feels like it takes you an hour, footsteps slow and languid, like neither of you want the night to end. You hit every red light, round every corner, drawing out the evening for as long as you can. Unfortunately, there is only so much you can do on a five-minute walk, and before you know it, you’re home.

“This is me,” you say, stopping outside the gold doors of your apartment complex. “Thanks again for tonight.”

“Anytime,” Jungkook says, a common thread in your conversations.

“Really?” You ask, skeptical. “Our project’s almost over.”

“That doesn’t mean we have to stop doing this,” Jungkook says.

You narrow your eyes. “What are you implying, huh, Jungkook?”

“This.”

Before you know it, he’s wrapping one hand around your waist and pulling you in close to him, your palms splayed out against his broad, toned chest, pressing his lips to yours. You gasp a little into the feeling, somewhat shocked he would dare be so bold even after all this time, but find yourself sinking into the touch. He tastes like coffee and cream, like peppermint from his chapstick, like the wine you shared tonight. You cave into the way he holds you, hands wrapped around your body, palms pressed firmly against your figure. He holds you like he’s afraid to let go, like he’s trying to remind himself that you’re real and here and that you are kissing him back, like he’ll forget once the moment ends.

But he need not worry about that.

When you part, you don’t even bother wiping off the stupid smile on your face, kiss-drunk and filled with glee. It’s been a long time since you felt this way. And Jungkook makes you feel things you don’t even think you can explain.

“How bold of you,” you comment, noses touching, barely an inch away from each other.

“I figured I’d shoot my shot,” Jungkook says. He shrugs, pretending to be casual, but you can see the way he’s grinning, beaming, down at you.

“You scored,” you remind him.

“How observant of you,” teases Jungkook in return. You pout a little at his playful mockery, heart fond. “Think we can do it again?”

“Hmm, I would tone down the ego first,” you say, already leaning back in to press your lips against his.

“Never.” He smiles wickedly.

It’s a quicker kiss this time, a short peck against his cherry red mouth, but it still makes your heart beat something terribly fierce.

“See you soon?” You ask when you finally pull away, knowing that as much as you’d like to, you can’t just stand out here kissing each other forever.

Jungkook nods, cheeks pink and warm to the touch. He looks so sleek in his formal black outfit, crisp button-down and slacks, hair all styled, but the way he’s grinning at you makes him look so young, so sublimely happy. It’s nice.

“Anytime.”

“There’s my favorite couple!” Taehyung greets excitedly when he swings open the door to his apartment to reveal you and Jungkook standing on the other side.

“What’s it to you?” You comment snidely as he lets you inside, the black sheet still taped up along his wall. It looks a little more wrinkled than when you last saw it.

“Oh, nothing,” Taehyung singsongs. He definitely knows a lot more than he cares to tell either you or Jungkook, but whatever. The project’s almost over and he’s almost finished with university entirely. “You guys are just cute together, that’s all.”

“Like you even know the half of it.” You tell him with a roll of your eyes.

Taehyung wiggles his eyebrows. “Ooh, do tell.” He grins that greasy, comic-book-villain grin of his as he starts moving his bar stools back to where the sheet lines his cream-colored wall.

“Isn’t that the whole point of this?” Jungkook poses, making you laugh from where you’re seated on the couch, watching Jungkook set up his tripod in exactly the place he wants it. You smile at him as you recline against Taehyung’s poor old leather couch, so worn-down from use that the back cushions fold in when you press against them, and Jungkook peers out from behind the camera to blow you a kiss.

You send him one back without even needing to think.

Taehyung misses the whole scene, but no doubt he’ll be putting two and two together pretty soon. You and Jungkook agreed that for the last interview you would be questioned together, long before Jungkook actually managed to romance you off your feet, and there’s not a doubt in your mind that the two of you being interviewed side-by-side will make things much more interesting.

Nevertheless, Jungkook sets up the camera and sends a thumbs-up your way when he’s ready, Taehyung sitting on the bar stool just outside of the frame with a couple of index cards in his hand.

“Let’s do this,” you say, hauling yourself onto the seat. Jungkook does the same shortly after, scooching onto the one next to you as you stare at Taehyung, waiting for him to start.

“Looking forward to this one?” Taehyung asks knowingly.

You shrug nonchalantly. “Just a little.”

“Excellent. Shall we begin?”

You and Jungkook nod.

“Alright. Well, this is presumably the last thing the two of you will be filming for your project. How are you feeling about it?”

“It turned out better than I thought it would,” you admit. It will come as a shock to no one that you did not have very high hopes for this project when it was first assigned.

“Of course it did, I’m your partner,” Jungkook teases, poking you in your side. “Would you ever doubt me?”

“Always,” you say.

Taehyung chuckles. “Sounds like it’s been good so far. Did you enjoy filming it?”

You nod. “Yeah, it was actually kind of fun. Except for when Jungkook spilled coffee all over me, that was not cool.” You turn to face Jungkook directly, and all he does when you say his name is wink and point at you.

“It was for the rom-com, I don’t know what you expected,” Jungkook said. “I gave you my jacket, too.”

“How gentlemanly.”

Taehyung chuckles, warm and low. “I’m sure Jungkook learned his lesson,” he muses. “What was your favorite thing to film?”

Not when I randomly texted you five minutes before I showed up at your door to make you ask me questions about how I feel, you think to yourself. Jungkook still doesn’t know, but you think you’ll put it into the movie just for the hell of it, so he’ll find out then. Find out that you were grappling with your feelings for him long before you ever let on.

“The serenade was a blast, a special shoutout to the Eighth Notes for doing that for me,” Jungkook says immediately. Obviously that is at the top of his list. “Plus, I just like seeing Y/N all flustered.”

“Shut up, you’re so annoying,” you chide. “I guess the serenade was kind of cute. I liked going out together, though. On our not-date.”

Jungkook objects to that instantly. “It was a date, Y/N!”

You look back at him, equally as scandalized as he. “Whose turn is it to talk?”

“Mine, actually,” Taehyung interjects. “Did you like going out together?”

You sigh a little, wondering if you’re really about to turn into a softie in front of a camera for a movie to be shown to your twenty classmates and professor. “Yeah,” you say, real and true because that’s what you agreed on, you and Jungkook. To be candid. To be honest. To say how you felt. Really. “It was really nice. I hadn’t gone out with someone like that in a long time.”

“And were you happy because of the project, or because of Jungkook?”

“Well,” you begin, not exactly sure where to start. “I guess, it’s like… you know, I didn’t even know Jungkook before this project. I mean, I knew who he was, he would always respond to my discussion board posts and object to everything I said in class. But I didn’t know him as a person. But as we worked on this project together, planning and filming and editing, I started to. And we did so many things together. And I guess I just really enjoyed the time we did spend as a pair.”

“Would you say the same, Jungkook?”

“Yes,” Jungkook says easily. “That’s what I wanted. To get to know Y/N, to spend time with her. I was glad we had this project. Otherwise, we might never have done something like this.”

“You both seem very happy.”

“I think we are. This project was actually sort of a blessing in disguise. I know him a lot better, now,” you say. “I’m glad that I do. He makes me smile, and laugh, and I always feel happy when he’s around. I don’t know. He did it, somehow.”

“Jungkook?”

“It wasn’t just me. Y/N and I did this together. We made this. This project. Us. It wasn’t just her, or just me. It’s ours.” Jungkook grins.

“Are you glad you did this project?”

Of course. It was fun, and I liked filming it, and I feel like I got something really important out of it. I know it’s just a short rom-com mockumentary, but it really feels like there was a happy ending, you know? A happily ever after.”

“You seem really certain about that.”

“Well,” Jungkook says with a little scoff, “what else would you call it?”

“As you can see, obviously Y/N fell head over heels in love with me thanks to this wonderful project—”

“Why are you always so full of yourself—?”

“Hey, you’re ruining the voiceover! As I said, as you can see, Y/N fell head over heels in love with me, but that wasn’t just because of my dashing good looks and amazing singing skills.”

“The ends of your hair look like hay—”

“It was because we were honest with each other, and because we spent meaningful moments together, and because we kept our hearts open. And I guess that’s the truth of it all, isn’t it? Love, romance, relationships? If you close yourself off, you’ll never get to experience them. But if you take every opportunity with an open mind, then you never know what might happen. Like falling in love with your discussion board nemesis.”

“Who, me?”

“Just let me finish, come on. There’s like one paragraph left. I know this was a mockumentary, not a scripted rom-com with professional actors and screenwriters and a whole team of editors. But that was the whole point. To make it real. And to make it between two people who aren’t just characters on a screen. We’re real people, and this happened to us. And it makes us happy. And it can happen to you, too. I think we all learn something every time we watch a new movie. Whether it be about loss, or promises, or other people. This time, we learned about love. Real love. How it can be rocky and strange and come straight out of left field. But also how happy endings aren’t just for movies and fairytales. We all deserve them. And Y/N and I found our own.”

“Are you gonna say it?”

“And so… they lived happily ever after.”

You look up at the screen, expecting to see the credits roll, but instead it’s a shot of the two of you kissing outside of your apartment building, a shot of you wrapping your arms around him as you press your lips to his. It lasts for only a few seconds, but you find yourself entranced in the moment, shocked that Jungkook somehow managed to capture it on film. He didn’t even have his camera with him that night.

Pollack turns on the lights in your classroom as your fellow classmates applaud, all of them looking genuinely pleased that your rom-com had such a wonderful ending. Pollack herself looks rather proud, nodding to herself as she smiles at the two of you.

“You filmed us kissing?” You hiss to Jungkook as your classmates clap, hoping the sound of it will drown out your conversation.

“I got Taehyung to,” Jungkook whispers back. “Why?”

“I just… I thought that night was just for us.”

“The rest of it is. But I thought the kiss would be a cute way to end it. You know, happy ending and everything.”

Alright, if Jungkook insists. You nod, tensing up slightly. You hadn’t even noticed Taehyung down the street, standing behind some utility pole with the camera raised to his eye. Had Jungkook texted him in secret? Asked him to meet you outside of your apartment? Was he planning on kissing you from the very beginning?

You shake your head, willing away the thoughts as Pollack commends the two of you for a job well done. Jungkook and you stand at the front of the room for a few more seconds, getting stared down by your fellow classmates while Pollack speaks. The period ends just as she finishes up, the minutes changing the moment she closes her mouth. Within a minute or so, the whole class has emptied out, some of them congratulating you and Jungkook on the way out.

“I’ll meet you outside, okay?” Jungkook says, eyes bright and filled with that same wonder he’s always got.

“Yeah,” you say distantly, nodding to him as he disappears out the door.

“You did an excellent job, Y/N,” Pollack praises, and it goes right to your head, if you’re being honest. “It was brilliant.”

“Thanks,” you say, suddenly rather shy. “That means a lot.”

“Don’t tell anyone else this,” she says, voice quiet, “but I was secretly hoping the two of you would fall in love.”

“Pollack!”

She laughs. “What? I thought you’d make a cute couple. And you do, so clearly it all worked out anyway.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s against the code of conduct,” you say, even though you know you can’t be too mad at her. After all, you wouldn’t have Jungkook if it weren’t for her.

“Y/N, I’m tenured. I don’t care.”

“Wait…” you pause, eyes narrowing, “how many of your students have you set up with each other?”

Pollack grins. “I never reveal my secrets.”

Your mouth drops open.

She chuckles, shooing you out the door. “Go on, go be with your boyfriend. You can tell him you both get A pluses for your project. It was excellent. One of the best I’ve seen in a very long time.”

“Thanks, Pollack,” you say, smiling gratefully. “You’re the best.”

She points at you proudly as you head out the door. “So are you.”

Jungkook is waiting by the tables where you always sit, half a flight down from your classroom. He’s leaning against the edge of them as he scrolls mindlessly through his phone, so engrossed in the Instagram explore page that he doesn’t see you walk up.

“Guess what,” you say, getting all up in his face, just because you can.

“What,” Jungkook says, an eyebrow raised.

“We got an A plus on our project!” You exclaim happily, cheering. Jungkook laughs at your exuberant reaction, watches as you jump around, clapping loudly.

“Hell yeah, we did that!” Jungkook holds his hand up for a high five, one you gladly take. Your palms smack together and the sound reverberates around the hallway.

“You know, you and I—” you begin, placing your palms on his cheeks as you pull yourself in for a kiss, “we make a pretty good team.”

“Only because you’re so good at editing,” Jungkook says. You’re both not too bad, if you do say so yourself, but since Jungkook did so much of the filming you thought it would be better if you carried more of the weight when it came to post-production.

“Says you,” you tease, pressing your lips to his button nose. “The happy ending thing was a nice touch, I liked it. Makes me feel like I’m in a fairy tale.”

“I’m glad,” Jungkook says with a chuckle, admiring the way you beam at him. “You know, I was really worried that you might think we didn’t have a happy ending after all, especially after everything.”

“What do you mean?” You look at him curiously.

“Well, I just really wanted to make sure that we had a happy ending, because you’ve been through so much.”

You pause in place, eyebrows furrowing as you look up at him. Been through so much? Does Jungkook know something you don’t? Wait, no, did you… did you tell him—?

“You knew?” You ask, the realization piercing you like an arrow. “All this time, and you never said anything?”

Jungkook’s eyes widen.

“How long have you known?”

He winces. “Since I walked you home when you were drunk. You told me.”

You did?

Shit.

“And you didn’t think that maybe you should have told me that you knew? Especially when I asked you if I had said anything embarrassing?” You cry out, indignant. “What, were you just planning on never telling me?”

“I was going to, but I wasn’t sure if you wanted to know that you had admitted all those things to me,” Jungkook admits, growing desperate. “They were really personal things, I thought you might react badly.”

“Oh, so you just decided to keep it a secret instead? Look how well that worked out.”

“What was I supposed to do, Y/N? I know you would have been upset.”

“Tell me!” You exclaim. “I asked you if I had said something embarrassing that night and you said I hadn’t. And I believed you. Better to have known then than now!”

“I’m sorry,” Jungkook says.

“I can’t believe you wouldn’t just tell me. Didn’t we say we would be honest with each other? But instead, you just let me assume that all of the nice things you did for me were because you actually cared, and not because you felt bad for me?”

“I don’t feel bad for you!” Jungkook shouts. “I mean, I do, but that’s not why I took you out on dates and gave you flowers and held your hand. I do care about you.”

“Oh, so filming us kissing was just because you actually cared, too, right?”

“I don’t know why you’re so hung up about that,” Jungkook points out.

“Because I thought it was a private moment,” you remind him. “You hadn’t filmed anything the whole night. I thought we were just going out on a date like two people who cared about each other did. Us kissing was personal. But you texted Taehyung and told him to show up with his camera anyway, right? Because you were planning on kissing me from the very beginning. Because you knew, Jungkook. You knew and you had absolutely no intention of telling me.”

“Y/N, wait, I didn’t do those things just because I pitied you,” Jungkook says, reaching out for your hand.

You pull away. “You didn’t? Then why did you film us kissing, then?”

“Because…” he flounders. You aren’t at all surprised. “Because—”

“Enough, Jungkook. I get it,” you stop him, shaking your head. “Everything we’ve done since that first date we had, when we went to the Italian place, everything since then—it was all played up. Because you felt bad for me. I had a shitty experience with love and you wanted to make me feel better. Whatever.”

“Y/N, it wasn’t like that,” Jungkook chases after you as you begin to walk down the stairs, towards the exit. “I didn’t pity you. I still don’t. I did those things because I care about you, and I wanted you to be happy.”

“Well, you got what you wanted,” you say, arms crossed over your shoulders as you push your way out the door. “I was so happy when I was with you.”

“Wait, Y/N—”

“Bye, Jungkook.”

The door slams shut behind you.

“How many finals do you still have left? You finished your movie, right?”

Ruby is stirring herself a cup of earl grey tea as she sits down on the couch next to you, where you’re very obviously sulking as you scroll through the Feel Good Rom-Coms category on Netflix.

“I just have a couple essays and a presentation,” you mumble out. “You?”

“Ugh, I still have all of my final exams to take,” Ruby tells you with a thick, heavy sigh. Clearly, she doesn't feel like talking about them now. Or at all. “The life of a biology major.”

“Hey, you’re the one who wants to be a doctor, not me,” you remind her crudely. “You better know your shit, or I’m never taking my kids to your practice.”

“Rude,” Ruby says. “There goes my family and friends discount offer.”

You laugh to yourself, a small smile inching its way across your lips. Ruby’s always known how to brighten your day, even when you feel like absolute shit.

“What are we watching, hmm? I’m cool with anything.”

“I don’t know.” You shrug, flicking through all of the rom-com options and feeling very unhappy with all of them. “I feel like you’ve seen all of these.”

“Yeah,” Ruby says. “Whenever I’m not studying, I’m watching Netflix or The Bachelor.”

You nod. Maybe you’ll just settle on some old NCIS reruns and call it a night.

“Oh!” Ruby exclaims suddenly, a lightbulb going off above her head. “How about we watch your movie? The rom-com you did with Jungkook! I haven’t seen it yet.”

“I don’t know…” You begin, the mere thought putting a bad taste in your mouth. For obvious reasons.

“Come on, please? I really want to see it, you were so excited about it,” Ruby begs, getting all antsy as she climbs all over you, literally pulling your arm to get you to cave in. “It’s short, too, isn’t it? Like forty-five minutes long? We can watch whatever you want afterwards. Please.”

You huff out a breath. If it were up to you, you would move that film onto a flash drive and toss it into a dumpster on fire. But it’s not just up to you. Ruby has been asking you about it since the day you told her you were filming it, and now all she wants to do is see the final result. And it’s only forty-five minutes long. What’s that when compared to the rest of your life?

“Fine,” you relent, not wanting to fight about it any longer. “Let me get my computer.”

Ruby cheers.

You bring your laptop over to your coffee table, turning off the ceiling lights as Ruby tucks herself underneath a blanket, hands warmed by her steaming cup of tea. You pull up the movie file and, taking a deep breath, press play.

It opens with your first interview with Taehyung, a muted, royalty-free lo-fi hip-hop song playing in the background. You had edited it so that it would jump back and forth between your answer and Jungkook’s, highlighting the contrast between the two of you. It was mostly for comedic purposes, just because seeing you deadpan about how love doesn’t exist and then quickly switching to Jungkook wax poetic about it is amusing, but watching it now just makes you want to curl into yourself.

You should have known that this would have never worked out. Should have kept that same jaded attitude. You let your guard down for one second and look at what’s happened to you.

The next scene that Jungkook shows is, of course, the moment he spills burning hot coffee all over you in the middle of the Starbucks, comedically panning up to your positively-flabbergasted face just to add to the shock factor. Next to you, Ruby laughs at the mishap, obviously amused by the fact that the two of you are now drenched in coffee and scrambling to clean up the mess. You try to focus your energy on how peeved you were at Jungkook after he did that, but get distracted the moment he films himself wrapping his denim jacket around you, placing it over your shoulders and making sure it’s just right.

He didn’t have to do that, and the two of you both knew it. But still, he sent you off your class all bundled up in a jacket that smelled like him, smelled of that boyish aroma that you couldn’t get rid of, even when you put it in the wash with your lavender detergent. All of Jungkook’s clothes smelt like that no matter how much cologne he put on, always smelt woody and thick. It would consume you, that scent, a cloud surrounding your figure whenever you were near him.

The movie keeps playing, and you keep thinking about how much of a fool you must look like in it now, all giggles and smiles as Jungkook sings Frankie Valli to you while he hands you a rose, that same sly little smile dotting his features. Hearing the song again makes you feel like you’re choking, like something’s smothering you, and you’re not sure what it is until you realize that it’s the sound of Jungkook’s voice.

You haven’t heard him sing since he serenaded you.

Then it’s your first date, the one Ruby told you to wear the yellow dress to (“Hey, I told you you looked amazing in it! Wow!” Ruby exclaims when she sees you). You remember when you edited this, putting the clips together of you eating at the restaurant, wandering around the park, posing underneath the trees, holding hands. You were smiling so hard your cheeks hurt while you were editing, grinning from ear to ear at all of the things the two of you did together. They were so picturesque, those scenes, so perfectly shot, so romantici—t did a fine job of convincing you that it was all real.

You even put in the little clip of you and Taehyung talking. A mistake, now that you look back on it, of course. It was so vulnerable, so real, so candid and honest like you said you would be, and now it’s all blown up in your face. You must have looked like such an idiot to Jungkook when he saw this scene for the first time in class. You remember the wide-eyed look on his face when it popped up. Like he couldn’t even believe you had done this in the first place.

Scoffing, you shake your head. You either.

The rest of it you can hardly bear to watch. Just a wrap-up of your relationship, a compilation of all of the small moments you shared when you didn’t realize that Jungkook was filming, when you dared whip out your camera to shoot for a second or two. Little clips that jump from scene to scene, shots of you laughing and eating and skipping along campus as you held hands. It’s hard to reconcile the fact that it’s all over.

You don’t even listen to the final interview, not bothering to pay attention to what you or Jungkook have to say when you were there, when you can recall every word he’s ever spoken to you at the drop of a hat.

The truth is, you were always a goner for him.

And look how well that played out.

By the time the kissing scene comes up once more, you’re ready to set your whole laptop alight.

The screen turns black as it ends, fading away into nothingness, the instrumental slowly disappearing alongside the image. You shut your laptop when it’s all over, a little too angry for your own good, but you wrestle the scowl off your face as you take a drink of water from the glass sitting on the table.

“Wow,” Ruby says, speechless. She blinks at your closed laptop.

“Did you like it?”

“I—I don’t even know what to say,” Ruby says, which is a first. “It was amazing, Y/N. Seriously. Gorgeous. Like, cinematographically? Stunning. The shit on Netflix isn’t even as good as that.”

Even if you did have to sit through your stupid movie one more time, the compliments make you feel a bit better. “Thanks,” you murmur.

Ruby nods enthusiastically. “It was incredible. I’m just—I’m in awe. You and Jungkook have a gift, dude. It was seriously one of the best things I’ve watched in a really long time. And, like, not even in a cheesy, yucky rom-com kind of way. It was so… so genuine. So real. Wow.”

“I’m glad you liked it.”

“You’ll have to tell Jungkook, too,” Ruby says. “He did really well.”

“Yeah, he’s a great actor,” you say, a little too bitterly for your own good.

“What do you mean?” Ruby raises an eyebrow your way. “I didn’t think he was acting at all. It looked pretty real to me.”

You frown. “It did?”

“I mean, yeah,” Ruby says with an honest nod. “I mean, you did tell me it was a mockumentary and not just a run-of-the-mill rom-com. So wasn’t everything supposed to be real, anyway?”

“Yes…” you trail off, unsure of the direction of this conversation.

“Well, if you ask me,” Ruby says, all matter-of-factly, “I’d say he definitely fell in love with you.”

Something rushes through you. Something warm and bright and full of energy.

Hope.

Even though you have finished one of your finals early, finals week is still just as much of a slog as it always is. Three essays and two presentations deep, you aren’t finished any of them and the due dates are slowly creeping up on you, ready to pounce the moment the clock strikes twelve.

Eh, it could be worse. You could be Ruby and have six timed, proctored final exams on biology, anatomy, and chemistry. So you suppose you can’t complain too much.

Finals week sees you all holed up in your apartment like always, but more so this semester than any previous ones because you don’t feel like going to the library and risking seeing Jungkook there. Or anywhere, really. Since you presented on the last day of classes, you haven’t spoken since, and hopefully you can keep that streak going forever. You had made it until this semester without ever crossing paths despite being in the same major, so hopefully that luck will follow you.

It’s almost midnight when you finally decide to call it quits for the night, having at least gotten mostly through two of your essays (just have to edit and proofread!) and worked on about half of your two presentations. Sighing, you get up from your couch and stretch, feeling your bones crack from sitting in the same place for hours on end.

You lean over to the floor lamp by the edge of the couch, ready to flick it off and head to bed, when you hear something outside.

“You’re just too good to be true…”

“Can’t take my eyes off of you…”

You freeze.

The voice is soft and mellow, a little muted because it’s making its way through your wooden door before it reaches your ears, but it is unrecognizable. Even without the acoustics of the Eighth Notes, you know who’s on the other side.

“You’d be like Heaven to touch…”

“I wanna hold you so much…”

“At long last, love has arrived…”

“And I thank God I’m alive…”

Unable to resist, you wander to your front door, basking in the sound of him, in the way the notes float through the air as if on clouds, dancing along the walls as they sink into your brain. He sounds so sweet, voice warm like tea on a cold night, just singing his song on this empty, lonely night. But it’s not just his song, is it?

It’s yours, too.

You pull open the door.

“You’re just too good to be true,” Jungkook sings, a honeyed melody that calms the waves of your stormy heart, “can’t take my eyes off of you…”

But just because he’s here, serenading you once more, doesn’t mean he’s going to get it any easier from you. You fight to keep the smile off your face, pressing your lips together as you narrow your eyes at him.

“I love you, baby, and if it’s quite alright, I need you, baby, to warm the lonely night…”

“I love you, baby, trust in me when I say…”

He meets your eyes with his own, and they aren’t glinting in the way they normally do, the way that they do when he knows he’s doing something to grind your gears, when he’s got a trick up his sleep. They gleam like pearls as the dim glow of your apartment lights up his figure, warm yellow mixing with the caramel in his irises.

“Oh, pretty baby, don’t bring me down, I pray…”

Oh, pretty baby, now that I’ve found you, stay…”

“And let me love you, baby…”

From behind him, Jungkook brings out a single red rose, twirling it between his fingers as he holds it out to you.

“Let me love you…” He trails off there, voice delicate as vanishes into the chilly night air, disappearing between the two of you.

You can’t help but take the flower from his hand. What else are you supposed to do?

“So?” Jungkook asks, hopeful.

“Don’t think you can just show up at my apartment and woo me back by singing to me,” you chide, even though he definitely can.

“I’m sorry,” Jungkook says simply, because there really is nothing else to say. “I should have told you.”

“I watched our rom-com again,” you tell him. “I should have believed you when you said you cared about me.”

“I always did,” Jungkook says. “I just wanted you to know that love was real, and that it was there for you.”

“I should have known,” you agree. You look up at Jungkook through lidded eyes, musing to yourself. “You know what I learned?”

Jungkook tilts his head in curiosity. “What?”

“That love isn’t a feeling. It’s a person,” you explain, sighing pleasantly. “Love comes to us through the things we share with other people. That’s what it is.” Your thumbs twiddle in front of you, the pads of your fingers rubbing at the stem of the rose.

He takes a single step forward, reaching out to take your hand in his own. “And are you pleased with who you’ve found?”

You roll your eyes. “Just shut up and kiss me already, you idiot.”

Jungkook obliges without a second thought.

There is no one to film you this time, no project to work on. There is only you, and there is only him. And there is only a lifetime that the two of you share, a story that you have told together, piece by piece, frame by frame. Your movie didn’t end once you finished editing. Nor did it end the moment the screen went black in Pollack’s class. It wasn’t even over when you watched it a second time with Ruby.

No, it continues on. Forever and ever, so long as you are with him. There will always be something new to capture, to burn into a disk so you’ll have it for eternity.

He pulls you in for a kiss and it’s not the end of the film. It’s the beginning of a brand new part, a new installment in the series that is your life with him. That is the relationship you have created together. His lips aren’t the fireworks as the credits roll. They are the scene where the two characters meet for the very first time and know that they were meant to be. The scene that sets all of the other ones in motion. That is who Jungkook is. That is what you are sharing, right now.

A brand new frame.

When you part, you press your forehead against his, soft blonde locks framing his face as they tickle your face, dancing along the skin of your cheeks.

“You called it a rom-com,” Jungkook points out randomly, just remembering now.

“Well, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know…” Jungkook says, pretending to think about it as he rocks on the back of his feet. “Did it have a happy ending?”

You bring your lips to his once more, arms wrapped around his neck as you clasp the rose between your fingers. You make a mental note to press it later. Something else to remember him by. Something other than your movie.

Jungkook pulls you into him once more, hands resting firmly on your waist, letting his body press against yours as you stand there in the muted light of your apartment’s living room, letting the cool spring breeze wash over you. You smile against his lips, feeling your heart race when he grins back.

“Yes,” you declare proudly.

And so, they lived happily ever after.

↳ thanks for reading! don’t forget to let me know if you enjoyed it!

#jungkook fluff #jungkook angst #bts fluff #bts angst #bts scenario #jungkook scenario #bts imagine #jungkook imagine #bts au #jungkook au #jungkook college au #jungkook x reader #bts x reader #w: the art of the rom com #dudes this fic is so long my keyboard is lagging HAHAHA

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momiji-bookhouse · 2 years

Note

I forgot to add 🤦‍♀️ That I'm requesting for a oneshot heh!

A couple more details, I promise!

- Reader avoids everyone, specifically Kazu, like the freaking plague (how?? On a ship too?? Kazu is an expert in finding people?? idk) and after the fight, she goes dead silent. She doesn't even communicate with Beidou, her childhood best friend. She tells herself that she has no rights to speak. She still does her work though, just.. really quietly. Until one day (weeks after? Days after?), Kazu catches her, per say. (Yk, the classic.. wrist grab, kabedon.. I'm a sucker for clichés I'm so sorry)

- I don't remember if I mentioned this but she left her comfort space (Liyue) for him, so...

Also if this is too complicated for you, just any simple angst to fluff will do!! So it's easier for you if you find it difficult to write. ((: My apologies again if I'm all over the place.

Scent of the Earth

pairing: Kaedehara Kazuha x Fem!Reader

genre: Hurt/Comfort

words: 2.9k

summary: A few words won't be enough to undo what he said, but he will spend a lifetime making it up to you.

a/n: Stan Beidou

part 1

Kazuha doesn't need to hear the wind taunting and berating in his ears to know that he messed up. He has become aware of that fact as soon as he leaves the Alcor, but the maelstrom of anger and worry and disbelief still swirled in his mind, preventing him from going back to you less he says something he doesn't mean to.

A low sigh escapes his lips as he remembers your reaction, unable to get your stunned and shell-shocked expression out of his mind. His gut twist when he thinks about the things he said to you. He shouldn't have been so calloused, he should have been gentler and calmer.

But just thinking about it makes him remember seeing you on the ground with the Whopperflower looming over you. He remembers how a hole had suddenly open up in his stomach and how his heart stopped and became nothing more than a lump as fire burns around him. He remembers feeling the wind urging him forward, but a darker part in his mind whispers into his ears and telling him he will never make it in time.

Bile rise to his throat, and Kazuha clenches at his kimono, feeling the erratic thumping of his heart against his bandaged hands. He doesn't even want to envision what would happen if the Traveler hadn't been there.

He takes several deep breaths in and out to regulate his breathing and let the sounds of nature calm his nerves. As soon as he gets his thinking straight, he will go back and hopefully talk this out with you, unwilling to let this argument simmer.

He wants to make things right, especially when it comes to you.

The first thing Kazuha notice when he steps aboard the ship is the look on Beidou's face as he glares at him. He unconsciously gulps at how stormy her ruby eyes have become, arms cross over her chest and lips a thin line as she stares him down. Surely this is what the sea monster Haishan had witness before it was slain by her great sword.

"Captain." He tries to keep his voice even.

"Kazuha," the stoic way she says his name makes his heart skip a beat. "I need to speak with you. Now." She emphasizes the word and turn on her heels, not even sparing a glance to see if he is following her. She leads him to the bow of the ship, where there is no one on deck except for Liushi on the crow's nest, but he is too high up to listen to their conversation.

"What in the name of the great dark sea were you thinking talking to (Y/N) like that?" Beidou half-yelled as her eyes narrowed. "I want you to explain to me this instance, and depending on your answer I'll decide if I'll throw you off this ship or not."

Kazuha swallows, knowing full well that she isn't making an empty threat and will throw him overboard without hesitation.

He recounts the day's events to her, faltering when it comes to the part where you were almost burned by the Whopperflower. There is only silence as he finishes, and when he meets her eyes the storm is still there, although he now also sees hints of resignation.

She sighs heavily. "Look, I don't know how much you think your words affected her, but when I came in, she was having a panic attack. She couldn't breathe, Kazuha."

It feels like the pit in his stomach has open up again, bubbling with anxiety as his eyes widen. "What? Where is she? Is she okay?"

Beidou lays a hand on his shoulder to calm him down. "She's fine, I got her to calm down and she's currently resting. Kazuha, how much do you know about her family?"

"I know she doesn't have the best relationship with her parents and siblings." His eyebrows furrow. "She told me that they're going around Teyvat adventuring while she stays in Liyue."

Beidou purse her lips. "I'm afraid it isn't as simple as that. I don't want to get into many details, but (Y/N) didn't have the best childhood. Her family has never made her feel like she's enough, and it only got worse when it turns out she's the only one in her family without a Vision. Growing up, I remember (Y/N) coming to me crying whenever her parents would tell her she's worthless. A burden." The brown-haired captain tightened her hold on him as the faint sound of lightning crackle in the air. "She didn't chose to stay in Liyue. Her family abandoned her."

Kazuha's blood boil in fury while simultaneously feeling sick to his stomach at the thought of you being treated that way by the people who were supposed to love you the most. He has half the mind to track them down and show them how amazing you are without them.

Then, he remembers everything he tells you during your argument and it's as if though a lightning bolt has struck him down.

Beidou inwardly sighs at the look of horror and realization on the young man's face. "Now you see how your words have affected her. It may have been things said in the heat of the moment for you, but it wasn't like that for her. (Y/N) is currently resting in my cabin for the night, and I don't want you to disturb her. See to it that you make it up to her in the morning."

Before she leaves, she smacks him on the back of his head and gives him a hard look. "And Kazuha, if you talk to her like that again, I will throw you off overboard myself without letting you explain yourself."

Kazuha has all the determination in the world to apologize for everything he's done to you and more. He'll even get on his knees if he has to, filled with guilt at how he treated you.

The gods, unoblivious to his determination or wanting to mock him, makes the task extra hard for him.

One of the crewmates of one of the smaller ships of the fleet has gone down with a contagious disease, and you were called in the middle of the night to take care of her. Since the risk of the disease spreading is high, that entire ship was quarantined and he had to spend days not being able to see you.

No holding you in his arms. No sneaking around and making excuses to slide into the same hammock with you to cuddle. Not being able to see the way the corner of your lips curve into a beautiful smile that makes the world seems brighter. No whispering cheesy lines of poetry and musings into your ears and hearing your laughter that makes his heart melt. Not being able to walk around hand in hand with you or kiss you on the lips and see that gorgeous shade of red splashed across your cheeks.

The other crewmembers notice how listless he has become – the carefree Kazuha always with an easy smile on his face now performs his task methodically and robotically. The poetry and flowery words that used to flow easily from his lips have essentially ceased, his wellspring of inspiration have dried up without you, his muse, around.

Kazuha finds his eyes directed towards the ship where you're at a couple of times a day, even in the middle of doing his work.

Are you faring all right? Are you eating and sleeping well? Please don't get sick.

Please come back to me.

He is lost in thought until he hears Juza scolding him for neglecting his duties.

Finally, when everyone has recovered from the sickness thanks to your efforts and the period of quarantine is over, Kazuha feels a flicker of hope in his heart. However, that hope is quickly dashed when Yinxing tells him that you're at the Bubu Pharmacy, occupied with something. And even before he could ask if he can go, Beidou and Juza have began to pile duties and tasks on his shoulders.

The Crux is preparing for another trip to Inazuma to deliver some important shipment, and all hands are needed on deck to arrange everything. The captain works everyone to the bone, to the point where at the end of the day all he wants to do is slump down and sleep the night away.

Before he drifts away, however, he notices the empty space of your hammock and curls into a ball, aware of the cold chilling him to the bone without you there.

"Please, Captain." Kazuha entreats for the second time, standing ground against Beidou's stare. He woke up that morning with even more conviction than before, doing all his work with time to spare by using his Vision to boost his speed. He will talk to you today, no matter how much the gods want to make it hard for him.

Beidou, not oblivious to the dark circles under his eyes and the forlorn expression on his face that he only shows when he thinks no one is looking. It makes her shudder to be reminded of how much it is similar to how he used to act when she first take him on.

"All right," she acquiesces. "You can go, but I don't know where she is."

"She's at the Bubu Pharmacy," Yinxing joins in. "I think (Y/N) said something about a job offer."

Beidou's eyes widen, this information new to her as well. She's just about to say something when a breeze blows up her hair, and when she turns around all she sees is the faint image of autumn leaves drifting down.

Kazuha has never run so fast in his life, even faster than the time he has to escape the Shogun's forces. His Vision shines and rattles as he concentrates Anemo energy onto his feet to boost himself forward. All the while, the wind – or his own mind – sneers into his ears.

Will you make it this time, wanderer? Or will she too slip through your fingers?

He sprints through the streets of Liyue, stirring up a gale wherever he passes, but he disregards the surprised shouts and yells of the people. He only has one destination in mind, and he has to make it. He has to.

Even when his legs beg for him to stop and his heart is just about to beat out of his ribcage, Kazuha does not stop running until he finally arrives at the flight of stairs leading up to the pharmacy. He halts to catch his breath, and when he lifts his head he spots a familiar head of (h/c) hair.

You stare at him like a prey being cornered, and before he can even say anything you have already dash down the stairs and sprint toward the path leading to Mt. Tianheng.

"(Y/N)!" Kazuha screams and run after you, not even minding the curious looks the others are giving him. He silently curse under his breath, wondering how he doesn't know you can run that fast. But he still does have the blessing of the wind on his side, and soon enough he is able to catch up to you.

"Wait! Please!" He grasp onto your wrist as gently as possible, but not loose enough that you'll be able to run away from him, as even now you're struggling to escape from his hold. "You don't have to say anything, but please, just listen to me." His eyes are pained as you turn your back to him, obscuring him from being able to look at your face.

"I know what I said was wrong. I shouldn't have snapped at you like that, no matter how angry I was. I should have been calmer, should have been gentler with you. I was just–" Kazuha feels like a lump is caught in his throat. "I was so scared when I saw you there on the ground. Almost everyone dear to me has been taken from me right in front of my eyes, and I couldn't bear the sight of you being in danger. Losing you would mean the death of my soul, and the world will become dull and gray."

He keeps going, briefly noticing how you have become still for a moment. "Even so, that does not excuse my behavior. I made you feel like you are less than your worth, and for that mistake I can never forgive myself. You are enough. You are more than enough. No matter what people say, you are brilliant, remarkable, extraordinary, that and more. The other crewmembers would not have recovered from that illness if not for you. After every celebration everyone would have been hungover until the end of time if not for your miraculous hangover cure. The soldiers at Watatsumi is thankful for your help in tending to the wounded. Even I would not have gone through that fever without your caring touch."

You still don't say a word, but he is more than willing to pour his heart out to you. "Do you want to know one of the reasons why I love you? It's these hands." His fingers leave your wrist to hold your hand, his thumb caressing the back of it. He breathes a sigh of relief when you don't flinch away from his touch. Kazuha shivers at finally being able to hold your hand after days without you. Your hand is small in his, but he knows the hidden strength behind them.

"These hands that have picked and plucked flowers and dug into the ground for roots. These hands that have pounded and mixed herbs and ingredients tirelessly until they became paste. These hands that have soothed and wiped away sweat and tears. Countless wounds and injuries have been dressed and tended to by these hands."

He holds back the desire to raise your hand to his lips and kiss each of your fingertips. "You are worthy. You are irreplaceable. No one can compare to you."

There is only silence as he finishes, and Kazuha's stomach twists into knots the longer you remain quiet. "(Y/N), you really don't have to say anything. You don't even have to forgive me if you don't want to. But please, will you look at me?"

Another moment of silence pass, this one making him even more anxious than the last. He opens his mouth to say something when suddenly he hears your voice.

"Those Duskblooms are said to have cooling properties that can treat burns," you say softly. "You've been telling me that your burn has been bothering you lately, so I was hoping that I can develop a new kind of ointment that can help with that."

His mouth drops open and his heart skips a beat, not only from finally being able to hear your voice, but also due to the rush of guilt overwhelming him.

"By the Archons," his voice shakes. "I really don't deserve you."

You finally turn around, but your eyes are still downcast. "I'm sorry."

Kazuha shakes his head vigorously. "I should be the one saying sorry to you. I'm sorry for making you feel like a burden. I'm sorry for comparing you to the Traveler. I'm sorry for implying that I don't want to travel with you anymore."

You raise your head to meet his eyes and is immediately struck with the sincerity and remorse swimming in them. But there's a far more important emotion that you see.

Unbridled, unrestrained, ardent love.

You choke back a sob as you let yourself fall into his chest, letting yourself be swathed in the warmth that you have missed so much. He immediately wraps his arms around you, feeling like he can finally breathe normally again.

"I was so scared–" You tremble in his embrace. "I was so scared you've finally realized I'm not worthy to be by your side. I was so scared you realize you can do much better than me."

He holds you even closer, completely enveloping your small form with his. "Never. Never, never. You will always be the one for me. There will never be anyone else that I want to fall in love with. You are my muse, my inspiration, the light of my life. You help anchor me to the ground when I find myself lost in the clouds, but you never hold me back." He's aware of the fact that your tears are making his kimono wet, but he doesn't care. For tears too, are falling from his eyes. "A place is not home to me if you're not there."

Kazuha let you empty out all your emotions while he run his fingers through your hair and occasionally whispering affectionate and reassuring words into your ears.

"I promise I won't place myself in a position of danger so recklessly again," you say once your crying dies down.

"And I promise to always protect you and never make you feel anything but less than yourself." Kazuha kisses the top of your head. "You are, and forever will be, truly wondrous in my eyes."

"And perhaps, if need be, some people say running is the best thing to do."

He laughs lightly at your attempt at a joke. "You, my dear, have certainly proven yourself to be a fast runner indeed."

The Alcor's crew's ears perk up at the sound of your laughter, mixing in with Kazuha's airier one. Some of them peer overboard to see the two of you walking along the shore hand in hand, lost in each other's eyes.

And all seems right with the world.

#kazuha x reader #kaedehara kazuha #genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #sagi's recommendation #momiji's collection

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malarki · 3 years

Text

Harry Potter FanFiction I greatly enjoy (it’s just tomarry and sevitus)

Fair warning, I’m not good at describing stuff, and most of these are not complete (yet) but if you have similar tastes as I do then you’ll definitely like these stories.

Meddling of a Mischief Maker - by Athy

https://archiveofourown.org/works/5380535/chapters/12427268

I enjoy this fic because it shows a more human Voldemort with him still being an asshole as per usual. They do a good job of having Voldemort believably change into a not crazy murderous bastard haha. It also has Sirius interacting with Voldemort and for some reason I find those scenes hilarious in any fic I read.

“Harry's being a horcrux is a bit reworked here in this AU Story set during the summer after 5th year. A Mischief Maker intervenes in the Ministry during Voldemort and Dumbledore's duel, changing the course history. MorallyGrey!Dumbledore, Sirius, Restored Souls, HP/TR”

Draw Me After You (Let Us Run) - by ToAStranger @toast-ranger-to-a-stranger

https://archiveofourown.org/works/22327684/chapters/53334382

This story is a delight, it’s tone is very good and they do a great job of writing in the characters ‘voices’ for their pov’s. I especially like the posh way Voldemort talks and acts. This story is also hilarious on top of just being a very good slowburn, AND it has Sirius, which as you might have guessed, I love dearly. They also don’t bash any of the characters, and instead make them well rounded but flawed individuals, which I really appreciate.

“Harry Potter,” comes the soft, sibilant hiss of a voice he has heard in his dreams, in his nightmares, in his waking hours for years.

Slowly, carefully, Harry twists over and pushes up onto his hands and knees. He stays there, short breath fogging in front of his face, and his pursuer lets him. Harry has no doubt of that; he’s being allowed this respite. This small moment to catch his bearings, heart pounding in his ears, blood singing.

“It seems I have finally caught you.”

Consuming Shadows - by Child_OTKW @childotkw

https://archiveofourown.org/works/7040089/chapters/16011331

I’ve read two of childOTKW’s fics and both of them are fantastically written and attention grabbing stories. This one was the first one I read, and it has a very interesting take on lily Potter (one which I really enjoy) and the plot can leave you on the edge of your seat at times. The characterization is great, and the process of Harry and Tom getting to know each other is done very well.

“His attention skipped passed the students and moved to the politicians’ pavilion. His gaze locked with crimson, and he nearly faltered under the sheer hunger in those eyes.

It unnerved him how fixated the man was on his dirtied, exhausted figure.

But what troubled him more was the slight smirk he could make out on the man’s lips. It was almost pleased.

On the night of the attack, Lily managed to escape with her infant son, but at the cost of her husband’s life. Distraught and distrusting of her friends, she fled to France with Harry, to raise him away from the corruption in Britain and the rising influence of the Dark Lord. She trains him to the best of her abilities, shaping him into a dangerous, intelligent and powerful wizard.

But when Britain re-establishes the Triwizard Tournament, and Harry is forced to return to his once-home, he finds himself questioning whether he really wants to kill the Dark Lord. Voldemort finds an unexpected challenge in the child, and as his intrigue and amusement grows, so too does the desire to possess the spark in those defiant green eyes.”

A story that is kind of similar but not really: The Train to Nowhere

You Belong To Me (I Belong To You) - by child_OTKW

https://archiveofourown.org/works/11270490/chapters/25203408

This is a story inspired by the manwha ‘At The End Of The Road’ by Haribo. A comic I read before reading this, which is very good I recommend it. They do not take the exact plot from the comic though, obviously changing significant details for it to work properly as a Tomarry Fic, but one main thing stays the same, which is that this is a body swap. Honestly I really enjoy childOTKW’s works, and this is no exception. The characterization is wonderful as always, and Harry is Fantastic. Plus I’ve always been a fan of time travel fics. (Fair warning this is another slow burn and Harry centric)

“What I find absolutely fascinating,” Riddle said, stalking closer, “is you.” He marched forward, backing Harry up until he was pinned to the cool wall of the common room. “Do you know why?”

“No. And I’ll be honest here, Riddle, I don’t particularly care.”

The taller boy grinned at him, small yet infinitely pleased. “That. Right there.” One hand rose and brushed some of Harry’s fringe from his face. “Nathan Ciro was a spineless little boy too afraid of his own shadow to dare even glance in my direction. But you…”

He leaned closer, “You look at me like you want to stab me.”

“After an accident, Auror Harry Potter wakes up in the body of fourteen year old Nathan Ciro, a tormented Slytherin who recently tried to end his own life. Seeking answers to his strange predicament, Harry returns to Hogwarts, and causes quite the stir through staff and students - especially when they come to realise he is not the same boy as before.

He tries to avoid suspicion, but as his quest for the truth draws more and more attention to him, Harry begins to think that he might not like what he will discover.”

Some Bonus AU tomarry

A Thousand Paths Among The Stars - by Haplessshippo @haplesshippo

https://archiveofourown.org/works/12015060/chapters/27191238

This is a star trek au and it’s honestly my favorite tomarry au fic. Granted, I am a huge sci-fi fan. There’s also a bit of a twist at the end, or at least it surprised me, due to the way we usually expect tomarry plots to go.

“Harry Potter, newly appointed Captain of the Marauder and son of the famous Captain James Potter, was falling apart at the seams. His crew didn’t respect him, he was lost in the empty expanse of space, nightmares plagued his sleep, and his Commander deserved the Captain position more than he did. Good thing multiple attempts on his life and a vicious warlord after his head was all it took to turn it all around.

Alternatively, that space fic in which Harry Potter almost dies too many times, Tom Riddle slowly becomes the most smitten fool on the ship, and the rest of the crew are all just a bunch of assholes with popcorn watching the show. And exploding ships, don't forget the exploding ships.”

The Matchmaker - by TanninTele

https://archiveofourown.org/works/16507676/chapters/38664089

I am ALSO a huge true crime fan, and this story has a criminal that kinda reminds me of one that might appear in Hannibal (but with less murder). I enjoy the characterization, though tom is pretty tame in this compared to more cannon fics, considering he’s not the criminal and instead an investigator. Harry is also different from how people usually portray him, but I still like it.

“'The Matchmaker' is a serial abductor whose modus operandi consists of pairing two same-sex individuals together in a coffin, six feet underground - buried alive. He isn't a killer. He's a kidnapper with morals, and Detective Chief Inspector Tom Riddle finds himself obsessed with solving the case.

Unfortunately for Tom, the Matchmaker is just as intent on knowing him.”

And on to the Sevitus Stories

Far Beyond A Promise Kept - by oliversnape

https://archiveofourown.org/works/547431/chapters/974693

A classic, Harry stays with snape and unintentionally proves all his assumptions wrong and makes snape care about him. Both the stories have this aspect, but this one has snape a bit nicer from the get go. Probably because it takes place during the third book, so they’ve only known each other two years. It’s quite wholesome though, and I rather enjoy the progression of their relationship.

“Snape never wanted anyone to know of his promise to Dumbledore, but has realised that he can protect Potter much better by taking a less passive role in the boy's training. Actually liking Harry Potter has never been part of his plan. mentor/guardian.”

Crime And Punishment - by melolcatsi

https://archiveofourown.org/works/24102232/chapters/58018174

Snape and Harry have way more of a rocky start in this one, and Snape having to pick Harry up from the police station Really Doesn’t Help Snape’s opinion of him. This story very realistically shows the progression of their relationship, going from enemies to family, and near the ‘end’ (it’s not finished) it becomes very wholesome with Snape trying to help Harry with his mental and physical health after years of abuse/ neglect.

“Harry is accused of burglary. The Dursleys leave him to rot. Dumbledore sends Snape to remedy the situation. Harry finds himself in the care of an irate Snape. Not slash, gen-fic w/ focus on Sevitus relationship. Angst galore. Warnings: coarse and suggestive language, mentions of abuse/neglect. Un-betaed and un-Britpicked.”

#tomarry #tom riddle #harry potter #sevitus #severus snape #fanfic #fanfic reccomendation #ao3 fanfic #ao3 #archive of our own #tom riddle x harry potter

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crispy-chan · 3 years

Text

misjudged ↷ bang chan

❛❛ secrets are revealed, and memories are brought back when you find out why the lonely boy was cast away by the villagers. it all seems to be rooted back to the fateful day, almost a decade ago, when his mother saved a young man's life.❜❜

↷ pairing: bang chan x gn.reader

↷ genre: fantasy, fluff, angst, little red riding hood retelling

↷ warnings: lots of talks about being shunned/ignored, judgmental people, death (by fire, during a flashback, not the main pairing), witchcraft, some blood (not in detail), mention of alcohol (brief, not by the main pairing)

↷ word count: 7k

↷ note: this is for the tales as old as time collab by @wavesmp3 (tysm for being so kind and responding to all my stupid questions !!). it's a retelling of the classic tale with a little twist. honestly, this is not my best work, but it was fun playing around with the concept before I fully delve into the fairytale genre. also - this isn't exactly a red riding hood au, more so the elements of the original story are there so I hope that's okay. hope you enjoy :)

|| masterlist ||

For the hundredth time, you sigh, nodding your head as your mother reminded you of the one thing she had been drilling into your mind since the day you could walk.

Avoid the lone wolf.

Wolf was just a nickname the villagers have come up with for the lonely boy from the forest. Nobody knew his name, only that he didn't speak much and occasionally wandered out of the woods onto the main road, picking flowers from the field.

Nobody has ever spoken to him. Instead, they chose to cower in fear whenever he approached, the words he was about to utter getting stuck in his throat as he watched the people run away. With a sigh adorning his pouty lips, he looked up at the sky, calling to the clouds and imploring: why wouldn't anyone ever talk to him? Was he really that scary? He was just a boy for god's sake. A lonely boy at that, a boy who craved some company.

All he wanted was a friend.

Yet it seemed like that was too much to ask for. The simple wish for a companion was something the universe could not grant him. He wanted to scream with all the frustration welling up in him.

Why was everyone so judgemental?

“Yes, mama. I promise I'll avoid him. I won't pick any flowers and I won't stray from the main road,” you promised in a monotone voice, hoping to silence your mother into not giving you orders all the time. She, not unlike the rest of the people in the village, believed that the so-called lone wolf was nothing but trouble. Despite having never even spoken to him, she still preached that you should be cautious and avoid him at all costs.

You felt that it was a bit unfair.

You too however have never exchanged more than a few glances with the forsaken boy, but with the way he looked at everyone, it was evident he sought some company. You truly doubted that he was any harm, and yet you still have never approached him.

The power of peer pressure.

It could turn the kindest man into a cruel monster.

“Okay, don't forget to take the basket,” your mother chided while buttoning up your blouse. “I made beef roast, apple pie, and a jar of fruit compote. Oh- and there's also a bottle of wine in the cellar, so if you could grab it too…”

You nodded your head, gaze trailing to the staircase that led to the cellar. You absolutely hated that place, the air was too thick, there was no light and it smelled like rotten socks. Yet you knew better than to defy your mother when she was on edge like that. It would only result in another one of her annoying lectures so you decided to put your tendencies away for a few seconds and stumble down the stairs.

Navigation through the dark cellar was difficult enough, even without your usual fears. In the day, at least a sliver of sunlight reached the room from the only window in the room which was at ground level. That precious ray of sunlight was your only guide down in the dark and you used it to navigate down the steep cold steps made out of stones.

“Damnit-!” you cursed out loud when you almost tripped down the staircase, hand shooting to the side to steady yourself. By sheer luck, you had managed to evade toppling down, which would most definitely result in an injury, not to mention the scolding you would receive. After you were properly on your feet, you skipped down the last few steps, urge to leave steadily rising. Spotting the wine bottle on the wooden rack, you made your way to it, palm clutching around the glass and yanking it from the shelf.

With the bottle now in your hold, you quickly race up the staircase to escape the scary cellar. You release a sigh once you finally emerge on the surface of the cottage. You always felt safer when firmly grounded, the fact that you were under the Earth’s initial surface irked you to the bones.

“Is everything alright? I heard a thud…” your mother asks with concern lacing her tone. You quickly nod, straightening your head and wishing her a good afternoon as you grabbed the basket laying at the door. “Bye, sweetie. Don't forget to watch out for the w-”

You slammed the door behind you, not giving her a chance to finish her sentence. And off you go…

The dark forest was really pretty. As much as it radiated a mysterious aura, you weren't one to deny that it allured you. Lush trees huddled in clusters casting shadows over the pebbled path, emerald bushes full of ripe fruit, and most importantly; the shuffle that never seemed to quiet down. It accompanied anyone who dared to set foot on the sacred piece of land, reminding them of the unrelenting presence of the lone wolf. Almost as if he was always there, watching you, judging you for the disapproval he received from the common folk.

This was his turf.

You softly hummed to yourself, skipping every other step. You weren't sure why you were in such a good mood, perhaps it was the knowledge that you would soon spend time with your grandma. She was a lovely person with a very loving and caring personality. Whenever you were with her, you felt free, knowing that she wouldn't judge you. She liked to keep an open mind when it came to people, knowing firsthand exactly what it felt like to be misunderstood or misjudged.

As you were walking, you couldn't help but get distracted by the pretty flowers that bloomed alongside the path you were walking on, ranging in every color, shape, and size. Daisies, poppies, mini sunflowers, bellflowers, and bluebells. Like a true nature cocktail. Placing the basket on the side, you carefully looked around to confirm that the coast was clear, before bending down and picking some of the flowers.

But of course, you couldn't just stop at a few. Before you even realized it, you had already managed to make a small bouquet of wildflowers. You admired the flowers in your hold, each petal like a drop of color on a fresh canvas.

It was so pretty.

While you were so engrossed in your own little world, you didn't hear the rustling of the leaves, nor did notice the figure looming in the shadows. Eyes glued to the petals, you smiled with glee. Granny will definitely love them! She always had a soft spot for anything that had to do with nature, especially if it was from her beloved grandchild.

As you were spinning one of the daisies between your fingers, you suddenly felt a heavy presence behind you. With a squeak, you whipped your head around, eyes landing on a young boy. His eyes were blown out wide, glancing at you with unfiltered curiosity as he raked over you. A soft smile was present on his lips, yet a hint of uncertainty has managed to surface when the corner of his lip twitched.

He was waiting, that much was obvious. Staring at you and waiting for your reaction.

And you immediately knew who he was.

The lone wolf.

You thought the name did him dirty. He didn't seem like someone you should avoid, let alone cast out of the community. His soft doe-like eyes, still blown out wide, were staring at your form as he fiddled with the hem of his cream-colored bouse. Paired with the simple cotton trousers, he almost looked like any other villager, maybe just prettier, but with a quick glance, you could see the dark circles under his eyes.

And then it suddenly hit you...where does he even live?

He lived in the forest, or did he? Definitely not in the village. But did he own a house? Was he there alone? Where were his parents?

With all these questions running through your mind, you almost forgot that the boy was still standing in front of you. His mellow cough stirred you from your trance. You glanced back at him, a question at the tip of your tongue but he beat you to it. “You...you didn’t run away?” he whispered, stating it more as a question than a statement.

Your eyes widened in shock at the softness of his voice. Unsure of how to respond, you settled on simply nodding your head, indicating that you weren't going run from him as everyone else did.

The joy that erupted could be only described as adorable and childlike. It warmed your heart when you saw the cheeky grin spread across his face as he scanned you over, with even more curiosity than before. You were a special one.

“You know, you're the first person that even let me finish a sentence in ages,” he continued when you stayed rooted to your spot. Your gaze fell down to your boots before you found it in yourself to answer him, “y-yeah? Well...the villagers tend to be very judgmental-”

“Definitely! They seem to think I have the plague or something,” he halfheartedly chuckled, but you could sense the underlying pain in his tone. The more you observed him, the more you felt like people were monsters. Of course, you didn't exactly know him well, but just the fact that you were one of the only people to ever hold a short conversation with him spoke in volumes.

“I'm Chan, by the way...and you are?”

“Y-Y/N. I'm Y/N,” you quickly responded, regaining your voice back. “Y/N...sweet! That's a beautiful name,” he smiled sincerely, and at that moment, you were convinced that everyone had read him wrong. There was no way that this kind human deserved to be cast aside like that.

“Chan,” you whispered, almost tasting how the name felt on your tongue. You decided you liked the way it sounded. “That's a lovely name too…”

Chan could only smile in response, his eyes crinkling into small crescent moons and dimples appearing on his cheeks. His eyes shone brightly, despite the dark circles, and you found yourself wishing to be the reason he smiled like that.

“Thank you. Where are you going, by the way, Y/N?” he questioned with a curious glance. “Oh, I'm going to visit my grandmother,” you responded swiftly, hand reaching for the basket that was till now just laying on the side. As soon as Chan saw you struggle with it, along with the bouquet that you were carefully trying to hold on to, his hand shot out, grabbing the basket from you. “Here, let me help. I can carry it,” he smiled, holding the weaved vessel as if it weighed nothing at all.

“T-Thank you.” Your lips pursed, but there was no denying that you felt the relief. Your hand had begun to cramp prior to you stopping on the sidewalk to enjoy the flowers so you were infinitely grateful that Chan had decided to help you out. The dimpled boy let out a chuckle at your shyness before his gaze returned to the landscape in front of him.

“So where are you headed, Y/N?” Chan grunts, transferring the basket from one hand to another to lessen the ache. Oh right. You almost forgot the purpose of your trip in the first place with everything that has happened. “I'm heading to my grandma’s.”

“Hmm, and where does she live?” he quizzed, “we're walking in the direction of the forest. If we don't turn, we'll be walking straight into the den of the bears…”

For someone who never got to talk to people, Chan sure seemed to talk a lot. Yet you wouldn't have it any other way. You found his voice incredibly soothing, not to mention the sweet smile he exhibited once you gave him just the tiniest bit of attention. He truly was a lone soul, robbed of the fruit we call life.

No human can live without contact with others. No one can survive without at least occasionally talking to others. And it made you wonder, just who exactly did this boy talk to when no one was there for him? Just how hard had he taught himself to stay sane while everyone ran away from him?

Your inner monologue was soon interrupted when Chan started to hum a tune in a rather obnoxiously loud voice. You couldn't suppress the burst of laughter which made him instantly turn to you, a question balancing at the tip of his tongue, but when he saw your cutely scrunched up face, with your cheeks bunching up, he couldn't help but laugh too.

Both of your melodic chuckles echoed through the land. Chan hasn't laughed like that in a long long time, he realized. Scratch that, he has barely ever laughed, let alone with another person. It felt oddly liberating, almost as if he wasn't alone anymore. Like he didn't have to face the world on his own. If this is what it felt like to have a companion, not even a friend, a companion, Chan prayed that he could keep you by his side forever.

And not in this weird possessive way. No. A way more gentle type of want blossomed in his chest. He longed to see you every day, laugh with you, hold quiet nonsensical conversations, pick flowers...Anything but this solitude he had to deal with daily. It was hard, very hard to face the world on his own. Whenever things got bad, he had nobody to rely on, no shoulder to cry on.

He didn't want to be alone anymore. Not after he got a taste of what it feels like to have a friend.

“Are you sure it's this way?” his voice rang through the place, almost making you jump in your own skin. “I'm telling you, the bears’ den is just up ahead.” You chuckled, nodding your head in agreement. That's what most people thought, but you knew of the small path hidden behind rustling trees that lead your grandmother's cottage.

“Do you know of the woodpecker’s cave?”

Chan stared at you, confusion visible in his eyes as he glanced around, almost as if trying to find a lead on the mysterious woodpecker's cave you were talking about. He was surprised he had never heard of it, as he prided himself on the vast knowledge of the forest he possessed. It wasn't often that he came across something he didn't know. “I- where is it?” he sheepishly trailed, not wanting to admit his lacking knowledge in the area. “It's right behind the big oak tree, you know — the one where the summer celebrations take pl-”

Oh.

You almost forgot. He has never been there. Nobody has ever invited him to the annual summer festival. You panicked, apologies spilling from the tip of your tongue but Chan interjected, letting a small chuckle escape his pursed lips.

“It's okay. I've never attended the festival, but I've watched from afar.” you could see the saddened smile and you felt a pang of guilt in your heart. But Chan quickly recovered, turning back to you with his curious gaze as he implored, “so where does she live? I mean — I doubt that she lives in a cave-”

“-of course not, you dummy,” you swatted his arm, making him fall into another fit of giggles. “Behind the cave, there's a hidden passageway. If you take it, it will lead you to an open field. Granny’s house is there.”

His lips formed an O as he nodded, partially shocked that there was anything like that he didn't know of. “Does she live alone?” “She does. My mother has offered her to move in with us many times but she keeps refusing. I think she feels attached to this place,” you pushed a branch out of your way, “and also...I think she likes the freedom that she has here. My granny is free spirited, kind, and she doesn't appreciate judgmental and overbearing people. She likes to make her own opinions on everything.”

“Oh,” Chan breathed out in surprise, “she sounds like an amazing person.” You nodded, eyes crinkling in response and forming little crescents on your face. At that moment, Chan thought you were the most amazing and beautiful person to walk on earth. As stupid as it sounded, the short conversation you had with him opened his eyes and showed him the best things life could offer. Quite literally. It showed him the importance of bonds between humans. Except, Chan still wasn't sure if you could be called friends, having only known you for less than an hour, but if he could go ahead and guess, bonds like these were called friendship.

“Granny really loves flowers too, that's why I decided to pick her some,” you mused, still holding onto the bouquet of wildflowers. Hopefully, she'd like them just as much as you did.

Liked flowers? Hmm.

This was new. As much as Chan didn't know much about the other villagers, this sparked a flame of recognition deep down inside of him. He remembered seeing this person on many occasions, but after the fateful night, the night he would always remember as the worst moment of his life.

But could it really be them?

The question was at the tip of his tongue, he was about to ask you if your grandmother was the owner of the flower shop on the main square. He remembered visiting that place a few times when he was younger. When he wasn't alone. But he couldn't handle asking you. At least not yet.

He had to first check for himself.

Make sure it was the same person. He wouldn't dare get his hopes up, just for them to be squashed down like a fly. Not after all the heartache and disappointment he's been through.

“Y-Y/N?” he slowly asked, turning around and looking ahead with a blank stare. You hummed in response, tugging on your fitted sleeve and wiping off nonexistent dust from your attire. Chan's pupils momentarily dilated, as he carefully weighed out his words. “I-I… I'm sorry, but I think I have to go. I j-just realized I have to-” his voice rose a pitch, turning into an apologetic squeak, as he struggled to speak.

“-Chan,” you softly spoke, hand reaching out to graze over his which was tightening onto the basket, knuckles turning white. Chan looked up, afraid of your reaction. What a friend he was (or at least almost-friend). He just met you and offered to help you with the heavy basket, only to abandon you moments later. But to his utter surprise, you didn't seem to mind. Or that's at least what your eyes were saying. You opened your mouth to speak, “it's completely fine. Don't worry about it,” you tried your best to calm him down, his distress breaking your heart. “You've already helped me a lot so don't fret. Now go on-” you motioned for him to go with a grin, “-go ahead and do whatever you have to.”

With the reassurance, Chan finally handed you back the basket, his warm hand brushing over your cold one. After the swift exchange, he braced himself for the next words he was going to utter.

“See you soon, Y/N,” he smiled brightly, waving before eventually running off into the deep forest.

You enthusiastically waved back, but you never would have expected his predictions to come true so soon.

Right after you parted, Chan's plan fell into motion. He ran as fast as he could, a skill he has learned as a child after the horrible tragedy that made him an orphan, skipping over rocks, fallen trees, and virtually anything that stood in his way. He recalled the information that you told him mere minutes ago. A cave. He was looking for a cave. But after minutes have passed, he has still yet to find the mysterious woodpecker's cave.

He had to find it. And soon.

He wasn't sure exactly how much time he had, but he knew that not much. It was only so long that you would be picking flowers along the path. He knew he had to speed up. Finally, after around ten minutes had passed, he was sure he found it. The cave itself was small, only a few meters deep, and to his surprise, there wasn't anything there. Only a few rocks and pebbles covering the earthy ground, nothing more, nothing less.

He looked to the right from the cave, hands held in front of his face to swat out any stubborn branches. And there he could see it, a small red ribbon, tied to the trunk of a big oak tree.

Heureka.

With a little bit of further inspection, he realized that there was a path there, indeed, that led to a massive flower field. If it weren't for the ribbon, he would have entirely missed it. Breaking into a light jog with a clear goal in mind, Chan set off to find your grandmother so that he could hopefully seek answers.

In the meantime, the recollection of the horrible afternoon, almost exactly a decade ago which left him alone in this world, rang through his mind like a fever dream.

Back then, Chan was still a young child. A child stranger to the cruelty of the world, and yet he was at least a happy child. He lived with his mother in the woods, and despite that they were the only ones to live outside the village, most people still treated them with respect. But Chan knew, even at such a young age that his mother was different from all the other people.

She was gifted with the ability to cast simple spells.

Some would call it magic, but Chan knew at the time that his mothers' craft required more than just a few gibberish words. It was in a sense a form of art, which meant that it couldn't be made out of thin air. It was something that had to be practiced for years, skills polished to perfection, and only then could you truly call yourself a wizard or a witch like his mother.

She spent hours upon hours studying different spellbooks, plants, and old scrolls, not to mention how much wielding magic drained her energy. It was her passion that she poured her entire heart into, but people never took too kindly to magic, didn't they…

It was a spring morning, nothing unusual. Chan's mother was headed to the village market to sell what their crops produced. It was their only way of making money, yet Chan never found himself unhappy about it. The harvest wasn't bad this year, and they were left with a lot of food to spare. His mother would usually set out at the crack of dawn, woven basket on her back heavy with the produce she would later sell on the market to the other villagers.

Overall, it was a normal day for them, nothing unusual, no signs of the tragedy that was about to occur. To this day, Chan wishes he had gone with his mother. Maybe if he was there, he could prevent her premature death.

“I'm leaving, Channie,” his mother called to him at the door, a sweet smile present on her lips. “I promise I'll bring back some cherries since you love them so much.”

Little Chan could only yell in excitement, the sweet taste of the expensive fruit already lingering on his tongue, causing a little drool to spill from the side of his mouth. “Wipe your mouth, son,” his mother chuckled, “I'll be back at noon.”

That day, the worst tragedy of his life would occur, yet little Chan had no idea. He was lulled in blissful ignorance, daydreaming about cherry pie topped with a dash of mint, and perhaps, but only if they were lucky enough, a dollop of whipped cream. It has been a long time since he's had a sweet treat. A really long time.

Chan's mother was a caring person if that wasn't obvious, so even after the hour long trek to the village when she was covered in sweat and wanted nothing more than to open her stand and sell all her produce as soon as possible, she couldn't help but approach the commotion that was in front of the baker's house.

She didn't think twice before dropping her basket and rushing to the scene, pushing away all the people in her way. In the middle of the circle sat a young woman, holding onto a man, likely her husband. She was shivering, sobs were racking her throat and tears were streaming down her face, staining her cheeks. The man was...to put it nicely, he was bleeding. A lot. There was a big gash on his temple, it almost looked like he hit himself on the corner of a table or fell down the stairs.

His wife was desperately sobbing, clutching onto him and peppering his forehead with kisses. It seemed like she, along with the rest of the people thought his fate was sealed. He was rapidly losing blood and they'd never get him into town quick enough. The village's doctor was currently on a trip so there wasn't anyone qualified to help him.

Or at least that's what they thought.

“Move! Please — I think I can help him-” she shouted, kneeling beside the dying man. She ripped off a piece of her skirt, ignoring the shocked looks of the villagers, but the weeping woman was too far gone to care. She nodded profusely, wiping off her tears and whispering a quiet ‘thank you’.

After she pressed the cloth to his wound, she started quietly chanting the spell. It was a complicated spell that required a lot of concentration and drained a lot of energy. She was lucky she even ate breakfast this morning or she wouldn't have enough strength to continue.

By now, most people around her have realized what she was doing. She was casting a spell.

She was wielding magic. In other words, she was a witch.

Murmurs and whispers could be heard, many without a doubt talking behind her back and spreading rumors, yet she couldn't find it in herself to care. All that was on her mind was to save this man's life. If she could prevent his death, she could save the entire family. From the corner of her eye, she could see a young child, around the age of her son, standing by with tears in their eyes. They were clutching onto a small plush rabbit, watching their father with worry.

She had to save him.

After a few agonizing minutes, the wound started to slowly heal, flesh coating the bloodied spot in a matter of seconds, almost as if awakened by the dance of her fingers and the symphony of her voice. She had managed to save him.

The man coughed a few times, chest heaving up and down before his eyes opened. His wife and child immediately hugged him, throwing themselves onto him, tears of pure happiness trailing down their faces.

The woman smiled, gathering all her things back and strapping the basket on her back. When she turned to leave, letting the family rejoice peacefully, she heard a faint whisper. The young child, which couldn't have been a day older than her own son, was boring their innocent sparkly eyes into her. “Thank you,” they whispered.

The wife turned around too, her sobs having diminished into hiccups, “please, stop by when you return from the market. You can have as much bread as you want from our shop, on the house, of course.”

The woman nodded, setting off to the market. She was glad she used her powers to help somebody. To save a life.

Her happiness was short lived, however. Once she turned around the corner of the street, she was ambushed by two men; the ‘mayor’ and the butcher.

“You are under arrest for practicing witchcraft,” he grumbled, holding both her hands together. “No-no! Please! I have a son! I have a small boy to feed-”

Her pleas fell on deaf ears. The two men dragged her to the village guildhall which also served as a prison. They threw her into a cell and locked her up. They treated her like a criminal, with the same attitude as the one they'd use if they were dealing with a murderer or thief. And she was neither. She just wanted to help, yet they insisted on tying her hands together and gagging her with a piece of cloth so she couldn't perform any spells.

She knew what was coming. In a few hours, they'd burn her at the stake.

Meanwhile, Chan was getting impatient. His mother was supposed to be back a few hours ago and he couldn't help but worry. She would scold him for disobeying her like that and leaving on his own. But something must be wrong for her to not return like that.

Everything after was like a blur, and Chan could only remember bits and pieces. He left their cottage in a hurry and trekked to the village.

But nothing could prepare him for the sight. He stumbled onto the main square, shock written all over his face as he watched the gruesome scene in front of him. He saw the flames, the burning, bright red flames that were licking away at her. She was tied to a wooden pole, left there to die as the fire consumed her body.

Chan felt sick. Tears started to obstruct his vision, making everything seem like a blur. He ran back to the forest, tripping over numerous branches as he rushed to get back home. Away from all of this. On his way, he had to empty his stomach, ridding it of his breakfast.

He desperately hoped this was all a dream, that he would wake up from this nightmare to find himself sitting up in his bed with his mother in the room next door.

But that never happened.

He had to accept the cold harsh truth, that he was alone now. Nobody would help him. They'll probably avoid him like the plague. More tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. He stumbled back inside the cottage, the once small space feeling way too big.

Chan was running, running like a madman. He had to find her, for only she could provide him with answers. He thought she had died, or perhaps moved away (which he was right, she did, just not as far as he expected her to). She was the only person that wouldn't scream at him to go away, or at least he hoped.

She was the only person that could hopefully provide him with answers.

After a few minutes, a small brick cottage finally came to view. This must be it, Chan thought. Adrenalin was pumping in his veins, yet he still felt nervous. Was she even the right person?

But there wasn't time for doubt, he was already there. The big wooden door with a small peephole greeted him with a sneer, reminding him that he still had to knock and introduce himself. His hand curled into a fist, knuckles coming into contact with the wooden surface three times.

“Come in.”

You were walking past the woodpecker's cave, a steady bounce to your step. In your left hand, you clutch the flowers, while in your right, you hold onto the heavy basket. You didn't get to tell him that since he ran off so quickly, but you were insanely grateful for Chan carrying the basket for so long. He was such a nice boy, you genuinely hoped to meet him again soon, but you wondered out loud, when would you see him again? You didn't even know where he lived, who he lived with, what he enjoyed. You didn't know anything.

And that hurt the most.

Did anyone know what his favorite color was? What was his comfort food? What was his favorite song?

The answer was probably no. He had lived in isolation for so long and you started to feel guilty that you haven't talked to him earlier. You were always warned to stay away from him (for what reason, you didn't know) but you never actually properly met him.

You passed the oak tree with the red ribbon that led to your granny's flower field. Oh, how you couldn't wait to share the beef roast and apple pie with her. You haven't eaten since breakfast and it was nearing midday now.

You could see the small cottage materialize as you walked closer and closer. Your hand was aching, but you found comfort in the fact that you were almost there. Just a few more minutes and you'd be there, you tried to tell yourself.

Finally, you were just a few meters away, only a few more steps and you'd be there. Your hand reached for the door, knuckles tapping at the wood exactly three times.

“Come in!”

You let yourself in, delicately placing the basket on the ground and slipping off your shoes. Peeling your eyes from the ground, you were met with dark brown orbs that were staring at you from the side of the bed. Your gaze flickered between your granny and the second person.

“C-Chan?”

The boy chuckled, looking back down to his lap. He was glad to see you again, despite the fact that you saw each other just recently, he already found himself missing you. “Come have a seat, Y/N. We have a lot of explaining to do,” your grandma proclaimed, smoothing out the sheets on her bed. “O-Oh, sure...let me just prepare the food…”

You ran to the kitchen to grab some plates so you could set the table for you all to eat and although your mother had only prepared for two people, her portions were usually massive. You were thankful, for once. Still trying to process what just happened, you start pulling out plates, Chan joining your side and taking out the silverware.

“I'm sorry, Y/N...it's really complicated, and I think your grandma is the only one who can give me answers to what happened to my only family.”

You nodded in understanding, it's not like you were angry at him in any way, shape, or form, more so confused, but not angry. “It's alright, Chan. I'm not upset, just a little surprised. Let's first eat lunch and then we can discuss whatever you came here to find out.”

“Thanks.”

After setting the table, you and Chan help your grandmother sit on the chair, she is on the older side after all and requires a tad bit of assistance. Everything goes smoothly, you get to enjoy the tasty meal and down it with some of the fruit punch you found in her cabinet while she sips the wine you brought from home.

It is calm before the storm.

Swallowing a piece of the delicious beef roast, she turns away to look at you and Chan. You have yet to be told why he suddenly showed up here, and the curiosity is getting the better of you. You peer at him through your eyelashes, trying to be as discreet as possible but Chan notices. After all, years have passed since other humans were paying attention to him, so he has learned to feel every gaze on him. Natural instinct, if you will.

He reciprocates your curious stare with a rather awkward smile, flashing his dimples as he chews down the piece of pie. “Granny—” you mumble, wiping at your mouth with a napkin, a nice cream napkin with a flowery stitch detail. “—I think you could maybe start explaining-” you take a deep breath, “-explaining whatever is going on here. Like what's he doing here,” you point to your companion but quickly add, “-of course I don't mind at all, Chan. It's a pleasure to have you...but you know, it's just a bit—”

“—it's fine,” Chan reassures you, placing his palm on top of yours and smoothing his thumb over your knuckles. His hands are soft, really soft, you realize.

“Well,” your grandma takes a deep breath, readjusting the glasses on the top of her nose, “Chan's will live with me from now on!” she exclaims joyfully as if she was simply stating what she had for breakfast.

Your eyes bulge out of your sockets and you look over to Chan, who to your surprise looks just as shocked as you are. “I-I will do what?!”

“You will live with me,” she smiles, “of course, only if you want to, but let's save that for later. I should start the explanation, it's the least I can do.”

Now you were confused. Dropping your fork, you focus your gaze on your grandmother, the gears spinning in your head at full speed. What was she even talking about? What did she owe Chan, and more importantly, how does she know him?

“It's a long story, you should buckle up, kids,” she heartily chuckles, placing her utensils neatly down on the plate. “It all started when I met her on the market one day. We immediately clicked, so I invited her to my flower shop for some tea…”

“I—I can't believe it— I mean… Chan's mother-”

“-yes. Chan's mother saved your dad, sweetie. If it wasn't for her, you would have grown up without a father. It was a noble act on her side, but an act she paid dearly for.”

You were still overcome by the shock, staring down at your lap when you heard quiet sobs. Quickly whipping your head to the side, you saw Chan whimpering, hands fisting at the table cloth as he tried to muffle his cries. It broke your heart to see him like this, to see someone so kind, yet scared and unjustly treated, finally let it out. He must have been in so much pain all these years, mourning the sudden death of his mother, his only family, but you couldn't imagine how much more it stung knowing that she was persecuted for saving someone's life.

It was absolutely infuriating.

And you could sense how much Chan tried to hold back, not wanting to cause a scene. “I should probably go get some fresh air,” he mumbled while abruptly standing up from his seat and walking to the door.

You were left inside with your grandma, along with a thick layer of sadness and guilt. It wasn't your fault, you knew that, yet you still couldn't help but feel partially guilty for what happened to his mother. It ate away at you from the inside, the cruelty some people possessed.

“I should probably go check on him,” you whispered, standing up and heading for the door, just like he did a few minutes ago. Your grandmother nodded in agreement, her eyes shining brightly, yet you could still see how the corners were a little moist.

Swinging the door open, your eyes landed on Chan's slumped up body that was splayed against the porch, knees pressed to his shoulders as he gazed at the sun. The wildflowers flowed in the air, tousled by the afternoon breeze, painting an almost idyllic picture of a situation that most certainly wasn't that.

After a few seconds of self-contemplation and voices screaming in your head, you finally slid down next to him, eyes locked at the view.

“Some people really suck, don't they?”

Chan tried to discreetly wipe his tears off with the sleeve of his shirt before replying, “yeah. They can be quite the bastards.”

There is a bitter edge to his voice, but it was different than it was back in the house, the anger seemingly evaporating from his being, leaving only grief and hurt.

Your hand instinctively reaches out for his, clutching onto his calloused fingers, “I'm sorry, Chan, I really am. This was something tragic and cruel. It should have never happened. It's not much but...if you ever need to talk, I'm here for you, okay?”

Chan wordlessly nods, eyes still trained at the horizon but you can feel his hand clutching yours and tightening its grip. “I-If you want, you can move in with granny. A-And I'll visit you every day, okay?” you squeak out making Chan softly chuckle.

“Thanks, I appreciate it. I really do. C-Can I hug you?”

Your breath hitches in your throat and your eyes widen. “Of course.”

epilogue

“Wait up, Chan! I- I'm not as f-fast as you are,” you panted heavily while trying to catch up to the boy. He was running a few yards ahead of you, clutching onto a picnic basket that your grandmother prepared. She filled it with many delicious treats and a small bottle of grape juice.

“Well you're gonna have to catch me-!” he giggled, hiding behind a tree as you frantically looked for him.

“Boo,” he shouted, making you yelp. He burst into another fit of giggles while dragging you to the spot you two always went to. It was your secret little hideout.

It was here that you met Chan for the first time exactly three years ago. And you couldn't be any happier that you decided to disobey instructions and pick those flowers near the road...

a/n: hello!! if you read all of this (mess), I can't thank you enough <3 let me know how you felt reading this dumpsterfiretruck of a fic :b

network tags (cause tumblr tags rarely work): @kpopscape @kdiarynet @k-dinernet @kwritersworld @ultkpopnetwork @newskynet

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honeyedhoseok · 3 years

Text

Blue | 01

genre | jeon jungkook x reader; lifeguard!JK but this isn't really a lifeguard fic; soulmate!au if you squint; smut; angst

word count | 9.9K

summary | that summer with jungkook was blue--a shade that carries with it a tinge of melancholia that you should have accepted from the beginning.

or,

to say that you fell in love with a color was an overstatement, but to say that you fell in love with him was an understatement.

a/n | i've been writing this to avoid my responsibilities. hope you enjoy! <3

series masterlist

It rained the first day Jungkook worked at the pool.

You’d heard the news of a few new lifeguards starting that day, but you’d been too busy serving ice cream at the snack bar to really get anything other than a quick glance at the lifeguard stand before you were locking eyes with the next greedy customer in line.

It was the beginning of summer, with the air sitting hot, dry and heavy on the normal patrons of the pool: older moms who sunbathed and gossiped with their friends while their kids splashed in the shallow end and gave the lifeguards something to do. Teenagers too cool to actually get in the pool littered the sides, only dipping their feet in while using expensive Ray Ban frames like a headband to hold their hair out of their eyes while they talked with their friends.

The forecast had mentioned some scattered storms, but normally that just meant getting everyone to come inside for a few minutes until it passed. The storm that day, however, had plans of sticking around a little bit longer.

You were passing a cup of strawberry shortcake soft serve out the window when the first clap of thunder sounded, followed by a lightning storm that sent the lifeguards in a tizzy. Multiple whistles blew at the sudden appearance of a storm, and the atmosphere was a rush of splashing and commotion as people made their way out of the water and to their belongings scattered in chairs on the sides.

“Well, that came out of nowhere,” your coworker, Jihyo says, sidling up beside you to look at the clouds looming over what was supposed to be a normal day at the pool. “Wonder if we’ll get to go home early?”

“I hope not,” you reply. “I need these hours, damn it. The Blooming Festival is in a few weeks, and I plan on taking off at least three days to soak it all in.”

Jihyo rolls her eyes. “Yeah, you’ve only mentioned it, maybe, every day I’ve worked with you so far?”

Serving ice cream at the pool was just a summer job. You were working there to make some money so you could do things with your friends, put gas in your car, and occasionally splurge on a new outfit or pair of shoes. It was supposed to be as normal as every other summer you’d worked there in between college semesters—until he showed up.

In fifteen minutes, the pool was shut down completely; all of the patrons were packed up and back in their cars after an announcement from your manager that the storm was forecasted to not let up for at least another hour and a half.

“Oh, we’re definitely going home,” Jihyo says, shutting the serving window and twisting the lock. “When’s the last time Seokjin shut down the pool indefinitely?”

You purse your lips, leaning back against the counter behind you and looking out at the pouring rain behind Jihyo. The wind was starting to pick up now, leaves and debris filling the once-clean surface of the cerulean water of the pool.

You start to make a bitter remark but the sound of heavy, slapping footsteps cuts you off, followed by a loud pounding at the back door. Jihyo looks toward the source of the noise with furrowed eyebrows, tilting her chin up stubbornly.

“More twelve-year-olds coming to demand that we restock Moose Tracks?”

“Hey, Moose Tracks is a classic!” you call at her back as she goes to unlock the door. “It’s not their fault you keep picking unpopular flavors to order each week—like Mint Chocolate Chip!”

The back door opens, and the shop is suddenly flooded with voices following Jihyo back into the small space.

“MCC is the goddamn classic, Y/N,” Jihyo says, stomping back into the conversation like she never left off. “Don’t ever bash it again, or I’ll stop ordering Sea Salt Caramel for your uncultured ass!”

You want to laugh, but you’re too distracted by the hoard of boys—lifeguards—trailing behind her. Yoongi and the two new guys crowd your space suddenly, and you find yourself backing up into one of the corners and trying not to look as embarrassed as you felt for just arguing with Jihyo over ice cream flavors, of all things.

The boys are soaking wet, puddles collecting at their feet on the tiled inside of the kitchen, but they seem unphased by it as they huddle in. Thankfully, one of them comes to your rescue.

“I’m with her,” he says, giving you a nod. His smile fills up his whole face as he talks, making his eyes turn into little crescent half-moons. “Sea Salt Caramel is where it’s at.”

The other lifeguard doesn’t say anything, gaze focused over your heads outside where the wind is knocking sunbathing chairs over. You realize then how tall he is—possibly half a foot or more than you—and the thought that if you were close enough, your nose wouldn’t even brush the dip of his clavicle, has your cheeks burning.

He and the half-moon lifeguard have similar builds: long, lean body statures, almond-shaped eyes, the same dark hair that falls in wet strands in their eyes. You wonder if they’re related. Maybe the taller one is the older brother, you think.

“The great ice cream debate,” Yoongi murmurs suddenly, sounding bored. “How about we have some and solve this problem once and for all?”

As he reaches for one of the serving spoons, Jihyo’s arm flies out, smacking it out of his hands. It falls with a clatter onto the counter, and he looks at her with an animated expression of surprise and disgust.

“Uh-uh,” she says, wagging a finger at him. “It’s like Seokjin’s only rule for us.”

“Seokjin can kiss my—“

As if on cue, the back door swings open and Yoongi shuts his mouth as Seokjin comes in, looking incredibly dry due to the floor-length plastic covering hanging from his umbrella.

Leave it to Seokjin to own something as extra as that, you think.

“Get comfy,” he says as he steps out of the plastic, shaking water off the top that splashes onto your scuffed, white Keds.

You gaze down, realizing only then that none of the lifeguards are wearing shoes. Yoongi’s pinky toe is edging dangerously close to a melted puddle of chocolate ice cream you forgot to clean up, but you don’t have the guts to tell him in front of your manager, so you shoo the thought away and focus on the grim look on Seokjin’s face. He’s chewing gum and looks slightly annoyed at the thought of all five of you huddled inside instead of doing work.

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” he says, “but I need you guys to stay here until the storm calms down. It should pass in an hour or two.”

Jihyo frowns. “And if it doesn’t?”

“Then I’ll send you home.”

She grins triumphantly.

“And I’ll need you to come in early tomorrow to clean up that mess out there,” Seokjin adds, giving her a sickly-sweet smile. He blows a bubble with his pink chewing gum for emphasis, the pop resonating in the small space.

Yoongi frowns and Jihyo’s mouth drops open. The new lifeguards seem as surprised as the other two, and they eye Seokjin curiously, probably trying to figure out what kind of manager he is. Even after all this time working for him, you don’t really know the answer to that question, either.

“Any more questions?” he asks, tone leaning somewhat on annoyance. But then again, that’s how Seokjin always sounded.

Jihyo shakes her head and Yoongi gives him a deepened frown in answer.

“Good. You,” he says, looking pointedly at Yoongi and mimicking his annoyed expression. “See to it that Hoseok and Jungkook get acquainted with the rules.” He steps inside his clear cocoon of an umbrella, reaching down to zip it up above his head. “And I’ll let you know when it’s safe to go outside and clean up.”

Jungkook, you think. You know immediately that it’s his name because it just fits him. You feel yourself rolling the unspoken syllables around the inside of your mouth, wondering when you’ll get the first chance to say them aloud.

Yoongi salutes half-assedly, and Jihyo elbows him in the side after Seokjin turns around and makes his exit. After the back door is shut, the five of you visibly deflate, and Yoongi sucks his teeth.

“That guy,” he mutters. “One of these days—”

“I wish you’d learn your lesson and stop messing with him,” Jihyo says, interrupting whatever nasty comment was about to spill from his mouth. “It’s probably because of you that Seokjin wants us to stay, instead of going home in this god-awful weather.”

“Why doesn’t he like Yoongi?” Hoseok asks, eyes flickering to the chestnut-haired, simmering boy to his left.

“His most recent offense?” Jihyo ponders, crossing her arms over her chest as she thinks. “Not showing up for his shift—threedays in a row.”

“I was sick,” Yoongi says dryly, narrowing his eyes at her. “What did you want me to do? Not stay in bed and get better?”

“Oh, your bed must suddenly have relocated to the pool hall at five in the afternoon, huh?” she says, tilting her head to the side in mocking. “Snapchat locations don’t lie, Yoongi. If you’re going to play hooky, do it better.”

Hoseok chuckles. “Damn, man.”

Yoongi, never one to back down from an argument, flicks his brown fringe out of his eyes. “Why don’t you teach me then, Little Miss Stomachache?”

“I had cramps!” Jihyo says indignantly.

“You’ll learn that being around these two is like being around an old married couple,” you murmur to Jungkook and Hoseok as Yoongi and Jihyo’s voices rise louder and louder in contest. “They get along like cats and dogs.”

Jungkook grins at your comment, and you think your heart stops a little in your chest before starting an accelerated rhythm that has you feeling light. His lips pull back prettily over his teeth, his cheeks balling a little from the force of it.

“I’m thinking cats and dogs might actually be more civil than this, to be honest,” Hoseok says, gesturing to an annoyed Yoongi threatening to rub his clammy, wet feet on Jihyo’s bare, shorts-clad legs.

In the time that you had worked there, there were very few civil moments between Jihyo and Yoongi. You think that maybe they were civil when Yoongi first started, and you remember faintly a comment made by Jihyo that Yoongi was “cute” and maybe that they exchanged numbers at some point—but then rumors went around that Yoongi said Jihyo was too loud and controlling, and Jihyo said he was a selfish bastard, and you think they’ve been sworn enemies ever since.

“You’re probably right,” you say finally, giggling at Hoseok’s comment. You stop abruptly when you see Jungkook’s eyes fall to your mouth at the sight of it splitting open with a grin. They linger there for a moment before he speaks for the first time since entering you and Jihyo’s space.

“What did you say your name was, again?” he asks.

His voice is soft and low, almost a lilted hum, and it catches you off guard in comparison to his very boyish, young features. You expected it to be higher, to sound almost preteen-like, but it’s nothing of the sort—it immediately has you questioning how old he is in comparison to Hoseok.

“Y/N,” you say. “Sorry, I forgot to introduce myself, I guess.”

Jungkook smiles again, and this time it feels like one especially conjured up for you.

“Y/N,” he repeats, the sound of his tongue rolling over the syllables sends a little zap to your insides. “You um, have a little something there, on your shirt.”

He takes one hand out of his blue swim trunks and points to your breastbone, where a dark splotch of chocolate ice cream sits over your sternum.

“Aw, fuck!” you murmur, facing burning as you spin around on your heel, grabbing the nearest hand towel and dabbing at your shirt. “These kids—”

“It wouldn’t stain like that if it was Mint Chocolate Chip,” Jihyo sneers suddenly, cutting whatever Yoongi was about to say to her off. She grins triumphantly at the stain, returning to your argument from earlier. “Would it?”

You flip her the bird, still dabbing at the fabric—but you can’t help but revel a little in the cute smile Jungkook gives you as he watches you fuss over yourself, digging around the kitchen space for anything to save you from the ice cream on your shirt.

After that fated day, your mind lingered on Jungkook incessantly. At the pool, you glanced at him more often than not from the serving window of the ice cream stand, committing him to memory. You found yourself reminiscing over the upended triangular shape of his upper body, the lithe muscle covering his shoulder blades, the image of a whistle poised between his rosy lips, his teeth pressed tightly against the metal, his body wet and glistening as he rose out of the pool—

“You’re literally drooling, Y/N,” Jihyo says, breaking you out of your reverie by snapping her fingers in front of your face. “Why don’t you just, I don’t know, go talk to him?”

“I will,” you say indignantly. “I told you—I’m waiting.”

“It’s been three weeks.”

“Yeah, I know,” you say, nodding. “Still waiting.”

“Jesus,” Jihyo sighs. “I didn’t want to do this, but you know he’s only here for the summer, right?”

You freeze in the middle of cleaning the counter. “He’s what?”

“You heard me—you have less than three months, Y/N,” Jihyo says firmly. “I know rushing isn’t your style but, uh, you might not have a choice this time.”

“Why didn’t anyone tell me!”

You hate how your voice sounds pitiful and whiny, but your heart is literally sinking at this news—three months? Less than three months? Where was he going? What would you do with your time when he wasn’t there to look out the window at? It dawns on you suddenly that you won’t be there in three months, either. School started back at the end of August—your sophomore year.

“Why didn’t you let me know you were interested in him?” Jihyo crosses her arms over her chest. “I’ve been watching you fawn over him for all this time, just waiting and hoping you’d confide in me, but no.”

“What was I supposed to say?” you retort glumly. “That I like the lifeguard that seems the least interested in my existence? Yeah, no, I’ll save myself from that sadness train going nowhere, thank you very much.”

“Maybe I can help you,” Jihyo says with confidence, turning to the window. “Hey, Jungkook!”

You freeze. “What? What are you doing?”

Jungkook looks your way, raising an eyebrow above his black Ray Bans. Jihyo leans out of the serving window, beckoning him over with a wave of her hand.

She turns to you. “Look how easy this is going to be.”

You swallow to combat the sudden tightness in your throat, watching with bated breath as Jungkook climbs down the lifeguard ladder and walks to you two, his feet slapping a little on the wet cement surrounding the pool.

“What’s up?” he says, pushing his sunglasses back on his head and unknowingly releasing the full intensity of his doe-like eyes.

You inhale a small gasp that Jihyo obviously hears, because she lightly presses her Ked-clad foot on top of yours below the counter.

“Me, you, Y/N, Hoseok,” Jihyo says with a confidence you could never muster. “Dinner and a movie on the boardwalk this weekend?”

Jungkook’s eyes pass from hers to yours for a split second, and your pulse picks up speed in your veins. If he seems surprised from the random invitation, however, he doesn’t let it show on the easy-going expression that he wears.

“Sure,” he says. “Can you remind me when it gets a little closer? I’ll have to make sure my parents don’t have anything planned.”

Jihyo flips her hair over her shoulder, casually producing her phone from what feels like thin air. You blink down at her hand, realizing this was her plan all along.

“Put your number in,” she says. “I’ll make us a group chat. We should probably have one anyways, since we work together. You know?”

Jungkook nods and puts his number in before handing it back to her. A commotion happens in the water behind him, and he glances over his shoulder with concern. “I should probably head back,” he says. He gives you both a small smile before he flips his sunglasses down over his eyes again, hitting a slight jog back to the lifeguard stand.

When he’s out of earshot, Jihyo texts rapidly on her phone. When she’s done yours vibrates three times in your pocket: the start of the group chat, you’re sure.

“And that, my friend,” she says, giving you a grin that could rival the Grinch when he decided to steal Christmas, “is how you get the ball rolling!”

Unfortunately, Jihyo’s plans—which she has annoyingly coined as Operation: Get Y/N Laid—don’t stop there.

On Thursday, just two days before the plans, she convinces Hoseok to come with her to something before the meet up that’s going to coincidentally make them late so that you and Jungkook have time to be alone.

When she tells you this, it’s as she’s making a double scoop chocolate cone, but you can’t help the overwhelming urge that comes over you to put your hands around her neck.

“Ack! Y/N! Let go!” she says between breaths with wide eyes. “I’m going to drop the ice—”

“You’re so dumb!” you yell, squeezing a little harder. “That’s such an obvious ploy to get us alone, he’s going to realize it!”

Jihyo finally squirms out of your grip by turning her head and licking your arm. The warmth of her tongue makes you recoil, and she gasps with relief as air floods back into her lungs, looking at the now-lopsided cone in her left hand.

“Now how am I supposed to give this to that little brat outside?” she says, frowning. “His mom will come and eat me alive if I hand this slop out of the window.”

“You probably deserve it,” you say sourly. You lean your hip into one of the counters, crossing your arms over your chest. “Take your plans back, Jihyo.”

“I can’t,” she says calmly. “Hoseok is already in on it.”

“He’s what?!”

“He’s in on Operation: Get Y/N Laid,” she says again, with that same ridiculous manner of calm, like you didn’t just make her life flash before her eyes thirty seconds ago. “Stop freaking out—he wants to give you some time alone just like I do. So, he’s not going to say anything to Jungkook. The plan will go on like normal, you will just have to do a little acting when we don’t show up on time. Got it?”

In all honesty, it’s not the worse plan she has ever come up with. But you don’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing so, so you keep your current frown plastered on your mouth for a little longer to let her know your displeasure with the sudden turn of events.

“Oh, don’t you go all pouty on me,” Jihyo says, wagging a finger at you as she trashes the cone you messed up and grabs another. She scoops more ice cream out of the container below her, giving you a look that reminds you of a mother watching her children open Christmas presents after telling them they weren’t getting anything for months. “You’ll thank me later—right after you tell me if Jungkook has anything worthy of talking about.”

“I’m sure he does,” you respond indignantly, falling right into her trap. “He’s intelligent.”

Jihyo hums a nod before brandishing the new cone, two scoops of chocolate perfectly centered and balanced on top of each other. “Before long this will be you two—are you a top or a bottom, though? I forgot.”

You groan in anguish as Jihyo lets out a cackle, opening the window to your stand and handing it out the impatient little boy that waits outside. You’re grateful for the breeze, although its simmering warmth does nothing for the same feeling that has settled high on your cheeks, dusting pigment there reminiscent of a similar shade of red Jungkook sometimes sports on his swim trunks.

The day of the boardwalk date, you find yourself sprawled out on the floor in front of your closet in your underwear and bra, contemplating why you ever purchased every single item of clothing in your closet.

These kinds of freak outs are normally reserved for the pressing dates in life—first day of college, nights out with the girls, birthdays—but today, you find yourself freaking out over the instance of having to wear the perfect outfit in order to feel comfortable around Jungkook.

Comfortable, and most importantly, pretty.

You shuffle through your two final picks, laying them across your bed in order to get the full effect of what they might look like on. They were both incredibly simple—your college wardrobe either consisted of exercise shorts and t-shirts and hoodies or going out clothes that were much too revealing for a fun night on the boardwalk. But you fret over them some more, so much that you almost have a nervous breakdown and text Jihyo to call the whole thing off.

But the slight hum of your phone vibrating your bed stops you before you can do so. It’s from Jungkook, and you heart beats a little off kilter at the sight of his name popping up on your phone screen.

Jungkook 5:15PM : We still meeting at 6?

It’s directed to your group chat with him, Jihyo and Hoseok. You take a deep breath. Jihyo had told you that she wasn’t going to respond to any messages until the last minute, to really sell her “emergency” that she had to bring Hoseok along on. You were driving separately, as was Jungkook, but the two of them had decided to conveniently carpool a day prior.

Y/N 5:18PM : I’ll be there! Park at Pier 14, it’s the closest one to the boardwalk

Jungkook 5:20PM : Yes ma’am 😊

You smile down at your phone, biting down on your bottom lip softly as you read the message over a few times before clicking the screen lock button. You prop your hands on your hips, deciding that it’s now or never. The nights got chilly in the summer when the sun wasn’t beating down as heavy, and you hated being cold. So, you choose the outfit on the right—a simple, oversized pullover and bike shorts, paired with some scuffed white sneakers, and rush into the bathroom to get ready so you’re not late.

You get to the pier at exactly 6:01 and search around for a parking space.

A part of you feels like this is a bad plan. Especially when you look down at your phone after cutting the engine and realize that Jihyo has texted you something that makes your stomach drop.

Jihyo 5:59PM : Haha…bad news

Jihyo 5:59PM : DON’T KILL ME

Y/N 6:02PM : Please, no!!! What is it!!

Jihyo 6:03PM : The check engine light on my car came on as I was leaving Hoseok’s. Don’t panic. We are waiting for AAA to come get us and take us back to his house so he can drive. I repeat: DON’T. PANIC.

“Okay, okay” you say to yourself, taking a few calming, deep breaths in. “At least she has a plan? This can still work out. I’m not panicking. Yet.”

Y/N 6:03PM : When are they estimated to be there?

Her messaging dots appear and disappear for a few minutes and your anxiety skyrockets.

Y/N 6:06PM : JIHYO

Jihyo 6:07PM : between 6:45-7PM…

Y/N 6:08PM : THE MOVIE STARTS AT 7:05 YOU ABSOLUTE

There’s a knock at your window that has you almost jumping out of your skin. When you look up, you’re met by the wide grin and big, childlike eyes of Jungkook. He peers at you through the tinted glass, looking a little sheepish at having scared you on accident.

All your anxiety about Jihyo having an actual emergency disappears as you unclick your seat belt and scramble out of the car to join him.

“I really didn’t mean to do that,” he says, stepping back and giving you space to swing your door open. “Is everything all right?”

“What?” you say. “Oh, yeah. Everything is fine. Well—sort of.”

Jungkook raises an eyebrow at you. “Did something happen?”

“Jihyo is having car trouble, so her and Hoseok are going to be late.”

You bite down on your bottom lip, shifting your weight from leg to leg. The outing was supposed to be all of you as a group—and originally, them being a little late wouldn’t have been such a problem. But you were thinking thirty minutes max, not an hour and a half!

You’re relieved when Jungkook shrugs. “Oh, okay,” he says. “Well, I’m still cool with walking around until the movie starts if you are ?”

You nod with enthusiasm. “Right—we’re already here, might as well go do some stuff?”

Jungkook smiles again, and you finally take a good look at him. He’s wearing a dark t-shirt under a black zip-up hoodie and a pair of chinos—a simpler outfit that looks way too good on his tall, lean frame. You hadn’t seen him in much other than his swim trunks because the only time you two really saw each other outside of this singular moment, was at work.

Of course, you weren’t complaining about that aspect. You could probably pencil out in detail the muscles of Jungkook’s upper chest and stomach, the way water rolled off them when he got out of the pool, the way they flexed when he pulled his whistle to his mouth. That is, if your drawing skills weren’t absolute shit—so bad at that a kindergartener could probably put you to shame with snapped Crayola’s and disproportionate stick figures.

The sun has already sunk below the horizon, taking with it all the heat and warmth of the day and leaving you with a slight breeze that could give you goosebumps if you let it, and a sky the deepened color of cornflowers.

It’s twilight, you realize, as you trail beside Jungkook from the parking lot cement onto the wooden planks of the boardwalk. A backlit, blue-hued time of day that you absolutely adored during the summertime because you still had just enough light accomplish the activities you wanted to.

Not that you needed to worry about light at a time like this—the bright boardwalk stadium lights are almost blinding, and because it’s the weekend, the two of you find yourself periodically weaving in and out of the crowd that seems to get busier and pushier the further you walk.

Jungkook takes the lead, his taller frame holding more of a reason for people to move out of the way than yours. You watch the back of his head the whole time, noticing the way his raven hair reflects the light—shiny and clean and looking incredibly soft.

“How about a snow cone?” he calls over his shoulder. “It looks like there might be somewhere for us to sit up there.”

He points ahead and you call out an agreement to him, hoping to be heard over the ruckus.

You realize that the crowd isn’t going to let up anytime soon—people have no qualms about walking in between you two, and you find yourself speeding up in order to not be further separated from him.

At some point Jungkook glances behind him again and realizes your struggle. He slows his pace, and you happen to look down and realize he is holding out the long sleeve of his hoodie for you to hold on to.

“Don’t get lost,” he says with a grin. “This snow cone will be worth it, I promise!”

You return his smile, holding onto his arm with a light touch as he continues to lead through the crowd. You curse Jihyo silently in your head—despite her fake emergency turning into a real emergency, she was right about one thing: time alone with Jungkook was something you couldn’t pass up.

When you finally make it to the snow cone cart, you let go of Jungkook’s arm quickly. He looks at you with suspicion as you snatch away, the corner of his mouth quirking up into a shit-eating grin, like he knew exactly what he was doing to your racing pulse by offering you his touch.

“What flavor do you want?” he asks, looking at the menu stand on the right. “My treat.”

You both immediately point to Tiger’s Blood, and Jungkook seems pleased with you.

“Good choice,” he says. “If you picked Pina Colada, I was going to lose it.”

You giggle. “You don’t like coconut?”

“No,” he says, frowning. “I snuck some of my mom’s Malibu one time without realizing and I almost barfed.”

You laugh again, shaking your head. You realize that you still don’t how old Jungkook is, and while he orders your snow cones, you look at him with scrutiny. There was something young about his eyes and face, the roundness of the tip of his nose and cheeks making you believe he was younger than you. But his body—good grief, his body—and the sharpness of his jawline and said otherwise.

When you’re both seated at a picnic table, you decide to ask him.

“Why?” he says. “How old do you think?”

You take a timid bite of your snow cone, relishing in the satisfying crunch of ice between your teeth. “Hmm, I know you’re college-age. Just wondering how old.”

“That story I told about sneaking alcohol was from a few years ago,” he says, laughing. “I’m twenty-one.”

“Oh.”

“You’re only nineteen, right?” he says, but it doesn’t seem like he cares much that you’re younger.

You nod. “But my birthday is in September.”

“So is mine,” he replies with a grin. “We’ll have to try to celebrate together, somehow.”

You try not to let on how happy his suggestion makes you—that months from now, you two will be friends that throw parties together, or possibly more—and you settle into your seat, munching happily on the cold treat that is slowly turning from ice to mush in the paper cone in your hands.

“So why the pool?” you say a few moments later. “Did you work at another one before ours?”

Jungkook blinks. “I have my CPR certification from another part time job I had at a gym,” he said. “I don’t know why they made us get it, honestly.”

You laugh. “Maybe in case one of the meatheads lifted too much at once?”

“Maybe,” he says, grinning. “But the gym couldn’t work around my school schedule anymore. So, when I came home I saw the pool was looking for a new part-time lifeguard and I applied.”

“You only come home during the summer?”

Jungkook nods, but a look of annoyance flashes across his face before he answers. “There’s not much for me here, honestly. I like school and being on my own, away from my parents.”

“I get that.”

It was something you could both agree on. You didn’t realize freedom could taste so sweet until you moved into your dorm on campus. You could stay up when you wanted, sleep when you wanted, go out when you wanted. As long as you kept your grades up and didn’t lose your scholarship for your parent’s sake, you were literally allowed to do whatever your heart desired.

“It’s too far away to fly back and forth, anyways,” Jungkook adds, suddenly. He tilts his paper cone back, dumping all of the remaining liquid into his mouth before crumpling it in his left fist.

“How far?”

“California.”

“Oh. Why there?”

Somehow, you were taken aback to hear that he’d chosen a school so far from his home. You wonder suddenly if the sullen look he’d given your earlier had more to it than you realized.

Jungkook ignores your question—like you expected—and stands up. You scramble to finish the remains of your cone and he holds his hand out for your trash. You give it to him, feeling the slight brush of your fingers against his palm that reminds you of earlier when he’d offered his arm. He doesn’t this time, but you find yourself wishing he would again. Or that you two were close enough for you to reach out and grab it without his permission.

“That’s a story for later,” he says, giving you a look meant to soften the blow of his hard statement. “I don’t want to talk about it right now—it’ll ruin the mood.”

You nod slightly, bringing your bottom lip back between your teeth to gnaw on. You hadn’t meant to upset him.

“Is there anything you want to do?” he asks, looking around. “We have about thirty minutes before we should head back to the car for the drive-in movie.”

The boardwalk was in full swing as the night progressed, the sky now a deep shade of indigo behind him. You stand with him, leaning onto your tip toes in an effort to recognize any signs further down the wooden path.

“The arcade, maybe?” you suggest.

Jungkook fake clutches at his chest, staggering with clumsy steps to one side. “A woman after my own heart,” he says theatrically. “I might faint.”

You laugh loudly and roll your eyes to cover up your own heartbeat thumping wildly in your ears. You use the rush to match his energy: “I’m only saying it because I want you to win me a plushie.”

Jungkook smiles, his eyes full of light and mischief at getting to show off his skills. “That, madam, is a deal. Let’s go.”

Jihyo still hasn’t texted you by the time you and Jungkook exit the arcade.

You want to send a scolding text to her, but in reality, you don’t really care if they show up anymore. Jungkook seems to have forgotten they were coming—he doesn’t look at his phone once while you two flit from game to game in the arcade.

You’d watched from the side as he entered a water pistol race with a few other patrons of the boardwalk. He sat down on a stool right in the middle of everyone, leaning over the gun and closing one eye for better accuracy. His tongue poked out between his lips, his form rigid and unyielding until the announcer blew a whistle to start the race. You held back a laugh at his seriousness, pressing a hand to your mouth in case he looked over at you.

He did, but only once the flashing lights above his booth went off, signaling him as the winner. He’d hopped off the stool and raced over to you, placing a hand above your elbow before pulling you over to claim your reward from the prize table.

You chose a blue and white dolphin that was just big enough to be slightly comical. Jungkook carried it over his shoulder as you two walked back toward his car, giddy from the excitement of playing carnival games and teasing each other all the while.

“Okay, but you wouldn’t have even beaten me at basketball if yours didn’t come to my side and knock my shots off course constantly!” Jungkook insists. “You’re a sneaky little thing.”

“Why can’t you just admit my two-pointer is better than yours?”

“Y/N,” Jungkook says, shaking his head in disappointment. “I’m almost six foot and you’re what—five-one? You simply can’t be a better shot that I am because of your genetics. I’m sorry.”

Your mouth drops open. “I’m literally five-three!”

“Minus two.”

“Oh, whatever!”

Jungkook laughs loudly, throwing his head back from the force of it. You pout alongside him, but you can’t help the telling smile that creeps onto your face. You like this side of Jungkook—it was so different from the stoic and quiet lifeguard you knew him as before.

“The drive-in is just a block that way, right?” he asks once you two come up on the parking lot. He shifts the dolphin higher on his shoulder, stopping in his tracks to turn and look at you. “I can drive us in my car, if you want.”

Your eyes widen a little at his suggestion. You didn’t even think about the fact that if Jihyo and Hoseok weren’t here, it would just be you and him watching the movie together.

“Oh—um, I mean,” you stumble over your answer. “If that’s okay with you?”

“I offered, didn’t I?” he says with another laugh. He gestures to the stuffed animal perched on his shoulder. “Plus, we’ve got a nice seat cushion, here.”

You smile and nod before following him to his car. It’s a little navy SUV—something you didn’t expect him drive at all. He seemed like a “car guy” for some reason, one that would have driven something old and sturdy and loud.

“This is—cute,” you say, for lack of better wording.

Jungkook sucks his teeth. “Man, why does everyone say that?” He groans. “This thing is great on gas, okay? And look at all this trunk space! I mean, if you lived all the way in California—"

“Hey, hey,” you say, holding your hands up in defense. “I’m sorry, that was terrible wording. Did I say cute? I meant cutely efficient. You didn’t let me finish.”

Jungkook laughs again, nodding. “That’s what I thought you meant, yeah.”

He throws your dolphin in the backseat and then opens the passenger side door for you to get in. Your cheeks are hot as you move past him to settle into the seat, giving him a timid smile as he shuts the door behind you. You watch him walk around the front of the vehicle, lit up by a neighboring car’s headlights for just a fraction of a second.

He’s handsome to you while doing the most mundane of things, and your heart hurts at the thought. You couldn’t have a crush on him. He was your coworker for one, and for two, he didn’t live there. He went to school across the country, and he was only home for three incredibly short months. There would be nothing to your relationship, so you couldn’t let yourself fall into the trap of having a crush on someone so, well—unavailable. You pinch yourself hard on the thigh as a seal of reminder: this could not, would not, happen.

The slam of the car door brings you back to reality. Jungkook presses the start button on his dashboard before clicking his seatbelt across his upper body.

“You good?” he says, looking over at you with a furrowed brow. When you nod, he backs the car out of the space, his hand on the back of your headrest for good measure.

You take a few uneven breaths in and out at the action, forcing yourself to remain looking out of the front windshield and to not turn your head towards him even a fraction. You know doing so would put your faces at an incredible proximity, and you what the hell did you just pinch yourself over if you weren’t going to stick with it!

“Any word from Jihyo and Hoseok?” he asks. “It would be cool if we could still get dinner with them afterwards, at least.”

You pull your phone out of your crossbody. The screen lights up to no new unread messages, so you sent Jihyo a quick text in your private chat.

Y/N 6:58PM : Update?

It sends but doesn’t get read immediately in normal Jihyo fashion.

“Hm, maybe the tow truck is there, and she can’t talk,” you say. “I hope everything’s all right.”

“Me too,” Jungkook says. “But this is fun—with just us two.” He pauses, glancing over at you. “Don’t you think?”

“Yeah, of course,” you say quickly, giving him a smile. “I’m having a great time.”

He seems sated by this information, but you’re not sure why. “I’m glad.”

Jungkook drives you to toward the movie parking lot—a grassy field with neat rows of cars guided by a parking attendant in a bright, orange vest—and Jungkook reverses in the directed spot in the middle row of cars. You can see the screen perfectly, but only out of the back window from the way he parked. That does little to deter your excitement, though.

“The screen is huge!” you say in awe, twisting in your seat.

You look on as it plays movie trailer previews for remaining months of the summer, and the thought flits across your mind just how many you might get to see with Jungkook before your time was up.

“You’ve never been to a drive-in?” Jungkook asks. “We gotta make this one extra special, then.”

You look over at him with an eyebrow quirked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Jungkook begins, unlocking the car doors, “I’m pulling out the big guns.”

He hops out and heads to the trunk of the car. You scramble after him, shutting the passenger door behind you and joining him where he stands with the trunk popped open. You watch as he lowers the second row of seats flat after moving the dolphin plushie and a conveniently-packed duvet. You look at him with raised eyebrows as he unfolds the blanket across the flattened seats, making you two a perfect spot to lay in the back of the car while watching the movie.

Jungkook sees the suspicion on your face and chuckles, scratching the back of his head. “I just thought we might want to be comfortable if we’re going to be watching a movie for two hours, you know?”

You ignore him and climb in through the open trunk, settling down with the dolphin as a cushion for your back. “Where’s the popcorn?” you ask, laughing. “This is perfect.”

Jungkook holds up a finger. “One moment, m’lady.”

He takes off from the car and you sit up on your elbows, watching him jog up to a stand at the front of the drive-in parking lot that was selling snacks and drinks for the occasion. You pinch yourself again for good measure when he comes back a few moments later, reminding yourself of your pact. Just because you two were alone, in the back of Jungkook’s car, laying down, about to watch a movie together, alone, didn’t mean anything!

The scent of butter and salt fills your nostrils as Jungkook returns, handing you the popcorn and drinks as he climbs into the trunk and settles beside you. He sits cross-legged and digs into the pockets of his chinos to reveal candy in both hands.

“Sour straws or gummi bears?” he asks.

“Gummi bears, but I want a sour straw, too.”

Jungkook laughs. “Agreed.”

As you two dig in, the beginning of the movie flickers onto the big display screen. People pass by Jungkook’s car on their way to the food stands at the front, and you and Jungkook settle against the giant dolphin propped on the back of the front seats.

“I’ll have to figure out a way to repay you for all of this,” you say quietly in between sips of fizzy Coke. “You keep paying for everything before I can offer.”

“Would you rather us go Dutch?” he asks in the dark.

He’s incredibly close to you—his forearm brushes against yours when he moves because the dolphin only spans so far when you lay it down. It wasn’t the biggest prize, because you didn’t want to carry around a massive plushie, but it certainly wasn’t the smallest they had, either.

On screen, the heroine is introduced going about her daily life. She gets ready, brushes her teeth and hair, puts on her makeup for a normal day at school. When she pulls up to school, a sleek, black motorcycle is parked in her usual spot. A little ways from it, she notices the culprit—an extremely handsome guy holding a bike helmet within the crook of his arm as a swarm of cheerleaders surround him like he’s the coolest thing since sliced bread.

“Yeah,” you say honestly. “I mean, I hate the thought of depending on other people.”

Jungkook turns to look at you as you say this, and when you glance at him, there’s an emotion plastered on his usually friendly face that you can’t pinpoint.

“Consider it our first date,” he says finally, with a shrug. “Then you don’t owe me anything and you’re not depending on me, either.”

Your heart lurches in your chest. “Oh—um—well—”

Jungkook tilts his head down as he bites into a sour straw, pulling the candy away from his clenched teeth so it makes a small pop as it separates. He nudges you with his shoulder that is already leaning against your own.

“Did you see that?” he asks with a chuckle. “The stunt doubles are so noticeable in this movie—they have totally different builds than the main characters.”

You swallow the lump in your throat and manage a breathy laugh. A date. The word echoes within the chambers of your mind, repeating over and over like he just yelled it into a cave at the top of his lungs. It reverberates around your skull until you feel your skin buzzing from the meaning.

So much for your pact when he was saying things like that so casually. God, you couldn’t wait to get Jihyo alone to tell her everything.

The movie continues, and a glance down at your phone lets you know that it’s only thirty minutes in when Jihyo finally texts you back.

Jihyo 7:36PM : Hoseok and I aren’t going to make the movie. We’ll just explore the boardwalk until you two lovebirds are done and then we can get food!

You relay the information to Jungkook—leaving out the lovebirds bit. He nods in understanding.

“I figured they wouldn’t—but I’m glad we’ll get to see them,” he answers. “Hoseok texted me a while ago and said Jihyo’s engine light was on because she slams on her brakes too much. He thinks he has whiplash.”

You giggle. “Somehow, I’m not surprised.”

“My little mom-car doesn’t seem so bad now, does it?”

“I told you I liked it! I would totally pick my kids up from soccer at 6PM on Thursday in this!”

Jungkook throws a half-popped kernel at your forehead. “Rude.”

“You said the mom thing first!”

“Because I’m allowed to pick on Cheryl—she’s mine.”

“Cheryl?!” You dissolve into a fit of giggles. “Please—don’t tell me—”

Jungkook takes the weight of his shoulder pressed against yours and pushes you over with it before you can finish your sentence. You lean away from him but bring the force back with your own shoulder, fighting him for more room on the dolphin-plushie-turned-back-rest.

You two battle for a second, pushing against each other like children until Jungkook lifts his arm up and around you, cocooning you in his warmth and bringing you to rest fully on the right side of his body. He’s leaning a little against the corner of the back of the SUV and you are nestled within his side body, feeling the heat of his chest pressed against your cheek. You breathe in and out before you realize that maybe, you should move.

You go to sit up, but Jungkook says, “Wait, stay. You’re warm.”

It’s not you that’s warm—your face, sure—but Jungkook’s body feels like your own personal heater. You try to relax, leaning against him once again in a better cuddling position with your head resting on Jungkook’s chest, right below his collarbones. You can hear his heartbeat this way—thudding what you think is a little faster than normal underneath the layers of his thin hoodie and T-shirt.

“Are you comfortable? Can you see?”

You’re not sure, but you think he sounds a little breathless—from the sudden change in your positions, or the tussle before, you can’t tell which is the culprit.

“Yeah,” you say, shifting a little so that you’re more on your side rather than just leaning over onto him. “Are you okay?”

“I’m great,” he says, and again, it sounds like there’s a hint of smile in his voice.

You can’t focus on the movie after that. Jungkook is too close, his intoxicating scent swirling into your nostrils with every inhale, your head rising up and down with each breath he takes. This was what friends did, right? This was totally friendly. He just wanted you to be comfortable. You repeat this to yourself as Jungkook’s hand—that was once just dangling over your shoulder—begins to trace soft patterns into your side.

You close your eyes, focusing on slowing the thumping of your heart, timing your inhales to let him know that this is okay. This is totally fine. You aren’t freaking out. You’re just here, enjoying everything that Jungkook had to offer you.

It’s fine. He’s fine. You’re fine. Maybe he was just touchy—some boys were like that, after all. Some friendly relationships included tons of skinship. You just weren’t used to it, and you needed to quickly acquaint yourself with the fact that this was how it would be with him if you continued to hang out.

Before you know it, you’re so lost in your thoughts you don’t catch most of the end of the movie. In fact, you don’t even realize it’s over until the credits are rolling and people are moving around you again, the sounds of car doors and trunks slamming as people get ready to move onto their next activity.

It’s only 9PM, but it’s dark outside—the blues of the sky that had enticed you so much once before had faded to an indescribable navy, a blue so deep that it looked black. If you focused, you could see the minute twinkling of stars past the stadium lights on the outskirts that blink on after the movie is over so everyone could exit in a timely and visible fashion.

Jungkook yawns, patting your side. “I think I fell asleep for a moment—I was so comfortable here.”

He laughs in spite of himself, and you give him a breathless chuckle in return. “Sorry if I made your side sore.” You get off of him, scooting over to give him a little room to sit up straight.

“Sore?” he asks incredulously. “Y/N, you’re like a feather. I’m not that breakable.”

Boy, did you know. Thoughts of his muscular stomach flash in your mind, and you will them away. He watch him reach up to close the trunk as people begin to move outside of the car, cocooning you two back into a comfortable darkness from the tints on the back windows.

“Still.”

“Still, what?” he says. There’s a small silence that ensues. “You’re so nervous around me. Is it me?”

“What?” you say, furrowing your brow. Your skin pricks with the same nervousness that you are about refute. “I mean—”

“I know I’m pretty standoffish at the pool, but I don’t mean to be that way,” he admits. “I just felt like I was in this new place with all of these established relationships and rules. You have Jihyo, and well, Hoseok and I are close, but we’re not best friends.” He pauses. “I was really surprised when Jihyo invited me out with you all.”

“Surprised,” you repeat quietly.

His words absolutely contradict the Jungkook you thought you knew. But maybe that’s how it would always be—you realizing he had his own motives and reasons for being the way he was, and you not understanding a bit of it until he decided to divulge you in them.

“Yeah, surprised,” he nods. “I feel out of place, here. If I’m being honest.”

“But you live here.”

“I don’t have any friends though, because I’m gone for nine months out of the year,” he says, shrugging. “I didn’t have any in high school, either. It was just—I don’t know. I didn’t like it here, so I didn’t see a reason to have any ties.”

You can’t really wrap your head around it, but you realize Jungkook is being vulnerable to you in this moment. You don’t want to make him regret it, so you reach out to him—the closest thing to you is his hand, resting on the duvet between you two—and you run your fingers over the soft skin in a timid, unsure fashion.

“Jihyo and I will never say no to new additions to our friend circle,” you say with a smile. “It gives us reasons not to kill each other if someone else is watching.”

Jungkook chuckles a little, holding your gaze. The trunk of the car is still closed, and most of the crowd has dispersed to other parts of the beach where the boardwalk is still alive and filled with weekend nightlife.

“That’s good to know,” Jungkook says softly, looking down at your hands on the blanket. He slides his underneath yours and links his fingers through the spaces in between.

“Y/N—” he says, leaning closer to you, “—thanks. Really.”

You lean closer as well, feeling the magnetism of your two bodies being pulled together in the dark. Your breath comes out in unmeasured puffs, threatening to give away how nervous you are. You’re glad Jungkook can’t really see you anymore, and you’re certainly glad he can’t hear the unsteady beat of your heart as your faces inch closer and closer. As the quiet of the night cocoons you two like a soft blanket, there is no noise other than your heartbeat in your ears as Jungkook’s mouth hovers over your own.

You feel his unsteady sigh outwards as he says, “Are you sure you’re not—”

You use your remaining courage to stop him before he can finish his sentence, closing the distance between your mouths into a soft, sweet kiss. It stays that way for a moment—closed-mouth and innocent—before Jungkook brings his hand to the back of your head and deepens it, pressing his mouth hard against your own in a way that is a command all in its own.

Your lips part involuntarily and Jungkook’s tongue presses softly against the ridge of your mouth, tracing the outline until he is exploring the inside with ease and expertise. As your tongues lace together, you find yourself placing heavy hands on his chest, slightly wrinkling the collar of his shirt with your nails before you slide your hands up and over his shoulders and hook them together behind his neck.

Your head tilts to the right and you push back against him, following the energy and putting it into the most passionate kissing session you’ve had—well, ever. Jungkook places his hands on your hips and pulls you over him so that you are straddling his waist, his experience showing as he places you right on top of his hardening member. You have no choice but to feel it between your thighs and the thin material of your bike shorts—a decision you certainly didn’t realize would come in handy when you’d picked them out a few hours ago in your bedroom closet.

You two kiss and kiss and kiss, getting lost within each other for what feels like hours. You can’t allow yourself to disassociate and think about anything other than what was happening in the moment—although there was a part of your brain that couldn’t believe it was happening, surely.

You were kissing Jungkook. Jungkook was kissing you—no, it was more than that. He was touching you: his hands making a lazy trail up your back, in between your shoulder blades and over the hump of your shoulders until they entangled in your hair and kept your mouth criminal to his. He was breathing you in: making a trail away from your mouth, down your jaw and neck, where he settled on sucking small, reddened splotches into the thin skin just around the collar of your pullover. You want more of him, but more would have to wait.

Jungkook pauses underneath you, much more intact with the real world than you are because he shushes you politely so that you can hear it: the tell-tale sound of your phone humming the vibrations of an incoming call.

“It’s Jihyo,” he says in the darkness, allowing the brightness of your screen to illuminate your faces, inches apart. He hands it to you, and you clear your throat in an attempt to sound less breathless than you actually are as you greet your friend.

“Where are you?” she asks—but it sounds more like a demand. “I know the movie is over by now. You haven’t answered my texts. Are you okay?”

“What?” you say but shake your head. “I’m fine, sorry. Jungkook and I were trying to find our way out of the theatre parking lot. It’s really crowded over here so we had to wait for our turn.”

In the light of your phone pressed against your cheek, you can just barely make out Jungkook’s knowing smirk in the dark.

“Hoseok and I are waiting at Pier 14. Did you two still want to get dinner?”

Jungkook nods in answer, leaning forward a little to press his lips softly against the center of your throat while you talk. You take a calming breath in and out as he mouths at the skin there, swiping his tongue over the space lightly before continuing to kiss away any of your troubles. You close your eyes again, feeling like you’re disappearing under his soft touch before you realize Jihyo is still waiting on your answer.

“Dinner sounds good,” you manage. “Text me an address—you and Hoseok can choose. I don’t care.”

You hang up before she can protest. Your mouth hovers over Jungkook’s, lips pressed together in a solid line.

“That wasn’t very nice,” you admonish him, placing your hands on his firm shoulders. “I was trying to talk.”

“I know,” he says in a soft tone, breathing out a laugh. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

“You better.”

He gives you one last lingering kiss—one that steals the breath from your lungs and makes you feel lightheaded before he lets you go. You feel warm all over as you two crawl toward the front of his car, returning to your seats while stealing knowing glances at each other.

You don’t want to dwell on the thoughts too much, but a lot had changed in the last hour that you couldn’t even wrap your head around, much less understand and come to accept. Your lips tingle as your mind flies through the events again, attempting to see you and Jungkook from a third-person perspective in your mind, but really just focusing on the way it felt when he was kissing you, touching you, breathing you in.

You knew one thing for certain, though: your pact with yourself was up. You weren’t just diving into the shallow anymore. You were in the deep end.

#jungkook x reader #bts x reader #bts fic #bts scenario #jungkook smut #jungkook angst #jungkook fluff #bts fanfic #bts scenarios #jungkook scenarios #bts butter #bts jungkook #honeyedhoseok #blue

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creativeashproductions · 4 years

Text

A Discovery of Ghosts // Luke Patterson

Summary: Avoiding the house, the eldest Molina sibling has been unaware of the new chapter in Julie’s life until one fateful night.

Warning: Swearing, angst, fluff and overprotective!reader

Words: 2.1k

Oh look! Another JATP fic. Weird how it appeared? Enjoy! I may have a part two for Lost Time. If you want it, let me know!

TO BE TAGGED SEND AN INBOX PLEASE!

Masterlist

The dirty bag dropped on the ground as you cracked your neck heading straight for the kitchen, for the last year you would find Julie in there. Before the loss of your mother Julie spent all her time in the studio whether it be doing homework or playing the piano. Now, with the grief still striking hot within the Molina family even a year later.

“Jules?” You called out pouring a large glass of water. Dropping the empty water bottle in the sink.

In all honesty you hadn’t been home longer than to grab a bite and sleep before heading straight back to the field. It was a way of keeping away from the sadness permeating the house and the absence of your mom. Along with avoiding the awkward conversations of selling the house when it was really only Julie that okay with it.

“Dad?” You called next grabbing the sticky note off the fridge

Girls,

Carlos had a last-minute practice. Money left in the jar for supper.

- Dad

You hummed heading for the stairs to take a shower taking a guess that Julie was either in her room or at Flynn’s place. Bag in hand along with the softball bat you started up the stairs leading to your room. The faint conversation from her room was odd to say the least, the door was closed, and it sounded like more than one person.

The door opened easily under your hand scaring Julie who was sitting on her bed with a disgruntled expression. Her look of terror and nerves was the most concerning. Dropping the bag, you gripped the softball bat tight as you pushed the door open the rest of the way.

“Jules?” You spoke scanning the room, “Why do you have three boys in your room?”

The room went stock still, each boy scanning your form and the bat in hand. Standing in uniform coated in red soil from the infield you were on the more intimidating side.

“You can see them?”

“Jules, are you okay?” You questioned ignoring her odd question with a look of concern, the bat dropped low.

The last year had been extremely more difficult on Julie than Carlos and you given that Julie was closer with Mom with music. Carlos and you hadn’t inherited the gift that Julie had been born with; yet she hadn’t found interest in sports.

“She looks like she could break us?”

You sent a confused look at the trio giving your attention back to your little sister, “I’m sorry I haven’t been around lately, but you shouldn’t be acting out like this.” Julie’s jaw dropped at your words, “I’m not acting out! Dad can’t see-“

“He can’t see this because it shouldn’t be happening Julie.” You sternly told the younger Molina, “Just let me shower and we’ll hang out. You can pick the movie and the snacks, but they have to go. If you want, we can even dig out the projector.”

You pointedly looked at the three boys before turning your heel to head out of her room to yours down the hall. The door was closed tight as it always was, it was your space so when the door was shut no one went in. Trust was important in your family and with Julie uncharacteristically sneaking boys in that could mean all trust on closed doors would break.

“They’re ghosts.” Julie called out from her open door. The concern for the girl growing at her words, “I know that sounds bad and makes it seem like I need to see Dr. Turner but I’m not lying.”

You sighed at the girl completely in disbelief at the length she would go to lie, “Maybe you should see Dr. Turner Jules. Seeing the doctor doesn’t make you weak.”

Julie was silent as you began to open your door before the blonde boy literally appeared out of thin air in front of you.

“Oh my god!” You screamed stumbling back from the tall male, “Oh God. Scratch that! WE both need Dr. Turner.”

Two more bursts of light happened as the other two boys appeared in front of you with sheepish expressions. You took in a deep breath finally taking into consideration of Julie’s admittance.

“I-“ You choked out, “Does this mean Benny was a ghost?”

Julie blushed at the mention of her childhood imaginary friend that she had had for a number of years. It was also a time that Tía Victoria was not welcome in your home when she went behind your parents to schedule an appointment with Dr. Turner.

“Benny? No, I’m Reggie.” The boy with slicked back black hair spoke shaking his head, “This is Alex and Luke.”

You mutely nodded clenching your fists together, “Good thing you’re a ghost or I would have punched you.”

Luke’s eyes widened at the threat, “Whoa.”

“Now move. I just got home from practice, I’m sweaty and dirty.” You announced side stepping the ghostly trio. You grimaced at the blush appearing on Reggie and Luke, “Dead but still think inappropriately.”

“We’re teenage ghosts.” Alex announced glancing at his best friends. His hands shoved deep in his pockets as you took in his words.

You glanced over your shoulder at your little sister, “Just stay out of Julie’s room. And don’t look under Carlos’ bed.”

With that you opened the bedroom door and slammed in in their dead faces. The room had drastically changed from the previous year mainly the pale pink was painted over by a new colour. It was no longer the little girl’s room your mother had decorated while preparing for your birth. It was a young woman’s room decorated to fit your personality.

Located on a wall was the rack of softball bats with a number of softballs settled in divots on the connected shelf. Your room also had the only other connected bathroom, being the oldest sibling had benefits.

“Ghosts.” You muttered jumping when a thud happened. Turning your heel, you saw that Alex had opened the door and tossed your ball bag in.

“You left this. Sorry for interrupting.” Alex apologized as he left the room again.

“Boundaries!” You called out heading into your bathroom. Alex smiled at how similar he thought you and Julie were to each other.

Half of you had anticipated Julie getting the living room ready instead of using the projector in the garage; it was a part of growing up. The first time you can remember seeing the projector was when you first got your period and it became a thing with your mom. For the length of time for you period you had movie nights in the garage and when Julie got her first period it came a ritual. It helped that as sisters your periods synched together.

“Julie.” You breathed finding that she had surprised you. She had waited in the living room for you, “You didn’t.”

Shyly the younger Molina girl nodded her head and led you to the studio outside where it decorated as if the past year hadn’t happened. The projected was brought out along with countless snacks, fuzzy blankets and soda. It was also barren of anyone else.

“I’m guessing from the amount of time you’re in here that the ghosts live here?” You deduced at the musical instruments placed in an area they wouldn’t get in the way.

“Yeah.” Julie nodded, “I’m not sure where they are.”

“Righ-“

“Reggie!” Alex hissed from the loft with an apologetic expression, “We’re finding something to do while you use the studio. We’re be gone in a moment.”

Reggie and Luke nodded in response while digging through the things that had collected up there since 1995. Your smile turned into a frown at the discontentment they each displayed.

“Jules. Do they have anywhere else to go?” You whispered feeling sad when Julie indicated that this was their only place, “Why don’t we change this?”

“Change what?”

“I know that this feels odd without Mom but maybe we can make this better. Alex, would you guys like to stay?”

The question was barely spoke before the three ghosts flashed down to the ground floor with beaming grins. Each boy nodded happily eyeing up places to sit, Luke having fallen on the couch beside you. Julie shuffled making more room on the couch draping a blanket over her lap.

“So, Julie…comedy, horror, or romance?” You questioned raising one eyebrow up waiting for the reply, “Or we can subject the boys to Twilight. Then again Alex might enjoy Mean Girls.”

After reading the short description of the film Mean Girls was vetoed out along with Horror but the issue came with the move genre. Luke wanted a film with music while Reggie was asking for romance and Alex was just wanting to watch something.

“Pitch Perfect.” Julie and you spoke together nodding frantically, it had a moderately nice balance between music and romance.

“Pitch Perfect.” Alex stated unamused at the title, “How is that romance?”

“You’ll find out.” You smirked at the male dead teenager who would more than likely adore watching films to catch up on everything he missed during his twenty-five years in a dark room.

Every once in a while, Luke would gaze longingly at the food gathered around the only two living people. It was sad given the love he had had with food when he was still alive, he would anything in sight to be honest.

“Oh my god! The Breakfast Club! That came out ten years ago! It’s popular now?” Reggie exclaimed twisting to look to Julie.

“Gentle reminder. It came out thirty-five years ago. It’s a classic John Hughes! Of course, it’s popular.” You chuckled shaking your head by leaning back. You felt the caress of Luke’s gaze on your cheek but when you glanced over, he was staring hard at the screen.

“You good?”

“Yeah.” Luke nodded with a smile painted on his lips getting further into the comedy he found somewhat interesting. It was the song choices that got to him.

The music from your Spotify playlist muted the outside world as you focused on the computer screen open to a document. Eyes shifting between the paper of notes on your desk to the half-written History essay due in a few days. The last week had been mostly adapting to being one of two people able to see the band.

“Y/N.” Luke spoke from the doorway he had poofed into. A frown pulling the corner of his lips down at the lack of attention. In an action of desperation he chucked a pencil on your back; you flinched turning to see him in your room.

“Luke?” You asked removing an earbud from your ear. The joys of 2020 came with Bluetooth earbuds.

“Oh. You were listening to music.” Luke nodded moving to grab the earbud from the desk curiously, “Where are the wires? So small! How do they work?”

Launching into a short history on the change of music technology Luke was enthralled by the passion you carried. What he didn’t know was you were researching the changes between 1995 and 2020 for his benefit. Going as far as to compile a playlist for all three boys to introduce them to modern music.

“This is insane.” Luke mumbled handing the earbud back, “Cell phones are what get me!”

“Hey, doesn’t matter if your seventeen or forty-something…you still don’t understand it.” You smirked flinching when Luke tossed a decorative pillow at you with practiced ease. The squeal fell from your lips as it happened.

“If I was forty-something this would be very wrong.” Luke cheekily retorted tapping a finger on his knee thinking back on everything that happened, “Had everything gone to plan you would have known me only by music.”

“I’m sorry you died but I’m really happy we met.” The nerves evident in your tone, something that you didn’t often show. Softball was important and possibly the only ticket to college if everything went right.

“Me too.” Luke smile at the girl across him eyes so soft he could see what Alex and Reggie were trying to tell him.

Luke had a crush. Luke had feelings for a girl living and unable to feel his touch.

“Hey! I made a playlist for you guys. Let me know when you want to hear them, and I’ll get it playing for you. I have to get back to my essay. Feel free to stay.”

Luke graciously took the earbud from your hand leaning back on the bed as you played the rock he had unfortunately missed out on. Both unaware that his fingers had grazed your hand during the handoff. Luke has a crush and he can touch her too.

Tag List (PLEASE SEND AN INBOX TO BE ADDED!)

@safehavenmuse @siennanoelle01 @whiterose291 @mell-bell @blackhood5sos @ficrecsideblog @ifilwtmfc @deadpoolgirl23 @crappy-unicorn @sunsetcurve-h

#luke patterson imagines #julie and the phantoms imagines #jatp luke #luke patterson x reader #angst #caitsy and ash productions #jatp #jatp fanfic

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peeterparkr · 3 years

Text

perennial;tom holland|fifteen.

chapter fifteen: weeds.

↳ flower meanings:

Daisy: new beginnings Thistles: protection buttercups : childish white clover: happiness

chapter summary: the stories of the wallflowers and who we are supposed to blame

pairing: tom holland x y/n

warnings: angst, mentions of sex, UNRELIABLE authors

word count: 9K

SOCIAL MEDIA BEFORE THE CHAPTER: none

previous chapter next chapter perennial masterlist.

perfidy ( series masterlist)

wanna be tagged?

I know it took me forever to write this, it was so difficult to write this chapter. I KNOW IT’S UNUSUAL, but please read between the lines because I am trying to tell the story through everyone’s eyes. And EVERYTHING has a reason I swear. ESPECIAL THANKS TO @laurieteddy ( @erodasghosts ) for helping me out wit this, go thank her, there woudln’t be any chapter,

tags aren’t working, please leave feedback asdakd

People often tend to ignore the wild daisies, thistles or buttercups that dare to pop in the road, people often think of them as rather a plague, or rather too common to be interested in them. Most people try not to look at them. But when they are combined and together they can create the most beautiful bouquet.

Some people, like Harry, however like to stop and stare and collect them, wonder how they grow in the most unsuitable places. Harry was someone who could spread love so easily, when he was a wallflower himself. Not easily noticed. A crestfallen Harry had been trying to figure out what to do, for a while now. He hadn’t been able to grow his love around anyone lately, because he’d lost his favorite flower. How would he grow daisies when the daisy did not want to grow anymore.

Emma was one of those daisies that people often ignored. So spectacular she managed to bloom even when all the odds were against her, in the most odd places. Like daisies in the path as they managed to outgrow the asphalt, or daisies in window corners, or in random fields where people like to do picnics.

Often people ignored her for she was outshined by other magnificent flowers. Even the night before, she’d been outshined by another flower who had just joined the game.

Emma had been outshined by a particular flower for a while now, she did not resent her in any way. Though she could not hide her appetence, for it had come and gone so many times by now. Why would anyone stare at a daisy like her? She would wonder.

Emma often thought of y/n to be a sunflower, unique, beautiful and vedirit, the flower that has sun in its own name because even the sun is outshined sometimes. A flower that searches for the sun, for the spotlight. Emma, a daisy was often outshined by a magnificent sunflower. Because people often think daisies can keep blooming even when they are stepped on.

Timmy took Emma for granted. Harry had been so delicate, until he decided that he needed to know why sunflowers grew so tall.

According to gardeners daisies are hardy, drought-tolerant plants that provide years of gorgeous, classic charm. Sure. Emma was all of that, she was tolerant but she also wanted to be loved. Very loved and she deserved it. She was such a magnificent human being who dared to pop out in the darkest situations.

However, Emma understood why y/n got the attention. Sunflowers were also drought-tolerant but they don’t bloom that easily. It depends on the soil, how you water them… and all the care plants need. But once they bloom, such a whimsical and lyrical flower.

Emma knew why Tim and y/n had not worked out. And Emma knew why Tom and her would work.

Timmy liked peonies. Y/N was not a peony.

Tom liked yellow flowers. Sunflowers, more often than not, are yellow.

Emma did not understand, if Harry loved daisies…. Why didn't they work out?

Did Harry truly love daisies or had he settled for the tiny version of a sunflower, the one with less impact. The one that could bloom easily. The one he didn’t have to water that often. The one flower that didn’t need the spotlight.

Emma would replay that night over, and over. The night that champagne had been spilled because someone had dropped the glass, the night that every heart had been broken. And she wondered how not even Harry had been able to turn the disaster into a beautiful evening, because everything had been dropped. The night everyone had burned, the beautiful garden had turned into chaos, a war. A war she did not wish to be a part of.

Emma wished to be a sunflower. And it was ironic given how many times y/n had told Emma she wanted to be like her, y/n did not see how thrilling and exciting her life was. How Emma though, knew it complicated, longed for the drama and the story and… everything.

Sure, her and Harry had had a lovely story, but y/n and Tom? Even y/n and Timmy. Her stories were worth telling. That’s why she was bloody telling it. Full of plot twists and drama and fire. A story that kept everyone on the edge.

And it wasn’t jealousy, it’s just— Emma was frustrated. She was just not burning in her story. She was boring and though she tried to shine and shine, she just—was taken for granted, because daisies aren’t unique. They’re delicate, though. Easy to bloom and easy to break.

She did not want to be taken for granted. No, she wouldn’t. But maybe Harry still liked the sunflower. Or he had once, so how could he like daisies over sunflowers?

Harry, was one big mystery to Emma, how he grew into her like poison ivy. Without poison, and flowers and just tangled into her. Emma thought Harry’s love was like a good plague, one that kept flowering through her. And growing into one couldn’t get out.

Emma missed him, Emma missed kissing Harry. And though Emma often was against kisses, because she believed kisses were only but a hoax to get tricked into phony romance. Emma always said to beware good kissers, because you might end up thinking you’re in love.

Emma knew that's probably what had happened to y/n, Tim had been just too good of a kisser for her, that she ended up believing she was in love with him. Lips hold poison that becomes addictive. Sometimes that addiction becomes toxic, which is what Emma believed happened to Tim. He had miscomprehended his own situation, he was not in love anymore, he was an addict to y/n.

Or… rather, he didn’t want to accept that he hadn’t been enough sunlight for the sunflower. Sunflowers turn to the sun. Maybe Tom was the closest thing to the sun for her, maybe that’s why y/n shined the most when she was with him, her smile was the brightest, and she was the warmest. Emma knew how y/n’s smile would linger every time Tom made her smile, she’d noticed it, even on set when she was trying to hide it. She wasn’t subtle, y/n’s glance would look for Tom, and when he was around, she’d try to hold her breath. She… shined. Because sunflowers turn to the sun.

Daisies, however,search for unusual places. And Emma had searched for the most unusual place to bloom now.

Emma had slept with Josh for a simple reason, he wasn’t a good kisser and kissing gets more intimate than sex. For Emma, a kiss could tell if you could fall in love. Kissing was but the bond of two people’s secret merging into one.

Emma was tired, she wanted the talking to stop with Harry and just… kiss him. That’s all she wanted, but her pride was too loud. She wanted to be like the sunflower, who could easily forgive. But Emma was terrified, because she’d never been able to love like this before, and the light was still flickering.

Emma had talked to Cherry, or rather… Listened to her, and she wondered however could she blame her. Cherry, Cherry was another victim outshined by the sunflower. Cherry was just another casualty drawn by the war, and her heartbreak, could be just as powerful. But of course, no one cared about her. She was the villain. Emma had listened to Cherry. Cherry was not in love with Tom, Emma could tell. She’d been fooled by a kiss, but no, she was not in love. Cherry had only been blinded by Tom.

Had Emma been a villain at some sort of point? Pushing Tim and Y/N together, even if Emma knew that Tim and y/n would eventually break?

Emma had been blinded because she knew she couldn’t lose Harry. And god, it hurt. So much, and she was confused and she needed to scream to finally be noticed. There is the inexplicable pain that comes when you don’t acknowledge it, and avoiding it won’t erase the problem, it makes it grow more and more.

Emma did not understand why she had tried to avoid it, getting drunk, dressing up, taking long walks and singing, but she was not okay. And maybe it was finally sinking. Emma was a flower that was drying out, that was reminded of the greatest love one could have ever dreamed of. Maybe Emma had learned too much of the sunflower, but now she felt it, how Emma was now made of Harry, too.

Emma hadn’t smiled since she’d left him, and she wished she had tried to mend things before, but Emma felt like it would take her nowhere because maybe her love had not been enough for Harry, and to feel worthless takes one strength, and Emma was getting tired of pretending she was strong.

Probably not even Tim had noticed it, how she had stopped dressing a certain way or why she couldn’t watch certain films, she had had a haircut, and how she still couldn’t explain it to herself. Why had the fairytale faded? Days turned into night, and there she had been again, kissing another stranger.

Emma had her head underwater and until now she noticed she couldn’t breath. The daisy was not there anymore.

Emma never cried, but she did this one time, with a cigarette burning out in between her fingers, with the tulips in her nightstand dried out, listening to Tim complaining about Tom, whatever he tried to say Emma had not listened.

Someone had shown up later that night, the door had rang, probably y/n willing to talk about her latest decision, Emma felt some sort of fear. Had y/n spent the entire day with Harry?

Tim had looked up, too. Y/N could’ve forgotten her key, was she there? Emma was not sure why that had made her feel unsteady, after all this time, did she believe y/n would go for Harry?

Timmy went to open the door and he seemed… calm. Not sure what Emma had expected, probably a crying y/n that only longed for a bottle of cheap wine for herself as they sat on the floor, near the couch, and then they would end up listening to old 80’s songs, or re-watching some poorly made netflix show that probably didn’t deserve the attention, but was good enough to have as a background.

That was what Emma had expected. To be yet again pushed aside.

“I’ll… want me to get the door?” Tim asked.

Emma shook her head, knowing that y/n would not want to see Tim. Emma stood up. And it hadn’t been what she had expected. Yet, she was filled with doubts. Had y/n… given up on Tom and decided to go with Harry?

What happened? Had she not talked to Tom? Had she spent the day with Harry? They must have.

How—how did the sunflower manage that?

How could it only take them a day and be fine with it?

There was a slight hint of jealousy over Emma, which was completely understandable. The girl had gone through so many times of being outshined by her, even y/n’s sadness had to outshine Emma’s.

But it wasn’t y/n at the door.

Because probably no one had cared enough to care about the wallflowers, but they had to solve it.

And it had taken another fire to get that other wallflower to Emma’s door.

The night before, the one thundering storm that had crashed in the other household. But it had ceased.

Before Emma had opened the door, the other weed like flowers had had a conversation, hours before. The other casualties had been having a conversation while Tom and y/n were enjoying a sunset, everyone else was dreading the darkness the night would bring.

Before they could even think of the solution Tom and y/n had made, it seemed like the conversation of their unpredictable mess was making them flow. Merely minutes before Tom and y/n had come back home.

James, another wallflower himself, had spent the day of the storm with Clark and Sam, and though they seemed calm, and they had had what could be called a good day, he couldn’t stop his nerves. James was often too protective of his sister and he would not stop by now. Though, he had also been very protective of Tom.

They went home, after Harry had warned them the other pair had left to solve their problem elsewhere. Though it was selfish, the four of them wished they could solve it for the sake of the group.

James was worried about his sister, and he now had to worry for the impression Clark had of him and the drama. James didn’t want Clark to be involved in that drama.

Clark, however, had been possibly the only one that understood the situation. Outsiders often see the wider picture and notice things we don’t. To Clark it was clear that the people around Tom and y/n had been their doom. Clark was not a wallflower. But he didn’t know that and he did not care.

Clark was someone, very much like Harry, and Clark was someone who actually liked thistles. Thistles are often disregarded because of their prickles, and not very pretty among many flowers.

Clark often knew that everyone thought James was a prick. He was, for the matter, but it was often because James liked to protect himself and those around him, building fences to keep them safe.

“I think, James, you do not give enough credit to them,” Clark said. “They managed to go from mortal enemies to a very adorable couple. What I’ve seen so far is two people who love each other so much that they grew past their hatred which, I may have been a witness to when we first started dating, those two could not be in a room without throwing knives at each other and now the way they look at each other reminds me so much of us, even I was slightly jealous of their glances. So secretive and loving.”

Maybe they all tried to ignore that, how they’d turned arguments into flirting, and translated smirks into smiles.

James sighed, “they haven’t changed. Plus, they—slept with other people, and our cousin?”

Sam was quietly sitting across them, scrolling through his phone.

Harry snorted a chuckle, “Do you think they will get out of this one?”

“Yes,” Sam was the one to speak now.

James rolled his eyes, “and then they’ll keep being idiots.”

“Love changes us, idiot,” Clark said. “Look at you, before I met you, you’d be hooking up with a different person every bloody night,” he chuckled.

James rolled his eyes, “are you slut shaming me?”

Sam chuckled at the statement. “You /were/ a slut.”

James rolled his eyes, “shut up.”

“No, but I mean, when we first—started dating I was also scared of not being—You know, I’m boring—“

“You’re not boring,” James interrupted. Because he wasn’t.

“But I am not like you are—you—you and I are very different, you are a very fun person, though sometimes you bloody decide to act all grown up to y/n, you’re still an idiot.”

“Always acting so grown up,” Sam intruded. “As if you knew what you were doing.”

“I do know!” James complained.

Harry laughed, “you do not.”

“Especially when it comes to y/n,” Sam said. “That’s the least you know.”

Harry, also standing nearby, rolled his eyes and nodded.

“No, no, that’s not true, I think you do know,” Clark pointed out. “But you are too worried to see that this is—Look, okay not right now, but I do think your sister and—“Clark turned to Sam and Harry. “And your brother are so in love but they kept listening to all of you and ended up sabotaging themselves.”

“They’re idiots,” Harry finally commented.

“So is James and look at us,” Clark pointed out.

James chuckled, “are you done insulting your fiancé?”

“I’m not insulting you,” he kissed his cheek. “My point is, you changed and we adapted and we became this magnificent couple, but it’s not always been easy.”

James stayed quiet, he knew that. It had not been rainbows and butterflies but they’d managed to come through.

Clark watched him, James was often too insecure of everything and built walts and pricked anyone who tried to tumble them down, Clark included. And James often did the same thing with y/n, trying to hide her from the world, and always trying to be the bigger person.

“I think their problem is the exact problem of ours,” Clark continued. “While everyone here is meddling in their relationship, you sister didn’t even know we were serious.”

Clark and James had had a nice relationship but every obstacle on their way had almost been powerful enough to break them apart. However each time they had outgrown it, their relationship had come stronger. That’s probably why Clark believed in the other pair. But Clark also believed James had overprotected y/n and not let her make her own decisions, maybe y/n had tried to convince herself to love Tim because her own brother had told her to. Maybe y/n had doubted Tom because her own brother told her to.

“I…” James sighed. “I know this kind of stuff happens to y/n, and Tom and y/n specifically, look I didn’t bring you that one time at the engagement party and look what happened, I am--That’s the thing, Tom and y/n always… Even when they weren’t dating we were always on the edge of what they will do next, look at us now I don’t know what they will come up with tonight.”

Harry sighed, and rolled his eyes, he did not want to keep being part of that conversation. He left.

Clark did understand why James had been so keen on having their relationship so private. James was scared of the other obstacles that he could not control. James did not trust his sister that much, not with relationships.

Even when Y/N was dating Tim, James had told Clark how he thought the guy was perfect for her but that he didn’t trust y/n. Maybe James did know why y/n couldn’t love Tim back as much as Tim loved her.

“What I’ve seen is them so in love, and I can tell she truly loves him and is not forcing herself to love him,” Clark said.

James frowned. “What?”

Clark took a deep breath, “I feel like y/n—I, look, I’m not—“Clark gulped.

Sam frowned “what?”

“I—Okay, I met y/n when she was in another relationship,” Clark reminded them. “With Tim.”

“She loved Tim,” James said. “Tim—“

“No, I know, I know, but I see y/n just—she is so free when she is with Tom, and I met Tom before I met any of you.”

James probably understood this. James had criticized y/n when she was dating Tim. But James loved Tim because he had loved y/n, so unconditionally, and Clark had pointed it out to James, how Tim would go to the end of the world for her.

Which is what James would do for Clark. And what Clark would do for James. But Clark had always known that y/n wouldn’t for Tim. Because it seemed that every time she dressed up for Tim, she wished she was dressing up for someone else.

“So?” Sam questioned.

But Clark knew that Tom and y/n would go to the end of the world for each other, and they had proved it several times now. And Clark knew that this was the first time y/n did not do what her brother told her to do, this was her fighting for her own heart and this was her not wanting to be under protection of her brother.

“I think Tom and y/n will work it out, I don’t think it’s easy, but—I think that both of them, if they’ve outgrown everything else, they will outgrow this and you should be supportive whatever their decision is,” Clark stated.

“And if they break up?” Sam questioned, “what will happen to us?”

What would happen to them. Clark knew that probably was what James feared the most. James and Tom had always been friends, there had always been a type of bond between them. It was even weird to him seeing him and his sister so foolishly in love. James knew he would have to say goodbye to Tom, even if he was going to ask him to be the best man. James would have to let Tom go.

And James wondered how y/n would be. Y/N had spent her whole life in love with Tom, her whole life had been wrapped around that fact. James knew. So what would happen if it ever happened?

James and Tom had always been friends.

Sam and y/n had been friends for as long as they could recall, always making fun of each other, building the funniest of anecdotes. Sure everyone knew Harry and y/n had always been best friends. But barely people acknowledged how close Sam and y/n were.

Sam was always left on the outside, probably because he always liked to avoid trouble. Sam, more often than not, was considered to be the most childish in the group. Sam was not childish, he just simply did not understand. Sam was not ignored. Buttercups are loved, though sometimes their love is spread too much and people don’t know what they have to do with it. The problem is when it becomes too much and often, people don’t know what to do with it.

Sam had distanced because he was one of the few people who did not stand y/n and Tom, long before they were dating. He did not stand their bickering, he hated taking sides. Of course everything had made sense when they had confessed they were madly in love but Sam didn’t quite figure it out. How could anyone hate and then love?

For Sam, it had not made any sense, partly. He had known y/n was in love with Tom, her glance was so obvious and then when he had looked back at it, it made perfect sense.

Though she had despised Tom, every now and then Sam would notice y/n hide a smile.

Sam had always tried to figure everything out, and his own imagination often led to conclusions that would drive him insane. Like a child, he always asked the questions.

How? How could she be in love with her very own enemy?

Sam had been the one to drive her home after that heartbreak, after the nightclub. Sam had been the one to listen to her and—Sam had been the one to know she wouldn’t get out of that heartbreak that easily.

Sam had also been the first to know Y/N would date Tim, and he had been the first person—after Harrison to hear Tom say he was in love with her.

Clark’s remark had made Sam think about Tim and y/n, to compare it to Tom and y/n.

The more he thought about it, the less sense it made.

However, Sam had been the only one to ask Tom after the engagement party, probably. “It’s so scary to think I’ve loved her my whole life and it didn’t turn out the way I wanted it to.”

Sam remembered when he found out about it, and how angry he was at his brother but how happy he had been after he heard they were having fun in New York. Even when they had told their parents, it seemed that Sam’s fear and anger had gone away, and then… The engagement party.

Sam thought of how scary it was to lose someone you have loved your whole life , but he understood why they were persistent, because if they were so in love and had been for a while, growing past each , how come this had turned into this mess?

Sometimes love isn’t what we think of it.

Sam had been the only one to tell y/n that Timmy and her were not made for each other. She hadn’t questioned him, probably because she knew it. But Sam had been the only one to tell her. Probably because he knew his own brother, Harry at the time of course, he knew nothing about Tom, was deeply in love with her. Maybe that’s what drove Sam to say it but… honestly, Sam did not trust Timothee to be around y/n. He agreed with Tom most of the times when he criticized Timothee.

But he had stayed quiet long enough.

Sam had been the one who had noticed that Tim had known about Harry’s feelings, Harry had never been subtle but… he knew Timothee had noticed.

There were a lot of things Sam had noticed, like how Tim had set up Harry with Emma. Which, of course, ended up being the best thing that could’ve ever happened to Harry, but Sam knew Tim had done it but to get rid of Harry.

Tom had once pointed it out to Sam.

“That guy, Tim, the one y/n is hooking up with,” he had said with poison. “He seems that he quickly got rid of Harry eh? He set Harry up with this other girl just so he can have y/n to himself.”

No, but—Harry and Emma had met at the club. But—maybe Tim had set them up?

And it had seemed like that. Sam wondered what Tim had done to get rid of Tom, because he had probably noticed about it. Timothée was very, very observant. Quiet.

Timothee had probably noticed about Tom’s infatuation long before anyone else had.

Sam knew Timothée was a very, very smart individual. He was very quiet and Sam did not quite like that. Everything he said was like a perfectly crafted plan. He was incredibly smart, and Sam didn’t trust that. But of course, he had been the one to stay quiet for a long time. However, he saw that y/n was happy. And Sam really liked that, because he’d seen her right after that club night, and Sam had been the only one she would reach out to. Occasionally.

Sam had been the first one to know that y/n had declined Tim’s proposal. Sam had been the one y/n had called because she knew Harry was with Emma. Sam didn’t know the real reason why she had declined the proposal. He only remembered how she had arrived at him and was barely breathing. After coming back from that trip to France, to meet his grandparents. Barely anyone knew she had come earlier from that trip, she had cut it short. Coming back to London alone, she’d taken the Eurostar, and it seemed she’d cried all her way back home.

She’d asked Sam to go and pick her up to get her home. She was speaking quickly and nonsense as if she had been barely breathing for the trip. “I-I said no, I should’ve said yes, I love him but I don’t… don’t even know why I said no, I can’t believe I said no I am so stupid.”

She was crying, saying nothing made sense and how her heart had broken because she couldn’t come up with a real reason to say no. Sam had asked if she was ready, if she loved him. Because y/n had not told him what had happened.

“Did you break up?” Sam asked.

“No.”

“What happened?” He questioned.

She had taken a deep breath. “I don’t love him enough.”

She hadn’t seen it coming, but Harry had told Sam. Harry knew Tim would propose. Emma had told Harry. Everyone thought she would say yes, honestly. You never really truly know how a relationship is behind closed doors, but… Sam had been grateful she’d said no. The skeletons in his closet had not come out yet.

Y/N had always thought that Sam didn’t know, but he was very aware.

“I met his grandma, and—She said I would be perfect, I think they—-“she had said. “And—he gave it on a film canister… and I love him, but I’m not—not completely in love. There—there is a part of me that still is not over Tom and I am not sure if I will ever be completely healed from the pain he’s caused me, and that impedes me from loving Tim.”

Sam knew there wasn’t really anything to be worried about, but Sam had known it for a long time. How Tim was probably a master of manipulation. But he knew it, too. Tom had broken y/n to the next level.

“Will you ever be over Tom?” Sam asked.

She had not answered. She wouldn’t be.

Timothée was not a bad person. But Tim often did things to get things done his way, even when he didn’t see it.

“You know I won’t,” she said eventually.

What part had Tim played in this mess? Though there wasn’t much of a part to be played, because y/n and Tom seemed to love creating the chaos themselves, Sam could only wonder what exactly had Tim done to try and take Tom out of the picture.

Though we could argue that it was ‘after Rome’, Sam had noticed that y/n did hate Tom more after Tim’s arrival. But it’s a very fine line because there is a lot Sam didn’t know as to what had happened in Rome and it was after the nightclub.

Sam didn’t understand why they said ‘Rome’, as if Rome had been the place that had been cursed when in fact it had been the very NightClub when things had shattered. For a heart to shatter, it needs to be made of glass. Hearts can only be made of glass when they’re so thoroughly in love. A heart that’s not in love is not easy to break. It’s funny, the stronger the love, the weaker the heart, in some sort of way.

No, Sam had to rephrase that. When a love is so strong, the heartbreak will be more painful. So, Sam could only guess how in love y/n had been to have a heart so shattered. And how was she doing now? And after the script? But last night… She’d made the same face she’d made that night at that club.

There is something about seeing your best friend heartbroken, it fuels your inner rage. Then again, he’d seen his brother heartbroken too.

That’s why Sam usually stepped out, he was not sure how he was supposed to proceed.

But Sam had missed y/n and he didn’t want to miss her again. And then, the night before. He had seen her face, and then she had run away, with Harry this time. Sam had thought she would ask him to drive her away again, like all those times before. Instead, he had stayed with his brother.

He’d heard Tom cry the night before.

But y/n? How had she spent her night? Maybe this time her heart made of glass had been covered on something else or it… was simply too broken now that the shattered pieces couldn’t be turned but into dust for now.

Sam didn’t blame Tom or y/n. But he had to blame someone.

There was something about Tim, or maybe blaming it on Tim was easier for Sam so he didn’t have to take any sides. He could also blame Cherry, but the poor girl had done nothing wrong but to be a fool, and there is a fine line there.

Sam decided to keep blaming Tim. What did Tim have to do with y/n’s heartbreak?

Hadn’t he told her, after their breakup? To sort her feelings out. What did Tim do? Because Tim was very smart.

Tim definitely knew about Tom and y/n. He had probably been the only damn person to have known it since the beginning.

What had Tim said to poison y/n even more against Tom? He had been the one to teach her that one word, perfidy.

Sam had read the script. And something didn’t sit right with Teddy’s character, how he seemed so perfect and yet he had seen y/n run from another country. How Teddy pointed it out, about William and Valerie.

It meant he had pointed out between Tom and y/n.

What had he told y/n about Tom? Yes, Tom and y/n were enemies, and they’d always been, always fighting, but in the end they were friends. In their own way. Maybe only because of the family, but…

Something just didn’t click with Sam.

Probably Tim had poisoned y/n with horrible thoughts about Tom, because y/n had said Tom was a monster, she’d written about it. How could someone ever love someone like him?

Tim was not a bad person. Sam had to tell himself that. Because he wasn’t, really. At the end of the day he was a good friend but… The guy just was… sketchy. To Sam, because it was just as if he had manipulated y/n into loving him.

Or, no, no that’s not how love works. No, y/n had loved him but maybe y/n had known it all the time.

But it just… He always wanted the best for y/n. Right?

Had… What had Tim done to bring y/n to LA, too?

Of course it was stupid to think, but… Sam didn’t want to jump into conclusions but he knew Tim was no saint. He knew that Tim knew y/n. That’s something Sam pointed out every time, Sam knew y/n. He remembered how Tim had brought another girl to his and Harry’s birthday party, knowing damn well y/n’s biggest fear was to be replaced. So if he knew it so, so well, why had he done it? To hurt her?

But also, Tim was the one to… Sam had to erase those thoughts. No, Tim wasn’t a bad person because he’d also been the one to show y/n she could smile again, and she could laugh and love.

And Sam knew how the breakup had gone, New Year’s Eve, when y/n had drunkenly confessed to Tim:

“There’s still a part of me that will always wonder if Tom’s the love of my life.”

To hear that from the person you love the most, must change you. And Tim had asked her to sort her feelings out.

Sam could not blame Tim.

But then again… He had kissed y/n right when he knew Tom and y/n were starting something. And who had come to comfort y/n after the engagement party? Tim.

It seemed like it was so perfectly calculated. So, very well planned. Or maybe not, maybe Tim had noticed how Tom and y/n were so fragile, that would break easily. That’s the thing about Tom and y/n, they were both so scared of the outcome, of any pebble that could be thrown their way and would deter their relationship, that’s why they lived so fast because they both feared the end, they both feared they wouldn’t be strong enough for the bullets shot their way.

Maybe Tim knew that, and maybe Tim knew which pebbles to throw.

Cherry had once told Sam that Tim had been the one to convince y/n to change places with her. And Cherry had said she had been delighted with Tim. Which only brought him to the night before.

Tim had asked Cherry to stay the night at his place. Sam had heard him ask her. No, Tim had not asked in any wrong way, but in a friendly way because the girl had been destroyed.

However, Sam thought there was something fishy in all of the situation. Sam had a slight suspicion that this mess had to do with Tim. Cherry had asked him the night before how long Tim and y/n-Tim, not Tom, how long Timothee and y/n had been dating. Sam had said they weren’t. And they wouldn’t be. Had Tim said something to lead to this mess? Was he the reason why at midnight Tom’s and y/n’s fantasy shattered? Why had Tim asked Cherry to go to his place? Maybe he had to do something with it.

Or maybe Tim only loved y/n. And he had been so blinded by his own love that he hadn’t stopped to realize some things he’d done were wrong. But you can never really know what’s going on behind closed doors.

Harry had his door closed, and Sam wanted to ask his brother what exactly he was going through. Though, he knew he was not having a good time. That was no secret.

Sam knocked on the door.

Harry opened the door to watch his brother, Harry hadn’t slept and he was not breathing. He seemed to be trying to calm himself down, but Sam could tell he was angry. Very, very angry.

“Why did he fucking do it at the engagement party?” Harry asked Sam.

There it was, a conversation they had had millions of times, yet never truly acknowledging it had been the night everyone had burned.

Because Harry often avoided the question. Sam was also slightly angry at how they had had to forgive Tom because Tom was in love and because Tom’s heart had been shattered. But Tom’s drunken speech had led to all this mess and the pain still lingered for the family.

Maybe that’s why no one in the family was really telling anything to Tom, maybe that’s why they weren’t eager with Tom and y/n being together. But they would all stay quiet. Maybe the real reason why James had been reluctant to them was because they feared their battles would leave even more casualties.

No one really had stopped to think how their relationship had changed everyone’s situation, how y/n’s parents had barely talked to the Hollands. How James wouldn’t go out for drinks with the twins and that’s why they didn’t know how serious he was with Clark. How James had to keep his boyfriend out of the drama because he didn’t want his own relationship to get ruined. How Harry and Sam had lost their best friend. How Emma had to run to another country to get over her heartbreak. How Harry had lost the love of his life.

Everyone seemed too focused on how Tom and y/n were trying to get out of this one that everybody had simply forgotten everything they’d left behind. All the casualties.

Every single wallflower, all the weed flowers that had kept growing and had not had the chance to grow.

“I… why do they always have to do everything big? Like first, the engagement party, why did Tom choose to explode there? Why did y/n write a script like that? It’s obvious they both wanted to fail, it’s so-so obvious, and then? What did he do? He slept with her cousin, out of everyone, her cousin… And she slept with Tim!”

Y/n had slept with Tim. Yet another pebble thrown at trying to get Tom and y/n back into the woods. Sam could only try and wonder why y/n had let herself be fooled again, maybe it was a rebound but then again… Maybe Tim wasn’t really the problem, but maybe y/n still felt guilty for that proposal.

Sam remembered it.

“I will never forgive myself because I will never love him the way he loves me.”

Guilt, guilt often grows like poison ivy and covers you and tangles you until you cannot be able to step out of it. Maybe that was the reason why y/n couldn’t stay away from Tim, because Tim had been the one to make her feel loved, and yet she’d never loved him back the same way.

“… Oh my god, y/n knew she could’ve slept with anybody and Tom would’ve not cared but with it’s like she did it on purpose because they have to make everything big,” Harry continued. “And I’m… so tired of it….Like last night, why did that have to happen? They could’ve talked about it but neither did it because they had to wait until the bomb exploded and bring everyone down with them…. I couldn’t even think of my heartbreak because Y/N had it worse, no, I’m not blaming her but-” Harry sighed. “Yes, whatever they love each other but… But what about my own relationship? What about James’�� relationship? Didn’t he fear this drama would push Clark away?”

Sam only listened.

“Why did--Why did we have to direct her script so he could make a big entrance and win her back? I knew this would jeopardize my relationship with Emma.”

Because this was always what happened with them. Even when they were enemies. Sam hated it. Always a big, big fight, argument, how they’d have to take sides and take turns to not have them at the same place, and when they were, they would always, always make it big.

“I don’t know,” Sam admitted.

Harry sighed. “And they don’t-even care, they just--Like I had to see Emma today and pick up y/n’s clothes and..that would ruin me and yet I did it, because both Tom and y/n are so fucking selfish and I don’t care-I genuinely couldn’t care less about their drama anymore, I come back and they had fucked, like-” Harry took a deep breath. “Oh my god, how do they fuck it up so badly? They’re only sabotaging themselves... And I don’t know and-why do we have to keep being dragged by their bullshit? If I have to listen to Tom complain about Tim one more fucking time…”

Sam didn’t blame anyone, honestly.

“And look, I don’t even know what the fuck they’re gonna come up with now, they’re so unpredictable and I don’t… If they break up I don’t want to listen to their rambling I… I just can’t sympathise with them anymore, I… No, I don’t mean that. I just… I need my time, too, you know? I need to be angry and I need to get it out and I need to cry it out because I’m-” His voice was breaking. “I’m not okay, I lost Emma, and I know-But oh my god, we couldn’t even come home because they were here fighting or fucking or I don’t even know.”

“Everything was easier when they hated each other,” Sam said. And he meant it. But Sam did try to stop and wonder, what would happen if they were apart?

Tom had changed. Sam had noticed, how sad his brother had turned and only a few days ago how he had a smile back on.

Harry scoffed. “I said that, too.”

“What are you going to do with Emma?” Sam asked, because he didn’t want to feed into the Tom and y/n situation, it would give him a headache.

“I don’t know,” Harry shrugged. “I… don’t know. I don’t know because… I am angry because my problem with her started because of Tom and y/n and--” Harry’s glance was glazing, but he was trying to stop himself.

“And I hate it because I should’ve called her but I didn’t because I had all these doubts and I… never got my own closure and I just had to deal with it and accept it because Tom this, y/n that and… I just want to… I want to get back to Emma but I don’t know if I could because Emma is friends with Tim and guess what? That would bring trouble and-”

Sam crossed his arms, listening.

“Or-or what if my friendship with y/n still bothers her? Even if she’s friends with her, and--I don’t even know, because she came here and I don’t know if she’d ever come back to London.”

Harry was shattering.

“I don’t even-know how to talk to her, she’s a stranger and I… I never thought that would ever happen, and she is just so cold and she…I hurt her so much she decided to move to an entire different country, you realize that? Maybe because she didn’t want to see me anymore, I don’t know what she wants,” Harry continued as he plopped on his bed. “And I don’t… No, I do, I do care she slept with someone else because I know she did it just to prove me a point, I know that she hates me now.”

Sam thought about it again, he didn’t think Emma hated Harry. No, she couldn’t.

A laugh was heard, and it was undeniably Tom’s, followed by a remark by y/n. Both twins turned their head to the door. Sam decided to close the door, he needed to listen to his brother, the other wallflower.

Harry had this curse, he was ivy, and he was white cloves. He knew Emma had loved it before but she probably cursed him for it now. Harry often made everything happy, and sometimes happiness is the toughest emotion to bear, Harry would spread his happiness everywhere he could go, but lately he couldn’t, there was barely any anticipation and his heart had felt numb and empty. As if the time when Emma had left, his heart had an indentation waiting to be filled by her.

“I love her, and I was supposed to love her for a lifetime and—“Harry said. “And… Maybe I wish I could…” He squinted. “Did you hear him? That was Tom, he was laughing, right?”

Sam bit his inner cheeks. “Yeah.”

“How long do you think that will last?” Harry sighed. “Even if it doesn’t. How-how does he do that?”

Sam only frowned.

“Do you think if I show up to Emma and just smile at her everything will be fixed?” Harry questioned and then laughed at the statement.

Harry was tired of not knowing what to do. And he was tired that he wanted to fix everything, but he felt that if he even tried to, everything would fall down. Inconspicuously, Harry had tried to go along his whole life without messing things up and that led him to where he was standing right now.

Harry sighed, “do you think they are going to sit us down and walk us through their decision?” Harry inquired.

Sam rolled his eyes, “I think you should focus back on Emma.”

“Right,” Harry sighed. “I just—It wasn’t only the—you know, I’ve been thinking, and my downfall with Emma wasn’t only from the engagement party. It had been something very crafted,” Harry explained, as he paced around the room. “I—I need a beer,” Harry said, as he finally opened the door to head to the kitchen, Sam followed after.

They saw James and Clark, confused, still at the living room, they had probably seen y/n and Tom walking in.

“Any heads up?” Harry asked them.

James looked up and made out a noise that could be translated into an ‘I don’t know.’

Harry rolled his eyes. He was tired. He didn’t want to deal with them.

“Where are they?” Sam asked.

“They—walked in—“Clark started.

“Ignored us,” James added.

Clark chuckled, “they went to the kitchen, and then went outside, they didn’t ignore us, they were just—“

“Too busy staring into each other’s eyes,” James chanted with sarcasm.

“They were talking,” Clark cleared up. “I think we shouldn’t—“

“No, I wasn’t planning to, I don’t care about them right now,” Harry said heading to the kitchen, he could get a glance of them by the window, they seemed calm, which honestly were good news. At least they didn’t have to hear them screaming.

Harry opened the fridge to get a beer, and then leaned against the counter. Sam double glanced at the couple outside and then grabbed a beer for himself.

“They… They were fighting before,” said Harry. “And apparently they slept together, again,” Harry rolled his eyes. “I don’t understand how they do it,” Harry groaned as he stared at the cold beer in his hand.

Sam crossed his arms, “Stop avoiding it and explain why your downfall with Emma was even before the engagement party.”

Harry rolled his eyes and took a deep breath. “It was around the time, when I decided… Tim and I had both talked about it, alright? When he asked me about… Proposing to y/n,” Harry explained. “It was… “ Harry took a deep breath. “I think he was… the one to give me the idea,” Harry said.

The night Harry had decided he would marry Emma, he was so scared. Because he had been so sure for his entire life that he had been in love with y/n, when in reality it came no close to what he felt for Emma. He had been quiet about it.

Harry had once read we all fall in love with three people, the first time you ever love, you are young, it’s the first time you ever experience it, how silly it is to think of it. It feels so pure, and real and it’s incomprehensible, and looking back at it, you must think it wasn’t love. But it is, in its purest form because it’s so undeniably real and childish even. It’s the first time you encounter happiness. The time you learn to love.

Harry hadn’t been in love for all the time. He’d fallen out of love with her and fell back in love. The second time one falls in love is the one that breaks your heart. But they’re the person everyone expects you to love, the one flower that is pretty. The one that teaches lessons, the one that shows what pain is. You learn from it, what makes you grow, what doesn’t. Y/N had been the second one, too. The second love makes us learn what we love about love, good things, and what we don’t. This love is so powerful because it builds us, and we will often try and look back at it, because you might think it’s the one. And we can be blinded by their cold stare and try to fight for it, and though it brings a warm sunset, it’s not… It eventually dawns. The one when we learn about ourselves. The one that teaches us to love ourselves. The one before the one.

Then there’s the third one, the one you don’t expect, it hits without warning and one day you just… simply know it, and Harry had known it, so stupidly. It comes. The one that you don’t search for, the one that is just… right there for you, the one that you never thought you’d fall for. The one that tumbles down all of our walls because you can build a path together. It’s not who you usually like, it’s not like one of those crushes that you’ve had growing up, it brings the best of you. Because you find yourself in a field of all their flowers that have grown into your heart, and it’s beautiful, a dreamland. And you learn to love what you used to hate about love. It’s not the big flower, it’s the one flower you find along the way… the daisy.

That was Emma, all the flaws he loved, evergreen happiness even when everything might fall down. Covered with her, with those eyes that Harry wanted to see forever. So unexpected and now, he wanted her to be every book he read.

But he’d lost her.

“And I bought the ring,” Harry said. “But… Then I asked y/n what she thought,” Harry said. “Y/N was the one before the one,” he explained. “But we sometimes get confused, and… She told me not to marry Emma, and I doubted it. Because no one thought I should and I… I am here now hating myself because I tend to listen to everyone when all that mattered was I loved Emma, I still love her, and-”

Harry thought then, how ironic it was. Maybe that’s why Tom and y/n were out there talking, because it didn’t matter what anyone else thought. It was them who mattered and how they wished to go through it.

“I think I started doubting myself,” Harry said. “And then… it happened and…I lost her, I didn’t know because I was the fool who thought that y/n was the one… When, she never was, and I want to just… Jump to Emma and kiss her, just like they do it, so simply,” Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’d sacrifice everything for Emma.”

Sam blew his cheeks. “Why don’t you, then?”

Harry glanced up, “What? Pull a Tom and just show up and kiss her?”

Sma shrugged. “Yeah. Why don’t you? I mean, it’s worth the shot.”

And it was, maybe it had been the fact that he’d seen Tom and y/n working it out despite everything. Despite being so different, despite having every wall, they were out there tumbling it down. And maybe that’s what led him to be standing behind that door, staring at the daisy he never thought he would ever love but couldn’t think he could live without. For once, Harry had no doubts, for once Harry did not want to be a wallflower everyone took for granted to spread happiness.

“I…” Harry was shaking. But it had to be done and it had to be said. “I… I love you.”

And that was the one outcome Emma had not expected from that whole day. But she gave in anyway, finally giving in to kiss him. And for the first time, she became the sunflower.

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