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javiddenkins · 10 months

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Javid Denkins is not interested in answering questions.

It's 9:30 in the morning and I'm sitting across from Denkins in a conference room at the AMC Studios offices. Denkins declined to meet anywhere more personal than this beige and glass room, impersonal Muzak buzzing through the speakers, windows overlooking an empty studio lot. There are posters on the wall but none, strangely, for Blow the Man Down, the runaway hit Denkins conceived, writes, and now showruns.

Blow the Man Down, or BTMD as it's frequently referred to by fans and journalists alike, is a workplace comedy set in the Golden Age of Piracy. This unusual premise would be interesting enough even without the top-tier leads brought on by AMC to play opposing pirate captains Sam Bellamy and Olivier Levasseur—Oscar Issac and John Boyega light up the screen and bring surprising comedy chops to the pirate-filled stage they share with such talents as Michelle Yeoh ("Zheng Yi Sao") and Sam Neill ("Captain Benjamin Hornigold").

But beyond that, BTMD seems to be that rare thing in mainstream media: a slow romance between two middle-aged men finding love for the first time. The first—and so far, only—season ends on a cliffhanger, our heroes separated by an ocean but determined to reach one another, and their love story—if it is one—stays unresolved.

Usually an interview like this—between seasons, after renewal and filming but before advertising—would be the perfect opportunity to delve into the mind behind the magic and attempt to tease out hints about what's to come.

But Denkins seems determined to ignore Hollywood's traditional playbook.

Whether this is the standard conference room used for interviewing reluctant showrunners, or if Denkins picked it especially for the purpose, I'll never find out. I've already been waiting half an hour, uncertain if Denkins intends to join me at all. When he does finally arrive, he makes his position clear.

"I'm only doing this because you agreed to my terms," he says.

I'd describe what he looked like, if he had a coffee or a snack or a smoker's twitching nerves, if he sounded tired or amused or angry—but I can't. If you see a description here, it's because Denkins decided, for whatever reason, to approve it. Otherwise, sharing my impression of Denkins is off the table, one of many terms and conditions my editorial team and I had to agree to before Denkins would accept this meeting.

Denkins doesn't want to make my job easy. Photos of him do exist from the few red carpets he's attended; enthusiastic interviews with the cast, writers, and production team of BTMD definitely paint a picture that belies Denkins's apparent efforts to avoid perception. But here and now, in the oppressive air conditioning of the AMC offices, I am contractually obligated to interview a cipher.

If he can be all business, though, then so can I. I hit a button on my phone's recording app, set it down between us, and ask what made him decide to tell the story of an obscure pair of pirates like Sam Bellamy and Olivier Levasseur.

He shrugs. "Why does anyone write anything? This is my job."

It's not the kind of answer I was expecting. Something must show on my face, because he follows with, "That's unsatisfying, isn't it. No definitive answer."

"It's not what I expected," I hedge.

"What did you want to hear?"

I try to gather my thoughts, but I'm definitely stalling, uncertain that this is what Denkins intends. "I did a little research," I say. "Not as much as I imagine you did, but I found some of Bellamy and Levasseur's history together and, later, apart. Bellamy's ship is the only fully authenticated Golden Age shipwreck in the world, so it makes sense that the wrecking of the Whydah is an important turning point in season one. Levasseur, on the other hand, is best known for the mystery of his encoded treasure map, flung into the crowd at his hanging and only ever partially solved, which you seem to have used as a foundation for the coding and decoding motifs throughout. But for a show that seems determined to discuss the consequences of fame and reputation, it's fascinating that you've chosen two men most casual viewers have never heard of."

"Outside the narrative they built for themselves," Denkins corrects. "Is there a question in there?"

I remember again that Denkins isn't here to make this easy for me. "Why not choose one of the more well-known pirates of the era? Henry Morgan, Captain Kidd, and Blackbeard are all arguably more famous both now and when they were alive. What made you choose Bellamy and Levasseur for this story?"

"I think," Denkins says, "I just answered that. There's a difference between how you perceive yourself, and how the world perceives you. Those famous pirates retained their notoriety even after death. Sam and Ollie did have reputations when they were alive, but if people today know them at all, it's typically for reasons completely unrelated to whatever little fame they achieved in life."

"And that fascinates you?"

Denkins looks irritated. "It doesn't matter what fascinates me. That's the story, that's—look, I don't know how to write a puff piece like this," Denkins says. "I don't know if it would really sound like this, if anyone would bother caring enough about what I want to get this far."

"Excuse me?" I say.

"Do you honestly think," Denkins says, "there's a single journalist out there that would actually agree to these interview conditions? This is a fantasy, a what-if, and it still doesn't work."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," says Denkins, "I didn't even give you a name."

And that's true, I realize. I don't have a name.

"Right," says Denkins, as if hearing my thoughts—and I suppose, in a way, he does. "And you don't know how you got here, and you don't know where you'll go after. I made you up. I made all this up."

I look at my recorder, which isn't a recorder. I look at the room, which isn't a room.

"Okay," I say. "So what did you want to happen?"

Denkins taps my phone's screen to stop the recording. Denkins imagines me noticing that he taps the screen, and so this must have meaning. There is no room for junk words and actions in prose, and even less in television. Whatever's on the page has to have meaning, or it's wasted space, wasted time, a moment that could have been useful now gone and never coming back.

Denkins shoves my phone back to the center of the table and says, "I wanted to see if I could just talk about the story without making it about me."

"But you're part of it," I point out. "You have to be. It came from you. It was something you thought was important, and then you put the effort in to create it. The story exists because of you, in relation to you. That's why people, why fans, want to know more about you. They love the story, and you made it, so they want to love you, too."

"I don't like that," says Denkins. "Rephrase it."

"They love the story," I say, parroting back at my creator, "and you made it. They want to know about you so they can know more about what the story means."

Denkins's chair creaks as he pushes it back, puts his head in his hands. I wonder if he's doing that in the real world, too, in the place where he's imagining this interview that will never exist.

(Except I'm not the one wondering. He is. He's wondering what an interviewer would think of him if he allowed himself to show this weakness. Rephrase. Show this ache. Rephrase. Show this.)

"I'm not a story," Denkins says, face still hidden. The Muzak piped into the room seems too loud, too discordant now. Maybe that's what the world sounds like to him. "I'm not imaginary. I'm not a specimen to study under a microscope until every part of me is uncovered and connected one by one to every part of the show." He drags his hands back down and I think I can say that he looks very, very tired.

"Yes, maybe I put some of myself in Blow the Man Down," he continues. "Maybe I did in season two as well. Maybe I put something in The Gang, and maybe I'll put something into whatever else I make for the next fifty years. And what I put there is—will be—has to be—my choice. All things I chose to share. But this?" He waves a hand at the nonexistent conference room, at nonexistent me. "This isn't a choice. It's a demand. I'm being held hostage for answers, as if me keeping my boundaries somehow ruins the show, ruins the story."

"Because you're not a story," I repeat back, watching for confirmation. "Because what you choose to reveal is the only story the audience should need."

"Yes," says Denkins. "That's it."

That's not it, though. I know this, because I'm him, talking to himself. Thinking all this through.

"So you cut yourself off," I say. "No one can know anything about you, because they're already clawing for what you're not willing to share—so how much worse would it get if you gave them a chance to come closer, right?"

"To take, and get it wrong anyway," he says. "Or get it right, but not like it. Not like me. How I'm perceived might change how the story is perceived. And even skipping over the whole art of it all—this is a business. How the story is perceived affects dozens, if not hundreds of people and careers. And all of it can get destroyed in an instant if there's some aspect of me that the audience decides is wrong."

Denkins pushes back from the table, stands up as if to leave. I'm not done yet, though. He's not done yet.

"Sounds lonely," I say.

"Sounds like something a fan would say," he shoots back, and I shrug.

"Blame yourself for thinking it and making me say it, then. It sounds lonely. It is lonely. It's lonely to think there's no way that you could open yourself up, talk about who you are and what your art means to you, without feeling like someone, everyone, will take advantage of that vulnerability."

I pause, and in that pause I find something to latch onto. "You've imagined me," I say. "You've imagined this scenario, where you stay cut off and oblique and hidden." I pick up my phone from where it's placed between us, and I shut it down completely—not because it exists, but because it's a symbol he understands. "What would happen if you imagined being part of the story?" I ask. Rephrase. "What would happen if you imagined being free?"

We look at each other. The tinny music of this artificial space comes to a sudden halt.

Denkins leaves the room.

I am—

Denkins comes back. He sits down. He looks at me.

Time doesn't exist in the beige and glass room. But behind him, now, there is a poster of Sam Bellamy and Olivier Levasseur, a drilled coin on a cord stretched taut between them. And the Muzak hasn't restarted.

Denkins looks different. Or maybe he just feels different. Those things are functionally the same, here.

"You know the old movie trailers?" Denkins starts, not really a question. "The ones that start with 'in a world…'"

I nod.

He smiles a little. "Okay. In a world where Blow the Man Down doesn't exist. Let's say there's something else instead. Let's say it's called Our Flag Means Death. It's a workplace comedy, it's the Golden Age of Piracy, the works. They even manage to kiss in the first season, though the cliffhanger is worse. And in that world, there's a different guy who runs it, a guy named David Jenkins, who seems nicer and more outgoing and shares a lot more of himself than I do. And I think it goes mostly okay for him, except he has to scrub his social media, delete most of his Instagram, and never gets to name his wife anywhere in case a fan might notice and start following her around."

"Sounds grim," I say.

He shrugs. "It's another way of handling it. David, in that world, has made a choice to draw the enemy fire toward himself, instead of hiding away and letting it scatter at random. It seems to work okay for him, and maybe it would for me too, but, you know. Maybe that's a little of myself I gave Ollie. Because I also like the idea of testing something first, all the way to destruction."

A little of myself. This—this is personal information. Something that, in the negotiations that never happened, he said he'd never give me.

My phone, with its blackened screen, is right there. I keep my hands still, folded together, decidedly not reaching for the phone. Denkins watches, sees. His shoulders loosen; neither of us, I think, realized how tense he'd been.

"In that world," he says, "there's a second season coming that no one knows anything about and there's a fandom going feral. Echo chambers that feed off their own theories because there's nothing new to add to the pot. Just like our world, right? In the absence of good data, overwrought ideology works just as well.

"And in the middle of this, to provide a distraction, maybe, or to draw that enemy fire like he so often does, David Jenkins says he'll get a Tumblr—you know, one of those not-really-social-media internet places. And maybe he does. He doesn't tell anyone his username, so it's a mystery whether he really did it or not. But someone opens an account. And someone says they're definitely not David Jenkins."

Javid Denkins is holding a cup of coffee. So am I, now. We take sips, mirrors of each other. The coffee tastes like it has seven sugars in it.

Denkins swirls his cup gently, not looking up at me. "When you're trying to figure out something that's terrifying," he says, slow and careful, "and enraging, and so big and so much that it feels like you'll collapse under the weight of it…sometimes you need to find a way to conceptualize it more abstractly. Make it manageable. Put it in bite-sized chunks.

"So instead of me, dealing with all this fame, and these expectations, and these pulls to turn me from a person into a plot point…maybe there's this other guy. In this other universe, with this other pirate show. Another writer, who says he's definitely not David Jenkins. But—he could be. He could be. And either way, there's enough uncertainty that the fandom can't tell right away."

"Schrödinger's showrunner," I say.

Denkins tips his mug at me. "Yeah, that gets pointed out, too. Because either it's really him and the fandom will eat at him—death by a thousand needy bites of demand, and something that feels like connection but by its nature can't be—or it's not him, just a fan pretending to be him, attention-seeking, scamming, stealing unearned laurels to crown a meaningless triumph: successfully mimicking the concept of David Jenkins."

"Pretty binary."

Denkins shrugs. "You saw the first season. I'm a sucker for duality."

He hums and looks out the conference room's window. The AMC lot is gone. More accurately, it was never there. Outside the window is an ocean. The water is green-screen perfect, and there are two tall-masted ships in the distance: Bellamy's Whydah Gally and Levasseur's La Louise. They float angled toward one another, counterpart to their captains on the poster behind Jenkins, missing only the drilled coin between them.

"Except," says Denkins, slow and musing as he watches the distant ships, "in the vast multiverse of imaginable possible outcomes, it turns out that there is the very slimmest possible chance of a third thing happening."

There is another ship floating now between the Whydah and La Louise. It's freshly painted, poorly rigged, and its figurehead is a unicorn. Instead of one flag, it has half a dozen. And I know, because Denkins knows, that instead of gunpowder in its hold, it carries jars and jars of harmless marmalade.

"So," I say, "David Jenkins—"

"Oh, definitely not David Jenkins," says Javid Denkins, amusement lighting up his face. He keeps his eyes on that third ship.

"So the person who is definitely not David Jenkins," I say. "He comes and starts a social media account. He answers questions."

"Sort of. Nothing specific, really. Just…narrative likelihoods. Enough to dangle hope. But the fandom wants more. There's a Richard Siken line he sees, that if he'd chosen to stay anonymous maybe he could've actually posted: 'but monsters are always hungry, darling.' It's like that. So he backs up a little, and considers how to hold off the inevitable. The season two hints are vague? Make them vaguer. Add some smoke and mirrors to hide how little substance they have. There are only so many general pirate tropes around? Stretch out how long it takes to get the ones he has. Add steps. Add puzzles. Make the fandom work for it, and maybe they won't notice how little there is to find. Give them an interesting enough box to open, and they'll ignore the fact that there isn't an answer on the inside, just another, smaller box." He tilts his head and looks at me. The light outside is now luminous pink and yellow, flashing off the water and highlighting his face like a duotone painting. "Then he…" Denkins sighs. Puts down his mug. "Then I sit back and see what happens. I see if it's as bad as I think it would be if I did it here, in the real world."

"And is it?"

Denkins reaches out with one hand, tugging my phone over to his side of the table. He starts fiddling with the buttons, attention on it instead of me. "To start with? Yes. And no. It didn't matter that the one thing I promised was that I wasn't David Jenkins. They—the fandom—found me anyway. They assumed I was him. And I was right, of course I was right, they asked me questions. Hundreds of them. Like that was the only reason I existed, like I couldn't just be a regular person like the rest of them, just on Tumblr to read about the Carpathia and get taken out by the color of the sky."

"For better or for worse, you're a public person," I say. "They think they know what it means when a public person breaks down the barrier between themselves and the fans. Even well-meaning people make assumptions."

The recorder is no longer a phone and app; it's an old cassette player with thick plastic buttons like I, or more accurately Denkins, had as a child. It matches the ones his elementary school classrooms had, which in turn looked like the device Mr. Spock carried at his hip to record and interpret data from strange new worlds.

Denkins, in the here and now, half-presses the play and record buttons, which would trigger the record function if pushed down completely. He holds back. Riding the edge of commitment. Over and over.

"Yeah," he says. "Yes. That's true. And I could've been completely anonymous if I wanted to be left alone entirely. I suppose I wanted to prove that everything I believe—everything I'm afraid of—is true, and that I'm justified in hiding away, refusing to be 'known' by anyone I haven't specifically agreed to. Hence the thought exercise. And when I was done, and I had my proof," he says, leaving off the recorder buttons to raise a pointed finger at me, "I wouldn't have to see you again either."

We look at each other. "But here you are," I say.

He laughs. It's rusty, but sure. "Here I am," he agrees.

"So what happened?"

"Turns out," he says, "that in that infinite universe of possibilities a writer can dream up, there's a world where, yes, all my worst fears are confirmed…but that's not all that happens."

He stops, and we are both silent for a long, long moment. His fingertips brush over the recorder buttons, repetitive and soothing, like he's calming something feral and unused to human touch.

"Would you believe," he says at last, hushed and small in this glass and beige room floating on a digital sea, "that there is a world where fans—people—don't ask for more than I want to give? Who see the box I'm in, and instead of ripping it open to grasp for whatever good thing they think they can find inside…they give something back.

"I played it all out, you see." He waves his hand over the recorder. Now there are two of them, sitting side by side, each with a row of thick black plastic buttons along the edge: one to play, one to rewind, one to record, and one to pop open its lid so that the cassette can be changed. One of the recorders is a little bigger than the other. "If I can imagine it," he says, "it has to be possible."

He looks at the two recorders; he's quiet now, talking to himself rather than me. I don't think I'm as necessary as I was before. I think maybe this is just him. Just Denkins in this lonely little room. He moves the smaller recorder so that it's lined up with the larger one, like he's lining up Matryoshka dolls as he reveals them.

"It started small," he says. "There were people who saw my puzzles, and made puzzles back for me, just to play along. People who saw my puzzles, and shared what they knew about them, just to help others play too. Small things. Little things. Possible things. I liked it. I didn't expect it. I…wanted to give back, too. Not just in the story, I mean. It was me who wanted it. Wanted to add to a world, to a community, where that sort of giving could happen. So I went further. I didn't just try to hint at common story beats this other show might hit—I started listening, following, asking what would be most welcome, and then gave that instead. And it grew. It grew until it wasn't really just an experiment anymore. It stopped being an adversarial proof. It started being…something else."

Denkins reaches out, and now there are three recorders on the table. The newest one is the smallest. He lines it up with the others.

"I'd already made David Jenkins," he says, "and in turn he'd made his own Javid Denkins. So why not do it again? This other Javid Denkins, this me who's me but not me, goes deeper. He uses the tools at his disposal. Our Flag Means Death has pirates named Edward Teach and Stede Bonnet. OFMD has a fandom like BTMD does, where people write stories about the characters, for themselves and—for others. Fan fiction. A thing that can be a gift, if you want it to be. So I started to write one."

One by one, Denkins hits the 'play' button on each of the recorders. The cassettes whir, a steady background hum. Each starts playing a part of some orchestral piece. Not the individual instruments, but something stranger. It's as if each cassette contains the whole work, but with fragments missing that the others complete. There are still some gaps in the playback.

Denkins waves his hand over the collection again, and a fourth recorder, smallest of all, appears. He presses play on it too, and the music fills in. It's a pretty little melody. Simple, if you know how to hear it.

Denkins hums a little of it before looking up, seeing me again. "That was it, really. That's what finally made all this small enough for me to understand. Made it small enough, far enough away from my actual world that I could finally let myself feel it. In this story that I'm telling, here is Edward Teach." Denkins touches the smallest recorder very, very gently. "Teach lives in a world where he's not the main character; he's just a fan of a gay pirate romcom called Blow the Man Down. He's tired, and he's angry, and he doesn't know how to deal with the world the way it is, with the fandom as he perceives it. He makes a Twitter account, anonymously, to prove that what he fears is real."

Denkins covers the recorder with both hands, only muffling the music a little. "Here's Edward Teach, made up of all my fears and saying them out loud."

He raises his hands, and now there are two little recorders, the same size, both playing the same parts together. He touches the new recorder with his fingertip, as if it's a bubble that could too easily break. "Here's Stede Bonnet," he says, "made up of all my fears coming true. And then having to live through it anyway." He stares down at this new recorder; the same as the Edward Teach one, but evidently special in some way to Denkins. He says, to me, to it, to the room: "It's a hell of a thing, to need to go so far away just to see what you've been carrying on your back the whole time."

After a moment, he looks back up at me. "In my story," he says, "Stede survives the disaster. My disaster. He survives it, because he has Ed—a love interest, yes, but not just that. He's someone he opened up to. And more than that, I saw—because I could imagine it, and so it must be possible, it has to actually be possible—I saw the fandom become…people."

With both hands, Denkins presses a button on each of these two small recorders.

Their lids pop open.

And from the walls, from the ceiling, from the glass windows and the limitless sea, there comes a multiverse of music.

"These people," says Denkins, tilting his head to listen as the swells of unseen instruments add to the gentle overture of his pocket worlds and turn the piece into something greater than the sum of its parts. "They're not some nameless collective made up of their worst impulses. They're just people. People are complicated. You can never know them completely; they can never know you. All you really get is what they—we—choose to do.

"And I saw people try to help Stede. People, strangers, who didn't know who he was, not really. And they felt compassion anyway."

After a long moment, just taking in the music, Denkins sighs and carefully closes the lids on the two small recorders. The singing universe becomes just a recorded orchestral piece once again—though no less beautiful for it. He gently pushes the two recorders together until they're touching, side by side, and covers them with his hand. He says, "Ed got to see this. He got to know that even if his worst fear happens, he'll be okay on the other side of it. And he won't be alone."

He lifts his hand; the two are now one, still playing its little melody.

Denkins picks up this amalgamated recorder and sets it on top of the next largest. He puts his hand over the stack he's just made. "Move it up a level," Denkins says. "David Jenkins, or someone who is definitely not David Jenkins, runs a Tumblr with games and puzzles and digital tools that stretch the boundaries of the narrative. He sees the reactions to his story. Sees fans who know it isn't real, who know that Stede and Ed are characters in a narrative—and nevertheless, these fans, these people, see that these characters are hurting. They try to help. They don't know who's behind the masks labeled 'Stede' and 'Ed,' not really. But they feel compassion anyway."

He lifts his hand. The little recorder atop the larger is gone. The music is different. Not lessened, but changed. It's come closer.

Once more, Denkins moves the smaller combined recorder onto the last one—or, I suppose, the first of all of them. "So move it up one more time," he says. The music isn't audible in the room now; but I hear it anyway. It's in me. Us. The last little notes coming from the final recorders just a reminder of what the world could sound like.

He covers the top recorder with both hands. His touch is aching and very, very soft. "Here's me. Javid Denkins. I don't know if there's a world where I could open myself up and not have everything burn down in flames. I don't know if it could ever be possible for me to leave this room, open my laptop, and start something, somewhere, called 'definitely not Javid Denkins,' and have it be as beautiful and awe-inspiring as it was in my thought experiment.

"But God," he says, "I want it."

He lifts his hands, and all that's left is the final recorder, the one that was my phone to begin with. The music dissipates completely. But the feeling of it remains. Denkins rests his hands on either side of this solitary recorder. He says, "I don't know if all of that—all of them, my fans, my friends, all of what we made together…I don't know if it already exists for me in the real world. Just waiting for me to be brave enough to look. I don't know. But I think I have to believe that it does. That they do. I have to believe that it's possible not just to imagine that kind of grace, but to live it."

Denkins brushes his thumb over the last recorder's play button. "I think that's what it means to be human," he says. "To try anyway. To unlock yourself despite your fears, and find hope there waiting for you."

He closes his eyes. I close my eyes. We take a deep breath together.

We open our eyes.

After a moment, I smile at Denkins, a little crooked. I've got one last question to ask, and it's one he might even answer.

"Who are you, really?" I ask.

It's something we all have to answer about ourselves eventually, and it seems particularly relevant now.

Denkins shrugs, and his smile mirrors mine. "Does it matter?"

"It feels like it does."

"How about this," he says. "Who are you, really?"

And knowing what I know now…if I'm anyone at all, then I suppose I'm Javid Denkins. An aspect. A reflection. A dream.

And so, in these universes he's imagined, is everyone.

"So," Denkins says. "You think I can start over?"

I smile wider. It feels good. "I'd love that."

He pushes the recorder back to me, and in my heart I hear his laughing request for one last rephrase—

Javid Denkins has been waiting for me.

It's 9:30 in the morning and I'm sitting across the table from a cheerful enigma. Denkins was already in the room when I arrived, a hot coffee by my seat and a box filled with fresh breakfast pastries and marmalade open and ready to be enjoyed. An advertising standup emblazoned with the unreleased (at time of writing) air date for season two of Denkins's Blow the Man Down takes pride of place at the head of the table. Through the windows opposite, bright sunlight bounces off the buzzing AMC studio lot, and I think I hear a certain pirate romcom's theme music playing quietly over the room's speakers.

Denkins grins at me, and it's easy to see why his actors and writers speak so highly of the experience of working with him. Because I can tell already: this is going to be fun.

It starts when he leans forward, eyes bright, and presses the record button on my phone for me.

"Let's play," he says, and—we do.

#definitely not david jenkins #definitely not javid denkins #btmd #ofmd

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sweaterweatherever · 1 year

Note

could you maybe do a Tyler request that's sort of similar to the This Thing of Ours but when Tyler turns on Wednesday the reader sides with him because they've had their own agenda the whole time? im so sorry if it's too broad i just thought it would b an idea for more Tyler ones!!

Master (Tyler Galpin x Reader)

Pairing: Tyler Galpin x AFAB Reader

Warnings: Reader’s mother gets killed. Cursing. Canon typical violence. Reader gets a gun. Dark reader, dark Tyler. Smut. Masturbation. Unprotected vaginal sex. Don’t try any of this at home. Aged up characters.

A/N: I always thought any kind of prank enjoyed by high schoolers was mean, so I stand by saying Tyler has a mean streak. After this we are taking a break from him. Also, wordy, and don’t throw guns on the floor, they might go off. Been getting bolder with the whole monster fucker thing.

Requested: Yep. What better agenda than revenge? Also, to the shadows + stalking anon.

You never liked the barista at the Wethervane. He was, much like every other normie in Jericho, an asshole. You had been in the town long enough to notice. Sure, now everyone was buying his good guy act, but you remembered. You would always remember.

You see, you two had met when you both were little. Your mom used to be around the Galpin’s a lot, since she worked as a secretary on the Sheriff’s department. Often, she had to drop papers for the Sheriff to sign off, and that made her meet Tyler’s mother. Francoise was a lovely woman, but there was a sadness to her, a loneliness, that wouldn’t go away. She desperately needed friends. In a tiny town like Jericho, being an outcast and a single mother wasn’t easy, so your mom wasn’t popular either. She tried not to advertise the fact, but it was evident that something was off about her, with the way you both seemed to suck the light of every room you stepped into.

Two lonely women, who saw each other frequently. The result was predictable: They bonded over their shared characteristics, started meeting for coffee. Both mothers, both outcasts, even if you didn’t know it at the time. Unfortunately for you, it’s a truth universally know that every pair of mothers who become friends try to set up a play date for their children.

At five years old, you had been a very different creature than what you were now. You had been quiet, shy even, and obsessed with dolls. You spent hours dressing them, brushing their hair, playing pretend. Normal child behavior, even if a bit of your mother’s isolation from the world showed in the fact you weren’t used to playing with others. Tyler, though, he was. Typical boy, rowdy, loud and not normal. There was something in the way he moved, his smile showing far too pointy canines for a six-year-old, that made your senses stand on edge. A bully, you thought, seeing him for the first time. He looked like the boys who pushed girls down the slide at the park just to scare them.

In his mother’s eyes, Tyler could do no wrong. To Francoise, his toothy grin was just excitement, his odd way of moving was simply a boy being a boy. She was overjoyed she had been able to carry him to term, Francoise explained to your mother, she had such weak health. She always woke up tired, these days, with unexplained bruises and leaves in her hair. Maybe she was going crazy, perhaps she was anemic, possibly a sleepwalker, the doctors said. And so, she didn’t notice the little monster she was raising.

You had been told to be nice, to be friendly. Your mother liked Francoise, and wouldn’t it be nice if you got a friend of your own? The idea certainly appealed to you, made you willing to try. Maybe Tyler wasn’t so bad, Miss Katherine at school always said you shouldn’t judge a book by his cover.

“Do you want to play?” You had asked, offering him one of your dolls. Tyler had shaken his head.

“Dolls are silly.” Tyler said to you, shocking you deeply. You loved your dolls, and your mom, who was very into the early stimulation trend for kids, had always encouraged you to play with them, making up scenarios. It was good for creativity, she said. You didn’t know what the word meant yet, but it sounded fancy and adult like. You guessed it was a good thing. “They are for little girls.”

You wanted him to think you were cool, you wanted him to like you. A friend, mom had said. A friend of your own, someone to play with, a kid who wouldn’t be weirded out by the way your mere presence made the shadows get bigger and the fact that you weren’t afraid of the dark. So, you asked:

“What can we play?”

“Hide and seek!” He smiled, showing a toothy grin. Tyler was missing his front left teeth, and it made him look softer, endearing. It also highlighted your slight age difference, to a kid, a year was a lifetime. Older was almost always synonymous with cool, too.

“Sure.” You answered, looking around his backyard. You had never played hide and seek before, but you had watched other kids do it. The backyard was small, with not really many places to hide.

“Come on!” Tyler had said, and grabbed your hand, pulling you towards the path that lead to the forest. You didn’t protest, even knowing you would get in trouble if your mother found out. Even if the darkness did not scare you, even if shadows were your friends, she didn’t like you wandering around on your own. There were men with guns there, and bears. And not, like, Pooh. Mean bears. “I’ll count!”

Tyler seemed to know his way around the forest better than most kids your ages, but so did you. He started to lead you deeper into the trees, in twisting paths that made it hard to remember where were you.

“I’ll count to ten, and you have to hide, and not come out until I find you.” Tyler explained. “You can hide in a cave or something.” He added, a hint of maliciousness on his tone. Jericho’s forest was full of caves, unusually so.

“I…” Your expression probably told him you weren’t sure about it because he pounced on the perceived weakness.

“Don’t be a baby!” Tyler laughed. It sounded strange, mean even, in the quiet of the forest. Even in broad daylight, the only thing that could be heard was the chirping of some birds. “Or are you scared of the dark?”

“No. I’m not.” Tyler didn’t respond, instead choosing to start counting. You hurried to find a place to hide, deciding to stay behind a tree. The silent felt strange, the whole thing was weird. You were hyper alert to any sound, from the crunching of the leaves to the way the wind blew between leaves.

“Nine.” He waited a bit, his voice sounded excited. Maybe it was the way the sound carried here what made it sound so unusual, twisting around the trees and into the open, the city’s noise far away. “Ten! Here I come!” His sneakers crunched on the leaves, sounding closer than ever. Your heart raced in your chest, a ringing in your small ears. You had never seen the point of the game before, but you knew some people liked getting scared, that was what scary movies were for, your mom told you.

You ran away, ducking just in time behind another tree, pushing your hands against your mouth to avoid making noise. Tyler approached again, and so, it got started. There was something odd, something wrong with this. You didn’t feel like you were playing a game, you felt like if he caught up with you, something bad would happen. Like the scariest thing in the forest was him. Back then, you were too young to understand, but you felt hunted. Like he was a predator and you were nothing more than prey.

After a while, you found yourself in front of a cave. Just as you hesitated whether you should enter or not, someone pushed you in and frightened you terribly. You barely felt the tiny hands against your back. You fell, knees scraping against the stone. A little scream left your throat, and you tried to turn around to get out, lips trembling and eyes filling with tears. But just as you were about to exit the cave, a rock rolled in front of it, taking all the light with it. There was only one other person that could be responsible for this, and only one person that knew where you were. What if you never got out now?

Your first instinct was panic. Like any normal five-year-old, you didn’t like enclosed spaces, and much less being trapped. But instead of screaming, you remembered the reason all other kids hated you, why you were so alone: Because shadows were your friends. You took a deep breath and stayed very calm. Your eyes got used to the dark quickly, much like a cat would. With this, you realized two things. The cave was small, so much you could barely stand inside it. And the thing at the door? It wasn’t a rock. It was only cardboard. Feeling very silly once again, you pushed it away, and crawled out, into the expecting arms of Tyler.

“You aren’t crying.” He stated, looking at your ruined pair of jeans, bloody at the knees, and your tearless face. Tyler seemed angry, cheeks red, as if your lack of tears offended him. You hated him then.

“You are mean.” You said, with all the seriousness and insulting tone a five-year-old could have. “I don’t like you.”

“Oh, did baby got scared?” One of his hands went to tangle in your hair, tugging hard on your ponytail. “If you snitch, you get stitches.”

The sting brought tears to your eyes, but you stared him down anyway.

“Stay away from me! I’m telling my mom!”

“Baby is scared.” Tyler gave you a mocking, concerned look. You took a step back. There was something in his eyes that scared you, a darkness no six-year-old should have. ”If you tell, you will hurt.” And with one last push that made you stumble, he walked away.

You stayed in the forest, and only when he got far enough not to hear you anymore, you broke down and started sobbing. Safe to say, you never played with him again.

You feared Tyler for long afterward. Your fear of him only got better in middle school, when the year between you seemed less like an unbreachable distance. Tyler got sneakier at getting his way, then. He ran with the popular crowd, the one likely to bully and play nasty pranks on younger students and eventually, outcasts. Tyler was an asshole, but one that had gotten better at masking his intentions, behind the mask of a popular boy. Everyone was charmed by him, but you didn’t forget the way his eyes had made you feel, years ago.

Unknown to you, Tyler watched you, too. Your lack of fear and ability to keep a clear head when he had tried to scare you made you intriguing. He didn’t forget the defiance in your eyes when he had pulled your hair hard enough to make you shed tears. At first, it had been intrigue. No other kid had resisted him before, girl or boy. A tiny slip of a thing like you, managing to get out by herself? That had caught his attention. He had wanted to scare you so badly, but never acted on those impulses, even when he had plenty of opportunities. You sat alone at recess all the time, and never noticed him watching you. Then, adolescence started, and he got hormones. You had been brave as a five-year-old, and now you were brave and pretty, slowly blossoming into womanhood. His first crush was on you. But you never once looked at him.

Tyler’s mom died when you just got into high school. Your mother grieved her deeply, but never once shared the secret of what had killed her with you. Tyler got nastier. Alcohol, grief, and the usual power plays of high school added gasoline to his fire, he was everyone’s favorite bad boy. He went through girls like they were disposable, using and discarding them. His friends and he got drunk, pulled stupid pranks, targeting the outcasts from the nearby school more and more. His father made him untouchable, and you knew, you knew Sheriff Galpin regretted the path both had walked on. It was about that time you got into Nevermore, and started keeping a closer eye on him. If he did something terrible, were you responsible too? For not speaking up, despite knowing what he was capable of?

You never talked to him. But you knew he was keeping an eye on you. Out of all your friend group in Nevermore, you were the only one who never got targeted by his gang. It was so noticeable, people started to talk about it. You refused to comment, but you knew, you knew, it wasn’t out of friendship or some misplaced guilt. It was because he liked making you uncomfortable, liked the rumors going around, that you were his. Liked seeing you scared, trembling, every time a prank fell on one of your friends, and you ended up unscathed. He liked scaring you with the anticipation of what was to come.

Then, he went too far. Picture the scene. Outreach day, sunny skies, volunteers everywhere. Your post was at the Pilgrim World, serving tourists. A kid, a popular one at that, gets asked to paint a mural. He does, and does it well. So of course, Tyler has to go and ruin it. The charges are as follows: Destruction of private property, vandalism, assault. He is the son of the Sheriff, and Jericho’s high golden boy. A young man with a promising future, the star of the football team. His dad calls some favors, he is white and charming. The charges get dropped, no smear on his record, but off to bootcamp he goes.

For the first time in years, you breathe in relief. Finally, you don’t have to look over your shoulder all the time, answer pointed questions as to what exactly your relationship with him was. Because it’s good, too good to be true, someone has to go and ruin it.

Your mother’s funeral takes place in a sunny day, for Jericho’s standards. It feels almost mocking, to the woman she was, to the woman in which you are becoming. The kind of woman who sucks all light in a room. Your father’s new, normie, uncomplicated wife, stands next to you, two young pretty things in mourning. You hate her, oh, how you hate her.

“We want to avoid uprooting you, sweetheart. Nevermore is the best school in the country for people like you.” Your father explains, as he moves to your mother’s bedroom, as he puts his new wife on the bed. “But you can’t stay here alone, either… What happened to your mother… Jericho’s a dangerous place.”

It’s always like that. What happened to your mother, her tragic passing, she was taken from you too young. It’s never the cold, hard truth you desperately need. Some psycho killed your mother, injection of poison right at the neck. But no one says that. No one dares say your mother was murdered, no one dares speak without pretty euphemisms. You understand Tyler’s anger then.

You learn things, in the following months. First, that your reaction isn’t normal. Normal teenagers don’t obsess over revenge when their mothers are killed. Off to therapy you go. Then, that poison is a woman’s weapon. Easy, clean, no need for overpowering. Third, breaking in and stealing case files is ridiculously easy when the Sheriff has a soft spot for you, remembering how your mother used to be friends with his wife, her tragic passing and your uncanny resemblance. Fourth, that the psycho who killed your mother wasn’t satisfied with injecting her with a syringe filled with concentrated Nightshade, but that they also took her hand. As if killing her wasn’t enough, as if they needed to profane her body too.

The new herbology teacher shows up. Her special interest in your abilities, the plants she keeps in her greenhouse, the fact that is a she. It all drags you to a disgusting conclusion: You think she did it, but you can’t prove it. And if it wasn’t enough with danger lurking the halls of Nevermore, you cross paths once again with the monster in your nightmares.

You are coming out of Doctor Kinbott’s office, after a long and tiring talk about your relationship with your stepmother. You like the doctor. She always has a cup of hot chocolate for you, and cookies. She is nice, she smiles at you, uncaring that when you are uncomfortable the lights flicker and the room gets darker. You open up to her.

“Hi.” Tyler says your name, repeats it even, but you are too busy gawking at him to respond. His hair is shorter, and he has gotten taller and more muscled. Bootcamp did him good. If before he was handsome, now he is even prettier. You know half the town must be swooning for him. The darkness in his eyes, though, it is unchanged. Tyler tries to hide it behind a polite smile, but you can tell he is thrilled at your reaction.

The cup of hot chocolate slips through your hands, shattering against the floor, liquid staining the carpet. You drop to your knees, trying to clean it up, and he kneels next to you. “Careful.” Tyler says, grabbing your wrist, and you scramble back so hard and fast, you hand cuts with one of the porcelain pieces. Blood drips down your fingers and into his. “We don’t want you cutting yourself, but it is too late for that…” He finishes. His pupils dilate, nostrils flaring, almost if he can smell your fear, but you refuse to back away once again and give him the satisfaction. You freeze in his grasp. A bunny under headlights.

“Oh, dear!” Doctor Kinbott says, lured out of her office by all the ruckus. “It seems you have met each other in quite the way!” She laughs, high and airy. “Nine and half, meet ten and half!”

That brings you out of your daze, and you get up on unsteady legs. You mutter something polite. Tyler, ever the gentleman, helps you to your feet. You cradle your injured hand, shake his. Your blood stains his fingers. You look up at him and keep the eye contact: You both know what it means. I will be watching.

Doctor Kinbott is your safe place. You can tell her almost all that troubles you, almost all because you keep secret your nagging suspicions about Mrs. Thornhill. And so, you tell her about Tyler.

“I don’t like him.” You say to her, after your fourth run in with him in a week. Turns out, now he is the barista at the Weathervane, the only café in town. Can’t you just catch a break? “He… He scares me.”

“Why do you think that is?” She asks, eyes soft and never judging. “Is it because he saw you here or because he has shown interest in you?” Of course, she thinks you are afraid of everyone knowing you go to therapy or intimacy.

“No. You have to promise not to tell him, though…” You offer and she smiles at you brightly.

“Patient – Therapist confidentiality is a given here, even if the other person involved is also my patient. I would never discuss something you tell me with him. This is a safe space.” The doctor smiles kindly, and slides you another cookie. You don’t take it.

“It is because we met before. And he made me feel like prey.” You clutch your hot chocolate closer, and start telling her the story of Tyler Galpin.

Kinbott thinks you should be away from Tyler. She doesn’t tell you what he has told her, but you know the story you told her has made the missing piece of the puzzle fit into place. She moves his appointment to Saturdays instead. Not only that, but she looks afraid. For your safety, maybe? She talks to your dad, and he starts escorting you in and out the building, and when the semester starts, that duty falls to principal Weems.

You start watching him, obsessively, then. The shadows have always been your friends, they don’t mind helping you. You sneak out of Nevermore, and sit long hours perched on the ledge of a nearby building, doing homework and stealing glances at him working behind the counter. It’s soothing, being the one watching for a chance. You feel safer, knowing exactly where he is at a given time, cloaked in your shadows. Doctor Kinbott remains unknowing of your new habit because you know she would want you to stop. She would be both concerned because it’s unhealthy and because she thinks Tyler will hurt you. She is right on both accounts.

One day, your normal routine is interrupted because a car pulls over at the Weathervane. Your heart accelerates, beating harder and harder when you realize who is driving. The redheaded, awful, bitch that murdered your mother. You consider warning Tyler, when you see him being friendly to her, but decide against it because you aren’t sure who out of the two of them is more dangerous.

After that, your stalking gets more intentional. They have to be planning something, it’s weird how much time they spend together. She… She seems to like him, she handles him in a way that makes you want to scream, or tell his father. There is something in the way Thornhill touches him that feels dirty, her hands like claws on his arm, his shoulders, anywhere she can reach. You shouldn’t worry about him, this terror of a boy, but you do. The thoughts get confusing, and so, you decide to drop your stalking habits.

The day is an unusually cold one, and so, your friends decide to make a stop at the Weathervane. You don’t have an excuse to wait outside, with the first drops of rain starting to fall. You burrow yourself more inside your coat and trail after Divina and Kent into the café.

“…I’m thinking of getting a caramel latte, and maybe a cinnamon roll?” Divina chatters on, excitedly. She is overjoyed, she has always loved rain. Any water is good water, that’s what sirens always say.

“Don’t you think is way too much sugar? Your teeth will rot.” Kent answers, pulling the door open for the both of you. “What do you think?” He asks you, and you try to form a coherent response that surpasses your fight or flight instinct.

“Yeah, yeah. Next thing you know, she gets diabetes.” You answer, but your attention is not in the conversation. Instead, it is in the boy behind the counter.

Tyler looks just about the same as always, brown polo shirt clinging to his shoulders, apron neatly tied back. But the bruises and the scratches on his arms, those are new. So is the look of pure panic he is sporting, trying to hide it behind a mask of normalcy you know too well. The same one you have worn every day since your mother was murdered. Something rumbles in your stomach, something both possessive and dark. He isn’t supposed to be scared, Tyler is the one to inspire terror in others, not the reverse. And if he is going to be scared, why should other people have the satisfaction? You deserve his fear, after spending twelve years of your life fucking terrified of him from his stunt in the woods. Besides you, no one should be able to scare him.

“We will have a caramel latte, a mocha with an extra shot of espresso and a chai tea. Also, two cinnamon rolls.” Divina says, without even saying good morning. It doesn’t sit right with you. Your policy with anyone working customer service is treating them like a person. Divina is not mean or rude, but she doesn’t think before she speaks most of the time. So, even if this is Tyler, alias your personal nightmare, Galpin, you feel the need to add:

“Good morning, and please.” And smile a little, too. Tyler smiles back, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He isn’t paying attention, not even to you. You try to make small chat, but he shifts and avoids any attempt at it. Maybe he thinks this is a power play, too.

When he extends his hand to pass Divina the change, you notice his wrist is purple and green, almost as if he were held too roughly. You wonder what could possibly leave bruises in a pattern so odd.

“Man, did you see his bruises?” Divina loudly whispers when you are walking back to the table. You say nothing. Next to you, Kent snickers.

“Yeah. Who knew Jericho’s golden boy was that kinky?”

“What are you talking about?” You really don’t understand what they are talking about, but their silly mood is contagious. You can’t help but smile.

“Oh, you sweet summer child…” Divina pats your hair. “The bruises on his wrists, those are from shackles.”

Kent laughs. Suddenly, you aren’t smiling anymore.

The first body is discovered only a few days later. The press comments on the attack, hinting at a possible serial killer because isn’t it odd the killer took a foot? This time, your choice of stalking victim is Mrs. Thornhill. But regardless of what you do, she always manages to slip away. And the times she does, a body turns up a few days later, random body part missing.

Your anxiousness must show. Doctor Kinbott comments on it, but you don’t dare tell her. You don’t have the proof. Your therapy rides with Principal Weems get crashed by a pig tailed girl with the name of Wednesday. Her arrival late in the semester puts the school upside down. It’s not hard, to find out she is trying to solve the mystery of the murders.

The next time Weems takes you both to therapy, you slip her your mother’s file.

“Here.” You say to her, trying not catch the attention of the Principal driving you. You pass her a folder, in sober blue. “The notes you asked for.”

“I didn’t ask you…”

“You did. After Rowan’s accident. You were murderous when it happened.” You hope she catches the hint, and Wednesday does not disappoint, grabbing the folder with eager hands.

“Oh, right. I must have forgotten. Thank you.”

In big black letters, just before the detailed autopsy report, you placed your warning: Different MO, same signature. Killer might be closer than you think.

You hope Wednesday can get the proof you need, but you don’t want to lead her on, so you don’t name your suspect.

Tyler shows up at the Rave’n on Wednesday’s arm. He looks better, less bruised and more confident. Your eyes lock across the room, in the middle of your dance with Kent. His lips part, almost as if he were about to mouth something and decides against it at the last minute. Kent pulls you towards his chest, chin hooked over your shoulder.

“What are you staring at?” He asks, following your gaze. For someone who negates the existence of romantic love, he is quite the gossip. “Doesn’t golden boy over there has his own, dark, date to ogle?”

“He has, yes.” You answer, still holding eye contact with Tyler. He has an odd expression on his face, almost as if he has been punched. He looks good tonight, you aren’t going to lie to yourself and say you don’t find him attractive because he is. Shame that you know exactly what lurks beneath the pretty face.

“Seems like our boy has a type. Likes them dark, menacing and tiny.” Kent pokes at your ribs, still with his head on your shoulder. It makes the whole thing awkward because your body arches trying to get away from his touch, but you don't want him falling down either. It looks funny, you know that because Tyler smiles slightly.

“Asshole.” You break eye contact with Tyler to push Kent away. “Not tiny.”

“I’ll stop calling you tiny if, when you fuck him, you share details.” He snorts.

“Gross.” But your response is a little delayed, and Kent definitely notices. He gives you a pitying look, and you wonder if he knows something about you that you don't know about yourself. Both Divina and him are your closest friends, but you know they share a bond that's different from what they have with you. Do they talk about you when you are not there? Do they talk about the way Tyler looks at you, the way that you look at him, half fear, half attraction?

“Babe, the boy has been pinning for you since, like, fourth grade.” The phrase rings in your ear, makes its way to your brain like an insidious worm. It's still there when blood starts to rain from the ceiling, when Tyler rushes out of the room. Maybe that's why you follow him. Oh, how you wish Kent had never spoken them.

You cloak yourself in your shadows, Kent in too much of a panic to notice you slipping away from him. Tyler's looking at his phone, distracted. He doesn't realize you are falling into step behind him, following into the twisted paths of the woods you both grew up into. The same as you did thirteen years ago, follow him inside the forest because you were young and stupid and desperately wanted to be liked.

The night is cold, wind drifting in and out between the trees and making eerie sounds. Your dress sticks to your skin, wet with fake blood. Tyler walks with intend, dodging branches and ducking between leaves. You try to keep up, but you are getting tired. Someone screams, the sound making you jump. A boy, it's a boy screaming. And then, Wednesday's voice rings in your ears, but you can't make out what she is saying. You can barely think because right in front of your eyes, Tyler is turning into the ugliest monster you had ever seen, skin gray, form still humanoid. It looks painful, how the skin breaks, the joints shift. His eyes are dark and protruding, hungry, pointy teeth come out of his mouth. The nice hands turn into claws, and you don’t dare breathe, you don’t dare even whisper a warning because he is pouncing on the boy and slicing with his claws.

You press your hand to your mouth, biting your fingers to keep you from screaming and betraying your position. It’s over fast, the screams of the boy turning into pained, choked whimpers. The monster sniffs at the air and for one terrifying second, you think your eyes meet his. But he walks away, and then Wednesday is there and Thornhill, and it’s all so confusing and scary you end up walking back to your dorm in a daze.

The shower you take does nothing to soothe your nerves, but it helps you clear your head. So, Tyler is the monster. But Thornhill still showed up at the scene, you know the two of them have something like a relationship. Does it mean they are working together? You toss and turn until morning, sleep evading you. Your conclusion is that you need additional information. You decide to explore the woods and do some more stalking in your free time.

This is what you discover: There is a cave, much like the one Tyler pushed you into all those years ago. Someone burned the cave down. Eugene, the kid from the bee club, was trying to get inside the cave, but the person burning it down spooked him. He ran into the monster, into Tyler after that. You also know Tyler got a text before slipping away, that means he was possibly following orders. Thornhill appeared at the scene, and so did Wednesday.

You decide to tail Wednesday after that. It doesn’t last long, the girl too paranoid about being followed to be able to do it easily, but you learn the monster is called a Hyde. Hydes usually have masters, who tell them what to do. You decide to look up that information later.

The first days are hard. You don’t dare tell anyone what you just saw, too paranoid about suffering the same fate as Eugene. Tyler is dangerous, you have known that since you both were just kids, but now you know exactly how much. He is capable of killing people, yet he isn’t the one who killed your mother. You can’t decipher why Thornhill would be interested in killing her… Unless she knew Tyler was a Hyde and could become a problem later on. But that doesn’t explain what Thornhill hopes to achieve by killing all these people. You ponder, and ponder, but can’t get a why.

Then, cold, hard determination settles on your stomach. You can’t go the legal way, but you can get your revenge in other ways. You need a plan, and it won’t be easy, but you think you can achieve it. What can drive a person to become a murderer? Turns out, all it takes is getting pushed a little too much. Suddenly, murder seems like a reasonable reaction. Desperation makes funny things to people. And seeing Tyler attack Eugene had been your last straw. You won’t be able to live without fear until Thornhill is neutralized, and if no one is going to do it, you will have to take matters into your own hands.

The first step is easy. On your next therapy session, you tell the magic words to Doctor Kinbott.

“I’m afraid. Sometimes… Sometimes I get this feeling, like someone is watching me…” You whisper, crying, in what has to be the performance of a lifetime. Kinbott looks almost afraid, too. She takes your hand in hers, gently. You feel bad about manipulating her, but it’s for the best.

“Do you think you are in real danger, or is this a feeling only?” At the question, you think a little. If you tell her it is real danger right away, she might discount you as a traumatized girl. But if you appear to be considering the question, she will think you are sensible, in touch with your emotions, responsible.

“I don’t know.” You answer and start sobbing. Kinbott takes you on her arms, and you hug her back. You walk out of the session with a tired expression. Who knew fake crying was so tiring?

The second step is easy too. You know your mom had a gun. Being a single mother, even in a small town, is dangerous business. Even more when you and your daughter are part of a discriminated minority. It’s a tiny revolver, that you know your dad wouldn’t dare throw, just like all the stuff your mom had. To make room for his new wife, he just put everything neatly up in boxes in the attic and forgot about it. The attic might not be the place for a gun. But the safe in the office might be.

You are right. The revolver is there, collecting dust and just waiting to be used. You don’t take it yet, knowing your father would notice it absence. Instead, you go stalk Tyler some more, and learn two things. His bedroom doesn’t have bars in the windows, and he still keeps a planner for his schoolwork, all done manually. You snap pictures of it.

Now you know he has a date every Saturday after therapy with someone named L. And his handwriting is easy to copy.

When the first letter shows up, you are having breakfast with your father and stepmother. It’s Sunday, and you had asked Principal Weems for permission to sleep at home, citing homesickness. The letter it’s addressed to you, in wonky letters that clearly try to disguise the handwriting. You open it, and promptly start sobbing.

“Sweetheart, what’s wrong? Did… What does it say?” Your dad gets up, reading over your shoulder. His face morphs into one of fury.

“What kind of bastard? I’m going to kill him, sweetheart! I will kill that fucking boy!”

“Love, calm down, you are scaring her!” Your stepmother says, laying a hand on his arm.

“Scaring her? She is not scared of me, look at this, at the little bastard. That Galpin boy, I bet he is behind it.” He takes the letter from your hands, and starts quoting it out loud. You start sobbing harder. “Your thighs, they are so creamy. I have seen them, when you walk out of the shower to get dressed. I wonder how they would look if I held them down and forced you to open them, if you would scream, resist me! The guy is sending rape threats to my daughter.” At that, your stepmother falls silent, and pulls you into a hug. You cry on her chest.

“How… Whoever this is, they must be watching the house, to know she would receive it.” She says, carding a hand through your hair.

“That’s it. I’m going to the station.”

“Don’t!” You beg. You have set up Tyler to take the blame for it, but it doesn’t mean you want him to, it’s only a last resource. “Daddy, don’t!” You know he melts when he hears you call him that, reminds you of better times, when he and your mother were still together, when you were his little princess.

“Sweetheart…” He pleads with you, but he is already surrendering.

“She is right. We can’t go to Sheriff Galpin and tell him his son is stalking her!” Your stepmother intervenes, and for the first time, you are grateful for her.

“We should have taken her across the country! Not uprooting her, my ass. This fucking town!” Your father complains, but you fist a hand on his shirt and pull him into the hug too. You need to keep him happy, and if he thinks you are playing family with his new wife, he will be more malleable. He goes willingly.

You sent yourself two more letters, in the same disturbing tone. You are careful to not make them seem more like twisted love letters, never threatening, so you don’t get pulled out of Nevermore. In your next session with Doctor Kinbott, you tell her about the letters, your dad’s suspicions, and you mention how much safer you would feel if you knew how to shoot.

Your lessons with Sheriff Galpin start that same afternoon.

“Look at you, all grown up!” He says to you, ruffling your hair. “Your daddy tells me he wants me to teach you how to shoot, says summer is coming, and you will be all alone in that big house.” Normally, he doesn’t like outcasts, but you look so much like your mother, and she was such good friends with Francoise…

The backyard, the place you will be learning how to shoot, looks the same it did thirteen years ago.

“Thank you so much for taking the time, Sheriff.” You say to him, brightly. Tyler won’t be home for at least five more hours, that you know. He has school, and then a shift at the Weathervane.

“Call me Donovan, kiddo. We will be spending all afternoon together.” He sets up some cans in the far wall. “Your mother had registered a revolver, so you will learn to shoot one of those, okay?”

“Yeah, daddy said he still has it. Couldn’t bring himself to throw it away.” You answer, innocently. The Sheriff mutters something uncomplimentary under his breath, that sounds too much like a dig at your dad and stepmother, but you let it slide because you think mostly the same.

“Pay attention. This, here, is the cylinder.” He indicates a twisty part. “You open it, pressing here.” He hands you the revolver, and you repeat his motions, committing them to memory.

“Okay.”

“Revolvers are easier to handle, less complex than semiautomatics. Good for a lady, they can be concealed in a purse. But since you will be at home, we will go over carrying later.” The sheriff shows you tiny bullets inside the cylinder, slowly taking them out. “God, you are not the person I thought I would be teaching this.”

“Did you teach Tyler?” You ask, curiously.

“No, kid never showed interest. And even if he did…” He trails off, and you can tell he is thinking about what happened last year, when he got sent off to bootcamp. “That’s not relevant. Remember this, always. Guns are dangerous, and it’s more probable that the gun at home will be used against you than to defend you, that’s statistics. So, you don’t pull out the gun to threaten, you only pull it out when you are sure you will take the shot, got it?”

“Yes, Mister…” At the look he gave you, you promptly corrected yourself. "Donovan.”

“Good. This, here, is the trigger. It’s hard to pull, this is why the revolvers don’t usually have other safety’s. Try it.” You put a hesitant hand on the revolver. “Go ahead, sweetheart. It’s uncharged, you won’t hurt anyone.” You tried pulling it, finding out it needed more force than you thought.

“This one here, is a higher caliber, that means, more recoil. So, try to grab it with both hands. Revolvers carry fewer rounds, but are far more accurate than a semi, so, not that bad. Always aim for the torso, even if you got bad aim, you will hit something.”

The afternoon goes by quickly. He pours you a mug of coffee, and you promise next time to bring something sweet to share. Donovan looks lonely, and it tugs at your heartstrings, that you are manipulating him too. It hurts even more to think that his son is a killer. You are certain that by the end of it, he will be even more heartbroken.

Tyler thinks he is going crazy. Your smell follows him anywhere, sweet and enticing. If he hadn't been experiencing before that afternoon, he would have thought it was his stupid crush rearing its ugly head.

He enters the house, tired after the long shift, and the scent lingers in the air. His dad is sitting in the backyard, there are two mugs in the kitchen sink.

“Was someone over?” He asks, curious about what his dad will say. Will he cover up for you? Tyler knows all about your watching trick, you think you are so sly, but he can smell you from a mile away. His eyes have always been on you, since he was only a kid who didn’t know what wanting someone really meant. He was always going to see you watching him, and most of the time, he was watching back. And the Hyde… The Hyde thought of you as his. Not prey, not quite master, something else entirely. The Hyde’s mouth watered at the thought of running you down, biting you until you whimpered, mouth filing with the coppery taste of your blood. But not hard enough to really hurt you, no. Just enough to get a bit of fear in your eyes, to get the defiance and fire you had had since you were a five-year-old shining on your features. You would be beautiful, glorious even. You already were.

“Yeah, remember my old secretary?” His father says casually. “The one that was friends with your mother?” The way the words come out of his mouth, it’s strange. Almost as if he never speaks them out loud, only to himself. And it’s true. Tyler doesn’t talk to his father a lot about his mom. More like, never.

“Yeah, was she here?” Tyler asks, feigning he doesn’t know your mother is dead. He knows all about you, he always has. From the face you make when you are about to cry, to the way your school skirt sways left and right when you walk. He knows you have a mole on your hip, that you don’t like wearing perfume unless it is a special occasion. He knows you watch him cloaked in your shadows and like to pretend that you are some big sort of predator when you are just a tiny bunny. Maybe a black bunny, but a bunny nonetheless. Prey. His for running down, his for taking.

“Her kid. She passed away, some psycho murdered her last semester, when you were on…” His father starts to explain, trailing off in remembrance of his time at the bootcamp. Tyler doesn’t want to talk about it, so he cuts him off.

“Yeah. What did she want?” A crazy thought crosses his head. Perhaps you are looking into the death of your mother, maybe he can tip you off in some way. He doesn't understand why Laurel might have killed her, but it has her fingertips all over it. She might have been trying to see if she could do it on her own, carrying the whole plan by herself.

“Her dad wants her to learn to shoot. Summer is coming, and the poor kid is all alone in that big house, after her mother’s death… I can’t blame the man for being paranoid. I can blame him for bringing his mistress and having her sleep on the same bed, though….” Tyler is not listening anymore. He isn't concerned with the gossip on your father. He thinks it’s nice, that the guy cares enough to get someone to teach you to defend yourself. After all, you are all fragile human, with powers that aren’t really good for close combat. Even if you are a firecracker, you are easily hurt. Tyler has issues with that. If someone is going to hurt you and scare you, it’s going to be him, not some robber who shows up at the right time.

Your smell chases him still. It takes a lot of self-control, to not just run to the shower and masturbate to the way your perfume drifted through the house, to the space the Hyde calls his, and impregnated the sofa’s cushions. It gets worse, this itch, the more time that passes. Every day, the scent is all over the house, your smell getting stronger with each visit.

The day he feels it in his bedroom is the day he folds, jerking off in a way that’s almost desperate, with a fist on his mouth to keep himself from crying out. He wonders how you would look, all pretty on your knees. Would your eyes be full of the same defiance, or would you melt, turning into all soft skin and whimpers? He wonders if you are watching him, now, perched in some dark corner. His blinds aren’t closed, he realizes. You could be sitting in one of the branches of the tree just across the street, defiant eyes fixated on him, cloaked up pretty on your shadows. Tyler wonders if you would like watching him, and that thought is what sends him over the edge, desperate sounds drowned on his pillow.

Wednesday does the courtesy of inviting you to torture Tyler that night.

“He is the thread we need to pull to get to your mother’s killer.” She says, full of confidence. You hope this time, she gets it right because you had heard about Xavier’s arrest and your therapist’s murder, and you were so tired you could cry. “Thought you had a right to attend.” Like she is inviting you to a damn wedding or christening and not a, you know, torture session. Your morals have been iffy lately, so you are in no place to judge.

“Sure. Thank you.” You say, and the thought of your reaction at seeing Tyler in chains is not something that even crosses your mind.

“You too?” He asks, in a tired tone, when he sees you stepping out of the shadows. “Look, you can’t still be mad about what I did to you.” Tyler is good, you have to give him that. He has you doubting that he is the Hyde and you saw him maul Eugene half to death. But there is something in the way he looks at you, hunger in his eyes, that gives him away. Tyler has always looked weirdly at you, but this, this hunger, is like almost thinks you two share a secret, that you two are partners in crime.

“What did he do to you?” Wednesday asks, but she is slowly losing control of the group. The cops will arrive at any moment now, so you manage to slip away and get the gun from your dorm and be back in position in a miraculous time.

When Sheriff Galpin comes in, guns blazing, you position yourself in front of Tyler, almost as if you are protecting him. It leaves your back open to him, and even with him chained, you don’t like it. Then, you do your favorite trick: You start crying.

When the man sees you, his expression changes. He is about to question you, but you run to his arms, uncaring about the gun in his hand, and hug him hard.

“I’m sorry sir, I tried. I tried, I promise you, Tyler is not the murderer, he was with me all those nights. I snuck him in, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I tried to stop them.”

You are sure that behind you, the look Tyler must be giving you has to be of absolute bafflement. Wednesday is staring daggers at you, but you don’t care. Your hand is gripping the gun on the pocket of your coat, and the only thought on your head is that you are getting your revenge.

“Shh, kiddo, it’s okay.” And just like you predicted, the Sheriff is unable to deal with a crying girl, so he rubs your back as another officer unties Tyler. “You three, to the station. Now.” He says, directing Tyler and Wednesday to his truck. He lets go of you, pushing you gently towards Tyler, who he now thinks is your boyfriend. Tyler catches you, pulling you towards his chest, hiding his face in your hair as if he is calming down.

You press the barrel of the gun against his stomach before he can even speak.

“For the record: I am not happy to see you.” You whisper and feel the way his body goes tense. He wraps a hand on your shoulder, he laughs a little, but it’s strained.

“What the hell are you doing?” His lips are dangerously close to your ear, and you shiver. You feel his smirk against your hair. Not knowing if you want him closer, or far away, you shove him with one last warning.

“Saving your sorry ass. We are dating. Go.”

Wednesday rides shotgun, Donovan not trusting her enough to put her in the back with you two. The ride is quiet, you keep your hands in your pockets, revolver firmly in your grasp. Tyler’s eyes never leave you, questioning and dangerous.

When you get to the station, you get sent to separate rooms. They don’t make you go through the metal detectors, there is simply no time. Not when the Sheriff's son was just kidnapped. They take your statement, and you spin your web of pretty, sanitized lies, pinning everything on Wednesday.

You tell the Donovan you and Tyler are dating, but keeping it a secret because you are an outcast, and were afraid of his disapproval. You also tell him your father is really strict, he doesn’t want you dating until you are 21. For almost every murder, you give him an alibi, so he doesn’t get suspicious of everything being too perfect. You tell him how you snuck him in to your dorm, in the middle of the night, how you know his favorite candies are Reese’s cups, and that you had gotten closer after you had asked him for one at the Weathervane, for him to tell you they were not for sale. How you had a crush on him since you were kids, but your father would have never approved. You tell him you think Tyler has been getting better, not getting in trouble until that girl, Wednesday Addams (And here you make sure to enunciate her last name loudly, to play on his prejudice) appeared. You tell so many lies, and so many half-truths already, that your head is spinning.

Tyler and Wednesday kept their statement brief, referring only to the kidnapping and torturing. When you get out, you find him threatening Wednesday, while apparently hugging her. He is angry. Oh, he is angry, and you think it’s not all directed at her, but to you too.

You clear your throat because that’s what a good girlfriend would do. Tyler's expression gets even more pinched.

“Bunny, didn’t see you there.” He lets go of Wednesday, who looks half pissed, half terrified, and pulls you closer to him, slipping a casual arm around your waist. You hug him back, tense smile on your lips, fingers itching for the gun. One of his hands goes to the back of your neck, Tyler runs a finger down your spine. It's a warning. He could snap your neck if he wanted.

“We aren’t finished here.” Wednesday says, looking at both of you like you are monsters. Which, fair, maybe you both are because you are trembling under Tyler's touch, and it's not from fear. Wednesday doesn’t ask for your motivation, but her next words are directed to you only. “He won’t get away with this.”

“I think…” You say, pressing a kiss to his cheek. Tyler leaned down to give you more access, sweet smile on his face, while his hands dug on the skin of your waist in a grip so harsh it was almost claw-like. “He has an iron tight alibi for most of those nights, one willing to testify. And that the DNA won’t be checked again, since it was dismissed and the chain of custody is probably broken already.”

“You don’t know what he is capable of.” She warned, walking away.

“Oh, I am. I got this under control.” You laughed, and Wednesday gave you one last murderous glance before leaving.

“We need to talk.” Tyler whispered to you, leading you out of the station. “I don’t know what game you are playing, little girl, but it won’t end up well for you. I could break you in half…”

“Tyler, sweetie.” You said, pressing the gun hard against his side while you walked. To an outside observer, you looked like any other over affectionate young couple. “This is why, in this relationship, I do the talking.”

“You are bluffing.” He said, leaning more into the barrel of the gun. “You wouldn’t shoot.”

“What is what your father always say?” You asked him, finger going to the trigger. “Never pull the gun unless you…”

“You are ready to take the shot.” For the first time in the night, he seemed scared. “You don’t want me taking it from you, Bunny. You are going to get hurt.”

“Oh, try. Thing is, this is not like the semi your dad uses. One pull of my finger and you are dead. Revolvers don’t have a safety. I got five bullets. Wanna bet on how many I can put on you before you even try to take it from me?”

Tyler kept quiet.

“What do you want?” He finally asked. His eyes were glazed over, his expression half fear, half want. Oh, he was sick. Probably you too. Who liked getting threatened with a gun? But from the look on his eyes, he was very much into it.

“I want Thornhill dead. And from how I see it, you have two options. You help me kill the bitch or go down with her. I don't care.” You spit out, and it feels so good to finally admit it. You had spent months saying to yourself you wanted her in jail, convincing you didn't want her dead. But you are past that point. Justice wouldn't be her living behind bars a long time. The only justice you could get was ending her life, just as she had ended your mother's.

“I can’t…” Tyler whispered, guiding you towards his house. But you could tell, that maybe, he wanted her dead as much as you did. Something rattles in your mind, a memory half forgotten. The way she touched him that first night, the way you didn't like, that made you sick to your stomach.

“Oh, come on, now you remember you have a moral fiber?” It's a shitty thing to do, but you need to press your advantage while you still have it. “You don’t kill women? Well, guess what, you are going down with her.” The barrel of the gun dug harder against his body, so hard you were sure a bruise was forming.

“It’s not that…” His voice sounded pained. “She is my master, the Hyde…”

“Can change its allegiance, I’m sure.” You stepped a little away from him, keeping your eyes on his hands. You didn’t want him trying anything.

“I… I don’t know how.”

“Look, I’m not asking you to kill her yourself. Just help me. I’ll do the killing. Besides, I bet you want it as much as I do.”

“She isn’t so bad…” He tried to joke, a hint of the golden retriever smile appearing on his face. He looked cute. You vanished those thoughts immediately. No time for distractions, not now.

“You could have been normal, you know?” You said to him, jerking to a stop in a dark alleyway. This will work better, he seems the type to be moved by the fantasies. And you, you knew how it felt to miss a mother, grief so encompassing you could barely breathe without hurting. “My mother knew about yours, she could have helped you. That’s why she is dead. For you.”

“My… Would she have?” He asked, looking gutted. The idea of someone helping him is so foreign, you wonder if no one else has offered before. Have all his relationships been transactional, so far? Tyler seems to be that way about touch, too. Always to hurt, to dominate, never touching for the sake of it. Thornhill was another example of that, you betted she had took advantage of how touch starved he was.

“She loved her. It was always, Francoise this, Francoise that. She cried every night after her death for months. She desperately wanted me to be friends with you.” Your eyes filled with tears. You took the gun out of your pocket, gripping it one-handed and pointing it to the ground. Just in case he decided to get smart and take advantage of your distraction. Fuck, you were too soft. You hated it.

“My mother, she liked you too.” Tyler offered, quietly. His eyes were red, but he wasn’t crying. “She always joked how you would have made an amazing daughter-in-law.” His tone was soft, hesitant. He had raised the stakes out of his own free will.

“She was lovely. The only friend my mother had.” Not an agreement, but not a no, either.

“God, wherever they are, they must be so angry.” Tyler laughed, and it sounded a little hysterical. You couldn’t help but join in. “Can I hug you?” He asked. Your hand twitched on the trigger. Tyler followed the motion, only reaction been raising his hands in surrender. For the first time in the whole night, you didn’t know what to say.

Tyler’s eyes were pleading. He had never wanted you more than tonight, when you had manipulated people left and right for him. For him, the Hyde screamed. The monster had already made his decision, to him, tonight had been a declaration of eternal love. This gun to his ribs, nothing more than part of running you down. He had to prove himself strong, worthy of your submission. The Hyde was never letting you go again, you were his new obsession. From this close, you smelled heavenly, the perfect mix of girl, nervousness, and determination. Good enough to eat. He just needed to catch you and claim you.

You could tell, by the way he looked at you, troubled small-town boy and hints of the monster beneath it, that he was sincere. He actually wanted to hug you.

“Sure. Since we are now dating and all…” You trailed off when his hands wrapped around you, nose burying in the crook of your neck and taking desperate inhales of your scent. It was driving him insane. He wanted you close, so close your scents mixed, so close your fear clung to him, gave him the high he wanted.

“You can keep the gun, if it makes you feel safe.” Tyler whispered against your skin, lips moving against your neck. It was soft, this time. He wasn’t gripping you harshly, like he had been at the station. The gun clattered softly to the gun, slipping from your limp fingers. He could be manipulating you, but this felt too good, too right, to not fall for it. “But… I like you. I always have. I have watched you more than I should, my Hyde is head over heels for you already.” Tyler kept talking, hoping you would see he was sincere. This was him, matching your boldness. “I would kill her for you, you know? If you asked. If you wanted me to. I would hold her down, slash her throat. Offer her body to you.” Those words were forbidden words, contemplating killing his master should be impossible. But for you, for you, he would do it. There was no hesitation.

No one had ever told you something half as romantic. So, you took your own leap of faith. You pulled him out of your neck, softly grabbing his hair, and devoured his mouth. Tyler kissed back, just as passionately. He crowded you against one of the walls, thigh slotting between your legs, and you whimpered in his mouth. The happy rumble he gave, it didn’t sound human.

“Mine,” He said, kissing a path down your neck, biting at it, hard. Hard enough to draw blood. “Mine. Mine. No one else will touch you, not even her. Mine.” He seemed crazed, like the only thought in his head was you. And it was. The Hyde was frenzied with the need to claim, to make sure everybody knew you were his.

“Yours. Yours.” You answered, breathless. Oh, you two were fucked. Badly. You knew you shouldn't want him so much, a few days ago you had watched him maul a kid half to death. It was not even an hour ago, you had been pointing a gun to him. But his lips on your skin felt right, the way he was touching you was making your brain throw all precaution through the window. You grabbed at his hair, at his back, anywhere. To wherever you could reach, anchor yourself with.

“Let’s take this somewhere else, please?” Tyler whined, mouthing at your shoulder. His hand tugged at the collar of your shirt, exposing more skin for him to mark. It makes you wonder if this is him or the Hyde talking. He has always had a dark undercurrent to him, even with the monster asleep. “Please, let me have you. I have wanted you for so long…” The last phrase caught your attention.

“Since when?” You pushed him away, just so you could try to get to his house before you two ended up fucking in a dirty alley. But Tyler didn’t seem deterred on the least, taking the chance to slip a hand under your shirt, running his fingers over the skin on your back. “Stop it, we gotta get indoors. After this, I’m not getting arrested for indecent exposure.”

“Since, like, sophomore year.” Tyler laughs, holding you closer still. He gently starts fixing your clothes back to normal. Now you know he is just making shit up because there is no way it has been that long for him too.

“You were kissing half the school, don't make me laugh.” You answer, and it comes way more bitter than you intended.

“Aww, are you jealous?” He mocks you, doing the buttons on your coat with steady hands. “Don’t worry, I never wanted them the way I want you.” Tyler presses a kiss to your forehead, inhaling your scent longer than he probably should.

“Yeah, sure. They weren’t half as crazy.” You let him finish dressing you, giving him a stare.

“I have wanted you since before I knew what having a crush was, but started wanting you like this when I got older. You got fucking pretty, but never looked my way.” Tyler knelt on the floor, looking for something in the pavement. Too late, you remembered the gun. Anxiety clutched at your insides with an iron fist. Had he only been tricking you? But once he got hold of it, he took the bullets out and slipped them in his pocket, as one does. His expression is completely blank. You wanted to laugh. Then, Tyler passed you the revolver, still on his knees, handle first. You grabbed it with cautious hands.

“Left you a bullet.” Tyler explained, hands raised in surrender. “I can smell your fear, you know?” You ignored his commentary, checking the chamber. Just one bullet, true. You wonder if truly his sense of smell is that sensitive.

“Never took you for a fan of Russian Roulette. Also, I watched you too, you know?”

“Yeah, all you know about me comes from your little stalking habit.” He got up from his knees. You stared at him. Was it possible he had only been entertaining you all this time? “Bunny, I can smell you. Well, the Hyde can.”

“Stop calling me that.” You grabbed his hand, lacing your fingers with his. The revolver went back into your coat. “Makes zero sense.”

“Makes total sense. You… To me, you have always been prey. Since we were kids. I didn’t understand it, back then, but I wanted to run you down.” Tyler rubs at his face, a scowl appearing on his pretty features. “I… Okay, if this doesn’t make you run for the hills and decide this is a bad idea, you will stay forever.” He finally says, lowering his voice to a whisper. Is he going to confess a deep dark secret? You hope so. Tyler has so many layers, he makes this whole thing fun. “I like the smell of fear. But I don’t like the scent of terrified, then it makes me sick, like too much of cheap vanilla perfume. You have always balanced it out well.”

You laugh because you don’t know what to say. Thank you? I'm glad you like the smell of my fear? This feels like such a surreal compliment you don't know what to say. So instead, you change the topic.

“Why didn’t you stop me from watching you?”

“I liked you watching…” His voice trails off, in a way you bet is calculated. Tyler is good at playing the charming guy like that. Just ask Wednesday. Then, he leans forward, to whisper in your ear. “And I was thinking, maybe today I could watch you instead…?” Feeling him so close, the insinuation on his words, it’s too much. A blush appears on your cheeks. You hear him snicker, and punch him in the arm lightly. But you let him wrap an arm around you and keep leading you.

That’s how you end up sitting on the bed, completely naked, Tyler's hand rubbing soothing circles on your ankle.

“Come on, show me.” He says, running his index finger along the inside of your calf. It’s awkward, being asked to touch yourself. You are not used to having an audience, to worrying about how you look. Tyler is still fully dressed, a sharp contrast to your nakedness and a way, you guess, to show who is in control. Even if you like him a lot, you find it hard to be aroused. To try to get yourself in the right mood, you rub your clit on circles, but it’s not doing much.

Tyler definitely notices because his hands come to grasp at your ankles, pulling your legs slightly more apart.

“That's how you touch yourself? Straight for the prize?” His tone is neutral. Not judging, but not forceful either. The choice is yours, in the end.

“… Yeah.” Your hands drop uselessly by your sides. You feel too self-conscious.

“You are…” He tilts his head to the side, evaluating. “Okay, this is not working. You are too tense.” Tyler crawls towards you, and presses a kiss to your cheek. “Would it be better if I was doing it too? Or… We could do something else?” It's sweet, for someone who had just been threatened with a gun. Odd, too, considering the kind of people you both are. But maybe, he is trying to build trust. God knows this relationship needs it.

“I want to try.” You complain, tugging at his shirt. You really aim to please him, for him to have what he wants. Not many people feel that way about Tyler. Certainly, not his father, who has talked more to you in a week than to his son in a month. Not Thornhill, who is too obsessed with her plan and motivations to care about his accomplice.

“Okay. “ Tyler takes off his shirt. “Sit on my lap.”

You hurry to obey, kissing him hungrily. He kisses back, matching your pace and nipping lightly at your lips. You open for him, letting him take what he wants. He breaks the kiss only when the need for air is too pressing, and even then, he presses his forehead to yours, keeping a close eye on your reactions. It’s strangely intimate.

Tyler grabs one of your hands and takes it to your neck, running it lightly over your exposed collarbones, down the valley of your breasts. Your fingers bend in his grasp, allowing him to go lower and lower, until your hand is just over your pubic bone. He helps your hand do the same path in reverse, until you are squirming for more stimulation. Then, he guides your fingers to your nipples and lets go of your hand.

“Go ahead, Bunny.” You squeeze your nipple, mystified by the sensation. You have never been really sensitive there, it’s not a place you care too much about. Tyler’s hand goes to pinch your other nipple. Your back arches a little, thighs squeezing his at the sudden burst of pleasure. So, that’s what this is supposed to feel like. “Copy what I’m doing.”

You obey, surprised to see it does work.

“Good.” Tyler says, mouthing at your shoulder. His eyes are dark. What is it about this that he likes so much? Control? You are reluctant to fight him over it, you like the idea of him having power over you. It appeals to your love of danger. “Keep going.” This time, his teeth dig in the hollow of your throat, and you can’t avoid moaning. You grind down against him, finding he is half hard already.

“How does this feel?” Tyler asks, scratching at your inner thighs. You pant, muffling your cries on his mouth because the answer is too fucking good. He seems to be playing your body like an instrument, zeroing in weak spots you didn’t know you had. “Do it yourself.”

You obey, raking your nails over the insides of your thighs, lightly. It feels odd. Not as good as when Tyler does it. You never focused too much on these areas when masturbating, you just kind of… Went for it.

“Can you do that?” You plead, looking at him with your widest, most innocent eyes. Tyler is a sucker for them, it turns out because he does. His nails, shorter than your own, scratch at your thighs until you are bucking your hips against his. He draws patterns on your legs, hands everywhere, but never where you need them the most. The desperation starts to show, hips shifting, trying to catch his hands and pull them between your legs. Tyler ignores it, eyes fixed on yours. He wants you to understand this is something you need to do yourself. He even takes his hands off you when you get too impatient. “Please, just… Keep touching me?”

“Fine.” He grumbles, but it sounds more amused than angry. “But I’m not doing all the work.”

This time, your hands go to your folds, spreading the wetness there. Having his hands on you, having him closer, makes it ten times better than before, and it looks like he knows it. You search for his knees, blindly, and place a hand there to hold yourself. The stretch of your back is more than you expected, but you make it work. Tyler wants to watch? You will give him a show.

Tyler smirks at you. He likes that you have taken the initiative, putting more space between the two of you, so he gets a better view.

“Good girl.” The compliment makes you preen, so you reward him by sliding a hand down your stomach, to cup your pussy. His hands tense around your thighs, breath hitching. You tease your clit with the tip of your finger, biting your lip to quiet your moan. Tyler’s pupils are blown, eyes fixated on your hand.

“Fuck.” He says, hand going to spread your labia, so he can have a better look. He seems unable to stop himself.

“Good?” You ask, teasing your clit until it is puffy and aching. There is something about having him look at you while you touch yourself that feels dirty, shameful even, but the embarrassment only adds to your pleasure. The way his hand feels, spreading you open, makes you think how much better it could feel if he were the one touching you. You feel yourself get wetter, slick dripping slightly. Tyler definitely notices because his eyes get wider and his index finger runs down your hole, not pressing, just mapping the route your slick is taking, towards your perineum.

“More than I expected. I thought about this, I thought about you watching me, all those nights… What did you see, Bunny? Something like this?” You can't answer because Tyler takes one of your nipples in his mouth, sucking and biting like you are his last meal. You grab on his hair, hold almost painful, with the way you are balancing on his lap. He moans and looks up at you. It’s… You don’t know, but it feels dirty, to be making eye contact when he has his mouth on you, saliva spreading everywhere. When he notices you have stopped touching yourself, he moves as if to pull away. Your hand drops his hair and goes immediately to your hole, pressing a finger inside.

“Please, Tyler. I… You had your fun.” You beg, and can feel his smirk against your skin. He likes you like this, all pretty and doing what he says, but he wants you to put more of a fight. Tyler liked you at first because you weren’t afraid of him, you were defiant. This version of you… You aren’t afraid, he can tell, but it’s like you have forgotten you have a spine.

“I guess you have been a good bunny….” Tyler does quick work of his pants and boxers and soon, he is slipping inside you. It’s easy, with how wet you are, but he keeps unmoving, eager for your reaction. He hopes you will try to take control this time. He wants to force you to stay down, to be harsher. Own you.

You don’t disappoint, bouncing desperately on his cock.

“Didn’t you want to claim me so much?” You want him to let go. Sure, it was sweet, this that he had been doing before, casual dominance getting at you. But you fell in love with the guy who locked you in a cave when you were five years old to get off on your screams, the one that jerked off to the thought of you spying on him. “At this rate, I’m the one owning you.” You need him desperate, you want him angry and riled up, so, you do the thing that you know will make him the most mad. You make a grab for his wrists, pushing him to lie on his back.

“Sometimes, I think you don’t have any sense of self-preservation.” Tyler grunts, and fights your grip. It gets messy, you are both rolling around on the bed, his hands desperately grabbing at your hips, you are pushing him down. He slips out of you at one point, you try to force him to go down, and he won’t just let you that easy.

You figure it does something to the Hyde, the idea of forcing you to submit, nipping at your neck, teeth digging hard at your nape. You arch into his mouth, confused by the sensation. It feels good, to be caught finally, but you bet this isn’t a normal reaction. Tyler rolls you over, eyes dark, and pins your wrist over your head. That, coupled with the satisfied smirk on his face as he fucks you, tells you he is making a mockery of what you had been trying to do before. You scratch at his back, angry at him, and at yourself, at the world, really. Your nails draw gashes across his skin, but it only seems to egg him on more.

“You are mine. You are mine.” He bites your shoulder, pointy canines harsh enough to draw blood. That, coupled with his hand rubbing circles on your clit, is what makes you fall apart. He does too, muffling his moan in your mouth.

“You know…” Tyler presses a tender kiss to the wound of your shoulder. “Loyalties change.”

You snort. “Does the Hyde have a new master?”

“By death.” He promises, kissing your neck next and making you squirm. “Didn’t take you for the type to want shared custody. She has to go.” And oh, it feels sweeter, better than the orgasm you just had.

#my writing #wednesday netflix #tyler galpin #tyler galpin x reader #tyler galpin x y/n #tyler galpin x you #im so tired #tyler galpin imagine #tyler galpin smut #tyler galpin x fem!reader #wednesday addams #kent fisher #divina fisher

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wordwovencackle · 2 months

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Time To Grow Out Body Hair!

A Post On Stopping Body Hair Removal!

As the temperatures are slowly rising above freezing temperatures, you may be thinking about spring and summertime. A lot may also be considering whether to pick shaving/waxing up again after a winter of leaving it be; you may also just continue shaving/waxing as you've always done.

But, for the girls and women considering stopping shaving/waxing, I hope to share some tips and pros that may help you decide! (Additions are always welcome!)

If you're worried about sensory issues, let me reassure you. The uncomfortable part about growing out your hair on your armpits, arms, legs, pubic hair, eyebrows, facial hair, happy trail, between the cheeks, et cetera, is overwhelmingly the stubble stage! This can be uncomfortable at first, and I recommend moisturising a bit more than usual to help soften them out. Body oils, baby oils and conditioners can also work miracles! Wear comfortable clothing, keep up your hygiene, and power through. Before you know it, you will pass the stubble stage and your hair will be softer.

Even if your hair is coarse, it will be better than stubble. Let it settle for a while. Give it time. It's why I made this post so early in the year, after all! Additionally, is the temporary discomfort of stubble enough reason for you to not think about the other (in my case more severe) sensory issues of:

Ingrown hairs! Razor/Irritation bumps! Dry skin! The pain of waxing! The accidental cuts from the razor! In my opinion, none of these are better than the temporary discomfort of stubble.

Did you grow out your body hair and it is too long and becomes inconvenient, or it gets tangled, consider trimming instead of shaving/waxing. That way you still will not suffer the issues mentioned above!

Worried about hygiene? Women report both sometimes sweating more as well as less when stopping to shave. Of course, this also depends on hormone levels, the food you eat, how much water you drink, or your health, all of which are susceptible to change all the time. Sometimes I sweat more and then a few months I sweat less. Switching up hygiene products, drinking more, eating less processed foods/drinking less processed drinks, switching up deodorants or finding alternatives, or wearing different materials alone can be extremely beneficial.

Bottom line: keep washing regularly and body hair will not be an issue. You don't have to perform any other actions besides thoroughly washing your body as usual to maintain the hygiene of your body hair. All in all, considering you are removing the entire practice of body hair removal, it requires actually less upkeep than you may be used to.

Indeed, especially pubic hair is actually better for you. It acts as a protective buffer and reduces friction during sex. The protective buffer shields you from dirt, any harmful bacteria or pathogens and other undesirable microorganisms. The hair also creates a natural oil (like on your scalp) that helps prevent bacteria from reproducing. Pubic hair also helps prevent infections such as yeast infections, STIs and UTIs! As with the above, if you wash it regularly like the rest of your body, it is in no way unhygienic! The information that pubic hair is unhygienic is a myth to ensure you keep buying hair removal products.

That's right, though shaving was occasionally practiced in the past, modern shaving is largely encouraged by and part of making a profit! Circa the 1920s, it became slowly socially acceptable for women to show their legs and armpits during some social situations. Companies like Gillette decided to broaden their target audience of men shaving facial hair. Advertisements began to claim being hairy is inherently unhygienic. This is false. I encourage not wasting your money (it's expensive!) on extensively removing your body hair based on a scam.

Also, consider all the waste of plastic in the majority of waxing strips and razors that you have to frequently replace! If you ever needed a product to keep out of your shopping list for the sake of the environment, consider waxing strips and razors!

Feel more confident in your skin! Never have I felt more confident than seeing my natural body and loving it just the way it is.

I also assure you, in real life (so no don't look at social media posts,) very few care. If at all, you may have more backlash from your family (usually also out of shame or worry that you will be ostracised) than strangers. I've had two curious double-takes perhaps in an entire year. Those strangers that would potentially judge you, do you want them in your life? No? Then don't worry about them. And in time, your confidence will grow. The odd comment on your appearance won't even bother you anymore. This is a good thing!

Still feeling shame or worry? Check if your shame has become debilitating. So many women are dreading to see a doctor because they're scared of being judged for their body hair. As such, they have sometimes waited too long. Medical complications, all because of shame for their natural bodies! This should horrify you and should help you think about whether your shame of body hair has gone too far. It truly is time to stop letting indoctrinated shame endanger your life!

What if you are alright with all of the above but you are still uncomfortable and you just don't like the look of body hair? Or, what if you are worried a (potential) romantic partner won't like it, I am going to ask you, and you need to think about it deeply and answer to yourself: why would (subjective/ever-changing) beauty(standards) be more important to you than your health and comfort?

When you shave and/or wax and you say you "do it for yourself," how true is that? What if you do it for yourself, what does it do for you and why? Do as you will, but why perform an action you are unsure of why you do it at all?

Radical acceptance and being comfortable with your body is subversive. You will always be pressured to change, to dress up, to remove, to fit into something, to shape something up, to slim down, to be feminine, to be desirable, et cetera, it's spiralling and unhealthy! Instead, choosing comfort and acceptance as a woman is revolutionary.

I've had friends come up to me that they've always considered quitting shaving but never dared until they saw someone who doesn't. They told me they'd found the guts to give it a try themselves too. So many want to but don't know where or how to begin, some of us have to be the first!

#anti shaving #body positive #body positivity #body neutrality #feminism #female body hair #body hair #anti body hair removal #body hair removal #radical feminism #radical feminist #feminist

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sl-vega · 3 months

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✧xingqiu's victims friends✧

THIS SERIES IS CANCELLED: announcement about its cancellation

THE SERIES REVAMP IS HERE

✧xingqiu✧-a creative writing major with a minor in literature, second born son of the CEO of Feiyun Corp. discovered his love and reading and writing at a young age. when he was 10 he wrote a fanfic as a joke but to his surprise it went viral. he forgot the account's password so he never got around to deleting it. comes off as an absolute gentleman, but he's actually a bit of a gremlin.

"me? putting chili powder into chongyun's food? what baseless accusations are these-okay fine, i did, but how else is he supposed to survive living with xiangling?-"

✧xiangling✧-attends a culinary school nearby teyvat university. she does the cooking but not cleaning for all her roommates. she has a pet dog named guoba, and her father owns a famous restaurant. she's known for her weird sounding recipes, but they actually taste really good (except for the slime smoothies, that's an acquired taste)

"so we have jueyun chilis, fowl meat, now we just need some some slime secretations!"

✧chongyun✧-mythological studies major with a minor in theology. he went through a ghost hunting phase when he was younger, which turned into an interest in mythology and folklore as he got older. he met xingqiu in elementary school and they've been friends ever since (even though xingqiu constanly tries to sneak him spicy food)

"i know for a fact that xingqiu put jueyun chilis in that"

✧yanfei✧-a student at a law school nearby xiangling's culinary school. she's great at winning arguments/debates, and already has tons of internship offers from many different law firms. she has tons of rules/laws memorized just in case, and can apply them to any situation

"Ah, this weather's got me in the mood for reciting some laws. Let's see... "Commercial Law of Liyue," Chapter 27, Section 6, Article 3 stipulates that— Wait, what was it...? Oh my goodness, I've completely forgotten! What is wrong with me today...?"

✧hu tao✧-forensics science major, and her family owns a funeral parlor (frequently advertises it, telling people that she can hook them up with a free coffin). a bit eccentric, but she means well. she's also a horror and true crime fanatic (criminal minds, forensic files etc.)

"YOU! YES YOU! what if i told you, that if you plan with wangsheng funeral parlor today you can get a discount on your future coffin!"

✧gaming✧-dance major, and a part time uber driver and the designated driver for every outing with his friends. he's the type of driver that talks a ton to his passenger, but he'll shut up if needed. most of his passengers mispronounce his name upon pick up, and he's very used to jokes about his name.

"hi i'll be your driver for today-hm? yes, my name is actually gaming"

additional notes:

-everyone is in their sophmore (second year) of university (19-20)

-everyone in xingqiu's friend group lives off campus together

-yanfei doesn't attend teyvat university, she is in her second year of law school at oratrice mecanique d'analyse cardinale

-xiangling attends a culinary school nearby oratrice and teyvat university

-xingqiu's a wattpad author. fight me

✧Going off Script✧

synopsis:

Xingqiu's next major project requires him to write a romantic short story, the only problem is that he has zero romantic experience. meanwhile, you just found out that your boyfriend cheated on you, and you need to show him that you're 100% over him, the only problem is that there's no way you can get an actual boyfriend that quickly. clearly, the solution to both of your issues is to fake date each other. all you need to do is stick to the script

spoiler alert: you go off script and end up falling for him

masterlist

(CLOSED) taglist: @freyao7

#xingqiu x reader #xingqiu #chongyun #xiangling #yanfei #hu tao #gaming #gaming genshin #university au #smau #enhypen smau #university smau #genshin smau #genshin au #genshin impact #fanfiction #fanfic #romance

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missterious-figure · 2 months

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(Each y/n is not specifically for a designated dca, btw)

I'm adding a knight and magic y/n Dragon tale au.

(These are just potential options)

Dragonling y/n pov: You live an a forest close to a large village, a town almost. You liked to sneak into the marketplace and see what goodies you can yoink. A magic staff with the power of mind control had vanished from it's heavily guarded vault one day. And you were the first suspected. After all, humans thought dragonlings were the offspring of a dragon and human (which is blatantly wrong! Who would want to be related to a human? Ehw...) though, dragonlings and dragons aren't closely related, either. The humans are still convinced it was you. Now dragon hunters are on a hunt for you. Maybe you should head into the mountains. It would be safer there, right?

Knight y/n pov: You're from a wealthy family and ran away do to the lack of freedom. You had always been fond of fairytales, especially when there was a brave hero to save the day. One day, (once upon a time, let's say~) you accidentally bump into two real live heroes Sun and Moon. They are teaching people to become warriors and dragon slayers. The one named Moon asks you if you wish to join him tomorrow. You don't even stop to think as you say yes. Was it the opportunity that made you leap, or the fierce (and incredibly handsome) knight standing before you? Maybe a mix of both.

Magic y/n pov: You sell herbs and mushrooms that grow in your garden. Some are good for eating, others are for potions and spells. You used magic quite alot yourself to help grow your plants. Pre-made potions were on big demand recently, and that gave you a chance to make more money. You had converted part of your house into a shop and hung a sign above your door that advertised your goodies. Your shop was very busy most of the time. Frequents arrived at their usual times, newcomers browsed through your products. But there was only one customer on your mind. A handsome fellow named Sun who came by your shop very often. He and his friend Moon were both famous dragon slayers. You two would talk for hours on end. So long, that Moon had once showed up to see if Sun was even still alive. Sun always asked if you ever wanted come over when they taught their dragon defense classes, and every time you would sweetly turn him down. But if it meant you got to see him more...

Please! I will be answering questions about Dragon Tale au if anyone is curious!

#dca au #fnaf dca #medieval au #dca medieval au #dca moon #dca sun #dca eclipse #fnaf au #reseacher sun #knight moon #dragon eclipse #dragonling y/n #knight y/n #magic y/n #dragon tale au #digital art

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scrixtcn · 1 year

Text

diamonds in the sky

genre: sugar daddy/ceo!au | strangers to lovers!au | equal amounts of fluff and complicated not quite angst but angsty feelings

pairing: choi seungcheol x reader

word count: 12.2k

a/n: coups is sweet and caring but also is perfectly able to throw money at his problems for them to not be problems anymore. also him in any kind of suit kills me.

You knew this would be another one of those nights.

“This way, darlings,” the hotel manager whistles while ushering you and three other girls out of the elevator. “They won’t wait, you know.”

At the very top of the building is the hotel bar, a rather infamous location frequented by the rich and elite 1%. Word on the street had the Starlight bar as the coveted meetup for all sorts of transactions—both shady and open market deals between those seeking and those offering their “services” for a price. You belonged to the unfortunate latter, one slip-up in the contract signing you off as a female escort rather than the aspiring model that had been advertised in the agency’s flyers.

“Can I borrow some lipstick?”

You dig through your silver clutch, coming up empty-handed at hearing your fellow escort/best friend’s inquiry.

“Sorry, Hana, I don’t have any on me.”

The girl on the right hands over hers, and you stifle a giggle at the orange shade that doesn’t fit Hana’s look at all.

“Hana,” you begin slowly, holding out a compact mirror, “You might want to look at yourself before going in.”

She glances at the reflection and screams, the shrill sound startling even the manager. He turns around from his conversation at the bar counter, wondering if everything is alright. Not wanting to start a fuss, Hana nods furiously and tugs you aside, giving dirty glares to the one who offered her the disastrous tube of lipstick in the first place.

“Please tell me you have something—anything—in your bag to save my lips.”

“Well…” You look again and settle on a pack of tissues and clear lip gloss. “Maybe you can wipe it off?”

Letting out a low growl, she takes you on the offer and excuses herself from the group to freshen up in the bathroom. Left alone with the other two girls, you shrug off the questions on Hana’s outburst with an apologetic smile. No need to offer more than necessary to girls you probably wouldn’t ever see again.

Once the bartender announces that the guests in the private rooms are ready and waiting, you start to follow the others, only to be held back by a firm hand.

“One of the clients is arriving late,” the manager informs you, “Can you go to the 3rd floor instead?”

You frown. “This wasn’t what was paid for.

“And why me? Why me and not them?”

“You were handpicked,” the manager answers, giving you a once-over. “Y/N, right? He said you’d be wearing a black off-shoulder dress with frills?”

The exact description of your outfit brings bitterness to your tongue. There was only one person who knew exactly what you’d be wearing tonight—the guy who had gifted you the dress during one of your nights with him the week before.

“Fine,” you grumble, “But tell Jeonghan he owes me double from what he usually pays.”

—

Yoon Jeonghan was a snake if you ever saw one.

You were never able to pinpoint why he was so infatuated with you, always eager to see you whenever your paths crossed during your other “work events”. There were times when he even called the agency to specifically ask for your company, earning yourself the title as “Jeonghan’s favorite” amongst your colleagues. Maybe he did like spending time with you. Or maybe… maybe he just wanted a new toy to play with after he got bored with his other girlies.

As expected, Jeonghan extends his arms for a hug the moment you get out of the elevator to the 3rd floor, a gesture you purposely avoid to show your displeasure at being pulled aside from the group call you had agreed to.

“Who stepped on your tail?” he asks coyly, giving a mock bow to kiss your hand. “Love the dress, by the way.”

“I didn’t know you’d be here tonight,” you answer crisply, “Let alone pull me aside to cater to whatever scheme you’re plotting right now.”

He laughs, a devilish sound like you just stumbled right into his clutches. “Everything will play out as it always does.”

A card key is tossed your direction before you can press on for more details.

“I need you to keep a look out for my friend. He’s staying in this room.”

You catch it before it falls to the floor and study the card. VIP Suite. Not an ordinary person by the looks of it.

“Why me?”

“Believe it or not, I don’t trust anyone else but you.”

Hearing Jeonghan mention trust brings an unexpected cackle from your throat. Since when was the devil trustworthy?

“I’m serious,” he repeats, turning tail and holding up a hand. “Take good care of him, sweetheart.”

“Wait, I don’t even know how he looks like!”

You watch as Jeonghan leaves, his figure growing smaller and smaller down the hallway. With a huff, you walk down the hall, stopping once you locate the correct room. One swipe of the card key and you find yourself stepping into the biggest space you’d ever seen at Starlight. The room not one of your caliber can easily enter, you find yourself frozen in place until you remember what Jeonghan had said before he left.

I need you to keep a lookout for my friend.

Shaking off your shoes, you step barefoot onto the carpet and wiggle your toes in excitement at exploring the space. Jeonghan never said you couldn’t look around while waiting for his friend.

“Whoa…” There is a whole separate hallway linking to the bathroom and bedroom, the entire suite no different than a service apartment targeted for long term stay. Obviously, luxury took precedent—even the sliding glass doors leading to the outdoor Jacuzzi are shined to perfection, the lights catching glimmers in contrast to the slowly darkening sky. Stepping back inside, you pranced around the open kitchen, where there’s a small stove for cooking next to the fridge.

“Well equipped.”

Midway into digging through the fridge for a bite to eat, you hear the door click open and startle, bumping your head atop the inner ceiling of the icebox.

“Who are you?”

Shuffling backwards, you shake your head and meet the dazed eyes of a drunken man. Tie in hand, his shirt is unbuttoned and to be honest, you weren’t expecting one of Jeonghan’s friends to look so slovenly at the first meeting.

“Hi, I’m—”

His chest heaves, and you have the shock of your life when he throws up directly onto the carpet and the conveniently placed heels you had taken off to freely explore his suite.

God dammit.

—

Seungcheol doesn’t remember a thing when he opens his eyes the next morning, yawning as he sits up in bed. There had been drinks sure, but the exact amount remains a mystery after blacking out last night. How he made it back to the hotel was also a story for another day when he sees the cheerful grin of his friend sitting directly next to.

“You were quite a mess last night,” Jeonghan snickers, handing over a glass of water. “I didn’t know you had it in you to drink so much.”

“I…” Taking the water, he drinks and a flickering memory surfaces in his mind.

“Was there someone else here?”

Jeonghan chuckles. “You really don’t remember what you did to her last night?”

“What do you mean?” Panic settles in his throat and he immediately puts down the glass, grabbing Jeonghan by the shoulders. “What… What did I do?”

“You…” Jeonghan breaks into laughter mid-explanation. “You threw up all over my friend’s shoes, that’s what.”

Oh, shit.

—

Hana hadn’t stopped laughing once she heard about your unfortunate night, irritating you to no end when she brings it up again during weekend brunch with her sister.

“So Y/N goes down to the guy’s suite,” Hana reiterates, waving her fork in the process, “Looking around, and the guy just throws up once he’s inside. All over her shoes, too!”

“I swear, I will knock your mimosa onto the floor if you bring it up again.”

Unfazed by your empty threat, she shifts her glass to the other side and mimics throwing up, an all-inclusive experience with sounds of vomiting and contortions of her face in disgust. Her sister tries to keep a straight face, but you can see the giggles already starting to break through from the tightened lips.

“Okay, laugh,” you sigh, giving in to the inevitable. “Poke fun at my misery after having to walk home in wet and smelly heels.”

Giggles echo around the table, catching the attention of the other guests at the restaurant. You pick up your cutlery knife and angrily cut apart the omelet on the plate, mutilating the yellow pillow of egg with other meats and veggies tucked inside.

“it’s just so funny,” Hana snickers, letting out the last laughs before taking a deep breath and making a zipping motion over her lips. “That’s it, I promise.”

Her sister does the same, promising to leave it at that.

“Did you manage to get his number at least?”

You shake your head. “He was out like a snuffed candle after he finished throwing up all over the floor. I had to call room service and make sure they put it on his tab before I left.”

“That’s unfortunate.” Hana exchanges a glance with her sister and her sister proceeds to take out a business card, sliding it over to you. “Which is why I had my sister get it for you!”

“Huh?”

Her sister pushes up the glasses rested on the bridge of her nose. “I asked my journalist friends and they told me it’s him.”

You pick up the business card and read the name printed in black font.

“Choi… Seungcheol?”

“He’s the CEO of the hotel chain that Starlight is under,” your friend’s sister continues, “Quite a big name, so there’s always someone keeping tabs on him.”

“You should give him a call,” Hana insists, “Get compensation for your shoes, at the very least.”

“I don’t know…” You fold up the business card and stuff it in your purse. “I’d rather not get reminded about what he did.”

“It’s only right he gives you back a new pair of shoes!”

Your phone rings before you can offer a rebuttal, it being no other than the guy who had gotten you into such a mess from the start. You accept the call and hold the phone close to your ear, not giving the sisters a chance to eavesdrop.

“Hi, Jeonghan.”

“Are you free?” his voice chirps through the speaker. “My friend said he wants to apologize for last night.”

“I…” You stand up from your seat, mouthing goodbye to your friends while walking to a quieter spot to answer his call.

“I don’t really want to see him, if I’m being honest.”

Jeonghan whines at your hesitation. “He really feels bad and wants to make it up to you, sweetheart.”

“If anything, you should be the one to make it up to me!” you snap, voice raising outside the restaurant doors. “If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t—”

“Fine,” he relinquishes, “It’s my fault and I’ll pay triple if you go meet with him. Do it for me, please?”

Mention of the extra pay tickles your taste buds, but you push down the thought with a huff. He takes it as agreement and blows kisses from his end, offering to send his limousine to pick you up after asking for your current whereabouts. He was always like this, agreeing to anything and everything if things went his way. You didn’t like being pulled along to his whims, but didn’t want to take advantage of his kindness to you either.

The limousine pulls up in a matter of minutes, quicker than you expected. Perhaps he had been in the area, the driver offering a quick bow once he recognizes it’s you he’s picking up.

“Young Master Jeonghan said to drop you off at Starlight, miss?”

“Wherever he said to go, that’s where I’m going,” you reply, making yourself comfortable in the back. “He didn’t tell me where.”

“Understood.” He hops back into the driver’s seat and shifts gear. “We will be at Starlight shortly.”

—

“Hey.”

It’s strange how you know which table to go to once you arrive at the Starlight bar, the lone figure before the dry martini somehow pulling at your heartstrings as you slide into the seat next to.

“Do you… remember me?”

He looks up, and you nearly have a double take. This Choi Seungcheol looked nothing like yesterday’s drunken state. Today he is soberly dressed in a dark pinstripe suit, hair slicked back. The silver ring on his pinky knocks against the counter as he taps his hand on the surface, gesturing for the bartender. He proceeds to order a shot of tequila—Jeonghan must have told him your usual go-to drink before you arrived.

“No,” he admits, “But Jeonghan said I threw up all over your shoes?”

The memory brings back unpleasant thoughts. Panic at his passed-out figure by the door after he finished vomiting, frantic calls to room service and emphasizing for them to put the service charge on his tab…

He notices the grimace on your face and apologizes again.

“I’m terribly sorry you had to clean up my mess.”

You wave it off, nodding in thanks to the bartender who brings over the shot of tequila.

“It’s fine.”

“Are you sure?” he presses on, lifting the martini and consuming half the cocktail in one long sip. “I can make it up to you.”

“It’s just a pair of shoes, no big deal.

“Another shot of tequila, please.”

The bartender holds up an ‘OK’, which makes you smile and you spin to face Seungcheol.

“If you want to make it up to me, Mister Choi, can you treat me to another round of drinks?”

He does a double take at hearing his name, garnering a chuckle from your parted lips.

“It’s not hard to get information about someone as well-known as you.”

Seungcheol cracks a smile at your words. “I didn’t know I was so popular.”

The second shot of tequila makes its way before you, accompanying it a second martini for Seungcheol courtesy of the bartender.

“Cheers? You’re forgiven for throwing up on my shoes, Mister Choi Seungcheol.”

“Just call me Seungcheol,” he laughs, a hearty sound that echoes warmly across the bar when the glasses clink. “But really, this won’t do when I ruined your shoes.”

“Hmm… I can’t think of anything now, so l’ll take a rain check on your offer.”

“Then I’ll have Jeonghan give you my number. That way, you can call me once you decide how you want me to make it up to you.”

◇

You never did call Seungcheol to cash in on his offer, not one to insist on compensation for something as trivial as ruined shoes. Vomiting happened when people drank a bit too much. It wasn’t like those shoes were valuable or even held any sentimental value (they were gifted by a former colleague after she left to sign to a rival agency with better pay and benefits).

Jeonghan had pestered you for a week asking why you never contacted his friend, but you held your ground and purposely ignored his calls whenever he asked about you contacting Seungcheol, rendering you going without pay that week due to not seeing him. Curse the clause in your contract that stated you had to attend individual calls at least three times a week or else pay from group calls would be forfeited entirely to the agency.

“How much longer are you going to play hooky?”

Hana stands by the desk in your room with a bag of chips in hand, digging into the bag while waiting for your response. Crumbs trickle onto the floor and you get up from bed, shooing her out to stand by the door if she had to eat while talking.

“You’re sweeping these up yourself if you take one more step forward while eating your chips.”

She rolls her eyes and reaches for another chip. “You heard me, missy. No pay means no rent. No rent means you and I are going to have to sleep on the streets.”

“I know,” you enunciate, crossing your arms in distaste. “I’ll figure something out before the end of the month.”

“I’m holding you to it,” Hana declares, flicking a chip crumb your direction. “You said you’d figure it out.”

“Get out before I hand you the broom to sweep up my room.”

Once she leaves, you close the door and sigh. The end of the month was coming up in three days’ time. You’re sure Hana isn't the type to save either, so likely you’d have to cover her share (or part of it) as you usually do. Her big spending always end in maxed out credit cards every month, an amount not even help from her sister can cover to pay in full as you liked.

Jeonghan usually more than willing to offer financial assistance, your latest cold war with him had turned him to call for other girls to accompany him to parties or other work events. No way in hell were you going to ask him for help.

Perhaps…

—

“Welcome to Andromeda, do you have an appointment?”

You swallow nervously at seeing the crisp beige wallpaper and red sofas lined around the corners for those waiting to see the CEO to sit at. Everything screamed precision and order, two things you never had in your line of work as an escort. Even the receptionist’s white blouse and black pencil skirt were neater than the scuffed blue denim dress you picked out of your closet just an hour prior.

Talk about two different worlds.

“I… I do,” you lie, crossing your hands behind your back. “Can you tell Seung… Mister Choi he owes me a new pair of shoes?”

The receptionist looks up at you from her computer and you put on your best smile.

“Please? Your boss will understand.”

If there is the slightest sigh from her parted lips, you miss it, digging your nails into your palms as she picks up the telephone and dials into his office. To your delight, she hangs up and proceeds to gesture for you to enter. You nod in thanks and uncross your hands; the nail marks leaving indents on the skin, you quickly rub your palms to soothe your frantic nerves and push open the doors.

Seungcheol looks up from his desk and blinks twice at seeing you in person. A rare sight that has him standing up, mouth widening to a grin when he recognizes you.

“I was wondering who it was that I owed a pair of shoes.”

You smile and take a seat. “I’m glad you still remember.”

“What’s the occasion?” he asks, sitting back down and sliding his documents and files aside. “You could’ve texted me; you have my business card.”

“Can you lend me some money?”

Straight to the point, it catches him off guard and he asks you to repeat it to make sure he heard it right the first time. You reiterate the request for a loan and watch carefully as he leans back in his chair.

“What’s it for?”

“Rent,” you begin slowly, “I have three days before the end of the month when it’s due. And…”

“And?”

“I really can’t think of anyone else to help me but you, Seungcheol.”

His face is expressionless, and you continue in hopes to move him enough to lend a helping hand.

“I’m sorry if me coming here unannounced was rude. Really, I… Jeonghan’s been annoying me and I’ve been ignoring his calls because all he does is ask if I had you compensate me for ruining my shoes that night. In… In my—”

You flourish a hand around the phrase ‘line of work’. “In my line of work, there’s a clause with my agency that states escorts have to take individual calls at least three times a week or else pay is turned over entirely to the management company. I haven’t been paid in the last two weeks and you’re the only one who can help me this time.”

The silence in his office is overbearing, so thick in the air that you nearly make a notion to get up and open the windows until he breaks the silence himself.

“You’ve been ignoring Jeonghan’s calls?”

“Y-Yeah,” you mumble, taking out your phone to show him the call history. “Even have his number blocked.”

The tiniest snort breaks way into a full bout of warm laughter, the same laughter that tickled your insides from your first meeting with him at the Starlight bar. Clearly he is amused by your answer, even delighted at the fact that you’d been ignoring Jeonghan.

“No wonder he’s been sulky,” Seungcheol chuckles. “All because his favorite escort girl wasn’t answering his calls.”

Still laughing to himself, he reaches into one of the drawers and takes out a checkbook. You watch as he grabs a pen from the container on his desk and scribbles an amount onto one of the checks, tearing it out and handing it over once he signs off on it.

“I hope this is enough?”

You glance over the amount written at the top right and hold back a gasp. It was more than enough. Enough to pay for the next three months, enough to pay off Hana’s credit card bill overdue from last month, enough to even treat yourself to some new dresses to wear to work after subtracting the necessary expenses first.

“I…”

“Do you need more?”

“No,” you blurt out, reaching your hand out to take away his container of pens. “It’s… It’s too much.”

An arched eyebrow and his curious gaze pierces straight through you; you fidget a little but proceed to reaffirm your stance on his check.

“It’s too much. I only need enough to pay for this month’s rent.”

“Then consider the rest my compensation for a new pair of shoes.” He gestures to his pens and you quickly hand them back, embarrassed by your rash behavior to someone kind enough to lend money for your troubles.

Picking up the fallen check from across the desk, Seungcheol stands up, offering the much-needed money to you again.

“This check is yours. Even has your name on it and everything.”

Hesitant fingers eventually grab hold of the check and tuck the slip carefully into your cross-body bag. Taking a deep breath, you bow in thanks and he hurriedly makes his way around to hold your hands.

“No, no, don’t do that,” he blubbers, panic settling in his eyes. “I-I didn’t mean to sound mean, really—”

“You’re very kind, Seungcheol.” Rubbing at your eyes, the budding tears of gratitude are flicked away and your lips widen to a grin that uproots the tension and anxiety about making ends meet. “I’m glad I blocked Jeonghan’s number on my phone.”

He laughs at your remark. “Well, it’s not every day I see him sulk and get flustered, so it was worth every penny.

“Are you free tonight, by the way?”

The question catches you by surprise. “Tonight?”

“For dinner,” he explains, “To celebrate being able to pay rent for next month.”

“You want to treat me to dinner with more of your money?”

“Sorry,” you wince, taking a step back, “I didn’t intend to sound so… harsh.”

Seungcheol shakes his head. The hint of the smallest smile dances around the corner of his lips, one that carries a bit more than amusement and awe at your sharp words.

“It’s fine. It means you have nothing to hide from me.

“So dinner at 7pm tonight?”

You nod, tucking the memory of the smile to the back of your mind.

“I’d love to.”

—

Dinner with Seungcheol didn’t just happen that one night, but for (surprisingly) many more consecutive nights. You might have already sampled every single high-end restaurant featured in the local magazines at this rate, candlelight dinners in the presence of one of the richest men in the city with complimentary wine and dessert. Seungcheol also had a habit of greeting you with a gift each time he picked you up from work, the gesture bordering on more than mere friendliness whenever you consulted Hana about it.

“He likes you,” she had said in the simplest explanatory manner, “Maybe he even sees himself as a sugar daddy of some sort to you.”

The term eliciting a nose scrunch and firm shake of your head, you firmly tell yourself that cannot be. Surely it’s anything but that when you technically still owed him money. Why would he want to spend time (and more money) on someone indebted to him?

—

“Bestie, your boo’s calling.”

You look up from the dresser, lipstick in hand. “Who?”

“The one and only Yoon Jeonghan, that’s who.”

Capping the lipstick, you get up and head out to the living room. Hana gestures to the phone still ringing on the coffee table, two pieces of chips in between her manicured fingers. Scooting past her, you scan the screen and a pang of disappointment tickles your bones when you see it really is Jeonghan calling and not someone else.

“Hello?”

“Finally remembered to unblock my number?”

His crisp tone does little to faze you.

“Should I re-enter it to my block list?”

“Well, no.” There’s sniffling on his end, and you overhear a distant sneeze. “I was just checking to see if you really unblocked me like Cheol said you did.”

Tingles tickle your stomach at hearing Seungcheol’s name, but you push it down with a huff.

“You know I’m a woman of my word, Jeonghan.”

“I do. Which is why I’d like you to go out to buy some soup for me right now.”

“What?” You check the time on your phone and it’s already 7:15pm. “I can’t get soup for you. Me and Hana are having a girls’ night out today.”

“Please. You’re the only one who can do this for me.”

“Jeonghan, can’t you just—”

His voice is muffled, and you catch the tail ends of a cough when he resumes speaking into the phone.

“I would stay here to take care of him, but there is a dinner I absolutely cannot miss out on, sweetheart.” Desperation laced in his pleas, Jeonghan’s voice is muffled again and you stand stumped at the cutoffs in the conversation. The phone call then ends altogether, leaving you even more confused when the entire thing sounded like an emergency.

“What the fuck?”

Your phone then pings with an incoming text, complete with pictures of a bedridden Seungcheol next to a mountain of used tissues and the address to deliver the soup to once you bought it.

“Hana,” you begin once you tuck your phone into the back pocket of your jeans. “I can’t go with you tonight. One of my friends is sick.”

◇

You will never forget the look of relief on Jeonghan’s face when he opens the door to Seungcheol’s VIP Suite at Hotel Celestia, a Choi establishment on the other side of the city.

“Thank god you’re here,” he sighs, rummaging into his wallet and taking out two of his credit cards. “Use these if you need anything else.”

Gone before you can even say goodbye, you hold up a hand and wave anyway, closing the door. The lights are on the dimmest setting once you step in, the choice to keep your shoes on a firm one after the fiasco from your first meeting. This time, the suite didn’t hold the luxurious feel it should’ve had for a hotel suite, but rather an emptiness at the lack of another presence besides the coughing heard from around the corner.

“Seungcheol?”

Around the corner, you spot the mountain of used tissues on the floor and see him bundled up in bed. Picking your way through, you set down the container of soup on whatever space is left on the nightstand and slowly place a hand on his forehead.

“You’re burning up.”

Somehow you take on the role of a nurse for the remainder of the evening, shuffling from the kitchen to heat up the soup to the bathroom and back after cleaning up the tissue mountain and messy bedroom. Washing your hands diligently after touching all the germs, you pull up a chair and take off the towel on his forehead, feeling his temperature again.

“Not as hot as before.”

As quietly as possible, you lean forward and tap him on the shoulder. Seungcheol stirs, eyes barely open when he feels your touch.

“Jeonghan called me over,” you explain, “I brought some soup, you should—”

He mumbles something you fail to catch, and when he repeats it you realize he’s not calling for you in his feverish state.

Who is he asking for?

Seungcheol blinks, and he quickly shakes his head when he notices you sitting before him.

“H-Hi.”

You offer a wave and gesture at the now-cold soup.

“For you. Courtesy of Jeonghan.”

He nods and you hand over the container of soup, which he drinks straight out of in large gulps.

“T…Thanks.”

Taking the empty container, you nod and set it down before speaking.

“You still have a bit of a temperature, but it’s a lot better than before.”

His eyes more energetic than earlier, Seungcheol shakes his head and looks at you with an apologetic smile.

“Sorry you had to… see me like this.”

You cross your legs and fiddle with your fingers, the unknown name bugging your mind. To ask or not to ask, especially when he is unwell.

“Did… Did you eat?”

“Sorry,” you blurt out, standing up from the chair. “I… I have to go.”

“So soon?”

“Yeah, I…” Without looking at him, you grab your purse and hurriedly wave, not catching the last bit as you take your leave.

—

“Rent’s due again, bestie.”

You gesture at the envelope sitting on your desk. “Give that to the landlord when you see him later.”

Hana skips towards your desk and picks up the envelope. A low whistle twinkles through the room at the stack of bills nestled inside.

“You got this from Seungcheol?”

“Jeonghan,” you correct her, “I asked him for a favor and that’s what he gave me.”

“I thought Seungcheol was your new sugar daddy now.”

Picking up a pillow from your spot on the bed, you throw it at her and she quickly dodges.

“What did I say wrong now??”

“He’s just a friend,” you mutter, digging deeper into the covers. “Nothing more.”

“Girl, he was taking you out to dinner every night and getting you all those exquisite gifts. I don’t think that’s something a regular friend would do.”

Poking your head out, you let out a guttural scream and she leaves, closing the door behind her while taking the envelope. No longer in the mood to sleep, you kick the blankets off and sit up. Ever since his sick day, you’d been avoiding Seungcheol like the plague—ignoring his texts, purposely not picking up his calls, using Jeonghan as an excuse whenever he tried to ask you out on the off chance he crossed paths during your other calls. If Jeonghan had noticed you were playing the ghost card he didn’t show it, not one to pry when he was back on your good graces.

A vibration buzzes from your nightstand and you reach over a hand; panic lights up in your eyes when you see the caller id. The phone rings for two more times, then buzzes again, this time from your roommate.

“What is it, Hana?”

“Can you come out here? There’s someone here to see you.”

“Wait, who in the—” You hurriedly get out of bed and change to a set of more presentable clothes. Fixing your hair, you brush out any knots and rush out.

“Is the landlord here early, I saw you take the money…”

Your words fade when you see who is standing next to Hana in the living room.

“I’m sorry,” she mouths, holding up two envelopes (the second one equally as thick as the one she took for rent). “He said I can have another envelope of the same amount if I can get you out of your room.”

She scurries away before you can scold her for taking bribes and you sigh, a deep breath echoing across the four walls.

“Why are you here?”

Seungcheol adjusts the collar of his white silk shirt. “You wouldn’t take my calls.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Busy enough to ghost me but free to spend time with Jeonghan?”

The barb in his words is prickly, and you take a step back when he moves forward.

“Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” you murmur, unable to look him in the eye. “I mean, technically no.”

The gentlest of touches rests on your face and you muster the courage to look at him. Concern pools in his eyes as he studies your silence, lips contorted to a frown.

“You can tell me,” he reassures you. “You know I’ve never said no to you.”

The kindness unusually sharp, it digs into your heart and you wince at hearing his words.

“You need to leave.” Pushing him aside, you walk to open the front door and look away. “I can’t do this today, Seungcheol.”

“Wait, but—”

“Please.” You stand your ground. “You need to leave.”

He gives in, head low as he takes his exit. Once he fully passes through the threshold between your apartment and the hall, you slam the door shut and slump to the ground. You didn’t know why you were so frustrated at him over a name. This angry curiosity you’ve been carrying around since that day…

Not jealousy, no. But it festers like an untended wound, threatening to consume your insides the longer you leave it unchecked.

“God, this fucking sucks.”

◇

“Cheol brought these for you.”

You gloss over the Celine handbags, trying hard to not stare at the vintage pink one that had been out-of-stock for weeks. You mentioned it to Seungcheol once as an off-handed comment when he took you to the store to get you a gift, wistfully staring at the empty rack when the saleslady regretfully informed him they were out of that color for the bag. He promised to keep an eye out for it and apparently had taken it to heart, finally managing to get the pink one you wanted so long ago.

“The smaller leather ones are very you,” Jeonghan muses, holding up each one in curiosity. “He knows your taste.”

“I don’t like this brand anymore,” you lie, shaking your head when he offers them your way. “Give them to your other girlfriends.”

He waves his hand, and one of his household staff comes forward to take away all the handbags.

“You know I’ll only keep them here until you’re in the mood to take them home.”

Glaring at his cheekiness, you scowl and he slings an arm over your shoulders.

“What did Cheol do this time to mess up your pretty smile?”

“He… You remember the day he got sick?”

“Yeah.”

“He… He was calling for someone else. It was a girl’s name, but I didn’t recognize it.”

“…Then he still hasn’t forgotten about her.”

Jeonghan notices your tense posture and sighs.

“It’s not my story to tell.”

“But,” you begin, unable to hide the tremor in your voice. “But… Don’t you know a little… a little bit? Can’t you tell me a little bit?”

“I can’t.” Jeonghan releases his hold on you and stands up. “It’s really not my story to tell.”

Not even the puppy-dog eyes that usually worked wonders proves effective in prying open Jeonghan’s mouth, rendering you hopeless while pouting on the couch. He notices and takes your hand, pulling you up from your seat and squeezing your fingers for reassurance.

“Come on, I’ll treat you to dessert instead.”

“I don’t want it.”

“Not even matcha crepe cake? It’s the newest flavor at the dessert place you like so much.”

Unable to resist, you accept his hand and follow him out.

“Fine, but you’re paying.”

—

Maybe deep down you’d already known a man like Seungcheol would have a story to tell. A story he kept hidden from his closest friends, one he keeps close to his heart with vulnerabilities he has only shared with one other person.

You knew you weren’t that person, yet you couldn’t help but want to be the more you ruminated over the mysterious name. The her he clearly still wanted to see again despite their extremely publicized breakup. She, who moved on and was now married to the heir of one of the richest real estate firms in the country. The paparazzi periodically did feature spreads on whatever snippets they managed to snap of the couple’s private life: brunches, cocktail parties, pool fun, outings with their two children, etc. They looked happy, smiles all around.

He had been happy for her. When you first brought up the magazine to him after doing your own research on the matter, you hadn’t caught the look of wistfulness in his eyes then, but now…

Now it made sense. The silence, diverted glances, abrupt changes in topic, it all now made sense.

“What’s on your mind, sweetheart?”

Startled, you turn your head and find yourself not at home, but in a private room at the Starlight bar. Just short of knocking the cocktail glass off your neighbor’s hand, apologies trickle from your parted lips and he chuckles.

“Jeonghan, you didn’t tell me she’s the airhead type.”

“She’s usually not,” Jeonghan muses, waving a hand in front of your face. “What are you thinking about?”

Ignoring his prying, you turn to his friend and offer another wave of apologies, raising your own glass of water.

“Buy her a drink, Joshua,” Jeonghan nags, “It’s the least you can do for taking my favorite girl away from me.”

“No, it’s okay,” you blurt out, not in the mood to drink tonight. “I’m not—”

“She doesn’t want a drink,” Joshua retorts, swinging an arm around your shoulder. “I’ll keep her company while—”

The door to the private room squeaks open, interrupting Joshua mid-sentence. You look up and freeze, not expecting to see Seungcheol of all people standing by the entryway. Jeonghan notices the growing tension and stands—ushering Seungcheol to sit—but Joshua is oblivious, grandiosely introducing you to his friend (whom he didn’t know you were already on very familiar terms with).

“She’s with me tonight,” Joshua smiles, closing the gap between you and him. “But she doesn’t seem to be warming up to me.”

Seungcheol turns to you with his eyebrows raised.

“Are you and Joshua together now?”

It rubs you the wrong way, the way he asks the question. Why was he so quick to assume you already had somewhat of an intimate relationship with Joshua when you just met the guy today?

Jeonghan spots the fire in your gaze and extinguishes the flame with an interjected “No”, slapping Joshua’s arm off your shoulder and squeezing himself in the middle. One hand rests on your thigh, a comforting touch that helps in stilling the building anger and snappiness crawling up your throat to be spat out.

“Sorry, she’s with me actually,” Jeonghan smiles, “I’ve been booking her consistently since—you know—since you stopped asking for her.”

“Wait, she’s not—”

Joshua holds his tongue after seeing the sharp glance from Jeonghan, promising to call you again as he excuses himself to leave the tense atmosphere in the room. The trio of you, Seungcheol, and Jeonghan now alone, Jeonghan is the first to break the silence.

“I’m going to let you and Cheol have some time to sort out your problems,” he says to you, standing up and shaking his head when you tug at his sleeve for him to stay. “Call me when you’re done.”

You throw a glare at him, one that Seungcheol overlooks as he bids goodbye to Jeonghan.

Not liking the situation one bit, you reach for Joshua’s glass and down the margarita in one go, the burn in your throat akin to liquid courage for the upcoming confrontation.

“You scared off both my clients,” you begin with a huff. “Just because you’re also rich like them doesn’t mean—”

“Then I’ll pay triple for tonight,” The words slide off Seungcheol’s mouth smooth as honey. “You won’t be missing out on the two of them when I can pay for their share as well as mine.”

He scoots closer while you instinctively slide to the left. The gesture brings a scowl to his face and your hands curl into fists.

“I do not appreciate being bought out like that, Mister Choi.”

“I didn’t…” He licks his lips. “You were the one who kept avoiding me!”

“I wasn’t avoiding you,” you lie, angling your body away. “My schedule has been fully booked each time you reached out.”

A heavy sigh leaves his mouth. Clearly he picked up on the fact that you weren’t going to make this easy for him.

“Can you at least tell me when you’ll have more free time to meet with me?”

“I don’t know what I am to you, Seungcheol.”

He pauses, clasping his hands together and resting them on his knees.

“Care to explain why you think that way?”

You bite your lips, glancing back at him. He is as patient as ever while waiting for you to answer, and that is when you knew you had to come clean for your own sake if not his own.

“I… Who was it you were calling for that night you were sick?”

It’s funny how you can practically see the gears turning his brain, Seungcheol practically an open book to everyone around him. Never one to keep secrets (or someone able to keep a secret), but clearly even those who are usually open books have their own share of hidden chapters within the pages.

“I didn’t know,” he begins carefully, eyes downcast. “I didn’t know Jeonghan had called you to stop by.”

“Are you still thinking of her?”

“…No. She is happily married now.”

“Then why didn’t you say anything the first time?”

He tears his gaze away from the floor, fingers digging into his knuckles as tears pool in his eyes.

“Because I’m scared you won’t believe me when I say I feel nothing for her anymore. I’m scared of how much I don’t want to lose you when I realized I was starting to fall in love again.”

—

Much to Jeonghan’s disappointment, you had gone home with Seungcheol that night, his hand ever so tightly grasping yours while leaving Starlight. Making sure to let your roommate/best friend know of your whereabouts, you send her a quick text that you’d be staying at Seungcheol’s place and she all but replies back with a “:P”. No doubt her dirty mind expected more than just a good night’s sleep.

Nothing happened that was out of your expectations: an offer for a fresh change of clothes, shower, a late midnight snack (he had virtually nothing in his fridge but you weren’t hungry anyway), and sleeping in his bed while he set up camp in his study. You sense he wanted to elaborate on where things had ended in the bar, from the constant side glances and hesitation at even touching your hand when he brings over a clean shirt and pair of gray sweatpants in exchange for the pink pleated mini dress you chose to meet Jeonghan and Joshua in. It’s one thing to hear him out, but another to recharge and clear your mind after such an eventful night with some space and well-needed sleep.

Sleep was minimal, perhaps the enormous size of his bed daunting and keeping you awake with the thought of him tucked away in his study. He looked no better (dark eye bags and large yawns) alongside the messy bedhead and nearly bumps into the bathroom door if you didn’t alert him after freshening up.

“Did you have a good sleep?”

You turn around from your seat by the open kitchen, mug of instant coffee in hand.

“I slept…okay.”

Yawning, he nods at hearing your answer and shuffles towards the fridge. His hair still sticking up on all ends, you have half a notion to get up and run your fingers through his dark locks to smooth it out when hearty chuckles echo across the kitchen area.

“Something wrong?” you ask, getting up and placing down your mug of coffee by the sink.

“I…” Seungcheol turns to face you with a sheepish smile. “I have absolutely nothing in my fridge for you to eat.”

“That’s fine. Jeonghan actually bought me dinner before we went for drinks at Starlight.” You grab the mug and take another large sip. “Plus, I usually skip breakfast on weekends anyway. Coffee is enough.”

The refrigerator closes softly and Seungcheol holds up his hands in defeat.

“Guess I’ll wait until later to eat too, then.”

“What, no, that’s—” You usher him out of the kitchen and towards his room. “Go change.”

“Change?”

“Get changed,” you clarify, “I’ll treat you to breakfast.”

—

You knew fast food was the last thing on his mind when you pull Seungcheol into the McDonald’s at the corner of the street.

“What is this place?”

Your mouth drops. “Choi Seungcheol, are you telling me you have never been to a McDonald’s before in your entire life?”

He returns an awkward grin, interest reclaimed by the large screen for self-ordering.

“You just tap here and then click pay?”

The disbelief is thick in your voice as you mutter away while ordering two Big Macs and French fries, ignoring his murmurs of awe at all the choices available on the menu.

“What’s this one?”

You follow his finger at the Happy Meal. Of course, he would ask about that one.

“That one comes with a toy.”

His eyes light up at the mention of a toy, and you aren’t surprised when he taps to include one Happy Meal into the order. Refusing to let him pay, you beat him to it once the order is confirmed, delegating him the responsibility of finding a vacant table while you wait to pick up the food from the front. The wait is thankfully not too long, and you spot him sitting at one of the tables by the window while looking extremely out of place in his purple dress shirt and black slacks.

“Do you always dress so formally?” you speak up the moment you place down the tray of food. “Even for something as simple as eating fast food?”

“I didn’t know you’d be bringing me here,” he replies, tunnel vision for the red box containing the Happy Meal. “This is the one with the toy, right?”

You nod, hiding a scoff as you watch him tear into the box. His eyes shine at the sight of the blue toy car and its driver, excitement prickling in the surrounding air.

“Wow,” you marvel at the large shell and ferocious jaws of Bowser, the character Seungcheol received in his Happy Meal. “Of all the ones to get from the Mario franchise, you get the one that’s the evilest.”

The shock on his face catches you by surprise, and you can’t find it in you to tease him anymore when he looks devastated at the idea.

“I’m just playing, Bowser’s cool in his own way.”

“He’s going in my office,” Seungcheol murmurs, tucking the toy away into the front pocket of his slacks. “Keep me company during the day.”

“Suit yourself.”

He reaches hesitantly for one of the burgers and unwraps it. You watch his reaction and snort at the look of awe on his face as he takes one, two, three more subsequent bites. It was the first time you had seen anyone so excited over fast food—let alone something as trivial as McDonald’s.

“May I?”

He hovers a hand over the French fries and you hand him the entire container.

“Eat your heart away.”

He must not eat fast food often, judging from the glow in his eyes. The Big Mac demolished in seconds, now it is the French fries that are tossed into the cave that is his stomach. You can feel the curious gazes of those around your table and continue to pick at your own burger, small bites all throughout.

“That was delicious,” Seungcheol hums, leaving no crumb of potato behind. “I can’t believe I’ve never had this before.”

“Fast food is common for people like me,” you laugh, crumpling the wrapper once you’ve finished eating. “It’s not as exciting as you’re making it out to be.”

He follows you like a puppy when you get up and clear the table, tossing the trash and putting the tray away before opening the door for him. The passerby all stare at Seungcheol like he’s an alien, the formality in his outfit sticking out like a sore thumb especially from the entrance to a McDonald’s. You try to walk fast to not catch attention, but the sudden grip on your forearm catches you off guard and you pause.

“Yes?”

“I just wanted to make sure you’re still here.”

“People are staring,” you sigh, easing his hand off you and interlacing your fingers to his. “Let’s go before they start asking questions about what someone like you is doing near a McDonald’s.”

The walk somehow turns into a window shopping adventure, Seungcheol stopping every few feet to stare at stores that catch his eye. He pulls you in after him despite your protests, making a lap around but not buying anything like he usually does. Clothing, makeup, even the local coffee shop catches his attention like Christmas had come early this year. Each time you humor him by letting him pull you in, no different from the role of a parent monitoring an excited child.

It stings your heart when you realize he was having fun because he probably never had the opportunity for such simple pleasures in life. Eating fast food or window shopping were things of minimal priority to his daily schedule, not like meeting with important clients or managing an entire social hierarchy of employees and upper management as CEO to one of the largest hotel chains in the city. People always say the sky’s the limit, but right now it feels as though there is an astronomical distance between his world and your very own.

So how is it possible for the silver spoon that is Choi Seungcheol to fall in love with you, the dullest utensil in the tray?

—

It would be unfair to assume he wasn’t interested in you.

Nearly everyone said the same: he liked you, he loved you, he clearly saw you as more than a friend or even one of the girls he chose to spend money on. He didn’t act like a mere sugar daddy who dropped thousands on you without breaking a sweat. Seungcheol had pretty much confessed the night he caught you at Starlight, no Jeonghan for you to use a shield to deflect to.

“So do you like him or not?”

You roll your eyes at your roommate, unamused at her habit of barging in without knocking.

“Hana, do you want to take him off my hands instead?”

She wiggles her eyebrows. “I’m not against the idea, but ask anybody and they can see he only has eyes for you.”

Scoffing, you turn your attention back to the open closet and settle on a black mini dress with a contrasting white collar. The bow tie and sleeves adding just the right amount of elegance, you pick it up and show it to Hana, who wrinkles her nose at seeing your choice.

“It’s cute and all, but sleeves?”

“What would you pick?”

She eases herself into the array and sifts through. Fingers expertly parting each hanger, she snaps her fingers once she finds what she deems worthy to wear for the night: an off-shoulder red satin dress with a high slit.

“No,” you refuse, ignoring her objections. “It’s just a cocktail party.”

“Then you gotta look the part! Who goes to a cocktail party wearing something an office secretary would wear?”

Against your protests, your roommate insists on her dress of choice, even to the point of placing herself directly in front of your closet door so you had to physically push her aside if you wanted to switch dresses. Knowing how stubborn she can be…

“Okay, I’ll stick with this one,” you sigh, holding up the red dress. “Black heels good?”

She nods in confirmation, giddiness taking over when she spots your makeup bag on the dresser.

“Can I do your makeup? You’ll catch everyone’s attention for sure once I’m done with you!”

“…Just don’t go too crazy.”

—

Sometimes you wish you weren’t so kind.

There was clearly a reason why your instinctively felt the urge to follow a monochromatic color scheme. The sea of black suits and white gowns said it all, yet here you are in a shade of red that stuck out like bloodstains on a clean towel.

Did she know ahead of time? Impossible when she hadn’t even been invited.

Was the universe out to get you? Most definitely.

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

Looking up from your glass of champagne, you take the offered hand and squeeze. Jeonghan’s eyes widen, surprised at your iron grip.

“Hey, I’m not the one who didn’t follow the dress code.”

“I was coerced into wearing this,” you groan, throwing up your hands in defeat. “It wasn’t my idea.”

“Well, you look beautiful.”

“Thanks.”

Snorting at your half-hearted thank-you, Jeonghan offers a hand and you take it, comforted by his presence as he introduces you to the other guests. Not one to socialize much at these types of meet-and-greets between the elites, you plaster on the politest smile you can muster and let Jeonghan do all the talking. Occasionally you hear your name mentioned and chime in a word or two, but anyone can see your mind wandering if they look closely, costing you your first mistake of the night when your fingers lose their grip on the half-empty champagne glass. The spilled liquid leaves a stain on your shoes, déjà vu eliciting a thin smile at the memory of walking home barefoot while holding a pair of smelly, vomit-clad heels.

“You okay?”

“Sorry, I…” You smile apologetically. “Where’s the bathroom?”

“Go that way and then take another left at the corner.”

Apologizing again, you pick up your dress and quickly walk towards the left. Curiosity drips from the onlookers of the red dress flapping about, but luckily no one stops you on your way to the bathroom.

No one except…

“You’re here.”

Your brain comes up empty while trying to think of an excuse to get away from Seungcheol, and he offers an enthusiastic grin at seeing you at the party.

“Did you arrive with Jeonghan?”

“He sent his driver,” you answer, shuffling your feet anxiously. The sign to the ladies’ room is practically two leaps away. “Saw him just a few minutes ago actually.”

“I see.”

Before he can continue, you rush past him and nearly collapse onto the tiled floor once you enter the bathroom—sinks empty and stall doors open. Slamming your hands on one of the sink counters, you take a deep breath and catch sight of your winded reflection in the overhead mirror.

“I look like shit.”

Checking to confirm the stalls are void of others, you give yourself a quick pep talk and take more deep breaths, steadily calming down before fixing your makeup. Another glance at the mirror, and you’re surprised to find Seungcheol still standing where you had left him once you leave the bathroom.

“You’re still here.”

He looks up from his phone, shoulders relaxing before tucking away the device.

“Wanted to see if you were okay when you practically sprinted in there.”

“I’m okay,” you hum, brushing off imaginary dust from your arms. “Just needed some air.”

Nodding, Seungcheol then extends an arm for you to hold.

“May I have this dance?”

You pause. Instinct tells you to pull back, but the earnest look in his eyes is too strong to resist. Slowly, you take his arm and the smile on his face practically lights up the entire room despite the dimmed glow of the ballroom fixtures. Dimmed lights, slowed music for a waltz, the ambiance almost rivals Cinderella’s first dance at the prince’s ball.

But you aren’t Cinderella, and you break away before the magic can end at midnight.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, shaking your head. “I—”

“Is it because of my ex?” Reaching into his back pocket, Seungcheol takes out his phone and taps on the screen, pulling up a text thread for you to see.

“I was just telling her I finally found someone I want to be with,” he continues, “She wished me good luck right before I asked you to dance.”

“Why me?” you sniffle, holding back the brimming tears in your eyes. “I’m… I’m just another escort.”

“You’ve always been honest with me. That’s more than what all the other girls could ever offer when I’m just another bank for them to extract money from.

“And you even showed me McDonald’s,” he adds with a hearty chuckle, “It was the first time someone has ever treated me to such a delicious meal.”

“Seungcheol, that’s—”

“I love you,” His voice drops to a whisper. “I love you for just being you.”

—

The heart knows what it wants. People can get muddled by what they see and what they hear, but the heart ultimately knows what it wants. And in trying to convince yourself otherwise, you had somehow gotten hold of Seungcheol’s heart before you knew you even wanted it.

“Can you please go see him?”

“I can’t.” You bury your face in your hands. “I don’t want to know how he thinks of me after I walked out on him like that.”

Hana rolls her eyes, not understanding your self-induced predicament. “The guy literally told you he loves you.”

“So? He’s someone who can have whatever he wants with a snap of his fingers when I’m just a—”

“Don’t you start calling yourself a nobody when you’re not.”

The remainder of your sentence falls short. Just like her to know exactly what you wanted to say.

“Enough about him, then,” she sighs, taking your hands and swinging them ever so slightly. “Are you certain you want to terminate your contract with the agency?”

“I really can’t do this anymore.” The risk of running into Seungcheol when you were contractually bound to serve others like him is too much for your mental health to withstand. Even though he was totally the type to fill your schedule exclusively for his company so others couldn’t book you, your conscience couldn’t live with the notion of him throwing even more money your way when you technically left him hanging after he confessed his love for you. “I’ll figure something out if things don’t go through, but I really need you to start budgeting and saving for the end of the month to pay for rent.”

“Okay, Mom, I won’t buy new clothes or bags when you have extras in your closet for me to borrow.”

Rolling your eyes, you shake out of her hold and take the lead in heading inside the building that housed your escort agency. To your surprise, the usually empty lobby is filled with boxes and lines of people filing in and out.

“What’s going on?” comes the curious question from behind you. “Looks like a shitstorm in here.”

“I don’t know,” you whisper, not knowing where to look at the elevator doors that continue to open and close with movers coming down with furniture and other fixtures to move out. “It seems like the entire place is shutting down.”

“Does that mean the agency is also…”

The two of you exchange a glance and make way towards the elevators, squeezing through the movers to find an elevator heading up rather than down. Once the doors open at the fifth floor, you follow her out and don't know what to make of the now vacant space that used to be the escort agency.

“What on Earth…”

Stripped bare of furniture and other knickknacks such as the familiar plants and backboard listing each escort’s daily scheduled “meetings”, the place reminds you of a freshly renovated office space ready to be leased out for a new term.

“Are we jobless?”

You don’t know how to answer the question, still processing the sight of the vacant agency when low murmuring catches your attention. From down the hallway, you spot none other than Jeonghan and the conniving witch who had conned you into signing the escort contract in the first place walking your direction. Hana puts up her middle finger on sight, but lowers her hand when you usher for her to step out before things get ugly.

“Aren’t you meeting with that one guy today? What’s his name, again, Jun?”

“I can just cancel. He’s kind of too quiet for my taste.”

“It’s not right to bail when he already paid upfront,” you convince her, “I’ll ask Jeonghan what’s going on and update you in the evening.”

“But—”

“I know you’ve been eyeing one of my Celine bags; have this Jun take you on a shopping spree to get you one.”

Already knowing she’s sold on the idea of using her date as today’s ATM machine, you shoo her away and watch from behind a corner once Jeonghan and your “former boss” stop by the front entrance. Picking up hints of an alleged “takeover” and “waste of money”, you hold your tongue until Jeonghan is alone, debating whether to reveal yourself from your hiding place when he places a hand over his mouth and coughs knowingly.

“I saw you from a mile away, sweetheart.”

You stand from your crouched position, wincing at the slight numbness in your legs.

“What’s going on? It’s completely empty here.”

He smiles, tilting his head back at the sight of the empty space.

“I bought the place!”

“You what?”

“Technically, my name was used to buy out the agency,” Jeonghan clarifies, chuckling at the absurdity of cleaning out an entire establishment with his money. “It was a completely one-sided proposal but I can’t believe it still went through.”

“Who asked you to buy out this place?” You try your best to not cry but the water in your eyes is already pooling along the corners. “I… We… How am I supposed to pay for my living expenses if I’m suddenly out of a job?”

“Sweetheart, it’s not a bad thing—”

“What would you know?” you yell, fed up with the whims of the wealthy. “You don’t know what it’s like to live paycheck by paycheck! You and your friends are silver spoons from the very moment you were born! I am sick and tired of being toyed with like—”

Jeonghan reaches a hand into his blazer and thrusts a business card in front of your face, successfully shutting you up when it drops onto your outstretched hands.

“Here’s the contact for the new owner of the building. Go talk to him if you need someone to yell at because that person is not going to be me.”

—

“Please wait here. Mister Choi will meet with you shortly.”

You nod awkwardly, thanking the receptionist after she sets down the requested cup of coffee. Leaving the coffee untouched, you close your eyes, praying your guess on the identity of this Mister Choi will be proven false when you hear the approaching footsteps. Not daring to look up, you open your eyes and grab the coffee mug, nearly staining your white dress with splashes of mocha from the quick swipe of your arm.

“I can have someone bring in a new dress if you need it.”

“Why did you do that?”

A scraping sound against the tiled floor, and you manage to lift your head up at the figure that takes the empty seat before you.

“Do what?” Seungcheol asks innocently.

It’s irritating, the subtle smirk on his face. The corners of your mouth twitch and he notices, leaning forward with his hands clasped together.

“You know what you did,” you grumble, refusing to entertain his antics. “Mister ‘I just bought out your agency because I have the money to’.”

“For starters,” he begins, knocking a hand on the table. The silver ring sitting on his pinky catches a glimmer from the faint sunlight, eliciting the memories of drinking tequila with him at the bar. “I didn’t buy out the building entirely for you. It was a business decision agreed by my board of directors to expand the hotel chain.

“Secondly, the proposed amount for this building and clearing out its tenants has no relation to you when Jeonghan was willing to pay half as a personal favor.

“And most importantly,” Seungcheol murmurs, voice dropping to almost a whisper. “I couldn’t bear the thought of you seeing other men just to make ends meet, so I did what I had to.”

You sit speechless, not knowing what to say as he gets up, eyes downcast.

“Even if you don’t choose me, I still want you to be happy. Of course, after I calculate the exact amount of compen—”

His eyes widen at the sudden tug on his sleeve, and you get up from your seat, snaking your arms around him before he can slip away.

“Why do you do the things that you do for me?”

He chuckles, turning around with a gaze full of love and adoration. Paired with the hints of the dimples in his grin, you finally realize he’d given his heart to you long before he even knew he had already done so.

“Because I love you and want you to be able to do the things you want to do. You mentioned you initially wanted to be a model, so I’m planning on turning this building into a modeling agency for you to pursue that dream.”

“Choi Seungcheol, you—”

He shakes his head, pleased that you hadn’t reprimanded him. “My board approved the acquisition, but ultimately I make the final call on how to repurpose the building.”

“I hate this,” you mutter, “I hate you for doing all this for someone like me.”

“You hate me?” he echoes. “Should I make a call to resell the building, then?”

Unsure if he’s joking or serious, you hit him lightly and he takes it with a warm laugh, a sound that tugs fondly at your heartstrings.

“I love you.”

—

“So when’s the wedding?”

You nearly choke on your drink and your best friend/roommate snorts, not understanding your reaction to her question.

“You and Choi Seungcheol have been dating for almost a whole year now. Men like him are bound to have butterflies fluttering around trying to get some of that good stuff.”

So much has happened since the events prior, from the initial meeting over a soiled pair of heels to avoiding him like the plague when you found out he loved you and even bought out your contract from the escort agency for you to be free from their shackles. Not one to take anything for granted, you made it clear to him from the beginning that it was never about the money, but he liked to think of it as an additional way for him to show how much he loved and wanted to take care of you in the blossoming relationship.

“You really should put a ring on it so people know he’s yours.”

“Hana, don’t you think it should be the other way around?” you refute, scowling at her assumption at marriage being a surefire happening. “I mean, Jeonghan still claims I have every right to choose someone else until I’m officially not single anymore.”

“Please, your Seungcheol will be out for blood if Jeonghan tries anything funny.”

You snuff out the cough growing in your throat, fully aware of Seungcheol’s slight possessive streak.

“Yeah, I suppose.”

The gloating look on her face says it all, but you take a pause on forming a rebuttal when you feel the vibration of your phone against the nightstand. Sensing you wanted privacy, she closes the bedroom door behind her when she exits and you pick up to a breathless sounding Seungcheol on the other line.

“Are you running?”

“C-Can you meet me now?” he pants, sharp intakes of breath in between each word. “I… I got something… something important to give you.”

“Where?”

“I’m actually—”

The line cuts off before he finishes his sentence.

“Seungcheol?”

No response, and you rush out of your apartment, frantically pushing the button on the elevator that eventually takes you all the way down to the main lobby. He never broke off midway through a phone call, what if—

“Hey.”

You bite back a retort, balling your hands into fists and run at full speed, punching Seungcheol square on his chest when you spot him standing by the bus stop at the corner of the block from your apartment building.

“You idiot! I thought something happened to you over the phone!”

He frowns, not understanding your panic until he offers the cracked phone in his hand towards you.

“I dropped my phone mid-conversation on the ground and the screen cracked. Is this what you’re referring to?”

“Unbelievable.” You pull away, but he grabs your hand just as you fall out of reach.

“Cute,” he smiles, his other hand taking out a small box from the pocket of his white jacket. “Here’s a gift for being so worried about me.”

“You called me out just to give me a gift?”

The raised eyebrow does little to erase the growing pout on his face, and you roll your eyes before taking his gift, revealing a stunning flower-shaped diamond ring sitting within the cushioned jewelry box.

“W-What is this?”

“I’m sorry for not being more formal,” he apologizes, “I had my driver bring me directly to the jeweler when they called and said the ring I wanted was ready for pickup.” Gesturing to his casual white zip-up jacket, blue tee, and matching white pants that completed his rushed morning look, Seungcheol smiles awkwardly and gets down on one knee, catching you completely by surprise.

“I don’t look like a man about to propose, but I really hope you’ll say yes?”

“Choi Seungcheol, this is the most comfortable outfit I’ve seen you in since we started dating,” you laugh, easing the ring out of its box and placing it onto your finger. “I’m not going to say no when you came to me dressed down like this.”

The beaming grin on his face says it all, and you give him a peck on the cheek once he stands up.

“I’ll need to check with my assistant, but if it works for you, we can hold the wedding sometime in… September? Of course, feel free to tell me what ideas you have and I can make it happen. We can book an entire—”

You put a finger over his mouth to stop him from rambling, excitement practically dancing from every inch of his being at the thought of planning the perfect wedding.

“I’m perfectly happy with a simple vacation wedding plus honeymoon.”

“That’s it?” The disappointment in his voice couldn’t be more clear. “Just a vacation?”

“Mhm. Just a simple around-the-world trip will do.

“In fact, why don’t we go right now?”

“Now?” he echoes, “I still haven’t found contractors to revamp the building I bought for you.”

“That can wait,” you groan, checking the sign by the bus stop that announced three minutes before the next bus arrives. “I’m not in a rush to start work when I get to spend the rest of my life with you.”

“Yes, but—”

“No buts!” The bus rolls closer and closer until it is only one red light away. “You can make your calls to arrange for passports and everything else on the way to the airport, but let’s go before we miss this bus!”

Waving down the bus driver with a furious wave, you take note of the secure fingers wrapped around your right hand. A comforting yet trusting touch, you know Seungcheol is equally on board with the idea despite the initial hesitation at the abrupt proposition to leave everything behind in his hectic corporate world. Rash and borderline irresponsible when he oversees so much in his business on the daily and has an entire pyramid of people dependent on him to make executive decisions, there’s little to change his mind when he’s finally able to go along with what he would like to do for once in his life.

“You know I’ll go wherever you go.”

#seventeen scenarios #seungcheol scenarios #svt #scoups #svt scenarios #seventeen fanfic #scoups fanfic #i have forgotten how to tag this shall suffice for now

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loveroftoomanyfandoms · 7 months

Text

Cooking Up Love, Chapter 7

Pairing: Chef!Matt Murdock x F!Journalist!Reader

Rating: T

Story Summary: Here

Warnings/Tags: Hallmark levels of fluffy, cheesy goodness (and speed that their relationship develops, lol), no use of Y/N, Matt is not a vigilante, idiots in love, pining... so much pining

Word Count: ~3800

A/N: As promised, here's the 2nd half of Chef Matt & Reader's Sunday afternoon together! Enjoy!

And thank you as always to @theradioactivespidergwen for the super cute divider she made for me!

Tag List: @yarrystyleeza @hailey-murdock @mattkinsella @bellaxgiornata @danzer8705 @chezagnes @shouldbestudying41 @thepunisherfrankcastle @mattmurdocks6thscaleapartment

Where the hell are we going? you wondered as you and Matt headed away from Clinton Church.

It wasn't like you weren't afraid he was taking you off somewhere to murder you -- you truly did feel safe with Matt and hadn't been lying when you had said that you trusted him. "Any hint as to where we're going?"

Matt shook his head. "I know it sounds weird, but I'd rather just show you, if that's okay?"

You nodded. It seemed important to Matt that your destination remain a mystery, so you decided not to push. "Okay."

You continued walking past various shops and storefronts until finally Matt stopped. "Okay, we're here."

You peered at the faded letters on the door.

Fogwell's Gym

You remembered Matt saying that he frequently worked out after service, but couldn't quite understand what was so special about the location that required the need for secrecy. Well, at least that explains the gym bag.

Matt pulled a set of keys out of his pocket and unlocked the door before stepping inside. "Come on in."

You followed him into the darkened gym and waited as he turned the lights on before looking around.

Cubbyholes lined the wall to the left of the door while several punching bags hung to the right. A large boxing ring was situated in the middle of the room, with wooden steps leading up to it.

Matt gestured towards what you assumed was the locker room. "I'm going to go get changed into my workout clothes. Be right back."

You nodded. "Okay."

While Matt was in the locker room, you took the opportunity to look at the flyers advertising various past boxing matches tacked to the wall. Johnson vs Lewis, Conway vs Roberts, Creel vs Murdock…

You sucked in a breath, reaching out to touch the poster. Creel vs Murdock. Now it makes sense.

You heard Matt come out of the locker room and set his bag down.

"This is where your dad trained, isn't it?" you asked, your eyes still on the poster.

You heard Matt sigh. "Yeah. Yeah, it is."

You turned towards him and froze. As handsome as he was while wearing his chef's coat and black slacks or a t-shirt and jeans, he was even more gorgeous in a black tank top, gray sweatpants, and tennis shoes.

Your gaze drifted up to his face. His glasses were gone, revealing beautiful hazel eyes that were fixed in your direction.

Matt must've felt you staring at him, because he ducked his head and began rummaging through his gym bag. "I, uh, I started coming here back when I was in culinary school," he explained. "I was struggling during my first semester and thinking about dropping out, so I came to the one place I knew where I would feel close to my dad to see if I could figure out what he would say."

He took out a small bundle of what looked like Ace bandages and began to wrap his hands. "I was having a particularly bad day that day -- there was this one professor who had been giving me a hard time about my need for certain accommodations -- so I began to take my frustration out on a punching bag."

You had found when people started to open up it was better to just let them keep talking rather than interrupt with questions, so you remained silent.

"With each punch I could hear my dad telling me that he was proud of me," Matt continued as he finished wrapping one hand and started on the other. "And that Murdocks never give up no matter how hard things get. So I decided to stay in culinary school and work my ass off to prove that I have what it takes to be a great chef and make my dad proud of me."

Before you could second-guess yourself, you walked over to Matt and wrapped your arms around him in a hug.

You thought for a split second that you might have crossed a line, but before you could let go and apologize Matt relaxed into your embrace, circling his arms around you and tucking his face into your neck.

You held him briefly, then let go and stepped back.

Matt began to redo the wrap that he had begun, keeping his face turned downward. "I've, uh, I've never actually told anybody about that before. Not even Foggy."

Your heart constricted. You couldn't even begin to imagine the hardship that Matt must have had to go through in order to prove himself as a chef. "Thank you for sharing it with me."

Matt paused. "I don't suppose I can ask you to keep that off the record, can I?"

You nodded. "I will, if that's what you want. It'll stay just between us."

Matt huffed out a breath. "Thank you."

You sat on the bench as Matt moved in front of the punching bag. "So, I suppose you're going to show me some moves, huh?"

Matt chuckled. "If you'd like."

You watched as Matt did a few stretches, appreciating the way his biceps flexed as he moved. And if your eyes drifted southward, well… you were only human. Cake, indeed. One could bounce a quarter off of that ass.

Your eyes snapped back to Matt's face, which bore a small smirk.

He reached out and touched the punching bag, found the center, then adjusted his stance, raising his fists in front of his face.

You watched in fascination as he skillfully maneuvered his way around the bag, landing punches as if he was squaring off against one of the greatest fighters of all time. He certainly doesn't fight like a blind man.

Finally he paused, chest heaving.

He steadied the punching bag. "Would you mind handing me that towel, please?"

You resisted the urge to lick the sweat off of his neck. "Oh, uh, yeah, sure."

You handed the towel to him. "So are you sure you haven't had professional training?"

Matt grinned as he wiped his face and neck down with the towel. "Yeah, I'm sure."

He draped the towel around his neck and picked up his gym bag. "I'm going to go take a quick shower and change, but I'll be back in a minute, if that's okay?"

You nodded. "Yeah, of course."

While you waited for him to return you checked your phone for messages, replying to an email from an artist you had featured a few weeks prior thanking you for your article.

You put your phone away and stood, glancing briefly over at the entrance to the locker room before walking in front of the punching bag.

You closed your eyes, curled your right hand into a fist, and swung, missing the bag completely.

You opened your eyes, frowning. Maybe I wasn't close enough.

You moved a bit closer, then closed your eyes again.

You swung at the bag, this time barely connecting.

"...Your stance is off."

You gasped and whirled around, a hand flying over your chest. "Jesus, Matt, you scared me."

Matt stood next to the boxing ring, this time dressed in a dark blue t-shirt that clearly showed off his muscles and dark blue sweatpants.

He smiled softly at you. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."

You shook your head, trying to calm your racing heart. "It's alright. I was just… um… just…"

"Trying to figure out how a blind man can hit a punching bag so easily?" Matt nodded in understanding. "I probably should have told you, but I'm not actually completely blind."

"Oh," you replied, feeling slightly embarrassed. "I'm so sorry, I just assumed…"

Matt shook his head. "It's okay. The chemicals that got into my eyes basically fried my synapses, so whatever is directly in front of me looks like a black mass and the rest of my line of vision is what I can best describe as a 'world on fire'."

He tapped the side of his glasses, which you had belatedly realized were back on his face. "The red lenses help neutralize that part."

You huffed out a light laugh. "And here I thought you just wore them because they made you look cool."

Matt grinned. "You think they make me look cool?"

More like slightly mysterious and incredibly hot. Your face heated slightly. "Eh, maybe a little."

Matt shook his head with a chuckle. "Ready to head out?"

You nodded. "Mmhmm."

Matt gestured towards the door. "After you."

"So, where to next?" you asked as the two of you headed outside.

Matt shook his head. "Actually, that was my last errand."

"Oh." You couldn't help but feel a bit disappointed that you had to go your separate ways. "Okay, so I'll see you tomorrow then?"

"Yeah, tomorrow." Matt bit his lip. "Um, that is… unless you'd like to have dinner with me tonight? My place? My apartment's not too far from here."

You nodded, unable to keep a smile off of your face. "Yeah. Yeah, I'd actually really like that."

Matt unfolded his cane. "Great! I mean, it's the least I could do after you helped me out this afternoon at the soup kitchen."

Your heart sank slightly. Of course he meant it as a thank-you, how else would he have meant it? "Oh. Um, it was no problem. I was happy to help."

Matt turned the opposite of the way you were facing. "This way, then."

As you headed down the street, you couldn't help but entertain the thought of Matt having invited you over for dinner not because he felt obligated to as a thank-you, but because he hadn't been ready for your time together to end either.

You mentally shook your head. It's just as a thank-you for helping him out at the church, that's it.

…You just wished it hadn't been.

Why the hell did I say that? Matt thought to himself as the two of you walked towards his apartment. He'd had every intention of asking you to have dinner with him as a (sort-of) date, but the second you had said yes he had second-guessed himself and blurted out the bit about it being as a thank-you for helping him out at Clinton Church.

He mentally shook his head as the two of you stopped at a crosswalk. Maybe I can fix this.

Before he could say anything, you cleared your throat. "You know, I'm sure you're tired and I don't want to be an inconvenience, so I actually think I'll just head ho--"

"No!" Matt shook his head. "I mean, no, it's not an inconvenience. I was going to make something to eat when I got home anyway, so it's not a problem to make an extra serving."

He inwardly cringed. Way to make things worse. "Actually, what I meant was that I've really enjoyed your company today and would like to have dinner with you."

He could feel you relax. "I've enjoyed your company today too," you admitted softly. "If you're sure it's not a big deal…"

Matt nodded. "I'm sure."

"Then okay. I'd love to have dinner with you."

Matt smiled in relief. "Great. And actually now that I think about it, I do have one more stop before we get back to my apartment. I need to harvest some herbs from my plot at the community garden, but it'll only take a minute."

"Okay."

The two of you continued on as the crosswalk signal beeped and changed to walk .

"So what kind of herbs do you grow?" you asked.

"All sorts of culinary varieties," Matt replied. "Rosemary, thyme, basil, lavender, and mint."

"Oh, cool."

Matt nodded. "Unfortunately I have to outsource my herbs for the restaurant since I don't have the space to grow the amount that we would need, but this works for my own personal use."

He slowed as you reached the garden. "Welcome to the Hell's Kitchen Community Garden."

"Oh wow," you said. "I never even knew this was here."

Matt led you down the center path then to the right, following along the fence line to his plot in the back corner. "It hasn't been here too terribly long, maybe six months or so."

"And you said Claire from the farmer's market runs it?"

Matt nodded. "Yeah. She petitioned the council to turn the property into a community space and keeps track of who has which plot and everything."

You hummed. "I might have to talk to my boss about covering the community garden for the paper too. This is really neat."

"That would be great. It definitely would raise more awareness and hopefully bring more funding for upkeep." Matt stopped in front of his plot. "This is mine."

He knelt down and felt his basil plants before picking a few leaves and placing them into a small storage container he kept in the side pocket of his gym bag. "All set."

He led you back out of the garden and down the street towards his apartment building, frowning at the distant rumble of thunder. Well, there goes my plan to have dinner on the roof. "Sounds like it's about to rain."

"Yeah, it does seem like it's getting a bit cloudy," you replied. "Is your place much farther?"

Matt shook his head. "No, it's just up ahead."

"Oh, okay."

You walked the rest of the way in comfortable silence.

"Okay, here we are," Matt said as you reached his apartment building.

He led you to the elevator and pressed the button for his floor, the sound of rain beginning to fall as the elevator began to ascend. "Sounds like we made it just in time."

"Yeah, thank goodness," you replied. "I wasn't expecting it to rain so I didn't bring my umbrella with me."

You can always just stay the night… Matt shook his head. "I have one you can borrow if you need to, or I can call you a cab if it's still raining hard when you leave later."

He took his keys out of his pocket as the elevator stopped and the doors opened. "This way."

He led you down the hall to his apartment and unlocked the door, then opened it and ushered you inside as another roll of thunder rumbled overhead.

He closed the door and dropped his keys into the bowl on the side table in the entryway before folding up his cane and setting it next to the bowl. "Come on in."

He tried to ignore his sudden nervousness. It had been a long time since he'd had someone who wasn't Foggy or Karen in his personal space and hoped you wouldn't judge how barren his apartment was.

He turned on the lights then headed to his refrigerator. "Would you like something to drink?"

"Oh, um, sure," you replied. "Whatever you're having is fine."

He heard you walk over to the large window in his living area as he pulled out 2 bottles of beer along with a block of pecorino cheese and some pancetta. He had gotten an incredible deal on his apartment because of the gigantic neon sign that was situated on the roof of the neighboring building, so he was sure that was what you were looking at.

He quickly washed the fresh basil he had picked and patted it dry, then set the cheese and pancetta down on the kitchen island before popping the tops off of the bottles and walking over to you. "Here you go."

Your fingers brushed his as he handed you the bottle, a now-familiar tingle coursing through Matt's veins. "Thank you."

Matt swallowed and took a sip of his beer. "Quite the view, huh?" he said, gesturing out the window.

You huffed out a laugh. "It's very, um… picturesque."

Matt shook his head with a grin. "Funny, that's exactly how the real estate agent that sold me this place described it." He leaned in conspiratorially. "I have a feeling she might not've been telling me the truth though."

You laughed again. "Okay, it is a bit obnoxious."

Matt chuckled. "I really do keep meaning to get some blackout curtains, but since it's just me it's never really been a bother."

You hummed. "I honestly don't mind it. It gives your apartment an interesting glow."

Matt could imagine the two of you together on his sofa, the glow of the billboard the only light in the darkened room as he gently caressed your cheek, your lips inches from his own--

He mentally shook his head and gestured to his kitchen island. "Have a seat and I'll get started on dinner."

He heard you sit as he began to gather the rest of the ingredients, placing the eggs he had taken out of his refrigerator that morning into a bowl and setting it on the island before washing his hands and filling a pot about halfway with water.

He set the pot on the stove and seasoned it with some salt, then turned the burner on high to let the water boil.

He crossed back to the island and roughly chopped the fresh basil he had picked, then quickly whisked together 3 egg yolks and an entire egg before grating a generous amount of cheese into the mixture, giving it an additional stir before setting it aside.

He could feel you quietly watching him as he unwrapped the pancetta and began cutting it into small cubes, unable to help but wonder what you were thinking. You'd had the same focus the day before when he had made your crepes, but you had been recording your conversation then and had asked questions about his culinary process. This felt… different. More personal, like you were deep in thought.

He cleared his throat. "Penny for your thoughts?"

"What?" You startled slightly. "Oh, sorry, it's nothing. Just trying to figure out what we're having for dinner."

You were lying to him, but Matt couldn't figure out exactly why or what about. "Oh, I'm making spaghetti carbonara. It's traditionally made with guanciale, but my supplier was out, so pancetta will have to suffice for today."

"Your supplier… Oh, right, Frank, wasn't it?"

Matt shook his head then moved back to the stove, dropping the spaghetti into the pot of boiling water before moving the pancetta to the pan. "He doesn't do cured meats. I get those and other specialty items from Nelson's Meats."

You made a curious sound. "Nelson… as in Chef Nelson?"

Matt nodded as he stirred the pancetta around. "Foggy's family owns it. Best capicola in the tri-state area."

He finished cooking the pancetta and turned the skillet off, then scooped some of the pasta water into a measuring cup before draining the pasta and adding it to the pancetta. "Dinner's almost ready if you want to move to the table."

"Okay."

As you moved to Matt's dining table, he gave the egg mixture another stir before pouring it into the pan, adding a bit of the pasta water and using tongs to mix it all together.

Once it was a perfectly smooth consistency, he added some freshly-ground black pepper and separated it into two bowls before adding an extra sprinkle of cheese and some chopped basil on top of each serving.

He placed a fork in each bowl, then brought them over to you, setting yours in front of you and his in front of his spot across from you. "Dinner is served."

You gave a slight gasp. "Oh my goodness, Matt, this looks amazing."

"Thanks." Matt quickly grabbed two wine glasses and gave them a quick rinse before taking a bottle of Pinot Gris out of his refrigerator and pouring you each a glass.

He set your glass down before sitting across from you. "The beer we were drinking doesn't really go with carbonara so I've selected a wine pairing, if that's alright?"

You gave a hum of affirmation. "Of course it's alright."

Matt nodded. "Okay, well, enjoy."

He waited nervously as you took a bite.

You let out a pleased sound. "Oh my goodness, this is so good."

Matt grinned in relief. "Yeah?"

"Yes, absolutely. Everything you've made for me so far has been amazing."

"I'm glad." Matt took a bite of his own carbonara, the silky smoothness of the sauce pairing perfectly with the crispy pancetta and al dente noodles. "It's not quite traditional carbonara but it's very close."

"Right, you said it's traditionally made with guanciale."

Matt nodded. "And no herbs are usually added, but I like the flavor a bit of fresh basil adds to the dish."

"Mmm. Mmhmm. Yeah, I like it too."

You both continued eating and once you were done, Matt stood. "Here, I'll get this for you."

"Thanks."

"I'm afraid I don't have any dessert prepared, but would you like another glass of wine?"

"Yeah, I'd love one."

Matt grabbed the bottle of Pinot Gris and refilled your glasses. "Care to go sit on the couch?"

"Sure."

You took a sip of wine as the two of you sat together on Matt's sofa. "I really like your apartment, by the way. It suits you."

Matt shook his head with a small smile. "It's not much, but it's home."

You huffed out a laugh. "It's not what I originally expected, but to be honest, neither were you."

"Oh?" Matt turned towards you. "And what did you expect?"

"About you or your apartment?"

"Mmm, both, I suppose."

"Well, had I based my idea of what your apartment would be like on my first impression of you it would've been cold and industrial with no heart."

Matt winced. "Ouch."

"However, having gotten to know you over the past few days I would say warm and inviting with a certain charm."

A smile spread across Matt's face. "You think I'm charming?"

"Your apartment? Very. You? Maybe a tiny bit."

Matt smirked at the teasing tone in your voice. "A tiny bit? I guess I'll just have to work harder on charming you then."

You let out a light laugh. "No need, I'll send you a copy of my article before publication anyway."

"Okay, thanks." Although that's not the reason I want to charm you.

You finished your glass of wine. "And speaking of my article, I should probably get going -- I have to be at the Bulletin early tomorrow for our weekly staff meeting."

Matt nodded and stood. "Here, I'll walk you out."

"Thanks for inviting me along today," you said softly as you reached the door. "I had a really great time."

Matt nodded, unable to keep a smile off of his face. "I did too."

"I'll see you tomorrow evening?"

Matt nodded again. "Six o'clock?"

"Yeah, that sounds perfect."

"Okay, great."

The two of you stood there for a moment longer. Finally you reached out and gave Matt a brief hug. "Goodnight, Matt."

Matt hugged you back, committing what he could of you to memory. "Goodnight."

He waited as you let yourself out, an idea forming in his mind.

…He just hoped he was able to pull it off.

#lotmf writes #Cooking Up Love Masterlist #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x fem!reader #matt murdock x female reader #matt murdock x you

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