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CAUSE OF DEATH: paige bueckers crying on geno auriemma’s shoulder while he tells her he loves her.

when reading smut and y/n says “daddy”

Ate down

marry me, mr. jeong

summary: while everyone around you is getting married, you're left behind—no ring, no lover, just silence waiting at home. but one night, your boss, mr. jeong, makes an unexpected proposal: "marry me." and suddenly, your quiet world begins to burn.

pairing: boss!jaehyun x fem!reader

genre: romance, slow burn, fluff, emotional smut, domestic married life, eventual pregnancy, emotional growth, healing.

warnings: explicit sexual content (18+), strong language, emotional vulnerability, pregnancy mention (later), minor angst, lots of kissing, crying, soft husband jaehyun, tooth-rotting fluff, crying-in-the-club type of love.

wc: 19,7K

notes: i’m obsessed with jaehyun as a boss, boyfriend, hubby, and daddy lmao. man’s got range 😮‍💨💍🖤 i swear i try to keep it short but my brain goes rogue every time 😭 like girl be fr, when’s the day i finally drop a short fic??? bye lmao 💀

you’re twenty-nine, and the number feels heavier than you thought it would. not because it’s old—not really—but because thirty is close. and thirty means expectations. by now, you were supposed to have it all figured out. at least, that’s what they say. your friends certainly make it seem that way with their photo-perfect marriages, toddlers learning to walk, houses in peaceful neighborhoods. meanwhile, you still live in a quiet apartment with plants you often forget to water and a fridge that holds more takeout containers than groceries.

you work at an architecture firm—clean lines, big ideas, and even bigger egos. the kind of place where late nights are common and recognition is rare. you’ve built a name for yourself, though. you lead your team well, your ideas consistently get approved, and your work ethic has never been in question. the other women whisper that you’re just trying to impress the boss, that your dedication is nothing but a strategic flirtation. they don't know that your passion isn’t about pleasing anyone but yourself. well, mostly. maybe part of you does want to be seen. to be acknowledged by him.

jeong jaehyun.

your department lead. two years younger than you, but somehow always carrying himself like he’s lived three lives already. he doesn’t talk much. doesn’t engage in the small talk that fills the office kitchen or the empty flattery some of your coworkers throw his way. he’s serious, focused, almost too calm. the kind of man who’s unreadable, and yet somehow always watching. you’re not close, not really, but there’s a quiet understanding between you. he trusts you. you can feel it in the way he gives you space to lead, the way he nods subtly in meetings when you speak, the way his eyes linger sometimes—not in a way that feels invasive, but like he’s... thinking.

you’ve never seen him flirt with anyone. never seen him talk about his personal life. no ring, no photos on his desk, not even vague mentions of a girlfriend or family. and while no one dares to say anything to his face, everyone wonders. he's a man, though—no one criticizes him for being single. no one asks him what he's waiting for.

you, on the other hand, can barely go a week without someone making a comment. still not married? you’re so pretty, what a shame. your mother means well, but every call ends with a variation of you’re not getting any younger, sweetheart.you smile through it. you tell them you're happy. you tell yourself that, too. but deep down, there's a quiet ache. because you’ve always wanted a family. always dreamed of being a mother, of coming home to someone who knows you—not just your schedule or your favorite takeout order, but the way you think, the way you feel things deeply and try to hide it. but love hasn’t knocked in years. not since your last relationship ended at twenty-two, before the world hardened your heart. since then, you’ve been too busy, too careful, too tired.

tonight, you're staying late again. the office is nearly empty, save for a few flickering lights and the buzz of a vending machine down the hall. you're finessing the last pieces of a major project, making sure every detail is just right. you're in the zone when you hear soft footsteps approaching, and then his voice—low, familiar, closer than expected.

“you’re still here, byun?”

you glance up to find jaehyun standing by your desk, hands in his pockets, that usual unreadable expression on his face. there’s no judgment in his voice, just quiet curiosity.

you offer a tired smile, leaning back in your chair. “oh, mr. jeong, i just wanted to polish a few things before the presentation. i figured if i leave anything messy, the senior managers will rip it apart. and then you’ll take the heat for it.”

he raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching into something that almost looks like a smile. “you care that much about how i look to the execs?”

you shrug, turning back to your screen. “you’re my boss. if you look bad, i look bad.”

he lets out a soft exhale, a sound that's dangerously close to a chuckle. then he leans against your desk, his body relaxed but his eyes still sharp as ever. “you’re too committed.”

“you say that like it’s a bad thing.”

he shakes his head. “not bad. just... rare.”

a brief silence settles between you, not awkward, but weighted. it feels like he’s about to say something else, and when he does, it’s not what you expect.

“doesn’t your family mind that you stay this late?” his gaze holds yours. “your husband? kids?”

you blink, the question catching you off guard. your smile falters just slightly, and you look down at your hands before answering.

“no husband. no kids. no one waiting at home.” you try to sound casual, even throw in a little laugh. “i guess i’m just married to the job.”

he doesn’t laugh. doesn’t look away. “i didn’t know.”

you nod, suddenly very aware of the silence around you. “most people assume. but... yeah. i live alone.”

another pause. then, gently, you ask, “what about you, mr. jeong? i mean, you’re always here late too. no one waiting on you?”

he looks away for the first time, his jaw tightening slightly before he answers. “no one yet.”

and there it is again—that silence between you. but this time, it’s different. it hums with something unspoken. curiosity. surprise. maybe even recognition.

you return your gaze to the screen, not really seeing it. he’s still standing there, close enough to feel but not close enough to touch. something in the air shifts, and for the first time in a long time, your chest feels... not heavy, but full.

the next morning, you arrived a few minutes early—just like always. being punctual wasn’t about impressing anyone; it was about control, about proving—at least to yourself—that you had your life together. it made you feel reliable. consistent. in a workplace full of half-assed excuses and people who couldn’t meet a deadline to save their lives, your discipline was something you wore like armor. something no one could take from you.

your outfit was soft, delicate even—rose-pink skirt brushing just above your knees, a crisp white button-up tucked in neatly, the blazer matching your skirt in a subtle pastel tone. your heels clicked softly against the tile floor as you made your way to your desk, and as you passed the reflection on one of the glass panels, you couldn’t help but think: i look good today.

you did. your hair was in place, makeup light but elegant, lips tinted a faint nude-pink. polished. pretty. professional. but beneath all that... you also looked a little alone. not that anyone would say it to your face—but you could see it sometimes, in the glances people gave you. admiration, maybe. pity, sometimes. curiosity always.

you sat down, smoothing your skirt and adjusting your chair, reaching for the little yellow post-it you’d stuck to the side of your monitor the day before. your handwriting was neat, methodical. a short list of pending tasks, each one already being mentally checked off as you booted up your computer. you didn’t waste time—your fingers flew across the keyboard, and within minutes the familiar sounds of productivity filled your small corner of the office: the rhythmic clack of keys, the soft hum and spit of the printer warming up to spit out proposals and reports.

you didn’t hear him come in.

you were too deep in the flow, too focused on aligning the final report with the visual standards the company demanded. your eyes scanned the document line by line, searching for typos, ensuring everything was clean, sharp, presentable. the sound of footsteps behind you didn’t register until you felt it—that subtle, electric awareness that comes when someone is watching.

“good morning, byun. please leave the project report on my desk once it’s ready.”

he didn’t look at you. just passed by, smooth and quick, his voice calm and firm, a cup of steaming coffee in one hand, the familiar scent of roast beans and expensive cologne trailing behind him like a silent presence. his stride didn’t falter, his gaze fixed ahead, like he’d already moved on to the next ten things in his mind. you barely had time to nod, mouth parted to respond, but he was already disappearing behind his office door.

you blinked.

right. the report.

you gathered the last printed pages, slid them into the presentation folder, double-checked the order, smoothed the cover with your palm before rising from your seat. your heels clicked softly against the floor as you made your way down the short corridor, your fingers lightly tapping the edge of the folder, nerves tightening with each step even if there was nothing to be nervous about. it was just work. just jaehyun. just another report.

you knocked once and entered when he answered. he was seated behind his desk, sleeves already rolled up to his elbows, the dark veins of his forearms visible as he typed something on his laptop. he glanced up, briefly, then reached for the report when you held it out.

“thank you,” he said, flipping it open with precision, already scanning the contents. “at two p.m. we have the meeting with upper management. you’ll be joining me at the table. along with choi and hwang.”

you nodded. “understood.”

“good. go over the numbers one more time before then. they’re likely to ask.”

“yes, mr. jeong.”

and that was it. no warm smile. no thank you. just professional, cold efficiency. you turned and left, closing the door gently behind you before returning to your desk, the weight of the upcoming meeting settling on your shoulders like a familiar cloak. you’d been through this before. plenty of times. but it never got easier. not when the room was full of men in suits who barely hid their condescension, who chewed through ideas like tasteless gum until someone—usually jaehyun—said something smart enough to catch their interest.

you spent the next few hours fine-tuning the financial section, making sure your data was clean, graphs properly labeled, estimates realistic but still ambitious. it was a delicate game—making things sound innovative without actually suggesting anything too risky. they didn’t want bold. they wanted impressive illusions of boldness packaged in safe wrapping.

the meeting room was as bland as ever. too much glass, too much beige. you sat at the long table beside jaehyun, your laptop open, presentation ready. the managers arrived first, already complaining about another team’s failed prototype. the director entered last, stone-faced as always, his tie perfect, his opinion impossible to read.

as expected, the meeting dragged. they picked apart the proposal, paragraph by paragraph, expressionless until one of them grimaced like the very concept of originality offended them. you watched them, these men who nodded at each other but rarely smiled, who offered feedback that wasn’t feedback, just empty phrases like “it needs more punch” or “is this trend even scalable?”

then jaehyun spoke.

his voice was calm, slow, measured. and yet he made every single line sound convincing. powerful. like there was no other way forward but the one he was laying out. the room shifted around him. the tension eased. eyes narrowed—not in skepticism now, but interest. he wasn’t just presenting; he was selling a vision, and you felt yourself straightening with pride even if the credit wasn’t yours.

until he said your name.

“y/n,” he said, still facing the director. “if you could present the budget projections.”

you froze for a half second. not out of fear—just... surprise. you hadn’t expected him to call on you so soon.

you stood, smoothed your skirt unconsciously, and took a breath before switching slides. your voice was steady, even if your palms were clammy.

“these are the projections for the next two quarters,” you began, pointing at the chart. “we’ve estimated a moderate increase in cost during the development phase, with a break-even point projected for the beginning of q3. depending on the approved budget, we’re looking at a return on investment of approximately—”

you kept going, explaining the graphs, walking them through the numbers with careful clarity. no embellishments, no guesswork. facts. you swallowed once, clearing your throat before the final slide, then ended with a nod.

when you sat back down, jaehyun glanced at you. just a moment. a flicker of something almost soft in his expression.

like you’d done well. like you couldn’t possibly disappoint him.

the rest of the meeting blurred. the managers began tossing in extra suggestions—small changes, tweaks they hoped would impress the director. the man nodded, offered vague praise, and you remained at your seat, listening to it all with a practiced, patient expression.

when the meeting finally ended, you stood beside jaehyun again. he didn’t say much—he never did—but as he packed his laptop, he looked at you.

“good work today,” he said. “you’re an essential part of the team. if you keep this up, i’ll make sure your name’s considered for the upcoming promotions.”

you stared at him, momentarily stunned. the words hit harder than you expected. you’d worked for five years, given everything to this company, and this—this was the first time someone above you had said something that felt... real.

“thank you,” you said softly, trying not to let your smile get too big. “really.”

he nodded. “you earned it.”

later, when the director extended the dinner invitation, you didn’t hesitate. it wasn’t optional. the team needed to show up, needed to mingle, to pretend everything was a celebration and not an endless cycle of office politics masked with clinking glasses.

the bar was upscale but casual enough to loosen people’s ties. smoke from grilled meats hung faintly in the air, the tang of sweet sauces and roasted garlic filling the space. you sat between your supervisor and jaehyun, trying not to feel too stiff in your work clothes. everyone was drinking, toasting, laughing louder than they had all day.

the supervisor leaned forward, voice slightly slurred. “you know,” he said to the director, “the whole prototype? the mockup? the execution timeline? all her. y/n practically carried the whole thing.”

the director turned to you, surprised. “really? how long have you been here?”

“five years,” you replied, sipping from your glass.

he raised a brow. “how is it possible i haven’t noticed you until now?”

jaehyun, still beside you, said nothing—but you felt the subtle tension in his posture.

“you’ve got a good employee,” the director told him. “it’s your job to shape her. teach her. sounds like she’s already on the right path. with the right guidance... she’ll move up in no time.”

he raised his glass. “to y/n.”

“to y/n,” echoed around the table.

you lifted your glass, cheeks warm—not just from the alcohol but from the unfamiliar sensation of being seen. you smiled, surrounded by coworkers and approval and good food, and for a moment, just one moment, everything felt like it was finally going somewhere.

you were finally going somewhere.

the dinner had blurred into noise.

conversations overlapping, laughter rising and falling like tides. glasses clinked, meat sizzled on the grill, the warm lighting softening everyone's expressions into something hazy and unguarded. you sat at the long table, just a bit to the side, the smoky scent of barbecued meat in your hair and the echo of compliments still lingering in your chest. across from you, your supervisor had long since slipped into a drunken retelling of his glory days. to your left, jaehyun sat quietly, jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows. his arms were strong, veins defined even in the low light, and on his left wrist, a sleek, expensive watch glinted every time he reached for his glass. he hadn’t touched his soju in a while, though. he just held the rim between his fingers and occasionally let his gaze wander across the room.

when your eyes met, it was casual, almost accidental. but you didn’t look away.

“you’re not drinking,” you said, quietly enough that only he could hear.

he offered the ghost of a smirk, the kind that barely pulled at one corner of his mouth. “someone has to remember what was actually said tonight.”

you laughed, a soft breathy sound, grateful for his clarity amidst the chaos.

a silence settled between you, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. rather, it felt like a small space carved out just for the two of you—unbothered, untouched, a bubble where you didn’t have to keep smiling or pretending. you let out a quiet sigh, swirling your untouched drink in your hand.

“do you ever feel like you're running out of time?” you asked, voice low, not even sure why you were asking him of all people.

jaehyun looked at you, brows drawn slightly, intrigued but still calm. “time for what?”

you hesitated, fingers tightening around your glass. the alcohol was warm in your chest, but not enough to numb this confession.

“for everything,” you admitted. “i mean, professionally… things are going great. i can’t complain. i’ve worked hard, and it’s starting to pay off. but…” you looked down, lips pressing together. “sometimes i feel like i’m trapped inside a giant hourglass, watching the sand fall, grain by grain. i’ll be thirty in a few months. and i know that shouldn't mean anything, but in a world where people expect you to have everything figured out by now—marriage, kids, some picture-perfect life—i feel like i’m falling behind. like my dreams are moving farther and farther away.”

you took a breath, not daring to look at him.

“it’s just… sad,” you continued. “when you achieve something big and there’s no one waiting at home to celebrate it with you. no partner, no family. no one to say, ‘i’m proud of you.’”

jaehyun was quiet for a moment. then his voice came, soft and even.

“i can celebrate with you.”

you looked up, surprised, blinking at him. “thank you, but… that’s not what i meant. it’s not the same.”

he held your gaze. then, calmly, like he was offering a solution to a logistics problem, he said it.

“then marry me.”

your brain stalled.

you didn’t understand at first. maybe you misheard him. maybe he was joking, or drunk—except his voice hadn’t changed. his tone hadn’t wavered. your stomach dropped.

“…what?” you whispered.

“you want a family. you want someone to come home to. marry me.”

the words hung between you like smoke. absurd. unreal. your mouth opened, but nothing came out at first. you glanced around—everyone else was too busy laughing or slurring their next toast to notice what had just happened.

you leaned in slightly, voice tense and hushed. “mr.—jeong—what are you talking about? we don’t even know each other like that.”

“we know enough,” he said without blinking.

“we’ve never even had a real conversation outside of work until now.”

“so let’s have more,” he replied, as steady as always.

you felt like your heart was beating too loudly. “are you… are you seriously suggesting we get married?”

“i’m not suggesting it. i’m telling you i’d do it. if you said yes.”

you stared at him, at the cool detachment on his face, the quiet certainty in his voice, and felt your world tip on its axis.

he shrugged. “how long until you turn thirty?”

“…my birthday’s in november,” you muttered, the words escaping before you could even process them. “it’s april now. that’s seven months.”

jaehyun nodded slowly. “then you have seven months to decide.”

he finished his beer in one slow, final gulp. then he stood up, reaching into his wallet and placing a few bills under his empty glass. you were still frozen when he stepped beside you.

“i’ll take you home,” he said.

you tried to protest, voice stumbling over half-formed refusals. “you don’t have to—i can call a cab, really—”

he looked down at you, expression unreadable.

“that wasn’t a request. it’s your boss giving you a ride.”

and with that, he turned, waiting for you to follow. your legs felt heavy as you stood, your mind racing, still reeling from what had just happened. marry him? seven months? he was serious. he was actually serious.

you had no answers. only questions. and one man who had just offered you everything you’d spent your life pretending you didn’t need.

you didn’t sleep.

not really. you tossed and turned, arms flung across the bed one minute and buried under the covers the next. jaehyun’s words echoed in your skull like an intrusive melody, looping over and over again.

then marry me.

you have seven months to decide.

like some sort of countdown had been triggered.

you must have stared at your ceiling for hours, trying to make sense of what he meant—what it meant for you—and whether he’d been serious. but the worst part wasn’t the proposal. the worst part was how calm he’d been, how effortlessly he’d said it, and how easily he’d walked away afterward like it hadn’t upended your entire sense of self.

your alarm went off at seven, and you hit snooze five times. by the time you dragged yourself out of bed, you felt like your bones had aged a decade overnight. you put on your makeup with the heaviness of someone trying to erase exhaustion from the inside out—concealer, color corrector, foundation. you went over your under-eyes twice, then a third time. you looked like yourself, but blurry. off.

you arrived to work twenty minutes later than usual, which was already enough to earn a few raised brows. no one said anything, but they noticed. you noticed them noticing.

you sat at your desk and stared at your drawers, forgetting which one you kept the monthly reports in. your fingers shook slightly as you shuffled through folders, trying to find the stupid paperwork you'd seen a million times. a stack of them slipped from your grasp and scattered onto the floor like a metaphor. you groaned and crouched down to collect them, muttering under your breath. your brain still felt like it was swimming through molasses.

then—

“good morning.”

his voice. that casual, bored tone he always used in the office. neutral, even, no trace of anything buried beneath it. no sign that he’d ever said something as life-altering as what he’d said last night.

you startled so hard you hit your head on the underside of your desk.

“good—ouch!” you winced, clutching your scalp with one hand and your pride with the other. “good morning, mr. jeong.”

he kept walking. didn’t glance down at you. didn’t smirk. didn’t check if you were okay. he passed your desk like any other morning, like he hadn’t proposed to you over beer and smoke and shared loneliness.

a few coworkers peeked over their partitions, concerned. you gave a shaky thumbs-up and a whispered, “i’m fine,” even though you felt anything but fine.

you weren’t like this. not at work. not ever. your name was synonymous with precision. discipline. control. and here you were, dropping papers and bumping into furniture like your brain had short-circuited.

you finally gathered the reports and brought them to his office.

he was seated at his desk, focused on his screen, the sleeves of his dress shirt still rolled to his elbows. your eyes caught briefly on the line of his forearm, the watch still there, still ticking.

“these are the reports from last month,” you said, setting the folder down.

“thanks,” he replied without looking at you.

you lingered.

“mr. jeong.”

he finally looked up.

his eyes were calm. cool. like nothing was wrong. like he hadn’t detonated a bomb and walked away from the wreckage.

you hesitated, your throat dry. “about what you said last night—”

his expression didn’t change.

“we’re at work,” he said simply. “i’m being professional.”

you blinked, almost offended. “so that’s it? you say something that insane and then just—go back to normal?”

“we’ll talk after work,” he said, returning to his screen. “if you want to.”

you stood there, gripping the folder even though it was already out of your hands, heart thudding with something sour and hot and unnamable. frustration? humiliation? confusion? all of it?

he was treating you like you were the one out of line. like you were being inappropriate for even bringing it up.

you turned around without saying anything else and walked out of his office, pulse hammering in your ears. the rest of the day dragged like wet cement. you couldn’t concentrate. you couldn’t remember what you were supposed to be doing half the time. you reread emails four times before hitting send. and every time someone walked past your desk, you wondered if it was him, if he’d say anything, if he’d look at you, if he even remembered what he said or if the memory of it belonged to you alone now.

you’d never felt so out of control.

you didn’t know what was worse—his silence or the fact that you wanted him to break it.

you tried to focus. god, you really did. you stared at spreadsheets until the numbers blurred into static. you answered emails with words you didn’t remember typing. every time the phone rang, your heart jumped, irrationally convinced it might be him—even though you were in the same building, separated by maybe thirty feet of glass, air, and unspoken tension. it felt like the longest day of your life. your temples throbbed with a slow, building ache, like your thoughts were pressing too hard against the inside of your skull.

you popped two painkillers around lunchtime, washed them down with lukewarm water from your reusable bottle, but they didn’t help. not really. because the pain wasn’t just physical—it was mental. emotional. a kind of pressure that wrapped around your ribs and squeezed.

your mind wouldn’t shut up.

you kept looping the same questions, over and over again, like your brain was stuck on a carousel with no exit.

why would he say that? why now? why you?

he already told you he'd wait. seven months. seven impossibly long, slow-burning months.

so why talk? why meet? it wasn’t for him. it didn’t serve him. he’d been clear. he had time, he had patience. this conversation—it was for you. you were the one desperate to make sense of it. to understand his motives. to justify the insanity of it all.

but how were you supposed to justify something that made no sense?

he’s twenty-seven. handsome. polished. wealthy. he could have anyone—literally anyone. girls younger than you, brighter than you, women who weren’t crawling toward their thirties with a fading list of half-achieved dreams and a fridge full of takeout leftovers. why you?

a mid-level employee in a department no one paid much attention to. someone who had to fight tooth and nail just to be noticed in board meetings. someone who had accomplishments but no one to toast with. someone who fell asleep most nights with their phone face-down and on silent because no one was texting anyway.

why you?

you didn’t have an answer.

you finished your tasks—barely—and the moment the clock hit the end of your shift, you shut your computer down with shaky fingers and grabbed your bag. your steps felt heavy, reluctant, as you made your way through the hall toward the entrance. part of you wanted to bolt, to pretend nothing had ever been said, to go home and crawl into bed and put on a show you wouldn’t really watch. to sleep off the confusion like a bad hangover.

but the doors opened before you could entertain the thought. those clean, automatic glass doors slid apart with a hiss, and there he was.

leaning casually against one of the white pillars just outside, his suit jacket draped neatly over his forearm, his other hand gripping his sleek black briefcase like it weighed nothing. he looked like something out of a commercial—well-dressed, composed, the perfect image of success. but when his eyes met yours, something flickered beneath the surface. maybe restraint. maybe tension. maybe nothing.

he walked toward you calmly, the sound of his footsteps muffled by the smooth tile.

“get in the car,” he said, voice even. “we’re going to talk. like you wanted.”

not a question. not a request.

he turned without waiting for your answer and made his way to a parked luxury sedan—shiny, deep black, windows tinted so dark you could barely see the interior. he opened the passenger door for you, as if the conversation that waited inside was just another part of his routine.

you hesitated, only for a second.

but then you followed.

because no matter how messy your thoughts were, no matter how terrified or confused or unworthy you felt, one truth cut through the noise:

you wanted to know.

you slid into the passenger seat, trying to calm the way your heart was sprinting inside your chest. the door closed beside you with a quiet thunk, sealing you into a space you weren’t sure you were ready for.

he walked around the front of the car and got in behind the wheel, smooth and unhurried.

you stared straight ahead.

ready—or not—to finally ask the questions that wouldn’t leave you alone.

the silence in the car wasn’t uncomfortable. not exactly. but it was dense—like fog inside your chest, heavy and silent and there to stay.

you stared out the window as the city drifted past, familiar buildings made foreign by the storm in your head. beside you, jaehyun drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift. there was music playing—low, jazzy, old—but he didn’t speak. not until you passed a traffic light and he tilted his head, casually.

“did you get enough sleep last night?” he asked, like he was commenting on the weather.

you didn’t look at him. “not really.”

“figured,” he said, turning smoothly into another avenue. “you looked like hell.”

you gave a humorless chuckle, resting your elbow against the door and propping your chin in your hand. “thanks for the compliment, sir.”

“anytime,” he said dryly.

and that was it. that was all the small talk he offered. nothing personal. nothing intimate. just an acknowledgment that he saw you. that he’d noticed.

the drive was short, and before you could make sense of anything, you were already parking in front of a modest little korean restaurant tucked between a laundromat and a bookstore. it smelled like steam, garlic, and simmered bone broth. a place where people went for real food and no-frills comfort.

“this place has the best gomguk in the city,” jaehyun said, grabbing his briefcase from the back. “been coming here since i was a teenager.”

you hesitated at the door. “you like bone soup?”

“love it.”

you wrinkled your nose. “i can’t stand that stuff. never could. not even as a kid.”

he paused mid-step and gave you a look, slightly amused. “well,” he said, “there’s our first disagreement as a couple.”

you blinked at him, caught off guard. “what?”

“now i know you don’t like gomguk. guess i’ll have to avoid cooking it for you.”

you said nothing.

because he wasn’t joking. not really. not entirely. and that was the part that made your mouth dry.

how could he say things like that so easily? so naturally? as if you hadn’t spent the entire day unraveling at the seams while he strutted through the office like nothing had happened?

he sat across from you at the table, unbothered, scanning the menu like it wasn’t even necessary. he already knew what he wanted. meanwhile, you still didn’t know why you were there.

you picked something else. kimchi jjigae, maybe—safe, familiar, strong enough to mask the taste of your confusion.

once the server took your orders and disappeared behind the curtain, you leaned forward, folding your hands together to stop them from trembling.

“why me?”

his eyes lifted slowly from the empty table to your face. “there’s no reason,” he said. “i just want to give you what you want.”

“do you say that to all women?”

he smirked. “if i did, i’d probably be married to half the city by now.”

you shook your head. “don’t do that.”

“do what?”

“don’t treat this like a mission,” you snapped, trying not to raise your voice. “i don’t need your pity. i shared something vulnerable with you, yeah. but that doesn’t mean you have to swoop in and rescue me from a miserable life of solitude by offering a ring. this isn’t some fairytale. i don’t need a man to save me.”

“i never said you did.”

you exhaled slowly. “i want to love and be loved. to build something. something real. not this... whatever this is. a contract. a deal. a deadline to escape loneliness.”

his expression didn’t shift. not a single flicker. but his voice softened.

“then let’s say this. if in seven months, you still haven’t found someone—someone who makes you feel like you can build something... try it with me.”

you stared at him. hard. trying to read every intention in the lines of his face.

“just like that?”

“just like that.”

you couldn’t look away.

and then he said it. the words that settled into the cracks of your resolve like warm rain after a drought.

“we can love. i can love you. you can love me, if you want to. if you want to date, we can date. you don’t have to feel pressured. i just think... you’re worth the risk. and i don’t think you should torture yourself every day that passes just because you haven’t ‘settled down.’ opportunities don’t always come twice. sometimes you have to grab them while they’re here. or regret it forever.”

your lips parted, but nothing came out.

you looked at him then—not as the cold, polished man who walked the halls like a ghost in tailored suits. not as your boss. not as someone who confused and overwhelmed you.

you saw him as a man.

a man who knew what he wanted. who wasn’t afraid to take action. who looked you in the eye and offered you something you weren’t even sure you deserved.

his jawline. his eyes. the little wrinkle between his brows when he got serious. the calm way he listened. the confidence. the clarity.

you saw him differently.

you weren’t ready to give him an answer. not yet.

but something inside you had shifted.

you just didn’t know what to call it.

he didn’t rush you.

he didn’t push.

he just sat there across from you in that tiny booth, his sleeves rolled up and his tie slightly loosened, waiting with the kind of quiet confidence that only made your heart beat louder. he stirred his soup gently, letting it cool, occasionally taking a sip without ever looking away from you for too long.

and then he said it—casually, as if proposing something as simple as lunch next week.

“let’s do this. i’ll pick you up after work from now on. we’ll go out. have dinner. spend time together. see what happens. let it unfold naturally.”

just like that.

your breath caught. “i… i have doubts,” you admitted, almost in a whisper. “i don’t know what to say. i don’t know what to feel. this is all so sudden, so... fast.”

he nodded, unbothered. “that’s okay.”

you blinked. “that’s okay?”

“yes. it’s not a race. but you heard what i said—opportunities don’t always knock twice. you don’t have to say yes right now. just think about it.”

but you were thinking. too much.

his voice played on repeat in your mind: we can love. i can love you. you can love me. and god, wasn’t that the exact thing you’d been terrified of never having?

your fingers trembled under the table. your palms clammy, your mouth dry. you rubbed your hands together slowly, grounding yourself in that simple motion, trying to breathe.

he didn’t flinch. didn’t ask again. just kept sipping his soup, patient as stone, like he’d already accepted whatever answer you’d give him.

you stared at your food, at the steam rising, the way the aroma filled the space between you and him like something sacred. you still couldn’t stand bone soup. but somehow, being across from him made it smell less... offensive. less like something to run from.

and you remembered.

all those nights crying in silence.

all those mornings brushing your teeth with tears stuck in your throat because you didn’t know if ever would come.

ever finding someone.

ever being enough.

ever being loved without begging for it.

maybe he wasn’t what you imagined.

maybe he was better.

you looked up at him.

“okay,” you said, softly. then stronger. “okay. i’ll try. i’ll let you pick me up. we’ll go on these dates. maybe… maybe i can love you. maybe i can let myself be loved by you.”

he paused mid-sip, eyes lifting.

your voice cracked slightly when you added, “maybe i can stay with you.”

for a beat, the world went still.

he didn’t smile wide. didn’t gloat or tease.

he just gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod. his eyes warm, deep, but controlled—like someone who’d been expecting this moment and didn’t want to scare it off.

“good,” he said. “that’s all i needed.”

you swallowed hard.

and for the first time since that strange proposal, something in your chest loosened.

you weren’t sure if this was love.

but it was a beginning.

the next morning. everything is different.

you walk into the building like you own the damn place—heels sharp, suit immaculate, makeup clean and fierce, ponytail slicked high like a crown. the memory of yesterday—your stumble, your throbbing head, your wandering thoughts—now felt like a distant, irrelevant dream. that wasn’t you. this was.

a woman who knew what she wanted.

a woman who said yes.

you smiled to yourself in the elevator. not just any smile—that kind. the kind that curled at the corners, the kind that held secrets, the kind that felt like sin dressed in silk. the kind that belonged to someone with a man waiting outside a restaurant, ordering bone broth, and talking about love like it was something simple. doable. inevitable.

you were early. again. not by accident this time, but by choice.

you slid into your desk, organized, efficient, present. the hum of the office hadn’t started yet, and you took advantage of the calm, catching up on reports and scheduling the week like the good girl you were trained to be. but this time, it was different. you weren’t surviving the day. you were anticipating it.

and then—at exactly the hour—he walked in.

jung jaehyun.

same black suit. same silver watch. same air of cool detachment.

but today, when he passed by your desk and muttered his usual, “good morning,” you didn’t just nod like before.

you stood up—too fast.

too happy.

“good morning, mr. jeong!” you sang, voice lilting and almost musical, like you’d just won the lottery.

it was instinctual. not calculated. just... you.

the entire floor stopped.

heads turned.

some eyebrows shot up. a few eyes narrowed.

jaehyun himself halted in his tracks, looking back at you slowly, his brows drawn together in the tiniest frown. he cleared his throat.

“everyone, back to work,” he said, voice firm. and then, after one last look—eyes narrowed at you in something between confusion and amusement—he turned and walked away.

you bit your lip so hard it almost hurt, barely suppressing the giggle building in your throat.

the memory of last night echoed in your mind, maybe i can love you, maybe i can stay with you—and now here you were, trying not to beam like a teenager with a crush. you watched his back disappear into his office, and your lips curled up, despite yourself.

you could still feel his eyes on you. even if he wasn’t looking.

after work, you waited by the entrance as the glass doors slid open.

he was already there—like he promised. leaning casually against his car, black coat folded over one arm, briefcase in hand, gaze scanning the horizon like the perfect ceo out of a drama. but as soon as his eyes met yours, they softened—barely, subtly—but you noticed.

“get in,” he said, opening the passenger door for you.

you slipped in without protest, heart beating faster than it had any right to.

once the car pulled away from the curb, the silence settled—but it didn’t last long.

“you can’t do that,” he said, not harshly, just... firm.

“do what?” you asked, knowing damn well.

“greet me like that. like that.” he glanced at you sideways. “at work.”

you shrugged. “what? we’re dating now. aren’t we?”

“we’re seeing where this goes,” he corrected. “but we still have to be professional. people talk. your position can be affected. and mine—”

you cut in, not harshly but with a certain fire. “i’m not going to apologize for being happy.”

“i’m not asking you to apologize.”

“then don’t ask me to pretend. i’ll dial it down, sure. but i’m not going to act like you don’t mean something to me when we’re under the same roof eight hours a day.”

he stayed quiet for a beat, tapping the wheel with one hand, lips twitching like he was trying not to smile.

“is this how you are with all your boyfriends?”

you grinned. “i’m worse.”

he laughed. actually laughed. that deep, velvet sound you hadn’t heard much outside of formalities.

“well, i’ll brace myself,” he said. “i might enjoy it.”

you turned to the window, hiding your smile. this was really happening.

the drive back was quiet at first—a comfortable silence that didn’t demand immediate conversation. the kind of quiet that says: you don’t need to perform, just exist here with me.

the radio was on. a soft playlist of english ballads played in the background—songs about longing, beginnings, maybe even second chances. you doubted jaehyun picked them himself. it was probably just the algorithm. still, the timing felt so precise… so intentional, that you wondered if the universe was helping him out tonight.

you played with your fingers over your thighs, crossing and uncrossing your legs slowly, watching the night pass outside the window. city lights in the distance. trees swaying softly in the wind. you tried to guess where he was taking you next, but the truth was… you didn’t really care.

not knowing was part of the charm.

“where are we going?” you finally asked, unable to resist the curiosity.

he smiled without turning to look at you, eyes steady on the road ahead.

“it’s a secret,” he said. “you’ll have to wait and see.”

you squinted at him with mock suspicion, amused—and yet, inside, your heart started to thump a little faster with every mile.

there was something strangely beautiful about not being in control this time. about letting yourself be taken somewhere, not out of submission, but out of trust. you weren’t used to that. you weren’t used to letting anyone drive. but tonight, you wanted to believe you could lean back and just... be.

and then… the car turned down a dark, barely lit road, and you saw it.

a wide, open lot. a giant projector screen glowing at the far end. dozens of cars parked in neat rows, some with trunks open, fairy lights, blankets, snacks. couples curled together under the stars.

it was a drive-in movie. like something out of an old romance film.

you gasped, both hands flying to your mouth as you turned to him.

“oh my god. no way. are you serious?! i love the movies—but i've never done this. i’ve always wanted to, but… i don’t know. it just never happened.”

jaehyun glanced at you sideways. and this time, he smiled. really smiled. not the polite, composed smile he wore in the hallways or meetings—but something warm. something real.

“then it was a good idea,” he said simply.

he parked in the middle row. good view of the screen, but far enough for privacy. you were already melting—and then he popped the trunk.

a thick blanket. two small pillows. a tote bag with snacks—popcorn, a big soda bottle, even the exact chocolate bars you’d once said you liked during a random, probably drunk, late-night conversation. you didn’t even remember mentioning it.

he did.

“did you plan all of this?” you asked, curled slightly sideways in the passenger seat while he arranged everything with care between you.

“i just wanted you to be comfortable,” he said. “i wanted it to be... special.”

no posturing. no hidden motive. just sincerity. you felt it in the way he unfolded the blanket and draped it gently over your lap. in how he checked the window—cracked just enough to let in the breeze, not enough to let in the cold. In how he handed you the soda first, before even opening his own drink.

the movie started. some lighthearted rom-com with ridiculous dialogue and cheesy plot points, but it didn’t matter. it was perfect. low-stakes. no pressure. you curled your legs under you, blanket snug, the flickering light from the screen dancing across your skin.

every once in a while, you’d glance at jaehyun. and more than once, you caught him watching you instead of the film.

“are you bored?” you whispered.

“not even close.”

“you haven’t laughed once.”

he turned to you, that sarcastic little smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth, eyes narrowed just slightly.

“you’re already making enough noise for the both of us.”

you gave him a playful slap on the arm, pretending to be offended.

“that was a compliment,” he added, amused.

you rolled your eyes—but smiled. god, you smiled so much that night.

as the credits rolled, something shifted in the silence. the mood thickened—not heavy, just… deeper. weighted with something. a moment hanging on the edge of change. your head leaned against the window as the screen dimmed, your eyes distant but your heart so very full.

he still didn’t touch you.

he didn’t grab your hand. didn’t lean in.

but his presence wrapped around you all the same—solid, patient, waiting. not pushing, just there. learning how to be near you without demanding anything in return.

“thank you,” you said softly, voice almost too quiet to hear. “for this. for everything.”

“you don’t have to thank me.”

“yes, i do. it’s not every day someone goes out of their way like this.”

he paused before answering. his tone was steady, but low.

“i want this to work,” he said. “and if that means planning teenage-level dates with blankets and popcorn, then… yeah. i’ll do that.”

you laughed, eyes dropping to your lap.

“you’re doing well so far.”

“yeah?”

“yeah.”

and then you looked at each other. just looked. no words needed.

but inside… you felt it.

your shoulders, usually tense, were light. your heart, bruised and cautious for so long, was opening again. quietly, but surely. as if whispering, i’m still here. i still want to believe.

you weren’t sure where this would go. if it would last. if it would end in tears or something worse.

but right now, in his car, under the stars, with the last notes of the film still echoing through your skin…

you wanted to find out.

you wanted to try.

the next morning at the office felt different—less chaotic, more grounded. you greeted the receptionist with a small smile, your heels clicking softly against the marble floor as you made your way in, clutching your coffee cup like a security blanket. you weren't glowing, exactly, but something about you was… softer. less guarded. like a petal finally relaxing in the warmth of spring after a too-long winter.

jaehyun noticed immediately.

you caught him watching you from the glass-walled conference room as you entered the bullpen. he didn't stare, not in a way that would make it obvious to others—but his eyes followed you, just long enough to clock the change. your navy blue pencil skirt hugged your hips, the slit in the back offering just the right amount of grace as you walked. the cream blouse you wore was modest but elegant, the top button left undone, showing the delicate line of your collarbone. your hair was half-up, your makeup minimal, professional—but the gloss on your lips and the quiet shimmer on your eyelids betrayed a whisper of mischief. not overt. just enough for someone paying attention.

you met his gaze briefly through the glass and raised your brows in a silent hello before looking away, sipping your coffee with forced nonchalance.

by the time you crossed paths an hour later—both of you heading into a smaller briefing room—he gave you that look again. the one that asked, really? amused, but faintly disbelieving.

"good morning, mr. jeong," you greeted him politely, eyes straight ahead as if you hadn't spent the last night wrapped in his blanket, watching a movie with your legs tangled under it.

"miss y/l/n," he replied, his lips curving into a knowing smile as he held the door open for you. “very formal today.”

you didn’t rise to the bait. just gave him a brief, professional smile and walked past, heels clicking, not looking back. you were committed to the bit.

the meeting was brief, technical—a review of deliverables, some feedback loops, nothing out of the ordinary. you contributed where you needed to, kept your tone measured, avoided lingering glances. even when he made a rare joke and the room chuckled, you only allowed yourself a small, polite laugh, hands folded neatly on the table.

he didn’t push. but when you passed each other near the coffee station later, his voice dropped low, just enough for you to hear.

“you’re really leaning into the whole executive assistant with boundaries thing, huh?”

you smirked as you refilled your mug, still not looking at him. “just trying to keep things professional, mr. jeong.”

“of course.” he nodded once, pretending to adjust his tie. “wouldn’t want to cross any lines.”

you bit your lip to suppress your grin. the game was on.

at 3:47 PM, your phone lit up with a text from his office number: meeting with the department heads in fifteen. boardroom. don’t be late. signed J.J.

you rolled your eyes but your stomach did a little flip.

the 4 PM meeting dragged—there was a lot of back and forth over campaign numbers and rollout schedules, but you held your own, taking notes, speaking clearly when your insight was needed. you could feel jaehyun watching you when others weren’t—his gaze warm, grounding—but he didn’t speak to you directly unless it was related to the discussion. you appreciated that. It let you stay in control, let you breathe.

after everyone had trickled out and the room was quiet, you stayed behind a moment, closing your laptop and straightening the chairs without a word. he didn’t move from his seat at the head of the table, just watched you as you moved, his fingers idly spinning a pen.

“dinner?” he asked eventually, breaking the silence.

you didn’t look up right away. “are you asking as mr. jeong or...?”

he tilted his head, eyes playful. “just jaehyun.”

you looked up, meeting his eyes. something flickered between you—recognition. of the past few days, the softness in your chest, the way your shoulders had finally stopped bracing for disappointment.

“okay,” you said quietly. “dinner.”

he didn’t take you to a fancy restaurant or anywhere showy. just a quiet little rooftop place downtown, dim lights and mellow music, open air and the sound of the city below. you sat across from him at a small table, knees brushing under the surface. you shared dishes, laughed softly, talked about nothing and everything. he asked about your childhood; you asked about his first heartbreak. there was no rush to get anywhere. just being there—together—was enough.

at some point, after dessert and a second glass of wine, the conversation quieted. the city stretched around you, glittering and alive. jaehyun leaned back in his chair, watching you.

at some point, after dessert and a second glass of wine, the conversation quieted. the city stretched around you, glittering and alive. jaehyun leaned back in his chair, watching you with that open expression he reserved for moments like this—unguarded, gently curious.

“you said you grew up outside the city,” he said, casually swirling the remnants of his drink. “what about your parents?”

you set your fork down and rested your elbows lightly on the table, exhaling. “they still live in the same town. a couple hours from here.”

he nodded. “siblings?”

“one,” you replied. “older brother. married. two little boys.”

jaehyun smiled at that. “you’re the cool aunt.”

you laughed softly, the sound bittersweet. “i try. i send them stickers and weird snacks from the city. but i think i’m mostly the mysterious aunt who lives alone in seoul and doesn’t have a husband, which is a major point of concern for my parents.”

jaehyun raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “concern?”

“oh, huge.” you leaned back, crossing your arms with a mock-serious nod. “they think i’m one heartbreak away from crawling back into my childhood bedroom with a suitcase and giving up entirely. i get the same call every weekend—‘have you met someone yet?’ and ‘when are you coming home, sweetheart?’ like my single status is a national emergency.”

you smiled, tried to make it sound light. funny. but the knot in your chest tugged a little tighter with each word. because underneath the teasing tone, it hurt. the weight of expectation, of having let them down without really meaning to. you’d always thought, by now, you’d have that picture-perfect family. a husband. maybe a child. but life had taken its own sharp turns, and somewhere along the way, you'd lost the map.

before your thoughts could spiral too far inward, you turned your eyes toward him and asked, “what about you? any siblings?”

he shook his head. “only child.”

“wow. that explains the drama,” you teased.

he grinned, playing along. “what drama?”

you shrugged, playful. “the perfectly tousled hair. the quiet confidence. the whole mysterious boss with a tragic past vibe.”

jaehyun laughed, the sound low and warm. “nothing tragic, thankfully. my parents own a condo complex back in busan. they keep to themselves. ever since i moved out, they’ve stayed out of my decisions. no guilt trips. no blind dates.”

he smirked a little, taking another sip. “which is great for me.”

you smiled at that, but there was something about the way he said it—casual, yes, but laced with a kind of loneliness you recognized. the kind that came with being left alone a little too much. with being successful but still carrying a shadow no one quite asked about.

you watched him for a second longer than necessary. then nodded slowly. “that does sound kind of great.”

he looked at you then, really looked, and the silence between you shifted—deeper now. heavy with things not said.

the city hummed around you. glasses clinked from other tables. somewhere, a violinist was playing faintly near the street below. but you only heard the soft cadence of his breath, the way it matched your own.

and then he stood and offered you his hand.

you didn’t hesitate this time. you let him lead you to the edge of the rooftop, where the view was clearer, the air colder. your arms brushed as you looked out together, shoulder to shoulder, warm skin against cool wind.

he turned to you first, eyes darker now, thoughtful. “you don’t need to rush anything. marriage, or whatever they want from you. you’re… okay. just as you are.”

you looked at him slowly, your heart caught somewhere between gratitude and ache. “thanks,” you whispered. “sometimes i forget.”

he stepped closer—barely—but it was enough to make your breath hitch.

you met his gaze, and something shifted between you again. tighter. stronger. the kind of tension that doesn’t demand to be broken, only… felt.

he leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. you didn’t.

your lips met his softly, a single, tentative kiss that carried the full weight of everything left unspoken. sweet, searching, the kind of kiss that says i see you. that says stay.

and when you pulled back, your eyes didn’t dart away.

they lingered.

because something had begun. and neither of you was pretending anymore.

there was no big speech. no sudden declarations.

just the quiet gravity of this moment. the closeness. the way his eyes searched yours with a gentleness that made your breath catch.

april melted into may in soft, golden increments—like a candle burning slow at both ends. the weather grew gentler, the evenings warmer, and with each passing day, your relationship with jaehyun unraveled in small, tender pieces that neither of you rushed to name.

you had more dinners together. nothing extravagant—he wasn’t the kind to impress with grand gestures—but always thoughtful. ramen tucked away in a quiet corner shop with mismatched stools. a spontaneous detour after a work meeting that led to an art gallery’s closing hour. coffee at a tiny cafe with mismatched mugs and jazz playing softly from a dusty speaker. with every outing, something softened between you. the way you spoke to each other, the way you lingered a second longer when saying goodbye, the way your eyes found his in a crowded room and stayed there.

still, at work, everything remained perfectly composed. restrained. you never touched, never called him anything but mr. jeong. no one suspected a thing—and that secrecy gave it all the thrill of something sacred. childish almost. like passing notes under a desk. a shared joke disguised in a spreadsheet. your fingers grazing when you exchanged documents. a glance too long in the breakroom when he poured your coffee before you even asked. you could feel it in the air, that charged silence of two people pretending to be just colleagues, and failing quietly, deliciously.

the project itself was moving well—smooth timelines, promising data. it gave you an excuse to spend more time in his office, laptop open across from his, sometimes both of you too focused to speak for long stretches. sometimes one of you talking while the other typed, nodding with half-listening affection. sometimes, on the slow days, the lines between work and personal conversation blurred gently, like ink on damp paper.

today was one of those days.

you sat across from him, legs crossed under the conference table, scrolling through performance reports while he adjusted a chart on his screen. outside the windows, the afternoon sun filtered through the blinds, casting pale lines across the carpet and the sleeves of his shirt. he leaned back, stretching slightly, then caught your gaze with a small smile.

“so…” he said, voice lower than usual, “what are you doing this weekend?”

you glanced up, biting your lip to hide a smile. “why? do you need me to run more numbers?”

“maybe,” he said, teasing. “but i was thinking something less tragic. maybe the museum? or that poetry cafe you mentioned.”

you shrugged, trying to sound casual. “depends. are you asking as mr. jeong or as… jaehyun?”

he smirked, eyes playful. “i guess that depends on your answer.”

you were about to respond when the door opened without a knock. both of you sat up straighter instinctively, like students caught passing notes. the supervisor from the analytics division stepped in, scanning the room with barely concealed curiosity.

“mr. jeong,” he said, tone clipped, “the director wants to see you.”

jaehyun stood immediately, buttoning his jacket with an easy nod. “i’ll be there in a moment.”

the supervisor looked at you then. his eyes lingered—not long, but long enough. something unreadable passed over his face. “you’ve been spending a lot of time here,” he said, like it wasn’t a question.

you gave him your most neutral smile. “just supporting the project. we’re on a tight schedule.”

“mm.” he said nothing more, just nodded once and stepped out.

jaehyun glanced at you before leaving, and there was a flicker of something in his eyes—amusement, maybe. or quiet warning. you went back to your laptop, fingers pretending to type while your heart tried to calm its sudden gallop.

the evening found you both in his car again. the sun had already begun its descent, turning the sky a soft shade of apricot. you slid into the passenger seat, closed the door behind you, and without thinking too much, leaned over to kiss his cheek.

his skin was warm under your lips.

he blinked, clearly caught off guard, and for a second, he forgot to hide it. the tips of his ears flushed red. he cleared his throat and reached for the ignition, like nothing happened, but his smile lingered, crooked and faint.

“you keep doing that,” he murmured, not looking at you.

“doing what?” you asked innocently.

he shook his head, eyes on the road. “making it hard to pretend we’re not dating.”

you grinned and didn’t answer.

he drove you to the han river, where the breeze was cool and kind, and the crowds were light enough to feel private. you sat cross-legged on the grass, sharing tteokbokki and fried dumplings from paper trays, watching cyclists blur past under the lamplights. a small speaker nearby played an old ballad, sweet and melancholic, and you leaned into his shoulder without needing permission.

“i like this,” you said softly.

“what part?” he asked.

“this part. where everything’s… quiet.”

he didn’t speak immediately. just reached over and brushed a strand of hair behind your ear.

“me too.”

you looked at him, really looked—and it hit you in that moment how far you’d come. from formal greetings and polite distance to soft laughter and shared silence. from stolen glances to kisses on the cheek that left him blushing.

and somehow, without realizing it, you’d stopped keeping count of how many times you thought about him during the day. because now he was part of your days.

and you didn’t want to imagine them without him anymore.

june arrived with a subtle shift in rhythm—projects moved faster, deadlines drew closer, and the sun stayed longer in the sky. the office felt heavier in the afternoons, warm with late spring air and the quiet hum of new beginnings.

one of those beginnings came in the form of kim jungwoo.

he was transferred from the incheon branch—a bright-eyed analyst with quick wit and a laugh that filled corners. you were told he'd be supporting the data team, and since your department handled most of the projections, he was placed right in front of your desk, where your eyes met every time you looked up. your first impression of him was that he was disarmingly charming—too friendly, too easygoing for the stiff, quiet culture of the office—but undeniably efficient. he asked questions that made sense, learned fast, and had a way of easing tension with a joke delivered just under his breath.

you kept things professional, as always. showed him how you sorted the quarterly metrics, how to navigate the company’s outdated database system without crashing it, how to color-code your sheets for easier reading. he listened, smiled, nodded. and eventually, he joked. made you laugh when you’d been staring at the same budget chart for hours. brought you coffee with your name scribbled on the lid in dramatic calligraphy. sometimes too much, sometimes exactly what you needed.

you liked him. platonically. comfortably. it was easy to like jungwoo.

but jaehyun noticed. of course he did.

at first, it was subtle. he’d call you into his office more frequently, asking for reports he usually didn’t request until later in the week. you didn’t think much of it—until you realized he was keeping you in there for hours. even when the topic had already run dry, even when both of you were silently pretending to still be discussing something relevant. you’d glance at your watch, mumble about needing to check on jungwoo’s progress, and jaehyun would give you this look—tight-lipped, unreadable, almost irritated.

the third time it happened, you couldn’t keep quiet anymore.

“are you seriously going to keep me hostage in your office every time jungwoo asks me a question?” you asked, laptop balanced on your knees, arms crossed.

jaehyun didn’t answer right away. he leaned back in his chair, one hand draped lazily over the armrest, watching you. but there was tension under his cool expression, the kind that coiled in his jaw.

“you’re my girlfriend” he said, voice low, measured. “even if we have to act like colleagues in this building, you’re not just anyone to me.”

your breath caught. not because of what he said—because of the way he said it. with that sharp, quiet certainty, like it wasn’t up for debate.

“you’re jealous,” you muttered, trying to smile, to turn it into something lighter.

“of course i’m jealous,” he said, leaning forward. “he’s new, he’s charming, and he’s looking at you like he already knows what you taste like.”

your face flushed.

you looked away, but only for a second.

because when you met his eyes again, he stood.

in two strides he was in front of you, taking the laptop gently from your knees and setting it on the coffee table without a word. then he cupped your face with both hands and kissed you—deep, slow, and hungry. there was nothing tentative about it. it wasn’t sweet or shy. it was possession, poured soft and molten through the shape of his mouth on yours. you sighed into it, hands gripping the front of his shirt, pulse thudding in your throat.

he pulled away just enough to speak, voice rough. “don’t tease me about this.”

you nodded, breathless. “okay.”

and then he kissed you again.

the kiss tasted like all the things you weren’t allowed to say out loud. frustration. longing. the ache of pretending, day after day, that you were only what the world let you be. his thumb stroked your jaw as his mouth opened against yours, deeper now, slower. you felt your knees weaken and your thoughts scatter, all logic melting into the heat of the moment.

that night, like every night since the start of your secret, you met him outside the office. his car waited at the edge of the lot, tinted windows and the soft thump of quiet music playing through the speakers. you slid into the passenger seat, your heart already dancing.

this time, he didn’t say hello.

he reached over and kissed you—harder than before, lips parting yours in a way that made your body sing. the car wasn’t moving. neither of you were thinking. you kissed like it was all you knew how to do. mouths hungry, breath shallow, his hand tracing the edge of your thigh just enough to make you gasp. every time you pulled away for air, he followed. every time he groaned into your kiss, you shivered.

he never rushed.

never crossed that line you hadn’t yet spoken about.

but you felt how close it hovered. just under the skin.

and as your lips brushed his one last time before pulling back, your forehead resting against his, you whispered, “i like it when you get jealous.”

his smile was crooked. dangerous.

“you better not like it too much,” he said, his thumb stroking the corner of your mouth, “because next time… i might not let you leave so easily.”

thursday crept in quietly, with no big plans or messages of anticipation. the city, usually loud and hungry for excitement, felt unusually tame that week—like it had spent itself on too many events, too many evenings out, too many people chasing novelty in crowded cafés and rooftop bars. maybe it was just you, though. maybe everything had started to feel dull because your world had shifted to revolve around something—someone—entirely new. and nothing outside of that circle could compare anymore.

you barely spent time in your apartment lately. always out. always in his car, in places that weren’t quite home but felt more real because he was there. so on that afternoon, with your head tilted against the cold surface of your desk and your brain spinning from spreadsheets, you blurted it out between quiet keyboard taps.

“don’t make any plans tomorrow night.”

jaehyun glanced at you from across his office, pen in hand, eyebrows drawn. “should i be worried?”

you smiled without looking up. “you’re staying over. the weekend. at my place.”

the pause was heavy. not uncomfortable, but... loaded. you didn’t dare lift your head until he spoke.

“wait—what?”

and there it was. you looked at him finally, biting your bottom lip to keep from smiling too wide. he looked stunned. genuinely caught off guard.

“you heard me. pack a bag. pajamas. toothbrush. snacks. i don’t know. whatever you need to survive two days with me.”

his face went red. a deep, rich pink that spread across his cheeks to the tips of his ears. you laughed. he was thinking things.

“ya, what were you imagining?” you teased, narrowing your eyes at him with a smirk.

“nothing!” he defended too fast. “i just... i didn’t expect we’d be spending the weekend... alone like that. it’s not a bad thing. i like it. i like the idea. i just—i mean, we’ve been doing great. this relationship. it feels good. real. and... if it keeps going like this, who knows—maybe one day we’ll get married.”

you froze.

he didn’t say it as a joke. it was quiet. casual. but he meant it.

married.

you hadn’t thought about that in weeks. you’d been so swept up in the rush of the new—new glances, new kisses, new secret dates and stolen evenings. but that word made your heart skip, stumble, leap. it opened a future you hadn’t dared imagine.

married to jeong jaehyun. walking down an aisle. your coworkers gasping. your parents trying to stay calm. him lifting your veil. kissing you like it was the beginning of forever. sunday mornings with kids and cartoons and coffee. vacations. shared bookshelves. him waiting at the door when you got home.

you shook the image out of your head.

“you can’t just say things like that,” you whispered, barely breathing.

“why not?” he asked softly, his eyes sincere. “it’s where we’re going, right?”

friday night came like a slow exhale.

he arrived with a small black duffle bag slung over his shoulder and a sheepish grin. you wore mismatched pajamas—striped pants and a faded hoodie from a school club you barely remembered joining. the sight of you like that made him laugh, and the sound was so unguarded it made your chest ache with affection.

you stayed in. ordered too much food. picked a cheesy rom-com that made you cry halfway through. he kept making sarcastic comments at first, trying to pretend he didn’t care, until somewhere in the middle he got quiet. his hand found yours under the blanket, warm and steady. when the credits rolled, your head was on his shoulder and your eyes were puffy.

“i hate that you made me cry,” you sniffled, wiping your face.

“i didn’t make you cry. blame julia roberts,” he said, kissing the top of your head.

the rest of the night blurred. an improvised dinner of instant noodles and wine, soft music from your phone speaker, him dancing stupidly in the kitchen with a wooden spoon, trying to make you laugh. and you did. hard. the kind of laugh that made you forget to be careful.

when it got late, and the lights dimmed, the kisses came back. slow. long. searching. his hands on your waist, your fingers in his hair, breathing each other in like you were afraid to stop. the heat built, like always, but neither of you pushed further. it wasn’t time. not yet. but god, it was close.

saturday was lazy and warm and beautiful.

you woke up tangled in the blankets, his arm draped over your stomach, his breath soft against your neck. the kind of morning you never thought you’d get to have—where nothing was urgent, and everything felt right.

you took turns in the shower, argued over who finished the milk, and spent an hour sitting on the floor flipping through old photo albums you’d forgotten you had. you didn’t plan to show him—but he insisted. and once he started looking, he didn’t stop.

“wait... this is you in high school?” he asked, pointing at a photo.

“yeah,” you said, embarrassed. “why?”

“you were so cute.”

you rolled your eyes. “i wasn’t popular or anything. i had one boyfriend. lasted a week.”

he stared. “a week?”

“he said i was too uptight and boring.”

jaehyun’s mouth dropped open. “that guy was an idiot.”

you laughed. “no, he was probably right. i’ve always been... structured. controlled. even back then. guess that’s why i’m like this now—such a workaholic.”

he didn’t laugh. instead, he kept looking at your photo—finger brushing over the glossy paper like it meant something.

“if i had met you back then,” he said quietly, “i would’ve fallen in love with you. no doubt.”

your breath caught.

he didn’t look away. “i wouldn’t have let you go. not for a second.”

“you don’t mean that,” you whispered, unsure what else to say.

“i do,” he said, firm. “you’re not boring. you’re brilliant. you’re thoughtful. you see things no one else sees. you work harder than anyone i know. and... you make me want to be better.”

tears pricked your eyes again. not from sadness. just—too much emotion. too much truth.

“you’re going to make me cry again,” you whispered.

“then cry,” he said, pulling you close. “but only if you let me hold you through it.”

the rest of the weekend passed like a dream.

grocery runs in sweatpants. a half-burnt attempt at making pancakes. arguments over which playlist was better for cleaning the kitchen. you wore ridiculous socks with cartoons on them. he made fun of you until you found his even worse ones.

you kissed between chores. kissed while brushing your teeth. kissed while folding laundry.

it wasn’t glamorous.

but it felt like home.

and when sunday night came, and he packed his bag again, you didn’t want him to go. not because of the sex, or the thrill, or the high of newness. but because somewhere between instant noodles and high school photos, you realized something terrifying and beautiful—

you were falling in love.

for real.

for the first time.

towards the end of the month, your phone rings. you’re in your apartment, folding laundry with the window cracked open to let in the soft breeze of early summer. the sunlight filters through sheer curtains, painting everything in golden hues. you glance at the caller id and feel a knot tighten in your stomach. mom.

you answer.

“it’s your father’s birthday this weekend,” she says, skipping greetings as always, her voice a mix of cheerful anticipation and subtle reprimand. “you should come visit. he’s been asking if we’ll see you.”

you agree, almost without thinking, but then comes the dreaded question.

“and? have you found a boyfriend yet or do i need to talk to mrs. lee again?”

you rub your temple. “mom—”

“her son is still single, you know. owns a good piece of land. sells vegetables to that big food corporation. you’d be set for life.”

you exhale deeply, eyes closing in frustration.

“i’m… i’m seeing someone.”

a pause. then her voice lights up like fireworks. “you are? oh, this is wonderful! finally, you’re not wasting away alone up there in that office job.”

“mom, we’ve just started seeing each other,” you say, hesitating. “it’s too soon to—”

“no,” she cuts in firmly. “you don’t have time to be unsure. the train is about to leave the station, sweetheart. you either get on or it’s gone. bring him. we want to meet him.”

before you can argue, the call ends with a clipped goodbye, and you’re left staring at your phone, pulse racing and chest tight.

the rest of the week, you feel like a ghost of yourself. distracted at work, distant on your dates with jaehyun, your mind spinning in loops. he notices immediately—of course he does—and it only takes one missed joke and a quiet dinner for him to call you out on it.

you’re sitting across from him, poking at your food. the restaurant is softly lit, cozy, but there’s a distance in your eyes.

“y/n,” he says, setting his chopsticks down. “what’s going on?”

“nothing,” you mutter, but he leans in.

“don’t give me that. we’re together now, remember? you can talk to me. or… if you’re second guessing this… if i’m moving too fast, just tell me. i can handle it.”

your heart aches at his words. you reach across the table, grabbing his hand.

“it’s not that. i’m not doubting us,” you say quietly. “it’s just… my mom called. she wants me to visit this weekend for my dad’s birthday. and she… kind of expects me to bring you.”

he blinks. then, without hesitation, he says, “okay. then i’ll come.”

you blink right back. “wait, seriously?”

“yes. if it means that much to them—and to you—I want to go. i want to meet your family, y/n. it feels right.”

your chest swells with something warm and terrifying. you nod, silently.

friday comes and your suitcase is zipped and ready by the door. you’re wearing a floral summer dress, light and breezy, with your favorite pair of nude heels that make your legs look longer than they are. your hair is pinned loosely, lip tint soft and rosy. there’s a nervous flutter in your chest when you step outside.

jaehyun is already waiting beside his car, leaning casually against it like he belongs in a photoshoot. he’s in cream linen pants and a sage green button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, collar open at the throat. his sunglasses reflect the afternoon sun, and he looks, frankly, too good to be standing in your quiet little street. you gulp.

“need help with those?” he says with a grin, reaching for your bags before you can answer.

the ride is filled with music, laughter, and long, thoughtful silences. the kind that don't feel awkward, but full. pregnant with meaning. he holds your hand on the highway, thumb stroking the back of it lazily, his warmth anchoring you through your nerves.

when you pull up to your parents' house—a modest home with stone finishings and a neat little front garden—your heart thunders. everything feels smaller, more fragile, like stepping back in time. your mom rushes out first, apron still tied around her waist, eyes wide and wet with excitement.

and when she sees jaehyun? she nearly cries. “you’re real,” she says, pressing her hands together like she’s witnessing a miracle. your dad comes out next, chuckling as he wipes his hands on a dish towel.

“so this is the young man,” he says with a knowing nod, clapping jaehyun on the back. “your mother hasn’t shut up about you since she found out.”

inside, the dining table is set with your dad’s favorite dishes. everything smells like memory. you sit in the living room afterward, your parents across from you, jaehyun beside you on the couch, close enough to feel his knee brushing yours.

he speaks up first, voice calm and clear.

“i just want to say that i’m very serious about your daughter,” he says. “i have genuine intentions. we’re still getting to know each other, but… if things keep going the way they are, i’d like to build a future with her.”

your mother gasps, reaching for a tissue. your father nods slowly, visibly moved.

“this… this is the best birthday gift i could ask for,” he says.

you shrink into the couch, cheeks burning, while jaehyun’s hand finds yours again and squeezes gently.

then comes the chaos.

your older brother, baekhyun, bursts through the door with his wife and two kids in tow. he takes one look at you and smirks.

“who’s the guy and what have you done with my perpetually single little sister?”

you groan. “shut up, baek.”

the two of you bicker like teenagers, tossing playful insults back and forth while your nephews cling to your legs, shouting your name with delight. you hand them the toys you brought and their eyes light up like it’s christmas.

jaehyun watches it all, amused, until one of the boys climbs into his lap and hands him a toy too.

he freezes.

and in that moment, something shifts in him. the sound of children’s laughter, the image of you with a soft smile, cradling one of your nephews in your arms. the warmth of this home, the love in every corner. he imagines it—having this with you. kids with your eyes. a house that’s yours. your framed wedding photo on the wall. vacations. birthdays. late-night talks in bed. wrinkles and silver hair, but still loving you with the same fire.

he blushes.

and you notice.

“what?” you whisper as you lean close.

he shakes his head, smiling to himself. “nothing. just… i really, really like this. all of it.”

the night unfolds gently. dinner turns into stories, stories into laughter, and soon the sun has long set and the house is lit with warm yellow lights. you and jaehyun sit outside for a moment, watching the stars.

he wraps an arm around you, and you rest your head on his shoulder.

“you feel like home,” you whisper, not even realizing the words have slipped out.

he turns to look at you, eyes soft. “so do you.”

and in the quiet, with the cicadas singing and the echo of your family’s voices drifting from inside, you know.

this might just be the beginning of everything.

the months of july passed by with little to no complications. your parents were pleased with jaehyun, and you could tell that their approval meant the world to him. jungwoo, on the other hand, was playful and teasing, but with a newfound sense of respect, especially as jaehyun started to show more signs of being protective, making sure that jungwoo didn’t cross any boundaries. you were still professional with everyone at work, but the chemistry between you and jaehyun was undeniable. nights together were spent laughing, and weekends were filled with stolen moments of joy, where you both shared something more than just professional courtesy.

jaehyun had made a habit of calling you during the day, just to check on you, and you found yourself doing the same. the conversations were simple, but they felt important. visits to his office became more frequent, sometimes just for work, but other times, it was an excuse to sneak in a kiss or two. the passion between you two continued to build, a slow, steady fire that became increasingly hard to ignore.

one night, a wednesday, you both ignored the weather forecast and decided to take your date out in the city. the air was warm, and the lights of the city sparkled as you walked the streets together. the mood was light, but as midnight approached, the weather took a sharp turn. dark clouds rolled in, and soon, rain began to pour, turning into a violent storm. the wind howled, and the streets quickly flooded. jaehyun’s car struggled against the force of the water, and you couldn’t help but grip the seat, anxious.

jaehyun tried to keep calm, glancing at you with a reassuring smile. “it’s okay, nothing’s going to happen,” he said, though you could tell he was also feeling the weight of the storm.

the rain pounded against the windows, and the car barely moved as the currents began to grow stronger. after what felt like an eternity, you both agreed that waiting in the car wasn’t safe anymore. as you both discussed where to go, a motel appeared in front of you. it seemed like an odd choice, but the parking lot was dry, and there were few other options at that hour. both of you hesitated, unsure of what to do. it was a strange situation—neither of you wanted to suggest anything that could be misinterpreted.

jaehyun was the one to break the silence. “let’s just use the parking lot, at least we’ll have shelter from the rain,” he said. “and if it lasts all night, we’ll have a warm place to stay.”

you nodded, a little nervous. “yeah, i mean, we’re not going to do anything else, right? just sleep, then in the morning, we’ll head back to our places and go to work, right?”

jaehyun smiled at you, trying to ease your nerves. “of course, just a safe place to wait out the storm. no pressure.”

you both parked and got out of the car, a little stiff from the tension, but the moment you entered the motel, things started to feel different. jaehyun took the lead, making sure you were comfortable and settled in, giving you space to breathe. He didn’t rush you, always checking to see how you felt.

both of you were tired from the day, and the weather didn’t help the situation, so after some brief, awkward glances, you both decided to take separate showers to unwind. you both changed into something more comfortable, but since it was summer and it was warm, you decided to just sleep in your underwear. when you looked at jaehyun in his, the moment felt almost surreal. his gaze lingered for a moment before he quickly turned away, as if both of you were still trying to adjust to how close you had become.

“you know,” he said softly, his voice breaking the silence, “you don’t have to feel awkward. we’re taking things at our own pace.”

you smiled, feeling your heartbeat quicken at the sound of his voice. “what if i want to go faster?” you said, your words surprising even yourself.

jaehyun looks at you, eyes widening slightly before they darken with something deeper—something he’s clearly been holding back. “are you sure?” he asks, voice low, almost trembling with restraint.

you nod, stepping closer, your fingers brushing against his bare chest. “i’m sure.”

his hands find your waist gently at first, testing the waters, but when you lean into him, he pulls you in like he’s been waiting forever to hold you like this. his lips find yours in a kiss that starts soft, exploratory, but quickly deepens, hungry and needing. he walks you backwards slowly until the back of your knees hit the bed, and you fall onto it with a soft gasp, taking him with you.

his hands roam your body, reverent and slow, like he’s memorizing every inch of you. he whispers your name against your skin, trailing kisses down your neck, over your collarbone, and lower still. your breath hitches when his mouth lingers between your thighs, his eyes meeting yours, waiting for any sign to stop—but you nod again, your fingers threading into his hair, guiding him closer.

what he gives you isn’t rushed. it’s worship. like he’s been dreaming of this moment for too long to waste it. you lose yourself in the rhythm of his mouth, the way he listens to your body, adjusting, teasing, giving. he doesn’t stop until your thighs are shaking and your voice is broken with moans you couldn’t hold back.

when he finally crawls back up your body, his lips kiss yours again, slower this time, tasting you. he whispers, “still okay?” and you nod, pulling him closer.

when he slides into you, it’s not hurried or careless. it’s deep, slow, and overwhelming in the best way. you cling to him, breathless, as your bodies move together like they were made to. he holds your gaze, foreheads pressed together, sweat-damp skin sticking in the summer heat, but neither of you care.

you whisper his name like a prayer, and he answers with yours, over and over, like he’s trying to brand it into the moment.

you fall apart in his arms, not once, but twice, and he follows soon after, burying his face in your neck as he trembles against you. 

his lips are still on yours when he pushes deeper inside you, and this time, there’s no hesitation. your body arches under him, the stretch of him delicious and overwhelming all at once. he fills you slowly, inch by inch, like he wants to feel every reaction he pulls from you.

“fuck, you feel so good,” he breathes out, forehead resting against yours. “been thinking about this for so long.”

you moan softly, nails dragging down his back as he starts to move, slow at first, rolling his hips into you with precision that makes your legs tremble. he kisses down your throat, biting softly at your skin as he picks up the pace, each thrust hitting deeper, harder. the headboard taps gently against the wall, a quiet rhythm that matches the sound of your breathy moans and his soft, low groans.

your fingers clutch the sheets, the pleasure building with every thrust. jaehyun’s hands grip your thighs, spreading you wider for him, and the new angle has you gasping his name, your voice breaking. he doesn’t stop—he can’t stop—lost in the feel of you, the sounds you make, the way your body clings to his like it’s the only place it belongs.

he pulls out just enough to see the way you take him, watching your slick coat his length before sliding back in with a filthy, wet sound that makes your toes curl. “look at you,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing your lower lip, eyes locked on yours. “so fucking beautiful like this.”

when he shifts, propping one of your legs over his shoulder, the angle has you crying out, your whole body shuddering. “you’re so deep,” you whimper, and he groans, hips snapping faster, harder, chasing both your highs like a man starved.

your climax hits hard—white-hot and blinding—as your walls clamp down around him, dragging him over the edge with you. he cums with a strangled moan, burying himself to the hilt, his hips stuttering as he spills into you. he stays there, chest pressed to yours, breathing heavy, hearts pounding in sync.

after a few moments, he pulls out slowly, carefully, kissing your shoulder as he lies beside you and pulls you into his arms.

your body’s still trembling when he runs a hand down your spine, voice low and thick with affection. “think we’re still just sleeping?”

you laugh softly against his chest, lazy fingers tracing circles on his skin. “not a chance.”

he kisses the top of your head. “then let’s not sleep yet.”

and before you can even respond, he’s already kissing down your body again—because one round clearly wasn’t enough.

you barely have time to catch your breath before jaehyun’s mouth is back on your skin, trailing open-mouthed kisses down your chest, between your breasts, over your stomach. his hands roam your thighs with greedy fingers, and even though you’re still sensitive, your body responds instantly—needy, aching, already ready for him again.

“you’re still so wet,” he murmurs, spreading you open with his fingers, dragging two of them slowly through your folds. “fuck, baby… you’re dripping.”

your hips jerk when he circles your clit, light and teasing, and you whine, fingers gripping the sheets. “j-jaehyun…”

he smirks, dark eyes meeting yours as he sinks his fingers into you—slow, deep, curling just right. “you can take it, can’t you?” he says, voice thick with lust. “you want it again.”

you nod helplessly, mouth parted as your back arches off the bed. he fucks you with his fingers until you’re trembling again, begging for him, grinding down onto his hand like you can’t get enough—and you can’t.

when he pulls his fingers out and lines himself up again, there’s no patience this time. he pushes in all at once, rougher, deeper, making your breath catch in your throat. the stretch, the pressure, the heat—it’s almost too much, but you crave every second of it.

he fucks you like he owns you now, one hand on your hip, the other pressing down on your stomach so he can feel himself inside you. “you feel that?” he groans. “you’re taking all of me.”

your moans turn shameless, high-pitched and raw, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing in the room with every thrust. the bed creaks, the headboard pounds against the wall, and you don’t care who hears. he flips you onto your stomach without warning, pulling your hips up, and slides back into you from behind.

you cry out at the new angle, your hands clawing at the sheets as he drives into you, deeper than before. “god—jaehyun, i’m gonna—”

“cum for me,” he growls, grabbing your hair and pulling your head back to kiss the side of your neck. “cum all over my cock, baby.”

your orgasm hits like a shockwave, blinding and hot and overwhelming. your whole body shakes, legs giving out beneath you as he keeps fucking you through it. he follows moments later, groaning your name as he fills you again, hips jerking against your ass, the sound of it all so filthy and perfect.

this time, when you collapse together on the bed, everything is soaked in sweat and heat and the scent of sex. your body is limp, your mind dazed, and he just pulls you close, wrapping you in his arms like he’s never letting go.

“okay,” you whisper, laughing breathlessly. “now we might need to sleep.”

he chuckles against your hair, voice rough. “maybe. after round three.”

that night at the motel changed everything.

it wasn’t just the sex—though, god, it was incredible. it was the way his hands learned your body like a second language, the way he whispered your name like a secret, the way you both let yourselves fall without fear. that night was messy, breathless, and soaked in want. but more than anything, it was a turning point—a quiet, unspoken agreement that this was no longer just something casual. not for either of you.

after that, the line between love and lust blurred beautifully. sex became part of your rhythm, part of how you communicated. stolen glances in the office turned into stolen kisses in the elevator. late nights became sleepovers, and every morning-after was filled with lazy touches and knowing smiles. you memorized each other’s moans like favorite songs, found new ways to say i want you, even when the words themselves weren’t spoken.

but there was one night that stood out. the one you still think about more than any other.

it was the night you stayed over at his apartment—just the two of you, no distractions, no storms outside, only the slow burn between your bodies. dinner turned into kisses. kisses turned into the first round on his kitchen counter, then the second in the shower, steam fogging up the mirror as your bodies tangled and slipped together like water and flame.

by the third round, it was past midnight. you were already sore, breathless, but insatiable. he pulled you back into bed, whispering things in your ear that made your skin burn. he was rougher that time—hungrier—gripping your hips as he fucked you deep and slow, drawing out every moan until your voice was hoarse and your mind was gone.

you were on top, riding him with lazy, desperate rhythm, your head thrown back, your nails digging into his chest. he looked up at you like you were something divine, his hands guiding your pace, eyes locked on the place where your bodies met.

and just when your orgasm started to hit—when everything went hot and tight and unbearably good—the words slipped out of you.

“i love you.”

your voice cracked around it, high and trembling, your body still grinding against his, your climax crashing over you like a wave. for a split second, everything stopped. you felt him freeze beneath you, heard the sharp intake of breath, saw the shock in his eyes.

you hadn’t meant to say it like that. not in the middle of fucking. not when you were bare in every sense of the word.

it was reckless. vulnerable. raw.

but not wrong.

his hands gripped your waist tighter, and then he was sitting up, arms wrapping around you, thrusting up into you so hard and deep that you sobbed out his name.

“i love you too,” he groaned against your neck. “fuck, i love you so much—too much.”

and then he came—hard and fast, holding you like he never wanted to let go.

afterward, you just lay there on top of him, chest to chest, skin to skin, hearts pounding in unison. there was no awkwardness. no regret. only this strange, beautiful calm that settled over the room like dawn.

it was in that moment you realized just how deep your feelings for him ran.

what had started as a simple plan—just something to avoid growing old alone—had become the best part of your life. somewhere along the way, between the office visits and shared glances, motel rooms and quiet mornings, you had fallen hopelessly, madly in love with jaehyun.

and the craziest part?

you couldn’t imagine ever thinking of anything—or anyone—else but him.

august wrapped around you like a golden ribbon, thick with heat and filled with the kind of breathless anticipation that only comes after months of hard work. the project was done—finally—after weeks of stress, endless reports, last-minute corrections and late nights. but it was done. and not just done, but successful. glowing feedback, client satisfaction, numbers that sang. it was more than you had dared to hope for.

and then—the email.

subject line: promotion confirmation.

you stared at it for a full minute before opening it. and when you read the words “congratulations, supervisor,” your breath hitched. you covered your mouth. you gasped. and then you ran.

jaehyun wasn’t even at his desk anymore, he was just walking into the hallway when you caught him. “jaehyun!” you called, your voice trembling with a kind of joy that had nowhere to go.

he turned, concerned for half a second—until he saw your face. and then you said it.

“i got it.”

“you got what?” he blinked, confused.

“the promotion.”

his eyes widened. he froze for a second. and then—his arms were around you before you could even finish breathing. he lifted you, spinning you once, twice, both of you laughing as you clutched his shoulders and buried your face in his neck.

“oh my god, baby—you did it! i knew it, i knew you would!”

you were dizzy, and not just from the spinning. he kissed your cheek, your temple, your lips. everything was warm and golden and right.

he took you out that night.

you didn’t go anywhere fancy—jaehyun insisted that celebrations should be personal, not performative. so he drove you to that one little pizzeria you loved, the one that made the potato crust just the way you liked it. he ordered your usual without asking, and when the wine came, he raised his glass first.

“to you,” he said, his eyes soft and gleaming under the low light. “my brilliant, unstoppable, incredible woman.”

your heart swelled so fast it almost ached. the clink of your glasses felt like the sound of a new chapter opening.

“i’ve never had this before,” you confessed, fingers curling around the stem of your glass. “celebrating something this big. with someone i love. it feels…” you laughed, shy and overwhelmed. “it feels like everything’s different now.”

jaehyun reached for your hand, his thumb stroking the back of it slowly.

“it is different,” he said. “because now, every good thing that happens to you—we get to celebrate it. together.”

you stared at him, your chest tight with emotion, with the kind of love that had no bottom, no edge. just more.

you leaned across the table, kissing him slow, deep, grateful. pizza between you, wine in your veins, your laughter echoing off the walls of that tiny booth.

you didn’t need fireworks.

this was better.

this was yours.

mid-september arrived with a softness that clung to the air—warm enough to feel like summer still lingered, but mellowed by the early hints of fall. the leaves hadn’t turned yet, but something in the wind carried change. maybe that’s what had been stirring inside you all week—a restless certainty that had taken root in your chest and bloomed with every kiss, every sleepy morning wrapped around each other, every whispered i love you that escaped your lips without hesitation. it had been five months, five months of chaos and clarity, of fire and softness, and you knew now—you didn’t want to wait anymore.

you wanted jaehyun. not in a month. not after careful plans. now.

so you climbed the steps to his office, heart thudding like a war drum, nerves tangled with determination. you paused outside the door, breathed once, twice, and knocked.

“come in,” his voice called, muffled behind the heavy door.

you stepped in and found him at his desk, back slightly hunched, focused on the glow of his screen. he looked up, and the moment he saw you, he smiled—that slow, dazzling smile that always made your knees feel like melted wax—and stood immediately, walking toward you without hesitation. he cupped your face, leaned in, and kissed you like he’d been waiting to do it all day.

“jaehyun,” you said, voice almost trembling, more from the gravity of what you were about to say than nerves. he pulled back slightly, tilting his head.

“yeah?”

you met his eyes and, without giving yourself the chance to second-guess it, you let it fall from your lips.

“i want to marry you.”

his lips parted slightly, surprise flickering across his features. he blinked, as if trying to be sure he heard you right.

“i know, baby,” he said, a soft chuckle lacing his words. “that was the whole deal, right? but remember—we said after november. we’d have more time to plan, get everything ready—”

“no,” you interrupted, stepping forward, clutching his hands tightly. “i don’t want to wait till november. i mean it. i want to marry you now. today, tomorrow, next week—i don’t care when or how. i just want to be yours. forever.”

he stared at you, quiet. processing. his brows drew together, and then lifted again like the meaning had just landed fully. his hands gripped yours tighter.

“but—what about the wedding? your parents, mine—”

“we’ll figure it out,” you whispered. “but this... this love we have, i don’t want to keep treating it like something that needs to be scheduled. it’s real. it’s now.”

he took a breath, deep and full. and then, his expression softened into something vulnerable and glowing—his eyes shone with something deeper than just affection. he leaned his forehead against yours and whispered, “you want to be my wife.”

you nodded, lips brushing his as you breathed, “more than anything.”

his thumbs brushed over your cheeks, as if committing this moment to memory. “then we’ll do it. not because it’s rushed, but because we know. we’ve known. and if you want to be my wife now... then i’ll make it happen. we’ll get married. i promise.”

and he kissed you again, this time slower, as if sealing an oath between your mouths.

the proposal happened three days later.

he told you it was just a normal date—dinner, then a walk somewhere scenic. no pressure. he even played it off by wearing something casual: a white linen shirt, sleeves rolled, soft beige slacks, and the cleanest pair of loafers you’d ever seen. he looked devastatingly handsome without trying.

he picked you up and drove toward the edge of the city, toward the river trail where the summer festivals were usually held. the area was quiet now, early autumn having driven the crowds away. but fairy lights still dangled from the trees, twinkling faintly as the sun dipped beneath the horizon, casting a warm, honeyed hue over everything.

he walked with you along the wooden path, your fingers tangled. his hand was slightly clammy. you noticed, and your heart fluttered, thinking—he’s nervous. the realization made you giddy.

and then, just as you reached the little bridge that overlooked the water, he stopped.

“wait here,” he said softly, squeezing your hand. “don’t move.”

he jogged a few steps ahead, ducked behind a low fence near a cluster of trees, and returned with a bouquet of peonies—your favorite. you hadn’t told him that. he remembered.

your eyes began to water.

he handed them to you, smiling shyly, and then pulled something out of his pocket.

a velvet box.

he opened it without a speech, without fanfare. his voice was soft, his eyes locked on yours like the world outside didn’t exist.

“you already said yes,” he whispered. “but i want to do this right.”

he got down on one knee, the gravel crunching beneath him, and held the ring up.

“y/n, will you marry me—not next month, not in theory, not in some future we’re still trying to picture... but now. for real. because i’m yours. and you’re mine.”

you didn’t cry. you sobbed. like an idiot. like a girl who had waited her whole life for someone like him. you nodded so fast your vision blurred and fell into his arms, and he kissed you like he was promising you the rest of forever.

in that moment, september never felt sweeter.

telling the company was a whole thing.

it started with a scheduled meeting—a weekly operations check-in with the usual suspects: team leads, upper management, the supervisor, and a couple of sharp-eyed executives who never missed a detail. it was jaehyun’s idea to make it official at work, to do it clean and direct and proudly. no rumors. no hiding. just the truth, glowing and solid like the ring that now lived permanently on your finger.

you both walked into the meeting room together, which wasn’t unusual, but something in the way your hands brushed as you took your seat already had jungwoo giving you the side-eye.

the presentation started, charts and projections lighting up the screen behind jaehyun as he stood with calm confidence. it was business as usual—until the last slide.

"before we wrap up," he said, glancing back at the room, his eyes finding yours briefly before turning to the group again, "i have one personal announcement to make."

you swallowed. jungwoo leaned forward like a damn hawk. mr. choi narrowed his eyes suspiciously, as if he'd been waiting for this moment since spring.

jaehyun smiled—soft, boyish, unbothered. “as some of you may know… or have guessed," he said, and gave jungwoo a teasing look that made him gasp, "i knew it," he muttered dramatically—"y/n and i have been seeing each other for a while.”

the room exploded. a gasp from the secretary and the supervisor actually choked on his coffee. someone in the back whispered “what the fuck” under their breath.

jaehyun held up a hand, a little smug, a little amused.

“and, as of last weekend… we’re engaged.”

your cheeks were burning. your heart thundered. you expected chaos, maybe disapproval, but what followed was—

cheering. clapping. wide eyes and stunned smiles. even mr. choi looked like he was trying very hard not to grin.

“you’re marrying jaehyun? our jaehyun?” he blinked at her, then looked at jaehyun like he’d just discovered a double life. “okay, i knew something was going on. i’m not blind. but marriage? dude, that’s insane. like, insane in the good way, but—holy shit.”

you stood up, feeling brave. “we just didn’t want to hide it anymore,” you said. “we’re really happy. and we hope you’ll be happy for us too.”

the room burst into applause again. someone shouted, “wedding invites or we riot!”

the parents came next.

you visited your family first. your mom opened the door and immediately noticed the ring. she gasped, dropped the dish towel she was holding, and squealed in that way only mothers can. within seconds, your dad was there too, grinning, eyes glossy, holding jaehyun’s shoulder like he was already part of the family.

"are you kidding me," your mom kept saying. "you're engaged? oh my god, you're engaged!"

you nodded, trying not to cry as she hugged you so tight it hurt.

“he’s everything i ever wanted for you,” your dad told you quietly, before giving jaehyun a very serious handshake. “you take care of her.”

“always,” jaehyun promised, voice thick with sincerity.

then it was his parents' turn.

you were more nervous, but you shouldn’t have been. the moment jaehyun’s mom saw you, she pulled you into a hug, muttering in korean how beautiful you were, how she’d been praying her son would be smart enough to not let you go. his dad was more reserved, but the sparkle in his eye said everything. when jaehyun said, “we’re getting married,” his mother clapped her hands and screamed like she’d just won the lottery.

“we’re so happy,” she said, eyes shining. “you are already family.”

they brought out food, wine, photos from jaehyun’s childhood. his mom made you take home a tupperware of kimchi and a crocheted doily she claimed she made for whoever he married one day. she said she just had a feeling it was going to be you, and jaehyun turned red.

it turned out that weddings—real weddings—took a lot more time to plan than y/n had expected. even with jaehyun’s calming presence and the help of a surprisingly competent wedding planner, the months passed like petals falling from a tree: softly, quickly, too beautifully to hold onto.

they settled on march 28. it gave them just enough time to breathe, to build, to dream together.

from the moment they told everyone—first their friends, then their families, and finally, in a hilariously formal email, the entire company—the whirlwind began. the announcement caused a stir so loud in the office that y/n had to leave her desk just to get some peace.

the directivos were equally shocked, though mostly amused. her supervisor just nodded sagely, like he’d been betting on this since the beginning.

“you two were always ‘too in sync’,” he said, raising his coffee mug in mock toast. “i give it six months before one of you becomes the other's boss at home too.”

and then came the parents.

jaehyun’s mother cried when she met y/n, tears slipping down her cheeks as she hugged her tight and whispered in korean, “you’re even more beautiful than he said. and i knew he was in love the first time he said your name.”

her own parents, after recovering from the initial shock, became obsessively involved in the planning, sending flower samples, playlist suggestions, and opinions on wedding favors at all hours of the day. but none of it was overwhelming. not with jaehyun there, always pulling her back into calm. always making sure this was their wedding, not anyone else’s.

they chose a venue outside the city—a small vineyard with soft hills, blooming wisteria, and golden light that melted everything it touched. march 28 arrived with the scent of earth and lilac, a warm wind, and the sky so blue it almost hurt to look at.

y/n stood before a mirror in a white gown that made her feel like everything good in the world had been sewn together just for her. she could hear the quiet rustle of guests arriving, the soft music playing in the distance, the laughter of children running between the rows of flowers.

and then, jaehyun.

when she saw him waiting at the altar, dressed in a suit that fit like second skin, with his hair slightly tousled and a look in his eyes that could undo galaxies—she forgot how to breathe.

he mouthed “you’re perfect” as she walked down the aisle.

she mouthed “you’re mine.”

the ceremony was intimate, emotional, wrapped in vows that made everyone cry—even jungwoo, who tried to play it off by pretending he had allergies.

“i promise to protect your dreams as fiercely as my own,” jaehyun said, voice trembling slightly, “and to always make sure your pizza has the right amount of potato crust, even when we’re eighty.”

“i promise to choose you, even on the days we forget how lucky we are,” y/n replied, tears in her eyes. “and to never let the fire between us die, even when we’re old and gray.”

they kissed.

and the world felt new again.

their first dance was under strings of fairy lights, barefoot on the grass. the song was soft, a slow jazz tune that jaehyun had played for her once in the car when she’d been crying. now, with her head against his chest, they swayed like the wind had been made just for them.

“we did it,” she whispered.

“we did,” he said. “and i’d marry you again tomorrow if i could.”

the honeymoon came a few days later. they chose santorini, greece, not for the postcard beauty or luxury, but because y/n had once told him, offhandedly, that she always dreamed of watching the sun melt into the sea from a white rooftop. he remembered.

their suite was perched on a cliff, overlooking the caldera, with white walls and blue domes and windows that opened to eternity. the first night, they sat on the balcony with a bottle of wine, their feet touching, their hands always searching for each other.

they kissed under sunsets and made love under stars. they danced in narrow streets, shared kisses between sips of ouzo, fed each other olives and sweet baklava. they were ridiculous. and in love. and utterly themselves.

“this is the life i want,” y/n whispered one night, tangled in cotton sheets, her cheek against his chest.

“then it’s the life we’ll have,” jaehyun said. “forever.”

and this time, forever didn’t sound like a fairytale.

it sounded like a promise.

three years passed like chapters in a love letter—written slowly, lived fully.

you and jaehyun made a home out of a sleek little apartment tucked into the rhythm of the city. it was all black wood and soft gray, velvet cushions and open windows where sunlight poured in like gold. it wasn’t big, but it held your whole world. your toothbrushes leaned against each other. your shoes tangled by the door. your laughter lived in the walls.

mornings were sleepy and soft—coffee mugs clinking, your legs wrapped around his under the kitchen table, newspaper pages ignored in favor of each other’s eyes. nights were even softer—blankets twisted around you, movie soundtracks playing in the background while your fingers danced across his skin. the kind of love that didn’t need grand gestures—just the warmth of his palm on your thigh and the way he said “come here” like home itself.

but then, one evening, the quiet changed.

you were in the bathroom. pacing. heart in your throat. your phone timer ticked like thunder in the silence. the test rested on the sink, small and still—like it held the weight of the universe. you sat on the edge of the tub, knees pulled up, trying to breathe.

when the timer stopped, you moved like you were underwater. slow. hesitant. scared.

two pink lines.

you stared. blinked. stared again.

your lips parted, the shape of a whisper you couldn’t form. your hands trembled, and for a moment, the whole world tilted—just you and that tiny piece of plastic and everything it now meant.

you stepped out of the bathroom, barefoot, holding the test like it might shatter.

jaehyun was on the couch, lounging with his phone, one leg bent lazily, hair tousled from running his hand through it too many times. he looked up. paused. frowned softly. “baby… what is it?”

you didn’t answer right away. just walked toward him—slow, like the floor might disappear—and placed the test in his hand.

“we’re gonna be parents!!”

the silence cracked. and then—

jaehyun surged forward, arms wrapping around you so tight you gasped. he lifted you off the ground, spinning you around the living room like a kid on christmas morning, laughter bursting from his chest, from yours, from some place deep inside where all the hope had been hiding.

you were both crying. laughing. kissing. saying “we did it!” over and over again like a prayer you never thought you’d get to say out loud. he pressed his forehead to yours, voice shaking, “we’re having a baby.”

“we’re having our baby,” you whispered.

months passed like petals falling from a blooming tree.

you were glowing. exhausted, but glowing.

your blush-pink maternity dress clung gently to your growing belly, printed with tiny white florals that made jaehyun smile every time he saw you in it. your feet were bare, your ankles swollen, your back ached constantly—but he was always there, hands rubbing your spine, lips on your shoulder, whispering, “you’re magic, you know that?”

the nursery was nearly finished—lavender walls painted with care, gold stars twinkling on the ceiling, and a soft mobile that played lullabies like stardust. the crib waited, delicate and perfect, with a plush bunny nestled in the corner.

jaehyun was kneeling by the dresser, sweat on his brow, tongue between his teeth as he finished the final drawer. he looked up, eyes finding you immediately, and god—he looked at you like the whole sky lived inside your smile.

“she’s gonna love this room,” he said, standing to press a hand to your belly. his palm warm. grounding. full of quiet awe. “our little moon.”

you leaned into him, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “i hope she gets your eyes,” you whispered.

he smiled, eyes soft with wonder. “and your heart,” he murmured. “especially your heart.”

the room went quiet again—except for the soft hum of the mobile spinning slowly above the crib. gold stars turned, catching the light.

and in that moment, just one suspended, breathless moment, everything was still.

you. him. her.

and the love that built it all.

finally. completely.

beautifully yours.

i think my ocs are pretty good🙃

Packed with truma but always serving cunt

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐍𝐄𝐓 ꩜ juju watkins ¹² (part 3/4)

free palestine carrd 🇵🇸 decolonize palestine site 🇵🇸 how you can help palestine | FREE PALESTINE!

MASTERLIST | PART ONE | PART TWO

ᝰ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 7k

ᝰ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | she was born to be great—legacy inked in her blood, she was a taurasi. committing to usc was supposed to be her moment, her name, her story. but this is juju watkins' court. and kingdoms don’t like to be threatened.

ᝰ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | angst!!!!!!!!!!!!! hurt to comfort, ofc. could possibly be triggering?? lots of descriptions of performance anxiety, panic attack, blood/injury (nosebleed), self-doubt, intense internal monologue, comfort after breakdown, soft girl tenderness (tm), juju watkins being a little too good at seeing through you

ᝰ 𝒆𝒗'𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔 | yeah so i meant to post this like… three weeks ago. but life got lifey (as u probably know if u keep up with my blog LMAO) and also this chapter emotionally wrecked me while i was trying to write it so i kept stalling. but!!! we are back and we are spiraling. thank you for your patience while i sat in google docs whispering “she’s fine she’s fine she’s totally not fine” over and over like a spell.

juju continues to be dangerously perceptive and our girl continues to unravel in high definition. i’ll see you in part 4. maybe. if i emotionally recover. (i will not). also would like to thank my beta readers! yall helped me out sm, ily<3

December in L.A. doesn’t feel like winter, not really.

It’s sixty-seven degrees and sunny outside. Palm trees still sway like it’s September, and girls walk around campus in shorts and crop tops like they haven’t checked a calendar. But inside the Galen Center, it feels like December - tight, tense, the kind of cold that doesn’t come from the weather, but from expectation.

Finals week is over. The dorms are thinning out. People are catching flights home, saying their see-you-next-years. But for you, there’s still one thing left.

Utah.

Your last game before winter break. And you have to win.

On paper, it’s just another conference game. But everyone knows it’s more than that.

Utah’s been electric this season - fast-paced, fluid, a team that knows how to move as one. They’re flashy, but they’re solid too, and fans have latched on. They’ve become the darling team of the year, the underdogs turned national darlings. ESPN’s been hyping the matchup for a week straight - undefeated USC vs. Utah’s run-and-gun machine. The comments are already spiraling. The forums too. “Can the Trojans stay perfect?” “Taurasi’s kid isn’t as clutch as her mom.” “Juju’s carrying again.”

You try not to read them. You really do. But they seep in. And lately, everything’s been seeping in.

Warmups feel off.

Your shots fall, but they don’t feel right. Too much wrist. Not enough arc. Your follow-through looks good, but it doesn’t settle you like it usually does. There’s this twitch in your legs, like you’ve had too much caffeine. Your heart’s pounding, even though you haven’t started running yet.

You glance over at Juju as you stretch. She’s bouncing on her toes, headphones in, nodding along to whatever she’s playing. She looks focused - but loose. The way she always is before big games. She thrives in this kind of spotlight. Loves it.

You used to. At least, you think you did. But lately it feels like the spotlight’s more heat than light. It blisters.

You’ve been here before. Big games. Big stakes. But this season has felt different from the start.

USC hasn’t lost once.

8–0. Ranked #3 in the country. Climbing.

The pressure started subtly - postgame interviews, features, “can they go all the way?” Then it ramped up. People you haven’t spoken to in months. Suddenly everyone wants to talk. Everyone wants a quote. Every game feels like proof. Every stat line is a headline.

And you - you’re the one with the last name that drips expectations. You’re the one they measure against a ghost who still plays like a myth.

--

THREE DAYS UNTIL UTAH

Practice had run long again. Not because Coach said it had to, but because that's just how it went when you were undefeated in December and still fighting to prove you belonged at the top. You were one of the last ones out of the gym, stretching alone in the corner with your earbuds in - though they weren’t playing anything. Sometimes silence helped quiet the noise better than music ever could.

Your phone buzzed once beside you. Then again. Then four more times in a row.

[Mom]: Landing soon [Mom]: Don’t freak [Mom]: Surprise! [Penny]: Don’t let your mom stress you out too much. We brought reinforcements [Derek]: BIG SISSSSSSS 😈😈😈 [Derek]: finally we get to see you play live!!

You froze mid-stretch.

No. No, no, no.

You blinked at the screen. The knot already forming in your stomach twisted tighter. For a second, your body didn’t move at all, like someone had hit pause.

They were here.

Diana. Penny. Derek. Gigi.

They were in Los Angeles. Three days before the Utah game. The last game before winter break. The game everyone on the team had circled and underlined. And they hadn’t warned you. Not really.

Your heart was racing, but it didn’t feel like excitement. It felt like pressure - familiar, cold, creeping pressure that settled on your shoulders and didn’t let go. Diana flying out to see a game wasn’t just about watching. It was about evaluating. Analyzing. Fixing.

You got up too fast, shoved your phone into your hoodie pocket, and left the gym without a word. This was classic Diana, showing up unannounced, like she owned the damn place. It was a tendency of hers, but you never really minded until it was like this - a high stakes game like this one.

They were waiting by the hotel when you arrived, standing on the curb as if they hadn’t just hijacked your entire mental space.

Penny was leaned against the back of the SUV with one arm lazily draped over the open trunk. Derek was bouncing on the balls of his feet like he was already in a full defensive stance. Gigi, tiny and grinning, sat cross-legged on top of a suitcase, wearing a hoodie that nearly swallowed her whole and sipping from a juice pouch like she’d never been happier.

And then there was Diana.

She stood a few feet away from the rest of them, hands in the pockets of her joggers, sunglasses pushed up on her head. She looked relaxed. Comfortable. Like retirement suited her in every possible way.

“Surprise,” she said simply, her voice even. But you knew her too well not to catch the anticipation behind it. The way her eyes scanned you from head to toe, subtle but focused.

You forced a smile. “Hey,” you said, and your voice cracked on the inhale.

Before you could say anything else, Gigi launched herself off the suitcase and straight into your arms, her tiny body colliding with yours like a rocket.

“You’re here!” she squealed.

You caught her, stumbling back half a step under her weight, and laughed a little. “Barely,” you said. “I’m like 40% real and 60% exhausted.”

“You look like Derek when he stayed up all night watching anime,” she said with a serious face, squishing your cheeks.

“I did that once,” Derek muttered. “And it was Naruto. It was important.”

You set Gigi down, and Penny came over to hug you next. She wrapped her arms around you slowly, gently, like she was trying to soften everything your mother inevitably brought with her.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Penny murmured. “You look... busy.”

“That’s one way to put it,” you said, stepping back with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

Then Diana stepped closer. She gave you a side hug as she just studied you, unreadable expression in place.

“Good to see you,” she said, and it landed somewhere between a compliment and a challenge.

“Yeah,” you replied. “You too.”

There was a brief silence, the kind that never felt comfortable with her.

“We want to take you to dinner,” Penny cut in, trying to ease the moment. “Nothing fancy, just something casual. The kids are starving, and we figured it would be nice. No pressure.”

“Sure,” you said, even though your head was already spinning.

Dinner ended up being a loud Italian place not far from campus. It was the kind of place that served garlic knots by the basket and played old Dean Martin songs a little too loud over the speakers. Gigi insisted on sitting next to you and Derek spent most of the meal showing you clips from his last middle school tournament, pausing every few seconds to point out some assist or block.

You loved them. God, you loved them. But it was hard not to notice how different everything felt.

Penny cut Gigi’s spaghetti for her without being asked. Diana let Derek talk without interrupting, even when he got a stat wrong or rambled for too long. They were patient. Warm. Effortlessly encouraging.

When you were eight, Diana had made you run suicides in the driveway because you missed too many layups in a rec league game. When you were twelve, she’d given you film to watch during winter break and quizzed you on your footwork mid-dinner. When you were their age, she didn’t coddle. She didn’t laugh at your jokes unless they were smart. She didn’t let you cry unless it was in the locker room and even then, only once.

So yeah, watching her now - soft and domestic and kind in ways you didn’t grow up with, it did something strange to you. It made your food taste blander, your chest feel tighter. Made your head buzz with memories you’d tried to file away under “character-building.”

“You’re quiet,” Penny said softly, midway through the meal. “Everything okay?”

You nodded quickly. Too quickly. “Yeah. Just tired. Practice went long.”

Diana didn’t say anything, but you could feel her watching you.

And then she said, “Heard Utah’s been hot this season. Ranked top ten in fan votes.”

The comment wasn’t loaded, not technically. But with her, it always felt like there was something underneath.

You shrugged. “We’ve been watching film. We’re ready.”

“I hope so,” she replied. “Big crowd. Big moment.”

You smiled tightly, swallowing back the urge to say, I know. You don’t have to remind me.

The rest of the dinner passed in a blur - laughter from the kids, Penny’s calm presence anchoring everything, Diana occasionally offering commentary about the league or asking a pointed question about your rotations. You went through the motions. Said the right things. Made Gigi giggle. Gave Derek a few high-fives.

But all you could think about was how this was supposed to be a good thing.

And yet it felt like the walls were closing in.

You loved your family. You really did. But loving them didn’t make it easy. Not when every moment felt like a test you couldn’t afford to fail.

--

TWO DAYS UNTIL UTAH

The gym felt colder than usual that morning. It might’ve been the AC or the way the windows didn’t let in as much light during December, but something about the air felt heavier - like it was pressing against your skin instead of surrounding you. You laced up your shoes slower than usual, your fingers fumbling more than once on the second knot, but you didn’t say anything. No one did.

Everyone was in their own rhythm. Some girls were already warming up on the far court, others stretching in quiet pairs. You ran through your dynamic warm-up like muscle memory, but your thoughts were scattered, caught in a loop that you couldn’t seem to cut through. Your feet moved, your arms swung, but your brain was replaying film, comments, dinner conversations, old memories from Phoenix, like your entire life before USC had decided to come watch this one game. One game. And it had to be perfect.

The pressure wasn’t new. You’d grown up with it, worn it like a second jersey since you were a kid. But lately, it had felt different. Sharper. Not just something to rise to, but something you were afraid might crush you if you weren’t careful.

Practice started the way it always did - shooting drills, a few conditioning bursts, then walkthroughs. You were focused, or at least trying to be, and no one said anything about how quiet you were. Maybe they were used to it by now. Maybe they just assumed it was part of your process. But you could feel it bubbling under your skin, that pressure, that buzzing nervous energy that had been following you around since last night. Since you saw your little brother’s excited face and Diana’s unreadable expression.

By the time scrimmage started, your jaw was already tight from clenching it. You took the court without saying much, nodded at Juju as you settled into your spot on the wing, and locked in, or at least, tried to.

The first few minutes were clean. Crisp ball movement, smart reads, a couple of nice buckets. You even hit a pull-up three that made Coach shout “nice shot!” from the sideline, but it barely registered. Because all you could think was, That won’t matter if we lose on Saturday. That won’t matter if I mess up in front of them.

And then, halfway through the scrimmage, it happened.

One of your teammates - a freshman guard - misread a switch on defense. It wasn’t catastrophic. A miscommunication at most. The kind of mistake that happened all the time in practice and usually led to a quick reset or a calm pointer from Coach. But in that moment, something snapped.

“Are you serious?” you barked, turning around sharply. “You have to see that switch. That’s a wide-open three because you weren’t paying attention.”

The gym went quiet for a beat, just the echo of the ball bouncing once before someone caught it. The freshman blinked, clearly startled, opening her mouth to explain but you didn’t give her the chance.

“You want to win a natty or what?” Your voice rose, sharp and clipped. “Because this game, this game against Utah - this is the one. You think we’re gonna walk into March and magically pull it together if we can’t even run a clean switch on a Wednesday? This is the kind of thing that costs you a season. One mistake. One possession.”

Your chest was heaving, your hands clenched into fists at your sides. The whole team was staring at you, no one saying anything. A couple girls looked down at their shoes. One of the seniors shifted uncomfortably. And in the silence, the weight of your outburst settled in like dust—too quiet, too much.

Coach finally spoke, voice even but laced with something cautious. “Alright. Take a second. Everybody reset.”

You didn’t move.

Coach looked at you. “You okay?”

You nodded too quickly. “I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“I said I’m fine.” You reached for the ball and passed it to the nearest teammate, too forcefully.

Everyone got back into position, but the energy had shifted. Nobody was moving the same way. The pace was slower, tighter. Like everyone was suddenly aware of being watched. Like the trust had cracked and hadn’t fully sealed over yet.

Only Juju stayed near you.

She didn’t say anything at first, just stood by your side at the wing during the next possession, eyes flicking between you and the floor like she was working something out in her head. When the ball stopped again, she leaned in a little, keeping her voice low so only you could hear.

“Hey,” she said gently. “I know you’re trying to carry all of it, but you don’t have to.”

You didn’t look at her.

She tried again. “You’re not alone out here. You never were.”

You forced a smile. “I’m just locked in. That’s all.”

“You’re not locked in,” she said, still soft, still careful. “You’re spinning out.”

You exhaled sharply through your nose, trying to laugh it off. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“I’m serious,” she said. “You’re not sleeping. You’re barely talking to anyone. And now you’re yelling at freshmen over one blown coverage?”

“I’m not yelling.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Alright.”

You shook your head, trying to make a joke out of it. “Maybe I’m just trying to be more like Coach Taurasi. Gotta keep the legacy alive.”

But Juju didn’t laugh.

She didn’t say anything else either, just kept looking at you like she was trying to see straight through you. And that somehow - this was worse. Because it felt like she could see through you, like all the walls and deflections weren’t enough to cover up how much pressure you were under, how badly you wanted this game to go right, how terrified you were of failing in front of your family. Especially Diana.

It was too much.

“Can you just...” you started, then stopped, then looked at her with more bite than you meant to. “Can you worry about yourself, Ju? I said I’m fine.”

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t snap back. Didn’t look hurt.

Just nodded once, eyes steady. “Okay.”

And that quiet, calm okay cut deeper than anything else could have. Because she believed you weren’t fine - but she was still giving you space. Still showing up, even when you pushed her away.

You turned back toward the scrimmage, swallowing the lump in your throat, the sting behind your eyes.

Because the truth was, you weren’t fine.

You were unraveling. And you weren’t sure how much longer you could pretend otherwise.

--

ONE DAY UNTIL THE UTAH GAME

Something feels off.

Not in a way you can name. Not in a way you can show. Your jumper still looks clean. You’re getting to your spots. You’re locked in during film. No one would guess anything’s wrong just by looking at you.

But you know.

It’s not nerves exactly. Not excitement either. It’s something heavier. Something slower. Like a low drumbeat under your skin that doesn’t stop. Like everything is a half-second behind even though you’re trying to stay ahead of it.

USC is undefeated. That should settle you. Should make you feel strong, confident. You’re part of something real heading into the last game before winter break. The Galen Center’s gonna be packed tonight. National attention. Ranked game. Everyone’s watching.

You don’t have room to miss tonight. Not after what you told her back in August - If I choose USC, I’ll give you 110%. Every damn game.

It wasn’t just a promise. It was a declaration. A challenge.

So no, you can’t lose. Not in front of her. Not when she’s watching like she used to - analyzing everything. Every decision. Every step. Every second you have the ball in your hands.

It’s not just a game anymore. It’s a test. And you're the one who wrote the syllabus.

You wipe your palms on your shorts, try to ignore the way your breath keeps catching in your throat like it's climbing over something just to get out. It’s not like you can talk about it. Not really.

Not to Coach. Not to the trainers. Not even to your teammates. Because everything on the outside looks fine. Better than fine. You’re averaging double figures. Your minutes are solid. Your defense has improved. You’re getting praise from analysts who used to call you overhyped.

But Penny called last night. Said Diana was watching film. Not just a game. Your game. Said she had notes.

And you knew what that meant.

She’s always done that. She rewatches your performances like they’re case studies. Breaks them down on the phone with military precision. No fluff. No sugar. Just cold, clean basketball logic.

You’ve learned to take it. Learned to breathe through it. But it still hits.

Because she doesn’t ask how you’re feeling. She asks why you missed the read on that backdoor cut. Why you pulled up into a double team. Why your closeout was slow by half a beat. She doesn’t mean it cruelly. That’s just how she loves you. She corrects.

And you love her for it. You do.

But tonight, you’re tired.

Not the kind of tired a nap will fix. The kind that settles in your bones and makes everything feel just a little too loud. The kind that makes your chest tighten when you think about her sitting there, watching with her arms crossed, judging whether or not her legacy was wasted on you.

Because nobody says it outright - but it’s always there.

She’s good. But is she Diana good?

You’ve spent your whole life hearing that question in one form or another. And tonight, you’re scared of the answer.

Juju catches your eye from across the gym. Just a look - subtle, knowing.

She sees you. And maybe that’s what makes your skin feel too tight.

Because Juju’s the type to smile through the chaos. To play free. To let the game come to her like it’s a gift. And you? You’re trying to outrun something invisible. Something that sounds like don’t mess this up. Something that feels like you have to be perfect or what was the point of choosing this?

You think about how Diana will be sitting courtside. You think about the promise you made. And you think about what happens if you come up short.

Juju tosses you a ball. “Wanna run through some sets?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

She doesn’t press. Doesn’t say what she’s probably thinking. But she doesn’t need to. You know she sees it. The stiffness in your shoulders. The way you’ve been chewing the inside of your cheek since this morning. The way your voice got quiet when Coach brought up the game plan for Utah’s zone press.

You’re here. You’re focused. You’re fine.

But she knows the difference between your game face and your real face. And right now, you’re wearing the wrong one.

Still, you run the sets. You make your reads. You talk through the actions. You do everything right.

But something in you is clenched. And you don’t know how to let go.

The sun’s starting to dip outside Galen by the time y’all finish running through sets again. The gym lights stay humming above, buzzing faintly like always. You can hear the faint bounce of a stray ball in the far corner, the shuffle of sneakers from some of the younger girls staying after, but mostly it’s just you and Juju now.

And she’s still watching you. Quietly. Like she’s waiting.

You wipe your face with the bottom of your shirt and grab your water bottle. It’s half-warm, the kind that’s been sitting on the sideline too long. You drink anyway.

“Hey,” Juju says eventually, walking over. Not loud. Just enough.

You glance at her, try to play it easy. “Hey.”

She studies you for a second. Her arms are crossed, one wrist lightly taped from something earlier this week. “You good?”

It’s simple, the way she says it. No edge. No accusation. Just a check-in. Not like you had a freak out yesterday.

You nod. “Yeah.”

She gives you a look that’s all eyebrow, skeptical and soft at once. “You sure?”

“Yeah.” You tack on a grin, crooked and automatic. “Why, you worried about me?”

That gets the smallest snort from her, but she doesn’t drop it. “Nah, I just know when someone’s about to play like they got cinderblocks on their shoes.”

You laugh lightly, trying to shove off the weight of that comment. “That your subtle way of saying I’ve been dragging ass?”

She steps a little closer. Not in a threatening way - Juju's never threatening. She’s just… grounded. Present. “No, it’s my way of saying I’ve been where you are. And it sucks when no one calls it out.”

You look down at your shoes. Scuffed just enough to prove you’ve been working. You press your lips together and shake your head like you're just shaking off sweat. “I’m good, Ju. I promise.”

Juju stays there. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

You know she’s not going anywhere. And something about that makes your skin feel too tight.

“I mean,” you add, trying again, this time with a little more bounce, “we’re undefeated. We’re at home. You’re about to drop twenty-five on Utah’s heads. My family’s here. What could I possibly be stressed about?”

“Stop,” Juju says, but it’s not harsh. It’s soft, almost like she’s telling you to breathe. “You don’t have to do that with me.”

“Do what?”

“That.” She gestures vaguely, hands loose at her sides. “The joking thing. The ‘I’m chill, everything’s fine, I got it’ act. You don’t gotta be Diana 2.0 with me.”

And there it is.

The one thing she wasn’t supposed to say out loud.

You freeze for a beat, something hot flashing in your chest before you even have the words. It’s not her fault. You know that. She doesn’t mean anything by it. But your whole body tenses anyway.

“I’m not doing an act,” you say.

Juju raises both palms. “Okay.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

Your jaw tightens. You don't know why it lands like that. The pressure behind your ribs flares up, sharp and restless.

You pace a little, not even really realizing you are. “I just... look, it’s not that deep. I’ve had a long week. Everyone’s hyped about Utah and I get it, but like… I’m not falling apart or anything. It’s one game.”

Juju watches you closely. Calm. Collected. Still not buying a damn thing.

You sigh through your nose, trying to laugh again. “You really don’t let shit go, huh?”

“Not when I care about it.”

That line lands too hard. You feel it in your teeth.

You turn back to her. “Ju, I’m fine. Seriously.” And then, quieter: “You don’t need to worry about me.”

She tilts her head. “Too late.”

There’s this moment, just a beat of stillness, and it feels like something might break if either of you move.

You snap first.

“Just worry about yourself, Juju,” you say, voice sharp - sharper than you mean it, but you don’t stop it either. “I’m fine, alright? Just drop it.”

It echoes louder in the gym than it should.

A few heads turn from across the court, curious but not too interested. You immediately regret raising your voice, but you’re too far in now.

Juju just blinks once. Then nods. Not upset. Not hurt.

She takes it in like she expected it. Like she understands.

“Okay,” she says softly. “Okay.”

You exhale hard, like you’re trying to burn it off.

But it doesn’t leave you. It just simmers in your chest, guilt and heat tangled up like a knot. She doesn’t walk away. She just picks up her ball and starts dribbling slowly toward the sideline.

And you watch her, feeling every inch of your tension suddenly coil tighter instead of loosening.

Because the thing is - she wasn’t wrong.

You are off. You are feeling it more than you want to admit. And she was trying to help.

But the idea of letting someone help you right now? Of admitting out loud that you’re not okay, that all the weight in your chest is actually starting to mess with your game, that you’re scared of failing in front of the entire country, in front of your family?

It feels impossible.

You sit down at the end of the bench, elbows on your knees, trying to find a breath that feels deep enough. But they all feel shallow.

Juju bounces the ball behind her back. Shoots a lazy three. Swish.

She doesn’t look at you again. Not out of spite.

Just giving you the space you think you want.

And for some reason, that makes your throat burn worse than anything else.

--

The locker room smells like sweat and eucalyptus muscle rub, that familiar post-practice haze hanging thick in the air. You’re not there - you left early, a quick muttered excuse to Coach about needing to ice your knee, even though both of you knew that wasn’t the real reason. The tension had gotten too thick, your voice too thin, and something in you had started to splinter at the edges. So you left. Grabbed your bag and ducked out before anyone could stop you.

But the rest of the team stayed. Some hit the showers, others sprawled out across the benches, still in their socks and compression sleeves. The mood is lighter now, the way it always gets after the grind is over and endorphins start to do their job. Someone’s playing music low from a phone speaker. A couple girls are teasing each other about missed layups and tangled ponytails. Laughing. Loose.

Until the topic shifts.

“Yo, was she okay today?” Kennedy asks, only half-innocent, towel draped over her shoulder. “She looked like she was gonna pop a blood vessel when Coach brought up Utah’s press.”

“She did pop a blood vessel,” Bree snorts, unlacing her sneakers. “Swear I saw it happen. One second she’s normal, the next she’s barking like Coach took her scholarship or something.”

There’s laughter. Loud, harmless in tone, but sharp if you’re listening close enough.

And Juju is listening.

She’s sitting on the bench across from them, quiet, towel around her neck, earbuds looped around her collarbone but not in her ears. She hasn’t said anything yet. Not since practice ended. Not since you left.

“I mean, I get it,” Kennedy continues, like she’s just filling air. “Pressure’s getting to her or whatever. But damn. Girl’s unraveling like an cheap sweater.”

That one gets a laugh too. Juju doesn’t join in.

Instead, something flickers behind her eyes. Not anger - not yet. Just… awareness. A tension drawing up the line of her spine.

“She’s not unraveling,” she says finally, and it’s quiet, but not uncertain.

The room softens a little, like it knows that voice. Juju doesn’t raise it often, but when she does, people listen.

Bree blinks. “I mean, she kinda is.”

“She’s had a bad week,” Juju replies, evenly. “That doesn’t mean she’s falling apart.”

“Okay, but you gotta admit-”

“No,” Juju cuts in, sharper this time. “I don’t have to admit anything.”

Now there’s a shift. Bare legs go still. Water bottles pause mid-sip. Kennedy quirks a brow, not defensive yet, just surprised. Juju almost never pushes back like this.

“She didn’t yell because she’s some ticking time bomb,” Juju says, standing now, towel forgotten on the bench. “She yelled because she’s under pressure and no one’s really been checking on her for real. And yeah, it wasn’t cool. But it also wasn’t some unforgivable thing. Y’all are acting like she spit on the Trojan logo.”

There’s a beat of silence, awkward and heavy.

“I’m just saying,” Bree offers, slower now, “it’s not that deep. We’re just talking.”

Juju crosses her arms. “Then maybe talk like teammates, not commentators. This isn’t some Twitter thread. That girl shows up to every practice, every lift, every film session. She works her ass off. She’s not out here slacking or starting fights or acting like she’s better than anyone.”

“She yelled at you, though,” Naya points out, voice more tentative now. “Aren’t you, like… mad?”

Juju shakes her head, jaw tight. “No. Because I know it wasn’t really about me and because I’m not gonna sit here and clown someone who’s clearly struggling just because it’s easier than asking what’s wrong.”

That one lands. Hard.

A few girls drop their gazes, suddenly busy with shoelaces or their phones.

Kennedy tries to lighten it again, maybe to save face. “Damn, Ju. Didn’t know you were out here defending her honor like that.”

Bree smirks. “Lowkey romantic.”

“Shut up,” Juju mutters, but it’s too late.

The comments spiral just a little. All in good fun, or so they claim.

“Is this, like, a thing?” someone teases.

“She yours now?”

“Gotta admit, the tension was kinda sexy-”

Juju doesn’t respond.

Because in the space between those jokes, something cold and startling is creeping up her spine. A realization. One she’s tried to ignore all week. Maybe longer.

She’s not just mad at them for the way they talked about you. She’s mad because it made her want to protect you.

And not in the team captain, ride-or-die, squad-unity kind of way.

It’s… softer than that. And messier. The kind of thing she doesn’t let herself feel, especially not about you. You, with your sharp game face and the way you never ask for help. You, who sniped at her like she was the problem. You, who left the gym with your shoulders drawn tight like a bowstring.

You, who she hasn’t been able to stop thinking about.

Not since the second you looked at her like she’d seen too much.

She swallows hard, pushing that thought deep down into her chest like it doesn’t matter. Like it’s not new and terrifying.

“Nah,” she says finally, forcing a smirk as she grabs her slides. “Y’all are stupid. I’m just not cool with teammates talking shit, that’s all.”

“Mm-hm,” Bree hums, unconvinced but willing to let it go.

Juju heads toward the showers, but the air feels heavier now, like the room shifted in a way no one wants to acknowledge.

She keeps walking, jaw tight, heart pounding against her ribs like it’s begging her to admit something. Something she’s not ready for.

She’s not in love with you. She’s not.

She just cares. She just… sees you. That’s all.

But the echo of your voice, the way it cracked when you told her to drop it, the way you couldn’t look her in the eye, it sticks. And she knows.

If she keeps caring like this, she’s going to have to deal with what that means.

But not tonight.

Tonight, she lets the water run hot over her face until the locker room clears, and she doesn't let herself think about the way she wanted to reach for you and say something she’s never said out loud.

Not yet.

--

GAME DAY

You wake up on game day before your alarm even has a chance to buzz. It's not nerves, exactly. It’s something else, something heavier. You lie there for a while, staring up at the ceiling of your dorm, sheets kicked down past your ankles, that pressure sitting on your chest like it's been waiting all night to smother you.

It’s the Utah game. Big one. Eyes-on-it kind of big.

Your phone lights up with team messages. Graphics with your faces. Hype videos. “Let’s eat today.” “Showtime.” You double-tap a few, type a half-hearted Let’s gooo, and toss the phone to the side.

No one knows how close you are to losing it.

You’ve been spiraling all week. You know it. The outburst in practice, the early exits, the way you’ve been tiptoeing around Juju like something broke and neither of you knows how to fix it. But today isn’t about that.

Today is about pretending.

You pull on your uniform like armor. Tape your wrists tighter than usual, like it'll keep the insides from leaking out. You tell yourself you’ll be the version of you that everybody expects - the one on all the posters, with the clean stat lines and the smart passes. The leader. The jokester. The one who flips the switch and makes magic happen under pressure.

The cameras are already around by the time you walk into the arena. The lighting’s too bright. The buzz in the gym is loud, even with just warmups going. Your team trickles into the locker room, talking fast, energy vibrating off the walls.

You walk in with a grin pasted on.

“You ladies ready to go viral?” you crack, winking at one of the freshmen.

They laugh. It’s easy. Too easy.

Coach says a few words, gives the scouting recap, says Utah’s going to press early, play hard, try to get in our heads. No surprise. You nod along like you’re locked in. You can feel Juju watching you from the opposite bench. You haven’t really spoken to her since practice. Not about it, anyway.

But you feel her eyes like heat on your cheek. You don’t look.

When Coach asks if anyone has anything to say, everyone turns to you. Like they always do.

You stand. Blow out a breath. Clap your hands.

“Alight, listen up.” You shift your weight from one foot to the other, exaggerating your usual bravado. “They’ve been talking about this game all damn week. About how Utah’s supposed to have this ‘elite defense’ and how they’re gonna take us out at home. But they forgot one thing.”

You pause for dramatic effect, raising your brows. “We’re them.”

The girls laugh, a couple whistles. You keep going.

“Every single person in this room earned their spot. They don’t hand out these jerseys. They don’t give us cameras because we’re cute, they give us cameras cause we can hoop.”

More nods. More little hums of agreement. You’re working them now.

“So I don’t care who they got on that bench. I don’t care how loud their fans are. I don’t care if I gotta put my body on the line - if we all do this together, they’re not walking out of here with a win.”

You finish with a loud clap, a bark of “LET’S GO” that echoes off the walls.

It works. They erupt, bumping shoulders, hyping each other up. And when you sit back down, you smile like your heart isn’t pounding out of rhythm in your chest.

Juju’s still looking at you.

You give her a crooked grin and say, “Don’t worry. I got my head on straight.”

But that’s a lie.

Because the second the game tips off, you realize how off you feel.

Your legs feel heavy. Like running through sand. The timing’s just… wrong. You’re late on rotations. You’re rushing passes. You hesitate on open shots, second-guessing yourself when you usually play by instinct.

Juju gives you that look, that small, subtle “you good?” glance after a clumsy turnover in the second quarter. You nod too fast.

She doesn't believe you.

And the rhythm between you, the one that’s usually automatic, starts to crack. Passes come a second too late. Cuts are missed. On a backdoor play you’ve run together a hundred times, you pull up when she expects you to drive. The ball bounces out of bounds.

You hear the crowd murmur. The announcers probably already crafting the narrative.

You, unraveling. The second coming of Taurasi, unraveling under real pressure?

Utah plays rough. They’re built for that. Physical and fast and annoying as hell. You get bumped more than usual, slapped across the arm, tugged off balance. But you don’t complain. You play through it. Until you stop playing smart.

You go for a charge when you shouldn’t. Reach in when you’re already off-balance. You start playing angry, and that’s not your game. That’s never been your game.

Fourth quarter. Four minutes left. Tight score.

You're chasing a Utah guard on a drive - number twelve, the one who’s been talking shit all game. You try to body her up, but you’re off-angle. You go high when you should’ve gone low. Your elbow flies. There’s contact.

And then there’s the crack.

It’s not bone, not anything serious - at least, not in the way it should be. It’s the crunch of cartilage and pressure, the sudden burn in your nose, and then the warmth. That kind of warmth that only means one thing. It drips before you can process it. A fat, wet drop splashes onto your jersey, right over your number. Then another. And another.

You're bleeding.

“Ref,” someone yells. It might be Juju. It might be the Utah bench. You’re not sure because the ringing in your ears has started.

You blink. Blood trickles from your nose down your lip, catches on the corner of your mouth. You wipe it with the back of your hand, smear it across your face and onto your sleeve. You don’t even realize it until a teammate grabs you - Kiki, maybe and says something about a sub, about getting looked at, about, “You’re bleeding, you’re bleeding.”

You shake your head. You wave them off.

“I’m fine,” you say. Your voice is hoarse and too loud. “I’m fine.”

You're not.

You're dizzy. You can feel the heartbeat in your nose, like a drumbeat behind your eyes. The blood keeps coming. The official calls for a trainer. You try to brush it off, plead with the coach, but she’s already signaling to the bench. Juju’s up before you can say anything.

And then there’s chaos.

You're walking off, jaw clenched, still trying to convince yourself this isn’t a big deal - that it’s just a nosebleed, not the end of the world. But you see Juju stop mid-play, pivot toward number twelve and let her have it. You don’t hear every word, but her tone cuts through everything else - sharp, furious.

“That’s how you play? That’s who you are?” she snaps, and the ref gets between them before it escalates.

The crowd is roaring. The Utah player is yelling back. Juju is still barking. It’s loud and hot and frantic and suddenly you feel like you can’t breathe.

You slump down on the bench, and someone tosses you a towel. You press it hard against your face, not gently - rough, punishing, like maybe you can make it all go away if you press hard enough. You don’t want to cry. You won’t cry. But your vision is already blurry. Your throat is tight. You’re swallowing fast and hard, like that’ll keep everything inside.

The trainer says something, but you don't completely register it.

“You need stitches.”

“I said I’m fine.”

You’re watching Juju argue from the sidelines, watching her swing on defense and hustle for the ball and throw you these quick, panicked glances like she wants to come to you, but she won’t let herself. You want to meet her halfway. You want to be okay. But you’re not.

You’re spiraling.

The game presses on. You keep the towel pressed to your face. You nod at the coaches like you’re paying attention but you're not absorbing anything. Every time your eyes flick up to the scoreboard, your stomach drops. Two minutes. Then one. You're still on the bench. Blood on your shorts. Blood in your mouth.

The buzzer sounds.

Final score: Utah 84. You: 82.

You don't even remember the last play.

The crowd erupts for them. Cheers and celebration and Utah players rushing the court. Confetti falls. Cameras flash. You sit on the bench like a statue, still holding the blood-soaked towel to your nose, which has finally stopped bleeding but somehow still aches.

It hits you all at once.

You lost.

Because of you.

You should’ve played through it. You should’ve insisted harder. You should’ve been smarter - lower on defense, tighter with your arms, better with your body. You should’ve never let her get the drive. Never let her get in your head.

You start to tremble.

Your chest seizes. Your throat closes. Your vision blurs, not from blood this time but from the tears that you’ve been holding back for what feels like the entire game, the entire week, the entire season. Maybe your entire life. You don’t blink. If you blink, they’ll fall. If they fall, it’s over.

You stand. Your legs are wobbly, but you start walking away from the bench, away from your team, away from the noise and the lights and the confusion. You don’t know where you’re going, only that you need to move. If you stay, you’re going to lose it in front of everyone. And that can’t happen. Not again.

Down the tunnel.

Past the locker room.

Into the first empty hallway you can find.

You press your back to the cold cement wall and let yourself slide down it until you’re sitting, knees to your chest. You bury your face in your hands - still sticky with blood, you can smell it and that’s when it happens.

The unraveling.

It starts with the shaking. Your hands first, then your arms, then your whole body. You can’t stop it. Your breath comes in short, shallow gasps. You try to take a deep one, but it catches halfway, turns into a sob. You bite your fist. You try to muffle the sound. It’s no use.

Your heart is pounding like it’s trying to break through your chest. You’re sweating but freezing. Your ears ring, and your vision dims at the edges.

This is your fault.

You let a nosebleed ruin the game.

You let your team down.

You let yourself down.

You’re the reason they lost.

You’re the reason the cameras caught Juju yelling and Diana losing her mind and the entire game spinning out like a car on black ice.

You press your head to your knees and try to disappear. You want to crawl out of your skin. You want to rewind time. You want to vanish. You want to scream. All of it. Everything. All at once.

It’s not just about this game.

It’s about every game. Every practice. Every comment.

Every moment this week where you haven’t felt good enough. Haven’t felt like you. You’ve been pretending - acting like you're fine, like you're focused, like you belong. But the cracks are showing now. You're not holding it together anymore.

What if this was a mistake? What if everyone was right - you are just Diana 2.0, that’s all you are. That's all you’ll ever be. You should’ve just listened to Diana, went to UConn. Did you really think you’d ever be something outside of the Taurasi name?

You're spiraling.

You try to count your breaths.

One. Two. Three. Four.

It doesn’t help.

The floor feels like it’s spinning underneath you. The hallway is too quiet. You can hear the echo of your breath and the shaking in your limbs and the sob that rips out of your throat when you finally give up trying to hold it in.

You feel pathetic.

You feel like a failure.

You feel like if you sit here long enough, maybe no one will find you. Maybe they’ll forget you. Maybe that’s easier than facing what just happened.

But then, faintly, you hear footsteps.

Voices.

Someone’s calling your name.

You flinch.

You pull your hoodie over your head, press your back harder against the wall, as if it’ll swallow you whole. You’re not ready to be seen. You’re not ready for Juju or Diana or the coaches or anyone. You’re not ready for the sympathy or the disappointment or the “you did your best” lies.

You just want to be alone.

So you stay still.

You close your eyes.

You let the world keep spinning without you, heart still thudding in your ears, chest still caving in on itself, and for the first time in a long time - you let yourself fall apart completely, completely unravel.

The second Juju turns that corner and sees you - crumpled on the floor, hoodie over your head, body shaking like a leaf in the wind - something inside her breaks. This wasn’t the girl she knew back in October, in the beginning of the season.

She doesn’t think. She moves.

She drops to her knees beside you like gravity pulled her there, like the weight of how much she cares knocked her flat. And she doesn’t even hesitate - doesn’t ask, doesn’t pause, just reaches for you, arms open and steady.

“Hey,” she whispers, soft and warm and everything you need. “Hey, I got you. I got you, okay?”

At first, you flinch. Like you think you’re not allowed to be touched right now. Like you think you're not deserving of comfort. But Juju doesn’t pull back. She stays there, solid as ever even when you shake your head, even when you try to apologize through the tears that won’t stop.

“No,” she says, her voice firmer this time. “No, it’s not your fault.”

She says it again.

And again.

Until she feels your fists uncurl just a little.

Until your head drops against her shoulder.

Until your breath starts to hitch instead of sob.

“You didn’t lose that game,” she tells you, pressing her cheek to the side of your head. “A nosebleed didn’t lose that game. We win as a team, we lose as a team. That’s the deal. You don’t carry this alone.”

Your hands are clutching the front of her jersey like it’s the only thing tethering you to the world.

Juju tightens her arms around you. Keeps you there. Keeps talking, soft and steady, because she knows if she stops, you'll spiral again.

“Your mom doesn’t hate you,” she murmurs. “Diana is probably tearing the refs a new one right now, not thinking for a second that this was on you. She’s your mom. She loves you. She just... she gets intense. You know that. But you didn’t let her down. You didn’t let anyone down.”

You’re shaking again. She holds you closer.

“And USC doesn’t hate you,” she says, more fiercely now. “They love you. We love you. No one’s looking at you thinking, ‘wow, she blew it.’ We’re thinking you gave everything until your face bled and you still wanted to play. You never quit. That’s what we see. That’s what I see.”

Your breath stutters. Slows. Not normal yet, not easy but enough that Juju can feel your weight starting to shift, starting to relax into her.

And God - Juju doesn’t even realize how tightly her chest has been wound until this moment. Until you melt against her like you're finally letting go. Like all month you’ve been carrying this pressure, this legacy, this image you think you have to live up to, and now - finally, it slips a little. You let her take some of it. You let yourself be held.

And Juju’s heart? It soars.

She strokes your back, slow and rhythmic, grounding you with each pass of her hand.

Because you’re not just Diana Taurasi’s daughter, and you’re not just some phenom dropped into the starting lineup with too many expectations stitched into the seams of your jersey.

You’re you.

The girl who wears her headphones too loud and eats all the hot fries before anyone else can get to them. The one who texts Juju memes at 2 a.m. even when they’re rooming two doors down. The one who overanalyzes film and underestimates herself, despite the overconfident exterior she tries to uphold.

You’re not trying to take Juju’s spot.

You’re just trying to survive it all.

And for the first time - she sees it.

Not the image. Not the pressure. Not the competition.

You.

You, with your bleeding nose and your bloodshot eyes and your whole heart on your sleeve.

You, who are still so soft under all that armor.

You, who let yourself fall apart in front of her and maybe that’s the most honest thing you’ve done all month.

Juju holds you like she means it. Because she does.

She presses her forehead gently to yours and lets the silence stretch, warm and safe.

You’re not saying anything now. You’re too tired to think, too wrung out to speak. But you’re still here. You haven’t pulled away.

You’re not some perfect little legacy player sent to outshine her. And Juju - well, she wants to protect you.

Not because you’re weak. But because you're finally letting someone in. And because she knows what it’s like to try and be everything for everyone and still feel like it's never enough.

So she stays.

She holds you like the world isn’t spinning, like this hallway is the only place that matters.

And even when your breathing evens out and your body stops trembling and your death grip on her jersey loosens, she still doesn’t let go.

Because for the first time all month, you’re letting her carry some of it.

And Juju’s not going to drop you.

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if ur a terf unfollow me and know that i hate you

and if I start viciously sobbing🧍🏾‍♀️🤸🏾‍♀️

you’re fucking disgusting and nobody likes you

Whomp whomp, stfu Bre. You're so fucking pathetic it's almost sad. I don't feel bad for you at all. You lost your friends because you couldn't shut the fuck up and take criticism. You pulled them into your bullshit and now you're all alone.

---

…so no head?

God tier head😚💖