+Na Jaemin sports / thriller AU+
WARNING// violence, abduction, cursing, cheating, murder, mentions of blood, weapons, blades
please don't read if you are sensitive to any of these things.
it's kinda istj mv core i fear
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The smell of breakfast filled the kitchen, a comforting mix of coffee, sizzling butter, and something vaguely burnt. Johnny stood by the stove, flipping pancakes with exaggerated finesse, his stance like that of a seasoned chef. "Ladies and gentlemen," he announced to no one in particular, "prepare yourselves for the fluffiest pancakes you've ever tasted."
Victoria, leaning against the counter with her arms crossed and her sharp pink nails tapping an impatient rhythm, raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "Do you have to make a show out of it? You're not Gordon Ramsay, John. Just flip the pancake and move on."
Johnny turned dramatically, the spatula poised midair like a weapon of mass pancake destruction. "Excuse me, chef Suh, but this pancake artistry takes skill. Would you prefer burnt hockey pucks? Because that's the alternative."
Victoria rolled her eyes, grabbing the orange juice carton from the counter and pouring herself a glass. "Honestly, the fact that you think you're an artist is what concerns me. It's like watching someone try to paint with their elbows."
Andrea, seated quietly at the table, glanced up from her plate with a soft smile. The back-and-forth between Johnny and Victoria had a magnetic pull—it was effortless, the kind of teasing that came with years of knowing exactly how far you could push someone before it tipped into irritation. She let out a light laugh as Johnny clutched his chest theatrically, as if Victoria's words had physically wounded him.
"You wound me, dear sister. My craft!" Johnny cried, flipping another pancake with a flourish and spinning the spatula like a baton. The pancake landed perfectly in the pan, earning a triumphant grin from Johnny. "Did you see that? Artistry in motion."
"Oh, please," Victoria snorted, taking a sip of her juice. "Your 'artistry' is embarrassing. I'm cringing just standing here."
Johnny narrowed his eyes in mock offense, pointing the spatula at her like it was a sword. "You're just mad because you can't cook to save your life, little miss can't-boil-water. Let's not forget that time you almost set fire to the toaster."
Victoria shot him a playful glare. "That was one time! And I told you, it wasn't my fault the bread was defective."
"Right," Johnny said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Defective bread. What a tragedy."
Andrea couldn't help but laugh, the sound bubbling up before she could stop it. The sibling banter was infectious, pulling her into its orbit. Victoria, still glaring at Johnny, turned and grabbed a grape from the fruit bowl, tossing it with expert precision. It hit Johnny's shoulder, bouncing off harmlessly.
Johnny laughed triumphantly, spinning around to add the finishing touches to the pancake stack. "You call that a throw? Try again, Grapes McGee."
"Keep talking and next time it'll be an orange," Victoria retorted, though the grin tugging at the corners of her lips betrayed her amusement.
Andrea's laughter mingled with theirs, but even as she joined in the lighthearted atmosphere, a faint heaviness settled in her chest. She watched the way Johnny and Victoria fell into this rhythm so easily—like it was second nature. The teasing, the playful jabs, the way they could fire insults without crossing any lines—it was a bond that came from years of trust and familiarity. Andrea's fork paused midair as her mind wandered.
