mrsha-ang-kim

[mrsha-ang-kim]

Hooked.

Crossfire: Chapter One (18+)

A/N: I have been so excited to get this idea out of my head and share it with you all! It's my first attempt at darker/violent story telling and I am having a lot of fun with it. This will be told through sections labeled as "NOW" which will be written in present tense, and "THEN" which will be written in past tense. Forgive me if I mess up sometimes. Word Count: 5.7k Genre: Crime, dark romance, angst, love triangle Warnings: Oral (m receiving), piv, fingering. A portion of this chapter's plot also revolves around an attempted sexual assault. [ fic master list ] [ my master list ]

Summary: You’ve loved Minho since the moment you met him. He's dangerous, untouchable and yours. You've been with him through it all—the blood, chaos, and the rise of SKZ. But when Chan comes back into your life, carrying the badge that could bring everything crashing down, you’re forced to face the question: who are you willing to sacrifice everything for?

Chapter One: Birthday Beginnings

NOW

If someone told your teenage self that one day you’d be waking up in a million-dollar home, you would have laughed in their face. Back then, survival was the only thing you thought about. How could you dream of marble countertops and a master suite when having a room of your own felt like too much to hope for?

And yet, here you are—propped up on one elbow in the spacious bedroom of said million-dollar home, gazing down at your handsome, sleeping boyfriend who made it all happen. His dark brown hair is a mess, mouth parted in sleep, while Soonie, one of your two cats, is curled up near his head.

You contemplate letting them both sleep a little longer, but today’s schedule simply won’t allow it. At least not for your boyfriend. Soonie, on the other hand, can (and does) do whatever the hell he wants. He needs nobody’s permission or approval.

“Minho,” you whisper, brushing back the strands of hair covering his forehead to place a soft kiss against it. “Wake up.”

He stirs under your touch and grumbles, “Ten more minutes.” 

You scoot closer, throwing an arm and leg around him and press your bare chest against his—neither of you having bothered to put clothes back on after last night.

Soonie cracks one eye open, glaring at you like you’ve just committed the gravest betrayal, before hopping to the floor with all the offended dignity only a cat can muster.

“We have a lot to do today,” you murmur.

“You have a lot to do today,” he corrects. “It’s my birthday.”

“True. Which is why I need you out of the way. And Changbin will be here any minute to pick you up.”

He mumbles something incoherent as he buries his face between your tits. The stir of his cock against your thigh is almost instant.

“Minho,” you warn half-heartedly, a smile tugging at your lips as he takes your nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it.

“It’s my birthday,” he repeats.

“That’s what you said last night,” you roll your eyes, but you’re still smiling. 

“I get at least 24 hours to use that in my favor,” he replies, switching to your other nipple.

“But the party planner—”

He cuts you off with a low growl, shifting on top of you. His weight presses you into the mattress as he straddles your hips. Straightening, he grips his hardening cock and strokes himself slowly. He tilts his head to the side and looks at you expectantly, as if he knows exactly how this will end.

And whatever he’s thinking is absolutely right.

Seeing him poised above you, touching himself, eyes burning into yours, is all it takes to make your pussy ache for him. The fact that even after all this time he still craves you so badly—and you him—never ceases to amaze you. You used to believe love couldn’t last. You were doubtful if it even existed at all. But then came Minho.

You slide down the bed until you're nestled between his legs, face level with his cock. You pucker your lips, eyes locked on his and he taps the tip of his cock against your lips.

“Tongue,” he prompts.

You stick your tongue out and he slaps his cock against it before holding it steady, letting you swirl your tongue around the tip. He groans, palming the back of your head with one hand. You gently suck the tip, hands gliding up his thighs to his chest, fingertips grazing the compass tattoo inked over his heart.

It’s sharp black lines mirror the smaller version etched on your wrist. A permanent reminder of the family you’d both chosen when blood ties had failed.

Sometimes it feels like a badge of loyalty. Other times, a chain you can’t shake.

His phone vibrates on the nightstand—Changbin, no doubt. But neither of you miss a beat. Minho wouldn’t dream of stopping now, and you live to please him.

“You want me to fuck this pretty mouth, don’t you?” he teases.

With your mouth full of his cock, you can only nod as he starts rolling his hips, pushing his cock deeper with each thrust. You keep your throat relaxed, moaning every time he brushes the back of it.

Moments later, a horn blares outside—two quick taps followed by a long one.

“Better be quick,” you say, pulling your mouth off him.

He plops down on the bed to lay on his back and pulls you on top of him in one fluid motion. You scramble into position as his hands clamp to your hips and slam you down on his cock.

Your head falls back with a groan.

“Make me come, then,” he grins, removing his hands from your hips to tuck them behind his head, smug as ever.

You plant your hands on his chest and start bouncing, fucking him hard and fast, just the way he likes it. His groans mix with yours as you lean down to kiss him, swallowing the sounds between your lips.

“Mmm, your cock feels so good in my pussy, baby,” you break the kiss to whisper in his ear.

He thrusts up hard enough to make you gasp. You shift on top of him, straightening to grind against him now. You moan, feeling his cock press against your walls with each back-and-forth motion as your clit slides over his skin.

“Fuck, y/n,” he groans, one hand cupping your tit, the other wrapping around your back. You lean back with his support, riding him in a slow grind and thrust combo that leaves you both breathless.

“Come inside me, Minho,” you whine, fingers tangling in his hair to tug his head back. “Please.”

Your plea lights a fire in his eyes. His grip tightens on your hips as he lifts you up and shoves you down onto his cock, again, and again until his body tenses. He grunts through his release, letting you ride him through it, hands still guiding you until he collapses against the pillows.

His phone vibrates again. 

He sighs, grabbing it without moving you off him. “Yeah, I’m fucking coming,” he barks into the receiver, making you giggle. “Give me fifteen minutes.”

He tosses the phone aside and taps your thigh lightly. You slide off him and he rolls out of the bed.

“I told you he’d be here soon,” you say matter-of-factly as you scoot to the edge of the bed.

He turns back, stopping you with a kiss before you can get up. His hand cups your pussy, pressing his palm against your clit as he slips two fingers inside.

“Minho,” you moan.

“Your turn.”

“You need to go.”

“I will, after.”

You exhale softly, letting your eyes flutter shut as he fucks you with his fingers. The wet slap of his hand and your breathy moans fill the room as he works you up to an orgasm in minutes. You clutch at his arm, digging your nails in and arching your back. You don’t resist the pleasure surging through you and come hard around his fingers. 

You collapse back, arms flung above your head, utterly spent. He peppers kisses across your cheek before pulling away.

“You have seven minutes now,” you manage to announce.

“I know, I know. I’ll shower at his place before we come back,” he says, disappearing into the bathroom.

You give yourself a moment to catch your breath before stripping the bed of its sheets with a resigned sigh, now having to add this bit of laundry to your already full to-do list for the day.

You’re slipping into his t-shirt when he reemerges in casual clothing, a suit bag slung over his shoulder. 

“See you at seven?” you ask.

“Of course.”

He kisses you softly one last time before grabbing his phone and heading out.

It’s a perfect morning, it really is. And you have no reason not to believe it will peacefully transition into a perfect night.

Nothing at all in the air hints that tonight, the first domino will fall—and with it, the fragile normalcy you’ve been fighting for years to maintain.

THEN

Miroh Valley was a sprawling desert basin, known to locals as the City of Illusions. Everything gleamed on the surface, but underneath it was a war zone. Power was the only currency and survival the only strategy.

The city was split in two. Ivory Heights where the wealthy resided in their glass towers and manicured mansions. And across the river, The Gulch—a decaying sprawl of crumbling infrastructure and abandoned homes. Everyone who lived there wanted out. Especially you.

Wanting didn’t mean shit, though. You had no tangible plan for how to get out until an unexpected encounter changed the trajectory of your life.

It was a weekday, and after school let out—which you only bothered attending for the free meals, to be honest—you drifted through the city with a few familiar faces. Friends was too generous a word. They were just people who loitered in the same spots you did.

By nightfall, someone suggested hanging out at an abandoned house. The place was decrepit with boarded windows, a sagging porch, and graffiti scrawled across the garage door. Inside, warm bottles of cheap beer were passed around, bass thumped from a Bluetooth speaker, and cigarette smoke filled the air.

You drank whatever was handed to you. Let the burn slide down your throat, hoping it would dull that sharp, constant ache in your chest. But it never did.

You checked the time on your shitty flip phone—it was nearly 10pm. Not quite late enough for both of your parents to be comatose and you didn’t like returning home when they were awake. All that ever awaited you was your mother screaming that you were a useless, ungrateful expense and your father’s drunken indifference.

Still, you didn’t want to be in that house any longer. You grabbed your backpack and slipped out the back door, knowing there was no need for goodbyes.

The alley behind the house was quiet, lit only by a flickering streetlamp at the far end. You glanced from one end to the other, not even sure which direction you should walk. It didn’t feel like it mattered, though. Nothing you did mattered.

The back door creaked open and then shut again. “Got somewhere to be?”

You glanced up. One of the guys from inside stood there, bottle in hand. He stepped closer, uninvited.

“Yeah,” you lied, taking a small step away.

He smirked before tipping the bottle back to finish it off. He tossed it aside and the glass shattered on the asphalt. The sound made you flinch.

He seized that moment, moving fast to curl his hand around your waist. You turned your face and shoved him back.

“Don’t.”

He didn’t stop.

You fought him, twisted and clawed but you were no match for his strength. He pushed you to the ground, pinning your wrists above your head. Your backpack dug into your spine, causing your back to arch and pushing your chest against his.

“That’s more like it,” he leaned in, breath sour and hot against your neck.  

“Stop!” you shouted, kicking your legs, panic choking your throat at the thought of what was about to happen. “Get the fuck off me!”

Your head thrashed from side to side, wanting to avoid his mouth at all costs. But he persisted, grinding his hips against yours as his tongue slid along your jaw line.

Tears streamed down your face as your attempts to resist grew futile. You were too weak. You couldn’t defend yourself. Maybe if you just laid there, if you just gave up, he’d have his way with you, and it would be over.

Then suddenly—he was gone. Ripped off you like a ragdoll and slammed into the brick wall across the alley with a sickening thud.

You scrambled to your feet, heart pounding, watching as three boys manhandled the fuck out of your assailant. Two of them pinned his arms to the wall while the third stood in front of him appearing calm, but dangerous, even from your vantage point behind him.

Adrenaline throttled through your veins, your hands shaking. You felt angry, disgusted, and on the brink of tears. You were moments away from something terribly sinister happening. You channeled the rage boiling inside of you and stepped forward, loose gravel crunching beneath your feet. The guy in front glanced over his shoulder and after seeing the murderous look on your face, stepped aside to let you pass.

You didn’t hesitate.

You cocked your arm back and launched your fist forward, cracking your attacker’s nose with one punch. He screamed, blood pouring down his face as he let out expletive after expletive.

Your chest heaved up and down—that wasn’t enough. You followed up with a sharp kick to his balls. He folded, groaning as the two guys holding him to the wall chuckled and nodded their approval.

The one standing at your side turned to face you. “You done?”

You blinked, disoriented. “What?”

“We can take it from here,” he offered. “What do you want us to do with him?”

“What?” you asked again.

“What do you think he deserves?” he asked, motioning to your attacker. “We could break his jaw. His hand. Make sure he never tries that shit again. Just say the word.”

You were trembling now. The rage had started to drain, leaving something cold behind. You cradled your hand to your chest, now acutely aware of the damage you’d done to yourself with that punch.

“Let him go,” you whispered.

The boy studied you a second longer, then turned back to your attacker, standing right in front of him. He grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked his head up to look him in the eyes.

“F-fuck you, man, and that bitch,” your attacker spit out.

The boy standing in front of him snapped into action, gripping his blood-soaked jaw. The boy seemed younger than your attacker, but he had total control of the situation. Like he’d done this before.

“That bitch,” he spat back, “is the only reason you’re walking away from this tonight. You ever see her again, you better kiss the fucking ground she’s walking on. You hear me?”

Your attacker huffed, trying to pull his head and arms free.

The boy let out a sigh and clicked his tongue. He looked at you over his shoulder. “I’m sorry, I don’t think he’ll understand unless he receives the full message.”

He lowered his hand from your attacker’s jaw to his throat, squeezing tightly. He cocked his fist back before launching it forward once, twice, three times until your attacker was choking on his own blood as he gasped for air, trying to beg him to stop.

If you’d broken his nose with your punch, this guy had definitely just shattered it beyond recognition, maybe even repair.

“Don’t let us catch you on these fucking streets again, you might not make it home,” he said, voice low and dangerous.

Then he nodded once, and the other two let go. Your attacker crumpled to the ground and scrambled off into the shadows, never looking back.

The boy turned to you and really looked at you this time. “You okay?”

You hesitated, after what you just witnessed you didn’t know if you should feel safe or not. But everything they’d done had been to save and protect you—regardless of how violent it was.

He nodded toward the other alley exit. “Come on. We’ll get you home.”

You didn’t ask who they were. Didn’t ask why they helped you. You just followed because for the first time in a long time, someone had stepped in when no one else had.

The area was empty, as usual, and the street was still pretty dark—half the lamps had been busted or burned out for years. The three boys stopped beside an old sedan parked along the curb at the edge of the alley.

The slender faced one with dark hair headed for the driver’s side. The blonde one peeled off toward the passenger side. The last one—the one who’d stepped in for you back there—moved in front of you, blocking your view.

He had an oval face, a high nose bridge and soft, rounded cheeks. His gentle brown eyes didn’t quite match the intensity in his voice moments ago.

“You live in The Gulch?” he asked.

“Yeah, but…I-I don’t want to go home yet.” You said, averting your gaze down to your hand. You felt a split somewhere in your knuckles but couldn’t see it through the blood. And you didn’t even know if it was your blood or your attackers.

He tilted his head slightly. “You want to hang with us tonight?”

You glanced over your shoulder at the darkened alley, considering what had just transpired there. Sure, these guys had the aura of danger stamped all over them, but they saved you. That had to count for something, right?

“…Yeah,” you said. “Okay.”

“Got it,” the one at the driver’s side called out.

The boy in front of you stepped aside and opened the rear door for you.

Your mind screamed every warning it could rally. Don’t get in cars with strangers. Don’t go somewhere you can’t leave. Don’t trust people just because they stopped one bad thing from happening.

But where else did you have to go?

You took a breath and got in.

The interior smelled like smoke and cologne. The driver ducked under the wheel and ripped a mess of wires loose from beneath the steering column. Your eyes widened when he started fiddling with them.

“What the hell…” you whispered, watching sparks fly before the engine sputtered to life.

You turned sharply to the guy beside you. He didn’t seem fazed at all.

“What’s your name?” he asked, as if a grand theft auto wasn’t currently in progress.

“y/n.” You said slowly.

“I’m Lee Know.” He gestured to the driver as the car pulled away from the curb, “That’s Changbin. And the pretty boy is Hyunjin.”

Hyunjin, the blonde one, twisted around in the front passenger seat, giving you a bright smile and mock salute. “How you feeling?”

“O-okay, I guess. My hand kind of hurts,” you admitted. “But…what the fuck are you guys doing right now?”

All three of them laugh like you’d just said something endearing.

“Just hitching a ride,” Lee Know said with a shrug, slouching back in his seat before speaking to Changbin. “Stop at a gas station when we’re clear.”

None of them seemed nervous. Not even slightly on edge. Like this was just another Thursday night for them.

You shifted uneasily. Part of you wanted to scream to be let out. But where would you go? Back to the abandoned house? To your parents, where you weren’t welcome?

You stayed quiet as the three of them talked like nothing was out of the ordinary until the car slowed in front of a gas station. Lee Know got out, leaving you alone with Changbin and Hyunjin. They kept chatting until Changbin glanced back at you, like he’d just remembered you were there.

He studied you for a beat. “Relax,” he said. “We’re not gonna sell your organs.”

“You’re safe with us,” Hyunjin added.

You don’t know why, but you believed them.

Before you could respond, the door opened again, and Lee Know climbed back in with a plastic bag in hand. Changbin put the car into drive and took off down the street. Lee Know pulled out gauze and a water bottle from the bag, then leaned over you.

You stiffened at the sudden closeness.

“Roll down the window,” he said. “And hold your hand out.”

You hesitated, but you did it. He reached across you and poured the water over your knuckles. You jumped at the chill as the air hit your wet skin. You noticed he’d cleaned his own hand, too.

“Bring it back inside,” he instructed.

You did, and he carefully patted it dry, focused and quiet. You watched him, not knowing how to process someone taking care of you like this.

“You’re kind of a badass,” Changbin said from the front.

“That was pretty sick,” Hyunjin agreed.

You flush. Unsure what to make of their compliments, unsure if one should be proud of violence as they seemed to be.

Lee Know wrapped your hand in the gauze, then rummaged through the bag again. He pulled out a single-serving slice of carrot cake and handed it to you.

“Here. Cake always hits different after beating the shit out of someone,” he said with a smirk.

You stared at the cake, then up at him. 

Could this really be happening?

You laughed—soft at first, then harder, a little unhinged. You brought your bandaged hand up to cover your laugh and took the cake with the other.

That moment in the alley started to feel like fate.

“What’s so funny?” Lee Know asked.

“It’s my birthday,” you replied, still laughing.

Changbin let out a surprised, “Huh.”

Lee Know raised an eyebrow. “You serious?”

You nodded.

“Shit,” Hyunjin muttered. “We need candles.”

“And a bigger cake,” Lee Know added.

You laughed harder then, but at some point, the laughter dissolved into tears as the city lights streaked past the windows. Not because they got you cake.

But because someone finally knew.

And seemed to care.

NOW

You’re standing in the backyard, savoring a moment of quiet. The half-acre space has been transformed for the party with extra tables and strings of twinkling lights. Between sending guest lists to the guard gate, coordinating the caterers, and making sure off-limit rooms—like Minho’s office—are securely locked, you’ve hardly had a second to simply breathe and take it all in.

The sun dips low in the sky, painting the city below in shades of orange and pink. Skyscraping buildings glitter in Ivory Heights, while across the river, The Gulch looms in stark contrast. Standing here now, on this side of the river, you feel a quiet sense of triumph. But at what cost?

It’s a question that never leaves you these days. You know what lengths Minho has gone to get you here, to keep you here. But to what end?

“Guests are starting to arrive,” a voice pulls you from your thoughts.

You turn to see Hyunjin, decked out in a black suit for the occasion. His hair, now it’s natural dark brown shade rather than the bleached blonde he sported when you were younger, has grown long enough for him to pull it back in a half-up, half-down style.

“When did you get here? Aren’t you supposed to text before entering?”

“I walked in as the party crew was leaving…didn’t think you’d be walking around…you know, again.”

He won’t even say the word “naked”.

You can’t help but smile at the memory his words summon. The front door of your home has a keypad lock, and Minho gave Hyunjin and Changbin their own individual codes. It makes sense—they’re his closest friends, and yours too—but the first time Hyunjin used it unannounced and caught you topless in the kitchen was something you’ll never forget. You were mortified. Minho was furious. Texts are now mandatory.

“Any word from Minho and Changbin?”

“They’re on the way back from…” he hesitates, eyes flicking away, then shrugs. “They shouldn’t be long.”

The pause sets off a subtle unease in your chest. Something about the way he avoids finishing the sentence makes you cautious. Over time, there are things they’ve stopped telling you—darker dealings are all you can assume. And while you’ve trusted Minho with your life, the lack of transparency gnaws at you now.

Hyunjin offers you his arm, and you slip yours through his as you step back into the house. You reach the front door just in time to welcome the first guests making it past the community’s guarded gate. Warm greetings, laughter, and the clink of glasses fill the foyer, setting the tone for the night.  

About twenty minutes later, your phone buzzes with a text from Changbin letting you know they’re pulling up, just as you finish checking all the food is in order.

You make your way back to the foyer, raising your voice to call everyone over. Although this isn’t a surprise party, nothing gets past Minho for that to happen, you want the first thing he sees to be a room full of people who’ve come to celebrate with him.

As the last guests trickle into the foyer, the front door swings open and everyone erupts in unison: “Happy Birthday!”

Minho, bless his heart, acts startled. And then the surprise turns genuine as he takes in the sea of friends, colleagues, and trusted men surrounding him. Yet even amidst the crowd, his eyes find yours. He threads his way toward you, pulling you into a gentle hug.

He steps back to admire your dress. The navy blue, strapless gown is cut to mid-thigh length with a tight, corset style bodice that cinches your waist just right. The diamonds at your ears and neck sparkle almost as brightly as the platinum heels on your feet.

“You look amazing,” he murmurs, leaning in for a quick kiss.

Public displays of affection are nothing new for him. Minho loves shining the spotlight on you—loves to boast that you’re his.

“Thank you,” you reply softly. “Now go greet the rest of your guests.”

He nods and takes off, weaving through the crowd to greet old friends and men from his inner circle.

You notice Changbin still stationed at the entrance, eyes sweeping over the room. A subtle jerk of his head draws your attention toward the hall—you follow his line of sight and spot Hyunjin making his way through the crowd. When he reaches Changbin’s side, they exchange a quick nod before slipping down the hall together. Toward the side exit. The one that leads to Minho’s shed.

The place you’ve been advised to steer clear of.

Your stomach drops. The way Changbin and Hyunjin move together tells you more than words ever could. Curiosity claws at you, but you push it down. Some secrets exist for a reason. And it’s better for you, in your attempt to pretend this life you now lead is normal, to just accept that.

Minho catches your eye across the room and winks, motioning for you to come to him. You do, letting him curl a hand around your waist, keeping you at his side as he continues his rounds of greetings.

After a while, you slip away to check on the caterers. Everything is running smoothly. Stepping into the cool autumn air in the backyard, you take in the scenery. Clusters of guests are sipping champagne under the string lights, with the city glittering far below. The sight reinforces the thin veil you exist behind—the world is simple, beautiful, and safe.

The music inside cuts off and Minho’s voice calls everyone to the living room.

You make your way inside to find him standing in the center of the room, waiting for silence. You slip through the crowd to stand at the front, brow arched, wondering what he has planned.

“I want to thank you all for coming to celebrate with me tonight…I also want to share this occasion with someone else.” He pauses, eyes roaming around the room. “Jeongin. Come here.”

Confusion etches itself across Jeongin’s face as he steps forward.

“Everything okay, boss?” he asks.

You’ll never forget the first time you saw him—too young, too innocent. Looks can deceive, though, and in his case, that’s worked in his favor.

“Better than okay,” Minho assures him. “You’ve been working with us for three years, now. You’ve proved yourself loyal more times than I can count.” He pauses, letting the room fill with applause.

The front door opens and Hyunjin steps inside, hauling two cases—one large, one small. You know what’s coming now.

“It’s time,” Minho declares, clapping a widely grinning Jeongin on the back.

The room breaks into another round of applause. You find yourself smiling and cheering, too. Jeongin deserves this.

The crowd eventually thins as Minho, Changbin and Jeongin gather around Hyunjin. You move closer as Hyunjin sets down the cases, shrugging off his suit jacket. He rolls his sleeves to his elbows, revealing arms already inked in dark, intricate designs. From the larger case, he unfolds a portable tattoo table; from the smaller, he sets up the needles, gun, and bottles of ink.

Placement is the first question. You throw in your two cents, warning Jeongin that ribs are brutal.

“That makes it even more worth it,” Jeongin answers with a shrug, peeling off his jacket and shirt.

And he’s right. This is more than just a tattoo. It’s the final step. It signifies that he is no longer just an associate, but a soldier. Family.

Jeongin lies back, and the buzz of the needle starts. A few guests linger to watch; others fade back into the music and chatter.

You step away, doing another round to make sure everyone has gotten food and drinks. Upstairs, you slip into the cats’ room—because, yes, Minho insisted they have their own. Doongie lounges high in the cat tree, Soonie sulks near the fountain, clearly annoyed at your interruption. They’re fine. You close the door softly and head back down.

On the stairs, you catch sight of Minho and Changbin slipping out the side exit. Something about their movements is tight and alert. Your gaze lingers on them, your mind fraught with the endless possibilities of what could be happening out there. Part of you had been hoping that Changbin and Hyunjin were sneaking around to pull off this whole tattoo thing, but this confirms that was not the case.

Curiosity is still eating away at you, but you know better than to follow them.

Instead, you circle back to Hyunjin and Jeongin. Hyunjin’s hand is steady as the needle hums across Jeongin’s skin, his freehand lines sharp and sure. The design emerges: a four-pointed cross, metallic in its details, as though carved into flesh. Later, a ring of barbed wire woven through the points will be added, and last, three letters will be etched at corresponding tips—S, K, Z.

“Bullshit it doesn’t hurt,” you say.

“Mind over matter,” he shrugs, though his jaw tightens.

“He hasn’t even gotten to the shading yet.”

Jeongin shoots you a grin. “I’m starting to think you want to see me in pain, y/n. That your kink?”

The buzzing stops. You both glance at Hyunjin. The flat look on his face leaves no room for jokes.

Jeongin clears his throat. “Shitty joke. Sorry, y/n.”

Before Hyunjin can respond or even resume the tattoo, Minho calls everyone’s attention again.

Your brow furrows. He’s changed out of his white button-up into something darker, and your skin prickles when you notice the gauze wrapped around his left hand. Your gaze flicks toward Changbin—he’s leaning against the wall, drink in hand, with a split lip.

Minho motions for you to join him in the center of the room this time. You plaster on a smile to mask your concern. When you reach him, he snakes his arm around your waist and pulls you close.

“You all know y/n, right?”

Applause, cheers, and whistles fill the room. You give a small, completely unserious curtsy.

“This woman has been with me since we were sixteen—though it took her two years to agree to date me.” He pauses for dramatic effect and you roll your eyes. “Really, though. She’s been there through everything. I don’t know where I’d be without her.” He kisses the top of your head. “She pulled all of this together tonight, reminding me that I’m the luckiest man in the world to have her.”

The room claps again, but he’s not done yet. He turns you to face him.

“They say when you know, you know, right? And I’ve known. But I could never do this until the time was right.” His tone shifts to something more serious. “There are changes coming—big moves, growth, and finally seeing all the silly dreams we had as kids come to fruition. And I’m so happy we get to experience it together. There’s only one thing that would make it all even better.”

He drops to one knee.

“Minho,” you whisper, a lump forming in your throat.

He pulls a small black box from his pocket and flips it open. Inside sits a platinum band crowned with a cushion-cut diamond, flanked by two smaller stones. It glitters in the light with the slightest movement.

But your eyes don’t stay on the ring. They shift to his hands.

The one that’s bandaged has started to bleed through. The other is bruised and swollen.

“I love you,” he says simply, drawing your attention back. “I want you with me for the rest of my life, y/n. Will you marry me?”

Your heart thunders.

This man has loved you with a depth few people ever experience, you know that much to be fact. But he’s changed. His ambition grows by the day, and you continuously turn a blind eye to it.

You know everything he’s done, he’s done for you, Changbin and Hyunjin. He would give anything, do anything, to make sure the three of you are alright. But his definition of ‘necessary protection’ has morphed into something widespread and territorial.

Can you marry a man like that? Raise children with him? Sleep beside him knowing what his hands might have done that day?

But then again…those same hands have held you. Protected you. Pulled you out of the wreckage of your old life when you were sixteen. He was your literal savior once.

You meet his eyes and answer with a breathless, “Yes.”

The room erupts in cheers again as he slips the ring onto your finger. You stare down at it, stunned by the weight—both literal and symbolic— of seeing it there.

Minho rises, lifts you in his arms, and spins you as the guests continue to applaud. He kisses you, then sets you back down and rests his forehead against yours. He grabs your ringed hand and brings it to his chest, placing it directly over his heart.

“I love you,” he murmurs.

“I love you, too,” you whisper back.

You convince yourself, for now, that it’s enough.

A/N: Ahhh!! How was that? How are we feeling? What are we thinking!? I do not have this entire fic written, but have several scenes from different parts and basically have to fit everything else out around it. That being said, I am not sure on an upload schedule. I plan for these chapters to be a bit longer, too, so be patient with me between updates 😅

I appreciate all feedback. Lots of words I typed here, share a few of yours with me. I speak emoji, too, if words aren't your thing 🤪

[ read chapter two here ] (place holder, not available yet)

Taglist: @tsunderelino / @ehstay / @mrsha-ang-kim / @hityoulikebahng / @spookiesakura / @tirena1 / @tarebearclaire / @rylea08 / @lovecb97 / @kaybeerrosa / @americanojowajowaaa / @gabby-skz / @poppingclouds / @fancypeacepersona / @victoriaaf / @skyearby

[mrsha-ang-kim]

Hii!

I love your works! ❤️❤️ While I just currently started reading Ghost Protocol, I just wanted to let you know that the links (for the next and previous chapters) in the chapters aren't working 😭😭

I know it could be an issue with my device, I just wanted to let you know ❤️

(P.s.: Just a suggestion, can you please number the chapters? I'm trying to continue reading and I'm having trouble sorting the chapters 😭😭)

XOXO 😘

Hi love I saw your ask and I did the whole reblogging thing so that should help!

[mrsha-ang-kim]

reblogging for anyone that wants to take a listen

I made a playlist for ghost protocol!! kikiki...and if you guys ever get a chance to listen just know that some songs are references while others are spoilers 😶

[mrsha-ang-kim]

darlingggggsssss!!! i need help! im currently editing a new masterlist and there are tuw fics i can't find 😭 my lee know fic and part one of daddy issues

if anyone has the post or liked it or saved it somewhere please tag me under it!!

thank youu~ 💗

[mrsha-ang-kim]

Part 8

𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐨𝐜𝐨𝐥

parings: exFBIagent!chan x SCUagent!afab!reader, non idol au

synopsis: he died. Everyone believed he did. But you found out. And whether you like it or not, keeping you alive is now his job.

chapter synopsis: your lie is exposed, you're found out. and to add to that, chan indirectly confesses his (now past) feelings for you. emotions swell up and now other people assume their also going to get stabbed in the back.

warnings: mentions of weapons, emotions, angst, mentions of lee know getting drugged, fear

a/n: climax and conflict!! also please note that SCU is a made up agency, unlike FBI it's not real, okay? but if its actually is real...idk... if you have extra eyes for errors, no you don't

previously...

WASHINGTON D.C.

Changbin’s House

The creak of wood beneath her was the only sound Y/N focused on as she sat awkwardly on the edge of the dark leather couch, her hands tucked between her knees, back straight like she was still in briefing. The living room was warm, worn with memory, and yet it didn’t feel like hers to be in. Not yet.

Across the room, Chan and Changbin were already deep in conversation again voices lowered, shoulders hunched toward each other in that casual posture only longtime operatives wore, like soldiers swapping war stories instead of pleasantries. She didn’t want to intrude. She didn’t dare.

But then, Changbin suddenly froze mid-sentence.

“Ah, shit,” he said, slapping a hand over his forehead dramatically. “I’ve been an ass, haven’t I?”

Y/N blinked. “Huh?”

He turned toward her, guilt flashing behind the grin. “You walk into my house and I treat you like background noise. Damn. C’mon lemme at least show you to the guest room.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but he was already reaching for her bag. She stood, following him up the narrow wooden staircase as he gave a lazy tour.

“That room’s mine, don’t enter unless I’m dying. Bathroom’s two doors down, and this here’s yours.” He kicked open a room with a small bed, clean sheets, and a window that overlooked the neighbor’s vegetable garden. “Make yourself at home. Seriously. Towels are in the closet.”

She gave a small, grateful nod. “Thank you.”

“No need.” Changbin shot her a half-smile. “Any friend of this idiot’s is tolerated by me.”

He turned, padded back down the stairs while Y/N lingered for a beat, taking in the space, grounding herself before she followed. By the time she returned to the living room, Chan had already disappeared into the kitchen.

“You hungry?” his voice rang from the other room, muffled by cabinets opening. “There’s leftover bibimbap or I can do eggs.”

“Bibimbap sounds perfect,” she said, easing back onto the couch. He peeked his head around the kitchen doorway with that boyish smile she was starting to become far too familiar with. “Coming right up.”

A few seconds passed before Changbin slumped into an armchair with a grunt, stretching out.

“So,” he said, tone casual but eyes sharp. “What’s your story?”

Y/N hesitated, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. She wasn't used to the CIA asking questions unless something was off. And this was Chan’s friend. That meant trust, right? Still, she cast a subtle glance toward the kitchen, toward him. He looked up just in time, brow raised like, you good?

“She’s shy,” Chan called over teasingly. “But she’s got a hell of a mouth once you let her warm up.”

“Oh? Is that so?” Changbin smirked, watching her now with amused interest.

Y/N rolled her eyes and straightened. “Okay, okay. Fine. I joined the Bureau some years ago. Top of my class. Took a lot of counterintelligence and psychological warfare courses. Got recruited for some routine arms trafficking-”

“Impressive,” Changbin cut in with a tilt of his head.

“—and then I started noticing gaps in our intel,” she continued. “It was a footnote. A long-forgotten alias linked to an offshore account. It should have been nothing, but then, the details started to unravel, the account had been accessed recently. Money had moved.” She didn’t miss the way Chan paused in the kitchen. Just for a second. Spoon in the air.

“I kept digging,” she said, a little more quietly now. “Followed traces that didn’t make sense. Unmarked assets. Mission reports that didn’t add up. It led me to a safehouse. And then—”

“You found him,” Changbin finished for her, raising both eyebrows. “Damn. No offense, but I thought the Bureau had lost its bite.” Chan emerged then with two bowls in hand, setting hers in front of her and settling beside her on the couch with his own.

“Oh, she bites,” he said with a small smirk.

Y/N huffed. “He makes it sound like I ambushed him in the woods.”

“You didn’t?” Changbin teased.

“She didn’t,” Chan said flatly through a mouthful of rice. Y/N grinned, her eyes dancing. “Guess the Ghost isn’t as ghostly as they say.”

Chan continued. “Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up.” After the teasing simmered down, Y/N stood. “I’m gonna go take that shower now, if that’s okay.”

“Upstairs,” Changbin said, pointing his spoon toward the hallway. “Second door. Water takes a minute to heat.”

“Got it,” she nodded, then vanished up the stairs. The second she was gone, the room’s tone dropped a few degrees. Changbin turned his full attention to Chan. “Yep,” he said, wiping his mouth. “She’s definitely SCU.”

Chan didn’t even try to hide his smirk. “Told you.”

“When’d you find out?”

Chan leaned back, crossing one leg over the other as he sipped from a glass of water. “The safehouse. Got some intel off one of my ex-handlers, came in a file. Everything was SCU-grade.”

“And?”

“And it had a personnel dossier on her. Embedded into the Bureau, with total clearance. Guess who signed off on it?”

“Petrov?” Changbin guessed. Chan nodded. “The motherfucker’s doing something.” Changbin sighed, rubbing his eyes. “SCU embedded inside the Bureau? That’s dangerous.”

“She doesn’t know she’s been burned,” Chan said.  “Well…” Changbin stood, scooping up the empty bowls. “At least she’s been loyal to you.” Chan looked toward the stairwell, his voice dropping. “Yeah?” he murmured. “That’s what scares me.”

---

The mirror fogged slowly, blurring her reflection into a wraith. Y/N stood beneath the stream of hot water, arms braced on the tiled wall, steam curling around her shoulders. The water hit her like a wake-up call washing off the hours of highway dust, the stench of tension, and the bite of uncertainty.

She took her time.

Lather. Rinse. Breathe. Repeat.

Scrubbing her scalp a little harder than usual, she let the foam carry away the stress. It had been days since she felt safe enough to even relax. But here? Now? The safety was fabricated just an illusion in the walls of another man's house. A Ghost’s house, no less. She wasn’t stupid enough to believe this meant she was in the clear.

Once clean, she wrapped herself in a towel and padded quietly back to the guest room, the floorboards soft under her bare feet. She shut the door behind her with a quiet click and moved to the side table where she’d stashed her burner.

The black, plastic rectangle was unassuming, but it burned hot in her palm with unspoken weight. Y/N dialed from memory.

It rang twice.

Then, a sleepy voice crackled through the speaker. “Y/N?”

“Hyunjin,” she breathed, voice low but urgent. She walked to the far corner of the room, crouching near the floor beside the bed like a shadow trying not to be seen. “I’m in a CIA operative’s house. A former one.”

There was a pause on the line, sharpened by the distance.

“What?” His tone snapped fully awake. “How did you—? Where the hell are you?”

“I’m in Washington,” she whispered. “All the way to a man named Seo Changbin. It’s his house. But Chan’s here. I’m with him.”

“Y/N—no.” Hyunjin sounded like he was pacing, maybe rubbing at his temples the way he always did when she acted on her instincts instead of orders. “I really, really have a bad feeling about this.”

“Well, your feelings don’t matter right now,” she hissed.

“Like hell they don’t—!”

“Hyunjin!” she whisper-shouted, eyes darting to the door. “Send Petrov a message. Tell him this mission may go south. Fast.”

“I don’t like this,” he bit out. “You don’t know what they’re capable of. They could be—"

“I said, send the damn message.” Her voice was harder now, cutting. “You’re not my boyfriend. You’re my handler. Do what you’re told.”

And then—click.

She ended the call before he could respond, her pulse racing.

MEANWHILE…

HYUNJIN’S LOCATION

Hyunjin stared at the dead line, his jaw tense.

He sucked in a breath through his teeth, running a hand through his messy hair, then poked his tongue into his cheek with a bitter chuckle. “I’m only doing this for you, Oscar,” he muttered to the burner in his hand, the codename bitter on his tongue. “Don’t make me fucking regret it.”

He tossed the phone onto his desk and reached for a second device, one encrypted, designated only for messages meant for Petrov.

His fingers hovered over the keypad.

Then he typed:

> SCU-011 reporting. Agent L/N embedded in ex-Ghost unit. Risk level rising. Expect turbulence.

He hit SEND.

BACK...

Y/N hid the burner phone back in the false bottom of her duffel bag, zipped it tight, then moved toward the dresser to get dressed. She slipped into a pair of loose black cotton shorts and a soft heather gray tank top. Something casual. Comfortable. Unassuming.

Her damp hair was towel-dried and falling in soft waves over her shoulders. No makeup. No armor. Just her. She had just flopped onto the bed when there was a gentle knock at the door.

Tap tap.

“Hey,” Chan’s voice came through soft, careful. “Can I come in?”

Her heartbeat ticked a little faster at the sound of him. She pulled her legs up under her and straightened. “Yeah. Come in.” The door eased open slowly, and Chan stepped in like someone trying not to scare a bird off a windowsill. His eyes found hers immediately, and his expression softened.

“Hey,” he said again, voice quieter now, more personal.

“Hey,” she replied, curling her fingers into the sheets beneath her thighs.

There was a pause. An air of something charged.

Chan stood just inside the door, like if he stepped too far in, the floor might fall out. His eyes flicked to her towel-dried hair, then to the way her bare shoulders caught the light.

“You okay?” he asked gently.

Y/N nodded once. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

He gave a small, knowing smile. “Thinking can be dangerous in this line of work.”

She offered a tiny, almost-smile. The room was dimly lit by a single bedside lamp, casting warm amber shadows across the soft white walls. A light breeze whispered through the cracked window, rustling the sheer curtains like secrets being passed between ghosts. Y/N sat cross-legged on the bed, her damp hair falling in loose waves over her shoulders, and her tank top clinging ever so slightly to the humidity still lingering on her skin from the shower.

Chan stood near the door, hesitant, hands in the pockets of his sweats like he didn’t know what to do with them. Then he cleared his throat, voice low.

“You handling everything okay?” he asked. “The driving, the running around, the… whole mission?”

She looked up at him, surprised at the sincerity threading through his voice. “Yeah,” she said, soft. “I’m okay.”

He nodded slowly, as if weighing whether to believe her. Then, without another word, he stepped forward and sat on the edge of the bed, facing her. His shoulders slouched a little, the weight of something unspoken pressing down on him. His eyes met hers with that familiar intensity—like he was seeing through every answer she hadn’t voiced.

“Are you really okay?” he asked again. This time, it wasn’t just a question, it was a quiet plea.

She blinked, searching his face. “Chan… what’s going on? Why are you acting so…” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Soft. Gentle. Sweet?” He let out a breathy chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Because…” He looked up at her. “Since we met, I’ve probably been nothing but an asshole to you.”

“Well…” she smirked. “You’re not wrong.”

He laughed, then his face sobered again, voice dipping lower. “Ever since the motel, the gala… everything. I just—” He paused. “I want you to make it out of this. I really do.”

There it was. A lie. A well-performed one. A classic, laced with sincerity. But he sold it like gospel, and for a moment, Y/N couldn’t quite tell if he even knew the difference anymore.

She swallowed, glancing down, then up at him again. “That’s sweet, Chan. Really.”

“I’m serious, Y/N.”

His hand reached up, slow and deliberate, brushing his fingers beneath her chin until she met his eyes again. The touch was soft, too soft for the man she’d known until now.

The air thickened. Her breath caught. They sat there like that, faces inches apart. Not speaking. Just looking. Then he said it. Barely a whisper.

“Remember when I said… if I ever got the chance to kiss you again, I would?”

She nodded once, slowly. Her lips parted just slightly.

His gaze fell from her eyes to her mouth, lingering. Then—without asking—he leaned in, and kissed her.

It was gentle at first. Curious. Like he was asking if he could. Testing the water. She pulled away for a breath, startled but she didn’t move far. He looked into her eyes again. And when he kissed her again, she let him.

This time deeper. Slower. His lips moved against hers like he already knew them. Like they were familiar.

But then she broke away suddenly, breathless, stepping off the bed like she’d just remembered gravity existed. “This is wrong,” she mumbled, mostly to herself. “This is so wrong…”

Chan stood up too, but didn’t say anything. He just watched her pace, watched the panic build in her movements. When she backed away, he followed—not hurriedly, not aggressively—but with the same magnetic pull he’d always had. One step, then another. Her breath hitched as she realized her back had gently touched the wall behind her.

“Chan,” she whispered, voice shaking.

“Just…” He placed his hand against the wall beside her head, leaning in close. “Just enjoy the moment, Y/N. We might not get it again.”

She didn’t answer.

Her chest rose and fell as he looked at her like she was the last beautiful thing in a dying world.

Then he kissed her again.

This time, hungry. Possessive. His hands moved to her waist, gripping lightly, pulling her flush against him as her back pressed firmly to the wall.

She kissed him back, not knowing why. Not knowing if it was fear or desire or some impossible blend of both. But in that moment, he was heat and shelter and a storm she couldn’t outrun. Chan’s hands gripped her hips, thumbs pressing into the soft curve of her waist as if trying to memorize her shape, as if this moment was borrowed and fading fast. Y/N’s fingers curled into the cotton fabric of his shirt, tugging slightly, too caught up in the dizzying pull of it all to think straight.

But then, he pulled back. Their faces stayed close, lips barely apart, both of them breathing like they’d been underwater too long. His gaze didn’t leave hers. His pupils were dilated, not with lust, there was something sharper there. Something knowing.

His voice, low and intimate, was a whisper against her lips.

“I know you’re SCU, Y/N.”

Time stopped. Her breath caught in her throat. Her spine straightened as a chill ran down it. But her face twisted into a confused frown, her lashes fluttering like she’d misheard him.

“W-what?” she stammered, blinking. “What are you talking about?”

Chan’s lips quirked into a slow, almost pitying smirk.

“I said,” he murmured again, closer this time, nose nearly brushing hers “I know you’re SCU.”

He kissed her again. Harder this time. But she didn’t kiss back. She shoved at his chest, breathing hard, eyes wide with fury and disbelief as she pushed him away.

“The fuck is wrong with you?” she snapped, voice trembling with a mix of panic and rage.

He stood there, unbothered, expression unreadable save for that smug curve of his lips. “What?” he said casually. “You thought you could hide it from me?”

Y/N shook her head, face twitching between panic and confusion. “I don’t—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Chan scoffed. “Y/N, cut the bullshit.”

He stepped forward again, voice calm, measured. “I read your file. Special Covert Unit, embedded under Petrov’s network, currently liaising with Kallisto. Ring a bell?”

Her heart was pounding so hard she thought it might crack her ribs open.

She let out a small, nervous laugh sharp and dry like broken glass. “You’re insane,” she muttered, brushing past him. “You’ve completely lost it.” She stormed toward the door, yanking it open like salvation might be waiting on the other side.

But it wasn’t.

Changbin stood in the hallway, arms folded across his chest, face stone cold. Her stomach dropped. She froze.

He didn’t say a word. She instinctively took steps back into the room, her heartbeat loud in her ears.

Then—

Click. She felt it. Cold metal. Pressed firmly to the small of her back. Her body went rigid. Chan’s voice over her shoulder like a ghost.

“Boo.”

Her breath hitched. The room tilted. The illusion shattered.

And the trap had finally closed around her.

The air in the room turned suffocating, thick with betrayal, disbelief, and the sharp sting of dread.

Y/N didn’t move. The cold steel barrel remained pressed firmly into the base of her spine, like a final period at the end of a devastating sentence. Her eyes flicked from Changbin, who stood in the doorway like a bouncer to her own damnation, to the sliver of hallway freedom just beyond his shoulder.

But there was no way out.

Behind her, Chan’s voice came low, too calm. Too casual.

“Why?” he asked, as if he was genuinely curious. Like he was asking why she ordered tea instead of coffee. “Why the fuck would you go through all this stress... just to lie to me?”

His tone wasn’t angry.

That was the worst part.

He wasn’t yelling. He wasn’t furious.

He leaned in slightly, breath brushing the back of her neck. “You think I’m stupid?” he continued, mock hurt in his tone. “Was that it? You think I wouldn’t find out eventually?”

Y/N swallowed, the back of her throat dry as sandpaper. Her voice scraped out, low and defensive. “I didn’t lie. I just—”

“Oh, come on,” he cut in, letting out a laugh that held no joy. “Save it. I read your file, Agent. I know what SCU does. I know what you do. You think the rest of us out here don’t know how to spot a liar when we see one?”

Her heart was pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears, a relentless drumroll counting down the seconds until everything crashed and burned. She didn’t even notice Changbin had stepped further into the room until he exhaled, running a hand through his hair. His expression was tired… disappointed, almost.

“And I was just starting to like you,” Changbin muttered, shaking his head. “Even helped you take your bag upstairs. Damn.”

Y/N’s eyes darted between them both.

“You were supposed to be dead,” she said finally, voice strained, like she was forcing the words out of a collapsing lung. “You were dead, Chan. You were off-grid, buried. We had no trace.”

“And yet you found me,” Chan said softly, fingers tightening ever so slightly on the grip of the gun. “And that’s what got me thinking.” His voice lowered an octave, almost thoughtful. “Because finding me isn’t something just any rookie agent could pull off. Not with all my aliases scrubbed. Not without help.”

His hand pressed the barrel in just a hair deeper.

“You’re not just an agent, Y/N,” he whispered. “You’re SCU. You're embedded, black-bagged, off-record. You’re working with a Russian grade hacker and you were sent to find me, weren’t you?”

She didn’t answer.

But silence, in its own way, was an answer. Chan clicked his tongue and smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “And you played it so well, too. The motel. The fucking gala. The whole poor-agent-lost-in-a-man’s-world routine.”

He leaned closer, lips brushing just behind her ear. “Did you mean any of it? Hm? Or was letting me kiss you just part of your cover, too?”

Her jaw tightened.

She didn’t answer that either. But her eyes glistened, just a little.

Changbin watched it all with a grim expression, arms still crossed as he leaned against the doorframe. The betrayal hung thick in the air. And Y/N, for all her training, for all the missions she’d survived—realized she might not be walking away from this one.

Chan jerked his head toward the bed. “Sit,” he said flatly, the gun still leveled at her with surgical steadiness.

Y/N didn’t move. Her breath stilled, her body taut like a drawn bowstring. Her mind was racing—exit strategies, counters, bluffs. But nothing could override the instinctual command in Chan’s voice.

“I said sit.”

She met his eyes.

He didn’t look like the man who kissed her against that wall two minutes ago.

He looked like an agent—a weapon—perfectly trained, calm, and lethal. Reluctantly, she lowered herself to the edge of the bed, her knees brushing the hem of the soft duvet she’d barely had time to take in before all hell cracked open.

Chan took a slow step forward, closing the space between them. Changbin stayed by the door, arms crossed, a silent wall of muscle and scrutiny, like backup in case she so much as twitched wrong.

“Why?” Chan asked again. Quiet, deliberate. He tilted his head slightly, a mock curiosity in his tone. “Why you? Why this mission?”

Y/N didn’t answer.

Her hands sat stiff in her lap, fingers curled into fists. She stared straight ahead, lips pressed into a thin line. Her jaw flexed once. Twice.

“Y/N.” Chan’s voice dropped, dangerous now. The room pulsed with tension.

She exhaled, shaky but restrained, and finally spoke. “I volunteered.”

“Why?”

She swallowed. Her voice was quiet but sharp, a blade unsheathed.

“Because I was the only one who could do it.” Chan cocked his head slightly. “You expect me to believe that?”

Y/N’s gaze snapped to his, fire flashing beneath the surface of her calm. “I knew your history, Chan. I read every op you’d led before you ghosted. Every pattern, every trail. Everyone else at SCU thought you were just a disgraced agent gone rogue. I knew better.”

“Did you?” he murmured, almost admiring the gall.

She nodded once. “I knew you didn’t run. You were buried. You had to be. Because no one disappears like you unless they’re trying to make sure no one finds the body. And I knew if there was even a 2% chance that you were still alive…” she hesitated. “...we needed you.”

Chan’s eyes narrowed. “Who sent you?”

Y/N looked away for a beat. Then softly, she answered, “Petrov.”

Changbin let out a low whistle by the door. Chan raised a brow. “You’re still in contact with him?”

“Not directly,” she muttered. “Hyunjin, Kallisto, acts as a relay. Dead drops. Burners.”

“And what exactly does Petrov want with me?” Chan asked. “Closure? Revenge?” Y/N’s lips parted, then pressed shut again. Chan raised the gun just a bit. “Talk.”

She flinched. Then finally, she let it spill. Well, what she could form on the spot.

“They think you’re the missing piece,” she whispered. “There’s something in your files—old op stuff you did in Cuba. Something encrypted. SCU thinks you locked it and then faked your death to bury it. Petrov thinks you're the key to decrypting it, and whatever’s in that drive might take him or the FBI down.”

Such a big lie.

“So what…” Chan scoffed. “I’m a human flash drive now?”

“No,” Y/N said quietly. “You’re a liability.” The room fell silent. Chan’s smirk faded.

Changbin let out a low breath. “Shit…”

---

The dull hum of Jisung’s laptop fans filled the quiet room, flickering light casting shadows on the wall behind him. The air was stale from hours of focus, coffee mugs abandoned, wires tangled, and folders laid out like a madman’s blueprint. His hoodie was halfway off his shoulder, his hair disheveled, but his eyes—bloodshot as they were—had locked into a dangerous kind of clarity.

Lee Know sat nearby on the floor, legs crossed, scrolling through encrypted files from Petrov’s corporations. His brow was furrowed in that scary assassin-thinking-too-hard way, fingers twitching like he was holding in the urge to stab something.

But right now, it was Jisung’s moment to shine.

“Alright,” Jisung muttered, rubbing his temples before cracking his neck. “If our golden boy’s gonna walk into the FBI HQ without getting shot in the face, we need to make this untraceable.”

He reached over and yanked a small drive from one of the ports, plugging it into a secure rigged console on his left. The screen flickered and lit up with a deep blue interface. His fingers moved fast with lines of code, digital schematics, and ID templates scrolling with sickening speed. Jisung booted up a cracked internal Bureau interface, something he’d lifted years ago during a data breach no one ever pinned on him. It was dirty, risky, and could trace back to him in a heartbeat if he wasn’t perfect.

He pulled up the FBI internal personnel registry not the public-facing directory. The blacklist database. Where deep cover agents were logged with no real names, just tier clearance and physical identifiers.

“I’m giving Chan a Level 5 Clearance under Counterintelligence. Retired division, relocated,” Jisung muttered to himself. “Name’ll be Jeremy Kwon. You like that? Sounds like someone who pays taxes and shit.”

“Focus,” Lee Know snapped without looking up.

Jisung rolled his eyes. “Right, right, scary brooding boy.”

He pulled up Chan’s biometric data from the safehouse scans he’d snuck during their last contact, facial structure, height, voice sample, gait pattern. Next came the photo: a clean one from Chan’s Interpol days, sharp jawline, tight black suit, looking like a goddamn walking felony.

“You're getting a promotion, bro,” Jisung grinned. “Welcome to the Bureau.”

He adjusted the metadata: created the backstory of reassignment, internal clearance protocols bypassed, reissued ID due to 'loss in field.' He locked it in with a dirty thumbprint from a dead CIA handler Jisung had looped into the file’s approval chain.

The card appeared on the screen.

> Name: Jeremy Kwon

Position: Senior Field Agent — Counterintelligence

Clearance: Level 5

Badge ID: 028-FB-CI76

Issued by: Director Reynolds (falsified signature)

Verification code: [spoofed] — expires in 72 hrs

He exhaled slowly, finally leaning back. His eyes flicked to the clock.

2:56 A.M.

Lee Know looked up, eyes dark. “That ID needs to hold long enough for him to get in, and get out before Reynolds or Petrov smell it.”

“I know,” Jisung nodded, quieter now. “If even one person scans the metadata twice... he’s dead.” There was a pause. Then Jisung asked the question he hadn’t dared ask until now.

“You think she knows he knows she’s SCU?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he finally said. “We’re already in too deep.”

---

The room felt colder now, the mask had officially dropped. No more pretending. No more smirks or flirtation. Just tension that clawed at the skin and reality sitting heavy like a loaded gun… which Chan currently had pointed at her.

She sat stiff on the edge of the bed, wrists clenched tight in her lap, trying to breathe past the ache still pulsing in her spine. Chan stood directly across from her, gun still steady in his grip, eyes scanning her with deadly calm. Changbin leaned in the corner, arms crossed, his jaw ticking like a loaded trap just waiting to snap.

Chan’s voice cut through the silence like a razor.

“Who are you working with?” he asked. Quietly. Almost gently.

Y/N didn’t answer. She just met his gaze. Chin high. Eyes hard. Not a single flinch. Chan’s jaw clenched, the muscle twitching beneath his skin. He tilted his head, voice dropping low and dark.

“I asked you a question, Y/N. Don’t make me ask again.”

Still nothing. She just breathed in slow, controlled and shifted her gaze away. Not to show weakness, but to spit defiance in silence. Chan scoffed a little, the edges of his mouth twitching into something dangerous.

“What, now you think silence is loyalty?” he murmured. “Think I won’t hurt you?”

Y/N’s head snapped up then, lips curling into a dry smile. Her voice, though hoarse, was full of bite.

“As if that’ll scare me.”

That did something to Chan. He stared at her, long and sharp like she’d just said something personal. Something that stung more than it should. Then he gave a slow, humorless nod.

“Yeah. I know it won’t. Not coming from me.”

He shifted slightly… then jerked his head toward Changbin without taking his eyes off her.

“But from him?” He smiled. Cold and cruel.

“He’ll give you hell.” It was a cue. And Changbin didn’t hesitate.

In one fluid move, he stepped forward and slammed his fist directly into her gut hard. The kind of punch meant to break ribs.

Y/N folded immediately with a guttural gasp, her breath ripped from her lungs as she dropped to her knees, coughing violently, body wracked with pain. She clutched her stomach, trying to breathe, trying to stay conscious, even as her vision blurred at the edges.

She didn’t even get the chance to curl in on herself before a boot connected with her side, flipping her onto her back.

Thud.

A sickening groan left her lips as she hit the floor. Chan stepped over her, planting one foot firmly on her chest, pressing down enough to keep her grounded not enough to crush her, but enough to remind her of who held power.

The barrel of the gun pointed directly at her face, inches from her lips.

“One more time,” Chan growled, voice coated in venom.

“Who are you working with?”

Her breaths came in stutters now, but the fire in her eyes was still there dimmed by pain, but not extinguished. She didn’t want to say it. She didn’t want to give them anything. But with her lungs burning and the gun trembling slightly against her forehead—

She cracked.

“…Kallisto,” she muttered, voice rough.

Chan’s brow ticked. She coughed again, chest heaving. “Petrov…” Changbin cursed behind them, his voice sharp. “Fucking hell.”

But Chan didn’t react to either of those names.

Not until—

“…Oscar.”

The room fell silent. A beat passed.

And Chan… froze. Just for a second. Like time had stuttered. His hand holding the gun went still. The pressure on her chest stayed but lost intention. His face drained of emotion not anger, not surprise. Something worse.

Recognition.

His gaze didn’t flicker. But she felt it.

He knew that name. She lay there, limp against the cold floor, Chan’s boot finally off her, but the weight of his stare somehow heavier than anything physical. He hadn’t moved. Not really. Just stood there… frozen. At that name.

Oscar.

Y/N swallowed through the tension in her throat and rasped out, “…You know her.” Chan’s eyes, dark and unreadable, flickered. His jaw tightened. He looked like someone dragging himself through memory-laced quicksand.

“Used to.” His voice was hoarse. Sharp. Like it cost him something to say it.

Changbin straightened, brow furrowed. His tone more clipped now, more interrogator than teammate.

“Clarify. Why were you sent on this mission, Y/N?” She coughed once, hard, wiping a line of blood from her bottom lip. But she sat up. Slow. Painfully slow. She knew there was no escaping now. No charm. No witty escape plan. So, she spoke.

“I was sent to infiltrate Chan,” she said, looking down at her hands. “Get close. Watch his movements. Observe the FBI’s operations from the inside—everything tied to Operation Nightfall.”

Silence. Then she added, almost bitterly—

“…Seungmin dying wasn’t part of the plan.” The second that name left her lips, Chan snapped.

“Don’t fucking say that name!”

His voice thundered across the room like a gunshot. Y/N flinched. His hands were shaking now. Not from fear. But from rage that sat too close to pain. Changbin cut through the tension, his voice lower but firmer.

“Be honest with me, Y/N. Did you actually think he wouldn’t find out?”

She paused. Swallowed. And said quietly:

“A part of me hoped… he wouldn’t have to.”

Chan let out a bitter laugh. Then he sat down heavily at the edge of the bed. His shoulders hunched forward, elbows on his knees. Gun resting loosely in his hand. For a moment, he didn’t speak. And then… he did.

“You know what’s funny?” His voice was raw now, stripped of everything but honesty. “A part of me really started to like you.”

Y/N’s eyes flicked to his face but he didn’t look at her. He was staring at the floor like it held the truth he didn’t want to face. “Jisung told me to trust you,” he murmured. “And I did. Against every instinct I had. I let my guard down. I let you in. You got to know me, my team, my fucking people—”

He paused, a muscle in his jaw tightening.

“—and look how you stabbed me in the back.”

Y/N opened her mouth, voice trembling. “Chan… I’m sorry.”

But he looked up at her sharply, eyes blazing.

“No.” His voice cut like glass. “You don’t get to be sorry. You don’t get to say that when you had it all figured out from the beginning. When everything you ever said to me — everything you ever touched — was a move on a goddamn board.”

He stood suddenly, walking a few steps forward before turning on her with fire in his chest.

“I fucking liked you, Y/N.”

Silence dropped like a bomb. And it was the kind of silence that could bruise. The kind that said this hurts more than anything you could’ve done physically. Y/N sat there on the floor now, her hands trembling but clenched into fists in her lap. Her bruised ribs ached with every breath, but none of that compared to the hollow storm twisting inside her chest. Her eyes burned. But she wouldn’t let herself cry. Not now. Not in front of him.

She tried… God, she tried to speak.

“I wanted to tell you everything that day at your hideout.” Her voice came out low, uneven. “The day the Russians found me… the way decided to help me. You didn’t even hesitate. You didn’t know who I was, you didn’t owe me a thing, but you shielded me.”

Chan didn’t look at her. He didn’t flinch. Just stood there. Cold. Quiet. The gun still dangling at his side, forgotten but not entirely harmless. She swallowed hard and pushed forward.

“That was when something changed. For the first time, I thought… maybe I don’t have to finish this mission.”

“But you didn’t.” Chan’s voice was like frost. He turned slightly, just enough for her to see the outline of his clenched jaw. “You made a choice. Over and over again, you chose them.” Y/N’s eyes flickered, but she nodded slowly.

“I know. I know I did. And I’ll live with that. But don’t think for one second that it was easy—”

“What were you planning to do once we got to HQ, huh?” Chan cut her off, his words laced with venom. He turned now, fully, finally meeting her eyes. His stare was fire, pure and scorched. “Were you going to hand me over? Meet with Petrov in the shadows while I walked into a goddamn trap? Sit back and watch while I got torn apart?”

The silence stretched. It was suffocating. A breath caught in her throat, shaking her whole chest.

And then she whispered it.

“…I was going to kill you.”

The words shattered something in the room. Chan didn’t speak. Not right away. His eyes locked with hers like he was waiting for a punchline that never came. And when it didn’t…

Something in him broke.

“You were going to kill me?” He said it quietly, almost like he couldn’t believe it himself. Then he laughed a bitter, broken sound. “Wow. You really had it all figured out, didn’t you?” She straightened a bit. Forced herself to stay composed.

“I did what I had to. I came this far—”

“Don’t.” He stepped toward her, eyes blazing now, jaw clenched so hard she thought it might snap. “Don’t sit there and look me in the face like you’re proud of what you did.”

She froze. Her mouth parted slightly but the words didn’t come.

“You played me,” he said. “You let me trust you, let me feel something for you, and the whole time you were walking around with a knife aimed at my back.”

And then, like he needed her to feel it — to bleed from it — he dropped the last blade.

“I would’ve died for you, Y/N.”

She flinched. The last piece of her pride cracked clean down the middle. The part of her that wore the mission like armor? Gone. The part of her that believed she could survive this without consequence? Disintegrated.

Because in that moment…

She was just Y/N. And she’d broken the only person who ever looked at her like she was more than a weapon. The air in the room was dense and heavy with the weight of everything they didn’t say in time, and everything that had been said far too late. Y/N’s voice cracked, rising from her chest like a scream bottled up for far too long.

“But you can’t care for anybody!” she snapped, eyes glistening with rage and heartbreak. “The minute someone tries to get too close, you push them away. Just like you did to me!”

Chan whipped his head toward her, jaw tightening like he’d just been slapped. His chest rose and fell hard.

“You told me after this mission, you had no one waiting for you—no one to go back to,” she said, stepping toward him despite the pain lacing her ribs. Her voice dropped, more fragile now. “But you would’ve had me. And you had no fucking idea how much I wanted you to stay alive. How much I—”

“Don’t you dare,” Chan growled, pointing at her now, his voice low and cutting. “Don’t try to play the blame game like you wouldn’t have caused my death yourself.”

“Oh my God, can you just—”

“This is exactly why I don’t let people in!” Chan exploded, pacing like he was trying to shake off every emotion threatening to drag him under. “Because people like you don’t get attached, they play attached. You make people feel seen just so it’ll hurt more when you pull the damn trigger.”

His voice was hoarse. His pain wasn’t loud—it was laced in the fury, quiet and sharp. He couldn’t even look at her anymore.

“ENOUGH.”

Changbin’s voice cut through the storm like a gunshot. He shoved Chan hard in the chest, sending him stumbling back a step. “This isn’t fucking therapy for you two to air out all your relationship problems!” he barked. “We need to focus. We’re in deep shit, and she—” he gestured sharply at Y/N, “is the reason we’re neck-deep in it.”

Without breaking stride, Changbin stalked to a nearby drawer, yanked it open, and pulled out a pair of cold, metallic handcuffs. He marched back, face stone-cold, and without hesitation, snapped them around Y/N’s wrists.

“You’re staying here,” he said darkly, locking the cuffs to the exposed bedframe. “Until we figure out how to clean up this mess you dropped on our doorstep.”

She didn’t fight. Not because she was weak, but what was left to fight for? Chan stood still, chest heaving, but something in his eyes dimmed. Like he couldn’t take looking at her any longer.

“Chan. Out,” Changbin ordered, voice curt.

There was a pause. A painful silence. And then Chan left, slamming the door behind him. Y/N sat cuffed, back pressed to the bedpost, her legs tucked close. Her eyes stayed on the door. Not because she expected him to come back—but because a part of her wished he would.

She whispered after a beat, voice barely above a whisper. “If I could change it… I would.”

Changbin turned halfway to look at her. His eyes weren’t angry anymore just exhausted. Disappointed.

“Well it’s too late for that now, isn’t it?” he muttered. Then he left. The lock clicked behind him. And she was alone.

---

The light in the apartment was warm now almost cozy. Jisung sat cross-legged on his chair, hoodie sleeves rolled halfway up, coding glasses perched on his nose. His fingers were flying across the keyboard, finalizing the last sequence of the fake FBI identification profile for Chan. A flash of satisfaction crossed his face as the ID rendered fully on screen, complete with federal clearance metadata and a fabricated work history that could fool the Director herself.

“Boom. I am a god,” he muttered, smirking. He leaned back with a soft exhale, stretching his fingers.

And then,

knock knock.

His eyes flicked to the door. His smirk turned into a casual smile. “Babe, you do know you have the keys too, right?” Jisung called out, chuckling to himself as he stood up. “Why you knocking like we just started dating?”

Another knock.

This time, sharper.

He paused mid-step. Head tilted, brows furrowed. Something about that second knock didn’t sit right, it wasn’t Minho’s rhythm. Minho always tapped twice, waited, and then hit the door with his foot if Jisung didn’t open fast enough. This knock was…mechanical.

Jisung didn’t waste time. He stepped backwards quickly and slid behind the desk, typing a short command:

> clear --maskall

His screen instantly shifted, files vanishing into encrypted archives. In their place, a clean desktop with nothing but a blank gaming emulator blinking innocently. One more command flipped on the webcam blocker. “Minho?” he called again, voice softer now, edged with a note of caution. “You carrying groceries or something? You want me to open up?”

He kept his tone playful, but his hands moved fast. He opened the drawer beside the desk and pulled out a Glock, quietly sliding the magazine in, each click a quiet heartbeat against the tension crawling up his spine.

Another knock. Slower now. Taunting.

He walked to the door, hand with the gun tucked behind his thigh. Carefully, calculated. He cracked his neck before grabbing the doorknob and yanked the door open with a forced smile still on his lips.

The smile dropped.

Standing at the door was Reynolds. Tall, calm, eyes scanning Jisung like a hawk. His posture was too relaxed. His hands were in his coat pockets.

“Hey, Jisung.” A pause. Then Reynolds tilted his head with the faintest of smirks. “I’m sorry, but Minho won’t be around for a while.”

His voice was soft. Too soft. It made the hair on Jisung’s arms stand.

“Mind if we have a little chat?” Jisung didn’t respond right away. His mouth opened slightly, a faint, dry breath catching on his tongue.

“...Shit.”

That was all he could say.

He didn’t lower the gun. He didn’t lift it either. He was calculating heart racing but mind working overtime.

Reynolds stepped in like he owned the place. The door clicked shut behind him with a dull thud. The older man’s eyes roamed the room, swift, analytical, taking mental inventory of everything. Jisung stayed where he was, hand still gripping the gun behind his back.

“I imagine you would’ve shot me if you had to,” Reynolds said casually, not even glancing Jisung’s way as he strolled toward the living room. His tone was light, amused. Like they were old friends sharing a private joke. Jisung didn’t smile. He didn’t blink. His voice came out low and tight. “What the fuck did you do to Minho?”

That stopped Reynolds mid-step. He turned his head over his shoulder, lips curling slightly.

“Oh, nothing serious.” A beat. Then, with a shrug “Just a little bit of ketamine. He’ll wake up in about six hours, give or take.” His brows lifted. “I’m actually surprised he even recognized me.”

He plopped down on the couch like he paid rent there, exhaling a satisfied sigh as he leaned back, arms stretched lazily over the top cushions. “Got anything to drink?”

Jisung’s eyes narrowed.

“Yeah,” he sneered. “Nothing for dicks like you.” Reynolds snorted. “As expected,” He tapped his fingers once on the couch arm, then leaned forward, eyes suddenly sharpening.

“Do you know why I’m here?” Jisung’s laugh was dry and sarcastic. “Don’t be stupid. I don’t know shit.”

A pause. And then Reynolds looked right at him—still calm, still smiling—but something behind his eyes shifted. He leaned his elbows on his knees.

“I need your help.”

Jisung blinked. Then actually laughed. A real one this time. Sharp, high, disbelieving.

“Wait—you?” He pointed at him with his free hand. “You’re the same motherfucker that put a hit on me years ago. I was literally eating ramen and dodging bullets at the same time because of you.” He scoffed. “And now you wanna come into my house, drug my boyfriend, and ask for help? You’ve got an entire agency full of robots and jackasses with security clearance to do your dirty work.” Jisung’s voice darkened. “Why the hell would I help you?”

Reynolds didn’t flinch.

Instead, he sat back. “Because,” he said evenly, voice devoid of humor now,

“As much as I hate to admit it... if you don’t help me...”

He looked Jisung dead in the eye.

“Chan dies.”

The air shifted. Jisung’s stomach dropped. The laugh died on his lips. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, it was cold. Like the room had been dipped in ice water. His fingers loosened slightly on the grip of the gun, but his heart was thundering now.

He didn’t respond. Not yet.

Reynolds just waited.

Jisung blinked once—slowly—then lowered the gun behind his back and stepped toward the living room, still cautious, still brimming with doubt. He stayed standing, arms folded tight over his chest.

“Explain.” His tone wasn’t polite. It was a demand.

Reynolds sat forward, hands clasped loosely between his knees. His voice was low, like confessing to something he’d buried for years.

“Petrov and I... we were working together,” he began. “After Nightfall collapsed, there was a secondary protocol. A contingency... one born from its ashes.” He looked up, face unreadable. “It was meant to be a merger. Intelligence, biotech, and psychological warfare. A new frontier.”

Jisung’s expression hardened. His jaw clenched, but he stayed quiet.

“Then Chan turned up alive,” Reynolds continued. “And the plan started to shake. Everything Petrov wanted hinged on being the revolutionary mind behind the next generation of warfare. But Chan was a liability. A loose thread from a project everyone thought burned to the ground.”

He sighed.

“Petrov kept his part of the deal. He stayed in the shadows, pushing approvals, consolidating power. But then...” His voice dipped. “Then Oscar entered the picture.”

Jisung’s brow creased.

“Oscar’s not just a cleaner. She’s a strategist. A manipulator. She’s one of Petrov’s failsafes. Ever since she showed up and joined the team, I’ve started to feel like I’m the one being watched. Controlled.” He glanced around the apartment like ghosts might be watching.

“Petrov might be planning to double-cross me. I can’t prove it—but I know him. He won’t go down quietly. He’ll take me out if it gets him further.”

Jisung shook his head slowly, tone cold “So you wanna beat him to the punch.”

Reynolds nodded once. Jisung narrowed his eyes. “And how the hell does that involve me? Or Chan?” The silence cracked like ice under pressure. Reynolds stood up, slow, as if the next words needed gravity. “Chan is... preferably going to be used as bait.”

Jisung froze.

His voice, when it came, was tight with restrained fury. “What the hell does that mean?”

Reynolds looked him dead in the eye.

“When Petrov—or rather, when Y/N—kills Chan, it’ll trigger a media storm. The world would zero in on the assassination of a presumed-dead agent. It’ll distract everyone.”

Jisung’s stomach churned. The pieces were clicking too fast. “While the headlines scream about Chan,” Reynolds continued, “Petrov uses that chaos to gain final approval on the project. He gets full jurisdiction, access, and no oversight.”

“You’re telling me he’s gonna use Chan’s death as a diversion for his little Frankenstein project?”

“Exactly.”

Reynolds stepped forward. “And I don’t want Petrov at the helm. Because if he is, he won’t just stop at psychological warfare or biotech. He’ll push it into human experimentation. Civilian trials. Indoctrination on a scale you and I can’t imagine.” Jisung swore under his breath. Loud. Violent.

“Fuck politics,” he muttered, dragging his hands through his hair. Then he looked up, fire lighting behind his eyes. “So let me get this straight—”

He stepped forward.

“You want me to help you stop Petrov before he double-crosses you, by keeping Chan alive long enough to not become a goddamn martyr... while also sabotaging a black ops Frankenstein project that was never supposed to exist... and you want me to do this because you suddenly grew a conscience?”

A long, loaded silence. Reynolds didn’t blink.

“As much as I hate asking...” He let out a slow breath.

“Yes. I need you.”

Jisung stood still for a long time. His mind raced. A thousand versions of no flickered through his brain.

But the thought of Chan—bleeding, dead, used like a fucking headline—and Y/N standing over him?

Yeah. That did it. He clenched his jaw.

“Then let’s be very clear, Reynolds...” His voice was low, dangerous.

“If I do this—it’s not for you. It’s for Chan. You try to use me, betray me, or even look at Minho the wrong way again...”

He stepped toe to toe with him.

“I’ll burn your entire legacy down with a fucking USB stick and a tweet.”

Reynolds grinned faintly. “Atta boy.”

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[mrsha-ang-kim]

𝐏𝐮𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐔𝐩 𝐊𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐬

pairings: kid!chan x kid!seungmin x teacher!afab!reader, age swap au (if thats what it can be called, idk)

Synopsis: another day at work and today you have dinosaurs to deal with...

Warnings: fluff, a lott of kid stuff, educational domesticity if you will, age difference, cringe (just a teeny tiny smudge), chan is hyperactive and minnie is not, ft. minho, mentions of jeongin and jisung

a/n: yes yes inspired from skz code ep. 61-62~, note that the only age differenced people are chan and seungmin, if you have extra eyes for errors no you wouldn't.

The morning sun filtered gently through the kindergarten windows, dancing against the colorful alphabet banners and storybook posters that lined the cheerful room. The scent of crayons, juice boxes, and morning dew hung softly in the air. Laughter and tiny voices bubbled around the entrance as sleepy-eyed kids were being dropped off one by one, each with backpacks half their size and matching shoes that lit up when they walked.

You stood at the door of your classroom, already bright-eyed, sipping from a cup of coffee as you chatted with another teacher about the schedule for the day. Your olive-green dress swayed slightly as you laughed softly, gesturing animatedly toward the bulletin board where tiny handprints were drying under laminated stars.

Just outside, little Chan was being carefully adjusted and secured by his mom. His curly brown hair was slightly tousled, and his cheeks were still puffy from sleep. His eyes, though, lit up the second he caught sight of you at the doorway. “엄마~ 빨리~ 저기 선생님이 보여!” Mom~ hurry~ I see teacher over there!

“찬아, 가만있어 봐. 가방부터 메야지.” Chan, hold on. You need to put on your backpack first. He squirmed impatiently as his mom crouched down, gently looping the bright red straps of his tiny bag onto his shoulders. Inside, his lunch was already neatly packed with character-themed utensils and a juice pouch that she had double-checked at least twice.

“오늘 학교에서 착하게 있어야 해, 알았지?” You have to be good at school today, okay?

Chan looked up at her, lips pouting for a second before he nodded firmly, puffing up like a tiny soldier. “약속할게, 엄마.” I promise, mommy. She smiled and kissed his forehead. He giggled, face scrunching up, and then shouted,

“안녕, 엄마~!!” "Bye, mommy~!! Before she could say another word, he bolted. You turned slightly as a sudden squeal of tiny sneakers hitting the tile echoed. Before you could brace yourself, a small body barreled into you with all the force a four-year-old could muster.

“SEONSAENGNIMMMM!!!”

“Wha—oof!” you gasped, stumbling back half a step, your coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim.

Your arms instinctively came down to stabilize him, but Chan had already wrapped his arms around your legs like a human koala, cheek pressing into the fabric of your dress. He was beaming. “Miss L/N!! I missed you!!” The other teacher chuckled behind her hand while you balanced your drink and gently ran a hand through Chan’s hair, heart already melting at the dramatic reunion.

“Good morning, Chan,” you said, crouching down to his level. “You saw me yesterday, baby.” He gave a huff, like that technicality meant absolutely nothing. “But I missed you all night!”

“Aw, that’s so sweet of you,” you smiled, pressing a quick peck to the top of his head. “You ready for a fun day?” He nodded enthusiastically, bouncing on his toes. “Is Seungmin here yet?! I brought my car to show him!”

You grinned. “Not yet, baby. But he’s coming soon. Want to help me get the markers out while we wait?”

His eyes sparkled like it was the most elite mission of the day. “YES!” And just like that, Chan was already skipping to the art corner, humming a tune as he went, leaving behind a mom who was smiling from the hallway. It was only 8:03 AM. The door creaked open again as another set of small footsteps shuffled down the brightly lit hallway. A little boy with bedhead bangs and slightly squinty eyes waddled his way into the school, his mom gently guiding him with one hand on his backpack.

Seungmin wasn’t mad, per se. He was just in that special morning mood, equal parts sleepy, skeptical, and silently judging the world for daring to exist before 9 a.m. His tiny blue hoodie was zipped all the way up, his backpack sat slightly crooked on his shoulders, and clutched in his left arm with deadly importance was a bright green dinosaur plushie.

His mom bent down to brush his hair gently with her fingers.

"민아, 오늘도 화이팅해야지~ 엄마가 제일 사랑하는 거 알지?" Min, let's do your best today~ You know mommy loves you the most, right? He gave her a squinty nod, lips still in a tight little pout, before muttering, "사랑해, 엄마..." "Love you, mom..."

Then, he turned and trudged toward the classroom like a little duck with a backpack full of taxes to pay. But the moment he stepped past the doorway, “SEUNGMINNNNN!!!” Chan’s voice rang out like a siren from across the room.

Seungmin’s head snapped up like a radar. His pout twitched. There was Chan, standing on his tiptoes on a stool near the art shelf, already waving a red toy car in one hand like it was a prized trophy. His curls bounced with every movement, and he grinned so wide it could’ve powered the classroom lights.

Seungmin didn’t respond immediately. But his steps picked up. That twitch of his pout became a half-smile. And by the time he made it to Chan’s side, the plush dinosaur was swinging freely from his arm, no longer clutched like a security blanket but more like a sidekick ready to fight crime.

You watched them from your spot near the whiteboard, biting back a smile as Chan immediately launched into a detailed explanation of how the toy car “goes zoom like this on the dinosaur slide,” complete with sound effects and hand motions. Seungmin listened with his usual quiet intensity, occasionally correcting Chan’s sound physics with a serious headshake and a muttered, “That’s not how wheels work.”

But before the Great Toy Car Debate of the Morning could fully escalate, the clock struck 8:30, and a soft melody began to chime from the wall-mounted speakers—the school’s first bell of the day. You took a step forward, clapped your hands once loudly, then raised your arms dramatically in the air.

“1… 2… eyes on YOUUUU~!”

A chorus of tiny voices chirped back automatically, as trained:

“1… 2… eyes on YOOOOUUUU~!”

You grinned. “Good job, my little babies. It’s time to get this magical Wednesday started!”

You watched as the group of kids started to gather around, some wobbling with excitement, others still stretching like sleepy cats. You crouched to eye level and continued with a warm, theatrical voice, “Let’s start by putting your lunches and backpacks in your special lockers! Remember, only one buddy gets to hang out with you during class,” you said, gesturing toward Seungmin and his beloved dinosaur with a wink. “Everyone else goes to nap-nap town until break time, okay?”

A chorus of “okay!!” and some very serious nodding followed.

Chan carefully zipped his backpack and skipped over to his cubby, gently patting it like he was tucking in a sleeping bag. Seungmin took a little more time, checking that his lunch box was exactly aligned in the center of his locker, then gave his dinosaur a slight bounce and nestled him in the crook of his arm like a knight preparing for battle.

Once everyone was seated on their floor mats in front of you, you clapped your hands in rhythm again.

“Now~! Remember those awesome drawings I gave you on Monday? The ones with the cool shapes and blank spots ready for your super coloring skills?”

Gasps erupted like it was the announcement of the year. “Take them out of your folders, and let’s bring them up here so we can get coloring together. If anyone forgot theirs, don’t worry, Ms. L/N's got spares! Because Ms. L/N is awesome.”

Chan raised both hands. “You are awesome!!” Seungmin, still half-snuggled with his dinosaur, nodded solemnly. “She’s better than Ms. Cartoons.”

You blinked. “Who’s Ms. Cartoons?”

“Not important,” Seungmin muttered with authority.

You chuckled, shaking your head as you watched the kids scatter, retrieving their folders and bringing them to the front like little workers delivering secret missions.

The classroom was now filled with the sounds of crayons being unpacked, papers being straightened, and children sharing color choices with the diplomacy of tiny CEOs. The soft background music you always played during creative time began to float through the air, gentle piano notes over the sound of chattering imagination.

And just like that, the day had officially begun. The classroom buzzed with focus and faint humming, a patchwork of scribbling crayons, giggles, and the occasional gasp when someone discovered a new color in their crayon box, as if finding a secret treasure. You moved through the little jungle of floor mats and tiny plastic desks like a breeze of calm and color. Your voice was warm, your smile soft, and your hands gently adjusting posture or guiding a hand back inside the lines with practiced ease.

“Lily, sweetheart, remember the sky isn’t just blue…try adding some purple. That sunset you showed me last week had loads of purple, right?”

The curly-haired girl beamed and dug into her crayon pile, immediately declaring, “I’m gonna make a sunset unicorn now!!”

“Legendary,” you grinned and moved on. At one corner of the room, a student was drawing a robot with suspiciously long legs. “Whoa, Max! That robot could probably play basketball with those legs. Don’t forget his arms though, he needs balance or he’s gonna tip right over!”

You chuckled, setting a few fallen crayons back on tables as you floated through the aisles like a whimsical commander of calm chaos, adjusting name tags on desks, closing a few crooked lunch cubbies, and picking up a pair of tiny socks (why were there socks already?) and placing them neatly near the nap area.

As you approached the corner where Chan and Seungmin sat side-by-side, legs crisscrossed, crayons scattered you crouched down and rested your elbows gently on your knees.

“Wow… just wow.”

Chan lit up, immediately presenting his drawing with dramatic flair. “It’s a flying fire truck that sings while saving kittens!”

The paper was a colorful explosion of vivid reds, bright blues, glittery yellow streaks that definitely weren’t in the original set, and a suspicious use of purple on the windshield. You gasped. “Are you kidding me? That’s brilliant, Chan! You used so many colors and made them work together! This fire truck’s got fashion sense!”

Chan grinned like he’d just won an award. “It sings opera too.”

“Of course it does,” you said with a mock-serious nod, then turned to the boy next to him.

Seungmin didn’t look up right away. He was still focused, carefully coloring the tree canopy in his picture with a dark green crayon, slow and steady. His dinosaur plush was watching from beside him like a loyal coloring supervisor. But you noticed it right away, every shape within the lines, every tree, cloud, and bunny rabbit neat and intentional, like a little architect at work.

“Seungmin…” you said, your voice dipping into that sweet teacher-proud tone. “You stayed inside the lines perfectly. That’s some next-level coloring. I think your dino might be training you to be a professional illustrator.” He gave you a half-shy, half-smug smile. “I’m gonna be better than the people who make books.”

You tapped his paper gently. “Well, if this is your warm-up, the book world better be nervous.”

You stood up and stretched lightly, then walked over to your desk at the front of the room. On your way, you hit the small Bluetooth button on your speaker and soon the soft, bubbly intro of a cartoon theme song trickled through the air.

“Alright my little artists,” you announced in sing-song. “We’ve officially entered the ‘Color & Chill’ zone. Enjoy your tunes and finish strong!”

The music that played was a rotating mix of familiar childhood tunes and even an alphabet mash-up that made a few kids bob their heads in sync. One boy even stood and started doing a little penguin dance before sitting back down with a dramatic flair. At your desk, you pulled out your laptop and a stack of folders—classwork to log, lesson plans to skim. You sipped your coffee (now cold, of course—classic teacher problem), and began tapping away at your keyboard, stealing little glances up at the kiddos every now and then.

And slowly, like flowers coming to bloom one by one, the children began trickling up to your desk. Chan was first. Obviously.

“Ms. (L/N), do you want the fire truck to sing for you?”

You gasped. “I would be honored.”

He did the most dramatic, high-pitched aaaaAAAAH opera note a six-year-old could manage, waving his drawing in the air as if conducting an orchestra. You clapped like he’d just finished a symphony. “Incredible. That’s going straight to the class gallery.” Next was a shy little girl with a drawing of a cat with stars in its eyes. “It’s a magical dream kitty,” she whispered.

“I love her,” you whispered back. “Tell her I said she’s the moment.”

Then came Seungmin. Quiet, confident, offering his drawing with one hand and adjusting his dino with the other. No words. Just a stare.

You looked at the paper, then at him.

“Still better than the people who make books,” you said with a wink. A corner of his mouth tugged up in pride before he marched back to his seat. One by one, the papers stacked up on your desk like a colorful skyscraper of dreams and crayons. You made a mental note to hang them up on the classroom walls later today.

Just as you saved your document on the laptop and tucked the drawings safely into folders, the second bell rang. A sharper chime this time, the signal for lesson two. You stood up and clapped twice in rhythm.

“Alright my champions, take your seats at the big tables, it’s time for Alphabet Parade! Grab your pencils and put your brains in superhero mode!”

The kids scurried like excited squirrels, moving to the rounded tables where you’d already laid out tracing sheets and letter blocks. You caught Chan squirming excitedly in his seat and Seungmin rolling his eyes with a sigh, but still pulling out his pencil case like the responsible genius he was. And as the music faded out and the class settled into a new rhythm of tracing letters and learning sounds, you smiled softly to yourself.

The classroom was filled with the soft sounds of pencils scratching across tracing sheets, the occasional tongue peeking out in concentration, and a chorus of kids repeating after you in singsong rhythm.

“A is for apple!”

“B is for bear!”

“C is for... chocolate chips!” someone shouted, breaking formation.

You raised a playful brow. “Technically true, Sammy. But the official answer is cat. We’ll allow the snack bonus point though.”

They giggled, going back to their lettering, tiny hands gripping chubby pencils as they traced curvy lines on the lined paper sheets you’d prepped with glittery stickers at the corners.

You moved gently around the class like a helpful shadow, crouching down next to each child.

“Hold your pencil like a duck beak, remember?” you whispered, guiding a small hand.

“That’s a perfect C, Rosie! Even your crayon agrees—it’s practically glowing.” Chan had written his name vertically down the side of his sheet and added wings to every letter. “So they can fly into people’s dreams,” he said proudly.

“Well, I hope those dreams come with snacks,” you teased. Seungmin sat quiet as ever, his work pristinely neat. Every line measured, his lowercase ‘g’ looking better than the example you printed. He didn’t smile much while working but you noticed the small crinkle near his eyes when you ruffled his hair. You took mental notes of each student’s progress, occasionally adjusting posture, offering gentle praise, or redirecting wandering hands from poking friends’ faces.

Then the bell rang. And chaos broke loose.

“SNACK TIIIIIIME!!”

“YAAAY!!”

“I HAVE COOKIES!!”

“CHOCOLATE!!”

“CAN I SHARE?!”

“Whoa—WHOA!” you clapped twice. “Pause the snack stampede!”

The kids froze, mid-celebration, eyes wide and fingers still halfway to their caddies.

You smiled sweetly but stood with teacher authority full force. “If your papers aren’t stacked, you’ll have to wait while everyone else eats.” The groans came—but so did the movement. A flurry of paper stacking began, some neater than others, but all in earnest. You helped the slower ones while humming the Pororo theme under your breath.

Once the papers were tucked into your labeled folders, you gave a regal bow. “And now, I grant you, snack privilege.” Like puppies released into a dog park, the children scurried to the cubby shelves. Lids popped. Wrappers crinkled. Juice boxes hissed.

“Ms. L/N, can you open this?”

“Ms. L/N, my sandwich is squished.”

“My banana’s brown!”

You moved gracefully between them, like a multitasking fairy, helping twist off bottle caps, gently adjusting straws, peeling tangerines, and delivering napkins like golden tickets.

“Alright, my darlings. When you’re done, remember: trash dash! Let’s show the bins how strong we are, okay?”

A few kids flexed their arms dramatically while munching crackers. One even whispered, “I’m gonna body slam the juice box.” You chuckled and went to your desk, finally sitting down with a well-earned sigh. You pulled out your snack—cut fruit and a granola bar—and exhaled. The soft hum of chatter and chewing filled the air, peaceful and warm.

Until—

“STOOOOP!”

You looked up instantly.

Chan was standing by the art shelf, arms flailing, panic on his face. A few kids were laughing.

And then you saw Seungmin. Waddling toward you. His little lip trembling, tears streaming down his cheeks, clutching his favorite dinosaur, soaked and dripping with red juice, like it had survived a strawberry flood.

Your heart clenched. You dropped your granola bar instantly and rushed over, crouching to meet him halfway.

“Oh no, baby—what happened?”

He tried to speak but only managed a hiccuped sob, burying his face against your shoulder, sticky dino pressed to your chest. Chan stormed over, fists balled. “It was Toni! Seungmin said no, but he laughed and just poured juice all over dino! He said it was ‘ugly and weird’ and then everyone laughed!” You blinked once. Then twice. And slowly stood up, holding Seungmin in one arm like he weighed nothing.

“Toni,” you called, your voice calm but firm like a judge’s gavel. “Come. Here. Now.”

The class went silent. Toni eyes darting, but he came. You leveled him with a look. Not angry. But deep. Serious. Teacher-mode fully activated.

“Why did you pour juice on Seungmin’s toy?”

“I—he—he said it was real and I was just playing—” You cut him off with a single raised hand. “No. You don’t get to ruin someone’s thing and then say it was a game.”

He looked down. “I was just—”

“Not only did you destroy something he loves, but you hurt his feelings. That’s not funny. That’s unkind. You owe him an apology. Now.”

Toni mumbled, “Sorry.”

“Louder.”

“…Sorry, Seungmin.”

You nodded. “Thank you. Now give me your snacks.”

He hesitated. You raised a brow. He handed them over.

“And now you’re on time-out until further notice. You’ll sit in the quiet corner, and we’ll talk later. Go.” He trudged away, sulking. You returned to your chair, settling Seungmin in your lap gently, his face still warm and damp. You grabbed tissues and gently wiped his cheeks, brushing hair out of his eyes.

“Poor dino,” you whispered. “We’re gonna give him a spa day, okay?”

Seungmin hiccuped a giggle through the tears. “Spa day?”

You nodded solemnly. “Full shampoo, bubble soak, the whole package.” You cradled him close, slowly rocking your body as your hand stroked his back in slow, rhythmic circles. Chan came by and offered his cookie to Seungmin wordlessly.

Seungmin took it.

Peace returned. And you held him there for a while, just rocking, the class watching quietly—learning without even realizing.

The rest of the school day passed like a winding stream, gentle and calm after the earlier storm. The children moved through lessons with better focus. Seungmin stayed close to you for the remaining sessions, his little hand occasionally brushing yours under the desk or tugging at your sleeve when he needed help. You’d give him a small smile every time and he’d shyly look away but the closeness stayed. Even Chan had dialed his energy down, casting glances over every few minutes to check on his quieter friend.

When the final lesson of the afternoon was done, and the golden bell rang out for outdoor break, the kids practically launched from their seats, lunchboxes and little toys already in hand as they raced for the door like it was the starting line of a grand prix.

You trailed behind, tidying the corners of the room, checking your clipboard, and finally making your way to the playground in the mild afternoon sun. It wasn’t long before the familiar squeals of laughter, the clatter of plastic on pavement, and the bounce of rubber balls filled the air.

Your eyes scanned the group instinctively—your mental headcount automatic.

Then you saw him.

Seungmin.

Sitting alone on the edge of the sandbox, legs folded beneath him, his arms wrapped tightly around his knees. His chin was resting on his sleeve, and his eyes were watching the others without really watching. Chan was a blur near the tire swing, laughing with two other kids and running around with a flying superhero toy in one hand and a bouncy ball in the other. Classic Chan, full throttle, always orbiting the center of the fun.

But not Seungmin. You walked up gently, crouching beside him in a way that didn’t startle him, but slowly invited his attention. “Hey, my love,” you said softly, brushing some of his hair away from his face. “Why are you sitting here all by yourself?”

He shrugged at first, his eyes still trained on the playground. But then, with a small sniffle and that too-grown-up honesty he carried, he mumbled, “Chan’s playing but… I can’t go.”

“Why not, baby?” you asked, your voice warm.

He hesitated again, his eyes now fluttering down to his lap. “Dino’s ruined. He was gonna come with me today. We were gonna play explorer and spaceship… but now he’s all sticky and broken. And Chan’s using his own toys so I can’t play like we planned.”

You inhaled gently, your heart tugging again. You cupped his cheek. “I know that hurt a lot. I saw how much you love that dino.”

He nodded, small and silent. “But sweetheart, dino’s just getting some extra spa care. He’ll be back in business soon. And just because he’s taking a break doesn’t mean you have to, too.”

You stood, brushing off your knees, and raised your voice a bit—not yelling, just enough to carry. “Chan!” Your firecracker halted mid-jump, eyes darting over as he spotted you. “Yes, Ms. L/N?”

“Come here for a second, baby.”

Chan bounced over, toy still clutched in one hand. “What’s up?” You leaned down so both boys could hear you. “Seungmin’s feeling left out, and I know you’ve got plenty of toys to share. So I want you to pick one of your best ones and let him play with you, okay?”

Chan blinked. “Ohhh. Okay!” He instantly held out the superhero figurine, proud as ever. “This guy flies and makes punching sounds if you press here! You can be the hero, Minnie!”

But Seungmin didn’t reach for it. His voice was soft. “I want dino…”

You crouched again, gentle but firm. “I know, baby. But dino’s a little sticky monster right now, remember? He needs a rest. Just like we do when we cry or get too tired.”

Seungmin’s lower lip wobbled a little. You gave his knee a light tap. “So for now, I think we can try something new. Maybe pretend the superhero is helping dino on a secret mission while he’s recovering?”

Chan gasped. “Oh! Like he’s in a recovery cave! That’s what my mom calls it when I’m sick!” You smiled. “Exactly. What do you think, Seungmin?”

He looked at the toy, at Chan’s outstretched hand, and then back at you. You gave him a little nod—just enough reassurance that it was okay to let go of dino… just for a while.

“Okay…” he finally whispered.

Chan beamed and instantly grabbed Seungmin’s hand, pulling him up. “C’mon! You can name the hero! And we’ll make the recovery cave under the slide!” Seungmin followed, slower but with less weight in his shoulders. You watched as the two boys ran off, Chan’s boundless energy pulling Seungmin into orbit.

As they set up their “recovery cave” behind the slide, giggles started to bubble out of Seungmin again. Not loud—but enough. Enough to know the worst had passed.

You leaned against the fence, smiling to yourself, watching your class.

---

The sky had started to shift—soft golden hues stretching lazily across the clouds like melted butter, signaling the day’s end. The playground still echoed with laughter and the faint squeak of swings, but your internal clock knew it was time.

You clapped your hands twice in your signature rhythm. “Alright, my sweethearts! Break time’s over! Everyone come line up!”

A chorus of groans rang out like tiny thunderstorms, followed by the shuffle of reluctant sneakers. Some kids ran with speed, others dragged their feet as if they were being sent to prison, but all eventually gathered near you, giggling and whispering among themselves.

You gave them a warm smile, arms out. “Let’s head back and pack our bags, so we can go home to mommies, daddies, grannies, and all our favorite snacks, alright?”

The line of tired but happy little humans marched into the classroom with you. As you helped them one by one, you bent down to their levels, guiding tiny hands to zip up lunchboxes, helping repack crayon boxes that had exploded into bags, and making sure water bottles weren’t upside down (again).

One by one, they trickled out.

“Bye-bye, Miss L/N!”

“See you tomorrow!”

“Can we finish the rainbow puzzle next time?”

You waved at each one, crouching to give a high-five or a soft pat as they ran into their parents’ arms waiting at the doorway. The door opened again, letting in a gust of soft breeze and the tall, elegant frame of Mrs. Bang.

Her hair was pinned back neatly, her expression always that perfect balance of warmth and subtle fierceness. She scanned the room, and then her eyes softened.

“Channie-hyung!” she called, her voice sing-song, affectionate. Across the classroom, little Chan immediately froze mid-pack, then lit up like someone had flipped a switch inside him. “Omma!” he squealed, his little voice high with excitement.

He zipped his bag with uncoordinated speed, slung it over his back even though it was almost bigger than him, and skipped over to you first. “Bye, teacher!” he grinned, waving both hands. You crouched down and opened your arms. “Come here, Channie.”

He practically dove into your hug, his energy still bubbling. You kissed the top of his head and whispered, “You were such a good boy today. Thank you for helping Seungmin feel better.”

Chan beamed, dimples flashing. “I shared my superhero!”

“You did, baby. And I’m proud of you.”

He broke into a little run to his mom, who was already kneeling with her arms open wide. He flew into her with a crash, wrapping his arms around her neck and nuzzling into her coat. Mrs. Bang stood up after hugging him, straightening his bag with practiced hands before approaching you with a polite, curious smile.

“Good afternoon, Miss L/N,” she said warmly. “How was my Channie today?”

You let out a soft laugh, smoothing your hands down your dress. “He was wonderful—spirited, as always—but kind. We had a little situation with a classmate feeling down, and Chan stepped up to make him feel included.”

Her eyes softened. “That sounds like him.”

“He has a good heart,” you added, your smile gentle but honest. “He’s very bright, and full of life. You’re raising a sweetheart.” Mrs. Bang chuckled, brushing Chan’s bangs from his face. “He gets it from me,” she teased. “But also from his father, when he’s not being a stubborn goat.”

You laughed along with her, nodding knowingly. “They always are.” Mrs. Bang gave a grateful nod. “Thank you for taking care of him.”

“My pleasure,” you replied sincerely, waving at Chan again. “Bye, Channie! Rest up!”

“Bye, teacher!!” he shouted, already hopping on one foot toward the door. You stood at the entrance as more parents came in, one after the other, collecting their tiny humans. The classroom slowly emptied, the day winding down, and you exhaled softly.

The classroom had quieted down to a hum, just the rustle of paper, the occasional crinkle of snack wrappers being thrown away, and the squeak of your shoes as you moved about tidying. Most of your students had already left, and only a few little ones were still waiting, sitting in tiny chairs with sleepy eyes or scribbling on leftover coloring sheets.

At the far end of the room, Seungmin sat quietly at a table, hugging the now slightly-damp but lovingly cleaned dinosaur plushie you had placed in a small plastic bag for safety. His eyes were still a little pink, but his tiny pout had mostly faded, replaced by a quiet, clingy calm.

You glanced over every few seconds, just to check. Every time you did, Seungmin looked up and you’d give him a small smile or a little wink. He never smiled back, but that shy, grateful gaze said it all. Just then, the soft chime above the door jingled again. You turned your head, already recognizing the tall, slightly rushed but warm figure stepping into the room.

Mrs. Kim, Seungmin’s mom, with her workbag slung over her shoulder, still in her office heels, but eyes full of love.

“There’s my baby,” she sighed, her face lighting up.

Seungmin turned toward her slowly, standing from the chair but not rushing like Chan had. He just clutched his dinosaur close and walked up to her quietly.

“Seungmin-ah,” she greeted, kneeling down and opening her arms.

He finally moved faster, waddling right into her hug, his little voice muffled as he said, “Omma…”

You walked over with a soft smile, crouching beside them with the plastic-wrapped dino in hand. “Hi, Mrs. Kim,” you greeted politely. “Seungmin had a little bit of a rough patch today... there was an incident during snack time where another student spilled juice on his toy.” Mrs. Kim’s face fell as she looked down at the bag. “Oh no... not Dino.”

You nodded gently, holding it out to her. “We did a quick surface clean with safe wipes, but it might need a more thorough wash at home. He was very brave today, though. I just ask that it gets cleaned carefully, so he can have it back tomorrow if possible.”

Mrs. Kim took the bag with both hands, pressing her lips together with a soft expression. “Thank you so much for taking care of him.” You gave Seungmin a light tap on his shoulder. “He was strong—and he stayed respectful, even while upset. I’m really proud of him.”

Mrs. Kim wrapped an arm around her son, who now stood half-shielded behind her legs but still listening. “I’ll clean Dino tonight, sweetheart, okay? He’ll be good as new.”

Seungmin looked up at her, then at you, and gave a tiny nod. You winked again. “Good boy.” Mrs. Kim straightened and smiled gratefully. “You’re wonderful, thank you. He talks about you every day.”

“I’m lucky to have him in class,” you replied softly, brushing some hair behind your ear. “He’s a sweet one. A little grumpy sometimes... but in a good way.”

She laughed quietly. “That sounds like his dad.” As she took Seungmin’s hand and led him toward the door, he looked back once more and gave you a small wave.

You raised your hand and wiggled your fingers. “Bye, Seungmin. See you and Dino tomorrow!” He didn’t say anything, but his lips curled into a tiny smile before they disappeared out the door.

---

The final bell had long since faded, replaced by the chirping of distant birds outside and the occasional squeak of sneakers echoing through the now-empty hallways.

You stood near the door of your classroom, hand on the light switch, giving the room one last glance. The chairs were stacked, the little desks wiped clean, crayon boxes sorted back into bins, and the whiteboard erased except for a corner that still had a small doodle.

You smiled quietly. “Another day,” you murmured to yourself, flicking the lights off with a soft click.

Your key jingled as you locked the door behind you, taking a moment to press your hand against it. It was silly, maybe, but there was something sacred about that classroom. It was more than four walls it was a world. A tiny, loud, emotional, chaotic, heart-melting world.

As you walked through the hallway, your tote bag hit your hip with each step. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and the school was nearly silent now, save for the custodian humming a tune as he swept a corner of the lobby. You gave him a wave and a tired smile as you pushed the glass door open and stepped into the warm early evening air.

The sun was just beginning to dip, casting golden streaks across the pavement as you crossed the parking lot. Your car sat in its usual spot, dusty but reliable. You unlocked it with a beep, slid in, and let out a sigh as your back hit the seat.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

You tossed your bag into the passenger seat and started the engine, the soft hum of it breaking the quiet as music spilled faintly from the speakers something mellow and familiar. You tapped the wheel absentmindedly as you drove, your mind replaying the day. Chan’s energetic hug. Seungmin’s quiet tears. That juice-covered dinosaur. Toni’s pouting time-out. Laughter during alphabet games. Snack crumbs everywhere.

And the way Seungmin looked at you when you told him you were proud of him.

Your heart softened all over again.

The drive wasn’t long, just enough for your mind to slowly unwind. And as your stomach gave a low, growling reminder, you made a detour to a nearby convenience mart. You walked through the sliding doors, grabbing a quick dinner—a warm bento, a small salad, and a bottle of banana milk because… well, you deserved a little treat after surviving alphabet madness and juice warfare.

The cashier, a quiet teenager who recognized you by now, gave you a small nod as you paid.

“Long day?” he asked. You chuckled, leaning your elbow on the counter. “The dinosaurs were harmed in the making of today’s episode.”

He blinked. “…What?”

You just winked and grabbed your bag. “Don’t worry, I’m a professional.” Back in your car, dinner on the seat beside you, you finally pulled into your apartment parking spot. The sky was fading into twilight now, casting a pinkish hue across the cityscape.

Another day survived. Another day you wouldn’t trade for anything.

You sat there for just a second longer, letting yourself breathe before heading inside.

The apartment door creaked softly as you pushed it open, your key jangling in the lock as you stepped inside, arms loaded with your bag and the little plastic bag of convenience store dinner.

Warm light spilled from the kitchen, golden and inviting, and the scent hit you immediately soy sauce, sesame oil, something sizzling and slightly spicy. Your stomach did a flip.

You barely got your shoes off before a voice floated in from the kitchen.

"Don’t tell me that’s store food." The tone was dry. Accusing. Familiar. You peeked your head in, already caught red-handed, lips tugging into a sheepish smile.

Lee Know was standing by the stove, sleeves rolled up, dish towel flung over one shoulder, brow arched in full judgment mode. His apron read “Stay hungry, not messy.” Irony.

You held up the plastic bag like a surrender flag. “I panicked. I was hungry and emotionally compromised. A dinosaur was assaulted today.”

He blinked. “...What?”

You kicked the door shut behind you and wandered in. “It’s a long story. Dino juice. Tears. A child named Toni will not be welcomed in the Kingdom of Kindness for a while.” Minho groaned as he wiped his hands and came over, taking the plastic bag from you like it was radioactive waste.

“No. Out. I made dinner. A real one.” You opened your mouth, but he was already placing the bag on the far end of the counter like he was exiling it.

“Babe—”

“Nope,” he said, popping the "p" as he turned to grab two plates, already set with spicy pork bulgogi, rice, pickled radish, and a soft rolled egg on the side. “You don’t get to eat preschool cafeteria substitute food when I spent an hour listening to music and slicing garlic with love.”

You laughed, heart melting a little as you sat down at the dining table. “Okay, okay. I surrender to your culinary dominance.”

“Damn right you do.” He smirked, placing the plate in front of you like a proud chef before grabbing his own and settling across from you. For a few minutes, it was quiet save for the clink of utensils and the soft music playing from his phone. You moaned softly around a bite of rice.

“This is so good, babe…”

Minho’s expression softened as he chewed, the little crease between his brows finally relaxing. “I know.”

But then, halfway through his bite, he pushed his chair back, stood, and rounded the table. Your eyes followed him, confused—until he slid behind your chair and leaned down.

Warm hands cupped your shoulders. Soft lips brushed your cheek first. Then a slow, lingering kiss pressed into your temple.

His voice dropped gentle, low, affectionate.

“How was your day, sweetheart?”

You leaned into his touch, letting your eyes close for just a second. The weight of the day melted beneath the heat of his hands, the press of his kiss, the steadiness in his voice.

“Long,” you whispered. “But… better now.”

He kissed your cheek one more time, then rested his chin on your head, arms loosely draped around you. “You did well today,” he murmured. “Even if you did almost betray my cooking.” You chuckled, tilting your head back slightly to glance up at him. “I’ll repent through dessert. You pick.”

He smirked. “That convenience store banana milk in your bag? Mine now.” You gasped, playfully offended, and he walked back to his seat with a wink.

Home, you thought as you watched him eat. This was home.

---

Dinner plates were cleared, chopsticks rinsed, and your boyfriend—domestic king and culinary tyrant—was now stretched out on the couch, one arm behind his head and a smug grin on his face as you packed away your folders onto the coffee table.

The clock ticked lazily toward 9PM, the glow of your desk lamp casting a soft halo over the paperwork you’d carried home. "Baby," Minho called, voice half-asleep already, "you’re still working?"

You didn’t look up, red pen in hand as you flipped through a coloring sheet that had been more crayon massacre than art. “Just a few notes… I’m prepping the alphabet activity for tomorrow. Gotta laminate the ‘letter of the day’ cards.”

"That sounds fake and exhausting," he said, deadpan.

You chuckled softly, not even disagreeing. “You wouldn’t survive a day with my kids.”

“Excuse you,” he said with mock offense, propping himself up on his elbows. “I’ve babysat Jeongin and Jisung. That’s elite-level chaos.”

You hummed, unconvinced. “Yeah, but did either of them ever cry because someone poured juice on their dinosaur plushie?”

“…Okay, point made.” You heard him shuffle up off the couch and pad into the hallway. After a few seconds, his voice called out again muffled by a toothbrush.

“Don’t stay up too long!”

“I won’t!” you replied, even though you absolutely were. Ten minutes later, Minho reappeared, now in a soft black t-shirt and grey sweats, his hair damp and freshly towel-dried. He looked like someone who was about to get eight hours of sleep and still act bitchy in the morning.

He walked over and pressed a goodnight kiss to your head. “I’m going to bed. You coming?” You sighed, dragging a hand down your face. “Give me twenty. I’ll finish this and join you.”

He hovered for a second, then leaned down and whispered into your ear, “Don’t make me come back out here and carry you.”

You smirked. “Is that a threat or a promise?” He groaned and pointed at you. “Don’t tempt me, woman.” Then he disappeared down the hall, mumbling something about you being a menace with a pretty smile.

The apartment settled into a hush, just the hum of your laptop, the tick of the wall clock, and your pen sliding across tomorrow’s prep sheets.

You let out a quiet breath.

Your day had been long. Sticky fingers, crayon chaos, juice spills, tantrums, giggles, alphabet songs and glitter. But here—in the quiet hum of your home, the glow of your lamp, the knowledge that Minho was in the next room waiting—you finally felt peace.

Just one more worksheet, you told yourself.

Then bed.

Then love.

Then tomorrow.

wEl'L uSe ThE PoWeR oF FrIeNdShIp!!

Please note that this was a duo fic and so the taglists for both members were added, if your handle is repeated here, I am terribly sorry but I was wayyyy to lazy to sort and order.

@whatdoyouwanttocallmefor @pessimisticloather @alisonyus @rockstarkkami @morkleesgirl @yooingiismylove2018 @imeverycliche @katchowbbie @pixie-felix @maisyyyyyy @katyxstay @day138 @necrozica @nebugalaxy @strsforjsb @iknowyouknowminho @imagine-all-the-imagines @jc27s @igotajuicyass @jitrulyslayyed @sh0dor1 @idiotmaterial @leeknow-minho2 @btskzfav @glenda2107-blog @jeonginnieswifey @makeawitchoutofme @nikki143777 @sharnnnnnn @akindaflora @chungdol @lillymochilover @lixies-favourite-cookie @heartsbystars @idol-dream-catcher @iknow-uknow-leeknow @rachmmb @min-doesnt-know @maxidential @ebnabi  @aiden2708 @burntbang @therealmrsbahng @ari-hwanggg @xxxxmoonlightxxx @rossy1080 @hanniebunch @tricky-ritz @woozarts @Zerillia @lveegsoi @queenofdumbfuckery @intartaruguinha @lorialia  @btch8008s @jamroses @hhwangsmoon @pnkcasket @alix-nai @geni-627 @sspersonally @dolphin-scream-s @enhacolor @possum_playground @pinkflowerdream

@lillymochilover @imeverycliche @pessimisticloather @iknow-uknow-leeknow @burntbang @ari-hwanggg @whatdoyouwanttocallmefor @alisonyus @rockstarkkami @morkleesgirl @yooingiismylove2018 @imeverycliche @katchowbbie @pixiefelix @maxidential @ @maisyyyyyy @burntbang @iknowyouknowminho @xxxxmoonlightxxx @igotajuicyass @sh0rdor1 @jitrulyslayyed @leeknow-minho2 @jeonginnieswifey @necrozica @rossy1080 @hanniebunch @tricky-ritz @woozarts @Zerillia @queenofdumbfuckery @lorialia  @btch8008s @jamroses @alix-nai @geni-627 @sspersonally @possum_playground @dolphin-scream-s @enhacolor  @pinkflowerdream

check out my pinned if you want to be added to my taglist!!!

~kc💗

[mrsha-ang-kim]

𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐎𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐃𝐮𝐭𝐲

Pairings: SWAT!seungmin x politician!afab!reader, established relationship, non idol au

Synopsis: his mission, does he choose to accept is to protect you and your baby for the rest of his life.

Warnings: Comfort, domestic fluff, Protective husband energy, mentions of weapons, mild baby fever, overworking during pregnancy (don't do that)

a/n: ever since i saw the pic of him in SWAT tactical gear i just had to. if you have extra eyes for errors no you can't.

The first time you met Seungmin, it wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t even remotely pleasant. You’d just been elected to your new position, a historic win—youngest in state history, sharpest tongue in the room, and the kind of strategist that made old men in power whisper nervously behind closed doors.

And with that win came something you didn’t ask for: Protection.

Mandatory executive security detail. Top-tier. SWAT assigned. You were halfway through correcting your speech for the tenth time that morning when the heavy door to your office creaked open—and there he was. Dressed head to toe in black, gear perfectly fitted, a clipboard in hand like this was just another routine op. Sergeant Kim Seungmin. SWAT-trained, emotionally bulletproof, and annoyingly unreadable.

“Good morning, ma’am,” he said curtly, eyes scanning the room without so much as glancing at you. “I’m Sergeant Kim. I’ve been assigned to your protective detail.”

You didn’t look up. “I didn’t ask for a babysitter.”

He blinked once. No emotion. No reaction. Only: “Luckily, ma’am, your opinion wasn’t part of the briefing.”

Touché.

—

From the beginning, you clashed like flint and steel. You thrived on chaos, lived off caffeine, and saw sleep as a concept for people without deadlines. He, on the other hand, believed in schedules, protection zones, and making you walk through three body scans before you even got to your podium.

The first week, he blocked you from attending a late-night press dinner because the venue wasn’t properly cleared. You called him “robotic.” He called you “reckless.” The second week, you tried to sneak out of a back entrance to avoid cameras. He caught you within three minutes. “You move like a deer,” he deadpanned. “Try quieter shoes next time, babygirl.”

You’d never wanted to throw a folder at someone more. But somewhere between the bickering and briefings… he started learning you. The way you liked your coffee. The little crease in your brow when you were exhausted but refused to stop. How your hands trembled when you got bad news but refused to cry in front of anyone.

And you… you noticed how he always stood with his back just slightly curved toward you. Like a shield.

You noticed the way he never left your side in crowded rooms. How he always handed you a breath mint seconds before every speech. How he never commented when you broke down in your office at 2 AM, but quietly left tissues and a bottle of water at your desk.

---

It started like any other day.

You were in the middle of addressing a private roundtable inside the Capitol, clean-pressed blazer, sharp notes in hand, and a point to make that you were determined wouldn’t be drowned out in bureaucratic noise. Seungmin had done his usual sweep that morning—twice, just to be sure. “No blind spots,” he’d said, glancing around the marble columns with a hawk’s focus. You’d rolled your eyes and teased, “You’re a little too good at this, Sergeant.”

He didn’t smile, but you caught the tiniest lift in the corner of his lip.

But then, just before noon, everything broke apart. Screams. A crash. A deafening silence before chaos. An armed group had infiltrated the Capitol through a compromised service tunnel intent unclear. Whether it was a robbery, a targeted kidnapping, or something more, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that you were inside.

And Seungmin was outside. Separated from you by one wrong hallway and too many seconds.

He lost it. Not outwardly. Not dramatically. But in that cold, clipped SWAT frequency, he turned feral. “Where the hell is Y/N?” he barked into his comms, voice tight with dread.

“South wing, confirmed—east conference room. Unarmed—”

“Get her out. Now.” His tone made seasoned officers flinch.

He stormed the floor, weapon drawn, orders flying, heart in his throat. He was methodical, lethal, calm to the untrained eye, but inside? Inside he was spiraling. He cursed himself for letting the Capitol feel too safe. For not seeing this coming. For not being with you. He cleared three rooms in under five minutes. Took a graze on his shoulder. Didn’t feel it. Shouted when his team hesitated. Swore when the breach deepened.

But finally—finally—he found you. Huddled behind a barricade, your breathing shaky but your eyes clear. You’d stayed composed, pulled others to safety, protected a junior staffer with your own body. Of course you had.

He nearly collapsed the moment his eyes landed on you.

“Y/N!” he shouted, rushing in, dropping to his knees beside you.

You opened your mouth to speak but barely got a word out before he grabbed your face with both gloved hands, eyes wide, voice trembling. “You okay? Are you—fuck, are you okay?”

You nodded. “I’m fine. Just—”

His breath shaky. “I should’ve been here. I should’ve known. I shouldn’t have left you for even a damn second—”

“Seungmin—”

“I’m your protection detail, I swore—” He was spiraling again, and you reached up, grabbing his wrists.

“Seungmin,” you whispered more firmly, “this is not your fault.” His lips parted. His eyes darted across your face like he was trying to memorize every scar, every blink, every breath. His jaw clenched like he was fighting the urge to cry and break down all at once.

“You’re safe,” he whispered back. “You’re safe, you’re safe…” Like he was saying it more for himself than you.

You leaned forward and rested your forehead against his. Your breaths were a shared rhythm. Your heartbeat syncing through the space between.

And that was when it happened.

That flicker. That slow-burn realization, lit like a match in the middle of war-torn chaos. He didn’t want to be your bodyguard anymore. He wanted to be your everything. And you? In that second, you knew. You loved this man. Not just because he saved your life. But because he lost his mind the moment you were in danger. Because he didn’t care about protocol or rules when it came to you.

Because all he saw was you.

—

The aftermath was a blur. Reporters. Debriefs. Medics. Political chaos.

But later that night, when the world was quieter, and the adrenaline had long faded, you found each other again in the hallway outside your private quarters, both too wired to sleep.

You were the one who stepped forward this time.

“I’ve never seen you scared before,” you murmured. He laughed bitterly. “I’ve never been scared before.” You placed a hand on his chest, feeling the heartbeat still thumping hard beneath his Kevlar vest.

“Then let me say it for the record,” you whispered. “You don’t have to protect me out of duty anymore.”

And Seungmin, cheeks flushed, eyes soft and open for the first time, let out a shaky breath.

“I’m not. I’m protecting you because I’m in love with you.” Your fingers curled into his jacket. And when your lips met his—slow, tentative, but sure—it wasn’t explosive. It wasn’t cinematic.

It was safe.

It was a promise.

---

The Capitol was its usual mess of marble and noise polished hallways, hushed arguments behind closed doors, and an ever-present buzz that never quite settled. You had just wrapped up a particularly grueling session in the legislative chamber, your voice still humming from hours of holding your ground on policies no one else seemed brave enough to back.

As the grand doors swung open, a wave of cameras and questions surged forward like a tide with no care for mercy. Paparazzi barked your name from every angle, flashes blinding you even through your lashes.

“Madam, any comment on the education bill?”

“Is it true you’re planning a second term?”

“Is the bump official? Can we expect an announcement—”

Your security detail, two trained professionals who’d been with you since your appointment tightened around you like a human barricade. They ushered you quickly down the steps, clearing a narrow path through the shouting mob. Their posture was tense, shoulders squared, but even they couldn’t stop a mic from nearly smacking you in the face.

“Back up!” one of them barked.

You gritted your teeth but said nothing, hands cradling the swell of your belly protectively. Your unborn child didn’t need to feel the stress coursing through your body like lightning.

Finally, finally, you made it past the glass doors and into the calm sanctuary of your private office. As the door clicked shut behind you, the sudden silence was almost deafening. You exhaled sharply and leaned against the desk, rubbing your stomach with slow, circular motions.

“Easy there,” you whispered, heart still thumping. “Mommy’s just got a few more battles to win.” You didn’t hear the door open at first.

“Congresswoman,” came the dry, clipped tone of your supervisor—more formally known as the Majority Leader. He always walked in like he owned the oxygen in the room.

You straightened, reluctantly peeling your hand away from your bump. “Sir,” you greeted calmly, already sensing where this was going. He didn’t waste time. “You need to file for maternity leave. Effective immediately.”

Your lips parted. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” He shut the door behind him, adjusting the pin on his lapel. “You’re one of our most vocal representatives, and frankly, your presence here right now—given your condition—isn’t just risky. It’s irresponsible.”

You blinked, hard. “With all due respect, I’ve done more in this trimester than most of your male colleagues do in two terms.”

“It’s not about what you’ve done,” he snapped. “It’s about what could happen. One bad push from that mob today and—”

“I’m not stepping down,” you interrupted, voice firm. “Not now. Not when half the bills I’ve sponsored are still on the floor.”

His jaw tightened. “You’re being stubborn.”

“And you’re assuming pregnancy equates to incapacity.” He opened his mouth to argue, but the door swung open again this time with a little more force.

Enter Seungmin.

Black slacks. Dark dress shirt rolled to the elbows. SWAT watch glinting on his wrist. And that face stoic, unreadable, and slightly annoyed. You knew it too well. “Majority Leader,” he said politely, giving the man a brief nod. “Apologies for interrupting.”

The supervisor gave him a side glance, tone clipped. “Sergeant Kim.” Seungmin didn’t miss a beat. “I’m here to take my wife home.”

You folded your arms. “I’m not leaving—”

Seungmin’s eyes flicked to yours—dark, gentle, but commanding. “Yes, you are.”

“Seungmin—”

He stepped in, closing the space, his voice low and meant only for your ears. “You’re rubbing your back every three minutes. You haven’t eaten. Your breathing’s shallow. And I know that little look you get when you’re too tired to say you’re tired.”

Your supervisor raised a brow, but said nothing. You hated that he was right. You hated it more that he knew you so well he could read your discomfort before you even processed it yourself. Seungmin turned to the Majority Leader with perfect poise. “She’ll file the paperwork from home. If there’s anything urgent, it can be handled remotely.”

The older man gave a long sigh, clearly biting back his pride. “Fine. But don’t think I won’t escalate this if it happens again.”

“Understood,” Seungmin said simply, already wrapping an arm around your waist as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

And it was. The moment you were outside the office, doors closed and footsteps quiet, you finally allowed your shoulders to drop.

“You’re impossible,” you murmured.

He smirked. “And you’re stubborn.”

“Don’t think this conversation is over.”

“Oh, it’s not.” He looked down at your belly with that soft-eyed possessiveness you adored. “But it is over for today. You and our baby come first.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder as you walked, hand resting on top of his.

The crowd outside was still pressing against the barricades when the doors to the Capitol swung open again, and this time, it was you, flanked by two suited guards and the silent storm that was your husband. Seungmin walked like a man with a mission, every line of his body coiled in sharp protectiveness. His eyes scanned every face, every camera, every twitch of movement from the journalists and interns loitering around the marble steps.

The second he’d gotten you out of your office, he hadn’t said a word. Just one look over his shoulder and a silent hand reached out for yours firm, anchoring, familiar.

You held on. Your security detail kept the flash-hungry crowd back, carving a path to the black SUV waiting at the curb. The car door was already open when you approached, and Seungmin’s hand never once left the small of your back until you were safely inside.

He shut the door gently then turned, gave a short nod to the team behind him, and circled around to the driver’s seat with that brisk efficiency that made him look like he could take on a full riot squad singlehandedly.

The second he slipped in and started the engine, the world finally dulled into silence behind the tinted windows. Then he reached back arm stretching to the rear seat like he’d done it a hundred times and pulled out a small brown bag with a familiar logo.

Your brows lifted, and your voice dropped into something soft. “…Baby? For me?”

Seungmin didn’t even look at you as he passed it over. “Nope. It’s for the baby.”

You blinked, staring at the bag. Then—without skipping a beat—he reached back again and grabbed a second one. This one had your favorite smoothie, double protein, and a neatly wrapped sandwich that still felt warm through the paper. He placed it into your hands like he was delivering sacred cargo.

“That’s for you,” he muttered.

A laugh bubbled in your throat as you looked at both bags in your lap, then at him. Your eyes flicked over his sharp jaw, the line of his brow, the way the soft late-afternoon light slanted across his cheekbone. You bit your bottom lip with a slow grin, eyes narrowing in mock seduction.

“I love you…” you said, drawing it out, voice velvety and low.

He turned his head toward you slowly, unimpressed but still helplessly fond. “Eat your food.”

“But I said I love you…”

“And I said eat your food,” he repeated, rolling his eyes, but the faintest twitch at the corner of his lips betrayed him. You giggled and unwrapped your sandwich, the car beginning to roll forward smoothly through the Capitol’s gates, city streets stretching ahead in a blur of sunlight and noise.

As you took a bite, his hand dropped from the steering wheel for just a second to squeeze your thigh quick, firm, loving.

“Don’t think I didn’t see you holding your back the whole walk down,” he muttered, eyes still on the road.

“I didn’t say anything,” you said between bites.

He cut you a look. “Exactly.”

You smiled into your sandwich, feeling the baby roll gently inside you, as if agreeing with its dad.

The elevator ride up to the penthouse was silent, save for the muffled hum of the city below and the soft tap of your heels against the marble tile. Seungmin stood behind you with one hand on the small of your back and the other carrying your bag like it weighed nothing though you both knew that thing could give a camel scoliosis.

The elevator dinged, and the sleek doors parted into your home. Your home. The penthouse was kissed with sunlight spilling through floor-to-ceiling windows, painting the minimalist interiors in a golden wash. High ceilings, clean lines, and the smell of bergamot candles lit that morning still lingered in the air.

Seungmin stepped out first, scanning out of instinct even though you both knew no one was getting past the biometric locks and reinforced steel doors he’d insisted on installing.

You took one step onto the hardwood floors and stopped.

He turned immediately. “You okay?”

You held out a hand with a little smirk. “I’m fine, just... using my presidential privilege to request an escort.”

He huffed a quiet laugh but was already back at your side, his arm sliding around your waist as he helped you into the living room. You sunk down onto the cloud-soft couch with a long, luxurious sigh, your head leaning back and one hand rubbing gentle circles over your bump.

“…Maybe I should take the damn maternity leave,” you muttered.

Seungmin laughed from across the room. Not a big, boisterous laugh—just the warm kind that lived in his chest, private and low. “Oh? The same woman who looked me dead in the eye this morning and said ‘I’ll go into labor on the Senate floor before I miss this vote?’”

“That was before Mr. Peterson tried to mansplain my own bill to me like he didn’t just ask his assistant what ‘ratified’ meant last week,” you groaned.

He walked over with that casual swagger he only ever had at home and crouched in front of you, his hands already moving to unstrap your shoes. “Tell me everything, babe.”

“Don’t laugh, but I swear—my intern put my file binder in the wrong order on purpose. Like, sabotage-level wrong.” Seungmin pulled one heel off, gently massaging your ankle like you were some sort of pregnant royalty which, to him, you were. “Maybe he’s a spy.”

You blinked. “A spy?”

“Yup. Sent from the enemy party to induce stress and cause premature labor. Diabolical stuff.” You snorted, giggling as he peeled off the other heel and gently rolled your feet into his lap. “You’re not funny.”

“I’m hilarious. You're just too sleep-deprived to appreciate my genius.”

You closed your eyes and let yourself melt into the plush cushions, arms spread out like you were finally, finally breathing again. He stood up and pressed a quick kiss to your forehead. “Alright, you rest. I’ll make lunch.”

You cracked an eye open. “Lunch? Didn’t I just eat in the car?”

He gave you that look as he turned toward the open-concept kitchen. “That was a pre-lunch snack. This is the real deal.” As he opened the fridge and pulled out ingredients like some undercover househusband-slash-soldier-of-domesticity, you couldn’t help the warm fuzziness crawling up your spine.

“Seungmin?” you called softly.

“Hm?”

“I don’t know what I did in a past life to deserve you, but... I hope I did it twice.”

He turned, wooden spoon in hand, and smirked. “I mean, you did let me take your shoes off. That’s gotta count for something.”

“Shut up,” you mumbled through a yawn.

He grinned, flipping on the stove and starting to hum some cheesy song under his breath completely at peace in this world he built around you.

The scent of garlic butter, roasted vegetables, and creamy pasta filled the air like a warm embrace. Your penthouse, often too quiet for your taste, now buzzed with the low clink of cutlery and the occasional simmer from the stovetop. You watched from the couch as Seungmin moved with careful confidence around the kitchen, plating lunch on your favorite ceramic dishes, no doubt chosen just to make you smile.

He glanced at you with a small smirk, catching you staring. “Stop looking at me like that or I’ll burn something on purpose just to humble myself.”

“Too late,” you replied smugly. “You're already peak husband material. There’s nowhere to go from here but up.”

He rolled his eyes—classic—and brought both plates to the dining table. Then he returned to you, offering a hand like a gentleman at a gala. “Come on, my lady. Your feast awaits.” With a dramatic sigh, you took his hand and let him help you to your feet. His arm stayed around you, stabilizing every step like you were carrying gold in your belly instead of a slightly dramatic unborn child. You settled at the table, fork in hand, but after a few bites, you paused… and gave him that look.

He narrowed his eyes. “What?”

You pouted, complete with the patented lip quiver and soft gaze you knew he was helpless against. “The baby wants to be fed.”

He blinked. “The baby?” You nodded with mock sincerity. “Yes. The baby specifically requested your hands. Your spoon. Your love.”

Seungmin folded his arms. “So… you. You want to be fed.”

“The baby, Kim Seungmin.”

He huffed, but the smile pulling at his lips betrayed him. “Right. The baby.” He took your fork like a knight accepting his sacred weapon and leaned over with a bite of pasta.

You opened your mouth obediently and chewed with a grin, humming in satisfaction. “Mmm. Tastes better when you feed me.”

“Everything tastes better when I make it,” he quipped, offering another bite before grabbing a forkful for himself. You insisted on taking the fork and feeding him back after all, if the baby gets spoiled, so should the dad. Between soft bites and teasing laughter, a sudden sharp flutter tickled your lower stomach. Your eyes widened.

“Seungmin!” you gasped, dropping your fork. He shot upright, instantly alert. “What? What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

You grabbed his hand, placing it gently on the swell of your belly. “The baby’s kicking.”

His breath hitched as he stilled, eyes fixed on your stomach with a kind of reverence reserved for sacred moments. Then there it was. A soft thump beneath his palm.

“Oh my God,” he whispered.

You watched his face shift—surprise, joy, disbelief, and something else… something quiet and protective blooming in his chest. You reached for his cheek, grounding him. “Pretty wild, huh?”

He nodded slowly, hand still resting over your bump like he couldn’t let go. “That’s our baby… our actual baby.” Your voice softened. “Yeah. Kicking to remind us they’re already dramatic.”

He chuckled lowly, still stunned. “Just like their mom.”

You grinned, brushing your thumb across his wrist. He pulled his eyes from your belly and looked at you. “When’s your next check-up?”

“Tuesday morning. Ten sharp,” you answered, your voice warm, thick with affection. “Dr. Haneul said we might be able to hear the heartbeat clearer.”

“I’m clearing my whole morning,” he said instantly. “I’ll handle the Capitol security prep the night before.”

You smiled, heart clenching. He returned to his seat, picking up his fork again. “Oh—by the way. I’m on night duty tonight.” You pouted again, this time genuinely. “Night shift?” He reached for your glass of water and passed it to you before continuing. “Just tonight. I’ll have Stella come over and stay. She already said she’s free. I don’t want you alone, not when you’re this far along.”

You ran your fingers along the rim of the glass. “You’re so serious sometimes.” He raised an eyebrow. “You’re carrying my child. I get to be serious.”

“Right,” you teased. “Because you’re just so terrifying, Officer Kim.”

“I am a trained SWAT officer, thank you very much.”

You laughed, and he couldn't stop himself from leaning over to kiss your forehead. “Eat up, babygirl. You need strength for your maternity leave speeches and dramatic floor votes.”

“I love you,” you murmured. He smirked. “No, no. The baby loves me.”

You giggled. “Touché.” And with the quiet rhythm of clinking forks, warmth in your belly, and the baby softly tapping beneath your skin, you both continued eating side by side, right where you belonged.

The plates clinked softly as Seungmin rose from the table, collecting them with practiced ease. He glanced at you, your hands lazily rubbing over your bump, your lips mouthing little coos and baby babble to your belly as if it were a tiny royal inside a palace of skin.

“Are you telling our baby state secrets again?” he teased, balancing the dishes in one hand while lifting your glass with the other.

You gave him a grin that could start wars. “I’m informing them of their constitutional right to snacks every two hours.” He shook his head with a laugh, walking toward the kitchen. “Sounds about right. You two are gonna be the most dangerous duo in this country.”

You leaned back in the dining chair, resting your hand over the place where your child had kicked not long ago. “That’s right, baby. You’re going to be a little revolutionary like mama, and appa’s gonna have to keep both of us under constant surveillance.”

From the kitchen, Seungmin called out, “Already do.”

A knock on the penthouse door followed by the soft jingle of keys signaled Stella’s arrival. You perked up as the midwife walked in, exuding her usual calm, no-nonsense warmth in a linen blouse and sneakers.

“Knock knock,” she said with a soft grin. “I brought that lavender tea you like and some more of those vitamin chews.”

“Stella,” you beamed. “Just in time. Baby and I were preparing for your arrival.” Seungmin emerged from the kitchen, drying his hands on a towel as he greeted her. “Thanks for coming on short notice.” She smiled and nodded toward you. “Anything for our little diplomat in training.” You giggled, sitting up slightly. “They’ve already got a campaign slogan. It’s ‘More naps, less nonsense.’”

Stella chuckled as she set her bag down by the coffee table. “Fits the vibe.” Seungmin’s expression turned tender as he walked over to you, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. “I’m gonna go get ready for my shift.”

You tilted your head slightly. “Already?”

He glanced at the clock. “Briefing starts in thirty, and I still have to change.”

Your face fell for just a second, and he caught it. Of course he did.

His hand lingered against your jaw before slipping down to your belly. He crouched, face level with the bump. “Alright, you,” he said softly, voice dropping into that warm, honeyed tone only reserved for the baby. “Stay with mama tonight, okay? No giving her any trouble. Kick only if she’s being too stubborn. Or if she’s hiding cookies from Stella again.”

You gasped in mock offense. “You traitor.”

Seungmin grinned, kissing the curve of your stomach gently, then standing to kiss your temple. “I’ll be home before sunrise. Promise.”

“You better,” you whispered.

He turned toward the hallway, already unfastening the first few buttons of his shirt with practiced speed. “Stella, yell at her if she tries to work.”

“I already made a color-coded chart for that,” Stella said without missing a beat.

You laughed as Seungmin disappeared down the hall, your heart swelling in that painfully beautiful way it always did when you watched him shift from husband to protector. He loved you both so fiercely—quietly, carefully, and with absolute certainty.

---

The sun was barely beginning to bleed into dusk, painting the windows of the penthouse in soft golden hues. You were curled up on the couch, legs tucked beneath you and a pillow hugged to your side, while Stella sat across in the armchair, her tablet balanced on her knees as she checked a few notes. The air between you was calm, blanketed in that kind of evening quiet that only comes after a long day of doing too much.

"So," Stella said, looking up from her screen with a knowing glance, “how are you really doing, Madame Parliament?”

You let out a breath, lips twitching into a small smile. “Tired… but stubborn.”

She snorted gently. “Ah. The politician's paradox.”

You glanced down at your belly, rubbing it idly. “I keep thinking about all the things I still have to do before the session ends. There are bills on the floor, diplomatic visits, press rounds. I know I’m supposed to slow down, I just—” Your voice trailed off as you looked at Stella. “It’s hard to stop when I’ve never stopped.”

Stella softened, leaning forward slightly. “You don’t have to do it all right now. The work will wait. This little one?” She pointed toward your stomach. “They won’t.”

You smiled softly, blinking against the sting in your eyes. “Seungmin keeps saying the same thing. He’s so gentle about it. So steady.”

“He loves you,” Stella said plainly, sitting back. “Even when he’s broody and all black-tactical-gear-silent-mode, he looks at you like you’re the safest place he’s ever known.”

You opened your mouth to reply, but the sound of footsteps coming down the hallway pulled your attention.

Seungmin emerged, dressed in his full SWAT gear—black uniform sharp and molded to his frame, vest snug over his chest, holster clipped, earpiece in. His expression was focused, but the moment his eyes met yours, it all melted into that boyish softness he reserved only for you. Stella stood, grabbing her bag with a smile. “That’s my cue. I’ll give you two a minute.”

She brushed your shoulder gently as she passed. “Call me if you need anything.” You nodded, but your gaze was already locked on your husband.

As the door to one of the rooms clicked softly behind Stella, you made your way over to him, one hand cradling your bump as you moved. He was checking the settings on his comms, but his eyes flicked up the second you stood in front of him.

“You sure you don’t want me to pack something for you?” you asked, reaching instinctively to fix a slightly crooked strap on his vest. “I can heat up the rice from earlier or—”

“Hey,” he cut in gently, catching your hand and threading his fingers through yours. “I’m okay. Don’t worry about me tonight, babygirl.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours.

“You need rest. You and our little one,” he murmured, lips ghosting over your cheek, then trailing to the soft spot under your jaw. His voice dropped, a velvety whisper, “I love you.” Your eyes fluttered shut, lips curling into a smile as you whispered, “I love you too, Seungmin.”

He dropped to one knee, hand cradling your bump as he pressed a kiss there, warm and reverent. “Appa loves you, okay? Be good for mama tonight.”

You sniffed, heart swelling. “They’re gonna miss you, you know.”

He grinned, standing back up and brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “I’ll be home before you can miss me.”

You walked him to the door, and with a final glance soft, protective, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, he gave you one last look.

Then he was gone. The apartment had fallen into a hush again, bathed in the calming hue of warm overhead lights and the subtle scent of lavender oil diffusing in the corner. The faint murmur of the television filled the background as your thumb ran slow, subconscious circles over the swell of your belly. Your feet were tucked under a blanket, eyes half-focused on the scrolling headlines about security reforms and senate debates. None of it felt as urgent now. Not while you sat here like this, in the sanctuary Seungmin had built around you.

The door clicked softly, Stella, returning like a gentle breeze.

She smiled as she walked in. “Figured I’d come back before it got dark. Brought the good biscuits this time. The crunchy kind you like.”

“God bless you,” you sighed dramatically.

She let out a small laugh and began filling the kettle, moving with the quiet ease of someone who’d spent years in your space. As it boiled, she glanced over her shoulder, eyebrows raised. “You still mindlessly watching politics while supposed to be relaxing?”

“It’s muscle memory at this point,” you mumbled, rubbing your stomach again as your eyes drifted to a grainy clip of the House floor on mute.

“You know,” Stella called as she rummaged through the cabinets for the tea, “once this baby’s here, you really shouldn’t be stepping back into office too soon. You might have to disappear for a little while.”

You snorted. “Disappearing from the public eye while holding office is a PR disaster waiting to happen.”

“Maybe. But what about disappearing for the sake of your daughter?” You blinked, pausing mid-rub. Slowly, your head turned toward her. She turned too, arching a brow with a teasing glint. “Yeah. That’s right. Why are we acting like we don’t know the gender?”

You coughed, pressing your lips together guiltily.

“Don’t tell me,” she gasped playfully. “You haven’t told Seungmin.”

You buried your face in your hands. “Okay, yes, but in my defense, it was killing me not knowing. It was supposed to be a surprise for him and I… but the doctor gave me this look and I caved. I couldn’t help it.”

Stella was already laughing as she brought over a tray, lavender tea steeping gently in two mugs and a small plate of almond and butter biscuits. She placed it on the coffee table and plopped beside you, handing you your mug.

“So…” she said, voice soft, “A girl.”

You nodded with a shy smile, eyes shimmering a bit. “Yeah. Our little girl.”

Stella grinned as she leaned back. “She’s going to be so spoiled. With Seungmin as a dad? You’ll be lucky if she learns how to walk without a full tactical team flanking her.”

“Don’t joke,” you giggled. “He’s already talking about putting cameras in her toys.” As the laughter faded into warm sips of tea and crumbs of shared biscuits, Stella grew quieter, her fingers idly tracing the rim of her mug.

Then she asked it, like it slipped out before she could think better of it:                                                                                                                

“Do you think… marriage is always supposed to feel like that?”

You tilted your head at her. “Like what?” She gave you a small shrug. “Like safety. Like home. Like you’re allowed to rest even when the world’s still spinning.”

Your lips parted slowly as you looked at her, truly looked at her this time. Her eyes weren’t filled with her usual clinical certainty. There was something softer there, more human. Vulnerable.

“Why’d you ask?” you asked gently, placing your mug down and turning fully toward her. She hesitated, chewing on the inside of her cheek before answering. “There’s someone. He’s… he’s everything good. But I’m scared. I’ve spent so long building my life by myself. And now suddenly there’s this option… to share it.”

You smiled and reached for her hand. “It is scary. But love like that? The kind that’s safe and steady and real? It doesn’t come to destroy what you’ve built. It shows up to hold it with you.”

Stella smiled softly, blinking down at your joined hands. Then, almost on cue, the baby kicked—and you both looked down.

“She agrees,” Stella whispered.

You laughed, warm and content. Stella stood, gathering the empty mugs and biscuit tray. “So,” she said casually, “how far along are you now, anyway?”

You stretched with a soft sigh, palm pressed absently over your belly. “We’re officially in the waiting game. Any day now.” Stella raised a brow as she turned toward the kitchen. “Any day?”

You nodded with a soft chuckle. “I mean, it’s not like she RSVP’d with a specific date, but yeah… we’re full term.”

“Well damn,” Stella said with a light smile as she stepped into the kitchen. “I’m glad I didn’t stop for wine on the way back.”

You grinned, shifting your weight to get more comfortable—when suddenly, warmth bloomed beneath you. Your breath hitched. At first it was just a trickle. Subtle. Deceptive. But then it rushed in a gentle, unmistakable gush, soaking through the soft cotton of your lounge pants.

You blinked. “Oh…” you whispered, instinctively bracing the underside of your belly as your muscles tensed.

“Stella?” Your voice was uncertain, shaky. From the kitchen, she hummed distractedly. “Yeah, babe?”

“I—” you started, sitting straighter on the couch, but you gasped mid-sentence as a sharp, pulling pain surged across your abdomen like a tightening band of fire. You doubled over slightly, one hand clutching the cushion beside you.

Stella returned just in time to see the discomfort etched into your face. Her eyes flicked down, and froze on the growing wet patch on the couch beneath you.

She blinked, then pointed with confusion. “Wait… wait. Is that the tea? Please tell me you spilled the tea—”

“I didn’t—” you tried to say, but then another contraction struck like a wave crashing through your spine. You groaned, low and pained, eyes squeezing shut.

Stella’s tray hit the counter with a loud clack as she rushed over. “Oh my god. Okay, okay, no, definitely not tea. This is happening. This is actually happening—”

You groaned again, gripping her arm now. “Stella—!”

“Okay! Okay, stay calm—I’m calm—” she said to herself, already pulling out her phone. “We’re calling an ambulance right now. Right now.”

She swiped to her emergency contacts with trembling fingers, pressing the number labeled “Mr. Kim 🛡️” with force.

---

The fluorescent lighting overhead buzzed quietly as Seungmin stood in the weapons locker, lacing up his gear vest. One of his teammates, a broad-shouldered guy named Officer Ryu—walked past with a headset and stopped at the doorway.

“Hey, Min. There’s a call for you up front. Some woman. Says it’s urgent?” Seungmin turned, already concerned. “Did she say her name?”

“Didn’t ask. But she sounds breathless. And stressed.”

His chest tightened.

Without wasting a second, Seungmin dropped his gloves and strode down the hallway, boots echoing down the tiled floor as his mind raced. He rounded the corner toward the station's front desk, picked up the blinking landline, and pressed it to his ear.

“Seungmin speaking.”

“SEUNGMIN—IT’S HAPPENING!”

“Stella?” he blinked, instantly snapping upright. “What? What’s—?”

“Her water broke! She’s having contractions! She’s in pain and the baby’s coming now—I called the ambulance already—they’re on their way but you need to come—”

Seungmin didn’t wait to hear the rest. His vest hit the ground with a thud as he grabbed his phone and keys, yelling down the hallway to his captain, “My wife’s in labor! I’m leaving—cover my shift!”

And just like that, the night exploded into motion.

---

The sirens wailed before you even saw the flashing lights.

You were half-lying, half-curled on the couch, one hand wrapped protectively around your belly, the other gripping a throw pillow with white knuckles. The pain came in waves now—tight, relentless. Your breath shuddered through each one.

“Baby girl, breathe with me,” Stella said softly but firmly, kneeling beside you. Her hand never left your shoulder. “You’re okay. I promise. I’ve done this with a dozen mamas. You’re doing amazing, alright?”

You nodded, eyes brimming, and tried to match her breathing.

“In… two, three… out… two, three…” Her voice was the anchor in the middle of chaos.

Then came the buzz at the elevator doors. Stella practically sprinted to hit the access code while keeping an eye on you, calling out to the paramedics through the intercom. Moments later, the double doors burst open and two EMTs pushed through with a stretcher.

“This way!” Stella waved them over. They moved fast, checking your vitals, asking questions that blurred together, gently lifting and settling you onto the gurney. You whimpered through another contraction and Stella immediately caught your hand again.

“I’m riding with her,” she told them with zero room for negotiation.

The EMT didn’t even argue. “We’re moving out. Let’s go!”

---

The automatic doors slid open with a whoosh as the gurney wheeled into the emergency maternity wing, Stella jogging alongside you, smoothing back your hair and whispering sweet encouragements.

Inside the ER, nurses snapped into action. The room was blinding white and cold, and you were losing track of time as they pushed you toward triage.

Stella leaned down to you, brushing your hair back. “I’m staying right outside till he comes, alright? I got you. Just focus on breathing—keep that rhythm.”

Your only reply was a groan as another contraction gripped you like a vise.

A black SWAT SUV screeched to a stop in front of the hospital’s main doors. Seungmin barely put it in park before flinging the door open, boots slamming onto the pavement. His heart thundered, mouth dry, hands shaking as he sprinted through the sliding glass doors, eyes wild.

“Where is she?” he asked the nurse at the front desk breathlessly.

“She was just brought in—uh—sir, you’ll need to—”

He didn’t hear the rest.

Stella spotted him first.

“MIN!” He turned and spotted her down the hall, hair a little messy from the chaos, a thin sheen of sweat on her brow. He was at her side in three seconds flat.

“How is she?” His voice cracked on the last word.

“She’s okay,” Stella said quickly, placing a calming hand on his chest. “Water broke at home, first contractions are coming fast. She’s strong, Min. She’s already doing amazing.”

He exhaled deeply, grounding himself on that one truth. Then a nurse behind the desk called out, “Sir, we need you to fill out the partner form before we take you back.”

Seungmin blinked. “What—form now?!” He looked at Stella, then back toward the hallway where they wheeled you away.

Stella gently nudged him. “Min. Do it fast. She’s waiting.” He grumbled something under his breath about “bureaucracy in a crisis” and snatched the clipboard like it had personally offended him, already scribbling his name, your name, your due date, his emergency contact, his blood type, your insurance.

He handed it back in record time.

The nurse nodded. “Alright. You can go back now. Room 6B.” Seungmin didn’t need to be told twice. He ran. Heart in his throat. He needed to see you.

The door slammed open with a gust of wind and panic.

“Baby!” Seungmin’s voice cracked into the room before he did, already breathless, black SWAT uniform half-unzipped, his utility belt clinking with every rushed step.

You turned your head sharply, your eyes locking with his as tears flooded yours instantly.

“Min…” you choked out, your voice hoarse and thick with relief. “You came…”

You looked like the very image of strength and vulnerability all at once—hospital gown clinging to your skin, damp from sweat, your hair sticking to your forehead, chest rising and falling rapidly as you breathed through another wave of pain.

Seungmin was at your side in seconds, grabbing your hand and pressing a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then finally your lips. “I’m here, baby, I’m right here. I’m so sorry it took me so long—God, you’re—” His eyes scanned your face, the tremble in your hands. “You’re incredible.” You managed a small, weak smile before another contraction had you gripping his hand like a lifeline.

Just then, the door opened with a gentle knock and in stepped Dr. Hyori Kim, your gynecologist, composed, calm, and focused.

“Let’s see how we’re doing,” she greeted with a soft smile. “Hi Seungmin, good to see you. We’re glad you made it.”

“Not a chance I was gonna miss this,” he replied, not letting go of your hand for a second.

Dr. Kim slipped on gloves and moved around the bed, checking the monitors.

“Alright, sweetheart,” she said gently, placing a reassuring hand on your leg, “how many contractions have you had so far?” You clenched your jaw through the tail-end of another and gasped, “They’ve been coming fast—every three… four minutes?”

“She’s been like this since we left the house,” Stella added from behind, standing quietly by the door.

“Let’s check how far along you are,” Dr. Kim nodded. “Deep breath for me.”

Seungmin rubbed circles into the back of your hand as Dr. Kim did the examination. You clenched the sheets, squeezing your eyes shut, and Seungmin leaned close. “I’m here, baby. I’ve got you. You’re doing so good,” he whispered, brushing your hair back from your face.

A few moments later, Dr. Kim sat up, removing her gloves. “You’re at seven centimeters.”

Seungmin’s brows shot up. “Seven?!”

“You’re progressing fast,” she said with a smile. “At this rate, we’ll be meeting your little girl very soon.”

Seungmin looked down at you, wide-eyed and emotional. “Our girl… she’s almost here.” Your eyes teared up again—not from the pain this time—but from the sound of his voice, the awe in it, the softness only you got to see.

“Yeah,” you whispered, squeezing his fingers. “She’s almost here.”

Seungmin kissed your knuckles and rested his forehead against yours. “You hear that, princess?” he murmured to your belly. “We’re ready for you.”

And as another contraction rolled in, your groan turning into a whimper, he held you tighter.

The sterile scent of antiseptic and the steady beep of machines hummed in the background, but all you could focus on was the fire tearing through your body, wave after wave. You gripped the bedrails like they were your last lifeline, your knuckles white, back arched slightly as another contraction slammed into you.

Sweat trickled down your temple. Your gown clung to your skin. Your breath came in ragged pants.

“Ten centimeters,” Dr. Kim announced calmly after checking you again. “It’s time to push.”

Your eyes snapped open to find Seungmin standing right there beside you, gloved hand gripping yours tightly, his thumb stroking gentle circles on the back of your palm. His SWAT uniform had been replaced with scrubs someone had thrown at him in a rush, but his badge still hung around his neck, slightly tilted, as if even it was breathless from the moment.

“Baby,” he said softly, but firmly, “look at me. Breathe with me, alright?”

You were shaking. “I-I can’t—Min, I can’t—”

“Hey. You can.” His forehead touched yours, his other hand wiping your damp cheek. “You’ve done harder things. Remember who you are, babygirl. You’re the strongest damn woman I’ve ever known. And she’s almost here. Just a few more pushes.”

You nodded, trying to catch your breath. Tears blurred your vision, but you held onto his voice like a rope pulling you through the storm. “All right,” Dr. Kim called, taking position at the end of the bed. “Next contraction, deep breath and push for ten seconds.”

The nurses braced either side of you, and Seungmin leaned down, placing his hand on your belly, steadying you with his presence. “You’re not alone. I’ve got you.”

Then the contraction hit like a freight train. “Push!” the nurse ordered.

You screamed through clenched teeth, body curling forward as you pushed with everything in you. Seungmin counted aloud, “One… two… three… come on, baby… six… seven… almost there… ten!”

You collapsed back into the pillows, gasping for air, tears spilling down your cheeks. Seungmin quickly wiped them with his sleeve.

“You’re doing so good, my love. I swear, I’ve never been more in awe of you,” he whispered, kissing your forehead.

Another contraction ripped through.

“Let’s go again!” Dr. Kim called. “She’s crowning!”

“I can see her, babe—she’s right there,” Seungmin said, eyes wide, trying not to break down. “She’s almost here, just one more for me, please—just one more.” You gritted your teeth and bore down, sobbing through the fire.

And then,

The room split with the tiniest, loudest cry you’d ever heard.

“She’s out!” Dr. Kim announced.

Seungmin’s breath caught in his throat. His hand flew to his mouth, eyes blinking fast as the nurse held up a tiny, squirming, flushed little baby—your daughter—red-faced, furious, and perfect.

Your head fell back onto the pillow as a sob cracked out of your chest. Seungmin kissed your forehead again and again, then your temple, then your lips.

“She’s beautiful,” he whispered shakily. “You did it, baby. You did it.”

---

The room had calmed. The bright, frantic energy of labor had faded into a soft, almost sacred quiet. You were lying back against the crisp hospital sheets, propped up with pillows, gown changed, hair damp but brushed back neatly by one of the nurses. You felt drained emotionally, physically, cosmically—but your eyes were open. Waiting.

Your arms were empty.

The nurse had taken your daughter to clean her up, check her vitals, swaddle her like the precious bundle she was. And although every second away from her felt like a year, you trusted they were caring for her… just like you had.

A knock came, gentle.

Stella peeked in quietly with a small smile, eyes already misting the moment she saw you. “Heard you were officially a mama,” she whispered, stepping into the room, her lavender-scented presence grounding you instantly. You gave her a tired smile and opened your arms and she leaned in to hug you carefully.

“She’s beautiful,” she whispered. “Just like her mama.”

Before you could answer, another nurse returned this time pushing a little rolling crib.

“She’s ready now,” she said warmly, stopping beside your bed. “Would you like to hold her?” Your breath caught in your chest, and your arms instinctively lifted as the nurse placed her your daughter, your miracle into them.

She was swaddled in white with a tiny pink cap on her head, her eyes still closed, soft little sighs puffing from her lips as she snuggled into your warmth like she already knew she belonged there. Her nose was Seungmin’s. You were sure of it.

“Oh, sweetheart…” you breathed, tears pooling instantly. “Hi, baby girl.”

The door creaked open behind you, and your head turned just as Seungmin stepped in, still in his hospital scrubs, hair messy from the stress and running and soul-deep emotion. The moment his eyes landed on you, with her in your arms, he froze.

And you saw it.

His lip quivered. His eyes blinked fast. But the tears still spilled over.

You tilted your head. “Baby… wanna hold her?”

He didn’t speak. Just nodded, swallowing hard. You adjusted your hold carefully and leaned forward to place her in his arms. He took her like she was made of glass, holding her close to his chest. The way he looked at her, it wasn’t just love. It was reverence.

“She’s so small…” he said in a whisper, like his voice didn’t deserve to touch the moment too loudly.

You smiled through your tears. “But she’s all yours.”

Seungmin let out a soft, broken laugh, then gently brushed his thumb across her cheek. She wriggled in his arms and made a soft noise, almost like a sleepy little mewl.

He spoke then, softly,

“내 딸… 내 전부야.” My daughter… my everything.

Then after a breath, still gazing at her with awe, he looked up at you and said, “I want to name her.”

You nodded gently. “Go ahead, baby.” He inhaled, lips parting slowly as he spoke it into the world, voice clear and unwavering:

“Kim Yujin.”

The name settled into the room like sunlight. The nurse nearby smiled and nodded, scribbling it onto her clipboard. “Kim Yujin. Beautiful name.”

He looked down again, whispering to his daughter. “Yujin… You’re going to be so loved, little one. Appa’s got you.” You wiped your eyes as you watched him hold her like she was the most precious thing on the planet.

Seungmin had settled into the armchair beside your bed, his body curved protectively around the tiny bundle cradled against his chest. Yujin’s little breaths warmed the fabric of his shirt. She was fast asleep, her tiny fingers curled instinctively into a fist, resting over her heart. The room was peaceful now. The only sounds were the steady beeping from the monitor by your bed, the occasional coo from Yujin, and the quiet hum of the city below filtering through the window.

He turned his head slowly toward you, ready to say something, something soft, something about how beautiful you looked even now, glowing with post-birth exhaustion, the glow of a woman who had just done the bravest thing in the world.

But you were already asleep.

Your head tilted slightly toward him, lips parted just a little, the tension in your face completely softened. The kind of sleep only a mother could fall into after bringing a soul into the world. Hair a little wild from labor, cheeks flushed, the hospital gown a size too big on your frame but you were still the most beautiful thing he had ever laid eyes on.

Seungmin just sat there and watched for a moment. Admiring. Protecting. Falling deeper. A soft knock on the door signaled the nurse’s return. She stepped in quietly, giving a gentle smile as she saw him still holding the baby.

“She should go to the nursery now,” she whispered, reaching gently.

Seungmin looked down at Yujin again, reluctant. He pressed a tender kiss to the top of her head, eyes glistening just a little as he murmured, “Sleep well, Yujin-ah. Appa’s right here.”

Carefully, the nurse lifted her from his arms and swaddled her tighter. As she stepped away, Seungmin stood, walking over to your side.

He leaned down slowly, brushing a hand gently over your hair. Then, with a soft, reverent sigh, he pressed a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering like a silent promise. He murmured just for you:

“You did so well, my love… I’ve never been more proud of you.”

He kissed your temple, then the corner of your lips, then finally leaned closer to your ear and whispered, “I love you.”

You didn’t stir, but he knew… some part of you heard him. He took one last look at the two of you—his entire universe asleep in the same room and pulled the hospital blanket a little higher over your chest before moving back to his chair. He sat down again, elbows on his knees, eyes never leaving you.

The nurse glanced at him from the doorway and asked gently, “Do you want a bed, sir? Something more comfortable to sleep in?”

But he just shook his head.

“I’m not leaving her side.”

And so he stayed. As the city slowly crawled toward morning, Seungmin sat with his eyes on you, guarding your rest like a silent knight.

The first night of your forever.

3 Years Later

The day began like all the others, with the soft sound of bare feet padding across the hardwood floors, a little voice singing off-key, and the unmistakable chaos of a toddler who had too much energy before 8 a.m.

Yujin.

Your daughter was in the living room, wearing one of Seungmin’s SWAT caps, dragging her stuffed bunny in one hand. The tutu she insisted on wearing over her pajamas bounced with each step as she ran in circles, chanting her newest phrase:

“I’m the boss! I’m the boss!”

You were on the couch, legs tucked underneath you, sipping a cup of lukewarm tea, Stella’s favorite mix. She still dropped off a fresh batch every few weeks, even though she’d moved two blocks away and was now married with a baby of her own.  From the kitchen, Seungmin watched you both, leaning his hip against the counter, arms crossed, hair still damp from his shower. He had the softest, stupidest grin on his face, the kind he never showed at work, only here.

“My girls,” he murmured to himself. “Too powerful.”

You caught him staring and raised a brow. “You gonna just stand there and stare or are you making those pancakes you promised?” you teased, smiling into your cup.

Seungmin tilted his head, grabbing the spatula with flair. “Only if my queen agrees to a kiss.”

You rolled your eyes in mock annoyance but leaned forward anyway. He came over and kissed you slow, still with that fresh cologne, smelling like safety and clean linen, and you could feel him smile against your lips when Yujin shouted from the other side of the room:

“Ew, Appa! Stop kissing Mama!”

You pulled away laughing and pointed your spoon at him. “You raised a critic.”

“Nope,” Seungmin shrugged, heading back to the stove. “She got that sass from you.”

By the time the pancakes were ready, Yujin had climbed into her booster seat and was busy feeding her bunny imaginary syrup. You sat beside her, fixing her hair into twin puffballs while she chewed dramatically.

Seungmin served your plate and kissed the top of your head in passing.

“So,” he started, voice casual but eyes gleaming, “you remember that preschool tour next week?” You groaned, “Don't remind me. She’s still my baby, how is she big enough for school?”

Yujin looked up mid-bite and shouted, “I’m big now! I can spell my name!”

Then she paused. “...Wait. Can I, Appa?”

Seungmin crouched beside her, ruffled her hair. “You can do anything. But maybe we’ll work on spelling before school starts, yeah? You leaned your head on your hand, watching them with a smirk. “You’re such a softie.”

“Only for you two,” he murmured without looking back, hand brushing gently over your thigh under the table. The warmth of his touch was still as steady, as grounding as it had been three years ago in that hospital room.

Later, while Yujin napped across your lap with her bunny clutched to her chest, Seungmin was reading beside you on the couch, his hand resting over your ankle, grounding, protective, quiet. You felt his thumb stroke a gentle rhythm over your skin, and your heart gave that familiar ache.

Not the painful kind. The full kind. You glanced at your husband, voice a whisper, “Do you ever stop and think about it?”

He looked over, gaze warm.

“Think about what?”

“How we got here.”

He smiled, closing his book. “Every day.”

And you were left there, wrapped in love, in the golden quiet of your home, knowing you'd both sleep better just knowing the other was safe.

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[mrsha-ang-kim]

𝐒𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐈𝐧 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬

Pairing: mountaineer/avatar!hyunjin x explorer!afab!reader, non idol au, strangers to soulmates

Synopsis: on your journey to exploring a rumored mythical land, you get injured wake up in the house of a stranger who supposedly lives in the mountains. now, all of a sudden, the world decides to bend.

Warnings: fantasy, action?, romance, gentle forest vibes, gods and avatars of gods

A/n: SHE'S BACKK!! AHH I'm so excited to show all of you the things I've been working on!! 5k+ words

Day Seventeen. Location: Approx. 43°N, unknown elevation.

Weather: Overcast. Unseasonably warm. Mist hugging the ground like a second skin.

I’m seventeen days into the fieldwork, and still no confirmed signs of Dawnhollow’s perimeter. Locals in the northernmost town only referred to it in riddles: “Where the light bends like memory” and “The place that doesn’t want to be found.” I thought they were just being cryptic for the sake of their own fun. But now… I’m not sure they were joking.

The forest has changed.

No matter how many markers I carve, they vanish. Paths I’ve walked twice don’t look the same. There’s no phone signal anymore, and my GPS turned itself off yesterday around dusk. I’m not scared—yet—but there’s something alive here. Not threatening. Not kind either. Just… watching. Like the woods are waiting.

I haven’t seen another human face in five days.

But I swear I saw a paw print near my firepit last night. Huge. Not bear. Closer to wolf. But too symmetrical. Too clean.

Anyway. I’m pushing deeper in today. If I find nothing, I’ll turn back tomorrow.

I hope someone reads this someday.

Your boots sink softly into the moss-blanketed earth, muffled by fog and the quiet hush that’s too perfect to be natural. Every tree here grows like it was placed with intention—no tangles, no chaos. Only stillness. Pines stretch high into a clouded sky, their trunks dark and wet with morning dew. The scent is deep earth, sap, and something floral you can’t place. You step over a fallen branch, your breath catching in your throat when you spot it.

— Y/N

A shimmer.

Just up ahead. Not light exactly… but like heat waves in the air, flickering beside the base of a wide cedar tree. You squint, stepping closer, one foot in front of the other. Carefully. The shimmering pulses, subtle like something brushing at the edge of your mind. Like a memory trying to form.

You pull your journal out of your satchel to make a note then stop.

Because something is tied to the tree. It’s a charm. Woven fibers, wrapped with tiny dried petals and what looks like red thread. Handmade. A totem, maybe. Or a ward. You step closer. The edge of your boot catches on a root you didn’t see. Your balance falters. Your journal slips from your hands.

Then, you fall.

A gasp tears from your throat as the slope gives out beneath you. Rocks scrape your palms. You tumble, twisting brief flashes of green and sky and bark—until—

CRACK.

Muffled like underwater, but laced with tension.

Your head hits something hard. Then everything goes dark. You don’t know how much time passes. There’s no light. No thought. Just floating.

And then, a bark. Sharp. Close. Not threatening. A voice, male. Deep.

“Baekho. Stay.”

“She’s bleeding.”

The bark again, fainter now. Then silence. A warm pressure at your side. Something soft—fur?—nuzzling against your arm. And then the world pulls you under completely.

___

Warmth surrounds you. Not the kind that hugs your skin from sunlight but the kind born of shelter. Of fire. Of a room with walls. Blankets, thick and coarse, have been draped over you, tucked close like someone was making sure you wouldn’t freeze.

Your eyes flicker open to the soft hiss and crackle of firewood, the scent of burning pine thick in the air.

The floor beneath you is made of smooth, uneven wood planks. A carved bowl—still steaming—rests on a low table beside you, and you catch the scent of herbs and something like bone broth. You shift your weight slowly, cautiously, sitting up just an inch, pain blooms behind your forehead. White-hot, sharp, and immediate. Like your skull forgot how to hold your thoughts.

You groan softly, hissing through your teeth, and bring a hand to your temple.

This isn’t your tent. This isn’t your camp. This isn’t anywhere you recognize. Your breath quickens slightly as your eyes dart across the room. It’s… beautiful, in an ancient, quiet way. Every surface is wood some pieces sanded smooth, others still wearing the roughness of bark. Moss is growing through the cracks in the corners. Vines wrap around the wooden beams above like they’ve been given permission to stay.

The house feels old. Not broken, just… ancient. Handmade. Not modern. Not even rustic. Like it came from a world you’ve only read about in forgotten folktales. You reach for your satchel, for your journal but your heart sinks when your fingers find only the soft weave of wool. It's gone.

You sit up fully—and instantly regret it. The pain strikes again, a ringing pulse in your skull, and you shut your eyes tight until the world stops spinning.

Then a bark. Loud. Deep. It echoes slightly, bouncing off the walls outside. It’s not a dog’s bark—not exactly. There's something low in it. Something powerful. Your heart stutters. Another bark. Closer this time. Then the sound of heavy paws padding against the wooden porch.

You freeze, sitting still, clutching the blanket like it might defend you. Then the door creaks open, not all the way—just enough to let in a blur of movement.

He steps inside. The creature is huge. White. Thick, snow-like fur with streaks of silvery grey across his shoulders and flanks. Muscular. Elegant. A predator, but calm. His eyes are ice-blue, so pale they almost glow. His ears twitch as he locks onto you—and he tilts his head.

You gasp, shuffling backward into the couch. “Hey—no. Stay back.” Your voice is shaky, your hands raised. But he doesn’t growl. Doesn’t pounce. He just studies you. Curious. Gentle. Still—you don't know what he is. What this is.

“Back off, okay?” you whisper, your voice trembling. “I don’t know you. I don’t—please just…”

His ears flick again, like he hears something you don’t.

And then—

“Baekho.”

The name floats in from outside. Male voice. Calm. Firm. The beast’s ears perk up and he immediately turns, bounding out through the open door. You blink, stunned.

Baekho…?

The bark echoes again in the distance, followed by the unmistakable rhythm of someone walking over wood—boots, maybe, brushing against the porch.

And then—

He appears.

The man.

Tall. Lithe. Ethereal.

He steps into the doorway, framed by the light behind him like he walked out of a painting. His hair is shoulder-length, thick waves of black with hints of amber where the sunlight touches it. His skin is smooth, golden-brown—like he’s lived beneath the trees his whole life. His eyes are a warm, piercing brown, deep-set beneath feathery lashes, and they soften the second they land on you.

He wears a dark tunic—stitched, not manufactured—layered under a sleeveless coat made of dark mossy green and weather-worn leather. There are beads tied around his wrist, a satchel strapped across his chest, and a knife glinting faintly at his hip.

He looks like a piece of the forest became a man.

He tilts his head, brows raised slightly. “You hit your head pretty hard, didn’t you?” His voice is low. Velvet with a rasp. The kind of tone that slides into your ribs and settles behind your heartbeat.

You blink up at him, heart thudding, trying to find words that feel real. “Where… where am I?”

He takes a slow step toward you, keeping his movements measured, hands loose at his sides. “Safe. For now.”

“Who—who are you?”

He gives a ghost of a smile, leaning down to pick up the steaming bowl from the table. He holds it out to you with care. “We’ll get to that, Forest Girl,” he says quietly. “But first—you need to eat.”

Your head still pounds as you sit up straighter, tugging the blanket around your shoulders. Baekho—this enormous, snow-pelted beast—stands guard nearby, his crystalline eyes flicking between you and the man as if weighing whether you’re a threat… or something worth protecting.

You blink at him, steadying your voice.

“…What breed is he?” you ask cautiously, your gaze locked on the creature's powerful form. “I've never seen anything like him.”

He glances over his shoulder, already walking toward a corner of the room that resembles a kitchen—if kitchens came out of folklore. There’s no oven, no sink, no tile. Just wooden counters, stone bowls, and bundles of herbs hanging upside-down from the beams.

“He’s a Duskwolf,” The man calls over his shoulder casually. “Mountain-born. White-coated. Rare temper. Loyal to death.”

You stare at Baekho in disbelief. “That’s not a real breed.” He doesn’t turn around. “That’s what everyone says—until they see one.” You look back at the creature. Baekho. His tail flicks once, and you swear he almost smirks. You decide not to push it.

“Can you stand?” He asks, now moving fluidly through the space—placing what looks like roasted root vegetables into a deep wooden bowl, carefully spooning a thick broth over them.

“I think so,” you say. You pull the blanket off and swing your legs over the edge of the couch, planting your feet on the cool floor.

Big mistake. The second you push up to stand, your balance tips like a boat in a storm. The world sways. You reach out instinctively—and instead of hitting the floor, you land against a thick, soft wall of fur.

Baekho. He nudges his massive shoulder into your side to keep you upright, his hot breath huffing out as if annoyed that you tried to move without him.

“…Thanks,” you say quietly, genuinely.

He responds with a low growl—not threatening, but grumbly. Like an old man muttering under his breath.

You smile despite yourself. The man turns at the sound, eyes scanning you both. “He’s picky with people,” he says simply, placing the now-filled plate onto a wide wooden table. “You must be charming.”

You wobble over with Baekho’s help and lower yourself into the sturdy chair. The smell of the stew is richer up close—earthy, spiced, almost nostalgic. Your stomach growls on cue. He raises an eyebrow as he leans back against the counter, arms crossed. “So… you come around here often?”

You glance up, brows furrowed. “You trying to flirt with me or interrogate me?”

A crooked smile tugs at his lips, the first real flash of warmth you’ve seen in him. “Both.”

You roll your eyes, half-smiling. “I’m an explorer. Been out here about... 19 days now. Maybe more. My compass jammed somewhere past the lowland cliffs and I lost track.” He hums, folding his arms across his chest. “Explorer. Hm. And what exactly are you looking for?”

You pause just a moment.

“…Dawnhollow.”

The moment the name leaves your lips, the man barks out a laugh—low and amused, like he’s heard a good joke.

“Oh,” he says, walking over to feed Baekho from a shallow stone bowl near the fireplace. “So you're one of them.” You blink, unsure whether to be offended or confused. “Excuse me?”

He doesn't look at you when he answers. “The ones who try to reach a little too far.”

Your brows knit. “I’ve crossed six biomes, survived two landslides, outrun a storm, and climbed an entire cliff wall with a fractured wrist. I didn’t come ‘too far.’ I came far enough.”

But Hyunjin doesn’t respond. He simply gestures to your plate.

“Eat.”

You frown, glancing down at the stew. “What… exactly is it?”

“Root broth. Black moss. Cooked stag leaf. A few wild tubers. Nothing poisonous, I promise.” You narrow your eyes but take the first spoonful anyway.

It’s warm, flavorful… shockingly good. The broth is rich and buttery, with just enough kick to make you pause. The tubers are soft, and there’s a peppery herb layered underneath it all that makes your tongue tingle slightly. You let out a surprised breath.

“…Okay. Wow. This is actually—”

“Told you,” he cuts in, feeding Baekho slowly with his palm. The creature licks his fingers gently, like a well-trained lion.

You take another bite, then look up again, studying him closely. “Really. Who are you?”

He glances at you over his shoulder, one brow raised. “I didn’t tell you? Hyunjin.”

You swallow. “Hyunjin who?”

He offers a faint smirk, looking back at the fire now. “Doesn’t matter. I’m not in the books.” Your lips press together. “Where are you from, then?”

He goes quiet.

For a long moment, you think he didn’t hear you.

But then he says simply, still not turning around—

“…Far enough.”

Your spoon clicks gently against the sides of the bowl as you keep eating—slowly now, not because you're not hungry, but because your mind is whirring with questions. The kind you’ve collected over weeks of solitude, scribbled in half-frozen journal entries or whispered into the night when no one was around to listen. And now? Now there’s someone who might actually know.

You glance up at him again, Hyunjin, still tending to Baekho, his long fingers careful with every motion. He moves like someone used to quiet, someone who prefers it. Still, you can’t hold back.

“So… what is this place?” you ask softly. “This isn’t just a cabin thrown together from scraps. It’s… old. Like, really old. The way the beams are joined… I’ve only seen architecture like this in lost settlement diagrams.”

He chuckles low in his throat. “You make it sound haunted.” You raise a brow. “Is it?”

“No,” he says, settling into a seat across from you. “It’s just mine. Built it myself. Well, most of it.”

You tilt your head. “And how exactly did you find me?”

His gaze flickers toward the door. “Baekho heard you fall. He has ears like a hawk.”

“So he dragged me here?”

Hyunjin smiles faintly. “No. I carried you. He guarded the path.” That shouldn’t make your stomach flutter but it does. You look away quickly, focusing on your stew.

“And how long was I out?” you ask.

“About a day and a half,” he answers, voice casual. “You took a nasty hit. You’re lucky your skull’s still intact.”

You hum. A silence settles briefly between you—comfortable, almost—until his voice returns.

“What do you hope to find when you reach Dawnhollow?”

You freeze slightly, then lower your spoon and exhale.

“A beginning,” you admit. “Or… an answer, I guess. I’ve been following myths, manuscripts, cryptic field notes for years. All of them point to something out here. Something untouched. Something that might explain what happened to the Old Explorers.”

Hyunjin watches you closely.

“They say Dawnhollow was once a place where time bent,” you continue. “Where people found knowledge too big for their bodies. Where maps stopped working because the ground itself chose who could enter. And I—” You pause. “I need to see it. I need to know.”

Hyunjin doesn't respond right away. Instead, he leans back slightly, arms crossed.

“Do you plan on finishing the journey alone?”

You blink. “That was the plan, yeah.” He tilts his head, considering. “I’d advise against it.”

You narrow your eyes slightly. “Why?” His expression shifts—serious now, the soft curve of his mouth flattening. “Dawnhollow’s path isn’t friendly to everyone. Some trails take from you more than you’re willing to give.”

You lean forward, heart thudding. “So it is real, then.”

He meets your gaze evenly and nods. “Very real.” Your eyes widen slightly. “And have you… been there?” Hyunjin’s gaze drops for just a moment. “Few make it. Others die along the way. And some reach it, but never return. That’s just how it is.”

You sit back, not satisfied. “How do you know all that?” He doesn’t answer.

“Have you tried?” you ask again.

“Doesn’t matter,” he murmurs.

“Yes, it does. You’re the first person I’ve met who even talks about it like it’s real. If you know something—anything—I need to—”

“Some things aren’t meant to be found,” he interrupts softly. You frown. “That’s not your choice to make for me.”

He looks up sharply. “I didn’t say it was.”

“But you’re acting like it.” Hyunjin’s jaw tightens. Baekho, who’d been lying near the fire now, lifts his head.

“I’ve survived this long out here, you know,” you add, voice stronger. “And I’ve come further than anyone I’ve ever studied. So don’t look at me like I’m fragile.”

“I didn’t say you were,” he says, low and calm—but there’s something stiff beneath his tone now. His eyes dart to the fire, then to the stew in your hand, then away again.

You press forward. “What happened to you out there? Is that why you live here? Away from everything?”

“Stop.”

“Is Dawnhollow dangerous because of what’s there or because of what you brought back?”

“Enough.”

“Hyunjin—”

Suddenly, Baekho’s massive body lunges to its feet, releasing a thunderous, sharp bark that echoes off the wooden walls like a gunshot. The fire flickers. You jump in your seat, nearly dropping your bowl.

Hyunjin moves immediately, crouching low and holding out a steady hand toward his companion.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, boy,” he says gently, voice barely above a whisper. “She’s just curious. That’s all. Not a threat. Breathe with me.”

Baekho’s chest heaves for a few more beats, then—slowly—he lowers himself back to the floor, huffing through his nose. His tail curls tightly around him.

You stare, wide-eyed. “What… just happened?” Hyunjin stands again, not looking at you.

“I don’t want to talk anymore,” he says quietly. “Not tonight.”

Your mouth opens, then closes. A part of you wants to push more, wants to drag the answers out of him with both hands. But another part recognizes the line that’s been drawn. He turns, walking toward the doorway that leads to the far side of the cabin. Baekho follows, brushing against your chair with a heavy shoulder on his way out.

“Finish the food,” Hyunjin says, his voice softer now. “Then rest. You’ll need it.”

And just like that, they’re gone. You’re alone again—with only the firelight, your half-empty bowl…and a thousand questions burning inside your chest.

You set the bowl down gently on the wooden table, the last spoonfuls cooling in silence. Your fingers linger around the rim for a moment, tracing the faint grooves in the handmade ceramic, trying to focus on the texture instead of the growing storm of thoughts in your mind.

Your body aches, but your thoughts ache more.

You slide back onto the couch, letting the cushions dip under your weight. With a soft sigh, you reach for your satchel again, flipping open the buckle with quick, practiced fingers. You dig through it—familiar cloth wraps, a broken compass, a tiny dull knife, and your emergency kit. But no journal.

Still gone.

Your shoulders slump a little. That book wasn’t just notes—it was your proof. Your maps. Your sketches. All the hours of wandering etched in ink and graphite. You’d been writing in it before you collapsed, you know that.

Your eyes flick briefly toward the hallway where Hyunjin disappeared, and for a second you consider calling out. Asking if he saw it. If maybe Baekho dragged it off somewhere. But the tension from earlier still lingers in the air like smoke, and your pride keeps your mouth shut.

You slide the satchel back down beside the couch and push yourself to your feet. Your legs are steadier this time still sore, but functional. A dull throb pulses in your knee, but you ignore it. Carefully, barefoot and quiet, you cross the creaky wooden floor toward the door.

The handle is cool under your palm.

You ease it open.

The door groans faintly on its hinges as you step out onto the terrace and immediately, the breath is stolen from your lungs. The view is… otherworldly.

Before you stretches a valley cradled by mountains so tall and sharp they look like the cracked teeth of some ancient god. Their snowy tips catch the dying light of the sun, which has already begun to sink behind the western peaks, casting the landscape in a heavy, rose-gold hue.

The sky is layered in shades, blush pink, bruised purple, and fading sapphire. Wispy clouds drift lazily overhead, brushing the mountaintops like whispers. Below the cabin, a thick forest of silver pines spreads like a velvet rug across the valley floor, their trunks tall and thin, almost spectral.

The wind carries the scent of cold earth, pine resin, and something faintly metallic—like a storm is always thinking about arriving but never quite does.

The world here doesn’t just exist it waits. Suspended. Timeless. You grip the wooden railing, fingertips tightening on the edge, grounding yourself. A narrow trail winds from the cabin, disappearing into the woods below. No visible roads. No signs of civilization. No distant lights. Just untamed wilderness. And silence.

A real, tangible silence.

It isn’t heavy it’s... reverent. As if the land itself is listening. Watching. Breathing just beneath the surface.

You exhale slowly, your breath a visible puff in the evening chill. This place isn’t on any map you’ve seen. Not like this. Not preserved like this. You feel both small and deeply connected as if the universe pressed pause and dropped you in the middle of something sacred. Something forgotten.

Somewhere out there is Dawnhollow. And somewhere behind you, in this strange cabin with its stranger host, are answers you haven’t yet earned.

You close your eyes and lean your forehead briefly against the wood of the porch post. Letting the wind graze your cheeks. Letting the mountain hold you in its quiet for just a little longer.

The journey isn’t over.

The wind brushes against your back one last time as you close the door behind you, its soft whistle dying out as the latch clicks shut. The warmth inside welcomes you again the subtle scent of herbs, smoke, and something earthy still clinging to the air.

You shuffle quietly back to the couch, limbs heavy now with the pull of exhaustion. The day—if it can still be called that—has drained what was left of your strength. You tug the thick blanket over your shoulders, lying down where the cushions remember your shape. The fire in the hearth is smaller now, but steady, flickering like it's watching over you.

You stare at the ceiling for a long moment, eyes blinking slowly. The warmth cocoons you. Your heartbeat slows. And then, like ink spilled on paper, sleep swallows you whole.

The dream does not begin softly.

It starts with recognition. A moment that tells you: This is familiar.

You’re standing in a forest you’ve never seen before—but you know it.

The trees are tall and pale, their leaves not green but a shimmering silver-blue that hum when the wind passes through. Flowers bloom in clusters, glowing faintly like starlight. There's no sun, yet everything is bathed in gentle light, like the air itself is bioluminescent. Your boots make no sound against the ground, moss that feels like cloud beneath your feet.

And then you turn…

And he’s there. Hyunjin.

Only, not the one you met. Not the guarded herbalist. Not the man with the unreadable eyes.

No, this Hyunjin… smiles like he’s done it a thousand times with you. His hair is longer, falling past his shoulders like strands of silk spun from moonlight. His eyes are brighter—impossibly so—like the stars themselves gave him their light. He’s barefoot, standing by a stream that flows upwards instead of down. The water lifts and curls in the air, weaving around his fingertips as if it’s listening to him.

And when he looks at you—

It’s love. Deep. Ageless. Unapologetic.

“Finally,” he says, voice soft as velvet. “You always find your way back.”

You open your mouth, but you don’t speak not yet. You walk to him like you’ve done it before, like it’s instinct. Like you belong here. Your fingers reach for his hand, and when your skin meets his, your breath catches. It’s like touching fire and water and light all at once. It’s not skin. It’s energy. Raw and ancient.

You blink. His form shifts. Just slightly. You see glimpses beneath his human shape, veins of gold flickering under his skin, wings that aren’t wings but shadows stretching wide behind him. His hair ripples like it’s underwater. His voice echoes when he speaks again:

“You should never have come looking for Dawnhollow. But I’m glad you did.”

He touches your cheek, and the forest bends around you both. You see visions, flashes of memories that can’t be yours. Him kneeling in fire. Holding you in a garden of stars. Laughing with blood on his lips. Saying goodbye to you a thousand times.

“You always leave,” he says, voice cracking just barely. “And I always stay.”

The ground trembles. The silver trees cry softly. The light begins to dim.

“Don’t wake up yet,” he whispers. “Not yet. I haven’t said it—”

But your name is being called.

Not in the dream.

Outside it. Your eyes open. Slow. Dry. The light in the room has changed. It’s morning. Pale golden sunlight creeps in through the wooden shutters, pooling on the cabin floor in soft strips. The fire is out. The embers sleep.

You blink up at the ceiling, your heart pounding in your ears. A dog’s bark shatters the stillness outside—Baekho, barking excitedly in the distance.

Then, Hyunjin’s voice. Closer than before. Laughing. “Baekho, easy. That’s not yours,” he says, his tone light, breathless. “Drop it, you little thief.”

Another bark. You sit up slowly, the dream clinging to your skin like morning dew. You bring a hand to your chest, grounding yourself. You swear you can still feel his touch from the dream. You swear… you knew him.

But more than anything—you swear he wasn’t human.

And now… you’re wide awake.

The scent of pine and fresh-cut wood breezes in before the door even opens. Then there’s a thud-thud-thud of boots on old floorboards as Hyunjin enters the cabin again, his silhouette backlit by the morning sun. A bundle of firewood rests against his shoulder, his other hand pushing the door closed behind him with a casual nudge of his foot. Baekho trots in beside him, tail wagging like he just saved the world.

“Morning,” Hyunjin greets with that same charming nonchalance, like nothing strange had unfolded the day before. Like you hadn’t bombarded him with questions, or gotten barked at by a wolfdog that clearly had better emotional boundaries than you.

He doesn’t mention any of it.

You sit up straighter on the couch, blinking at him. His hair is messier today, swept into a lazy bun, with a few strands stuck to his cheek from the wind. There’s a smear of soot on his collarbone. He looks very real. Very warm. And yet, your dream still lingers in the corners of your mind like smoke that refuses to clear.

“I… uh—” You clear your throat. “I just wanted to say… sorry. About yesterday. For pressing.”

Hyunjin sets the wood down by the hearth, brushing his hands off and flashing you that easy grin. “Don’t worry about it.”

You pause. “Seriously?”

“Yeah,” he says, shrugging. “You were curious. Happens to everyone when they get here. The silence gets under your skin after a while. Makes you think too loud.”

It’s not the response you expected. No passive-aggressive tone. No cold dismissal. Just… Hyunjin being oddly understanding. Which, in its own way, feels more suspicious. He moves to the kitchen corner, fiddling with a pot and something metallic. “How’d you sleep?” he asks over his shoulder.

You hesitate. “...I don’t know. I had a weird dream. Long. Really vivid.”

“Oh?” He chuckles. “That couch’ll do that to you. It’s basically cursed for vivid dreams. You wouldn’t believe the ones I’ve had on there.”

You hum, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Would I not?” He smirks without turning around.

Before you can press further, Baekho wanders up to the side of the couch, tail thumping once against the floor. There’s something clutched in his mouth—worn leather, the edges slightly damp but familiar. Your journal.

Your breath catches just a little. Baekho lets out a little grunt and gently places it in your lap like an offering. You blink down at it in surprise, your fingers brushing over the creased cover as if to make sure it’s really there.

“Oh yeah,” Hyunjin says, finally turning. “That fell out of your bag when I carried you in. I meant to give it to you yesterday but…” he waves a hand vaguely, “...I forgot.”

You look up at him quickly. “You didn’t read it, did you?” He snorts. “Please. I don’t even open letters addressed to me. Yours is safe.” You glance down at Baekho and smile, ruffling behind his ears. “Thanks, big guy.”

The wolfdog gives a low, pleased huff.

“You write?” Hyunjin asks, casually as he leans back against the table, arms crossed loosely.

“Yeah,” you nod. “I record what I see. Places. People. Notes about everything.” He tilts his head thoughtfully. “Kind of like a memory anchor.”

You smile a little. “Yeah, exactly.” There’s a short silence—one that feels comfortable for once. Then Hyunjin shifts.

“So…” he starts, gaze flicking to the window, “how are things… you know… down there?”

You blink. “Down where?”

“Home,” he says, vague again. “The settlements. Villages. The towns near the cliffs. It’s been a while since I’ve been down.”

You furrow your brow. The way he says "down" rubs oddly. Like he doesn’t mean it just in terms of geography. You want to ask how long. You want to ask why not.

But you don’t.

Instead, you swallow the questions and answer.

“They’re… still bustling. The farther you get from the coast, the more people seem to forget the border even exists. They’re still building, still planting, still stubborn. And obsessed with stories, of course.”

Hyunjin hums, a small smirk playing on his lips. “They always were.”

“You make it sound like you used to live there.”

“Did I?” He arches a brow innocently. “Must’ve just heard things.”

You roll your eyes, but a small smile tugs at your lips despite yourself. The mystery is maddening, but at least now… it feels a little less lonely. Baekho settles beside the hearth. Hyunjin returns to stirring something in the pot. And you sit there, journal in your lap, heart just a little steadier than yesterday.

But your dream still sits in your chest like a stone in water.

“You can read it, if you want,” you say after a pause, offering your journal to Hyunjin.

He glances up from the pot, blinking. “Your journal?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “I mean… only if you’re curious. I don’t mind. Just don’t laugh at the doodles.” For a moment, he hesitates, lips parting like he’s about to politely decline. “It’s yours. You sure?”

“I wouldn’t have offered otherwise,” you smirk. “Tell me what you think when you’re done.”

You set it on the table beside him and push off the couch, stretching your arms above your head. “Mind if I walk around outside for a bit?”

He glances out the window, assessing the weather like some kind of old-timey forest dad. “Yeah, alright. Don’t wander too far. Baekho’ll go with you.” Baekho’s ears twitch at the sound of his name, already halfway to your side before you even start walking. He bumps his head against your thigh like a knight volunteering for a quest.

“Security detail?” you ask, amused.

Hyunjin just shrugs with a smirk. “Think of him as your furry bodyguard.”

You step outside and inhale. The air is sharp and cold, filled with a damp kind of silence that clings to your clothes and skin like fog. Baekho pads beside you quietly, his breath puffing in little clouds. The earth is soft with moss, and small patches of snow hug the corners of the cabin like forgotten secrets.

As you circle the house, you glance at Baekho. “So… do you ever get bored up here with just Hyunjin? Or do you two have nightly poker tournaments in the woods?”

Baekho huffs.

You keep walking, eyes catching details you missed before: the bones of what once might’ve been a garden, a rusted lantern hanging crookedly from a nail, and—

Your gaze halts. Just beyond a thin line of trees, not more than fifty feet away, stands another structure. A smaller house—or maybe a shed. It's hunched low like it’s hiding. Weather-worn. Dark. Shadowed under the arms of tall pines.

You squint. “Huh… I didn’t realize anyone else lived up here.”

Baekho lets out a short, clipped bark.

You glance down at him. “What, territorial?”

Another bark. This one sharper. You raise an eyebrow and start walking toward the building, boots crunching over sticks and leaf mold. “C’mon. I just want to say hi. We’re in the middle of nowhere—seems rude not to greet the neighbors.”

Baekho stops walking.

His barking escalates—low, rapid, warning barks.

“Relax,” you whisper. “You’re making a scene.”

You wave him off and keep walking, approaching the shed-house with curiosity curling like smoke in your chest. The air feels different here. Thicker. Quiet in the wrong way. Like something holding its breath.

As you get closer, you notice someone sitting on the porch. A figure. Slumped in a chair.

Your eyes light up.

“Hey!” you call out, lifting a hand. “Didn’t realize there were others up here. I’m staying with Hyunjin—do you live out here too?”

No response.

The figure doesn’t move. Doesn’t turn their head. Just… sits. Baekho’s barking becomes frantic, but still, you press forward, slower now. A sliver of doubt creeps in, but not enough to stop you.

You raise your voice. “Hello? I’m not trying to intrude, just thought I’d say hi—”

“Y/N!”

Hyunjin’s voice slices through the woods like a whip crack.

You jolt, head snapping toward the sound. He’s storming down the slope behind you, boots flying, jaw clenched. His expression is not casual anymore. Not charming. He looks furious.

“Come back,” he shouts, his tone taut with urgency. You blink at him. “Why? There’s someone here—shouldn’t I say hel—”

“Don’t go any closer.” He’s nearer now, breath ragged, hand reaching toward you. “Y/N, get back here now.”

Your steps falter. “Wait, but they live here too, right? That’s a person, they’re just—”

Hyunjin grabs your arm, his grip firm but not cruel, and pulls you back with him. Baekho finally stops barking, now circling anxiously. You look up at Hyunjin, stunned. “I don’t understand. What’s going on?”

He exhales through his nose, lips pressed into a tight line. “No one else lives here apart from me.”

You freeze. “Then… who was that?”

“That’s not a person,” he says, his voice low, heavy with something unnameable. “And next time Baekho warns you, you listen. Got it?” You’re still staring past him, heart thudding wildly as the chill in your spine finally registers.

Hyunjin tugs you gently, guiding you back toward the house. “Let’s go. You don’t need to see them. Not yet.”

Not yet?

You don’t ask. You just follow. But your mind races faster than your feet.

Hyunjin had said dreams were vivid here.

But this? This wasn’t a dream.

@whatdoyouwanttocallmefor @alisonyus @rockstarkkami @morkleesgirl @pessimisticloather @yoongiismylove2018 @imeverycliche @katchowbbie @pixie-felix @maisyyyyyy @katyxstay @day138 @necrozica @nebugalaxy @jeonginnieswifey @iknow-uknow-leeknow @leeknow-minho2 @sh0rdor1 @jitrulyslayyed @igotajuicyass @imagine-all-the-imagines @lillymochilover @idol-dream-catcher @maxidential @ari-hwanggg @xxxxmoonlightxxx @rossy1080 @hanniebunch @tricky-ritz @woozarts @zerillia @queenofdumbfuckery @btch8008s @jamroses @geni-627 @sspersonally @possum_playground

GAHH...im really really REALLY excited for yall to see what ive been working on. to all of you that stayed even while i was absent thank you so so so much and i love you. my gift to you is an entrance into more stories from my crazy mind

Taglist: purple means I can't tag you

Check out my pinned if you want to be added to the taglist!

~kc 💗

[mrsha-ang-kim]

Part 7

𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐨𝐜𝐨𝐥

pairings: liar x liar, non idol au

synopsis: lies

warning: lies, ft minsung, hyunjin and changbin

a/n: if you have extra eyes for errors no you cant.

previously... next...

The house was quiet. A deep, heavy kind of silence that wrapped itself around the walls like a second skin. Only the occasional creak of old floorboards or the low hum of the fridge dared to stir. Bang Chan stood at the doorway of his room, the faintest sliver of light from the hallway catching the rigid line of his jaw. He glanced down the corridor toward your room. Your door was shut. He’d waited long enough, listened for your breathing to settle, watched the soft shuffle of movement behind your door stop. You were asleep. Finally.

He stepped back in and closed his door behind him, locking it. The folder he brought back earlier in the day—one he hadn’t dared open in front of her—now sat like a loaded weapon on the desk by the lamp. Cream-colored, slightly wrinkled, marked with a simple black label:

OP–SHADOWGATE : EXT-4271

He opened it. Slowly. The pages were crisp, printed in typeface and scattered with clipped photos, redacted names, and codes he recognized as off-grid intel. Private databases. Not FBI. Not CIA. This file had been buried beneath four layers of encrypted shell companies and abandoned ops.

But what hit him first was the photo.

You. Y/N. But not as he knew you.

The Y/N in the file wore darker clothes, your hair shorter, your eyes sharper. You looked… cold. Calculated. Military-grade precision in every movement. Every surveillance still of you was timestamped—none of them recent. All of them deeply embedded within reports about missing data, covert meetings in Singapore, Berlin, Tunisia… and one photo that made the breath catch in Chan’s throat—

A handshake. With a known arms trafficker.

What the hell? Page after page confirmed it.

Y/N L/N. No government affiliation. No agency tags. No loyalty flags. Not FBI. Not CIA. Not Interpol. Not even MI6. Instead, three bold letters marked the top corner of one document:

SCU. Chan stared at it, blinking.

Special Covert Unit. A name only whispered in the deeper shadows of intelligence circles. It wasn’t part of any official government. It was a freelance shadow operation—made up of former agents, soldiers, defectors, and ghosts. People who didn’t officially exist anymore. People who could do what governments couldn’t.

And you were one of them.

He ran a hand through his hair, standing abruptly and pacing across the room. The betrayal simmered just beneath his skin. You had lied to him. Let him believe you were an agent, his colleague. You played the role perfectly.

And now, he realized, you’d probably been tracking him. This wasn’t partnership. This was surveillance.

FLASHBACK — 5 HOURS AGO

The dim alley behind a nondescript Vietnamese café. A man stood near the loading door, lighting a cigarette with trembling fingers. Bald. Tall. Wire-rimmed glasses and a nervous tic.

Chan approached with his hood up.

"You said you had something I needed," he muttered. The man barely looked at him. “Your girl’s not who you think she is.”

Chan's silence made the man nervous. He reached into a leather pouch and handed over a sealed file.

"She’s on her own payroll. SCU. Has been for years. She's gotten in deep with people you’d shoot on sight. Singapore? That was the third time she’s crossed paths with Petrov. She might not even want you alive.”

Chan had stared. Said nothing. Took the file and left.

The rage started to build in his chest. A quiet fury. His heart beat hard against his ribs, but his hands were steady. He didn’t know what her game was yet… but he would. He grabbed his burner phone from beneath the loose floorboard under his bed and tapped out a quick, encrypted message to Jisung:

BIRD’S IN SHADOW.

SHE’S SCU. NEED A DEEP DIVE. NO MISTAKES.

PRIORITY ONE.

DO. NOT. TELL. HER.

He hit send and watched the message disappear into the black void of the encoded network.

Then he stared at the door. The one separating him from the woman who saved his life—

and may have been the one holding the blade to his throat all along.

---

The sharp ping of a notification cut through the heavy silence of the room, cracking the late-night calm like glass underfoot.

Jisung groaned into the pillow, half-buried under a tangle of bedsheets and the warm weight of Lee Know draped across his back. Lee Know stirred slightly but didn’t wake. His face remained tucked against Jisung’s shoulder, breathing soft and slow.

Jisung squinted at his phone from under the covers, fingers fumbling to unlock it.

One New Encrypted Message — Burn Line [CHAN]

> BIRD’S IN SHADOW.

SHE’S SCU. NEED A DEEP DIVE. NO MISTAKES.

PRIORITY ONE.

DO. NOT. TELL. HER.

That jolted him awake.

He sat up too fast, causing Lee Know to mumble something and shift with a sleepy arm reaching for him. Jisung gently slid out from under him, muttering, “Sorry, baby. Emergency. Sleep,” pressing a kiss to his forehead.

Lee Know didn’t even flinch—dead to the world.

Jisung padded out of the room barefoot and pulled his laptop from under the couch cushions in the living room. His fingers flew across the keys like they’d been waiting for this exact command.

SCU.

He already didn’t like it. SCU wasn’t just off-books. It was the stuff of ghost stories shared between agents over whiskey and paranoia. An elite, unaffiliated covert unit—ruthless, self-sustaining, and impossible to track. The fact that you were one of them? That was bad enough.

But what he found next was worse.

Kallisto.

He hadn’t seen that name in years. The last time it came up, a Russian scientist had vanished from a NATO stronghold. The whispers pinned it on Kallisto—a faceless middleman known for smuggling secrets, laundering intelligence, and forging high-level cover identities.

Every major intelligence server had fragments of Kallisto's digital fingerprint, but no one could identify him.

Until now, obviously. Jisung cracked open one of SCU’s old Istanbul logs. He cross-referenced Y/N’s operation history, missions involving black sites, off-grid assassinations, chemical extraction. And there it was.

An encoded drop-off record.

Marked: KALLISTO — ESCORTED CARGO: L/N

The IP trail was faint. Half-wiped. But he knew this code. He knew this formatting. His eyes widened.

"...No way."

He dug deeper. The metadata on the embedded cryptographic pings led back to one person.

HWANG. HYUNJIN.

“What the actual hell…” Jisung whispered. Hyunjin. The eccentric art dealer. Hacker. Occasional ghost in the machine when they needed access to black market caches. Your silent little tech whisperer. The guy you “called sometimes.”

Hyunjin was Kallisto.

The black-market ghost tied to former Russian intelligence circles. Jisung leaned back in the chair, letting out a long, low breath. His skin felt clammy, the adrenaline finally catching up to him.

You had lied. Big time.

And suddenly, everything about you—your calm, your silence, your innocence—it all made sense. He stood, went back into the bedroom, and gently shook Lee Know awake. “Minho… wake up.”

Lee Know blinked up at him, groggy but alert. “What’s wrong?”

Jisung knelt by the bed. “We’ve got a problem.”

---

They sat side by side on the couch now, Lee Know scrolling on his own device, eyes scanning the material with practiced calm. Jisung was pacing.

“She’s SCU. Confirmed. But that’s not even the worst part—she’s been working with Hyunjin. He’s Kallisto, babe. Like, the Kallisto.”

Minho stilled, a slow exhale leaving him. “Petrov’s operations. The Geneva leak. That guy?”

“Yeah. And Y/N had contact with him on record. Multiple times.”

“So, either she’s compromised,” Minho muttered, piecing it together, “or she’s playing some kind of deep game. Either way…”

“We can’t let her know we know,” Jisung said. “She’s too good. The second she suspects, she’ll vanish.” Lee Know nodded slowly. “Then we make a backup plan. Containment strategy. Something in case she decides to flip on us.”

They leaned over the laptop together. Drawing lines. Mapping timelines. Creating an algorithm that would flag any divergence in her behavior.

“She’s not FBI,” Jisung added softly, almost like it stung.

Lee Know watched him, his hand finding Jisung’s knee. “This is bigger than her now. We play nice. Act like we trust her.”

“And if she decides to go full double-cross?”

---

SOMEWHERE IN BERLIN — FIVE YEARS AGO

The rain was silver in the glow of neon. Cold. Soaked into the cracked asphalt like bloodstains washed clean too many times.

Hyunjin leaned against the shadowed mouth of an alleyway, hood up, hands in the pockets of a double-breasted coat tailored to perfection. Beneath it, a handgun pressed against his ribs and three encrypted drives waited in his briefcase like poison seeds. His gaze flicked upward, catching the silhouette of the woman through the haze—sharp steps, no hesitation, like she wasn’t scared of anything.

She shouldn’t have been there.

And yet… there she was.

Y/N.

She didn’t flinch when she saw him. She didn’t blink, either. Just stood before him like she already knew his name.

“You’re Kallisto?”

He smirked. “I don’t usually get called that to my face.”

“I’m not most people.”

God, that voice. It wasn’t soft—it was steel sharpened in silence. She carried herself like a storm that forgot how to scream. Beautiful in a way that made him ache, because it came with distance. She was untouchable. Purpose incarnate.

She was his type of problem.

---

PRESENT — SOMEWHERE IN TURKEY, KALLISTO’S SAFEHOUSE

Hyunjin sat barefoot at a sleek marble table, screens aglow in the dim light, lines of code reflecting in his tired, brilliant eyes. Cigarette smoke curled into the air like a dragon’s breath, untouched. His hair was half-tied, sleeves rolled up, black ink peeking from the veins of his forearm.

One screen displayed a dossier.

L/N, Y/N. Alias: Sparrow. Former asset of Operation Daggerfall. Unverified handler clearance.

He stared at her picture longer than he needed to. They’d met in Berlin by accident—but what followed was no coincidence. Y/N had needed access to something no agency would touch. The CIA had written her off. MI6 had wanted her dead. The FBI wouldn’t touch her without a valid background.

Hyunjin gave her one. He buried her records so deep no database could scratch them. Gave her a full identity, a backstory rooted in minor ops and forged casework. He made her real, not just on paper but in the eyes of the federal machine.

Why?

Because she was the first person in his life who didn’t ask him who he worked for.

And he liked the lie that he wasn’t dangerous around her.

---

THREE YEARS AGO — RUSSIA, THE BLACK VAULTS

K.B.V. — Komitet Bezopasnosti Vnutrennyaya. The Committee for Internal Security.

Hyunjin had been part of them once—not fully initiated, but deep enough. A rogue intelligence offshoot made of remnants from the KGB, rebranded under the skin of modern espionage. Hyunjin had been brought in as a teenager. A prodigy. A cyber mercenary capable of crashing entire power grids and rerouting missile guidance in under seven minutes.

He had worked operations where no one left alive. Where targets were innocent, and missions weren’t labeled necessary, just paid.

But somewhere along the way… he cracked.

It was a girl, actually. A blonde. From France. He never talks about her. After that, Hyunjin started playing both sides. Selling intel to the West. Helping the ones meant to disappear. That’s how he ended up in your orbit—how he became the one man you could count on to clean up her messes.

But he never told you about his KBV roots. Never told you that your fingerprints were once auctioned on the dark web and he was the one who bought them before someone else did.

He protected you. He watched your walk into fire. He patched her comms. He killed for her—quietly, efficiently. And every time you said “thank you” in that clipped, mission-focused tone… a small, pathetic part of him ached. Because you never looked at him the way he looked at you.

---

He pulled up footage—grainy but clear. The gala. Again. The kiss. Chan’s hand on her waist. Her lips against his. Hyunjin stared at it like it betrayed him personally.

He leaned back in the chair, exhausted.

“…You never wanted me,” he said into the silence. “But you keep calling.”

He closed the screen and locked everything down. Then turned to the window, watching a city he didn’t belong to breathe in the dark. And in a hidden vault under his floorboards, a letter addressed to Y/N sat sealed. Unread. Unsent. Just in case he ever didn’t come back.

---

The morning peeled itself from the edges of the horizon, warm gold bleeding into the sky like ink dropped into water. The air was still damp from the night rain, and the cobblestones outside the safehouse glistened faintly in the soft light.

Inside, Y/N zipped up the final bag with the kind of practiced grace that made it clear this wasn’t her first covert exit. She wore a dark hoodie, her hair tucked beneath a cap, and had the quiet look of someone already in the next country in her mind. Chan watched her from the doorway, arms folded, his face unreadable except for the faint shadow beneath his eyes—a storm bottled too neatly.

He knew. Everything. But she didn’t know that. He grabbed his own bag off the floor, slung it over his shoulder. “You double-checked the back exit?”

“Twice,” she said, brushing past him lightly. “You’d be surprised how many ops go south just because someone forgot to check for cameras.”

He gave a small, empty smile. “Wouldn’t surprise me at all.” They stepped out into the dawn.

---

The taxi smelled faintly of cigarettes and lemon-scented wipes. The driver grunted something in Czech and pulled away from the curb, the soft rumble of the car the only real sound as the city began to stir around them. Chan sat by the window, his hand curled loosely near his mouth, eyes locked on the blur of minarets and rooftop pigeons sliding past. Y/N sat beside him, her gaze forward, one leg bouncing slightly.

He broke the silence casually, voice wrapped in silk and smoke.

“You ever work with anyone out of South Carolina?”

Her eyes flicked to him. “SCU?” A pause. Careful, he thought.

She shrugged. “Not directly. They’ve got their own ghosts. You know how it is—oversight, contracts, a lot of red tape. Why?” Chan tilted his head, still watching the window.

“Just… someone mentioned a woman in one of my old circuits. Said she moved like she wasn’t trained by the Bureau.”

Her eyes narrowed just slightly, just long enough for him to catch it. “You think I move like that?” He smiled faintly, turning to look at her now. “I think you move like someone who doesn’t wait for orders.”

That earned a breath of a laugh. “Maybe I don’t.” They lapsed into silence again. But in Chan’s mind, wires were already reconnecting. Her answer wasn’t defensive—it was practiced. Slick. And vague enough to slide past the truth without ever touching it.

She’s good, he thought. Too good.

The taxi rolled to a stop in front of the departure’s terminal. Morning travelers bustled past with overstuffed luggage and sleep-laced chatter. Chan and Y/N stepped out, blending in with the chaos like shadows.

As Y/N adjusted the strap on her carry-on, her phone buzzed. She glanced at it.

[Jisung]: Your flight's confirmed. Prague to D.C, gate C-22. You board in 1 hr. You’re welcome.

Chan’s burner buzzed next. He checked it discreetly, heart thudding low and slow like a warning drum.

[Jisung]: Kallisto = Hyunjin. Confirmed.

He’s deeper in Russian circuits than we thought.

Do NOT confront her.

Play along. We’re building the counter-plan.

Chan’s jaw tightened. Just slightly. He slid the phone back into his jacket, turned to Y/N with that easy, almost-charming look he wore like armor.

“C-22,” he said. “You want coffee before we go through security?”

She blinked, surprised for a second by the shift. “You’re buying?” He smirked. “You’re still recovering from that fish crime you ordered last night. I owe you.”

As they walked into the terminal, he walked just a step behind her. Watching. Calculating. And the entire time, he smiled like he didn’t know a thing.

---

The room was dimly lit, washed in a cool blue glow from the multiple monitors lined across the wall like portals to chaos. The table was cluttered, half-empty mugs, a bowl of almonds, USBs scattered like confetti, and at the center of it all: Jisung, hunched forward in a hoodie, eyes flicking fast over the screen.

Lee Know sat behind him on the edge of the couch, arms folded, head tilted with that signature mix of exasperation and fondness. His hair was messily laid back, and he wore nothing but a black sleeveless tee and joggers that slung low on his hips.

“Baby, it’s past three,” he said gently. “Your brain’s going to short-circuit. Come to bed.”

“I can’t,” Jisung mumbled, rubbing his eye with the back of his hand. “We just pulled up something off that Turkish backdoor server. There’s something encrypted buried under the Havana list—some weird metadata…”

Lee Know sighed through his nose, padded barefoot across the floor and crouched beside him, eyes scanning the screen.

“… ‘OSCAR,’” he read aloud.

Jisung leaned in closer, typing furiously. “That name was tagged on the Havana trade manifest. Not as cargo. As the person who signed off Petrov’s transfer. But this doesn’t make sense—there’s no trace of her anywhere. No photo. No paper trail. It’s like someone built a ghost and gave her a name.”

Lee Know stared at the file; expression unreadable for a second. Then he stood, walked behind Jisung, and wrapped his arms around his shoulders, pressing his lips to the side of his boyfriend’s head.

“You are too sexy to be this stubborn, you know that?”

“I’m trying to focus here.”

“And I’m trying to get you to sleep so you don’t pass out in the middle of a firewall breach tomorrow morning.”

“I said I’m fine—”

Lee Know leaned down and kissed him again. This time slower. Then once more. Again.

Jisung’s fingers slowed on the keys. “Lee Know…”

“Yeah?”

“What are you doing.”

“I’m kissing you.”

“Why are you kissing me?”

“Because when reasoning fails, seduction prevails.”

“I hate you.”

“You’re lying.”

“I am lying.”

Lee Know slipped around and gently straddled him on the chair, pressing their lips together properly this time—hands warm against Jisung’s jaw, mouth coaxing the tension out of him in lazy, warm kisses. Jisung gave in with a soft groan, arms looping around his waist.

“Just a minute,” he murmured against Lee Know’s lips.

“Take your time,” he whispered back, dragging the kisses slower, lazier, trailing from his jaw to his neck. “I’ll keep you here till the sun comes up if I have to.”

They didn’t speak after that. They just swayed together in the low light, lost in something too tender for words—breaths mingling, mouths brushing, the tension of espionage fading for a moment into something personal. Familiar.

Then,

PING.

The laptop chimed. Jisung blinked against Lee Know’s collarbone, dazed. “That… was the metadata dump. It decrypted.” Lee Know groaned dramatically and flopped back into the couch, dragging a throw pillow over his face. “If that turns out to be a decoy file, I’m deleting the internet.”

Jisung pulled himself up, adjusted the screen—and then froze. His brows furrowed, fingers hovering above the keys as an image popped up.

“Holy sh—”

“What?” Lee Know sat up. Jisung didn’t look away from the screen. His voice dropped.

“That’s her. Oscar.”

An elegant silhouette in grayscale. No face. But the metadata showed something else: A log of clearance codes used during Operation Nightfall. Signed off… under the name Reynolds.

Lee Know leaned in, eyes narrowing.

“…They’re working together?”

Jisung nodded slowly, jaw clenching. “And they were in Havana.”

---

Rain whispered against the windows of the high-rise apartment, streaking the glass in slanted gray lines. The place was sharp—clean lines, sterile decor, too polished to be personal. Just like the man who lived in it. Reynolds stood in front of the bar, pouring himself something darker than his thoughts. The amber liquid sloshed into the tumbler with a quiet clink of ice. He looked tired. More than tired. Worn. His tie was loosened, top buttons undone, and there was a trembling tension in his jaw that hadn’t been there the day before.

Behind him, Petrov leaned back on the leather armchair like a cat that knew it had nine lives. He wore black, all black, a cigarette lazily perched between his fingers despite the no smoking sign Reynolds always insisted on. His eyes tracked Reynolds like a man who expected a bullet—but wasn't scared of it. “You look like shit,” Petrov said calmly in his thick Russian accent, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling.

“I ran into Oscar last night.”

That got his attention. Petrov straightened, the smirk dissolving from his face like fog. “…She’s here?”

Reynolds turned, drink in hand, and gave him a cold, slow look. “In my goddamn living room, Viktor.”

Petrov held his gaze. “I didn’t call her.”

Reynolds’ voice cracked with low fury. “Bullshit. You compromised the gala. She shook your hand in the middle of gunfire. You were a goddamn beacon.”

“I was saving your operation—”

“You were making yourself the center of it,” Reynolds barked, slamming his glass down on the bar with a sharp crack. “Now she thinks we’ve lost control. She thinks I have. She threatened to light this entire op on fire if I don’t have Bang Chan’s head before the deadline.”

Petrov rose from the chair, the smirk now fully gone. “I swear to you; I didn’t say a word to her. She doesn’t know about Chan. Not from me.”

“She knows enough to show up unannounced,” Reynolds snapped, stalking forward. “And if we don’t get in front of this—if we don’t figure out something, she’ll pull the plug and do it her way. And her way? It’s not clean. It’s not political. It’s nuclear.”

They stood there, the weight of a thousand betrayals thick in the air.

Petrov flicked his ash into the tray, then muttered, “So what now?” Reynolds pinched the bridge of his nose, thinking. Calculating. The mind of a man who'd sold both secrets and souls for survival.

“We give her something,” he said finally. “A breadcrumb. Not Chan. Not yet. But something that makes it look like we’re playing ball. And in the meantime—”

He looked up, eyes sharper than a blade in the cold.

“—we come up with a contingency plan. In case she decides we’re no longer necessary.” Petrov nodded slowly, then lifted his glass.

“To desperate partnerships,” he said dryly. Reynolds didn’t toast. He just turned away, staring out at the rain.

“God help us all if she realizes how far off-script this really is.”

---

Terminal 2, Gate 22, En route to Washington D.C

The check-in line was long, but not noisy. But Y/N wasn’t distracted. Not really. She stood a few paces behind Chan as they waited at security, watching him with that instinctive sharpness she'd honed for years. Something about him was different. Distant. Not cold—but guarded. He hadn’t said more than ten words since they’d left the safehouse.

She watched the tightness in his jaw as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His hand gripped the strap of his bag a little too hard. His lips were set in a firm, unreadable line.

And Y/N, despite every instinct telling her to just play it cool, found herself leaning toward him gently as they passed through the security scanner.

“You alright?” she asked softly, keeping her tone light. “You’ve been weirdly quiet. Not that I’m complaining. It’s just… not your usual kind of quiet.”

Chan looked at her. For a moment, his eyes flickered. Like something inside him softened just enough to let the truth nearly spill out. But instead, he offered a faint smile—a hollow one.

“Just tired,” he said. “Didn’t sleep well.”

“Nightmares or intel?” she teased, her voice playful but careful. He let out a small exhale, neither confirming nor denying. Just moving through the moment like a man carrying too many unspoken truths.

She didn’t press. Not yet. As they approached the gate, their boarding passes beeped and they crossed into the jet bridge, walking side by side in the sterile tunnel that led to the aircraft. The hum of the engines rumbled ahead, but her mind stayed focused on the man next to her.

Maybe it was the look in his eyes. Maybe it was instinct. Or maybe it was that unshakable thread between them—tension, trust, and something else they never had the courage to name. Just before they stepped into the plane, she said, “You know… whatever it is you think I’m hiding from you… maybe just ask me, Chan.”

That stopped him. He turned to her slowly, brows barely lifted, lips parting slightly as if caught off guard. She gave him a small shrug, eyes calm but not challenging. “I’m not saying I don’t have secrets. We all do. But if you want the truth, you can always ask for it. I won’t lie to you.”

That hit harder than it should have.

Because the file still burned in his bag. The truth already stared him in the face, and yet—her voice made him hesitate. Made him doubt. And that scared him more than anything else. He nodded once, eyes dropping to the floor for just a beat too long. Then he stepped into the plane, leaving her to follow behind, unaware that the first real fracture had just begun.

---

The room was dark except for the flickering light from at least six different monitors. Strings of code cascaded like falling rain across black screens. The air smelled faintly of soldered wire and burnt coffee, evidence of Hyunjin's relentless routines. His desk was a chaotic masterpiece: old USBs, passports, a disassembled burner phone, and a half-finished oil painting of a fox that had long since dried unfinished.

He leaned back in his chair, eyes half-lidded, a single cigarette resting between his fingers but never lit. His gaze flickered over the final set of coordinates he’d decrypted an hour ago.

Location: Prague > Departure: DC

Subject: BANG C. / YN

He exhaled sharply through his nose. They were moving faster than expected. With the same elegance he brought to his art, Hyunjin leaned forward and opened a separate interface. His fingers tapped quickly, unlocking a channel so heavily encrypted it would take even the best black hat a week to scrape the metadata. But Oscar? She’d receive the message in seconds.

He clicked the microphone icon and spoke low into it:

> Oscar. Your package is mobile. Destination: Washington D.C. ETA six hours. Suggest containment on landing. You still want the ghost or just the soldier?

He released the mic, leaned back, and pressed SEND. A soft beep confirmed it was received and decrypted. He sat there, motionless, fingers steepled. His eyes didn’t blink for a few seconds. Because despite what he had just done—despite the mask of cold indifference he wore so well—it wasn’t just a mission. Not when it came to her. Not when it came to Y/N.

Hyunjin whispered under his breath, “What the hell are you doing, pretty girl…?”

He was about to pull up the next operation file when another alert blipped in the corner of his primary monitor.

Incoming Message: UNRECOGNIZED KEYCHAIN

Encryption: NERVE Protocol / Red Spider Variant

Location masked

Brows lifted. He hadn’t seen this protocol in years. Only a handful of elite black-market hackers used it. Most of them were ghosts. Off-grid. Untraceable. Curious, he opened the message.

> KALLISTO. I see you. You can paint in Prague, hide in Spain, sip tea in Seoul. But sooner or later, I'm gonna unplug your router and use your bones as Wi-Fi extenders. :) – spider.exe

Hyunjin blinked. Once. Twice. Then he snorted—actually laughed. Loudly.

“Spider.exe?” he muttered. “That’s cute. Very cute.”

He leaned forward and quickly activated three different defense protocols, sealing his connection routes and initiating a trace sweep. Not to find them—he wouldn’t succeed. But to at least see what sort of game they were playing.

He stared at the signature tag of the hacker’s handle again. It was old-school. Reckless. Personal.

“…Who the hell are you?” he whispered, the smile still on his lips, eyes sharpening like a wolf finally smelling blood.

Because someone was watching him.

And even though they were clever… Hyunjin had survived the K.B.V. by being smarter.

---

Jisung leaned back in his chair, legs folded, hoodie sleeves pushed halfway up as he spun a pen between his fingers. The laptop screen in front of him still had the encryption pulse active—the same encrypted system he’d used to poke the bear.

Or rather, poke KALLISTO.

Lee Know was somewhere in the background brushing his teeth, humming a tune from that one old K-drama he refused to admit he liked. But Jisung? He was grinning, eyes wide and glinting with mischief as he typed again into the Red Spider interface.

OUTGOING MESSAGE

> Yo Picasso.exe — you draw fast but you paint slow. FYI, I'm the nightmare that crash-lands your Dropbox and plays Baby Shark on loop till you cry in Morse code. Wanna play tag, comrade?

ENCRYPTED SEND > DELIVERED

Beep.

He waited. Not even fifteen seconds. His eyes caught the alert on screen.

INCOMING TRANSMISSION – USER: APOLLO.S13 // KALLISTO

Encryption Signature: Modified Russian VektorShell – Unscramblable

Jisung whistled. “Damn. Old school and expensive…”

Then the message decrypted.

RECEIVED MESSAGE

> Tag requires two players. You don’t ping like NSA, but you’re not FSB either. Your syntax is juvenile, your jokes? American. But your footprint is clean. Too clean. Either you’re new, or you’re very good. So tell me: how long have you been inside my system?

Jisung blinked. “Oh, he thinks I’m inside.”

He cracked his knuckles, rolled his neck, and grinned like a devil in a hoodie. “No idea who I am? Good. Let’s keep it that way.”

He quickly began coding his reply—half jokes, half riddles, all wrapped in a sarcasm sandwich.

OUTGOING MESSAGE

> Define ‘inside.’ Metaphysically? Emotionally? Or spiritually? Because honestly, I’ve been living rent-free in your RAM since you sent Oscar that voice memo. C’mon, Kallisto. Play a little.

Another beat.

Ding.

KALLISTO REPLY – 1:38 RESPONSE TIME

> Cute. But cute things die first. Keep poking, spider. When I find your web, I’m setting it on fire.

Jisung snorted, closing the lid of his laptop slowly like he’d just made eye contact with the final boss of a game. He leaned back further, arms crossed behind his head.

“Oh, he mad mad. Baby boy got attitude.”

Lee Know walked in, towel over his shoulder, frowning. “You’re flirting with Russian hackers at again?”

“…Technically he’s North Korean-trained but, y’know, semantics.”

Lee Know sighed, but smirked. “You’re not gonna tell him who you are?” Jisung grinned. “Nah. Not yet. Let’s see how long it takes Picasso to realize he’s been painting on my canvas.”

---

FLIGHT 297 – SOMEWHERE ABOVE KENTUCKY

Cabin dim, engines humming low, and the soft glow of overhead lights pooling like moonlight around their seats.

Y/N leaned back into her seat, head tilted toward the small window, watching as clouds slithered past in the night sky like pale ghosts. The plane wasn’t packed—just a scattering of sleepy passengers lost in their own silence. She’d been watching Chan from the corner of her eye for about twenty minutes now.

He was quiet. Too quiet. And something about the way he’d been since they left the safehouse was… off. Not cold. Just… calculated. Like he was mentally running risk assessments on everything, including her.

She didn’t press. Not immediately.

But curiosity and survival had a similar itch, and eventually, she turned toward him, voice soft. “So… what’s the plan when we land in D.C.?”

Chan didn’t look up right away. His gaze was fixed on the seat in front of him, fingers tapping rhythmically against the fold-down tray. Then, slowly, he shifted in his seat, casting her a quick glance before leaning a bit closer.

“Friend’s place,” he said simply, voice low. “Guy I trust. His name’s Changbin.”

Y/N’s spine straightened by less than a millimeter. Her eyes didn’t blink. Her breath didn’t skip. But something in her stomach knotted.

CIA.

She knew the name. Not from files, but whispers. Operation Scarfall. Beirut. The Berlin Deviation. He was the CIA handler you didn’t want to get on the bad side of. And he was close to Chan?

Shit.

But her face? A masterpiece. She smiled gently. “How close are we talking?” Chan exhaled a quiet chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “He almost got me court-martialed on my first inter-agency mission. Gave me hell for three weeks because I mislabeled a cipher doc.”

Y/N blinked. “Sounds like a great first date.”

Chan gave her a look, one that almost held a smile—almost. “He earned my trust the same way I earned his. We nearly died pulling each other out of a blown-out building in Benghazi. Haven’t been able to get rid of him since.”

Y/N nodded slowly, still pretending. Still sweet. Still the Y/N he thinks he knows. “And you think he’s the best place to start?”

“He’s not just a friend,” Chan said, voice flattening slightly. “He’s a fixer. Quiet but connected. If there’s anything left buried in D.C., Changbin can dig it up, burn it, and sell the ashes to the highest bidder.”

Y/N tucked that away. Filed it next to “Find a way to keep Changbin at arm’s length.” Chan’s eyes narrowed slightly, scanning her features. “Don’t worry. I’ll be the one to break the situation down to him.”

“Situation?”

He hesitated. “You. The mission. All of it.”

“Ah.” She crossed one leg over the other, lips curling into a soft smirk. “You think he’s not already ten steps ahead?” Chan scoffed lightly. “He probably is. He’s probably listening to this conversation right now. But I owe him the explanation anyway.”

She nodded, turning her gaze back to the window, watching the lights of a city far below flicker like dying stars. And deep inside—beneath the calm, beneath the softness—she wondered:

How long could she keep playing this game? Because it wasn’t just Chan anymore. It was CIA. And Changbin. The man who once interrogated KALLISTO in a shipping crate in Kaliningrad.

This was going to get messy.

REAGAN NATIONAL AIRPORT – WASHINGTON, D.C.

The air is heavy with dew and anticipation. The city sleeps—restless and unaware.

The plane’s wheels kissed the tarmac with a soft, tired bounce, jostling the passengers gently awake. Cabin lights blinked on fully, casting shadows over drawn faces and travel-weary limbs. Y/N stirred beside Chan, stretching subtly as the pilot's voice crackled overhead, welcoming them to the District of Columbia.

They moved in silence, the kind bred not of awkwardness but of focus—of sharpening blades before the next fight.

Baggage claim was a ghost town, the conveyor belt humming like a tired lullaby. Their duffels arrived quickly—black, nondescript, and heavy with secrets. Chan hoisted his without strain, glancing once over his shoulder as Y/N lifted hers. Always watching. Always calculating.

Outside, the chill was sharper than expected, the kind that bit through jackets and whispered of coming storms. Chan stepped a few paces away from her to the curb, phone in hand, raising it to call a cab. And that’s when her phone pinged.

One message. Unknown number.

Encrypted tag: MirrorOp-11.

She unlocked it, frowning faintly as the screen displayed:

> The spider’s getting closer to the web.

Better check your corners. – K

Her breath hitched just slightly—barely, but Chan caught it.

Unbeknownst to her, as she tilted the screen just slightly for a better read, he caught the top of the message from over her shoulder. His gaze flickered, lips twitching into a slow, almost amused smile.

Kallisto.

He knew that message wasn't from just anyone. And "the spider"? It was one of Jisung's oldest hacker tags—playful, dangerous, elusive. The digital equivalent of a red laser pointer and a loaded gun. Still pretending not to have seen a thing, Chan turned and flagged down a taxi with an easy wave, his voice calm.

“Over here.”

The yellow cab rolled up with a tired groan, headlights splashing across their faces. He opened the door for her first like always, and she slid in, her phone slipping into her coat pocket. Chan followed and closed the door behind them, then leaned in to the driver.

“Northwest. 14th and T Street,” he said smoothly. The driver gave a nod and pulled out into the sleepy city streets, tires whispering over damp asphalt.

Y/N’s expression was mostly neutral, but Chan didn’t miss the subtle tension in her posture, the tight hold on the strap of her bag, the way her eyes darted once to the rearview mirror, checking for tails out of habit.

“You okay?” he asked casually, glancing sideways at her. His voice had that soft, worn edge like coffee at dawn. “You looked like you saw a ghost back there.”

Y/N turned to him, lips already lifting into a gentle, practiced smile. “Yeah,” she replied easily. “Just... tired.”

He tilted his head, studying her just a beat longer than necessary, then nodded. “Of course,” he said, leaning back against the seat. “You’ve been through hell.” His tone was comforting. Reassuring. The protective leader. But his thoughts?

If you only knew what I saw.

If you only knew who I’m talking to. And what we’re building behind the curtain. The cab turned onto a main road, headlights cutting through fog, and the Capitol slowly began to rise like a giant in the distance watching them.

And Y/N?

She pressed her lips together and glanced down at her phone once more. She didn’t reply to the message.

Not yet.

Because suddenly…

It felt like someone else was watching the spider too.

---

The taxi hummed quietly as it pulled up in front of a narrow street lined with quiet row houses modest, but timeless. Each brick home had the same bones but showed off its own personality: a windchime here, mismatched flower pots there, paint chipping in just the right way. And in front of one—olive green door, cracked white trim—was where Chan told the driver to stop.

“Here,” he muttered, already reaching for his wallet.

Y/N stepped out first, stretching her arms with a quiet sigh as Chan paid the driver. The morning air was still cool, birds chirping overhead in the sleepy hum of D.C. suburbia. They looked like tourists, really. Two travelers with their bags and fatigue under their eyes. Nothing suspicious. Nothing wild. Just two people with too much history tucked into carry-ons.

As the car drove off and the sound of its tires faded, Chan walked up to the doorstep and gave three sharp knocks against the wood. There was a pause. Then footsteps. A shuffle. The squeak of a hinge and the door cracked open.

“Jesus Christ,” came a voice, deep and raspy, still thick with morning. “Who the hell fucked you?”

Chan barked out a laugh. “Real welcoming, Bin.”

“Hey,” Changbin grinned, stepping back so they could see him fully. He was barefoot in sweatpants and a black tee, hair messy, a toothbrush still in his mouth like a cigarette. “Had to be said. You look like a war crime.”

“I was a war crime,” Chan said with a smirk. “Come on, Y/N.”

Y/N stepped forward cautiously, bag slung over one shoulder, eyes darting over Changbin with subtle appraisal. She recognized the CIA air before he even spoke—calculated eyes, compact build, that low hum of suspicion always thrumming under the surface.

Changbin blinked at her. “And you are…?”

Chan shifted beside her. “FBI. She found me.”

There was a beat. Then Changbin’s lips twitched.

“A she found you?” he said, brow raised. “Damn, low blow, bro. I thought the Ghost of Langley would be found by some tatted-up Russian or an old white guy named Walter, but this—?” He let out a breathy laugh. “Nah, I like this better.”

Chan rolled his eyes and flipped him off as he crossed the threshold. “Eat shit.”

“Already did. The yogurt expired two days ago,” Changbin shot back, closing the door behind them with a heavy clunk and twisting the locks. He looked back at them. “Make yourselves at home. Couch is yours. Kitchen’s to the right. Don’t touch my protein powder or we fight.”

Y/N smiled politely, easing her bag down by the wall. The space was cozy in that ex-operative kind of way—bare walls, sturdy furniture, hidden cameras in the corner if you looked hard enough. Homey... if your version of home came with bulletproof blinds.

Chan looked over at Changbin again, that subtle softness tugging at the edge of his mouth.

“I missed you, bro.”

That wasn’t something they said easily. Not in this world. Not unless they meant it. Changbin’s expression flickered. “Yeah, well… you better’ve. I had to watch your name bounce through six different kill lists like a damn ping pong tournament.” He crossed over and pulled Chan into a half hug, the kind where you clap each other’s backs hard enough to bruise. “Good to see you in one piece, man.”

“You too.” Chan stepped back, grinning. “How’s your girl?”

Changbin snorted, dragging a hand through his hair. “Mad at me. Thinks I took a late-night op to avoid therapy again.”

“Did you?”

“Obviously.” He gave a shrug like: what’s a man to do? “She’ll forgive me. Eventually. I bought her a plant.” Chan shook his head with a smile. “You’re gonna die in your sleep.”

“Probably. At least I’ll die pretty.”

And just like that, the door to safety had shut behind them but the door to strategy, to planning, to war, had quietly opened. And no one said it aloud yet, but it was there in the glances, the sighs, the heaviness behind every word.

Because this wasn’t just a safe house.

This was the first chess move.

I can't wait for my lovely blue to see this 😙

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[mrsha-ang-kim]

𝐒𝐚𝐥𝐭 𝐈𝐧 𝐌𝐲 𝐋𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐬

Pairing: merman!hyunjin x marinespecialist!afab!reader, fantasy au

Synopsis: meeting a merman at work wasn't on the schedule. neither was having feelings.

Warnings: gore a teeny bit, fantasy fluff, strange sounds and feelings, language barrier, confused feelings, innocent curiosity

A/n: inspired by @ssickmagnolia8's losing my breath for you. If you have extra eyes for errors no you don't . I tried so hard to get out of my writers block 😭 I barely have inspo but my drafts are crazy full 😭

You weren’t raised on fairy tales. You were raised on currents. Your father was a sailor, your mother a coastal ecologist, and the ocean was their god. Family vacations were tidepool cataloging. Bedtime stories were legends about deep-sea creatures that mimicked men but weren’t. But you didn’t believe in monsters—not really. You believed in data. Pressure changes. Temperature shifts. Migration patterns. At seventeen, you watched your mother drown. Not in a storm. Not in a dramatic, cinematic scene. No. Your mother simply walked into the tide, arms wide, eyes blank, whispering something only the water could hear. Her body was never found.

You never went near the shore for five years.

But obsession is the child of grief.

You became a specialist in acoustic telemetry, tracking marine life through sound and signal. You hunted the sea with sonar instead of boats. Your reports were clinical. Clean. Controlled

Still, you pushed forward. You had a name to clear, a memory to honor, and a gut feeling you couldn’t shake. Something was wrong with the ocean.

The SS Kismet was a research vessel outfitted for deep-sea tracking, manned by six specialists and one quietly fraying you. The day was standard. The sun overhead bleached the deck white, waves slapped rhythmically against the hull, and the equipment hummed with numbers and graphs. you stood near the stern, notebook in hand, listening to the low-frequency pings returning from their latest scan.

“Same patterns as last week,” murmured Aaron, the lead sonar tech. “Migration normal. No anomalies.”

You didn’t respond. Her eyes flicked to the live display:

Depth: 145 meters. Movement: Moderate. Bio-signature: 3.4

Everything made sense. That was the problem.

The sea was too quiet. After five hours, the crew packed up. Equipment retracted, samples secured, reports logged. The boat turned back toward shore under a rose-gold sky, and conversation rose around you—light, casual. But you stayed at the edge of the boat, watching the way the water seemed to stretch too long. Like it was holding its breath. They docked by sunset. Seagulls screamed over the marina. Lights from the harbor winked like tired eyes. The others disembarked, laughing, boots hitting wet wood. You trailed behind them… until she saw it.

Far off. Barely visible in the waning light. Something was moving. Not in the water, from the shore. It was tall. Human-shaped, but too fluid. Staggering like its bones didn’t fit right. Its skin—if it had skin—glinted wet like oil on pavement. It moved into the surf, slow and steady. Not fighting the pull. Letting the sea take it back.

You squinted. No one else noticed. You opened your mouth to speak, but your throat clenched. Because the thing paused.

And turned.

And though it had no eyes you could see, you felt it look at you. Right at you.

Your voice cracked in the thick evening air as you called out, “Guys? Hey—HEY!”

But your words dissolved into the wind, carried off with the laughter of the team now too far along the dock. Their boots were on asphalt. Yours were still on splintered planks. Alone.

You cursed under your breath. The figure had disappeared into the surf, but her gut twisted with the knowledge, it was still there. Half-lost in the tide, half-drenched in something darker. Not seaweed. Not shadow. Blood.

Your hand slipped into your gear pouch, fingers wrapping tightly around the hilt of a folding blade. Not large. Not elegant. Just sharp enough to buy you three seconds if things went wrong. And something told you they were about to. The dock faded behind you as you stepped off onto the wet sand, shoes sinking slightly. The air was cooler down here, closer to the sea’s breath. You moved carefully, knees bent, eyes squinting into the low mist as the tide rolled in slow and deliberate like it was trying to lull you.

Then you saw it. He was collapsed at the edge where sea met sand, half-submerged, slumped like a dying god. Not a man. Not entirely.

His body was long, too long. From the waist up, he looked almost human—shoulders broad, chest marked with faint violet ridges that pulsed softly, like gills. His skin was damp, luminous, stretched over lean muscle and speckled with gashes, torn open by jagged coral or perhaps claws of his own kind. But from the waist down…a tail. Not cartoonish or shiny. This was monstrous beauty. Deep, obsidian-blue scales etched with silver patterns like ancient runes. Fins like torn silk fluttered weakly at the edge, trembling with effort. Blood—dark, almost black—pooled beneath him in the sand and hissed quietly when it touched saltwater.

His hair was soaked and tangled, clinging to his sharp cheekbones, framing a face too sculpted to be human. Ethereal. High-boned. Lips split at the corner. Eyes—

Oh God, his eyes. They snapped open at your approach.

Sharp. Slit pupils. The color of storm-lit seawater green and grey and gold all at once.

And then he hissed. Low. Defensive. His lips peeled back just enough to show teeth—sharp, serrated like a predator’s.

You froze, raising your free hand. “Hey—hey, it’s okay. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

But he didn’t understand. Or didn’t care. His arms pushed against the wet sand, trying to lift himself. A growl reverberated deep in his chest as he whipped his tail, sending a spray of water across your face. The movement tore open a gash along his hip, he let out a strained cry, somewhere between rage and agony, before collapsing back with a choked gasp.

You stepped forward instinctively, breath shallow.

He was shaking. Drenched. Wild. And yet… vulnerable. This was no sea monster.

This was someone. And he was dying. Your heart hammered as you stepped closer, sand slipping under your boots. Your hands were up—one still holding the small knife, the other palm-out, slow, nonthreatening.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” you whispered, voice thick with breath. “You’re hurt. I—I can help.”

But he didn’t understand your words. He only saw movement. A human form. Something closer. With a feral grunt, the merman twisted, shoulder muscles flaring, tail slapping the sand in a weak arc. He tried to crawl back toward the surf instinct pulling him to the safety of the ocean, of away. But pain lanced through him again. His shoulder gave out. One of the wounds split wider, the dark ichor spilling fresh and hot.

He cried out, low and guttural, collapsing again with a strangled wince.

You flinched but didn’t move away. Her pulse skipped, but your feet stayed rooted.

You dropped to your knees a few feet from him and carefully pulled your field pack open. Out came a fabric square, military-grade wound wrap, waterproof and heat-reactive. Not exactly meant for mythological sea creatures, but she had to try.

You slid forward. Close enough now to hear the rough sound of his breath—shaky and uneven. “I’m going to touch you now,” she murmured, voice trembling. “Please don’t—don’t freak out.”

He snarled again, a rumble in his throat, but it wasn’t as sharp. More confused than aggressive now. He tracked every movement of your hand with those uncanny eyes. You leaned in, breath soft, and gently pressed the wrap to the gash along his ribs. His skin twitched beneath her touch warm, slick, and… not completely alien. The scales shimmered faintly beneath your fingertips, flexing and fluttering as if responding to her. He hissed again, low and tight. Not from anger this time from pain. But he didn’t strike. Didn’t move away.

The bandage clung instantly, sealed by body heat. You pulled another out and looked at him.

“I can help with the rest,” she said softly, holding the next strip up. “If you let me. If you can… I don’t know, trust me?”

He blinked. Slow. The growling had stopped. His eyes scanned your face, lingered on your lips, your eyes like he was trying to read something in you, some language you weren’t speaking. He shifted, inching forward on trembling arms. His head dipped slightly. One of his fins curled inward. And then—quietly, hesitantly—he leaned toward you.

You sucked in a breath as he drew closer, breath brushing your cheek, cool and wet like fog. His tail slid across the sand with a soft drag. He was allowing it now. Allowing you. His body gave the answer his voice couldn’t. You moved gently, methodically, patching another wound on his side, then his forearm. The gashes were bad—too deep for you to handle on a beach. He needed more. He needed help. But he was still looking at you.

And not like you were a threat anymore. You sat back on your heels, hands trembling just slightly from the cold, the adrenaline, the impossibility of what you was seeing. You’d patched him up best you could with what you had, but they couldn’t stay here. Someone would find them. Your team would come looking. And he… he couldn’t defend himself like this.

You looked down at him, where he was half-curled in the sand. Still bleeding. Breathing hard. “Can you walk?” she muttered aloud, half to herself, her voice barely above the hush of the waves behind them.

You realized how stupid it sounded the second it left your mouth—he had a tail, not legs.

But still, she made the motion with her fingers, as if puppeteering invisible legs. A silly little walking gesture, the way you’d signal to a child. To your absolute disbelief, his eyes followed the motion. His brows furrowed in that elegant, ocean-slick face. He looked at his own tail. Looked at your. Then—

He began to shift.

Slow at first. Painfully. The sound that came from his throat was low and rough, like gravel pulled by the tide. But his body began to change. The fin that had glimmered like black opal under moonlight began to split, crackling, warping, folding in on itself like liquid glass folding into clay. The deep iridescent scales retreated, melting away like dew drying off skin. His tail was gone. In its place: long, pale legs, scarred and sleek. Powerful thighs. Knees bent awkwardly as if unfamiliar. The bruises from earlier still colored his skin. Salt and blood clung to him in places no human anatomy textbook could prepare you for.

Your lips parted, jaw slack. “What the actual—”

He looked up at you, panting. Exhausted. On his hands and knees now, shivering in the wind and the wetness, completely bare and utterly other. But also… human. Or something achingly close. You stumbled to your feet, ditching the knife completely now, and bent to hook an arm under his. “Okay, alright. Come on. I’ve got you.”

He flinched as their skin touched, his reflexes still caught between fight or flight. But this time, he didn’t pull away. He let you help him.

You pulled his arm over your shoulder, feeling the sharp weight of him, every muscle trembling under the strain of transformation. His wet skin pressed against your clothes, soaking through instantly. He leaned heavily on you, and she tightened your grip, breath hitching as he groaned again. They stumbled together across the beach, two shadows limping toward the faint lights of the Marine Center in the distance. You  kept your head low, whispering reassurances under your breath, some for him, most for yourself.

“Just a little further, okay? We’re almost there. You’re doing good… god, you’re doing so good.”

You used the back entrance of the Center—you’d done it a hundred times for late data drops, but never with a naked injured merman draped over you like seaweed.

Somehow—by divine panic and dumb luck—they made it across the dark, tiled hallway, up a flight of stairs, and into your tiny staff dorm tucked behind the labs. You kicked the door shut behind them and locked it in one motion.

Inside: warm, quiet, safe.

You turned to him. He was half-collapsed against your twin bed, blinking slowly, skin clammy, lips slightly parted in pain and confusion. So much humanity in his expression. So much… fear. You swallowed hard and dropped beside him.

“I don’t know what the hell you are,” you whispered, brushing hair—still wet, still tangled with seaweed and blood—out of his eyes. “But I’ve got you now.”

You moved quickly now, your brain scrambling to shift from shock to survival mode. You rummaged through the spare shelf under your bed and yanked out a clean, fluffy gray blanket—one you usually used for late night writing sessions or curling up with ocean current charts. Not for covering up the naked sea man bleeding out in your room. You turned back to him, and he was watching you. Dazed. Alert, somehow, but like he was in a completely foreign world his body shivering, his mouth slightly parted, hair clinging to his cheek in stringy wet ribbons.

“Okay,” you breathed, kneeling down. “I’m not gonna look. Promise. Just—just let me…”

You draped the blanket over his hips carefully, gently, shielding his body from view. He flinched at the sudden warmth, but didn’t stop you. His eyes stayed locked to yours.

God. He was beautiful in the kind of way nightmares made you want to stay asleep. His features sharp, yet soft where it mattered, scars across his chest, jaw taut, lashes too dark for someone that alien. That injured. You turned away for a second and grabbed your first aid kit from your bottom drawer. The click of the latch opening echoed like a scream in the quiet room. You pulled out antiseptic, gauze, butterfly stitches, and waterproof medical tape.

“Okay, okay…” you whispered, settling beside him again. your hands hovered over his ribs, hesitant. “You’re not gonna hiss at me again, right?”

His eyes narrowed slightly. You smiled nervously. “Yeah, I didn’t think you understood that.”

Still, you took the silence as permission and began cleaning one of the slashes along his side. He tensed immediately, but didn’t strike or pull back. Just let out a low, shaky sound somewhere between a growl and a breath. His muscles tightened under your fingers.

“Sorry. I know. This probably stings.” He made a small noise in reply. It wasn’t a word, but it wasn’t nothing either. It sounded like… acknowledgment. Like he was trying to echo your tone, mirror her comfort.

“That’s right, okay…” she murmured. “You’ve got  a bit of sea glass in here. Jesus, what happened to you?”

No answer. But the way his fingers curled into the edge of the blanket made you think—something bad. Something he couldn’t explain. Or didn’t want to.

“You’re not from here, are you?” you whispered. “God, what am I even asking… Of course you’re not.”

Again, he didn’t respond. But he watched you. With that eerie intensity. You moved to his arm next, patching a shallow puncture wound near his bicep. His skin was oddly soft under your hands. Like velvet soaked in sea salt. And warm. Too warm. “I don’t even know if this stuff works on you,” you muttered as you applied ointment and sealed the wound with gauze. “I mean, for all I know, you could be allergic to—”

Knock knock knock.

You froze.

Three crisp knocks. Familiar. Then a voice.

“Y/N? You in there?” Her heart dropped into her stomach.

It was Maya—from the marine lab downstairs. Always checking in. Always conveniently around when you didn’t want to be disturbed. You turned sharply to the merman and whispered, “Stay quiet. Please, just—don’t move.”

He blinked slowly. Stayed perfectly still.

“Yeah!” you called, scrambling to her feet, trying to sound normal. You stepped toward the door, heart slamming in your chest. “I’m just—uh—getting ready to crash. What’s up?” Maya’s voice was muffled through the wood. “You alright? I didn’t see you with the others after landing. We were gonna go over sonar readings in the morning but—if something’s up—”

“No! No, I’m good,” you replied, too fast. Too bright. “Just tired. You know how the sea gets to me.”

A beat. Then, “Alright. You sure?” You looked over your shoulder. The merman’s eyes were on you. Unmoving. But… calm.

“I’m sure,” you said, softer this time. Another pause. Then footsteps retreating.

You exhaled all at once, sagging against the door. You turned back to him, letting your back slide down the wood until you were sitting again. His head tilted slightly at you, like he understood everything and nothing all at once.

“Okay,” you whispered. “You just became my biggest secret.”

The antiseptic sting was nearly done now—just a few more cleaned cuts and sealed bruises. You moved with careful hands, your breath soft and slow as you finished wrapping a particularly deep laceration just under his collarbone. The moment felt still. Thick. Like the air around them had pressed pause to let something ancient slip in between.

You gently pressed the last bit of gauze in place, smoothing it down with your palm.

“You’re not bleeding anymore,” you murmured. “That’s a start.”

Your eyes flicked up to meet his. He was staring. No—focused. Brow furrowed, mouth slightly parted. Not in confusion… in concentration.

“Are you—are you okay?” you asked, softly. “Does anything still hurt?” His lips moved. Just a little. Then again. She paused.

“Wait… did you—did you say something?”

He did it again. This time, slower. And then—barely audible—a whisper, rough like gravel washed up on shore:

“…Hyun…jin…”

You blinked. Your heart skipped.

“You—your name?” you whispered, eyes wide. “Is that your name?”

He gave a weak nod, eyes fluttering as if even that had drained him. “Hyunjin…” she repeated softly, like it was a sacred word. “That’s beautiful. Well, mine’s Y/N.”

His mouth twitched—something like a smirk, but more like relief. Then he tried again, speaking low, gravelly, the syllables pulling against his throat like he wasn’t used to forming them.

“I… learn…”

You leaned in instinctively, every hair on her arm standing on end. Your lips parted, disbelief creasing her brows.

“…your… speak. Lips. Words.”

You sat up a little straighter, realization blooming in your chest like heat. “You’re reading my lips,” you breathed. “You’re trying to talk like me…”

He nodded again. Slow. Exhausted. But committed.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, scrambling to the side table for your small, water-stained notebook and a pencil. You scribbled something down quickly, mouthing the word as you wrote it. “That’s… that’s incredible. You’ve been watching how I talk and trying to mimic it—do you know how hard that is?”

Hyunjin blinked. His shoulders rose and fell, barely able to shrug—but his gaze never left yours. You set the book down and looked back at him, your voice gentler now.

“Can you tell me what happened to you?”

He blinked. Then glanced toward the floor like he was searching for a word buried in the shadows.

“…dark…” he rasped.

You leaned in, eyes flicking across his lips, helping him find the rest. “Dark?” she echoed. “You were… somewhere dark?”

He nodded. Struggled.

“Chains,” he whispered next, the word thick and ugly in his mouth. “Hurt. Hunt. Run…” Your stomach dropped. The pencil in her hand went still.

“They hunted you?”

His eyes darkened. He nodded once. The memory laced with something almost feral, something wild and buried.You placed a hand on your notebook, the other gently touching his arm.

“I won’t let them find you again,” she said. Firm. Soft, but sure. “You’re safe here, okay? I promise.”

He stared at her. And this time, something deep in his chest shifted. His head tilted forward slightly.

---

The rain had started again—soft, misty, tapping against the dorm window like fingers too shy to knock. You set your kit aside, tucking bandage scraps back into their place, then wiped your hands on the towel draped across her lap. Hyunjin sat propped against the bedframe, now cloaked in the oversized blanket you’d given him earlier, the dark fabric falling over his lap and down his hips, obscuring the freshly formed legs that still trembled when he moved them too quickly.

“You must be starving,” you said, more to yourself than to him as you stood and stretched your arms above your head.

“No.”

You paused. Turned slowly to him, brows slightly raised. He had spoken clearly. Not perfectly. The edges of the word still had a rawness to them, a beginner’s sharpness. But it was unmistakable.

“No?” you repeated, a smile tugging at your lips.

He shook his head, still watching you.

“Okay…” you murmured, moving toward your desk. “I’ll eat something myself, then. You sure you don’t want something? Just a snack? Fish—oh. That might be offensive.”

He didn’t laugh. But you caught the subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth. You opened a granola bar instead, taking a quiet bite while flipping through your research journal. But even as you tried to distract yourself with the scribbled notes and observations from that morning’s dive, you felt him watching.

Your gaze slowly lifted. Hyunjin hadn’t moved. Not even a blink. He was staring. Unapologetically. Eyes fixed on you like you were the only real thing in the room. The only solid thread holding him above water. You cleared your throat and looked back down at the pages, pretending not to notice the burn of his gaze.

You turned a page. He was still staring. You tried adjusting the chair. Shifted your posture. Took another bite. Still. Eyes on you.

“I can feel you watching me, you know,” you muttered, not unkindly. You glanced up again. “Why do you keep looking at me like that?” Hyunjin tilted his head slightly. Like he didn’t understand the question. Like that wasn’t unusual.

You leaned forward on your elbows, eyes narrowing slightly, but your smile stayed.

“I’m not that interesting,” you teased. He nodded.

You blinked. “Wait. You’re saying I am that interesting?” Another slow nod.

And still—his gaze didn’t falter. You bit the inside of her cheek, cheeks heating. “You really are learning fast.”

Hyunjin’s eyes softened a little. As if your amusement pleased him. As if your presence, chaotic and human as it was, brought something to his chest that hurt a little less. You sighed, shutting your notebook and setting it aside. You stood and walked slowly over to him.

He straightened—just slightly. Still weak. Still wrapped in layers of pain. But attentive. You sat at the edge of the bed, cross-legged, and faced him.

“You don’t have to keep staring like I’m going to disappear,” you said quietly. “I’m not.”

He didn’t answer. But the way his eyes dropped—for a moment—to her hands resting in your lap… then slowly lifted back to meet yours…

It said everything.

The room had settled into a gentle quiet. The rain outside had softened to a drizzle, a constant hush against the glass. The kind of lull that made time feel slower, suspended in a fragile bubble of calm. You stood, brushing invisible lint off her shirt before turning to face Hyunjin. “I’m gonna take a quick shower,” you said, half-expecting no reply. “Don’t touch anything. I mean it. Don’t go poking around or—” you paused, narrowing her eyes, “—biting my electronics.”

Hyunjin blinked up at you from where he sat on the bed, cocooned in the blanket like it was part of him now. His lips moved, just a little—mimicking the shape of your words. But he didn’t speak. You smiled, gave him a little nod, then grabbed your towel, clean clothes, and a small caddy of products before disappearing into the bathroom. The door shut with a click. The soft shuffle of clothing followed, then the metallic hiss of the shower turning on.

At first, Hyunjin did nothing. Just sat there.

But… the sound of the water. The echo of your voice still lingering. The delicate scent of her body wash in the air. It was unfamiliar… intoxicating. And more than anything, his curiosity was gnawing at him. Was she… cleansing her scales?

Like he did in the moonpools beneath the reef?

He shifted his legs off the bed—still new, still foreign. They trembled under his weight, but he managed to stand. A soft grunt left him as he staggered toward the bathroom, one hand trailing along the wall for balance. The floor was cold against his soles. Each step felt uncertain.

He reached the door. Didn’t knock.

Didn’t even think to. The door wasn’t fully shut. Just barely ajar. Enough for him to press a hand against the wood and nudge it open silently. Steam rushed out instantly, curling like seafoam around his feet. The air was thick with warmth and lavender. His dark eyes flicked upward.

And there you were. Silhouetted through the fogged glass of the shower.

Water traced down the length of her body—rivulets running along her shoulders, down her back, catching the curves of her waist. Her hair clung to her skin, dripping. Her skin glowed under the bathroom light, radiant, almost otherworldly.

Hyunjin's breath caught. His heart thudded.

She… she didn’t have scales.

Not visibly.

But your skin—it shimmered slightly in the heat, smooth like moon-polished shells. Unmarked. Unnatural in the way it tugged at something deep in him. Your limbs, the way you moved, the grace—

He wondered, foolishly, if you were like him. A creature hiding among humans. Then you turned. You reached for a small bottle, arm extending, her gaze shifting—right into his. They locked eyes.

Everything froze. Your expression contorted in a split second from relaxed to horrified.

“JESUS—HYUNJIN!”

You fumbled for the shower door, practically slipping in place. “GET OUT!” you shouted, voice bouncing off the tile walls, echoing in his ears. Hyunjin’s eyes widened like he’d just been caught stealing a royal treasure. His cheeks flushed a violent red—deep, warm, crawling all the way to his ears.

“Sorry—sorry—!” he blurted in a mangled rush of syllables, then staggered back, nearly tripping on his own feet as he yanked the door shut behind him.

Thud. A beat of silence. Then the sound of water slapping tile resumed.

Hyunjin stumbled backward into the room, hands clutched over his face. He fell onto the bed like a sack of kelp, groaning softly, curling into himself beneath the blanket.

His heart wouldn’t slow down. You looked like a sea spirit. A siren. A goddess. He buried his face into the pillow and whispered to himself in broken syllables, “She’s not… mermaid? But… so… shining…”

He wasn’t sure what he’d just done. But he was absolutely sure he would never be able to look you in the eyes again without drowning in heat.

The door creaked open slowly, steam billowing out like a slow exhale from a sleeping giant.

You stepped out, wrapped in a thick towel, your damp hair clinging to your shoulders, droplets tracing the slope of your collarbone. You clutched your clothes to your chest with one hand and rubbed the towel dry against your temple with the other. Your skin was flushed from the heat of the water—and maybe a little from what just happened.

Hyunjin was sitting on the bed, perfectly still, legs crossed beneath the blanket like a chastised child. His gaze was fixed firmly on the floor, ears beet-red, and his fingers fidgeted with the fabric on his lap.

You raised a brow, then—softened. You tried to keep your expression firm, tried to muster the energy to be mad, but the sheer look of guilt on his face, the nervous way he sat there like a drenched cat in trouble, made your laugh.

“Well,” you said as you padded closer, “if you were trying to sneak up on a woman—you failed miserably.”

Hyunjin’s eyes widened. He scrambled to shake his head, hands waving in front of him in frantic denial. “No! No sneak—I was… just… see? Curiosity!” His voice was breathy, each syllable clumsy but earnest, like he was still tasting every word for the first time. You tilted your head and crossed her arms. “Right. Curiosity. Sure.” You couldn’t help the smirk curling at your lips. “That what you say to all the girls you spy on in the shower?”

“I didn’t know you were…” Hyunjin gestured wildly at your towel, his cheeks darkening again. “No fins. No… shell armor. Just skin. I think—maybe you were like me.”

You blinked. “You thought I was a mermaid?”

He nodded shyly.

You let out a laugh then light, amused, the tension in your shoulders slipping away. “God. You’re a disaster,” you muttered fondly. “But I get it. You’re new to… all this. Just—next time maybe knock? Or don’t open the door to the sound of running water?”

“Okay,” Hyunjin whispered. Then, with a bit more strength, “Okay. No door. Knock. First.”

“Good,” she smiled, grabbing a long shirt from her dresser and slipping into it over the towel with your back turned. “Now get some rest. You’ve been through a lot, and your wounds are still fresh. You need sleep.”

You turned around again, drying your hair with the towel. That’s when he said it. Softly. Like it had been resting on the edge of his tongue the whole time, unsure whether it should be spoken.

“Beautiful.”

You paused mid-pat. Your arms dropped slightly.

You looked at him.

His head was tilted, his long hair falling across his cheek, still slightly damp. His lips were parted just enough to prove he’d said it on purpose. And those dark, wide eyes still locked on her like you were the most fascinating creature in the entire world.

“I’m… sorry?” you said, a little thrown off her rhythm.

He straightened up a bit, the blanket slipping down his chest. “You are,” he said again, slower this time. “Beautiful.”

There was no stutter. No nervousness. Just sincerity. Your heart did a little stumble in your chest. You blinked again, unsure if you should laugh, thank him, or hide.

“…That’s probably the first compliment I’ve ever gotten from someone who tried to break into my shower.”

Hyunjin’s brows furrowed. “Break?” You giggled and waved it off. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

A beat passed. “You’re not too bad yourself,” you muttered under your breath, more to yourself than to him. But he heard it. And the shy smile that tugged at his lips was brighter than anything you’d seen him wear so far.

“Sleep, merboy,” you said, grabbing a blanket to toss over him. “You’re gonna need all your strength tomorrow.”

He nodded, but his eyes stayed on you just a moment longer before they fluttered shut—content, safe, and still trying to memorize the shape of you.

The soft click of your pen was the only sound filling the room now. You sat at your desk beneath the glow of your small reading lamp, scribbling into your worn leather-bound logbook. Your handwriting flowed like gentle waves as you recounted everything: the field report from earlier that day, the strange movement you’d seen on the shore, and most of all—the merman.

You paused, eyes flicking toward the bed where Hyunjin lay now, blanket pulled loosely around his waist, his breathing deep and even. The soft rise and fall of his chest, the way his fingers curled slightly near his face—it all looked so… human. But you’d seen his tail. You’d seen the shimmer of his scales and the way pain bent his body like a broken current.

He wasn’t human. But somehow, he didn’t feel entirely otherworldly either.

You sighed, placing your pen down and closing the log gently with a satisfying thud. You stared at the bed again, then made your quiet decision.

You grabbed a spare pillow and a folded fleece blanket from the closet, spread it out on the floor beside the bed, and slid down into the makeshift sleeping space. It wasn’t the most comfortable, but you didn’t care. He needed the bed more than you did. And somehow, you liked the idea of being close. Close enough to keep watch.

Sleep took you slowly, like the tide, and you drifted off with the faint sound of the ocean still playing in your head.

---

A loud, unfamiliar clink stirred you awake.

Then another—followed by a slosh. Your brows furrowed, lashes fluttering as you pushed the blanket off your face. The light pouring in from the window told you it was early. But something else reminded you you weren’t alone in the room.

Splash.

Y/N sat up immediately. And then blinked.

“…Hyunjin?”

Your voice was rough with sleep, but the sight before you yanked you into full alertness.

The door to your small bathroom was wide open. Inside, the floor was gleaming with droplets, like a trail of spilled moonlight. And in the middle of your bathtub—full, nearly overflowing with water—sat Hyunjin. He was half-submerged, his elbows propped on the edge of the tub, chin resting on his forearm like a lounging sea prince. His hair was wet again, slicked back to reveal his sharp cheekbones and curious gaze, which locked on yours the moment he heard your voice.

And trailing out of the bathtub—spilling onto the tile floor—was his tail.

It shimmered in the light, the scales shifting colors with every ripple of water: deep ocean blue, obsidian black, hints of silvery green. It flicked lazily now and then, the end curling like a question mark, his fin slightly translucent at the edges.

You stared, eyes wide.

“You… turned back?” you whispered, rising slowly to your feet. “How did you—?”

“I woke. Body… ache,” he said in his soft, careful voice. “Needed water.” He gestured to the bathtub with a small, proud smile. “Tub… good. Like sea. Not same. But… good.”

You looked around. He’d figured out the faucet. The floor was wet, sure—but not flooded. He’d used one of your measuring pitchers to balance the temperature—no idea how he got that down. And here he was. Tail out. Glowing like something carved by the sea gods.

Y/N ran a hand through your hair and groaned with a small laugh. “You… literal fish man. You really filled my tub with your sexy dolphin tail.”

He tilted his head. “Sexy… dolphin?”

“Never mind,” you chuckled, rubbing your temples. “Just—next time, ask. Or at least… splash quieter.”

Hyunjin’s laugh was soft but genuine, almost like bubbles rising to the surface.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” you muttered, grabbing a towel to mop the floor. “Now we’re both going to smell like salt for the next two weeks.”

He watched you as you moved around, his smile warm. When you glanced back at him, his tail gave a little flick of contentment.

“Tub good,” he said again, like it was the highest compliment.

You shook your head, biting back a grin. “I’ll add that to my log. Merman approves of modern plumbing.”

The bathroom was thick with the scent of saltwater, warm mist curling lazily in the air as sunlight spilled through the cracked window. You stood at the threshold, arms folded loosely across your chest, watching the way Hyunjin’s tail stirred the bathwater like it was second nature.

He looked so at peace there. As if the bathtub, as absurdly small as it was, offered him a sliver of his world again—something familiar. Something that didn’t bleed pain.

You leaned your shoulder against the doorframe. “You look… better.”

Hyunjin opened one eye, gaze drifting up to your face. He blinked slowly, lips curling just slightly at the corners. “Water helps.”

You nodded, chewing on the inside of her cheek for a second. “Yeah, I figured.”

A pause settled. Not awkward—just thick with thought. You stepped closer and sat on the closed toilet lid, knees brushing the side of the tub. Your voice came quieter this time.

“Hyunjin…”

He tilted his head again, curious. “We have to figure out a way to get you back to the ocean.”

At first, there was no reaction.

Then, slowly, his shoulders tensed. The warm contentment in his gaze flickered, lips parting just slightly in confusion—or hesitation.

“I mean,” you rushed gently, “you can’t stay in my dorm forever. As much as I’m enjoying the company of a bathtub-dwelling sea prince, I don’t think my RA will approve.”

He gave a breath of a laugh, but it was hollow. He dropped his gaze to the water, scales catching in the light. For a long moment, he didn’t speak. The water lapped quietly against the porcelain. When he finally did respond, it was soft. Barely a whisper.

“Not… ready.”

Your heart ached at that.

“Is it because of what happened?” you asked gently, reaching out to rest your hand on the edge of the tub near his own. “Are you scared to go back?”

He looked at your then, really looked eyes dark like the deep, searching for something in your expression. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Struggled with the words.

Then, carefully, he said, “Scared… of alone.”

The silence that followed hit like a wave crashing the shoreline.

You blinked, your chest tightening. You hadn’t expected that. Not from a being who came from an entire world beneath the surface. But now… now he was stranded in yours. And he didn’t want to be alone in either.

“You’re not alone,” you whispered.

He nodded slowly, as if he wanted to believe you. His hand brushed yours, just barely like the kiss of tide on a docked boat. You squeezed it gently. “We’ll find a way to get you back home. Together.” Hyunjin exhaled through his nose, his tail flicking once like a nod of agreement. Then he looked at you again, lips twitching into something soft and shy. But when you glanced up, his expression wasn’t dreamy anymore.

It was far away. Cold. Haunted. You lowered her voice. “Hyunjin?” He blinked once, then slowly met your gaze.

“I remember,” he whispered.

Your heart stumbled in her chest. “You remember what?” He hesitated—like dragging words up from the deep cost him something.

“The cages,” he said softly, and your breath hitched.

He looked down at the water, hands gripping the edges of the tub, knuckles pale. “They came. On boats. Bigger than yours. With hooks that burned. With nets that… screamed.”

You felt your throat close. He wasn’t just recounting—he was reliving.

“They pulled us out. My family… my brothers… We didn’t understand. We tried to speak. They laughed.” His jaw trembled. “They cut us open. Not to eat. Not for anger. Just… to look.”

“Hyunjin,” you whispered, moving closer, your hand brushing his arm gently.

His tail shifted beneath the surface like a restless tide, voice shaking. “They said we were myths. That we shouldn’t exist. But we did. We lived. We danced. We sang under the moon.” He paused, a tremor rushing through his body. “And now… they are gone.”

You sat in silence, the ache in your chest thick and rising. Your fingertips curled into the towel on your lap.

“All of them?” you asked softly. His eyes slowly lifted to yours, endless, broken.

“I’m the last.”

The room went quiet. No ocean, no gulls, no passing footsteps. Just the sound of a tub barely large enough to hold grief this deep. You reached for him. Not out of pity—but reverence. Your hand slid over his, grounding.  held him like you weren’t afraid of the saltwater or the sorrow or the truth that he carried in his bones.

“I’m so sorry,” you whispered, and you meant it with your whole being. “You shouldn’t have to carry that.”

“I don’t want to forget them,” he said.

“Then we won’t let them be forgotten,” you replied, tears burning the edges of your voice. “Tell me everything. Their names. The songs. The dances. I’ll write them all. I’ll remember with you.”

His lips parted, chest rising unevenly. Then, slowly, he gave a tiny nod—his hand tightening over yours.

He didn’t thank her with words. He didn’t need to.

Because when you’re the last echo of an entire people, the quiet presence of someone who sees you… is the loudest mercy of all.

---

The morning had unraveled gently around them, filled with soft conversation and the occasional sound of water lapping against porcelain. Hyunjin had calmed, though shadows still lingered beneath his eyes. You were crouched in front of your closet now, pulling out a simple change of clothes—comfortable sweats and a hoodie that would look oversized even on you, let alone on him.

You placed them on the edge of the bed beside a small plate of fruits and crackers. “This should keep you a little full,” you said, giving him a soft look, “I know you said you weren’t hungry, but… in case your stomach changes its mind.”

Hyunjin was sitting on the bed, towel-dried hair falling messily over his collarbones, legs tucked up to his chest like he still wasn’t quite used to them. His tail had faded with the morning light, and in its place were long, lean limbs that still trembled slightly with every shift of movement. But he was healing. Slowly. Carefully.

“I have to go… just for a few hours,” you murmured, grabbing your ID badge and stuffing it into the front pocket of your hoodie.

He looked up fast, eyes wide and sharp. “Go?” His voice was raspy, like the word didn’t sit right in his throat. “Now?”

You smiled gently, walking over to sit beside him. “I don’t want to, trust me. But if I don’t show up, they’ll come looking. And I really don’t want them knocking on this door and finding you trying to nap in the tub.” He tilted his head, visibly uncomfortable. His fingers flexed at his sides like he didn’t quite know what to say—but his eyes said it all. Stay. Please.

“I’ll be back,” you reassured him, brushing a strand of damp hair behind his ear, “I promise. I just need to clock in, finish some reports, act like I didn’t rescue a literal myth from the shoreline last night, and then I’m yours again. Sound fair?”

He didn’t answer right away, but his shoulders slumped, the tension bleeding out with a quiet exhale. “I don’t… like it.”

Your heart pulled. “I know.”

“Danger,” he murmured, voice low. “Land is… danger.”

“I’ve survived it this long,” you smiled, though it was sad around the edges. “But thank you for caring.”

Then, you stood, walking to your desk to grab a notepad and scribbled something down. Walking back, you handed it to him.

“If anyone knocks—anyone at all—you go into the bathroom, lock the door, and don’t make a sound. There’s a towel in the cabinet and a curtain you can pull over the tub. Got it?”

Hyunjin studied the paper like it was sacred. Then, nodding slowly, he whispered, “Hide.”

“Good boy,” you grinned, ruffling his hair gently. He blushed hard—cheeks blooming red under his damp skin—but he looked pleased.

You leaned down, grabbed a soft knit blanket from the end of the bed, and draped it over his lap. “Just rest. Try on the clothes if you’re comfortable. Explore. Don’t break anything. And don’t open the door, even if someone says my name.”

Hyunjin’s brows furrowed like he wanted to say more—but instead, he reached out slowly and brushed your pinky with his, like he was trying to hold on to you in the smallest way he knew how.

You looked at him, then gently squeezed his hand. “I’ll be back before sunset.”

As you turned to go, bag slung over your shoulder and heart heavy in your chest, you heard him say softly behind you—

“Y/N?”

You turned. “You smell like the ocean.” A faint smile pulled at his lips. “I think that’s why I trust you.”

Your throat went tight. You didn’t know how to respond. So, you slipped out the door, locking it behind you.

---

The sun was sharp overhead, glinting off the glass walls of the Marine Research Center as Y/N swiped her badge through the scanner. The soft beep welcomed her back to the real world—where mythical creatures didn’t exist, and last night’s discovery would’ve landed her in a padded room if she ever breathed a word of it.

She plastered on a neutral smile as she passed the lobby, offering a quick wave to her supervisor, Dr. Malia, who was already deep in conversation with another researcher over a cup of instant coffee.

“Y/N, you’re just in time,” Malia called over, barely glancing up from her tablet. “Need you in Lab 3—readings from yesterday’s dive are showing some unusual activity along the southern ridge.”

Y/N nodded politely, her voice calm. “On it.”

She moved quickly, weaving past teams in wetsuits, interns in scrubs, and walls lined with aquatic maps. But her thoughts were miles away—in a warm dorm room with closed blinds, behind a locked door, where a water-dwelling boy was hopefully still curled up on the bed.

She exhaled through her nose, trying to focus. Inside Lab 3, the familiar hum of machines and the smell of sea salt clung to the air. The monitors flickered with sonar readings and temperature charts, but the moment she saw the movement spikes from the southern ridge, her heart skipped.

That’s where she found him.

The readings pulsed—faint tremors of large movement—but they were irregular, like something had been moving there for a while and suddenly stopped. No wonder the team wanted it flagged. If only they knew.

She sat down at her console, running diagnostics. Her fingers moved, but her mind kept drifting. To Hyunjin's voice, unsure but velvet-smooth. “You good?” a voice asked, breaking through her daze.

She blinked. It was Lani, one of her coworkers, tilting her head curiously as she leaned on the desk beside her. “You seem… somewhere else.”

Y/N forced a soft laugh. “Didn’t sleep much.”

Lani narrowed her eyes teasingly. “Didn’t sleep much or didn’t sleep?”

“Oh my God, not like that,” Y/N scoffed, cheeks warming way too quickly. “I just… got caught up with notes. You know me and my midnight logs.”

“Mm-hmm,” Lani smirked, clearly not buying it. “Well, just don’t die on me before lunch. You owe me ramen.” Y/N waved her off with a small chuckle as the screen lit up again with another pulse. Her heart jumped, but she masked it under a yawn.

She needed to finish up these reports, make an excuse to head back early, and double-check that Hyunjin hadn’t started opening windows or something.

---

The walk back from the Marine Center was a blur. You had shoved your reports into your bag, mumbled something about needing to rest, and practically sprinted the last two blocks to your dorm with a plastic bag swinging at your side—filled with warm rice bowls, fresh fruit, and the kind of seaweed snacks you figured a merman might vibe with. Your key fumbled in the lock for a second—your heart already racing ahead of your hands.

Click.

You swung the door open—

—and the world softened.

There he was. Hyunjin was sprawled lazily across your bed, legs tangled in the sheets, water clinging to the tips of his constantly-damp hair as it curled messily around his face. You’d have to figure out where the heck the water came from. He was hunched over the tiny wooden chess set you kept on your shelf for decoration, eyes narrowed in fascination as he moved a knight and immediately tried to counter it with a bishop—against himself. Like he was having a full-on strategic war solo.

He looked up the moment the door creaked open. His eyes lit up like sunrise on open water.

And then he chirped—a soft, echoing, melodic sound that rippled from his throat and filled the room like a song sung underwater. It was strange and beautiful, rising and falling like a tide, and loud enough to startle you into stillness.

You blinked.

“…What was that?” you asked through a surprised laugh, dropping the bag onto your desk. “Was that—was that a hello?”

Hyunjin’s lips curled into the most angelic, boyish smile as he sat up straighter, fingers still ghosting over a rook. “It means…” He touched his chest, then motioned towards yours, and looked you in the eye. “Warm return.”

Your breath caught. “You mean like... welcome back?” He nodded, then shyly added, “But more.”

You didn’t know what to do with that for a second, heart thudding stupidly hard. “Well… warm return to you too, I guess,” you teased, brushing your hair back and walking over to him. “I brought food.”

Hyunjin tilted his head, sniffing the air like a curious cat. “It smells… green.”

“It’s seaweed,” you grinned. “And rice, and a few other things that won’t kill your stomach. I promise.” He took the bag from your hands slowly, reverently, like it was a gift from a goddess. You handed him chopsticks, and he stared at them like they were mini swords.

You sat beside him, close enough that your shoulders brushed. “So… how was your day, Fish Prince?”

“Strange,” he said after chewing thoughtfully. “The mirror makes my face look upside down if I bend over it. And the blanket trap is warm.” You snorted. “It’s called tucking yourself in. And you’re supposed to sleep under it, not roll into a sushi burrito.”

Hyunjin mimicked “sushi burrito” to himself and giggled behind the rice bowl. Your chest bloomed at the sound.

Once he’d eaten his fill, you leaned back against the headboard, pulling one leg up and chewing your lip.

“I’ve been thinking,” you said softly, eyes flicking to him. “We… we can’t keep you here forever. You need to get back to the ocean. I know where. Quiet, but… it’ll be hard, but I think I can get you there soon. It’s just—people might be watching the coast. We’ll need to be careful.”

Hyunjin’s eyes darkened slightly with understanding. “Return?” he asked, voice gentler.

You nodded. He looked down at his hands, curling his fingers in thought. Then he whispered, “I trust you.”

You reached over and brushed a bit of rice off his cheek. “Then we better make a plan.”

You sat cross-legged on the bed, notepad in hand, your brows furrowed as you sketched out a rough timeline. A coastal tide map was open beside you, and your pencil tapped restlessly against the paper.

“We’ll need to leave before dawn,” you murmured, half to yourself, half to the echo of the plan forming in your head. “Maybe tonight. I can grab wetsuits, maybe—”

You felt it again. That unrelenting gaze. Without even looking up, you sighed through a soft laugh. “Hyunjin… I’ve warned you about staring.” His voice came slow, curious, like he was rolling the words on his tongue. “But you’re… beautiful when you think. Your eyes talk.”

That made you blink up at him. He was sitting at the foot of the bed now, curled in the blanket he refused to let go of, legs drawn up like a question mark, hair falling in soft curtains around his face. His eyes were impossibly focused—on your lips, your cheeks, your very being.

“Humans…” he started slowly, “How do they show… when they love?”

You tilted her head. “Love?”

He nodded, a gentle seriousness washing over his face. “Like… like how I feel when you smile. Or when you came back, and I thought the room had air again.”

You didn’t speak for a second. Your heart was stuttering, and your mouth had gone dry.

“Well…” you said, voice a bit shaky but trying to sound casual. “We hug. We hold hands. We kiss. We say things—sometimes silly, sometimes deep. It depends.”

Hyunjin listened like a student before a sacred text. “And what does a kiss mean?” You looked at him then. Really looked. “It means… I see you. I trust you. It’s… a kind of giving. A promise. Sometimes it’s just fun. Sometimes it’s everything.”

There was a pause. A silence soaked in something heavy and gentle.

Then—

“In my world,” Hyunjin said softly, “We sing in pairs. The song is just for the one we love. It never sounds the same with anyone else. And we dance, too. Not with our feet… but with the way we move through the water together. Like… like we’re breathing in the same rhythm.”

You smiled, heart tightening. “That’s beautiful,” you whispered.

He studied you for another long beat. “Can I… try it?” he asked. “Your way. The human way.”

You blinked, startled. “You… you want to kiss me?” He nodded, slow but sure. “I think I love you,” he said simply. “And I want you to know. I want to speak it in your language.”

You opened your mouth to respond, to tell him that you both were nothing close to a relationship, but your breath caught somewhere in your throat—and he moved forward, leaning in with a hesitancy that felt sacred. Like he was approaching a sunrise.

His fingers brushed your cheek, light as a question. His gaze dipped to your lips.

And then—

He kissed you. You were beginning to think he’d seen other people do this for him to know what to do. A couple by the sea, workers on deck sneaking around. It was soft at first—like he was learning her shape. Testing how their worlds aligned at the edges. His lips were warm, gentle, tasting of salt and curiosity. He lingered for a breath, then another, before pulling back just slightly… and resting his forehead against hers.

You hadn’t moved. Couldn’t move.

He whispered, “Did I do it right?”

You let out a breathless laugh, eyes closing. “You did…it? I guess…”

Your fingers hovered near your lips, the ghost of his kiss still blooming like an aftertaste. Hyunjin was watching you again—his eyes wide, waiting, like he wasn’t sure if he’d crossed a line or unlocked a door. “That was…” you cleared your throat, heart thudding as she tried to find her voice. “Really good for a first time. But um… kissing has a bit of a rhythm to it. Like your songs, remember?”

He tilted his head. “Like a… duet?”

You smiled despite herself. “Exactly.” He leaned forward again, a little too eager, and you giggled, pushing him back gently. “Okay, no pouncing. Let’s take this slow. Follow my lead.”

You shifted closer on the bed, cupping his face softly. His cheeks were so warm under your touch. “When we kiss,” you whispered, “don’t just press in. Feel it. Think of it like… listening with your lips.” He nodded once, completely enthralled.  Why were you doing this? You’re teaching a merman how to kiss? Not like he’s going to need it in the future or anything. Your noses brushed, breaths mingling—and then you kissed him again.

This time, it was slower. Softer. Your lips met in a careful rhythm, Hyunjin mimicking your movements like a dancer finally learning the steps. He let out the smallest sound—something between a hum and a purr, low and delicate, and so intimate it sent a shock down your spine.

Your body tensed involuntarily.

That sound. It curled around your spine like heat. It wasn't just affectionate—it was sensual, primal in a way he likely didn’t even understand. You gasped, pulling back suddenly, your eyes wide and cheeks flushed.

Hyunjin blinked, confused. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No! No, no—” you laughed nervously, waving your hands, desperate to cool your face and your hormones. “That was… you’re doing great. You’re… a very fast learner.”

He beamed. “So, we kiss more now?”

“Absolutely not!” you squeaked, scrambling for your notepad like it was a lifeline. “We’re gonna focus on the plan, okay? The plan. The whole get-you-back-to-the-ocean thing. Remember that?”

Hyunjin pouted, flopping back onto the mattress, watching you with lidded eyes and a pout that was frankly unfair. You kept your gaze firmly on your scribbles.

“Okay,” you muttered to herself, “tonight tops, avoid the main marine patrol routes, smuggle you through the south dock…”

“I like kissing,” Hyunjin said helpfully behind you.

“Hyunjin,” you warned, voice tight.

“Yes?”

“Please. Let me focus.”

“Okay,” he said sweetly. “But after?”

You buried your face in your hands.

God help you. You were going to need a stronger distraction than a map and a marker.

---

The cold air bit at Y/N’s skin as she tightened her hoodie around her body, footsteps soft against the gravel path leading away from her dorm. Midnight painted everything in shadows and silver light. The marine center’s lab lights were off for the night, save for the emergency glow that hummed faintly near the edges of the supply shed.

Clutching a small bag and her keycard, Y/N glanced over her shoulder once more. Every step away from Hyunjin made her chest tighten, like some part of her knew he was still watching her from that tub, curled in warmth, eyes glowing in moonlight.

She just needed supplies. Just gauze, saline, maybe a blanket or two. Nothing traceable. Nothing suspicious. She’d just swiped her card through the lock when—

“Y/N?”

She flinched like a thief, spinning fast. A flashlight flicked on, landing on her face. Oh crap.

“Layla?” she blurted, blinking against the light.

Layla—a fellow researcher and one of her dorm neighbors—lowered the flashlight, brows raised, dark hair tied up in a sleepy bun. She was in sweatpants and a coat, holding a mug of tea like she’d only just come out for air.

“What are you doing out here? It’s almost 1 AM.”

Y/N froze. Her mind raced. Say something normal. Say something smart.

“Oh! Uh… I forgot I left my sketchbook in the lab,” she lied quickly, offering a sheepish grin. “Needed it for some ideas I had about tide cycles.” Layla tilted her head. “You’re sketching tide cycles? At midnight?” Y/N laughed nervously, cringing internally. “You know me. I get randomly inspired. Couldn’t sleep, so I figured I’d be productive.”

There was a long beat. Layla sipped her tea slowly, watching her. “…You okay though? You look kind of… flushed.”

“Flushed?” Y/N swallowed. Was she still red from the kissing? Oh God. “Probably just the chill. I was in bed and didn’t think I’d be out long.”

“Hmm.” Layla nodded, then smiled, yawning. “Well, don’t stay out too long. If Dr. Malia catches you raiding the supply kit again, she’ll have a fit.”

“Noted,” Y/N said, exhaling as her friend turned to head back to the dorm. Y/N waited until she disappeared from sight before slipping into the shed. Her fingers were shaking—part nerves, part adrenaline.

She gathered what she needed in under five minutes: more gauze, protein bars, wet cloths, a heating pad. As she stuffed the supplies into her bag, her heart thrummed like a drumbeat in her ears.

Not from fear. From urgency. Hyunjin needed to go back. And soon.

Because the longer he stayed…the harder it was going to be to let him go.

Y/N’s hand hovered above Hyunjin’s shoulder, hesitant to wake him. He looked peaceful in her bed, for once. The soft light of dawn hadn’t broken yet—only a bluish tint stretched across the room, casting shadows on his long limbs tangled in the blanket. His hair was damp against the pillow, tail gone now, legs stretched awkwardly, human again—but still otherworldly.

She knelt beside him and gently touched his shoulder. “Hyunjin,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Wake up. It’s time.” He stirred immediately, blinking hazily. When he saw her face, something in his gaze shifted—alert now. He sat up, brows furrowing. No questions. He trusted her.

She offered a towel and a pair of her loose marine trousers. “Dry off. You’ll need these,” she murmured, glancing at the door.

Hyunjin obeyed, fumbling with the fabric but managing to wrap the towel around his waist and slide the pants on, even if a bit clumsily. His legs were stronger now, steadier. She helped him with the drawstring, their fingers brushing—brief, electric.

They moved like ghosts through the building—silent, invisible. Y/N led them down the emergency stairwell, the soles of their feet brushing the cold tile, their breaths caught in their throats. Every creak of a door sounded like a shout. She held her breath when they passed the night guard’s office, her hand clutching Hyunjin’s tight.

He looked at her like she was leading him to the stars. Once they hit the back doors, Y/N paused, peering through the narrow glass pane. The coast behind the center was calm, the water like ink under the faintest touch of moonlight.

“Now,” she whispered, and they slipped out.

The small boat was waiting—an old rowboat with a modest engine, one she’d repaired herself last year during maintenance season. Hyunjin stepped into the shallows with careful feet, his balance off but improving. She helped him in, her hands steadying his arms.

He sat on the edge of the bench seat, watching her like she was a miracle in motion. Y/N climbed in behind him, heart thundering, hands quickly working over the ignition. The soft whirr-click of the engine starting filled the air.

They were moving.

The boat glided over the glassy water, away from the shore, away from the dorm, the marine center, the human world—just the two of them under the sliver of a moon. Wind tugged at her hair. Salt kissed her lips. Hyunjin was quiet beside her, eyes wide as he watched the horizon.

Y/N gripped the steering handle, jaw set.

This was it. No turning back now.

The boat rocked gently under the hush of the very early morning sky, the sound of soft waves licking against the sides blending with the distant hum of the world still asleep.

Y/N had steered them just far enough—beyond the line where marine patrols might sweep through, but close enough that she could come up with a believable excuse if someone questioned her presence.

“We’re not far,” she muttered, cutting the engine so they drifted in silence now. “This should be okay, but I still have to think of what I’ll tell them—God, maybe I’ll say I came out to chart the tides or observe plankton migration. No, that sounds stupid—ugh, maybe I can say I dropped something, like a waterproof recorder—do I even own a waterproof recorder?”

She kept talking, eyes darting around, hands nervously adjusting the rope tied to the oar, the bag at her feet, anything to keep from looking at him.

“You have to go now,” she said, finally turning. “We don’t have time, and if they find me out here with you—”

Her voice faltered when her eyes met his.

Hyunjin wasn’t moving. He wasn’t scrambling to dive in, or panicking. He just sat there, elbows resting on his knees, watching her with those impossibly soft eyes—dark, vast, unreadable, like the very ocean they sat on. His gaze held her steady, like he was anchoring her to this moment.

She swallowed hard.

“You have to hurry,” she tried again, forcing the words through the tightness in her throat. She looked away, blinking fast. “Please. Before someone sees.”

But her voice betrayed her—too brittle. Her hand tightened around the edge of the boat, nails digging into the old wood. She couldn’t let herself feel this. They haven’t even spent a week together and she felt like it’d been a year already. It was probably the kiss.

Not now.

Not when he was looking at her like that. Like she was home. Hyunjin tilted his head slightly, the sea breeze playing with the strands of damp hair framing his face. He reached out gently, not touching her yet—just hovering his fingers near hers.

Still, he said nothing.

He didn’t have to. The boat drifted in a hush, the world wrapped in that soft pre-dawn blue that made everything feel suspended in time.

Hyunjin stood barefoot on the edge of the boat, trousers abandoned in a loose heap beside him. His tail shimmered into view under the moonlight—pearlescent blues and silvers catching the glow like he was carved from the ocean itself. Water dripped from his skin, running down the length of his scales in lazy trails, and yet… he hesitated.

He looked back at you.

You stood there, arms crossed like you were trying to hold yourself together, chin tilted up in some desperate attempt at bravery—but your eyes were glassy, your throat tight. What was wrong with you?

“You need to go,” you said softly, a weak smile tugging at your lips. “Now, Hyunjin.”

But you didn’t sound convincing. Not even to yourself. And maybe he sensed it.

Because he didn’t jump. He turned to you fully, sitting on the boat’s edge, and leaned in. His hand cupped your cheek so tenderly it undid the dam you were trying so hard to hold up and before you could even breathe, he kissed you.

It was soft, warm, filled with something far more permanent than either of them had planned for. He pulled back an inch, just enough to see your stunned face.

And then he kissed your again—deeper this time, like he wanted to remember what you tasted like. When you finally pulled apart, you gave a breathless laugh, blinking through the tears brimming in your lashes.

“You’re getting better,” you whispered, brushing your fingers down his jaw. “Every time.”

Your smile faded. “But you seriously have to go now. Before it’s too late.”

He looked like he wanted to argue, to stay just one more second, to soak you in a little longer. Before you could counter your actions, you gently pushed his shoulder.

“Go,” you whispered, voice cracking. “Please.”

He let himself fall backwards into the sea with a graceful splash, tail flicking in one final arc.

You didn’t waste time. She threw a decoy box—full of ocean samples, broken equipment, anything you could gather last minute—into the water. It hit the surface right as a voice called out behind her.

“Y/N? What the hell are you doing out here?” It was your manager.

You snapped your head toward the shore. “Oh—hey! Sorry! I dropped a specimen container during a test dive last night. I came back to look for it before the tide took it.”

The manager frowned, clearly annoyed but unconvinced enough to challenge you. “At this hour?”

You forced a tired laugh. “I couldn’t sleep. Figured I’d get it done now before the boats start moving.” He gave a grumble of approval and walked away without another word. You turned back to the sea, breath caught in her throat.

The surface rippled gently… and there he was. Just beneath the water, Hyunjin’s eyes gleamed in the dark. He looked at her with that same softness from before. One last goodbye.

Then, as if the ocean itself responded to his emotions, he let out a sound—not a word, not a call. Just a song. A pulse of something deep and ancient and mournful that rippled across the water like a shiver.

It hit her like a memory she never had, aching in her chest.

Her tears finally slipped free.

Just a few. But enough.

“Goodbye,” she whispered.

I hope it's okay I'm getting better ideas I promise 🙏

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~kc 💗

[mrsha-ang-kim]

𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐏𝐚𝐰𝐧

Pairing: richkid!felix x richkid!afab!reader, established relationship, non idol au,

Synopsis: the night after your graduation, you and Felix spend some time together. But wealth comes with a price and he's willing to fight for you.

Warnings: suggestive, angst, comfort, Felix swears

A/n: if you have extra eyes for errors no you don't

You were the kind of girl who turned heads and left whispers in her wake. Not because you tried but because everything about you screamed unreachable. Daddy’s favorite. Expensive perfume. Lips that looked like secrets. You and Felix had ruled your private school like royalty—matching designer uniforms, eyes only for each other, and enough tension to make people look away out of respect. Both of you came from families who had money longer than most people had family trees. Mansions with echoing halls, old paintings, and staff who knew to knock once, then disappear. But while your parents believed in power dinners and pearls, Felix’s family dripped in chaos and generational wealth wrapped in leather and fast cars. He was the black sheep with platinum blonde hair, a jawline you could cut a diamond on, and the kind of smirk that made rules feel like suggestions.

And tonight? The rules didn’t exist.

8:42 PM.

The text came in while you were still glossing your lips.

Felix💕 : They just left. Pool’s heated. Door’s open.

Felix💕 : Bring that blue set. You know the one I like.

Felix💕: But lose it before you get in the water.

And a devil emoji.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smile tugging at your mouth. You slipped into that tiny electric blue bikini that wasn’t even technically legal and threw a hoodie over it. The Bentley your dad gifted you for surviving your first year of uni purred as you pulled out of your family’s circular driveway. You didn’t need the address. You’d memorized every curve of that road to Felix’s house. More than that, you'd memorized every inch of him.

The butler—Mr. Sang—opened the front doors before you even knocked. “Miss Y/N,” he said with a neutral face, though you swore you saw the tiniest twitch of a smile. “He’s expecting you. He’s outside by the pool.”

“Thanks, Mr. Sang. You always keep it classy,” you grinned. Your bare feet padded across the marble floors, through the open hallway, and out into the night air.

The pool looked like something out of a luxury ad. Wide, glassy, glowing cyan under the moonlight. Speakers tucked into hidden corners played that sultry R&B playlist Felix swore he made just for you though you’d caught him using it on other occasions. Still, he insisted, "No one makes me use it like you do, babygirl."

And there he was. Chest bare, dripping wet, perched on the edge of the pool like a Greek god someone turned into a spoiled rich boy. His blonde hair stuck to his forehead, a silver chain clinging to his collarbones, black swim trunks riding low on his hips. He looked up, saw you, and that smirk broke across his lips like sin.

“Took you long enough,” he drawled. “I was starting to think you were scared to come play.” You sauntered forward, shrugging off your hoodie so it slid down your shoulders, slow and intentional.

“I’m not scared of you, baby. I’m scared of what I might do to you.” He groaned—actually groaned—and fell backward into the water with a splash, like your presence physically knocked the air out of him. You stopped just a few feet from the water’s edge, the breeze kissing your skin as you pulled off the hoodie and tossed it to the nearest lounge chair. The moment the blue bikini hit the open air, Felix sat up straighter in the pool, his eyes locked onto you like a hawk spotting its prey. A slow whistle slipped past his lips. “I thought I asked you to lose the bikini.”

You raised a brow, crossing your arms under your chest, your hips cocked to the side. “And I thought I told you I’m not going skinny dipping with you, Lee Felix.”

He let out a dramatic sigh, water dripping off his abs as he leaned back on his elbows in the shallow end, head tilted as he looked you over with a hunger that was more worship than want.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered, licking his bottom lip slowly. “You show up looking like that, acting like you didn’t come here to ruin me.” Then louder, just for you: “You’re a fucking goddess, you know that?”

A slow smile curled your lips as you pulled your hair up into a lazy bun. “And you’re just realizing this now?” you teased, your voice like silk dipped in amusement. He let out a breathless laugh, shaking his head, his hand gliding over the surface of the water as he waited for you. “Come here already.”

You took a step forward, toes slipping into the heated water, then another, feeling it wrap around your skin like a luxurious embrace. The pool lights lit your body from beneath, and Felix swore you looked unreal, like some forbidden deity crawling from moonlight. You glided toward him until you stood chest-deep, only inches away.

“Hi,” you said softly, almost like a secret, voice warm and teasing.

Felix reached out, his fingers brushing lightly against your waist before circling around you. “Hi,” he whispered back, eyes only on your mouth now. And then you leaned in—slow, electric, intentional—and kissed him. It wasn’t rushed. It was deliberate his lips parted the moment yours touched, your hands bracing against his chest, his arms wrapping around your waist underwater, pulling you closer like he needed you to breathe.

His mouth moved with practiced hunger, but there was reverence in the way he kissed you. As if he knew how dangerous this was. As if kissing you might be the start of something he couldn’t undo. Water rippled around you as your bodies pressed together, soft gasps tangled between the kisses, your hand sliding up to grip his hair as he deepened it with a growl so low it reverberated in your ribs.

Finally, when you pulled away for breath, your foreheads touched.

“Don’t convince me to skinny dip,” you whispered. Felix grinned against your mouth, voice rough, eyes dark. “Fine,” he said, “but I’m still getting that bikini off you tonight.”

The kiss deepened with a kind of hunger neither of you were trying to hide anymore. Felix pulled you in tighter, his hands gliding beneath the water one settling at the small of your back, the other tracing the curve of your thigh like he was memorizing you by feel.

You tilted your head, gasping softly as he kissed down your jaw, lips wet and warm against your skin. “Felix…” you murmured, your voice feathering into a moan when he nipped lightly at your neck, water sloshing gently around your tangled bodies. His fingers danced along the side of your bikini bottoms now, low enough to make your breath hitch, high enough to keep you guessing.

“You drive me insane,” he whispered, voice like gravel and honey. “You feel like a dream in my hands, babygirl.” You didn’t get the chance to answer because just as Felix’s hand slipped a little too high—

“Ahem.”

The voice sliced through the moment like a blade. You practically jumped out of your skin, gasping as your arms shot to your chest, turning sharply toward the source of the interruption.

Felix groaned audibly. “Mr. Sang! Could you at least knock or jingle some bells or something? We’re out here trying to have a moment!” Mr. Sang stood a few feet away at the edge of the pool deck, tray in hand, expression unreadable as ever.

“I do not knock on open air, sir,” he said dryly, eyes deliberately trained toward the hedges behind you both. “Your champagne is ready, as requested.” Still trying to regulate your breathing (and your rapidly heating cheeks), you covered your face with your hands and stifled a laugh. “Thank you, Mr. Sang,” you said with a little giggle.

“You’re welcome, Miss,” he replied, not missing a beat. Then, without another word or even the twitch of a smile, he pivoted cleanly on his polished shoes and disappeared back into the mansion, tray left on the side table nearby. Felix sighed and scrubbed his face with both hands. “He does this every single time, I swear.”

You raised a brow, finally recovering enough to swim back toward the edge with a teasing smirk. “Well, maybe if we weren’t about to get it on in his line of sight—”

“You were just starting to let me be great,” he said with a whine, climbing out of the pool with that unfair, soaked Adonis body. Water glided down his torso as he walked over to grab the champagne tray. “The man’s got built-in cockblock radar.” You tried not to laugh as your eyes subtly followed the movement of his back, all lean muscle and wet skin. “I mean… he's good at his job,” you said innocently.

He came back with the tray, handing you your flute with a raised brow. “He’s lucky I like him. Otherwise I’d fire him for the emotional damage.” You clinked your glass with his, chuckling. “To emotional damage, then.” Felix sipped and hummed in approval. “Mmm. Nothing says romance like being interrupted right before I commit several crimes in the pool.” You shook your head and leaned back against the tile. “You’re so dramatic.”

“And you,” he said, gaze dropping to your lips again, “are lucky Mr. Sang has impeccable timing… or I wouldn’t have stopped.” You bit your lip. “I didn’t ask you to.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Say that again.” You sipped your champagne, deliberately teasing, the smirk on your lips a silent challenge. “I said… I didn’t ask you to stop.”

Felix took a slow step forward, water reaching his hips, eyes dark and locked on you like you were prey and he was starving.

“Finish your drink, baby,” he said smoothly. “You just signed a contract you can’t back out of.”

The cool fizz of champagne slid down your throat as you floated near the edge, the night wrapped around you in velvet quiet. The earlier tension had melted into a soft calm, the kind of hush that only came after adrenaline and laughter had run their course.

Felix leaned beside you, his arm resting along the ledge of the pool, fingers occasionally trailing lazy circles in the water beside yours. You glanced at him, chin slightly tilted. “So,” you murmured, “now that we’ve graduated… what’s next for you, Felix?”

He blinked, caught off guard for a moment, then gave a small chuckle. “Damn. You just went from ‘let me straddle you in the pool’ to ‘career counseling’ real fast.”

You laughed. “Sorry! I’m just curious. I mean… you could do literally anything, you know?”

Felix looked up toward the sky, eyes soft, lashes fluttering like he was counting stars to avoid something heavier. “Yeah, that’s the problem, though. I can do anything… but I don’t know what I want to do.” He paused. “My parents want me to take over the business. Something about legacy, honor, ‘don’t embarrass the family name’—you know, classic rich people pressure.”

You frowned, watching his jaw tighten. “But you don’t want that.”

He shook his head, voice quieter now. “I want something that’s mine. I don’t wanna live in a house filled with my dad’s portraits and my mom’s glass trophies and pretend like I care about shipping and logistics or hedge funds or whatever the hell they do.”

You swam closer, propping your chin on your arms at the pool edge beside him. “So, what’s the dream?” He gave you a side-glance, then smirked shyly. “Promise not to laugh?”

“I swear on Mr. Sang’s inability to knock.”

Felix snorted. “Alright then… I wanna start a little studio. Like, music, photography, video—creative stuff. I wanna work with people who give a damn. Build something from scratch, with my name on the door and no one’s permission needed.” Your heart thudded at the rawness in his voice. There was something so intimate about hearing a dream spoken out loud especially from someone like Felix, who usually wore confidence like a second skin but now looked exposed in the moonlight.

“That’s not silly,” you whispered. “That’s beautiful.”

He turned to face you more fully, expression softening. “You think so?”

You nodded slowly. “You’re passionate. You’re talented. And you’re the kind of person who makes people feel seen. If you open that studio one day… people will want to be part of it just because you’re part of it.”

Something shifted in his eyes something deeper, heavier. Then, he leaned in suddenly and kissed you. It wasn’t teasing or wild this time. It was tender. Like he was kissing you because of what you’d said, not in spite of it. Like your words had curled around his ribs and squeezed tight. You kissed him back, hand slipping behind his neck, tugging gently on his damp hair. He pulled you closer with a quiet, murmured “come here, my love,” before kissing you again—deeper now, his lips moving with more heart, less rush. The kind of kiss that said I see you, I hear you, I need you.

Your chest brushed his, wet skin to wet skin, as your fingers traced up his shoulder. His hands found your waist under the water, thumbs rubbing slow, dizzying circles into your sides. Then almost playfully he reached up, unhooked the strap of your bikini top with one smooth flick, and whispered, “Oops.”

You gasped, eyes wide. “Felix—!”

He just smirked, a smug tilt to his lips. “Guess it slipped.”

“You little—” You were mid-splash to his chest when,

“Mr. Felix.”

You both froze. There stood Mr. Sang once more, like some eternal guardian of interrupted intimacy. His face, as always, was a masterclass in neutrality. No reaction. No judgment. Just solemn duty.

Felix groaned. “Seriously? Do you just live in the walls?”

Mr. Sang cleared his throat. “Your father left a message, sir. He would like to speak with you in the study at your earliest convenience.” You covered your chest with your arm, sinking deeper into the water with a little giggle, lips still tingling from the kiss.

“Thanks, Mr. Sang,” you said sheepishly.

Mr. Sang nodded once. “Enjoy your evening.” And with the elegance of a stage exit, he turned and vanished once again into the night. Felix looked at you, then at the sky, then dramatically flopped his head back into the water. “This man’s entire life mission is to make sure I never get laid.”

You laughed so hard you nearly choked on your champagne. “He’s just doing his job.” Felix raised a brow, voice low again. “Well then maybe you should help me finish mine later… when there’s no witnesses.”

---

You both emerged from the pool in soft ripples and lazy sighs, the night air cool against your damp skin. Felix was out first, always quick on his feet, and he reached back toward you like a prince offering a hand to his queen.

“C’mon, goddess,” he grinned. “Before Mr. Sang returns from the shadows again.”

You took his hand, and as you stepped out, you instinctively crossed your arms over your chest. Felix clicked his tongue and crouched slightly in front of you, fingers moving carefully, respectfully, to help re-fasten the strap of your bikini top.

“Relax, baby,” he murmured with the sweetest smirk, not even looking up at you. “Not my first time dealing with a wardrobe malfunction. Although, I gotta say—this one was caused by intentional sabotage.”

“You’re lucky I don’t push you back into the pool,” you quipped.

“You’re lucky I wouldn’t mind that,” he replied smugly, handing you a fluffy white towel.

You rolled your eyes with a smile and took it. He wrapped another towel low around his waist, water glistening off his toned chest as he grabbed the champagne glasses and led you back inside, barefoot and dripping through marble-tiled floors. The warm, low lighting in the hallway made everything feel more intimate. The house, for all its extravagance, felt like it had dimmed just for you two. Like even the chandeliers were rooting for you.

Once inside his room—ridiculously big, decorated like a luxury magazine spread—he dropped his towel and went straight to the dresser. You hung back by the door, still toweling off your legs. He turned, holding a t-shirt in one hand and a pair of shorts in the other. “Did you bring anything else besides that hoodie? Like… I dunno, clothes?”

You blinked. “Oh my God. I completely forgot.” Felix stared at you. “You? Miss planner? Miss ‘I have three different bags depending on mood’? Forgot?”

You laughed, hiding your face with your towel. “Shut up!”

“Nah, nah,” he teased, tossing the clothes at you. “I’m never letting you live this down. You’re officially on my ‘needs supervision’ list.”

“You’re such a brat.”

“I’m an accommodating brat. See? I even picked out the good boxers. The stretchy kind.”

You caught the shirt and shorts mid-air, inspecting them. Of course they were designer. Of course they smelled like cedarwood and cashmere and him. He walked up behind you as you turned to head for the en-suite, lowering his voice with that casual mischief of his. “Do you want me to shower with you?”

You turned, pressing a slow kiss to his lips, letting it linger. “Hmm…”

Then you gave him a playful shove on the chest, making him stumble back with a grin. “Not tonight, Lix.” He clutched his heart dramatically. “Denied. Brutal. I’ll go cry into my throw pillows.”

You blew him a kiss before disappearing into the bathroom, giggling as the sound of his fake sobs echoed behind you. Steam soon filled the space as water rained down and the heat soaked into your skin, but even with all that warmth… your mind was still sizzling from his touch, his words, the way he looked at you like you were his favorite thing in the whole world. The steam curled behind you like a silk veil as you stepped out of the shower, warm and clean, wrapped in a plush towel that was too big to be anything but Felix’s. The bathroom smelled faintly of amber and lavender and mischief.

You glanced at the counter, spotting his infamous skincare routine laid out in militant order: toner, serum, moisturizer, eye cream, something in a gold tube you couldn’t pronounce but knew cost more than rent. With a small smile, you dipped your fingers into the products, patting and smoothing them onto your skin. By the time you slipped into the clothes he gave you, you felt good. Relaxed. A little dreamy. The kind of soft that only came after late-night swimming, too much flirting, and hot water washing the day away. When you finally stepped out of the bathroom, towel now draped over your shoulder, your feet slowed to a stop.

Mr. Sang was there, as if summoned by the universe. Unbothered. Standing beside a small table now set near the sliding glass doors, elegantly arranged with silver cloches and delicate side dishes, a pitcher of fruit-infused water and two champagne flutes.

“Miss Y/N,” he greeted with a gentle nod. “Master Felix asked me to bring this for you.”

You blinked, adjusting the shirt you were swimming in. “Oh—wow, thank you. Um… where is he?” Mr. Sang clasped his hands behind his back, always perfectly formal. “He said he needed to freshen up in the other bathroom. He’ll be stopping by his father’s study afterward.”

You paused, towel still in hand, something tightening in your chest. “Oh.” The butler didn’t elaborate, and he didn’t need to.

Felix’s father wasn’t someone people casually strolled in on. That man was the kind of rich that didn't just own wealth—he orchestrated it. Corporate tycoon. Boardroom tyrant. The kind of man whose voice could fold executives like origami. Felix never said much about him, but the tension whenever he was mentioned did the talking for him.

"Thanks, Mr. Sang,” you said softly, watching him step away with the same ghost-like elegance he always carried. You sat down, lifting the silver dome and revealing perfectly plated salmon, grilled vegetables, and a creamy truffle pasta that definitely wasn’t part of a late-night menu. Felix must’ve asked for it specifically. For you. Like he always did.

Still, your fork hovered, eyes occasionally drifting toward the closed hallway door that led to the study wing of the house.

You wondered what was happening behind it. What Felix was saying—or being told. What it cost him to keep playing this role of the golden boy with a bite. The perfect heir who hated perfection. Because even if you were the goddess by the pool… he was still the prince in the glass tower. And sometimes, even princes had to face dragons.

---

The halls of the Lee estate were too quiet—the kind of hush that settled like velvet over secrets. Felix walked with deliberate steps, damp hair falling into his eyes, clothes clinging faintly to his skin from the shower. The laughter and warmth of the night lingered behind him… and in front of him, trouble waited. He pushed open the tall oak doors of his father’s study with barely a knock.

“Didn’t expect you to be home so early,” Felix said casually, leaning against the frame like he hadn’t just interrupted the silence. His father didn’t even glance up from the whiskey he was pouring. “The event wasn’t entertaining.”

Of course it wasn’t, Felix thought bitterly. No audience to impress. Mr. Lee finally turned, his crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, watch glinting beneath the low light. “I saw you with her.”

Felix arched a brow. “Yeah? And?” His father’s tone dropped like ice into the glass. “You need to cut ties with that girl.” Felix blinked once. “I’m sorry, what?”

Mr. Lee paced to his desk, setting the glass down without taking a sip. “There was a… situation. At the event. Your little girlfriend’s father and I had a disagreement.”

Felix scoffed, arms crossing. “Shocker. What else is new?”

“Don’t be smart, Felix,” his father warned. “He publicly challenged a deal I’ve been negotiating for months. Do you understand how much this complicates everything?”

“And what the fuck does that have to do with me and Y/N?” Felix snapped, suddenly standing straighter, sharper. Mr. Lee looked at him with that same infuriating, surgical calm he used in board meetings. “Because as of tonight, our families are enemies. And I can assure you—her father will not hesitate to use you to get to me.”

“So what? You want me to punish her because you pissed off another billionaire with a fragile ego?” Felix laughed, but there was no humor in it. “I’m not cutting her off because you screwed up a deal.”

“This isn’t about the deal—this is about optics. Reputation. Control.”

“No, this is about you thinking you still get to make every decision in my life,” Felix growled. “I’m trying to protect you,” his father snapped.

“By tearing apart the one good thing in my life?!” Felix shouted back. “How the hell do you not see that you’re the problem?!” Mr. Lee’s jaw locked tight. “If you don’t end things with her—I will.”

A dangerous silence fell.

“She’s been dragging you down anyway,” he added coldly.

The words detonated.

Felix’s face twisted. His knuckles whitened against the back of the chair he'd gripped. “You arrogant son of a—” he stepped forward, voice rising. “She’s the only person who doesn’t treat me like a pawn or a brand. The only one who sees me as me, and you think she’s the dead weight?!”

Mr. Lee narrowed his eyes, but Felix was already shaking with fury.

“You’re not cutting her off,” he said with deadly finality. “Not you. Not your money. Not your pathetic empire.”

“Felix—”

“Over. My. Dead. Body.” The two men stood there—father and son, business tycoon and rebellious heir—like storm clouds ready to clash.

And upstairs, completely unaware, you sat in Felix’s room with champagne and truffle pasta, waiting for a boy in love to come back from war.

You were halfway through your glass of champagne when the door creaked open. Your eyes lifted, expecting the usual confident, slightly smug expression Felix always wore after annoying someone or after seeing you. But tonight… it wasn’t there.

He walked in silently, closing the door behind him with a soft click. You could instantly feel it, something was off. His damp curls messier than before, and his jaw… clenched so hard it could’ve cracked a diamond. He didn’t look at you right away. Just walked over to the edge of the bed and sat, hands buried in his hair, elbows on his knees.

“Felix?” you asked gently, putting the glass down. No response.

You stood up, crossing the room in slow steps. “Baby, what’s wrong?” Still nothing. His silence wasn’t heavy—it was suffocating. And it wasn’t like him to hold anything in.

You reached out, fingertips brushing his shoulder. “Felix.”

And that’s when it broke. He stood suddenly, eyes blazing—not at you, never at you—and stormed to the door. He threw it open and leaned halfway into the hallway.

“I hate you!” he yelled.

The words echoed through the mansion like gunfire. Cold, loud, loaded.

Then he slammed the door shut so hard the frame trembled. His back hit the door as he leaned against it, chest rising and falling fast. You stood there, heart thumping in your ears, as he looked at you now eyes glassy, but not weak. Just… angry.

You approached him slowly again. “Felix…”

He exhaled hard and rubbed his face before speaking. “He wants me to cut you off.” Your brows knit together. “Who?”

“My dad,” he muttered bitterly. “He had an argument with your father at the event tonight—some dumb business deal, egos clashing. Now, apparently, that means we’re enemies. And because of that, I’m supposed to drop you like a bad investment.”

You blinked, mouth parting in disbelief. “What?”

Felix looked at you, something raw behind his usual calm. “He said you’ve been dragging me down.” The words came out like venom. “That if I don’t end things, he will.” Your stomach twisted, your voice caught somewhere between rage and heartbreak. “And what did you say?”

Felix didn’t hesitate. “That he’d have to kill me first.”

Your breath left your lungs in a rush.

“He doesn’t get to choose who I love, baby,” he said, stepping closer, eyes locked on yours like they were anchoring him. “And I’d rather burn this whole damn house to the ground before I let him scare me into losing you.”

Your hands found his face instinctively, thumbs brushing his. “He’s wrong,” Felix continued, voice breaking just slightly. “You’re not a liability. You’re the only person who’s ever made me feel like I’m not just… some golden boy people use when it’s convenient.”

He looked at you like you were the only safe place in the world.

“And I’d rather lose every inheritance, every fake-ass socialite friend, every damn dollar with my name on it… than lose you.” Your chest tightened, eyes pricking.

“Felix…” you stepped into him, hands gently cupping his face, your thumbs brushing away the wetness that had formed along his lashes. He leaned into your touch like he’d been starving for it.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said, swallowing thickly. “But I just—needed to make that clear. To him. To you. To myself.” You kissed him soft at first. And then deeper. Warmer. A kiss that tasted like defiance and devotion and everything in between.

He pulled you into his chest, arms wrapping around your waist like he couldn’t bear the idea of letting go again. “I’m so sick of him trying to control my goddamn life,” Felix muttered, voice low and dangerous, arms tightening around you. “Like I’m just some pawn. Like you’re just some disposable secret.”

“Felix—”

“I hate this. I hate that he thinks he can touch what we have.” His mouth pressed against yours hard—angry, possessive. “You’re not his to talk about.”

“Felix,” you said again, pulling back slightly. “Calm down—”

But he didn’t listen. He didn’t want to. His hands gripped your face, thumbs brushing your cheek as he kissed you again—desperate this time, like if he just kissed you hard enough, it would shut out the entire world trying to pull you apart. The edge of the bed hit the backs of your knees and he followed you down with too much need, too much pressure.

“Felix—” you gasped, turning your head.

“She doesn’t drag me down,” he hissed like he was still arguing with his father. “She makes me better. She makes me feel—”

“Felix!” You finally pushed him back with both hands on his chest, breath shaky and eyes wide. “Stop.”

He froze. His eyes met yours, glassy and red, and the silence between you dropped like a thunderclap. Your voice trembled as you stepped away from him, wrapping your arms around yourself. “My dad told me to end things with you too.”

He blinked. The fury melted into confusion. “What?” You nodded slowly, unable to meet his eyes. “He… told me this afternoon. Said he knew what he was about to do was going to spark something ugly. That it was going to affect us. That I should let go now—before it got worse.”

Felix looked like someone had punched him square in the chest. “And you didn’t tell me?”

“I wanted to,” you whispered, finally looking up at him, guilt swimming in your gaze. “I tried to. But you looked so happy when I got here. And I got scared. I didn’t want to ruin that… or us.”

He stared at you, jaw slack, chest heaving. “I didn’t want you to look at me like I was some kind of burden,” you said softly, voice cracking. “Like he did.” Felix shook his head slowly, walking toward you again, but more carefully this time. No heat. Just heartbreak. His fingers brushed your cheek gently.

“You are not a burden,” he said, voice hoarse.

“I know,” you said quietly. “But you looked like you needed to believe it too.”

He pulled you into his chest, this time without urgency just silence, and the soft thud of his heart, threatening to break under the weight of the war around you.

For the first time that night… both of you were no longer hiding. He didn’t let go of you, not yet but there was a stillness in his hold, like even his heartbeat had stopped to wait for your answer.

“So what do we do now?” Felix asked, voice low, searching your face like it held the blueprint for how to survive this. “How do we fix this?”

You hesitated. It was just a second. But that one second was enough for everything to shift.

“…We don’t,” you whispered.

The world didn’t explode. It didn’t shatter into glass and blood. It just... stopped moving. Like the earth skipped a beat. Like your words stunned time itself. Felix pulled away from you slightly, eyes narrowing as if he hadn’t heard you right.

“What?”

“We don’t fix it,” you repeated, barely able to look him in the eyes. “Maybe… maybe we should end things.” His hands dropped from your waist like you’d burned him. He took a step back, blinking—twice, three times—as if the words were stuck in the air between you, echoing in slow motion.

“What the fuck are you saying right now?”

“I’m saying we can’t win this, Felix,” you said, voice breaking. “If our families are already declaring war, what’s the point of pretending we’re not caught in the crossfire?” Felix’s chest rose and fell, shallow and erratic. “You’re giving up.”

“I’m trying to protect you—”

“No.” He cut you off, the sharpness in his tone making you flinch. “No, don’t you dare twist this into some fucking noble sacrifice.”

“Felix—”

“Is someone forcing you to say this shit?” His voice cracked, raw and louder than usual. “Tell me. Right now. Are you being threatened?” You swallowed hard but didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

Your silence said enough. So did the way your shoulders tensed. The way your eyes darted away. The way your bottom lip trembled even though you were trying so hard to be strong. Felix’s nostrils flared. He let out a humorless laugh—sharp and cold.

“Wow,” he muttered. “Wow, this is actually happening.”

Still no response.

He raked a hand through his damp hair and turned his back to you for a second, fists clenched at his sides, jaw tightening with every breath he took. “Tell me who the hell said something to you,” he demanded, voice lower now, but seething. “Was it your dad? His people? One of my father’s snakes? Who?”

You just stood there, arms crossed, tears building behind your lashes like rain on a glass window. Felix turned back to you and took a slow, careful step forward, eyes softer now but that storm still swirled beneath them.

“I would burn this whole goddamn town to the ground for you, Y/N. You know that, right?”

A tear finally slipped down your cheek, and you nodded, brokenly.

“Then why…” he whispered, “why are you standing there telling me to let you go?” You opened your mouth to answer but nothing came out. There was nothing left to say. You were already moving before your mind could even finish the thought.

“I have to go,” you said, voice thick, throat tight.

“Wait—wait, no, baby, please—” Felix tried to catch your arm, tried to hold you there, tried to fix it with just his hands and his voice and his hear, but you pulled away.

Hard. The force made him stumble back a step.

“Y/N—”

You were gone before he could speak again. Darting out of the room, half-blinded by tears, nearly tripping over your feet. He chased after you, barefoot and furious, the hallway too quiet around his ragged breathing.

“Y/N, STOP!” Felix’s voice echoed down the marble corridor, sharp and cracked. “FUCKING COME BACK!”

And then, at the top of the staircase—his father.

Standing still by the railing. Arms crossed. Blank expression. Like he was watching a rehearsal of a performance he wrote himself. Felix stopped, chest heaving. It hit him then. This wasn’t just a reaction. This was the plan. All of it, timed.

“You—” Felix seethed, stepping toward him with eyes like fire. “You did this.”

His father didn’t blink. “You set this up. You wanted her to leave. You wanted me to lose her.”

Still, his father said nothing. Not a word. Not a shift in posture. Cowardice dressed in tailored authority.

“You’re a fucking coward, you hear me?” Felix shouted, pointing a trembling finger at him. “You’re a son of a bitch, and you’re a useless father!”

Nothing. But behind those cold eyes, there was something. A flicker. A wound, maybe. One he wouldn’t show, but couldn’t fully hide. Felix scoffed and turned, taking the stairs two at a time until he burst through the front door and into the warm night air.

There you were. Standing by your car. Hands shaking as you tried to find your keys. Breathing fast. The hurt written across your face like a damn symphony of pain.

“Y/N—”

You didn’t turn. “Baby, please—” Felix called out again, running to you. “Don’t get in the car. Not yet.” You ignored him. Your hand trembled harder as the keys fumbled in your grip.

“I’m not giving up on you.”

You froze.

His voice cracked right in the middle. Honest and raw and almost too human to survive this world.

You turned slowly, meeting his eyes, those messy, desperate eyes. Chest still rising and falling from all the running and the screaming and the wanting to destroy everything that tried to pull you apart.

He took a step closer.

“I don’t care what your dad said,” he whispered. “I don’t care what my dad wants. I don’t care how powerful they think they are. They’re not us. They don’t get us. And they’re not taking this from me.” You didn’t know when the tears started falling again, only that you couldn’t look away from him.

“They can kill my name, ruin my future, burn everything I’m supposed to inherit—fine. Let them.” His jaw clenched. “But they don’t get to take you.”

Silence.

Then your voice—soft, aching.

“Felix…”

“Please,” he whispered. “Just… stay.”

It all came crumbling down at once. Your knees nearly gave out beneath you, the sound of Felix’s voice—the plea in it—ripping right through the shield you’d built to protect yourself. The trembling in your hands turned violent, your breath hitching as the sob pushed itself up your throat.

And then—you fell. Right into his arms.

Felix caught you instantly, wrapping around you like you were the only thing keeping him standing, too. His arms were strong, frantic, one hand cradling your head as the other pressed you against his chest, holding you like you were glass and already broken.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t want to—Felix—I didn’t—”

Your voice cracked, and then it all spilled out in wet, shaking sobs against the base of his neck. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry—”

“Hey, hey…” he whispered, voice thick with tears of his own now, his jaw pressed to your temple. “Stop. Don’t say that. Don’t apologize, baby, please—don’t—” He rocked you just slightly, just enough to feel like you were both still alive. His heartbeat was pounding, hard and fast beneath your cheek.

“I should’ve told you. I should’ve said something earlier, but I didn’t know how,” you choked out. “I thought maybe—maybe if we just held on long enough—”

“I know,” Felix murmured, eyes clenched shut. “I know. I thought that too.” The driveway was still and heavy with night air, cicadas humming in the trees, the scent of damp earth and chlorine lingering on your skin.

And then—

“Master Felix.” Mr. Sang’s voice interrupted gently from a distance, but it still made you both flinch like a match had been struck too close.

You turned your head slightly, still cradled in Felix’s arms.

He stood just at the edge of the drive, his hands folded neatly behind his back, perfectly poised despite witnessing what was unmistakably heartbreak in live-action. “Should I ready a car for you and Miss Y/N?” he asked carefully, like he was offering an exit from the battlefield.

Felix didn’t hesitate. His voice was hoarse, but steady.

“Yes.”

Mr. Sang nodded once, respectfully, and turned to make arrangements. Felix stayed there with you for a second longer. Your arms wrapped tight around him. His chin resting on top of your head. The world silent except for the rustle of wind and the whisper of your apologies, still tucked between your sobs.

“Where are we going?” you asked quietly, voice so small it nearly disappeared into his chest.

He kissed the top of your head.

“Anywhere but here, babygirl.”

The sleek, black sedan hummed low as it pulled up the driveway. Mr. Sang stepped out before the engine had even stopped, his movements as smooth and calculated as ever like he hadn’t just watched your heart fall apart at the seams fifteen minutes ago.

“Where to, Master Felix?” he asked, holding the back door open. Felix looked at you first. His hand was still laced in yours, fingers tight, grounding. Your eyes were red, your skin damp from tears and chlorinated water, his hoodie still hanging off your frame.

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t need to. Felix gave a tight nod, jaw clenched. “Take us to the lake house. No one should be there.”

Mr. Sang simply bowed his head once, no questions, no surprises. “Very well.” You slid into the backseat, curling into the far end, and Felix followed, sitting close enough to keep a hand on your thigh, his thumb moving in slow, mindless circles. Comfort, even if he was fuming beneath the surface.

The car moved. The mansion, the pool, the pain it started falling away behind tinted windows and silent roads. It was nearly twenty minutes of heavy, weighted silence before Mr. Sang, in an unusual break of protocol, spoke again.

“You know,” he said, eyes still forward, tone almost... casual, “love and loyalty tend to be the greatest rebellion of all in families like yours.”

Felix blinked. You sat up slightly.

Mr. Sang continued without turning around. “The truth is, most parents hope their children will obey. Some are terrified when their children start choosing their own happiness instead.” A pause. “But I’d rather serve a son who chooses love over fear. It’s rare. And it’s brave.”

Silence dropped again, like a pin hitting velvet.

You and Felix looked at each other, eyebrows raised.

Felix tilted his head, lips twitching. “Wow,” he drawled, voice still raspy. “Thanks, Mr. Sang. That almost sounded like... human emotion.” Mr. Sang didn’t even blink. “Don’t get used to it, sir. I’ll be back to emotionally vacant sarcasm once we arrive.”

Felix snorted. You cracked a watery smile.

For a second, the weight lifted. Just a little. And outside, the trees gave way to the open road, stars blinking through the clouds as the lake grew nearer.

---

The lake house loomed quiet and still against the backdrop of moonlit water, like it had been waiting just for them. The air was cooler here—soothing, even. Crickets whispered in the trees, and a light breeze skimmed across the water’s glassy surface.

Mr. Sang remained in the driver’s seat without needing instruction, a silent guardian under the soft hum of the engine. The doors clicked open with that signature luxury softness, and you both stepped out into the night, the gravel crunching under your sneakers. Felix didn’t say a word, just reached out and took your hand again, fingers interlocked with quiet urgency.

The dock creaked beneath your weight as you walked toward the edge. It smelled like damp wood and pine trees, like memory. You used to come here on spring breaks. Pool parties. Boat races. But tonight… it was different. Private. Real.

Felix sat first, legs swinging off the edge, and you sat beside him, the water shimmering beneath your feet, cool wind brushing against your skin. His hand hadn’t let go.

“I used to think this place was boring as hell,” he murmured, gaze cast on the lake. “Now it’s the only place I don’t feel like I’m being watched.” You didn’t answer at first. Just leaned into his side, cheek on his shoulder. His arm wrapped around you.

“So… what now?” you finally whispered.

Felix sighed hard through his nose. “Honestly? I don’t know.”

You pulled back slightly to look at him, face barely lit by the dock light behind. “Do we really just… go back to pretending we’re okay when we’re not?”

“I don’t want to pretend anything with you,” he said immediately, turning to face you fully. “I’m not breaking up with you. Not for him. Not for anyone.”

“But we can’t act like this won’t get worse,” you said gently, voice wobbling. “Our families—”

“Let them be enemies,” he cut in, firmer than before. “We’ve been trying to live in their world. Maybe it’s time we start building our own.” Your chest tightened. “That sounds like a fantasy.”

He gave a crooked grin, the kind that never quite reached his eyes when he was hiding something. “Then let’s make it real.” You went quiet again, watching how his hair moved slightly in the wind. How his jaw clenched like he was ready to fight the whole damn world for you. And maybe he was.

“Felix…”

“Look, baby,” he said, reaching for your face now, brushing your cheek with his thumb, “I know I can’t fix everything. But I can choose you. Every day, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.”

Your breath caught. “And if they try to pull us apart again,” he added, voice low and certain, “we’ll pull harder. Yeah?”

Your heart thudded. Loud. Painful. Real.

You nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

He smiled, then kissed your forehead, holding you close again, your bodies silhouetted by moonlight and rebellion.

And from the car, Mr. Sang watched the two of you on the dock, then checked his watch and turned up the radio just a little, giving you the moment you deserved.

yes i did remember felix likes blue

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[mrsha-ang-kim]

Part 6

𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐨𝐜𝐨𝐥

parings: exFBIagent!chan x FBIgent!afab!reader, partners to mutual friends? (bruh its confusing at this point)

synopsis: he died. Everyone believed he did. But you found out. And whether you like it or not, keeping you alive is now his job.

chapter synopsis: now that their cover has blown, y/n and chan need to find a way to end everything. but both parties have secrets that their not ready to let on just yet.

warnings: time skips, secretss, feelings?, ft. minsung and hyunjin, hacking

A/n: hehehehe. i love it too much and i don't want it to end but it has to my fingers ache :[, if you have extra eyes for errors no you don't

previously...

The air is stale with the scent of faded smoke and cheap detergent, the kind of must that clings to places long abandoned and occasionally rented for silence. The morning sun barely filters through the cracked blinds, painting slanted stripes across the dusty floor. The muffled hum of the old box TV broke the stillness.

“—suspected internal leak in the Bureau’s international intelligence wing has prompted a temporary hold on field operations pending further review—”

The camera cut to a shaky shot of FBI HQ in D.C., chaos in the background, flashes of cameras, sharp suits, grim expressions. Y/N stirred in the rickety bed, the thin blanket tangled around her legs. She blinked groggily and turned her head toward the dim living room, where the blue flicker of the TV danced over Chan’s figure. He sat on the arm of a threadbare couch, elbows resting on his knees, face sharp in the pale light. His shirt from the night before was still on, now rumpled and bloodstained at the sleeve. She rubbed her eyes and walked over slowly. “Morning…”

Chan didn’t look up. “Hey.”

She followed his gaze to the screen. “What’s on?”

“Fallout,” he said flatly, his voice low. “The FBI’s spinning this like it’s just a data breach. But they’re scared. Someone’s leaking information. They think it’s internal.” He scrubbed a hand down his jaw, the stubble on his chin rasping against his palm. “It’s not internal. It’s engineered.”

She sat on the arm of the chair beside him. “So what? Reynolds noticed us and now everything’s falling apart?”

“Not just noticed.” He finally turned to her. “He saw me. That changes everything.” She looked at him, lips pressing into a line. “Okay… so where do we go from here?”

“First, we lay low.”

“Lay low?” she echoed. “For how long? You know Reynolds. You worked with Reynolds. He’s not going to just let this go.”

He didn’t answer. She frowned. “Chan, talk to me. What’s the plan? Are we going to the other safehouse? Are we reaching out to anyone? Is Jisung still tracking the files? What if Reynolds traces us through the convenience store—”

“Y/N.”

“—and what about Petrov? He knows something, and if he talks, it’s over. And if the Mafia’s tailing you—”

“Stop.”

Her voice dropped a note, softer but still insistent. “I’m just trying to help. You can’t keep shutting me out every time it gets bad.”

“You’re not helping!” he snapped, standing suddenly. The sharpness in his tone cracked through the room like a whip. “Do you think I don’t know we’re in deep? Do you think I haven’t been calculating every outcome, every exit route, every person who might already be dead because of this?” His chest rose and fell hard, jaw clenched, eyes a little glassy but not from tears. From the weight. From the memory.

Y/N looked up at him, stunned silent for a second.

“I can’t keep losing people,” he said, quieter now, but with a hoarse edge. “You ask me what the plan is—I don’t know. Not right now. But every second you fire more questions at me, it’s like I can feel Cuba all over again.”

Her breath hitched. He looked away, biting down on the wave of emotion before it could take shape. Then he sighed, hand raking through his hair. “…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shout.”

Silence.

Just the steady buzz of the TV and the barely-there whistle of wind through the broken window pane. After a few beats, she stood. Quietly walked toward him. Close, but not too close. “Okay,” she said softly. “We take it slow. One step at a time. But you don’t carry this alone anymore, Chan.”

He looked down at her, eyes burning in a way he didn’t let often. And for once, he didn’t argue.

---

Somewhere in a cluttered apartment above a noodle shop, the heavy scent of garlic and burnt coffee hangs in the air, mixing with the quiet hum of cooling laptop fans and the rhythmic click click click of Jisung's keyboard. He’s hunched over his desk like a raccoon with too many secrets, oversized hoodie sliding off one shoulder, his hair messy, a pencil stuck behind his ear for no reason other than habit. The screen before him glows with a coded interface—Operation Nightfall’s drive is being stubborn. Encrypted files buried within encrypted folders, booby-trapped scripts, false keys. Like peeling an onion only to find another onion beneath.

Lines of code kept looping back into themselves, like it didn’t want to be found.

“C’mon… You’re hiding something. I know it,” Jisung muttered, tapping furiously. A cold can of soda sat untouched beside him, condensation long dried. His fingers hovered over the keyboard. “You dirty, corrupted bastard of a file, just show me your guts…”

The door creaked. “Han,” came a familiar voice—low, calm, and laced with just enough sass to remind him who was boss in this apartment. Lee Know’s silhouette appeared in the doorway, framed in soft light, holding a tray with two bowls of steaming ramen.

Jisung blinked. “You’re… awake?”

Lee Know shrugged one shoulder, walking in. “You’ve been up all night again. Looked like your brain was about to blue screen.” He set the tray down beside him, then leaned over and planted a quick kiss on Jisung’s temple before taking the seat next to him. Jisung stared at him, frozen in place like someone had just activated his emotional.exe.

“You—you just kissed me during a code break-in,” Jisung whispered.

Lee Know gave a smug little smirk. “What? You’re cute when you’re stressed.”

“Don’t distract me with affection,” he grumbled… but still reached for the chopsticks and started eating, cheeks a little pink. Lee Know peered over his shoulder, scanning the lines of messy code. “Is that it? Operation Nightfall’s files?”

“Yeah,” Jisung nodded between bites. “It’s encrypted on three levels. Whoever did this wasn’t just paranoid—they were scared. It’s got a deadman’s switch built in. Try to force it open, it might wipe itself completely.”

“So we do it the gentle way.”

“You’re freakishly calm about federal-level treason.” Lee Know shrugged again. “I’m here to kiss you and occasionally save the world. You figure out the rest.” Jisung snorted, but his grin faded when the screen flashed again, something shifted in the code. He froze, slurping his last noodle. “…Wait.”

He typed rapidly. A new subfolder had opened a hidden one buried under layers of dummy code. “Gotcha,” he whispered.

Lee Know leaned in. “What is it?”

Jisung’s smile faded. He clicked on the first file. A single phrase blinked on the screen, then loaded an old surveillance thumbnail.

OPERATION NIGHTFALL - PRIMARY FIELD FOOTAGE, HAVANA.

Chan’s voice echoed faintly from the audio log, grainy and frayed with static.

And behind it, a second voice—

Seungmin. Jisung slowly pulled off his headphones, heart hammering.

“…Chan’s not gonna like this,” he whispered.

Lee Know reached out, gently lacing their fingers. “Then we handle it carefully.”

The soft hum of fans and clicking keys was the only sound in the apartment now. Jisung had barely touched his ramen since the footage started playing. The screen showed shaky body-cam footage. Gunfire lit up the corners. A crumbling Havana street. Chaos. Men shouting in Spanish. Explosions like thunder echoing against cracked colonial walls. But Jisung wasn’t focused on any of that.

He was rewinding—over and over again—on a five-second moment in the video.

Lee Know leaned closer, his jaw tightening. “Back it up again. There—pause.”

Jisung slammed the spacebar, and the frame froze mid-blur. Smoke clouded the right half of the screen. A body hit the pavement. But just behind it—obscured in the haze—two figures stood still. One held a black case. The other passed them something. Quick. Clean. Like muscle memory.

“…That’s not cartel,” Lee Know muttered.

“Nope,” Jisung murmured. “Zooming in now.”

He enhanced the image, cleaning it up as much as he could. Their faces were covered. One wore a scarf too warm for the Caribbean. The other had a pin on his lapel barely visible. Lee Know squinted. “That pin—pause. Zoom.” The pixelated badge came into focus. Jisung’s stomach turned.

It wasn’t FBI. It wasn’t local militia.

It was foreign. A crest. Two headed eagle. Russian.

“…You seeing this?” Jisung whispered.

Lee Know didn’t answer at first. Then, after a beat, he muttered, “The shootout—it was staged.”

“Yeah.”

“It was cover.”

Jisung scrubbed forward. In the background, over the static-laced screaming, Seungmin’s voice cut in again. “Why aren’t we getting anything from HQ? This isn’t right, Chan.” Jisung’s chest clenched. He hit pause.

Lee Know exhaled and sat back slowly. “So the Russians—or someone—used the chaos to move something. Weapons? Intel? Maybe Nightfall was never about the cartel.” Jisung’s eyes flicked to his laptop clock. 3:52 a.m.

“Chan’s not gonna like this. At all.”

Lee Know stood, brushing crumbs off his hoodie. “Tell him. He deserves to know the full picture now.”

Jisung nodded, still locked on the footage. As Lee Know walked to the door, he paused, looked back, then returned and gently tilted Jisung’s chin up. His lips pressed against Jisung’s in a kiss that was soft, grounding. A promise.

“You’re brilliant,” Lee Know murmured. “And you better eat that ramen before it mutinies.”

Jisung blinked, dazed. “Wha—yeah. Okay.”

Lee Know grinned and grabbed his jacket. “I’ll call during break. Try not to break the government before breakfast.” The door clicked shut. Jisung exhaled shakily and turned back to the screen.

“Alright, baby,” he said to the laptop, cracking his knuckles. “Let’s see what other skeletons you’ve got hiding in your server closet.”

---

The sunlight filtering through the dusty blinds painted harsh, golden stripes across the faded carpet. The air smelled faintly of cigarette ash and the metallic bite of blood and peroxide from the night before. Chan sat at the tiny table in the room, hunched over a notepad that came from the motel's reception desk half the pages torn out, the other half barely usable. A cold cup of coffee sat to the side, long forgotten.

Y/N sat across from him, pulling on a hoodie over her tank top, her hair still a little damp from a quick rinse in the busted bathroom sink. She set the burner phone down between them like it was a live grenade.

“Okay,” she started, voice rough with sleep, “Petrov’s men were definitely scouting the charity. He’s either on to Reynolds, or watching him closely. And Reynolds—” she paused, looking at Chan, “—saw us. That changes everything.”

Chan didn’t look up from the notepad. He was sketching a layout. A facility. Probably something from memory. “We have one external drive, potentially two sets of eyes on us,” she continued. “Reynolds has access to Bureau resources and Petrov has enough off-the-books cash to fund a private army. We need to move smart.”

Chan finally looked up, eyes tired but sharp. “We need to get back to D.C.”

She blinked. “What?”

“We won’t make sense of any of this out here. If we keep running, we’re always two steps behind. But in D.C.? I know where Reynolds’ blind spots are. I know people. Quiet ones. Ones who still owe me.”

Y/N frowned. “You also know you’re a walking ‘do not engage’ at the Bureau, right? You show your face and it’s over. Not just for you—for me, for Jisung, for everyone who’s helped us so far.”

“I don’t plan on waltzing through the front door with a latte and a name badge, darling,” Chan muttered, a little edge creeping in. “I’ll go around. Through the holes in the system he taught me to use.” She leaned back, arms crossed. “You really think this is the move?”

He looked at her. Really looked. “I think if we don’t do something drastic, we’re going to keep losing people.” A beat. Y/N’s eyes softened. “You’re still thinking about Cuba.”

He didn’t answer. Just looked back down at the sketch.

She sighed and moved her chair closer, nudging his hand away so she could look too. “Alright. What’s the layout?”

Chan pointed. “Old safehouse on the outskirts of Arlington. Only a few people even know it exists. If we can get there undetected, we can regroup, stash what we have, and start digging. But we need Jisung’s help breaking the encryption before we move. And we need to be invisible until then.”

Y/N nodded, chewing on her bottom lip. “I’ll start packing. When’s the move?”

Chan glanced at the clock. “Nightfall. We’ll drive through the back routes, no major roads. Get in before they even know we’re out of state.” She rose to her feet, hesitating before walking away.

He called after her softly. “YN…” She turned.

“Thanks.”

She gave a dry laugh. “Please. I’m an FBI agent, Chan.”

As she disappeared into the bathroom, Chan stared down at the notepad again, jaw clenching. Unfortunately for Chan, as he began prepping their quiet exit, he still had no idea that halfway across the city—Jisung had already found the first crack in the Cuba setup.

And it was about to change everything.

Bang Chan zipped up the black duffle bag and placed it on the kitchen counter beside the second one Y/N had been organizing. Ammunition, burner phones, cash, IDs, and two protein bars that probably expired in 2017.

He gave the protein bars a squint. “…You think these’ll kill us faster than the Russians?”

Y/N snorted softly, tucking a loaded Glock into the side pocket of her bag. “Only if you eat yours first.”

He smirked but it didn’t reach his eyes. Not really. They weren’t leaving today, traveling immediately was too obvious. But the prep needed to be airtight. He pulled out his burner phone and dialed.

RING. RING. CLICK.

“Hyung?” Jisung’s voice filtered through the line, a little breathless. Keyboard clacks and mouse clicks echoed faintly behind him. “Hey. I need you to book us flights to D.C. Commercial. Spread it over two different bookings, staggered dates. No Bureau codes.” Jisung paused. “You sure about D.C.? That’s kinda like swimming toward the shark tank, no?”

“I’m aware,” Chan muttered. “Just get it ready. Let me know when they’re set.” There was a rustle—probably Jisung dragging a notepad closer. “Alright. But while I’ve got you—Lee Know and I dug a little deeper last night.”

Chan’s jaw tensed. Y/N, crouched beside her bag, looked up instinctively at the shift in his composure.

“We went back into the Nightfall archives,” Jisung continued. “Not the digital ones. The fragmented backend, old drone feeds, camera sweeps—stuff no one bothered to clean up ‘cause it looked like junk.”

“Spit it out,” Chan said.

“There was a transaction. Amidst the Havana chaos. Gunfire, smoke bombs, all that mess was a cover-up. Someone passed a briefcase to someone else. We don’t know who yet. Could be Petrov. Could be… someone higher.”

Chan went still. “I haven’t told Y/N yet,” Jisung added. “Didn’t want to dump too much on you both. But… just be careful. I think we’re past the ‘you were framed’ stage and into the ‘someone sold out our own people’ stage.”

The words settled heavy in Chan’s chest.

“…Thanks, Sungie.”

“Yeah. Hey—uh… don’t die, alright? ‘Cause I’m kind of planning to yell at you in person.” Chan’s lip twitched upward. “I’ll do my best.”

CLICK.

He lowered the phone, exhaled through his nose, and turned to YN, who was watching him like someone who’d been burned too often by silence.

“What was that about?” she asked.

“Nothing urgent,” he lied gently, before nodding toward the couch. “We’ve got a bit of time… want to sit?” She blinked, caught off guard. “…Okay?”

They sat, bags pushed to the side. He leaned back, one ankle propped on the other knee, arms crossed loosely. She mimicked him—minus the disarming ease he faked so well. “So,” he said casually, “you found me first.”

She tilted her head. “Yeah?”

“I mean—Reynolds had already declared me dead. But you… you were the one who tracked the inconsistencies. Who didn’t believe the report. Why?”

Her lips parted, then closed. “I don’t know,” she said honestly. “Call it instinct. Or maybe I just didn’t want to believe someone like you could die like that.”

Chan’s gaze softened. “Someone like me?”

“FBI’s golden boy. Crazy technique and reputation. Annoyingly self-sacrificing,” she said, ticking each point off her fingers. That drew a real laugh from him, low and hoarse.

“Alright then, Agent YN,” he said, eyes sharp but warm. “Your turn. Tell me something about you.” She hesitated. “…Like what?”

“Anything. Childhood dream. First crush. Favorite cereal. Just not anything involving murder or blackmail, if possible.” She smirked. “That’s… severely limiting my options.”

But she gave in.

“I wanted to be a vet growing up,” she said. “Then a detective. Then an astronaut. Then I realized I liked catching liars more than saving puppies.”

“And your first crush?” he asked, eyes dancing. “Mm. This guy in middle school who played the saxophone. I think I liked him ‘cause he had dimples.”

Chan tapped his own cheek. “Like these?”

“No. Yours are annoying. His were charming.” He gave a mock-wounded groan. “Rude.”

She grinned. “You asked.”

The laughter faded slowly into a quiet that wasn’t heavy. Just… mutual. Restful. Like both of them forgot, for a moment, that the world wanted them dead. And for a moment, that was enough.

Y/N leaned back with her arms folded, one foot tucked under the other. Chan sat beside her, posture casual but eyes slightly distant like a man constantly balancing on the edge of two realities: the now, and the memories that never stopped gnawing.

They’d been talking about everything and nothing for a while, silly assignments, weird disguises from past ops, their worst missions, close calls. It was the first time in days they weren’t walking on eggshells around each other.

Then, Y/N asked it—softly, without pressure.

“Have you ever been in love?” Chan didn’t answer right away. He exhaled a dry laugh, leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped. “Yeah,” he said finally, voice low. “I had someone… a long time ago. Before the operation. Before everything.”

Y/N’s eyes lingered on him, curious but not pushing. Just… listening.

“She was a field analyst. Crazy smart. Calm, logical, funny in this quiet, effortless way. We’d sneak around, late night takeout, talk about escaping all this someday. Maybe open a bar in Venice, or a tiny bookstore in Seoul. I don’t know. Dumb dreams.”

“Doesn’t sound dumb to me,” YN murmured.

Chan let out a slow breath. “She died in a car bomb in Belgium. It was meant for me.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was reverent. A moment carved out by grief and held up by fragile honesty. “I blamed myself for months,” he said, eyes locked on the floor. “Still do, sometimes. She used to say I had a savior complex. That one day it’d be the death of me. Guess she wasn’t too far off.”

Y/N reached out instinctively, placing a gentle hand on his arm.

“You’re not responsible for what someone else chose to do,” she said quietly. “You didn’t kill her. The people who set that bomb did. And the fact that you still feel it… means you loved her right. That’s rare, Chan.”

He turned his head toward her then. Not sharply. Just slowly—like he was truly seeing her for the first time. There was something in her voice. Not pity. Not hero worship. Just… understanding. Level, kind, real.

And in her eyes, he didn’t see judgment or fear. He saw a quiet strength. One that hadn’t cracked, even under pressure. One that had found him half-dead and still decided he was worth saving.

“You ever been in love?” he asked, softly. Y/N hesitated. “I thought I was, once. But it turned out he loved the version of me he made up in his head. Not who I really was. Not the part that shoots, bleeds, and doesn’t cry over dead men.”

Chan gave a small, knowing smile. “His loss, then.”

She looked at him. “And maybe… your heart’s not as broken as you think.”

That made something catch in Chan’s chest. Just for a second.

He didn’t say anything. But the look he gave her—it lingered. Heavy. Curious. Something quiet and unfamiliar blooming behind his eyes.

---

The sound of the door closing behind Chan had long faded into the silence that now blanketed the tiny apartment like an old, heavy coat. The TV was off. The dishes were done. And the weight of the day… still sat there. Y/N stood by the window, arms crossed, gaze distant. The blinds were cracked open just enough for her to peer through, keeping her eyes on the dim streetlight outside that flickered like it couldn’t decide whether to die or keep fighting.

Chan had left to meet an old contact—an informant who owed him favors and secrets, tucked away in some questionable bar on the edge of town. He hadn’t wanted her to come. Said it was safer this way. That it was “just a short talk.”

Y/N didn’t argue. But she knew better than to believe in short talks and safe routes.

Still, she let him go. And now, alone with her thoughts and the stale scent of old fabric and yesterday’s coffee, she reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a sleek, black phone. Not hers. A burner.

She hesitated… thumb hovering over the keypad. Her jaw clenched a little. Then she moved. She tapped out a long sequence, her fingers swift and deliberate. Then she held it to her ear. The ringing was silent but sharp like a knife slicing through the quiet.

Click.

A line opened. Nothing but static. Then,

“…Didn’t expect you to call so soon,” came a smooth, velvety voice. Low and vaguely amused. “Miss me already?”

Y/N didn’t smile. “Cut the crap. I need intel.”

“Tsk, always so cold. Can’t a man dream of some manners?”

“Hyun.” Her voice was firmer now. “I’m serious.” On the other end, Hyunjin—Black Market tech ghost, cyber-vandal, master of encryption and misdirection—let out a dramatic sigh. Somewhere in the background, EDM music was faintly playing beneath the hum of monitors and machines.

He was in his lair. He was always in his lair.

“Alright, alright, shoot. What kind of intel?”

“I need a full trace on someone named Petrov. And cross-reference that with Reynold’s movement data from the last five years. Deep scrub. Black box access if you can manage it.”

“…Petrov?” Hyunjin’s tone changed. Just slightly. Less playful now. “That’s above FBI clearance.”

“I’m not FBI.”

He paused. “I know. That’s why I like you.”

“But can you do it?”

“I can do anything,” Hyunjin said smoothly. “Question is—why are you looking into Petrov now?”

“Because he’s showing up in the shadows of everything. Operation Nightfall. Havana. Now even Reynolds’ movement logs. Something’s off.” Another pause. This one lasted longer. Y/N narrowed her eyes.

“I’ll start digging,” he finally said. “But Y/N…”

“What?”

“You’re getting close to some dangerous truths. The kind that get people killed or… worse—forgotten. You ready for that?”

She swallowed, voice firm. “I’ve already lost too much not to be.”

There was something quiet on the line then. Like Hyunjin was weighing something. Or hesitating. Not like him. Not at all. He clicked his tongue once. “You’ll have something within 48 hours. Maybe sooner.”

“Make it sooner,” she said. “I think we’re already behind.”

Just before she hung up, his voice cut through again.

“…Be careful, YN.” She blinked. “Why?”

“Because not everyone in your circle is who you think they are.”

Click.

The line went dead.

She stared at the phone in her hand, the cold metal casing pressing into her palm. Her reflection in the dusty window stared back sharper, harder than it used to be.

Not everyone is who you think they are.

Her heart thudded once. Loud.

And in that moment—somewhere in the back of her mind—she remembered the flicker of fear in Chan’s eyes. The hesitation. She placed the burner phone back under the loose floorboard where she’d kept it hidden. And when she turned away from the window, she didn’t feel as alone as she was before.

---

The light from three monitors cast an eerie blue glow across the darkened room, flickering off empty ramen cups, wires tangled like spaghetti, and scribbled notes taped across the wall in a chaotic constellation of conspiracy. The smell of caffeine and old pizza lingered like loyal soldiers to the all-nighter cause. Jisung was hunched forward in his chair, typing with the intense focus of someone on the verge of either a breakthrough… or total burnout. His glasses were slipping off the bridge of his nose, his hoodie wrinkled from hours of zero movement.

Lee Know had changed out of his work clothes into a simple black tee and grey sweatpants, hair still a little damp from a rushed shower. He padded into the room holding a glass of water and a fresh protein bar he knew Jisung wouldn’t eat, but would pretend to appreciate.

"Here," Lee Know said gently, setting it down beside the keyboard. "You’ve been staring at that screen so long your eyeballs are about to commit mutiny."

"Mmmph," Jisung grunted in response, barely looking up. "Almost cracked this firewall. Just—ten more minutes."

"You said that three hours ago," Lee Know deadpanned, crossing his arms as he leaned against the wall.

“Yeah, but this time I mean it—oh wait. Wait… yes! Accessing node—uh…” Jisung blinked. Slowly. His fingers paused mid-keystroke. “…Why are the keys moving?”

"They’re not, baby. You’re just sleep-deprived." Lee Know rolled his eyes with a soft fondness before stepping behind Jisung. He bent down, arms sliding beneath Jisung’s legs and back in one smooth move.

“W-Wait! What are you doing—? Lee—!”

“You can barely sit straight. You’re not coding anything except your way into a coma.”

“I’m fine—wait, are you actually—?!”

Lee Know lifted him, bridal-style, and Jisung flailed weakly like a soggy noodle.

"This is humiliating!" he groaned into Lee Know’s chest.

"Then sleep fast so you can wake up and reclaim your dignity."

Lee Know dropped him gently onto their bed, pulled the comforter over him, and then leaned down to brush the hair off Jisung’s forehead. Their eyes met. Jisung looked half-unconscious, but he still managed a sheepish pout.

“Thanks,” he mumbled.

Lee Know smiled softly, thumb grazing his cheek. “Good boy. Sleep.” Then he kissed him. Just a slow, lingering press of lips that quieted every wire-buzz and hard-drive hum in the room. Jisung was out two minutes later.

Lee Know returned to the keyboard, stretching his fingers before picking up where Jisung left off. He wasn’t a code genius like Jisung, but he wasn’t dumb either, years of shadow work, both legal and questionably gray, had sharpened his instincts.

He traced through the decrypted directories…One folder led to another. Then to a secure server mirroring from what looked like a Cuban IP address rerouted through D.C.

His eyes narrowed.

He found a file hidden beneath a layer of dummy code labeled SHADOWGATE_57_ALPHA.

Inside: corrupted video footage, half-glitched, timestamped for the exact hour of the Havana incident. He cleaned it up.

A scene frozen mid-chaos—gunfire, smoke, panic. But in the background…A handshake. Two silhouetted figures—one with a distinct silver watch (which looked eerily like Petrov’s), and the other in a suit far too polished for a firefight.

Lee Know’s breath caught. He rewound the footage again, zooming in. There. A brief flash of face. The man Petrov shook hands with, it looked like someone from Reynolds' division.

Or worse… someone with FBI clearance.

His jaw clenched. He reached for his phone, ready to wake Jisung, but paused. No. Let him sleep. He needed this. Lee Know's fingers flew across the keyboard, isolating the image, extracting the metadata, and prepping an encrypted message for Chan.

Because this…

This wasn’t just about Shadowgate. This was a conspiracy buried inside a cover-up, and the closer they got—the more dangerous it became.

---

The lock clicked open with a quiet snap, the door creaking slightly as Chan stepped in. His hair was a mess pulled back with one of those black elastic ties he always seemed to have on his wrist. His jacket was zipped all the way up despite the warmth, and his jaw was tight, eyes unreadable. He was holding a folder. A thick one. But before Y/N could even speak, he walked past her without a word and slid it into the hidden compartment beneath the loose floorboard under the couch. She watched him, arms folded.

“You’re back late,” she said, her voice softer than usual.

“Yeah,” Chan muttered, brushing his hands off and straightening. “Took longer than I thought.”

He didn’t elaborate. And she didn’t push.

Instead, she motioned toward the coffee table where takeout containers steamed beneath a thin cloud of rising vapor. “I ordered food,” she offered. “Didn’t know what you felt like eating so I got Thai. Thought something spicy might be good.”

“Thanks.” He sat. Quietly.

She sat across from him. And they ate. In silence. The only sound was the rustling of plastic lids, soft chewing, and the occasional clink of a fork against Styrofoam.

There was a tension in the room. Thick. Heavy. Like the air before a summer storm.

Y/N poked at her noodles, watching him from across the dimly lit table. The overhead bulb flickered once, casting his face in and out of shadow. He looked like he hadn’t slept in years. So she tried. Just a little.

To break the silence.

"Hey…” she said, glancing up at him with the tiniest of smiles, “Remember at the gala when you kissed me?”

Chan’s fork paused mid-air. "To distract Petrov?" she clarified, leaning back against the worn couch cushion. “You never really said anything about it after.”

Chan set his fork down slowly. His eyes lifted to hers. "It was just part of the job, right?” she teased gently, brows raised, a little smirk playing on her lips. “Totally unplanned. Super professional. Zero feelings. Textbook spy stuff.”

His lips twitched. Barely. "Do you think it meant something?” he asked quietly.

That threw her off. His tone wasn’t teasing. Not at all. She blinked. “What? No—of course not. It didn’t mean anything. I was just—I’m just messing with you.”

His gaze lingered on her for a second longer than it should have. He studied her face like he was trying to find a lie she hadn’t said.

“If I had the chance to do it again,” Chan said slowly, standing, “I would.”

Then he turned. Walked down the hall. Didn’t wait for a response. The soft thud of his bedroom door closing echoed louder than a gunshot.

Y/N sat there, alone, fork still tangled in noodles she no longer wanted to eat.

Her chest felt tight. Her lips slightly parted in surprise. Because the thing was, she didn’t know what stung more:

That he would kiss her again. Or that he didn’t want to talk about why.

---

There was a buzz as the biometric lock scanned his retina. A green light blinked once. The door slid open with a soft hydraulic hiss. Reynolds stepped into the cold, low-lit conference room like a ghost returning home. The table was obsidian black, matte, reflecting nothing, not light, not truth. Twelve seats surrounded it. Only nine were filled. All of them turned to look at him. The air was thick with secrets and synthetic cologne. These were not just agents. These were architects. Movers in the shadows.

“Gentlemen. Ladies.” Reynolds gave a nod. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“Cut the pleasantries, Reynolds,” came a voice from the end of the table—Agent Rowland, ex-CIA, eyes like a hawk in a hurricane. “You dragged us into this cave for a reason. What's the emergency?”

Reynolds walked to the head of the table, opened a slim case, and activated a projection. The room dimmed further. Footage flickered to life, slow motion charity gala feed. The camera zoomed, adjusted clarity, and there he was. Bang Chan. Tuxedo. Scruffed jaw. Eyes that had seen too much.

A few gasps broke the room’s silence.

“Impossible,” muttered someone. “He’s dead. I signed off on the Havana report myself—”

Reynolds turned off the footage with a snap. The silence was louder than before.

“I thought the same thing,” he said, voice tight. “Until two nights ago.” He let that sit for a second, his jaw tense. “He’s alive. He faked the report. Used Bureau blind spots I trained him on. Not only that—he’s working with Y/N Y/L/N.”

“You’re saying Nightfall’s last loose end is breathing?”

“No,” Reynolds corrected sharply, “I’m saying our last mistake is breathing.”

A murmur moved through the table like a ripple of rot. One woman, sharp-featured with a NATO pin tucked discreetly on her collar, folded her arms. “We burned entire threads of intelligence to cover what happened in Cuba. If this gets out—”

“It won’t,” Reynolds cut in. “Because I’m going to kill him. For real this time.”

Another pause. This time, heavier. He walked to the far end of the room and pressed a button under the table. Another panel slid open, revealing an encrypted black folder. He tossed it onto the table.

“I’ve already sent feelers to Petrov. He's got his own reason to want Chan dead. We use that. Push the Russians into the open. While they chase Chan, we wipe every system still holding fragments of Nightfall’s true agenda.”

Rowland raised an eyebrow. “And if Petrov fails?”

“Then I have a plan B.”

“What’s plan B?”

Reynolds looked up. “Me.”

There was silence. The kind that vibrated with uneasy approval. “You have until the end of the month,” said NATO woman. “If Chan’s still alive after that, we’ll burn you too.”

Reynolds didn’t blink. “Understood.” As the lights came back up and the room cleared out, Reynolds remained behind, watching the frozen image of Chan on the projection screen.

“Ghosts don’t get to haunt forever,” he muttered, just loud enough for no one to hear.

---

The engine of the black SUV died with a soft, choking rumble, headlights cutting out as Reynolds killed the ignition. He sat in the driver’s seat for a moment longer than necessary, the silence inside the car humming with tension. His fingers drummed once on the steering wheel, sharp, impatient. The streets were quiet. Suburban quiet. The kind of dead-air peace that made the hair on his neck itch. He stepped out, adjusted his blazer, and walked briskly toward the front door of his modest, brick-faced house. His footsteps echoed slightly against the pavement.

He didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. The porch light was still flickering, the third step still creaked. Everything as usual.

Until it wasn’t. He walked inside, shut the door, locked it out of pure habit, and tossed his keys into the ceramic bowl on the entry table. The air inside was… different. Off.

“You’re late.”

A voice. Cold. Female. Sharp enough to freeze the marrow in his bones. Reynolds reacted immediately. Gun drawn in a blur, safety flicked off, stance lowered—military-trained precision. His heartbeat thundered in his ears as his eyes swept the living room.

Then he saw her. A silhouette in the shadows. Legs crossed. Calm as a Sunday morning sermon. She hadn’t moved when he pulled the weapon. She didn’t even flinch.

“Oscar,” Reynolds growled. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“And yet,” she said, her voice like velvet over a blade, “here I am.”

The lights from the hallway barely reached the couch, but her presence filled the room with an eerie sort of gravity. She exhaled a long, unhurried breath, and he lowered his gun slowly—grudgingly—before tucking it back into the holster inside his jacket. He wasn’t afraid. Not exactly. But he wasn’t stupid either. Oscar stood, tall and statuesque in her dark slacks and deep red silk blouse. Her heels clicked against the hardwood floor as she strode over to his liquor cabinet like she owned the house. She didn’t ask. She never did.

“So…” she began, pulling a crystal tumbler from the shelf and pouring herself two fingers of his best scotch, “is it true?” She turned to him, swirling the glass slowly in her hand. “Is Bang Chan still breathing?”

Reynolds clenched his jaw. “I’m handling it.”

Oscar smiled. But it wasn’t warm. It was slow and cruel like someone who enjoyed watching spiders crawl into a trap. She took a sip. “You were supposed to make sure there were no survivors in Havana,” she said, each word cutting deeper than the last. “You told us the fire would wipe everything. You swore Petrov wouldn’t be compromised. And now I hear whispers. Whispers, Reynolds. From Moscow. From Seoul. That the ghost of Operation Nightfall is walking again.”

“I said I’m handling it,” he snapped, his fists clenched at his sides. “He won’t survive long enough to be a problem. He’s already being tracked.”

She raised a perfectly arched brow and walked slowly toward him. Her heels stopped just short of the rug between them.

“You have until Monday,” she said smoothly, her voice dipping into something dangerous. “Because if he’s not dead by then—really dead—then you will be. And I’ll make sure whoever replaces you won’t make the same mistake.”

Reynolds stared at her. Silent. Tense. She downed the rest of the drink in one clean swallow, set the glass down on his side table with a gentle clink, and ran a finger around the rim like she was savoring the silence. Then she turned on her heel.

“Oh,” she added over her shoulder, “And I want proof this time. A body. Not a story.”

She walked out of his house without another word. Reynolds stood there.

Motionless.

He felt sweat gather at the base of his spine.

Who's Oscar? What's hyunjins role in all this? Y/ns not FBI? What was in the file Chan brought back????? ehehehehe

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[mrsha-ang-kim]

𝐒𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐂𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐲

pairings: hyunjin x afab!reader, non idoal au, strangers to lovers

synopsis: after flunking a test her friend persuades her to get her mind off it with stuff. instead of getting high with the substance, she gets high on the seller.

warnings: suggestive, crack, candy (don't do drugs)

a/n: heyyy babes! im partially back, but i just did this to overcome my block. i am better ofc but now im busy catching up on what i missed in my real world so...ill be back, enjoyyy, if you have extra eyes for errors no you dont

You.

The sweetheart with the pressed skirts and the highlighters neatly lined up on your desk. You had a planner for every semester, color-coded tabs, sticky notes filled with quotes about hard work and ambition. Scholarship student. Honor roll. Volunteer work on weekends. You were the kind of girl professors remembered—the kind who made the alumni board smile and shake hands a little tighter.

And baby, you wore that pressure like a second skin.

Because being "good" wasn’t just for you. It was for your family back home who had scraped together every dream they could just to send you here. It was for the neighbors who pointed at you like a success story. It was for the little girl you used to be—the one who promised she would make it out and make it matter.

You stayed away from parties.

You stayed away from boys.

You stayed away from trouble.

You had to.

---

The campus library was cold.

Not just in temperature, the fluorescent lights buzzed like dying flies overhead, casting everything in that weird sterile glow, like a hospital for broken dreams. You stared down at the crumpled paper in your hands. Big red letters slashed across it like fresh wounds.

D+.

You blinked at it. Once. Twice. Maybe if you blinked hard enough, it would change. Maybe it would rearrange itself into a B...a C...Anything but what it was.

You had studied so damn hard. Flashcards, mock tests, late-night cramming sessions until your eyes burned. You drank the coffee, you skipped the parties, you wore yourself thin because you knew the stakes. And still, here you were.

A failure.

You felt the heat rising behind your eyes before you could even stop it.

"Y/N!"

Your best friend's voice came soft, careful, like she already knew you were teetering on the edge of something dangerous. She rushed over, dropping her own books with a thud, her brows knitted in concern.

She crouched beside you at the study table, laying a hand gently on your shoulder.

"Hey... hey, it's okay. It's just one test, darling. It's not the end of the world—" You yanked your shoulder away before she could finish, your whole-body stiff and trembling.

"Don't—!"

The word came out sharper than you meant, jagged and raw, and your friend's eyes widened slightly. But you were past the point of caring. Your voice cracked as you stood up too fast, the chair screeching backward obnoxiously loud.

"I did everything right," you choked out. "Everything. I worked my ass off. I did everything they told me to do, and it still wasn't enough! It’s never enough!" You felt it break then your anger giving way to the helpless sob sitting stubbornly in your chest. Your throat burned. Your hands trembled.

"Y/N..."

She caught you this time when you stumbled, gathering you into a hug as the dam finally burst. You shook in her arms, silent tears leaking down your cheeks, your body going limp with exhaustion. She rubbed soothing circles on your back, whispering soft nothings like "it's okay" and "you’re not alone," but the words barely registered over the static screaming in your mind.

When you finally pulled away, she tucked your hair gently behind your ear, giving you a look that was all understanding and mischief tangled into one.

"You need to blow off some steam," she said, her tone shifting into something lighter, coaxing a weak, watery laugh from you.

"I mean it. You're gonna combust if you don’t. Listen—there’s this party happening Saturday. Off-campus. Lowkey but... not really. I know some people who could seriously help you forget this week ever happened."

You sniffed, wiping at your eyes like a kid caught crying in the playground.

"A party?" you muttered, half-horrified, half-tempted.

It wasn’t like you.

But God, wasn’t that the point?

Your best friend smirked a little, knowing she had you halfway convinced already. She leaned closer, dropping her voice into a conspiratorial whisper.

"I’ll introduce you to my guy friends. They're... cool. Different. You'll like them."

You hesitated. Your heart hammered at the idea of stepping even one foot off the carefully paved road you’d spent years walking. But sitting here, broken and tired and humiliated, you realized—

The road hadn’t saved you. Maybe it was time to step off it. You wiped your hands over your face, took a deep, shaky breath, and finally, finally nodded.

"Fine," you mumbled.

"One night."

Your friend grinned like she’d just won a bet.

"Atta girl."

---

You stood stiffly in front of the mirror, your hands clenching the hem of your skirt so tightly it crinkled. The reflection staring back at you didn’t even feel like you. Your friend was crouched in front of you, lipstick in one hand, a determined glint in her eyes.

"Stop moving," she said, grinning. "You’re gonna look so hot, it’s criminal."

You tried to smile. It came out weak, strained at the edges.

The outfit she chose for you was way outside your comfort zone—tiny black skirt, strappy crop top, leather jacket thrown over your shoulders to "ease you into it" (her words).

Your makeup was bolder than anything you ever dared to wear.

Smoky eyes, glossy lips. A version of you that looked ready to set the night on fire, even though inside, you felt more like soggy wood.

Your legs shifted nervously in place, the heels feeling foreign, unsteady. "Are you sure this isn’t... too much?" you asked, biting your lip. You stared at yourself again, trying to reconcile the you you knew with the you you were pretending to be.

Your best friend stood up, placing both hands firmly on your shoulders.

She leaned in, locking eyes with you in the mirror.

"Y/N," she said firmly, "you are gorgeous. You just don’t let yourself see it most days. Trust me tonight, okay?"

You hesitated, the weight of your nerves thick in your chest.

Then you nodded.

A tiny, scared nod, but a nod nonetheless.

"Atta girl," she smiled, bumping her forehead lightly against yours.

She grabbed her keys, swinging them around her finger with a casual confidence you could only dream of, and tossed you a wink.

"Let’s go blow some minds."

The drive to the party felt both too long and too short. The city lights blurred past the windows, all neon and chaotic, matching the buzz under your skin. Your friend sang along softly to the music she put on something bass-heavy and lazy, like it didn’t care who it seduced.

You twisted your fingers together in your lap, trying not to think too hard.

As she pulled onto a quieter street, you saw the house in the distance.

Already, there were people spilling out onto the lawn, solo cups in hand, voices raised in wild laughter. Music thudded from inside low and thick, a heartbeat you could feel in your ribs.

Your stomach twisted.

At the red light before the turn, your friend reached over and squeezed your hand.

"Hey," she said, voice soft now. "Listen to me. You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to, okay? One wrong vibe, you say the word, and we’re out. No questions, no guilt trips. Pinky promise."

She held up her pinky, wiggling it in front of your face. You smiled for real this time—small, grateful—and hooked your pinky with hers. It was stupid and childish but somehow exactly what you needed.

"Thanks," you whispered. "Always, baby girl," she grinned, letting go as the light turned green. The car rolled up toward the house, headlights catching flashes of students you recognized and a whole lot you didn’t. Somebody was already half-passed out on the front porch. You swallowed hard. This wasn’t your scene. This wasn’t your world. But tonight, for just a little while you were stepping off the road. Your friend parked a little ways down, turning off the ignition and turning to you with a wicked smirk.

"Ready to get a little stupid?"

You laughed, nerves and adrenaline tangling in your chest.

"Not really," you said honestly.

She bumped her shoulder against yours. "Perfect. That’s when the best shit happens." You both climbed out into the night, heels clicking on the pavement, leather jacket heavy across your shoulders. You tugged it tighter around yourself like armor.

Inside, the house pulsed with life.

The door swung open before you could knock, laughter and smoke curling out like welcoming arms. The house swallowed you whole the moment you stepped inside.

It wasn’t just noise it was living. The bass of the music slammed into your chest like a second heartbeat, making your ribs vibrate. Everywhere you looked, there were people draped across furniture, spilling drinks onto worn hardwood floors, laughing too loudly, moving in rhythms half a beat too slow or too fast. The air was thick, syrupy sweet, tainted with something almost electric.

A haze clung near the ceiling—smoke from god-knows-what—and the sharp bite of cheap alcohol hung in every breath.

The lighting was low, a chaotic mess of fairy lights strung carelessly along the walls, some blinking, some dead altogether.

It threw the whole room into this weird, half-lit dream where nothing looked quite real.

You clutched your jacket tighter around yourself, swallowing hard. God, you already felt out of place. Like a sore thumb dipped in glitter. But your best friend—beautiful, fearless, reckless—grabbed your hand and tugged you deeper into the crowd with a grin.

"C'mon, meet my people," she said, practically yelling over the music. You followed, weaving through bodies until you landed in a somewhat less suffocating corner where a group was huddled around a sagging couch. There were introductions you barely caught names flung casually into the smoke, faces blurred by the strobe of some dying LED light. Someone handed you a drink (you didn't ask what it was, and you weren’t sure you wanted to know), and for a while—surprisingly—you almost relaxed. The laughter was contagious, the jokes easy, the chatter flowing like warm river water.

You even laughed once. A real laugh, the kind that caught you off guard.

It felt... good. Foreign, but good.

You started thinking, Maybe this isn’t so bad. Maybe I needed this.

Until—

"Hey," your best friend's voice cut through the fog, soft and careful, right by your ear.

You turned to find her smiling at you—a little too sweetly. Immediate alarm bells.

"What," you said flatly, narrowing your eyes. She rocked back on her heels, trying to play it casual. "Okay, so... I didn’t just bring you here to, you know, socialize." You stared at her. Her grin widened sheepishly.

"Oh no," you said immediately, taking a step back.

"No. Whatever it is, no."

"Wait, wait!" she laughed, grabbing your arm to steady you.

"You’ve been so stressed lately, baby, I just—listen, there’s this new candy going around."

Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "It’s not like the usual shit. It’s different. Good different. Like—light, clean, almost makes you feel like you're floating."

You recoiled like she’d just offered you a live grenade.

"Candy?" you echoed, disbelief painting every syllable.

She nodded eagerly, her eyes sparkling.

"Yeah, yeah! It's like—flavored now too. Blue raspberry, strawberry, mango... You barely taste the chemical. It’s honestly amazing."

You shook your head, hard. "I’m not trying any—anything," you hissed.

"Especially not from a party full of strangers who can't even stand up straight."

She pouted dramatically. You crossed your arms. "Even if I wanted to," you said, voice dripping sarcasm, "which I don’t—who here would even have it?" That’s when her expression changed.

Just a flicker. The tiniest, guiltiest little smirk pulling at her lips.

Your stomach dropped. "No," you said instantly, hands coming up like you could physically push the idea away.

"No. No. Hell no—absolutely not—"

She laughed, biting her lip to keep from laughing harder, and leaned in closer like she was about to tell you the world’s worst-kept secret.

"I know a guy," she whispered.

You stared at her like she’d grown a second head.

"A guy?" you repeated, deadpan.

She nodded, looking way too pleased with herself. "He’s here tonight," she added, voice sing-song. " You’ll know him when you see him." You glared at her, heart hammering against your ribs.

"I hate you," you muttered.

"You love me," she winked, already tugging you by the sleeve toward the deeper part of the house, where the lights were darker and the music hit heavier. "And trust me," she called over her shoulder, voice lilting, teasing, almost daring—

"Once you meet him, you’re gonna thank me."

"You’re insane," you hissed, your hand locked around your best friend’s wrist as she dragged you through the crowd. She didn’t even look back. Her smile was wide, wild, laced with that glint she always got when she was about to ruin your life “for fun.”

"You’ll live," she sang, tossing her hair over her shoulder like this was some kind of spa retreat instead of a warehouse party that smelled like sweat and sins.

“I don’t want to do this—” you started.

“—But you will,” she interrupted sweetly, spinning around just enough to walk backward in front of you. Her grin widened. “Because deep down, you’re curious.”

You scoffed, crossing your arms. “Curious about death?”

“No, baby. Curious about him.”

That shut you up. Just long enough for her to find the host—tall, tatted, and shirtless with a joint tucked behind one ear.

She leaned in, whispered something into his ear, and you saw the shift immediately.

He looked at you. Then looked away. Then nodded, jerking his thumb toward the staircase like it was some kind of sacred passage. Your heart thudded. You weren’t sure if it was nerves or instinct or maybe some chemical floating in the air that was already getting to you. The host didn’t say much. He just started walking.

You followed. Up the narrow stairs, the music from below muffled with every step, swallowed by thick carpet and the weight of something else something unspoken.

The second floor was nothing like the first. It was quieter. Cooler. Dimmer. The walls were bathed in low amber light, shadows kissing the corners of the ceiling. The smell of weed still lingered but it was cleaner here. No bodies pressed up on you. Just tension. You and your bestie stopped in front of a plain beige door except there was nothing plain about it. Not the way the host stood before it, like he was entering a goddamn chapel. Not the way your pulse surged in your ears.

He knocked in a rhythm.

Tap. Tap-tap. Tap.

Three beats. Deliberate.  You barely had time to ask what the hell that meant before the door creaked open.

And then—

There he was. Hwang Hyunjin. Not a man. Not a boy. A myth standing in flesh, leaning into the doorframe like sin was second nature. Thick black sunglasses hid his eyes, but you felt them.

Watching you. Eating you alive. A leather jacket hung off one shoulder, worn and heavy, the collar dipped low enough to show the soft stretch of his collarbone beneath an army-green tee.

There were rings on nearly every finger—silver, heavy, clicking softly as he tapped one against the wood of the door.

The campus knew of him long before they knew him.

Hwang Hyunjin—the name alone carried this weighty, smoky air like a legend passed around in dorm rooms and late-night parties. No one really knew where he came from exactly; transfer student, runaway, trust fund rebel—every rumor had a different flavor, but they all agreed on one thing:

He was untouchable.

Hyunjin rolled through campus like a storm dressed in leather and silver. White hair buzzed, gold chains, heavy rings, combat boots that thudded against the marble floors. And those sunglasses... indoors, at night, during exams—no one questioned it anymore. Because Hyunjin wasn’t just a student.

He was the Candyman.

If you needed something to survive a brutal week—pills to stay awake, smoke to mellow out, a little powder to blur the edges of a rough night—Hyunjin was the one you found. Or, more accurately, he found you. It wasn’t about the money for him, not really. He had it. It wasn’t even about power, even though the campus bent and buzzed around him like bees to honey.

It was about control. About being the one thing everyone secretly needed but no one dared to claim in the daylight.

 His lips curled into a lazy smirk. That type of smirk. The kind that says, I already know what you’re gonna ask… and I already know you’ll beg for it.

"Yoo," he greeted your bestie casually, voice low and smooth as dark honey.

He leaned in and pressed a kiss to her cheek like it was tradition. Like she was just another regular in his church of temptation. Your stomach twisted. He hadn’t even looked at you yet. Your friend tilted her head toward you.

"This is my girl," she said, smiling like this was some kind of glorious gift she was offering him.

"She’s curious."

That made him move.

His head turned—slow, precise.

And then—finally—his eyes landed on you.

Even behind the glasses, you felt it. The shift. The sting. The trap. He didn’t speak. Didn’t smile. Just looked at you like you were something breakable and delicious all at once. You felt your heart stumble. The hallway air seemed to thicken, weighed down by his silence, by the way he looked at you. Slowly, he stepped aside. Just enough to let the door open wider.

He didn’t ask your name. Didn’t ask what you wanted.

Just said, quietly,

"Come in."

When you stepped past the threshold, it hits you like a velvet slap. The smell. It’s thick. Heavy. A mix of sweet syrupy grape-flavored smoke, musk, and something spicy like cinnamon gum and danger. Not the kind of weed scent that clings to a hoodie after a backyard sesh. No, this is premium, imported, rolled by hands that know rituals better than religion.

And the room? It’s a vibe. The lighting’s low and moody—just a few red LED strips curling along the corners of the ceiling like blood vessels, and a neon pink sign over the bed that reads:

 SWEET TOOTH.

There’s no overhead light. Just shadows dancing in corners. A king-sized bed with deep wine-colored silk sheets lies untouched, perfectly made like it hasn’t been used yet tonight but the couch, the couch is war-torn. It’s low to the ground, plush, velvet, L-shaped, and crowded.

Four people lounge across it—two girls, legs tangled, laughing with their heads thrown back like everything’s funny when you’re high enough. One guy with dyed blue hair lazily exhaling smoke from a rose gold vape pen, letting it curl around the room like a spell.

And another guy with locs and a septum ring sitting shirtless on the floor in front of them, nodding to the bass playing low from a speaker tucked into the shelf—some underground R&B that makes you feel drunk just listening.

There’s a low glass table in the center. On it? Everything from edibles shaped like gummy bears to powdered "candy" in sleek, silver tins. A tray with perfectly rolled joints stacked like cigars. A black lighter shaped like a skull. Half-drunk wine glasses and three bottles of expensive vodka with the caps missing. It’s organized chaos. It’s the kind of place where secrets are currency. Where loyalty is shown in silence. Where rules are only suggestions…unless Hyunjin makes them.

And he?

He glides in like he owns the air itself. His buzzcut looks almost metallic under the light—white-blond and razor-sharp, adding edge to the smoothness of his presence. He doesn’t say much. Doesn’t need to. He snaps his fingers once—not loud, just casual—and someone tosses him a joint. He catches it one-handed, lights it with that skull lighter, then turns to your bestie with a smirk that says this ain’t her first trip.

Your friend? She slides right in. She throws herself onto the couch, instantly welcomed like a sister of the smoke. One of the girls lifts her legs for her to sit, then plops them right back in her lap. The guys dap her up. One even kisses her hand.

She fits here. Like velvet to velvet. She’s already laughing, already high, already home.

And you? You’re standing at the door like a wide-eyed lamb in a room full of predators with perfect cheekbones. Hyunjin notices. Of course he does. He walks past you—not looking, not touching, but his presence brushes against you like a breath of hot air.

He leans down by the table, grabs a tin of candy, and offers it to your best friend without a word.

She pops one into her mouth, hums, and turns to you.

"Still nervous, baby?" she teases, licking her bottom lip. "You don’t have to do anything. Just… feel it. Try it. Or don’t. But you gotta breathe."

You’re about to respond when Hyunjin finally speaks. Soft. Lazy. Velvet-over-glass. “You brought her to the garden,” he says, eyes still not on you.

“She can pick the fruit if she wants to.” And now? Now he turns. Finally looks at you, jawline clenched slightly from the drag of the joint between his fingers. His voice is lower this time, smoky.

"What's your name, angel?"

You tell him your name. It comes out soft, stuck somewhere between your lips and the tightness in your chest. He hums it. Slowly. Like he's letting it melt on his tongue.

“Pretty,” he says, letting the word linger in the low fog between you. And then he leans in.

Closer.

He’s not even touching you, not really, but somehow his heat is crawling up your spine like your nervous system has been hijacked. He cocks his head, eyes half-lidded but locked in, and asks,

"So… why’d you come here?" Your throat closes up.

You blink—once, twice—trying to form a sentence that doesn’t sound like “because you look like sin and salvation at the same time.”

Instead, your voice comes out breathy.

“I-I didn’t plan to… My friend, she—she said— I mean I wasn’t gonna—”

Hyunjin grins.

Not mocking. Not smug. But slow and warm like he finds your panic endearing. He raises an eyebrow and taps the side of the tin in his hand.

“You ever tried any before?”

You shake your head quickly. “No. Never.”

“Mmm,” he murmurs. “Then we’ll start with something light.”

He reaches into the tin. Fingers poised. And just before he picks, you blurt it out—

“No—wait!”

Your voice cracks, a little too loud for the hush in the room.

Some heads turn but your bestie just watches, wide-eyed and hopeful like she’s seeing you shed skin for the first time. Hyunjin freezes. His eyes flick up.

You swallow hard.

“I don’t want light,” you whisper. “I want to forget. I want to forget what happened. Please.” It slips out of you, ragged and raw—like someone tore the band aid without warning. Hyunjin stares at you for a long moment. The music fades into background haze. Then he exhales smoke through his nose, slow and thoughtful.

“…Are you sure? Whatever happened can’t be that bad?” Your best friend chuckles from the couch “Yes, yes it was.” And even though your lungs tighten and your stomach flips, you nod.

“Yeah.”

He holds your gaze for a beat longer. Something unreadable flickers in his expression. He doesn’t smile this time. Instead, he reaches into the tin and pulls out a candy glossy, smooth, faintly lavender in color.

“Okay,” he says. “This one’s special.”

You take it with trembling fingers. Place it on your tongue. Let it melt. The taste hits slow at first—floral, citrusy… like honey and thunderstorms.

And then—

Your body begins to slip.

The floor becomes the sky. The air is liquid silk sliding against your skin.

Everything feels warm not hot. Not burning. Just… comfortable. Like slipping into a tub the exact temperature of your soul. Your head lolls back, and a lazy giggle escapes before you can catch it.

“I feel like... like the air is... hugging me,” you slur, your voice soft and half-lidded. “Hugging... hugging real tight.” Hyunjin’s beside you now, arm supporting your back before you even realize your knees started to give. You fall into him. And he lets you. His hand finds your hip like it was made to sit there. The other one gently cups the back of your head, guiding it to rest against his chest. His shirt smells like smoke and sandalwood and something lemony, something fresh.

“You’re okay, angel,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to the crown of your head. Your hands clutch his shirt like it’s the only solid thing left in this world. Your words spill like syrup.

“I—mm, I thought you’d be mean... like cold and scary, you know? But you’re... you’re like... warm. Like toast." Hyunjin chuckles. Soft. “Toast, huh?”

“Mmhm. Fancy toast. Like... croissants.”

He laughs again, low and fond, and something about that sound sends goosebumps all down your spine. Meanwhile, your best friend is squealing half-laughing, half-sniffling.

"Look at her! Oh my god, she’s so gone—finally! It’s what she needed."

But Hyunjin doesn’t let you fall apart in public. He gently lifts you, one arm around your waist, the other keeping your head steady against his shoulder.

“Come on,” he says, mostly to himself. “Let’s sit somewhere quieter.”

He guides you to a corner of the room just far enough from the noise. Still low light, but more cushion. A loveseat covered in faux fur and velvet pillows. He settles down, pulling you gently into his lap like it’s instinct. You curl into him, face hidden in his neck. And his arms stay locked around you, firm but not suffocating. Like he’s not going to let you drift too far.

You sigh into his skin.

“Your heart's loud... I can hear it...” Your fingers rest on his chest.

And Hyunjin? He doesn’t say anything. He just lets you listen.

Your body’s loose.

Your thoughts, liquid. You’re sprawled in his lap like he was made to catch you, and maybe he was because he hasn’t let go of you since the second you melted into him. You’re safe here. You know that. But your lips still ache. And your fingers start to wander first curling into the cotton of his tee, then trailing up his chest, brushing the silver chain around his neck. Absent-minded. Delirious.

And then—

You tilt your head up, eyelids heavy, gaze glazed and pleading.

“Hyunjin…”

He hums, low in his throat, not quite a word. His hands rub slow circles into your back. You lick your lips.

“I wanna kiss you.”

Hyunjin goes still. The air changes—like the music pulled back, the shadows leaned in. He clears his throat. “You’re high,” he says softly. “You don’t want that. You just think you do.”

“I do want it,” you mumble. “Been wanting it since you said my name.” He sighs through his nose. “You don’t mean that.”

“Do too,” you pout, slurring. Your fingers slide up to his jaw, tracing the sharp edge of it. “You’re so pretty. You’re like—like an angel that smokes weed and paints with blood.” That pulls a laugh out of him. Raspy, reluctant. But real.

“Jesus,” he mutters, and tries to look away—

But your hand tugs his chin back to face you. “Can I?” Your voice drops into a whisper.

“Can I kiss you? Just a little?” His jaw tightens.

He’s quiet. And you can see it in his eyes—the war. The part of him that wants to be good. Respectful. Safe. But also the part that’s been dying to know what you taste like since you first sat across from him. “You’re not thinking straight,” he murmurs, but it’s not a no. You hear it—the edge in his voice. Like it’s costing him everything to stay still.

“Please, Jinnie…”

The way you say his name? He flinches. Almost imperceptible. But his hand clenches the velvet cushion behind you. You lean in. Close. Lips brushing his cheek, then trailing toward his jaw.

“I just wanna feel something real,” you whisper. “And you feel… real.”

And that’s when he breaks. A breath. Shaky. Shattered. His hand slides to the back of your head. The other curls around your waist like instinct.

“…Just one,” he warns, his voice gravel, threaded with restraint. “Just one and we stop.”

But you’re already leaning in, lips parted—

And when they touch his? Everything stops. The kiss is supposed to be soft. Chaste. But it isn’t. Not when your mouth still tastes like that candy sweet, citrusy, dizzying. Not when your lips part for him so easily. Not when you moan his name into the kiss like you’ve been holding it back for days. Hyunjin groans low in his throat, like the taste is hitting him. The drug lingers on your tongue magnetic, devastating. And it messes with his head.

His grip tightens. The kiss deepens. Your hands find his chest, sliding up his neck to tug at the back of his buzzed hair, and his lips open wider, tongue slipping into your mouth like a man starved. It’s not careful anymore. It’s hungry. You shift in his lap, thighs sliding over his hips, and he lets out a hiss between kisses, one hand falling to your hip to steady you. (But God, he doesn’t want you to stop moving.)

“Shit,” he gasps against your lips. “We shouldn’t—fuck, we shouldn’t—”

But he doesn’t stop. His mouth finds yours again, sloppier this time. Open. Wet. Wanting. You’re gasping now soft, whimpering sounds between kisses, hands all over him like your body’s trying to memorize every ridge of him before the high fades.

Hyunjin is losing it. Your taste, your voice, the way your thighs bracket him so carelessly it’s driving him insane. He pulls back for a second, breath heaving, eyes wild.

“God, you’re gonna ruin me,” he says, voice wrecked.

You smile, dazed and drunk on more than the drug.

His lips are flushed.

Yours are glossy. The air around you is thick with weed smoke and tension, the kind that clings to skin and sinks into your lungs. Music thumps in the background, the kind of rhythm you feel in your chest more than your ears. Someone’s laughing on the other side of the room, but it sounds miles away.

Because all you can focus on is him.

Hyunjin. Eyes gleaming under the hazy lights. Hands warm around your waist. Lips still wet from the last kiss you gave him like he was air and you were drowning.

You giggle against his jaw, all dazed and mischievous.

“You taste like peach gum.” Hyunjin huffs a breathy laugh, cheeks pink, eyes dangerously soft.

“You taste like trouble,” he murmurs.

“And you like trouble, don’t you?” you tease, tilting your head so your lips graze under his jaw dangerously close to that pulse that jumps beneath his skin. He opens his mouth to respond, but you don’t give him the chance.

You kiss him again. Harder this time. Your hands tangle behind his neck, and you press your chest to his like your body already knows exactly where it belongs. His head tips back slightly, letting you take the lead—inviting it, even. Hyunjin’s hands have found your thighs now, gripping gently, but tight enough to let you know he’s still hanging on.

Barely. You move your mouth to his neck, and the second your lips latch onto that soft patch of skin under his ear? He chokes on a breath. His fingers dig in just a little. You start to suck.

Hyunjin swallows hard. “Y/N… f-fuck…” His voice is so wrecked you barely register the click of a phone camera a few feet away. But your best friend sees it all.

Her eyes widen. She zooms. She snaps the picture. And then—

Finally, your bestie calls your name loud.

“Y/N!”

You blink, half-lidded and high, and lazily pull back from Hyunjin’s neck. “Huh?” She points at you from across the room, phone still in hand. “Get off of him! You’re embarrassing yourself, babe!”

You pout like she just took away your favorite toy.

“No…” you murmur, nuzzling back into Hyunjin’s neck. “I wanna stay with him. He’s warm…”

Hyunjin laughs under his breath, half flustered, half wrecked. “You’re really not making this easy, you know that?” You wrap your arms tighter around his neck like a koala. “Don’t wanna be easy.” Hyunjin bites his lip. “Oh my god,” your best friend groans, stomping toward you. “Get your lips off his neck before I come drag you!” You glance at her then back at Hyunjin.

And with the most impish grin?

You go right back in. Hyunjin makes a noise—somewhere between a groan and a laugh—his hands now trying to gently push you off. “Okay, okay, hold on—wait—nope, not the neck again, that one’s still—oh god—Y/N!”

But he’s laughing. He’s loving it. Your lips drag against his throat, pressing open-mouthed kisses as you giggle, high and loose.

Until—

“GIRL, I SWEAR—”

You’re yanked off of him by the arms. “NOOO!” you whine, kicking gently as your best friend pulls you away like an angry mom removing her child from a boy at the playground.

“Let me goooo, I was gonna kiss him again!” Hyunjin leans back on the couch, dazed, buzz a dissarranged mess, neck marked and shining, smiling so wide you’d think he just won the lottery. “You’re insane,” your best friend hisses. “She’s cute,” Hyunjin says with a wink, his fingers brushing the hickey you gave him. “Kinda possessive though.” You reach out for him again like a drunk kitten. “Hyunjinnnnn—”

And he just laughs, shaking his head as he watches your best friend drag you off knowing damn well the second, she lets go? You’ll probably come running back. Hyunjin stands now, eyes low, playful smirk still tugging at his lips as he walks over and tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear. You stare up at him like you’ve just a god.

“One more kiss?” you whisper, voice barely there.

Hyunjin pauses—like he’s considering, fighting every bit of logic in his head—but then he sees your pout. Your hands on his chest. The way your high has made you all gooey and clingy and sweet.

He sighs softly, then tilts your chin up.

“Alright. One more.”

He kisses you gently—slower this time. Less rushed. Less high, more… lingering. His fingers slip into your coat pocket mid-kiss, sliding in something small and smooth. Then—

He leans in again, lips barely brushing your ear.

“Call me when you’re sober. I want to know what you’re like when you remember everything.”

Your breath catches. Your body reacts before your brain can even register it. Goosebumps. Heart hiccuping. He pulls back just enough to see your fluttery expression, then smirks. Your best friend, holding another little bag of candy, gives Hyunjin a nod. “Thanks for the hospitality. She’s gonna be crying about you the entire way home, just so you know.”

He only shrugs, eyes locked on you. “Let her.”

---

You’re slumped in the back seat, head against the window, glossy eyes staring out at the blur of streetlights. The city looks like a dream—golden, liquid, not quite real. Kinda like how your lips still feel. Like he’s still kissing you.

Your best friend glances back at you. “You good?”

You sniffle. “No.”

She sighs. “What now?”

“I miss him…” you whisper dramatically, eyes welling up again. “He was so… perfect. Did you see his lips? Did you feel his voice? Why did you make me leave? Why did you do that to me?!”

Your best friend can’t help it. She laughs. “You’re gonna be so embarrassed tomorrow.”

“I don’t care,” you sniff, pouting. “I wanna call him. I’m gonna call him and tell him I love him.”

“You don’t love him, baby, you’re just high.”

You sit up, teary-eyed and passionate. “No. I love him. And his buzzcut. And his pants. And his hands. And—and the way he whispered in my ear like he meant it!” Your best friend grabs your phone before you can unlock it. “Nooope. You’re not drunk texting a man named Hyunjin at 2am while still tripping.”

“But he put his number in my pocket like a movie, girl…”

“Exactly why you’re not texting him.”

You sniff again, quiet for a beat… then—

“I’m gonna marry him.”

“Oh my god—”

“I’m gonna marry him and we’re gonna have a cat named Bento and he’s gonna kiss me like that every morning—”

“Lord have mercy.”

You curl into the seat, hugging yourself, eyes glassy but soft. “He was so sweet, though… and so pretty…”

And back in the party? Hyunjin’s still sitting on the couch, head tilted back, lips still tingling. Smiling to himself. Your gloss is still on his mouth.

And he doesn’t wipe it off.

---

The second you stumble into the dorm, the scent of Hyunjin—cologne, weed, and that warm skin-sweetness—follows you in like a ghost. You barely make it two steps before your best friend gently tugs on your arm and sets the mini first aid bag she keeps (because she’s that kind of responsible) on the kitchen counter.

“Alright,” she says, flipping the light switch, “before you go all ‘oh-my-god-he’s-the-love-of-my-life’ again, take this.”

You blink down at the painkiller and water bottle she hands you, pouting like she just asked you to eat your vegetables. “Whyyyy?”

“Because your body isn’t used to being blitzed, princess,” she sighs, brushing your hair back, “and tomorrow morning I’m not waking up to you crying in the toilet because your brain feels like scrambled eggs.” You groan dramatically but take it anyway—tossing the pill back and gulping the water down. Then you just stand there, slightly dazed, like you forgot what your body was supposed to do next. Your best friend nudges you toward your bedroom. “Go. Shower. You smell like a party and desperation.”

You scoff, wobbling off with a muttered, “Jealousy doesn’t suit you, bitch…”

You undress slowly, the cool air hitting your flushed skin. Every movement makes your brain feel like it’s lagging, but the moment the hot water hits your back?

He’s there.

Hyunjin. That smirk. That voice. Those lips.

Your fingers brush over your own mouth and you swear you can still feel him. Taste him. It’s like the water only wakes up the memories instead of washing them away. You press your forehead to the wall and groan. “God… I kissed the hottest man alive… and then moaned on his lap like a freakin’ drugged-up romance novel…”

And you didn’t regret a single second. You pad out into your room, towel still wrapped around you, head dizzy—not just from the drugs wearing off, but from something more dangerous: anticipation. You yank open your closet, tug on your oversized sleep shirt with trembling fingers, and then pause… eyes locked on your jacket hanging from the chair.

You rush over and plunge your hand into the pocket like it’s hiding treasure—because it is.

And there it is. Folded. A little crumpled. But still carrying the ghost of his fingers. Hyunjin’s number. Written in quick, slanted handwriting. With a small arrow. And a dumb little smiley face. Like he knew you’d be freaking out about it.

You grab your phone with sweaty hands, unlock it, and type his number in so fast your thumbs trip over themselves. Then you just stare at the message box. What do you even say to a man who kissed you while you were high and whispered the softest threat of obsession into your ear?

Eventually, you settle on something simple. Soft. Just barely flirty.

Y/N: “I’m home. Don’t think I’ll forget your face anytime soon.”

Then you hit send. And drop your phone like it’s radioactive. You climb into bed, sheets cool against your skin, body still thrumming. Every time you close your eyes, he’s there. Every time you breathe, it feels like he’s still on your lips.

You turn over. Then again. Then back. Still nothing. You reach over and check your phone. No reply yet. You groan and throw it on the pillow beside you.

“Hyunjin…” you whisper into the dark, cheeks flushed. “Please don’t ghost me, you beautiful demon…”

And that’s the last thing you remember before the painkiller kicks in, your lashes flutter shut, and you drift off…

Dreaming of slow kisses and smirks that should come with a warning label.

---

The light bleeding through your window is offensive. Aggressive. Your eyes crack open with the kind of regret that clings to your bones. Mouth dry. Muscles sore. Thoughts? Scattered like your dignity at that party. You try to sit up—bad idea. The world does a cute little somersault. You flop back down like a Victorian woman mid-faint.

“…am I dying?” you croak, your voice sounding like a gremlin’s first words.

Your phone buzzes somewhere beside you. You fish around, knock it off the bed, cuss dramatically, then finally snatch it up like a beast reclaiming its prey.

Your screen lights up with two notifications:

 Hyunjin: Couldn’t forget you if I tried. Let me know when you wanna kiss me while sober.

Crazy AHH: 4 Attachments. Caption: MY GIRL WAS GONEEEEEE LMAOOO

Your soul leaves your body. Ascends. Then crash-lands straight back into your chest with a painful thump. You open the photos. And boom—there you are.

—Straddling Hyunjin’s lap.

—Your hand in his buzzcut.

—Your face halfway eaten by his.

—One pic is blurry because you’re literally giving him a hickey with enthusiasm.

You let out the most horrified gasp known to man. “I WAS A MENACE.” You don’t bother changing. You don't brush your teeth. You're marching down the hall like a woman on a mission—shirt askew, socks mismatched, your hair doing post-apocalyptic things.

You throw open your best friend's door like you pay rent for it. “WHAT. THE. FUCK.” She’s sitting cross-legged, happily eating dry cereal out the box. Doesn’t even flinch. “Good morning, slut.”

“DELETE. THOSE. PHOTOS.”

She squints, pops another Frosted Flake into her mouth. “Hmm... no.”

“YOU TOOK A PICTURE OF ME TONGUING A STRANGER—”

“Technically not a stranger. Technically a drug-dealing, underground-party-hosting, buzzcut-having, Greek-god-lookin’ legend.” She grabs her phone and waves it. “And technically? I took four.”

You groan and faceplant into her bed. Your muffled voice whines, “I gave him a hickey… I think I begged him to kiss me…”

“Oh, you begged all right,” she hums proudly. “Full-on ‘please daddy I need it’—like a champ.”

“Kill me.”

“Can’t. You’re finally interesting now.”

You roll over, dazed. “God… I barely remember anything. It’s like flashes. Warm hands. Cold couch. His mouth…” She sits beside you, patting your thigh. “I gotchu. Here's the SparkNotes version: You showed up, shy. He showed up, hot. You tasted one slightly rebellious candy drug and then proceeded to fall in lust like a Disney princess on molly.”

You groan again, pulling a pillow over your face. “I have to apologize. Like, actually. To his face. I was so embarrassing—he probably thinks I’m a psycho.” She gives you a look. “Babe… you kissed him like the rent was due.”

“EXACTLY. I need to apologize or die trying.”

“Well, good luck with that,” she chirps, hopping up. “You’ll probably never see him again. Hyunjin doesn’t do public appearances like that. Man’s like the final boss of a video game. Rare sightings only.”

You blink. “Wait… seriously?”

She shrugs. “I’ve only seen him four times. And once was in a dream. Whenever he’s doing transactions and stuff he’s rarely the one delivering by himself.” You sit there, pillow clutched to your chest, brain slowly rebooting. You want to laugh. Cry. Apologize to the ghost of your sober self. Then you grab your phone again and reread his message.

Couldn’t forget you if I tried. Let me know when you wanna kiss me while sober. Your heart does a little somersault.

You whisper, almost reverently, “Maybe… just maybe... I’m his glitch.”

Your best friend throws a sock at you.

“Get your high ass up and drink some water, Romeo.”

Back in your room, the walls feel too quiet. Like they’re watching you. Judging you. Whispering behind your back like, “That’s the girl who turned into a Greek tragedy over a man with cheekbones.”

You shut the door and lean your forehead against it. You exhale.

“…okay,” you murmur to yourself. “Okay. Breathe. Be normal. Apologize. Then die.”

You shuffle over to your bed, plop down like you’re made of wet laundry, and snatch your phone again. Hyunjin’s message is still glowing on the screen like a taunt:

Couldn’t forget you if I tried. Let me know when you wanna kiss me while sober.

Your thumbs hover.

You type:

Hey, I'm so sorry—

Backspace.

Hi, I really didn’t mean to—

Backspace.

This is embarrassing but—

Delete.

You sigh, fingers shaking like you’re defusing a bomb. Then you finally send:

Hey. I’m so sorry for last night. I was out of it. Like... a lot. I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable or weird you out. I never do that. I’m not even the type to go out like that. I literally came for candy and my best friend.

You watch the little “Delivered” icon appear. Then panic sets in. So you send another.

Like, I’ve never even smoked anything before. Not even cigarettes. Or like… cinnamon sticks. Okay that’s not a drug but you get what I mean.

Another.

The point is I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be a mess. You were really sweet and I probably acted like a drunk toddler and I kissed you without permission even though I begged and like—

You don’t stop.

—you probably think I’m crazy now but I promise I’m not I just had a lot on my mind and I kinda wanted to forget everything and you were there and you were really hot and then your lips tasted like strawberry sin and I kind of malfunctioned—

Before you can finish another unhinged paragraph, your phone buzzes violently.

Incoming Call: Hyunjin

You stare at it like it’s a mirage. Then, after a full 3 seconds of panic-screaming into your pillow, you pick up.

“H-Hello?”

There’s a chuckle. Low. Warm. Smooth like velvet soaked in caffeine.

“Damn, angel. Did your thumb get possessed or something?”

You groan, already facepalming. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. That was a spiral. I spiraled. I tunneled. I backflipped into hell.” “Yeah, I could tell,” he laughs. “I was trying to respond, but you were texting like your life depended on it.”

“It did!!” you cry dramatically. “I defiled you in public and now I’m gonna get banned from every party within a five-mile radius.”

“Oh please,” he snorts. “If anything, you just made the party memorable. And gave me a free neck tattoo.” You whimper. “You moaned, didn’t you?”

“…A gentleman never confirms nor denies such things.”

You groan again and flop backward on the bed, phone against your cheek.

Then, quieter, “I just… I really didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I’ve never been that out of it before.” His voice softens. “You didn’t make me uncomfortable. I was just trying to be careful with you.”

A pause. “Did you mean what you said? About trying to forget something?” You swallow. “Yeah. I just had a rough week. And for a second, when I was with you, it felt like none of it mattered.”

The line goes quiet. Then he murmurs, “Well… for the record? I liked holding you. You talk a lot when you’re high. But it was cute.”

“…I talk a lot when I’m sober too,” you mumble, a bit shy now.

“I know,” he says smugly. “I read your entire novel in real-time.”

You both laugh, and the sound makes your chest warm. Then he hums, voice deepening just a touch. “So… you still wanna kiss me while sober?”

Your breath catches.

“…maybe.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

You’re curled up on your bed, tangled in your sheets like some post-drama princess, phone still pressed to your ear like it’s a lifeline. Hyunjin’s chuckling softly on the other end, and your cheeks are still warm from the way he said “I’ll take that as a yes.” Like it was obvious. Like you were already his.

You roll your eyes, trying not to smile too wide.

Then he drops it, real casual:

“So… when can I take you out?”

You blink. “Wait, what?”

“A date, babe,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “You, me, daylight. I wear a shirt with sleeves. We eat food. Talk without the scent of questionable choices in the air.”

You sit up a little. “…You wanna take me out.”

“Mhm.”

You frown, trying to piece together the logic. “But… I’ve never seen you on campus. Like ever. You just—appear at parties like the final boss of temptation and then vanish.” You hear his breath hitch in a laugh. “The final boss of temptation, huh? That’s a new one.”

You shoot back, “Don’t dodge it. Seriously. Why now? Why start showing up now?” There’s a pause. A short one. Then he exhales through his nose.

“I don’t really hang out on campus unless I have to. Most of my classes are online this semester, and… I guess I just keep to my space. Fewer people, less noise.”

He adds after a beat, “I’m not… sketchy. No offense taken. I get why you’d think that. I just know when I’m in the right place, with the right people, and when I’m not.”

You stay quiet. Processing.

“And about last night,” he continues, voice steady. “That wasn’t me out of control. I don’t take anything unless I know I can handle it. There’s always someone there I trust, and I don’t make it a habit. No addiction. No spiraling. Just sometimes… I need a little quiet in my head too. You get that?”

You do. God, you do.

“So…” he says again, soft and sweet like caramel left too long in the sun. “Give me a chance. Let me show up. No candy, no smoke, just me. Sober. Present. And I promise you—”

You hear the smile in his voice.

“—the sober kiss will be worth it.”

You groan, flopping back against your pillows with your arm thrown over your face. “You’re so annoyingly smooth.”

“I really am,” he agrees smugly.

You exhale. Your heart’s doing that annoying thing again thudding way too fast for someone who was just whining into her pillow about this man twenty minutes ago. But then you smile, teeth sinking into your bottom lip.

“…Okay.”

“Yeah?”

You roll your eyes. “Yes, Hyunjin. You can take me out.”

He exhales dramatically. “Thank God. I was one dramatic inner monologue away from begging.”

You snort. “I was already there last night.” “I remember,” he teases. “Vividly.” You’re already regretting this. And also looking forward to it way too much.

---

Parked just outside the gates of your dorm area, it’s warm in the backseat of Hyunjin’s car. Not temperature warm, energy warm. Like the windows are fogged with heat they didn’t even notice rising. Your fingers are tangled in the lapels of his jacket, your lips still tingling from the last breathless kiss, and Hyunjin’s hands are at your waist, thumb tracing soft, unconscious circles against your top. You both pause, lips inches apart, breathing each other in, and then he laughs. Quiet. Airy. Disbelieving.

“How did we even get here?” he mutters, forehead brushing yours.

You grin, leaning back just enough to raise a brow.

“Oh, I’ll tell you how,” you say, poking his chest, and he watches you like you’re a slideshow of every one of his favorite moments.

 Earlier That Night

It started at that art café you never knew existed—dim lights, jazz playing low, the scent of coffee and paint lingering in the air. Hyunjin had booked one of the private studio pods in the back. You raised a brow when you walked in and saw the two canvases and all the paint.

“Don’t tell me we’re painting each other,” you teased.

“I was gonna say your soul,” he replied dramatically. “But sure, your face works.”

You both ended up painting… chaos. He painted a cartoon version of you with exaggerated lips and a crown of Cheetos, and you drew a sad pigeon with his hairstyle. You laughed so hard your stomach cramped, and Hyunjin got paint on your nose—on purpose. Then he wiped it off with his sleeve like a gentleman, only to accidentally smear green on your cheek.

Afterward, he took you for tacos. Not a fancy restaurant. A literal taco truck parked near the river with plastic chairs and napkins that flew if you didn’t hold them down.

“I like it simple,” he said with a shrug, handing you a bottle of Jarritos. “Besides, the best dates end with oil stains on your shirt.”

“Bold of you to assume this is one of the best,” you teased.

He tilted his head, smiled lazily. “It is.”

You tried not to blush. Failed. He noticed.

Then came the riverside walk. He didn't rush it. You talked about favorite movies, bad habits, weird childhood dreams. You found out he used to write poetry. He found out you used to pretend you were on a reality show whenever you were alone in your kitchen.

“I still do,” you admitted, and he laughed so hard he tripped over a pebble.

The stars came out. You leaned into his side.

And now—backseat of his car. Lips swollen. Breath short.

“So yeah,” you whisper now, fingers tugging gently at his jacket. “That’s how we got here. From pigeons to tacos to… tongue.”

Hyunjin grins, gaze flicking to your lips. “What a cinematic journey.” You hum, thumb brushing over his cheek. “Can we go back to making out now?” His grin turns slow and sinful. “Sure thing, baby.” You slap his chest. “Don’t—call me that.”

He leans closer. “Why not, baby?” You whine, actually whine, and smash your lips to his.

The kiss that follows is messier than the last. Greedier. No pauses this time. His hands find your thighs, your fingers curl in his hair, and he moans quietly into your mouth when your teeth graze his bottom lip.

It’s intoxicating—the way you fit, the way the tension coils tighter with each touch. His jacket ends up discarded somewhere between the seats, and your lipstick is absolutely wrecked. He doesn’t care. Neither do you.

And when he pulls away for breath, pupils blown and lips swollen, he smirks.

“We should get lost more often.”

The windows of Hyunjin’s car are fogged over, the air thick with warmth and echoes of every kiss traded like secrets. Now, your head rests on his shoulder, your fingers curled lightly into the folds of his sleeve, and his arm is slung lazily around your waist like he couldn’t let go even if he tried.

It’s silent for a while.

Not awkward—comfortable. Like the universe finally stopped spinning for just the two of you.

You sigh, tilting your head slightly to look at him. “Can I ask you something?” Hyunjin turns his gaze down to you, that soft half-smile forming again. “You already are, aren’t you?”

You flick his chest gently. “I’m serious.”

“Okay,” he chuckles, shifting so he’s facing you a little more, one leg folded up on the seat. “What’s on your mind, pretty?” You play with the hem of his hoodie for a second, then look up. “How’d you get into… all this? The candy. The job. Everything.”

His smile dims—not in a sad way, more in a way that says he wasn’t expecting that, but he’s not running from it either. He looks away for a beat, his thumb still stroking circles into your side.

“It started with my cousin,” he says after a moment. “He was older. Got into the wrong crowd, dragged me along when I was still trying to figure out what the hell to do with my life. First time I ever touched anything was at a house party with him. I hated it.”

You glance up at him. “Really?”

“Yeah.” He nods. “I hated how it made me feel like I wasn’t in control. But then… life kept hitting. My parents got divorced. I flunked out of a program I didn’t even care about. Everyone expected me to be something I wasn’t, and—” he sighs, resting his head back against the seat. “Taking just the right amount? Made me feel like I had room to breathe again.”

You nod slowly, your hand finding his and holding it. “Do you take it often now?”

“Not really.” He looks at you again. “I know my limit. I help people who don’t. I only ever take it when I’m sure of myself. When I’m in control.” You study his profile. He looks so different in the dark. Less cool. More real. More Hyunjin, less the mystery boy with perfect lips and a car too nice for a college kid.

You lean your head on his chest. “What would you be doing if you weren’t in that world?”

His voice is quiet, but honest. “I’d be painting.” You blink. “Painting?”

“Yeah.” He chuckles softly. “I actually got a partial scholarship to an art school. Didn’t take it. Thought it was stupid. Thought I was stupid.”

“You’re not,” you say immediately, looking up at him. “I think you’re—actually… you’re kind of amazing.” He lets that settle between you two for a second, then smiles—one of those real ones, the ones that tug at the corner of his lips slowly and warm his entire face.

“You think so, huh?”

You nod, cheeks heating. “Mhm.”

“Even after I gave you that sneaky light candy?”

You gasp in betrayal. “You lied to me?!”

“I saved you from passing out,” he laughs, nudging you with his shoulder. You’re both still giggling when you check your watch and—shit.

“Crap,” you sit up straighter, reaching for your phone. “I didn’t realize it’s so late. I have a lecture at eight, and if I show up hungover from sugar and spit-swapping, my professor will literally murder me.” Hyunjin chuckles, adjusting his seat so you can climb out more easily. “You sure you have to go?”

You look at him, biting your lip. “I really want to stay.”

He shrugs, running a hand through his hair. “Then make me your reward for surviving class.” You roll your eyes. “Wow. Humble.”

“But honest.” You lean forward, kiss his cheek. “Thanks for tonight.”

He tugs your wrist gently before you go, pressing one last kiss to your lips, softer than the others. “Sweet dreams, pretty. Text me when you get to your room, yeah?”

You smile. “I will.” And as you step out into the night, the cold biting against your skin, you swear you feel a little warmer than before.

---

The next morning, Hyunjin’s car still smelled like her.

Faint traces of her perfume clung to the back seat—warm, soft, something expensive-smelling but chaotic, like her. Like a scent that didn’t belong to one person, but to a thousand moments all tangled up together. The memory of her fingers curled in his shirt, the whimper she made when he bit her lip too gently, of her voice whispering “Can we go back to making out now?”—

Yeah. He was doomed. Hyunjin leaned back in the driver’s seat, now parked outside his place, staring at the ceiling like it might give him answers. His phone buzzed beside him. Not a notification. Not even a new text. Just the screen lighting up every few minutes from him checking it over and over again.

No new messages yet.

She’d made it back to her dorm. Texted him that she was in. Sent a sleepy, slurred voice note that said something like “Tell your backseat I said thanks for the ride, and your lips, too.”

God, he’d replayed it three times.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. She’s unhinged. He liked it. More than liked it. There was something wild about her. Something he couldn’t predict, couldn’t label. One minute she was pressing kisses down his neck like she owned him, the next she was asking him about his past with eyes full of genuine curiosity—not pity. Not judgment.

Real. She was real. In a way nothing else in his life had been for a long time. Most people flirted with him because they liked the thrill of his mystery, the edge of danger that came with his name. But not her. Not Y/N. She didn’t want the high. She wanted him. She asked him about his cousin. His art. His stupid dreams. Stuff no one ever cared about unless they were trying to get something.

She wasn’t trying to get anything.

Except maybe another kiss. He groaned, grinning at nothing. He hated being soft. He despised it.

And yet…

The softest he’d ever been was last night—his hands running down her spine as she giggled against his lips, her voice sleepy in his car, her smile tucked into his chest like it belonged there.

He grabbed his phone again. Opened her contact. No message yet. He typed something out. Deleted it. Tried again. Deleted that too. Eventually, he just saved her contact name as Backseat Bandit and laughed to himself. God, he was so gone.

Hyunjin turned the engine off, leaning forward to rest his head on the wheel. “What am I doing?”

Then his phone buzzed. A new message.

From her.

[YN]: Hey. Made it to class. Barely. I blame you. Also my lips still tingle. I think I hate you. But not really. Just a little. Okay bye.

Hyunjin smiled down at the screen like a complete fool.

Then typed out his reply:

[Hyunjin]: Still thinking about last night? Same. Hope your lecture’s boring so you think about me more. Also—I miss your lip gloss. And your mouth. In that order.

Send. He tossed his phone onto the passenger seat, smirking.

Let the chaos begin.

the picture did a number on me and i don't care if its edited.

Taglist: purple means i can't tag you

@whatdoyouwanttocallmefor @alisonyus @rockstarkkami @morkleesgirl @pessimisticloather @yooingiismylove2018 @imeverycliche @katchowbbie @pixie-felix @maisyyyyyy @katyxstay @day138 @necrozica @nebugalaxy @jeonginnieswifey @iknow-uknow-leeknow @leeknow-minho2 @sh0rdor1 @jitrulyslayyed @igotajuicyass @imagine-all-the-imagines @lillymochilover @idol-dream-catcher @maxidential @ari-hwanggg @xxxxmoonlightxxx @rossy1080 @hanniebunch @tricky-ritz @woozarts @Zerillia @queenofdumbfuckery @btch8008s @jamroses

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~kc 💗

[mrsha-ang-kim]

My pride fr...

𝐈𝐧 𝐌𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞 𝐞𝐭 𝐋𝐞𝐠𝐞

Pairing: manager!jisung x intern!afab!reader, enemies to lovers, law firm, the slow burn

synopsis: in mind and law. You tackle the new momentum of your job, something you've mentally and physically prepared for. But emotionally? It's not what you had in mind

warnings: suggestive, angst, law, lots of law, jisung is sarcastic, tension, mention of Changbin, plot, one Korean word (translations), time skips

a/n: 16k+ words, fellas. if you dare to have extra eyes for errors no you motherfucking dont. I loved this a lot.

You were born on the wrong side of the skyline. A place where ambition was considered arrogance, and dreams were just things people couldn’t afford. Your father was a mechanic—soft-spoken, hands always coated in grease, and eyes full of pride when you read under the streetlamp because the power went out again. Your mother, a former literature teacher turned night shift waitress, fed you stories instead of lullabies. They taught you that intellect was armor. That silence wasn’t submission, but strategy. That being underestimated was a weapon.

You weren’t the loudest girl in school—but you were dangerous on paper. Top of every class. Knew how to smile at teachers just enough to get what you needed, but never too much to owe them anything. You worked part-time at a bookstore just to read for free. When other kids were partying, you were drafting essays for scholarship competitions at 2AM with shaking hands and coffee-stained sleeves. You didn’t get into university by luck. You got in because you bled for it.

It was Riversley Law University, one of the most prestigious and soul-crushing programs in the country. Everyone whispered about the competition. The gatekeeping. The legacy students who’d never even touched a student loan form. You applied anyway. With one glowing recommendation from a retired judge, you’d once tutored on legal tech for free. With an application essay so raw it made the admissions board cry. With test scores so perfect they thought they were fake until you walked into the interview and quoted obscure 14th-century civil codes like they were bedtime stories.

You got in. Full ride. No one knew how. They thought you were connected. Rich. Sponsored.

You let them think what they wanted.

The top firms came recruiting like vultures during your final year. But Daejin & Grey? They didn’t do job fairs. They didn’t post openings. They hand-picked. And one day, a letter arrived. Real envelope. Black wax seal. No email. No call.

“You’re invited to an exclusive selection round. No details will be repeated. Bring your brain, your backbone, and black ink.”

Turns out, you were one of six students in the entire nation selected to compete for one internship spot. The selection process was insane—contracts in languages you barely knew, impossible moral dilemmas, interrogation-style interviews. People dropped out. Cried. Snapped. You didn’t. You passed. And you became the girl no one saw coming. The intern with fire in her veins and no family name behind her just you. Alone. Hungry. Unshakable.

Jisung was born into brilliance… and burden.

His mother was a top criminal defense lawyer known as “The Viper” in the courtroom—sharp heels, sharper tongue. His father, an occult historian and philosopher who lectured on forbidden languages and secret societies. He grew up in a glass penthouse where success was oxygen and weakness were punishable by silence. Jisung was 17 when Daejin & Grey found him. He had just won an underground student legal warfare competition (an invite-only thing where prodigies go to destroy each other’s arguments in mock trials that felt more like mind combat). He didn’t even enter; someone forged his application. He just showed up… and obliterated future politicians, heirs, and scholars. A week later, a man in an obsidian coat approached his mother during one of her high-profile court cases. Whispered something in her ear. She signed a contract on the back of a napkin. Jisung was summoned. They didn’t interview him. They tested him. Gave him an unsolvable case and watched him create a loophole in 24 hours.

They mentored him in secret. Fed him real cases under the table. Made him sign a blood clause at 19. By 24, he was the youngest partner in the firm’s history. He was the youngest to ever win a national law debate. A certified genius with a smirk that could convince CEOs to sign away their souls and maybe they did. People admired him. Feared him. Worshipped him. But they didn’t know him.

Because Jisung? Jisung was never taught love. He was taught leverage.

Daejin & Grey Law Firm wasn’t founded. It was forged out of war, silence, and unspeakable deals.

The firm traces back over 80 years, born during the post-war reconstruction era. Two men, Ha Daejin—a radical, silver-tongued lawyer who defended war criminals—and Theodore Grey, a disgraced British solicitor exiled for running a covert empire of offshore finance and blackmail, met in Seoul under unusual circumstances. Both were brilliant, both had nothing left to lose, and both were addicted to power. Together, they built Daejin & Grey as more than a firm. It became a sanctuary for those too cunning for politics, too dangerous for the courts, too ambitious for morality. It handles clients that other firms fear from criminal syndicates, foreign diplomats, to weaponized corporations. It's not just law, it’s chess. And they always win.

Rumor has it: The firm has a vault with contracts that could collapse governments. There's a floor you can only access if your name is etched in obsidian. No one leaves Daejin & Grey. You’re either promoted… or erased.

---

You stood in the towering glass lobby of Daejin & Grey, your heels echoing on the polished marble like tiny declarations of war. The receptionist didn’t even look up. Her access badge was silver. Everyone else’s was black. You felt the heat of judgment from passing associates, the subtle way people scanned your thrifted yet sharply styled outfit. You knew you didn’t look like money. But your mind? That was priceless.

An older woman with tightly coiled hair and stilettos sharp enough to stab came striding toward you.

“Intern. Y/N. You’re late,” she said. You weren’t.

“Follow. No questions.”

You moved through what felt like a museum of silence and danger—glass-walled rooms, people whispering in three languages, floors that required fingerprint scans. And then the library.

My God, the library.

Blackwood shelves. Ancient tomes. One door labeled RESTRICTED: Contractual Souls Only.

You swallowed. This wasn’t law school anymore. This was the underworld in heels.

Han Jisung entered from the rooftop.

The chopper dropped him five minutes behind schedule, and he hated being late—especially today, when a new batch of interns were supposed to arrive. He hated interns. Eager. Sweaty. Trying to impress him with quotes from Nietzsche.

He adjusted his ring, black obsidian with a serpent curling up his middle finger and rolled his neck before descending. His assistant, Jinhee, tried to brief him. He waved her off.

“Did they assign me one of the interns?”

“Not officially, but the chairman requested one observe your methods—”

“No.”

“But sir—”

“I said no.”

He walked into his office. 47th floor. The air smelled like power and espresso. His desk was cluttered with folders, red-stamped files, and one curious black envelope marked:

“Observe her. She doesn’t belong—but she might change everything.”

He frowned. Tossed it aside. He didn’t believe in fate.

---

Jisung and Y/N walked the same hall that morning. Opposite directions. Didn’t notice each other—yet. Y/N was being led through the Hall of Legal Legends, where portraits of past partners hung like silent judges. She paused in front of one particularly cold-looking man.

“That’s Ha Daejin,” the tour guide said. “He once freed a serial killer because he didn’t believe in prison. Said the law should be feared, not followed.” Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like a villain.” The guide smirked. “You’ll hear more of that.”

Meanwhile, Jisung turned a corner, passed a group of interns. Didn’t look at them—except for a second. One girl. Silver badge. Holding a leather-bound notebook like it was a weapon. Unfazed by the architecture. Sharp eyes. He paused for half a second. Blinked. Then walked on.

She felt it. That glance. That storm. They didn’t know each other yet.

---

The conference room at Daejin & Grey was less a meeting space and more a statement. A massive oval table of obsidian-black glass stretched across the room like the eye of some mythic beast. The lighting was deliberately dim—soft golden strips along the ceiling—making everyone’s expressions unreadable, dangerous. It smelled of polished leather, old money, and cold ambition. Interns filed in one by one silent, shoulders squared, eyes darting. You were among them, notebook pressed to your side, trying not to flinch at the weight of legacy pressing on you. All of you were being watched. Every step, every breath, being measured.

You took a seat at the far end, instinctively positioning yourself with your back to the wall. Never the center. Always the observer. The doors opened again and this time, the room actually paused.

In came Mr. Grey.

No one knows his first name. Not really. Just Grey. He walked with a cane not because he needed to, but because he liked the sound of it on marble. A silver three-piece suit, perfectly tailored, skin pale like stone, and a face so unreadable it could’ve been carved.

“Ladies. Gentlemen. Sharks in training,” he said, his voice laced with silk and venom. “Welcome to Daejin & Grey.”

“You are not here to learn. You’re here to prove you can survive. We will not teach you to be great. We will simply see if you already are. If you are not—” he gestured lazily toward the wide floor-to-ceiling windows, “—there is the door, and down there is your future. Bleak. Insignificant.”

Someone gulped. You did not. “From now on,” Grey continued, “you do not breathe without purpose. You do not blink without calculation. And if you ever speak in this room without reason…”

He smiled. Sharp and slow. “I will end your career before it begins.” He stepped back. “Now, allow me to introduce one of our youngest and most... unorthodox partners.”

The doors slammed open again.

Han Jisung strode in with the kind of lazy confidence that screamed I own this room. No tie. Shirt collar undone just enough. A black ring catching the dim light. His hair was slightly tousled, like he’d just walked out of a midnight negotiation and won. He didn’t look at anyone. He just leaned against the edge of the table, one hand in his pocket.

“Interns,” he said. His voice was casual, disinterested. “Congrats on making it this far. I assume most of you will disappoint me.” Some people chuckled nervously.

He scanned the room—quick sweep. And then, their eyes met.

You didn’t blink. Neither did he.

It wasn’t recognition. It wasn’t fate. It was challenge. His gaze said, Don’t try me.

Yours said, I already am.

Something shifted. Jisung turned back to Grey. “Can I go?”

Grey raised an amused brow. “You just got here.” Jisung shrugged, pushing off the table. “I’ve seen enough.” But he paused by the door. Tilted his head. Glanced over his shoulder not at the group. Just at her.

One second.

Two.

Then he left.

And you? You smelled the war before it began.

After Jisung made his dramatic exit, Mr. Grey waved a gloved hand, summoning the woman standing beside the projection screen. That was Ms. Park, the Head of Public Relations a woman whose smile was sharper than her Louboutins.

She took the lead. “Here at Daejin & Grey,” she began, “we operate on six principles. Discipline. Foresight. Loyalty. Discretion. Precision. And finally—ruthlessness.”

A nervous laugh rippled across the room. She didn’t smile. “That wasn’t a joke.”

The next forty-five minutes were a blur of corporate philosophies and non-negotiable ethics. Every new intern had to memorize the internal PR structure, the crisis protocols, and the company’s “zero tolerance” policy for emotional decisions. Everything had a script. Even your heartbeat.

You took notes like your life depended on it. Because it did. But the more the PowerPoint clicked forward, the more you felt the weight of your blouse clinging to her skin not from nerves, but from expectation. From the knowing glance Grey had shot her earlier. He knew.

The interns were finally dismissed for a break, filing out toward the executive café like a herd of wolves pretending to be sheep. The space was insane, sleek glass, gold accents, and meals plated like art. Even the salad looked like it had a stock portfolio.

You picked at a caprese toast, more out of habit than hunger.

Jisung wasn’t there. Of course not. He probably had his meals flown in, signed with blood, and served with jazz. You sipped your drink, but your mind wandered. Back to that look. The unreadable glance between you and Jisung. Like a challenge had been accepted without a single word exchanged.

Just as you were returning your tray, a shadow passed over you.

“Miss Y/L/N.”

That voice. Smooth as obsidian. You turned. Mr. Grey. He didn’t beckon. He just turned, and you followed. You stepped into a smaller conference lounge less intimidating, more personal. Warm-toned wood, a velvet chaise. Only the elite got invited here, you were sure of it.

Grey didn’t sit. He stood by the window, cane in hand, observing the city skyline.

“Well?” he said without turning. “What’s the verdict?”

You hesitated. “I… I think I’m scared. But I’m also excited.”

He glanced at you now. Just slightly. “Good. Fear without eagerness is cowardice. Eagerness without fear is arrogance. We don’t need either.”

You nodded slowly. “I’ll try not to let you down.” Grey turned to face you fully now. His expression softened—barely—but it was there. A flicker. Almost paternal. “I know where you came from,” he said.

You froze. He continued, “Not everyone here was raised on champagne and legacy. Some of us crawled into this place with blood on our hands and fire in our eyes. You belong here, Y/N. But you’ll need armor.”

“I’ll build it,” you whispered, voice steady.

Grey nodded, satisfied. But then he tilted his head, curious. “You looked at Han Jisung today.” A pause. You raised a brow, unashamed. “He looked first.” That earned the ghost of a chuckle.

“You want to know about him?” Grey asked.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. Grey tapped his cane twice on the floor. “Han Jisung is a prodigy. Recruited after flipping the legal department of a rival firm upside down as a client. Took the bar just to prove he could. Now he leads special projects and high-risk negotiations. Untouchable. Brilliant. Reckless.”

You absorbed the information like wine. Grey’s tone turned sharp again. “He does not play well with others. And he doesn’t train interns.”

You met his gaze. “Noted.” Grey smirked. “Good girl.”

---

The door clicked shut behind you.

Your apartment was quiet. Small, but personal. Walls filled with original sketches, abstract prints, pinned timelines, articles with handwritten notes in the margins. A vision board sat in the corner with the word “Grey-level” in capital gold foil across the top. You kicked off your heels and unpinned your hair, letting the curls fall as you moved like clockwork—smooth, efficient, methodical. Laptop open. Lights dimmed. Jazz humming low in the background.

Search: Han Jisung | Daejin & Grey

The results? Not much. Of course not. Grey’s people erased footprints before they were even made. But you was raised to dig deeper than the surface. And you did.

You found mentions of his name in trade journals, coded phrases like “unexpected turnaround,” “miracle negotiation,” and “the golden ghost.” Not a single photo. But a whisper here, a quote there.

Then, an old university blog.

“The Boy Who Sued a Corporation and Won.”

You clicked. A grainy screenshot showed a boy with a snapback on backwards, standing outside a courthouse. Young. Angry. Smirking like he knew too much for someone his age.

Summary:

Age 19. Filed a class action suit against a powerful music label for contract exploitation. Represented himself in preliminary hearings. Won the case and took a settlement. Disappeared from public eye for three years. Resurfaced… at Daejin & Grey.

You sat back, the gears in your mind turning. “So he’s that type,” you murmured.

Anger-driven. Genius-fed. Doesn't like to lose. Hides behind sarcasm because it's safer than vulnerability. You bookmarked the article. Then looked out the window at the glowing city. A little smile curved on your lips.

“This’ll be fun.”

And with that, you shut your laptop and poured yourself a glass of red a silent toast to a storm you knew was coming.

---

The routine had set in fast.

Early mornings. Sharp tailoring. Neutral tones and cool metal accents. You walked the marble floors like you’d owned them in another life, heels tapping like a metronome against the low murmurs of ambition. Daejin & Grey was a world built on precision and aesthetics—every glass panel, every steel fixture, every whisper of silk or leather had its place. You adapted like water in a crystal decanter.

You learned fast, spoke clearly, and listened sharper. You made yourself invaluable to your department, your reports were always early, always clean, always with that extra insight that made supervisors raise their brows and take notes. You didn’t speak unnecessarily in meetings, but when you did, the room always turned.

But Jisung?

Ghosted in and out. Rarely at your floor. Always with his tie loose, mouth set in a line of amusement or disapproval, never in between.

You caught glimpses. Like shadows in polished windows. And every single time your eyes met; it was electric. Subtle, but raw. Sometimes it was across the coffee machine, him leaning against the wall with a smirk as you stirred your drink without sugar. Sometimes in passing through the 8th floor where the high-stakes clients had rooms like hotel lobbies and meetings that reeked of old money and moral grey zones. And sometimes, just a glance across the conference table, where he sat sideways, his leg crossed, chewing the tip of a pen like he knew you were looking.

And she always was.

The blinds were half-drawn, letting in only slanted light that painted the dark wood floor in broken stripes. Mr. Grey sat behind his massive obsidian desk, signature cup of jet-black coffee steaming near his right hand, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose as he skimmed a tablet. His navy tie was undone, a telltale sign he’d been in meetings since dawn. Jisung stood by the window, posture casual, arms crossed, dressed in a soft black turtleneck and slacks that looked far too expensive for how uninterested he seemed. His hair was slightly tousled—he’d run his hand through it a few too many times. Typical.

“I told you, Grey. I don’t like babysitting,” he said, eyes fixed on the skyline. “There’s enough on my plate. Lee’s merger alone is—”

“This isn’t babysitting.” Grey didn’t even look up. “It’s exposure. Real-world pressure. She needs to be in the field, and you…” He finally glanced up, eyes sharp. “You need to get out of that damn ivory tower you’ve built around yourself.”

Jisung scoffed. “Nice motivational speech. You should sell it with the company’s scented candle line.”

“I’m serious, Han.” Grey slid a file folder across the desk. “Y/N. She’s sharp. Observant. A little quiet. Good instincts, but not molded yet. Reminds me of someone else I hired years ago.”

“Oh, please don’t say—”

“You,” Grey cut him off dryly.

Jisung rolled his eyes and walked over, taking the file with reluctance. He cracked it open, the name Y/N typed neatly on the top corner. There was a small square photo paperclipped to the first page. His eyes flicked over it briefly. She looked poised. Quietly powerful. The kind of face that looked like it’d seen a lot, but wouldn’t tell you unless you earned it.

He didn’t say anything.

“You’ll meet her at the conference,” Grey added, sipping his coffee. “I told her she’d be perfect for this. Don’t make me a liar.”

Jisung closed the folder with a snap and ran a hand through his hair. “What time?”

“Eleven. Don’t be late.”

“I’m always late.”

“I’ll dock your paycheck.”

“Charming,” he muttered, tucking the folder under his arm. “She better be worth the hassle.”

“She is,” Grey said, finality in his tone. “And maybe… just maybe, she’s the type to make you think again, Jisung.” Han Jisung didn’t answer. He just walked out, file in hand, wondering why the hell this girl was already starting to live in the back of his mind.

It was a Thursday.

You remembered because you wore the wide-legged gray slacks you saved for “power move” days. A quarterly strategy conference was underway, where junior analysts, interns, and mid-level associates were gathered to observe the department leads speak on major upcoming cases. Mr. Grey sat at the head of the room, calm, in control, sleek in that navy suit with no tie.

Then came the part no one expected: live assignments.

“Some of you will be handling case shadows,” Grey said, clasping his hands. “And some of you will be leading minor client packages. Let’s make things interesting.”

Papers were passed.

Your folder landed with a soft thunk. You opened it. A name. A file. A logo. A red tab labeled

Priority Confidential.

Below it:

Supervisor – Han Jisung

Your blood stilled. Just as you looked up, you saw him lean on the doorframe at the back of the room, arms crossed, sleeves rolled, silver watch catching the light. He tilted his head slightly as your eyes met, mouth tugging in that slow, you ready for this? smirk.

“Y/N,” Mr. Grey called from the head of the table. “You’ll be reporting directly to Jisung. He’ll catch you up on the brief by end of day. Congratulations.” You swallowed, spine straight. “Understood, sir.” Jisung gave you a two-finger salute. The room kept moving.

But you? You were already calculating. Preparing. Bracing for impact. Because something told you this assignment was going to be everything you wanted… and everything you weren’t ready for.

You stood outside the glass wall of Jisung’s office, heels clicking softly against the polished concrete floor. Your reflection blinked back at you, sharp, composed, lips pressed into a line so thin it could cut glass. The folder in your hand had bite marks on the corner where you’d chewed it while overthinking. Not that you’d ever admit it.

You exhaled once. Twice. Then knocked.

“Come in.”

The voice was casual, distracted. You entered.

Jisung was leaning back in his chair, black sleeves rolled to his elbows, a pen lazily twirling between his fingers. His office smelled like cedar and fresh ink, the lighting warm but sterile like someone had tried to make it welcoming but gave up halfway through. Like him, maybe.

His eyes flicked up briefly. Then back down to the paper on his desk. “Y/N, right?”

“Yes.” You shut the door softly behind her. “You’re my supervisor on the K-Tech acquisition case.”

“Mmh,” Jisung hummed, still reading. “That’s what Grey says.” You didn’t sit until he gestured vaguely toward the chair in front of him barely looking up. His posture was everything you’d expect from someone with way too much power and too little patience: cocky, distant, infuriatingly relaxed.

You hated it.

“I’ve already gone through the case summary,” you said, placing the folder neatly on his desk. “I’ve highlighted the inconsistencies in the subsidiary’s financials. There’s—”

“—a shell company in Taipei laundering R&D funds,” he finished without missing a beat, still not looking at you. “Yeah. Noted that three weeks ago.”

You paused. Tilted your head. “Then why is it still unresolved?” That made him look up.

Slowly. Like a cat flicking its tail, unbothered but aware. His gaze was sharp, dark, and laced with something unreadable. Maybe amusement. Maybe boredom. Maybe both.

“Grey told me to loop you in,” he said, leaning back, fingers steepled. “Not give you the steering wheel.”

“I’m not here to steer,” you shot back, tone cool. “I’m here to work. But if you’d rather I sit in the corner and watch you twirl pens, I can pencil that in too.” There was a beat of silence.

Then,

“Cute,” Jisung said, a slow smirk curling at his lips. “You’ve got teeth.” You sat back in her chair, arms crossing. “And you’ve got ego. Big one. I’m surprised it fits in here with all the air you take up.” He actually laughed. A quiet, surprised sound, like you’d caught him off-guard and he didn’t hate it.

“Most interns are too scared to say half that.”

“I’m not most interns,” she said simply.

His gaze lingered. Too long.

You didn’t flinch. Didn't blink. You was dangerous, he realized. Not in the way of lawsuits or incompetence—but in the way your eyes cut right through his performance, the way your presence didn’t flinch under pressure. He’d seen plenty of people fold under his disinterest. But not you.

And the thing was, he liked it. God, he liked it way too much.

“Fine,” he said, voice dropping a note lower. “Let’s get this straight. You bring me something smart, I’ll listen. You waste my time; I’ll make you regret it.”

Your lips twitched into something dangerously close to a smile. “You won’t scare me off, Han.” He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “Good. Wouldn’t be fun if I did.” The room felt smaller. Warmer. Something thick and charged buzzed in the silence between you. Then he grabbed your folder and opened it, eyes scanning fast. You watched him, arms still folded, legs crossed, a flicker of fire in her gaze.

“I need full employee logs for the Taipei branch,” Jisung said, tapping his pen against the folder. “Also, see if you can get internal memos from the last quarter. Anything involving the budget committee.”

“Got it,” You replied, standing smoothly.

You reached for the folder, fingers brushing the edge of his desk like it owed you something. Confident. Effortless. And just as she turned on her heel to leave—

—he looked.

He hadn’t meant to. Not really. It just—happened.

The way your skirt hugged your hips, the subtle sway as you walked like every step was calculated, fluid, commanding the air around her. Jisung blinked, his jaw clenching a little too tightly.

Fuck.

He looked away fast. Sat back. Ran a hand down his face like it’d erase the ten seconds of weakness he just experienced.

“She’s your intern, man,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head, already annoyed with himself. “Get a grip.” But the image lingered. Along with the snarky little grin you gave him earlier the fire in your voice, the nerve.

He didn’t know whether he wanted to argue with you or—

Nope.

He shut the thought down. Immediately. He grabbed a random paper off his desk and stared at it like it was the holy gospel.

It wasn’t. It was a receipt for pens. Still, anything to distract himself. Because damn it, you were going to be a problem. And a hot one at that.

---

You leaned your head against the window, the cool glass pressing gently into your temple as your car hummed along the road, lights of the city beginning to dim behind you. Your phone was plugged into the AUX, and the low, rhythmic voice of RM filled the car like an ocean tide.

His voice always settled her nerves. Heavy thoughts dissolved into gentle weightlessness as you watched neighborhoods blur past concrete melting into trees, the air growing less polluted, the traffic thinning. Your week had already been a blur: Daejin’s pressure cooker energy, the barbed words exchanged with Jisung, the way he looked at you today like you were both a problem and a puzzle—

And still, he stared. Like he couldn’t decide whether to fight you or fold.

You scoffed softly to yourself and turned up the volume. You weren’t going to think about him right now. Not when your heart softened the closer you got to home.

The car crunched against the gravel driveway, your headlights sweeping over the familiar brick front and small white porch your dad had painted a decade ago. The house stood modest, cozy—just big enough to hold love and struggle in equal measure. You stepped out, heels in hand, dress blazer folded over your arm. The night air smelled like coming rain and hibiscus soap, your mom’s favorite. You climbed the steps two at a time and opened the door.

Inside, your father was seated by the small living room window, a blanket over his lap, the TV on low. Your mother was in the kitchen, humming to herself and peeling fruit, and Mr. Tae—her parents’ long-time caregiver—stood nearby folding laundry.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Mr. Tae greeted first, smiling warmly as he turned around.

“Hi,” you whispered, setting your bag down. Your voice dropped into something gentle, reverent. “How’ve they been today?”

“Good. Your mom’s been on her feet most of the day—she’s stubborn as always. Your dad’s been quieter. Tired. But good.” You smiled softly and nodded. You walked over to your dad first, knelt beside him, and gently placed a kiss on his cheek. He didn’t say much—just smiled at you with kind, weary eyes and touched your hair the way he used to when she was little.

Your mom came over next, wrapping you in a warm hug that still somehow smelled like love and cornbread.

“How’s the new job?” her mom asked, brushing a strand of hair from your face. You gave a half-laugh. “Complicated. Intense. Full of egos and deadlines. But I’m hanging in.”

“You always do,” your mom replied, patting your hand. “You’re our miracle, remember?” You sat with them for a while. Ate some fruit. Let yourself be their daughter instead of a rising corporate intern or legal assistant. Let yourself exhale.

Because when you walked back into Daejin the next morning…you’d need that fire again.

---

The door clicked shut behind him.

Jisung leaned against it for a moment, keys still in his hand, the silence of the apartment washing over him like warm static. No city horns here. No coworkers. No Grey. No you. He exhaled slowly, dropping his bag by the door and kicking off his shoes with mechanical grace. The space was minimal, sleek—clean lines and dark accents. Black couch, polished concrete floor, deep green plants that he tried not to forget to water.

It looked like someone with taste lived here. It felt like a hotel room someone never fully unpacked in. He peeled off his blazer, draped it over the bar stool, and walked straight to the kitchen—grabbing a water bottle and a leftover half sandwich from the fridge. Gourmet. Chef Han at it again.

The light of his laptop blinked softly from the corner of the living room.

He ignored it. Instead, he wandered to the window, bottle in hand, and stared down at the city glowing like an artificial galaxy beneath him.

Another day of everything and nothing. He’d barely slept this week. Work had been brutal. Interns had been annoying.

Well…one intern.

His jaw twitched slightly at the memory of you walking out of his office, confident as hell, throwing shade and facts like you was born in a courtroom. That mouth on you—sharp. Quick.

Too damn smart for her own good. Too damn hot for his peace of mind.

He took a long sip of water, then grabbed his phone. Your file was still open in his emails. He didn’t mean to reread it. He did anyway. Background: modest. Grades: impressive. Demeanor: biting. Expression? Always looked like she was two seconds from either kissing you or ending your entire bloodline.

And that skirt?

Jesus.

He dropped the phone face down on the kitchen island.

This wasn’t good. This wasn’t ideal. He hated supervising for a reason—he didn’t like people clinging to him, watching him, depending on him. Especially not people who stirred up whatever this was. But you were different. Not in some romanticized, poetic way. No, more like…threateningly competent with legs for days and an attitude that gave him a headache and a half-chub at the same time. He groaned, running both hands through his hair before sinking onto the couch.

“God, Grey, why her?” he muttered aloud, throwing his head back dramatically.

No answer, of course. Just the sound of Seoul vibrating behind his window.

The weight of your stare still burned behind his eyes.

He knew this was going to get messy. He just didn’t know how soon.

But one thing was for sure, you were going to ruin him if he wasn’t careful. And part of him?

Didn’t want to be.

The food he had ordered just arrived, a warm burst of garlic and spice filling the cool silence of the apartment. Jisung set the cartons down on the island, unwrapping the napkins with the kind of robotic precision you pick up when you’ve eaten alone too many nights in a row. Spicy pork bulgogi, kimchi, rice, a small bottle of soju he didn’t ask for but the restaurant always tossed it in when they recognized his name on the order.

Perks of being Han Jisung.

He had just opened the chopsticks when his phone buzzed.

Dad

Incoming call.

Jisung stared at the screen for a second too long, jaw tightening. His thumb hovered, not because he didn’t want to answer, but because he already knew how this conversation would go. Still, he accepted the call and pressed it to his ear.

“Yeah?”

A deep voice crackled through the line, rough and low like worn leather.

“You sound tired.”

“I am,” Jisung replied simply, stabbing into his rice. “Been a long week.”

“Hm. You’re still working with Grey?”

“Still am.”

A pause. The silence between them said more than words could. His father had always had this way of making small talk feel like an interrogation.

“He’s using you.”

Jisung scoffed, mouth full. “Grey doesn’t use people. He recruits weapons.”

“Exactly.”

He didn’t answer. He chewed slowly, staring at the television that wasn’t even on.

“You still think you’re doing something different than me?” his father asked.

“Yeah,” Jisung said flatly. “Because I don’t destroy people for sport.”

Another pause. This time heavier.

“You sound just like your mother when you say shit like that.”

Jisung’s stomach twisted. He took another bite, mostly to shut himself up.

“You supervising someone?” his dad continued, like nothing had just happened.

Jisung rolled his eyes. “Why do you care?”

“Because I know what that means. You don’t let people close. If Grey’s making you, it’s not for nothing.”

Jisung hesitated, his mind flickering to you, the fire-eyed intern with the mouth that didn’t quit and the brain to match. The way you stood her ground, talked back, made his blood rush like he was seventeen again.

“She’s…interesting,” he finally muttered.

“She hot?”

“Jesus, Dad.”

“What? You said interesting. That’s code.” Jisung pinched the bridge of his nose. “She’s smart. Loud. Got a mouth on her.”

“So, you hate her.”

“…Something like that.”

There was a hum of amusement through the phone. For once, not a scoff or scold. Just understanding. A scary kind. “Watch yourself,” his father warned. “Grey doesn’t push you unless he’s trying to teach you something. Or test you. Or both.”

“I’m not new to this.”

“You’re new to her.” Jisung froze for a second, chopsticks suspended in the air.

“I gotta go,” he said, clearing his throat. “Food’s getting cold.”

“Call your mother.”

“I will.”

“Jisung.”

“What.”

“Don’t ruin it before it starts.”

Click.

The line went dead. Jisung sat there for a second, staring at the phone like it might say more. Then he set it down, picked up his food again, and muttered under his breath,

“…She’s still just an intern.”

But for some reason, he didn’t believe it.

Jisung was never the golden boy. Not in the traditional sense.

He wasn’t the loudest, or the most obedient, or the one who stayed out of trouble. But he was the sharpest. Razor-witted, eyes always ten steps ahead, and a tongue that could cut through hypocrisy like glass. From a young age, he was used to watching people argue from the staircase—his father, tall and thunderous, always in some perfectly pressed suit, barking down at his mother like she was one of the many subordinates who feared him.

His father, Han Joon-won, was a underground kingpin. Notorious in South Korea’s legal underworld for getting even the dirtiest white-collar criminals off scot-free. even though he was just a professor, he made his name not by defending the innocent, but by twisting narratives so well, the guilty walked out smiling.

His mother, on the other hand, Min So-ra, had been a viper in her work but the soul of the house.  Jisung had grown up watching them clash. Not over love—they hadn’t had that in years—but over principles. Over Jisung.

“He’s not going to be your legacy, Joon-won.”

“No. He’s going to be my evolution.”

When Jisung was 16, his mother left. Just packed her bags one night, kissed his forehead, and disappeared into a train station fog with nothing but her passport and a spine of steel.

She didn’t fight for custody. She didn’t drag him through courts. She just said, “I trust you to choose who you want to become.” And that ruined him more than any custody battle ever could.

When he was 20 and fresh out of university—with the kind of transcripts people framed—Jisung had offers lined up. Corporate firms, legal think tanks, political gigs. But none of it felt… earned. It felt like a train his father had put him on long ago, and the tracks were already built for him.

Daejin wasn’t a regular firm. It wasn’t even fully public. It was a private legal-intelligence consulting group, used by billionaires and politicians when the government couldn’t be trusted. Rumors said they helped broker backdoor treaties and helped dismantle crime rings from the inside. Jisung had accepted. Not because he trusted Grey, not because his mother signed behind his back, but because it felt like the first decision that was his.

He’d finished the bulgogi, the soju still cold beside his elbow, untouched. A silence lingered too long in the space around him—the kind that scratched at his ears. So, he picked up his phone again and scrolled to “엄마”. mom

He hadn’t called in weeks. She picked up on the second ring.

“Sung-ah.”

His chest clenched. Her voice hadn’t changed. Soft, calm, always like the air after a thunderstorm.

“Hey,” he said, a little hoarse. “You free?”

“For you? Always.”

He smiled softly, letting his head fall back against the couch.

“I got assigned someone today.”

“At work?”

“Yeah. Intern. I’m her supervisor.”

“And how do you feel about that?” He paused. How did he feel?

“She’s… interesting,” he muttered.

“That’s not a feeling, baby.”

He chuckled, rubbing his forehead. “She’s annoying. And smart. And looks at me like she’s trying to read my blood type.”

“So, she’s not scared of you.”

“No. And that’s the problem.”

“Or the point.”

Silence passed between them again, but this time it felt full. Safe. “Don’t let your father live in your mirror,” she said softly. “Not when there’s still light in your eyes.”

He closed his eyes. Let her words sink in.

“Thanks, Mom.”

“Call more often. I like hearing you wrestle with your own stubbornness.”

He smiled, biting back the wave of emotion building in his chest.

“I will.”

Click.

The line ended, and Jisung sat there for a long time phone on his chest, soju uncapped. Thinking about you, about the case, about whether this internship of yours was the beginning of your legacy...

…or the unraveling of his.

---

The lights in War Room A were low but moody designed that way to make people feel like the truth mattered more in the dark. Glass boards lined the walls, already filled with cryptic arrows and pin-dotted strings from other ongoing cases. The table was long, cold steel, with matte black folders laid out like they were handling national security instead of corporate lawsuits. Y/N walked in clutching her notepad, lips set in a calm line, her heels tapping softly against the grey tile. Her nerves simmered under the surface, but her expression stayed focused, professional. The room had a tension to it like the oxygen had been filtered for people who played chess with lives.

Jisung was already there, sleeves rolled to the forearms, silver watch glinting under the ceiling light. His jaw looked sharper this morning tighter. He didn’t look up when she entered.

Just said, “You’re late.”

“I’m early,” she replied smoothly, glancing at the wall clock—9:02.

He looked up then. Eyes dragging from her face to the file in her hand, then back. “Right. Two minutes early. Congratulations, you want a cookie?”

“Only if it’s got sarcasm chips in it.”

A ghost of a smirk flicked at the corner of his lips. But it vanished before it could get comfortable. “Sit,” he muttered, motioning to the seat beside him. As she sat, more of the upper-tier team began filing in. Analysts. Consultants. A lead from the surveillance branch. Everyone looked polished and exhausted, like they hadn’t slept more than three hours in days. The weight of high-profile work wore heavy on everyone here and Y/N felt it. Like iron in her bones.

Grey entered last. Of course.

Wearing an all-black turtleneck and long grey coat, he looked more like a grieving poet than the head of a high-level legal-intelligence firm. But the room straightened when he walked in. His presence commanded without barking.

He didn’t speak until he’d set his black coffee down.

“This is the KraneTech litigation,” he began. “Thirty-two million dollars’ worth of hush money misfiled as marketing budget. A whistleblower’s coming forward. We’re handling the internal case, prepping for external liability.”

He glanced around the table, then locked eyes with Y/N.

“This will be Y/N’s first live case. She’s under Han.” Jisung sighed through his nose. Loud enough for her to hear it. Not loud enough to get called out.

“Everyone, give her the floor.”

Y/N blinked. “Wait—”

“You have 90 seconds,” Grey added casually. “What’s your understanding of the case from the file you read yesterday?”

Shit.

She straightened. “KraneTech misappropriated marketing funds to pay off silence regarding potential internal abuse and fraudulent operations. The whistleblower is anonymous for now but has indicated they have documentation and digital logs.”

The room watched her like hawks. She continued. “There’s a timeline gap between February and April 2023 where no financial statements match the campaign budgets. That’s likely when the payouts happened. There’s also a legal scrub done during April that feels… strategic. Like they were anticipating investigation.”

Grey leaned back, considering. “Interesting.”

She held her breath. Then, he nodded once. “You’ll shadow Han. You have two days to prove you can handle the next phase of the audit alone.”

He turned to Jisung. “She’s yours. Try not to murder each other.”

Jisung’s jaw ticked.

Grey left with most of the others. The moment the room was half empty, Jisung stood and walked toward the glass board at the front of the room. Y/N followed, silent, watching him as he clicked a button and the case projection flickered to life.

He didn’t look at her as he said, “You’re not bad.”

“Was that… a compliment?”

“Don’t get cocky.”

“I’m writing it down anyway.”

“You do that.”

They stood side by side now, looking at the digital board—emails, blurred invoices, personnel profiles. “What’s your plan?” he asked.

She crossed her arms. “Trace the digital logins. Identify the cleaner who did the scrub in April. Follow the emails that were archived after the fact. There’s always metadata.”

“Metadata and luck.” He paused. “You might actually survive here.”

“I don’t need to survive,” she muttered. “I plan to win.” He turned his head just slightly, watching her profile as her eyes stayed on the board. It annoyed him. How pretty she looked when she was focused. How cocky she sounded when she didn’t even know the half of what Daejin really did behind closed doors.

“You’re stubborn,” he said.

“I adapt.”

“That’s worse.”

She smirked without turning to him. “Maybe you’re just slow.” He blinked. God, she was insufferable. And kinda hot.

He cleared his throat. “Meeting’s over. Get what you need. I’ll send you internal files by noon.” She nodded, then turned to leave the room.

His eyes dropped instinctively—for a second—to the sway of her hips, her skirt hugging just enough.

He looked away instantly, jaw clenched.

“Fucking hell…” he whispered under his breath.

The office they used was colder than necessary. The kind of cold that kept you awake and working, courtesy of Daejin’s air conditioning set to “keep them alert or kill them trying.” The space was sleek, functional, and minimal: two large desks facing opposite walls, a shared table in the center stacked with files, highlighters, redacted papers, and two half-drunk cups of espresso.

Y/N had shed her blazer somewhere around 9AM. Now in a simple white shirt with the sleeves folded to her elbows, her fingers flew over her keyboard, the blue glow of her screen reflecting off her glasses. She was in full problem-solver mode, lip caught between her teeth, brows furrowed in that way Jisung had, unfortunately, noticed more than once.

Jisung sat across from her, slightly reclined, eyes darting between an evidence board and the KraneTech whistleblower’s anonymized file. He was chewing the tip of a pen, annoyed that it was yielding nothing new. His own desk was chaos with purpose: files, sticky notes, USB drives, all organized in his uniquely ‘smart but unhinged’ way.

Silence passed between them—not uncomfortable. Just focused.

“You notice this?” Y/N asked suddenly, flipping her laptop to face him.

Jisung stood and leaned over, arms braced on either side of her chair as he scanned her screen. Her perfume—something light and sweet—hit him too quickly. He pulled back a little.

She pointed. “The logs from the scrub session in April? Someone tried to delete twice. Different time stamps. But only one was executed.” His eyes scanned fast. Sharp. “Good catch. That means they weren’t working alone. One initiated. One canceled. Which means—”

“Which means the second person might’ve backed out,” she finished. Their eyes met. A beat of satisfaction passed between them.

She looked smug. He hated that he liked it. He straightened and returned to his desk without comment. “Cross-check the list of digital IDs with those on the financial audits,” he added, already typing again. “There’s a chance the person who canceled left a trail out of guilt. I’ll trace the IP from the meta headers.”

“On it,” she replied.

Hours passed. Coffee refilled. Notes scribbled. The room thickened with brainpower and caffeine fumes. By 12:17 PM, her stomach growled audibly. She froze. Jisung glanced up, cocked a brow. “You gonna eat or let your stomach file a complaint to HR?”

“I’ll grab something later—”

“You’ve been saying that for four hours,” he cut in, pulling out his phone. A few taps. “Lunch will be here in ten.”

“You didn’t have to—”

“I chose to. Which means now you’re going to eat, intern.” His tone was teasing but firm. “Take a break. Let your frontal lobe reset before it fries.” She gave him a look, soft but stubborn. “You didn’t have to—”

“If you say that one more time, I’m ordering dinner too and making you eat it in front of the entire board.”

She blinked. He smirked.

“And that’s not an empty threat.”

Ten minutes later, lunch arrived—grilled chicken wraps, sweet potato fries, and iced black tea. Jisung slid one over to her, then turned back to his desk like it meant nothing. Y/N stared at the food. Then him.

“You’re not eating?”

“Later,” he muttered. “I want to finish this trace.”

“You sure? I can share.” He shot her a sideways look. “Don’t tempt me.” Her cheeks flushed, but she masked it with a sarcastic chuckle, “Relax, Han. It’s not a marriage proposal. It’s just fries.” He smirked, but didn’t respond, back to his files, eyes scanning deep.

Y/N finally took a bite.

And—damn it—it was really good.

For the next half hour, they worked in silence again. Separate desks. Separate minds. But the same rhythm. The same obsession. The same unspoken energy. Enemies? No. Allies with fire in the air? Absolutely.

And neither of them realized it yet…

…but this was how chemistry always began at Daejin.

The city outside had long gone quiet. Seoul’s skyline twinkled through the window, streetlights casting streaks of orange and silver across the tiled floor. The office was quieter now—no whirring printers or urgent footsteps. Just two exhausted minds submerged in data, theories, and the kind of mental endurance that only legal warfare demanded.

Y/N sat cross-legged in her chair, one earbud in, hair messily pinned up with a pen poking through it. Her screen was a swirl of digital records, duplicated entries, firewall logs, she was squinting now, moving files around like puzzle pieces in her mind. A cold cup of coffee sat beside her, untouched for the last hour. Her knee bounced unconsciously, the adrenaline refusing to die down even though her body begged for sleep.

Then—she paused.

Froze.

Brows lifted slowly, lips parting. Her fingers darted over the keys, pulling up the original access logs from April’s double-deletion. She’d been chasing a ghost for hours, but there it was, plain as day: a duplicated ID signature tied to two different employee databases. The same person had registered under two different teams. Fake alias.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, breathless.

She snatched the file from the table where Jisung had left it earlier—his own scribbled notes, dots connected, theories half-built. The answer had been under both their noses the whole time.

“Jisung!” she called out instinctively, spinning her chair around, face bright with excitement and a little disbelief.

But when she turned—

He wasn’t responding.

Slouched in his chair, arms draped lazily across the desk, Jisung’s head had dropped sideways. His laptop screen still flickered, casting soft light over his peaceful expression. One hand was still holding onto the same file she now clutched, his notes stopped mid-sentence.

She blinked, then smiled. The moment softened her. There was something intimate about seeing someone brilliant in their most unguarded state. She stepped closer, voice low. “Guess we cracked it… both of us. Not bad for an overachiever and a half-asleep grump.”

No reply. Just a soft rise and fall of his chest. A slight twitch of his lips, like he was dreaming—maybe about work, maybe something far less exhausting. She shook her head fondly, knelt beside him, and tapped his arm gently.

“Hey, genius. Sleeping on the job now?”

Jisung stirred. Eyes slowly opened, bleary and unfocused at first. His lashes fluttered and his brows knitted as he squinted.

“Shit—did I pass out?” he muttered, sitting up too fast.

“Yeah,” she chuckled. “Right in the middle of your future law firm commercial. ‘Han Jisung: brilliant, relentless, occasionally unconscious.’”

He ran a hand down his face, groaning. “Fuck. I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine,” she said quickly, voice firmer now. “Don’t apologize.” He looked at her, confused, still blinking the sleep out of his eyes. “You need to go home,” she said softly, but there was command in it. “You look like you’ve been tired for years, not just tonight.”

“Y/N—”

“Don’t argue.” She reached for his laptop and closed it. “I’ll clean up here, write up a preliminary. I’ll shoot you a copy before morning.”

He hesitated, still groggy, but caught in her unwavering gaze. Her voice was gentle, but it left no room for negotiation.

“…You always like bossing people around?” he mumbled, standing slowly.

“Only when they’re being stupidly self-destructive. Karma, really.”

That earned a small smirk. He slung his bag over his shoulder, but before he left, he paused at the doorway. She was already turning back to her laptop, immersed again.

“Thanks,” he said, voice quieter. She didn’t look up.

“Go home, Han.” He lingered for one more second, eyes tracing her silhouette under the cool light of the monitor.

And then he was gone.

---

Han Jisung’s apartment was all clean lines and controlled chaos. A half-folded hoodie hung off a kitchen chair, vinyl records were stacked by the turntable in no real order, and the scent of his cologne lingered in the hallway like a memory too stubborn to leave. He was buttoning up his dress shirt, sleeves still rolled to the elbow, his hair damp and messy from a rushed shower.

He grabbed his phone from the counter just as it buzzed.

New Email: Preliminary Draft — Case #1782

Sender: Y/N [yn.daejin.legal@corp.kr]

He blinked, brows furrowing.

Already?

He opened it, skimming fast at first—but then slowing.

Thorough. Organized. Insightful. She hadn’t just pieced together the data. She’d cross-referenced employee signatures, restructured their timeline, and even color-coded the suspects in the margin.

“…Damn,” he muttered, under his breath.

Then another ping.

Text from Y/N:

Morning. I might come in a little late today—just wanted to give a heads-up. Will join as soon as I’m done. Thanks again for last night. Hope you got decent sleep.

He stared at the message a moment longer than necessary, lips twitching into something that wasn’t quite a smirk but definitely wasn’t neutral. His fingers hovered above the keyboard—he started to type, paused, erased, then just tossed the phone on the bed.

“Tch,” he muttered, grabbing his blazer. “Why is she so annoyingly good at this…”

And still, as he grabbed his bag and locked the door behind him, the corner of his mouth wouldn’t stop lifting.

He walked into the morning rush of Seoul, suit crisp, heart slightly off-beat, and thoughts already spiraling back to the girl who’d made him a little more tired… and a lot more intrigued.

—

The room hummed with pre-trial tension. A long, oval table dominated the center—sleek, black wood polished to a mirror shine. Screens displayed the case name, stacks of legal documents fanned out in front of each assigned seat, water bottles untouched beside stiff black folders. Jisung sat near the end, one ankle lazily crossed over the other, arms folded, eyes flicking between the time on his watch and the door.

9:05. You was five minutes late. Not a big deal.

But it made his left eye twitch.

He was about to tap his pen against the desk when the door finally swung open.

You stepped in—hair pulled back in a high, slick ponytail, glasses perched delicately on your nose. That outfit? Deadly. A gray pinstriped shirt peeking from beneath a black cropped cardigan, slacks hugging your hips in a way that made Jisung’s train of thought flatline for two full seconds. He sat up straighter unconsciously.

You looked... put-together. Smart. Sharp. And not trying too hard. Your eyes met his and—there it was again—that same flicker of tension. Familiar, unspoken. But you walked over calmly, confidence in your steps, setting down your laptop and notes beside his before leaning in slightly and whispering, “Did you read the preliminary?”

He gave you a slow blink.

“Yeah.”

“Did I mess anything up? I—I rushed the tail end and didn’t double check that section with the warehouse codes.”

Jisung’s brows rose. You were nervous.

He leaned in slightly, voice low and smooth. “No, you didn’t mess up. It’s tight. You caught things even I didn’t at first glance.” You narrowed your eyes at him skeptically, biting back a smile. “You’re being sarcastic.”

Jisung tilted his head. “I’m actually not. Don’t get used to it though.”

You chuckled softly and straightened your back, trying to hide the little breath of pride you exhaled. The compliment, sarcastic or not, buzzed in your chest. Just then, the door opened again and Grey strolled in, black suit, no tie, coffee in hand, and that ever-serious gleam in his eyes.

“Alright,” he called out. “Let’s get this started. We’ve got five days before trial and no time to fumble.”

The room fell silent instantly, shuffling to attention. Jisung caught your glance from the corner of his eye as you both turned to face the screen. You were in this. Present. Awake. Ready. And damn if he wasn’t a little impressed. And a little more in trouble than he thought. Grey stood at the head of the table, setting down his coffee and clapping his hands once to get everyone locked in.

“Let’s keep it clean, focused, and brutal,” he said, eyes sweeping over the team. “We’ve got motive, but the jury’s going to need a narrative they can eat with a spoon. What’s the angle?”

There was a beat of silence before you cleared her throat gently.

“We start with the financial discrepancies in the subsidiary accounts,” you said, clicking your laptop and flipping the screen to show a clean graph. “Every quarter leading up to the embezzlement charge, there’s a small spike in activity—same offshore account, different shell companies.”

Grey raised a brow, mildly impressed. “And the evidence chain?”

“Verified. We have authenticated statements, plus a testimony lined up from the former assistant—she’s agreed to testify under condition of anonymity.”

Jisung leaned back in his chair, clicking his pen against his thigh. “It’s a good start. But it’s not enough to prove intent. The defense will call it mismanagement or incompetence. We need to tie the money trail to motive.” Grey nodded slowly and gestured. “Han?”

Jisung leaned forward, fingers steepled. “So, we hit them where it hurts—optics. The accused transferred funds under the guise of ‘consultancy fees’ to a company owned by his college roommate. We subpoenaed his travel history—it matches up with four ‘retreats’ that happen to line up with the largest deposits. Add in emails recovered from the IT sweep…”

He tapped his file. “There’s one that says—and I quote—‘just make sure they don’t notice until Q3.’ That’s intent, with a side of cocky.” Your eyes flicked over to him. “And we link that to the board vote he forced through last September? That’s when he got majority control.”

Jisung glanced sideways at you and gave a little nod. “Exactly.” Grey folded his arms. “So, what’s the sequence of presentation?”

You raised a hand slightly, already halfway flipping pages. “We open with the paper trail—the clean, technical breakdown. It builds credibility. Then Jisung drives the intent point home with the emails and personal ties. By the time we present the witness, the jury already suspects him. Her testimony just confirms it.”

Jisung looked at you. Really looked. “We build the wall first, then drop the hammer.”

You didn’t smile, but your lips twitched in mutual understanding. “Exactly.” Grey looked between them for a moment before nodding, pleased. “Good. Tag team it. Han, you handle cross. YN, you prep the witness and the opening presentation. You’ve got three days. I want a mock run-through by Thursday.”

Everyone else began gathering their things and filtering out, but YN and Jisung lingered, documents still splayed across the table like a living crime scene. You gathered your notes silently, then paused.

“You’re not bad at this,” you said lightly, not looking at him.

Jisung let out a soft scoff. “You’re pretty decent yourself. For someone who doesn’t shut up.”

“Maybe if you weren’t always so smug, I’d have less to say.” He shot you a lazy smirk, grabbing his folder. “Nah. You’d still talk. It’s the only way you function.” You raised a brow, grabbing her coffee as she stood. “Just be ready Thursday, counselor.”

“Oh, I will be,” he murmured, half to himself as you walked off ahead of him. His eyes dropped to the sway of-

Focus, Han. Not now.

The case was a web. But with you, he realized it wasn’t just untangling it. It was figuring out who was pulling the strings alongside him. And for once, it didn’t feel like he was doing it alone.

Prep for the Mock Trial

The fluorescent lights in your shared office buzzed quietly as papers rustled and two cups of coffee sat cooling, forgotten. The clock ticked past 9:00 PM, but neither of you had noticed the time. You were seated cross-legged in one of the chairs, balancing your laptop on your knees, voice low but focused as you ran through your opening statement draft. Jisung was pacing slowly with a pen in his mouth and a highlighter tucked behind one ear, eyes darting from paper to whiteboard. Every now and then, he’d mumble something or make a noise of disapproval under his breath.

“You skipped over the offshore transfer in August,” he said suddenly, cutting into her flow like a scalpel. “What?” you blinked, scrolling up. “No, I didn’t—”

“You did. You jumped from July to September like August didn’t exist. That transfer ties into the witness’ credibility. If you miss that in court, we lose the entire momentum.”

“I said August,” you insisted, your tone sharp now. “You must’ve zoned out again.” Jisung rolled his eyes, dragging a hand through his hair. “I don’t zone out; I just actually pay attention.” That landed a little harder than he expected.

Your fingers froze on the trackpad. “Are you seriously implying I don’t pay attention to my own case?”

“I’m implying,” he said coolly, “that maybe if you stopped treating this like a performance and started treating it like law, you wouldn’t miss simple stuff.” Your mouth parted, stunned. “Excuse me?”

“You’re great at talking, Y/N, no doubt. But law isn’t about sounding smart. It’s about being right. And sometimes, you skip details because you’re so busy trying to be the smartest person in the room.”

The air went ice cold.

“Wow,” you said, standing up slowly, voice lower than before. “You know, I get it. You’re used to being the genius. The golden boy. So, God forbid someone comes in and actually keeps up.” Jisung’s mouth opened, then shut. His jaw flexed.

“I didn’t say that—”

“But you think it. And maybe you’re right. Maybe I do care about how I come across—because I have to. Because unlike you, I don’t have a safety net. I don’t have parents who could afford law school. I don’t have a family name. I earned my place here.”

“You think I didn’t?”

“No,” you snapped, “I think you didn’t have to fight tooth and nail just to be seen. I think you have no idea what it’s like to have people doubt your intelligence the second you walk in because you don’t come from the right background.”

He looked like he wanted to fight that but then he muttered it, barely audible:

“Maybe if you weren’t so defensive all the damn time, people wouldn’t doubt you.” Your eyes widened slowly. That one hit like a punch to the ribs.

“You know what?” you said quietly. “Screw this.”

You grabbed your laptop and shoved it into your bag with trembling hands. He stepped forward instinctively, guilt rushing in like a wave, but you cut him off with just one glance, eyes glassy and betrayed.

“Don’t,” she warned.

“Y/N, I—”

“You don’t get to apologize.” The door clicked behind you as you walked out, leaving only silence and the buzzing light.

Jisung stood there for a long time, the weight of his words pressing down hard. He knew he messed up. And he knew sorry wasn’t going to cut it.

---

The atmosphere in the trial room was different.

Tense. Unspoken.

The team sat behind the long table facing the mock jury box. Grey was seated like a hawk, sharp-eyed and still. Jisung was at the end of the table, posture impeccable, face unreadable. His tie was perfect, hair neat, but his fingers tapped nervously under the desk. You walked in five minutes before the session started.

You were pristine with pressed slacks, a sleek ponytail, silver-rimmed glasses. The same woman from the steps that morning. Cool, composed, unreadable.

You didn’t look at him.

You didn’t even hesitate. Grey gave a curt nod as the session began. “Let’s run it like it’s real. Y/N, opening.” You stood, the room holding its breath.

And as you spoke—calm, clear, devastatingly precise—Jisung could feel the growing tension in his chest. You were flawless. Unshakable.

And she wasn’t looking at him.

The mock courtroom buzzed with a synthetic energy, the kind that stemmed from performance but mimicked the high-stakes atmosphere of a real trial. Every step, every statement was under scrutiny. Professors and legal consultants sat with clipboards, eyes flickering between the two leads of the case.

You hadn't glanced at Jisung once. Not during his opening statement, which was admittedly impressive but a touch rushed. Not when they passed each other the exhibit binder. Not even when he tapped your arm to hand over his notes on the cross. You took them without a word.

Your expression remained neutral, every movement calculated.

Jisung was unraveling. Internally. On the outside, he maintained the illusion of calm, jotting things down, nodding here and there, but underneath, it was pure chaos. He’d stolen a few glances. Your eyes were deadset on the witness, your jaw sharp, mouth pursed in thought. And each time you succeeded, each time the jury murmured in appreciation, he should’ve felt pride.

Instead, he felt the hollow throb of regret.

You stood for cross-examination, heels clacking against the floor with commanding rhythm.

“Mr. Wexler, you mentioned that the email correspondence between you and the defendant occurred ‘frequently’ throughout Q3, correct?”

“Yes.”

You tilted her head, sharp. “Can you define ‘frequently’?”

“Uh… maybe twice a week?”

“Twice a week,” you echoed, eyes flicking to the projector. “Then can you explain why there are only four emails logged between July and September?”

The room shifted. The witness stammered. Jisung smiled. Instinctively, he turned to share that moment with you.

You didn’t even twitch. Didn’t acknowledge the success. Didn’t give him the usual side-smirk you shared when a point landed. Nothing.

You sat, fingers interlaced calmly. Cold. Professional. Grey leaned in slightly toward Jisung, whispering just loud enough: “She’s sharper today.”

Jisung forced a grin. “Yeah. She is.”

What Grey didn’t know was why she was sharper. Pain had a funny way of refining focus. And you were in no mood to forgive and forget. Especially not mid-trial.

As everyone gathered near the board, unpacking the session, you contributed where necessary, objective and direct. When Jisung asked you if you needed his notes for the rebuttal? You turned to Grey and said, “Could you pass me the updated printout?”

When he brought up a shared strategy they’d discussed last night?

“Actually, I revised that this morning. I’ll use mine.”

Every time he tried to breach the space between you — professional or personal — you slid past him like smoke. Unbothered. It was killing him.

---

Jisung finally caught you at the vending machine, alone. No audience. No Grey.

“Y/N—”

“I don’t want to talk to you right now.”

Your tone was low but heavy. He opened his mouth. Closed it.

“Okay,” he finally said.

You didn’t even turn. Just grabbed your drink and walked away, leaving him standing there with his apology still stuck in his throat.

The Actual Courtroom Trial – Day One

Location: Seoul District Court, 9:15 AM.

The courtroom was charged. Polished wood gleamed under harsh lighting, papers rustled like whispers, and every cough, click, and sigh echoed like it mattered. The gallery was half-filled with press, executives, and sharp-eyed legal interns hungry for drama. Y/N sat at the plaintiff’s table, expression blank, body composed like a trained performer. Her braids were pinned in a clean updo, her suit crisply tailored, gray with a deep navy undershirt that matched the cold glint in her eyes. Jisung, sitting beside her, looked the part too, fitted black suit, no tie, top button undone. Hands loosely folded over his notes; brows furrowed. He’d barely said a word to her since the mock trial.

She hadn’t said a word back. And now wasn’t the time to fix anything. Because the judge walked in.

“All rise.”

Everyone stood.

“Court is now in session in the matter of Daejin Tech vs. KraneTech and Min Hyunsoo.”

The judge, an older man with sharp eyes behind square glasses, glanced down at his docket. “Opening statements?”

Grey stood first. “Your Honor, we intend to prove that not only did the defendant willfully breach contract, but in doing so, they manipulated internal reporting systems to inflate data and secure funding under false pretenses.” He glanced down at Jisung, who gave the most subtle nod. Grey continued: “We will show you emails, witness statements, and system logs that confirm deliberate falsification, with direct involvement from Mr. Min.”

It was clean. Sharp. Confident.

The defense countered with a calm but vague approach — denying nothing directly, playing the ‘miscommunication between departments’ angle.

Classic. But weak.

Witness Examination — Day Two

By now, the courtroom had warmed up. The crowd had grown. Legal press had started posting snippets, curious about the two Daejin lawyers making waves. Jisung took the floor this time. His steps were slow, measured. The court reporter’s keys tapped steadily as he approached the witness: a former financial analyst who’d been fired six months prior.

“You mentioned seeing irregularities in the data, correct?”

“Yes.”

Jisung leaned against the podium, casual but precise. “And you reported it?”

“I tried. But the internal review team—”

“Objection. Hearsay.”

“Withdrawn,” Jisung said easily, before shifting pace. “So you saw something. And you did…nothing?” The witness shifted. “I was told it wasn’t my place.”

“By whom?”

The man hesitated. “Let the record show the witness is taking a long pause,” Jisung added calmly, then looked to the jury. “Sometimes silence tells us more than words.”

The gallery buzzed. Y/N didn’t look at him. But her pen stopped moving for half a second. Just a twitch. Their next witness was the IT manager. Now it was Y/N’s turn. She stood tall, calm, with a file in hand as she stepped to the center. Her voice? Smooth and precise.

“You were in charge of all server logs for KraneTech?”

“Yes.”

“You have access to login timestamps, message histories, cloud storage?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She clicked a remote. The screen lit up behind her. “Can you explain this file name?” she asked, pointing to a suspicious folder — ’dev_recalibrationsQ3_v2’.

“It’s not one I authorized.”

“Yet it came from your department.”

“It did.”

“Then who accessed it?”

The man hesitated. Y/N didn’t blink. “I’ll save you the trouble,” she said, clicking again. “The IP address matches the defendant’s personal office system. And the login code was hardwired to his biometric key.”

Gasps.

“Would you still say you weren’t aware of any tampering?” she asked quietly. He swallowed. “No, ma’am.” Her face was emotionless as she turned back to the judge. “No further questions.”

Recess

Grey gave both Y/N and Jisung subtle nods of approval, but neither of them smiled. They weren’t talking. Not outside the courtroom. Not even in the prep room. They passed each other case files like strangers forced to cooperate. They presented united fronts like seasoned partners. But underneath?

It was a cold war.

Final Courtroom Verdict — Seoul District Court

Day Six, 3:45 PM

The courtroom was still. Not the kind of silence that came from boredom or fatigue, no, this one crackled. Anticipation hung heavy like fog, wrapping around every person in the room. Phones had been tucked away. The press wasn’t even live-tweeting anymore. Everyone was waiting. Jisung sat tall, his hands resting loosely on his lap. He didn’t look at Y/N. Not once. She looked straight ahead, lips barely parted, a pen clutched tightly in her right hand not writing, not fidgeting. Just holding. Her back was straight. Her jaw was steel.

The judge cleared his throat. “I have reviewed the evidence, testimonies, and expert analysis provided throughout this trial.”

A pause. “And while the defense attempted to establish a chain of miscommunication, this court finds that the fraud was deliberate, premeditated, and tied directly to Mr. Min Hyunsoo.”

A murmur swept through the gallery.

“I hereby rule in favor of the plaintiff, Daejin Tech.”

Boom. Just like that. Case closed. Grey let out the smallest exhale. A pleased smile tugged at the edge of his lips. “Well done,” he said under his breath. But his gaze wasn’t on Jisung. It was on Y/N.

They stood. They bowed. The courtroom emptied slowly, reluctantly — like no one really wanted to miss what came next.

But Y/N didn’t stay. She packed up her documents methodically, not bothering to make eye contact with anyone. The moment the courtroom cleared, she slipped into the hallway, heels echoing sharply against the marble floor. Her suit jacket clung perfectly, hair neat, gaze fixed forward.

Until,

“Y/N,” Jisung called from behind her.

She didn’t stop. Not until he caught up and stepped in front of her, blocking her path just outside the conference room doors. The hall was mostly empty, voices muffled behind glass and oak.

“I just—” He paused, jaw clenching. “I need to apologize. What I said that night, I wasn’t thinking—”

“Don’t.” Her voice was quiet but cutting. She looked up at him, not angry just… disappointed. Like she'd seen a side of him she wished she hadn’t.

“I shouldn’t have let myself get comfortable with you,” she said, slowly. “That was my mistake.”

Jisung’s mouth parted, but nothing came out.

“And I’m sorry for assuming I could be safe around you and still… be myself.” Her eyes dropped for just a second, then came back up, colder. “Won’t happen again.”

“YN/…” His brows furrowed, the guilt in his expression unmistakable. “Don’t do that.”

But she was already pulling herself back together. Tightening the line in her shoulders. Drawing the wall back up, brick by goddamn brick. “I’ll see you at work, sir,” she said, stepping past him.

That one word — sir — sliced clean and cruel. Not professional. Not respectful. Just distant.

And then she was gone. Leaving Jisung standing in the hall, stunned silent, holding onto an apology that had come too late.

---

The house smelled like warm rice and thyme-simmered chicken, that comforting kind of scent that wrapped around your bones and said you’re safe here. You sat at the edge of the couch, curled up under your mom’s old woven blanket. Your mother had already bombarded you with a second helping of food you didn’t ask for, and your dad had just settled beside her with a cold glass of malt.

“So,” her mom said gently, “how’d the case go?”

You exhaled slowly, letting your body sink into the soft curve of the couch. “We won,” you murmured, voice small but proud. Your mom grinned and reached out to squeeze her hand. “I’m so proud of you, baby. All those sleepless nights, hm?”

“Barely slept at all,” You chuckled softly. Your dad leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “And this Jisung guy? Your supervisor?” Your lips tightened slightly. “He was… fine.”

“You say that like he set your desk on fire,” your mom said with a teasing smirk. You smiled faintly but didn’t elaborate. Just twisted the edge of the blanket between your fingers. Your dad raised a brow, the way he always did when he was scanning for more beneath the surface. “Something happen?”

There was a long pause before you gave a small nod. “He said something… personal. During a fight. It just… I don’t know. Hit too close.” Your mom’s eyes darkened slightly. “What did he say?”

“Nothing worth repeating,” you muttered.

Your dad studied you for a moment longer, then sat back with a deep sigh, that thoughtful dad sigh that only ever came before life advice that could level you. “You know,” he said slowly, “sometimes we say stupid things when we care too much and don’t know how to say it.”

You blinked. “He doesn’t care—”

“He does. That’s why he pissed you off so easily. And why you’re still hurt.” You looked at him then, eyes tired. He met your gaze with a small, knowing smile.

“I’ve said some cruel things to your mother before. Words that hurt deep, even if I didn’t mean them. Sometimes men get scared, or flustered, and instead of admitting it… we shoot. And the first thing in the line of fire is usually the person closest.”

Your mom nodded softly from beside you. “Forgiveness doesn’t make you weak, darling. It means you’re strong enough to love past someone’s worst day.” You exhaled through your nose, leaning your head on your dad’s shoulder. You didn’t say anything but the weight in your chest loosened just a little.

—

The office lights were dimmed to a low glow, but Jisung hadn’t moved. His suit jacket lay draped over the couch, his shirt sleeves rolled up, tie undone. He stared at the report on his desk, not really reading it. His fingers tapped mindlessly against the table.

There was no music. No celebration. Just silence and a gnawing ache behind his eyes.

He couldn’t stop replaying the way she said sir.

He’d earned that. He deserved that. But it still stung like hell. The door creaked open, and Grey strolled in with two takeaway cups in hand. “You’re still here?” he asked, incredulous. “Jesus, Sungie — we just won our most high-profile case this quarter.”

Jisung didn’t look up. Grey set one cup on his desk. “Why aren’t you home getting drunk and screaming into a karaoke mic with Changbin?”

Silence.

Grey’s gaze narrowed as he pulled up a chair. “This is about her, isn’t it?”

Still no answer. “I shouldn’t’ve made you supervise her,” Grey said eventually. “You hate team-ups. I knew that.” Jisung finally shifted, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s not it.” Grey’s brow lifted. “Then what is?”

Silence again but heavier this time. More telling.

Grey leaned back, mouth twitching. “You fought, didn’t you?”

Jisung didn’t confirm it, but he didn’t have to. Grey sighed, shaking his head. “She’s smart. And she keeps you on your toes. And she makes you care when you’re trying not to.”

“Grey…” Jisung muttered, tone low and warning.

“Don’t worry, I’m not gonna lecture you. I’m just saying, maybe don’t be a dumbass.” He stood, finishing his coffee. “Go home, Jisung. This office doesn’t need your brooding. And she sure as hell doesn’t need more silence from you.”

He clapped him on the shoulder once not hard, not playful. Just grounding. Then he walked out.

And Jisung sat alone again.

But this time… he picked up his phone. And he stared at her name. For a very, very long time.

…One Week Later…

The clack of heels against marble, the hum of printers, the sharp scent of espresso drifting from the break room work carried on like the world hadn’t cracked open just days ago.

Y/N walked in every morning exactly at 8:50. Not too early. Not too late. Her hair pinned neatly, makeup clean and sharp. Professional. Untouchable.

Jisung noticed. He always did. But he kept his eyes on his screen when she passed his office. He pretended not to glance up when her laugh rang out from across the hall quieter now, but still there.

They only spoke when absolutely necessary.

And those conversations?

Clinical. Precise.

Like cutting stitches with cold hands.

Jisung stepped in to the meeting room with a file in hand, the tie he forgot to tighten swinging slightly as he moved. Y/N was already seated at the end of the table, flipping through a document.

“Update on the Barlow merger,” she said without looking up.

He slid into the seat across from her. “I… yeah. I got your notes.” A pause. “They were good. Really… good.” She nodded, still not looking at him.

The silence stretched like plastic wrap thin and suffocating. Jisung tapped the corner of his folder. “YN, I—”

She turned a page.

He swallowed. “About last week—”

“Jisung,” she said gently but firmly, still not lifting her eyes. “Let’s keep it about work.”

He nodded. Slowly. The tightness in his chest returned like a tide. “Right. Just work.” He left first.

---

The doors slid open. She was already inside.

He hesitated just for a second. But it was enough. She saw it.

“Getting in?” she asked quietly.

He stepped in. They stood in opposite corners, the silence buzzing with everything unsaid. As the doors closed, he risked a glance. Her arms were crossed. Eyes forward.

“I didn’t mean it,” he muttered.

She blinked. “What?”

“That night,” he said, a little louder now. “What I said. I didn’t mean it. Any of it.”

Her eyes flicked to him, unreadable. “I know.” That should’ve been comforting.

But it wasn’t. “Then why won’t you look at me?” She exhaled. “Because I’m trying to keep my distance.”

The elevator dinged. She stepped out without turning back.

---

Grey glanced up from his desk when Jisung walked in looking like a man who’d just been hit with a lawsuit and a love confession at the same time.

“She talked to me,” Jisung said, tossing himself into a chair.

“Progress?”

“I think it was worse than silence.”

Grey hummed, closing his laptop. “You wanna know the worst kind of heartbreak?” Jisung rubbed his temple. “I already feel it, so go ahead.”

“When you realize they don’t hate you,” Grey said, “they just don’t trust you anymore.”

Jisung didn’t respond. Grey leaned back. “So, you’ve got two options. One — give up. Let her slip away because it’s easier than fighting. Or two — work your ass off to prove her heart’s safe with you again.”

Jisung looked up slowly. “And if she never gives me that chance?”

Grey cracked a small smile. “Then you better make damn sure she knows you would’ve taken it.”

---

The knock was soft, but firm.

Grey didn’t even look up from his screen. “Come in, Y/N.”

She pushed the door open, the crisp scent of bergamot tea and wood polish instantly familiar. The blinds were cracked just enough for the golden evening light to spill in, catching the silver in Grey’s cufflinks. “You wanted to see me?” she asked, stepping in and shutting the door behind her.

He finally looked up tired eyes, lips pursed, tie slightly loosened like he’d been too busy to care today. Or maybe, too weighed down.

“I hate doing this,” he muttered, leaning back in his chair. “Truly, passionately, hate it. But apparently, I’ve become the damn emotional chaperone in this firm.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “I’m sorry… for what, exactly?”

Grey rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You and Han Jisung. You haven’t spoken more than four sentences unless it’s about legal briefs or witness statements in two weeks. And that boy—” he paused, exhaling deeply, “—he’s not okay.” Her throat tightened just slightly, but she kept her face still. “We’re being professional.”

“You’re being frosty,” Grey deadpanned. “And he’s being distant because he thinks he deserves it. But the truth is, Y/N…” He paused. “He’s breaking. Quietly. Slowly. And I’ve only seen him like this once — first year. He tried so hard to prove himself and failed a case that cost an innocent man jail time. I walked into the office and he was just… sitting there in the dark.”

YN swallowed. She hated the visual of that, Jisung, the firecracker of their courtroom, looking that dim. That alone hurt.

“He hasn’t said anything,” she said carefully.

“Because he doesn’t know how to,” Grey said. “Because people like Jisung? They weren’t taught love like you were.”

She looked at him. Really looked.

Grey leaned forward. “His parents didn’t raise him with softness. His father only calls to scold or guilt-trip, and his mother left him to fight those battles alone. Every emotion he’s got, every ounce of passion or fear or pride, he channels into work because it’s the one place he can control. He doesn’t fall for people easily, YN. But when he does, it’s… heavy. Terrifying.”

“I didn’t know,” she whispered, heart twisting.

“Of course you didn’t,” Grey said gently. “He doesn’t let people know. But I do. I’ve seen it. I see it now. He’s in love with you, Y/N. Has been for a while.”

Her breath caught. She blinked. “No… he’s not. He’s just… regretful.”

“Regret doesn’t make someone stare at your desk like it’s a missing limb,” Grey said sharply. “Regret doesn’t make him pause at your office door and walk away ten times in a day. That’s love. Unsaid. Unshaped. But it’s there.”

She sat back in the chair, the leather cool against her skin as her mind tried to wrap around the weight of Grey’s words. The idea that Jisung — chaotic, brilliant, frustrating Jisung — loved her was something she hadn’t let herself entertain. Not really.

“You’re scared too,” Grey said quietly, watching her expression change. “But I’m telling you now… either talk to him, or you both keep walking around like ghosts. And you’ll regret it far more than that night.”

Y/N didn’t speak for a long time.

But when she left his office, her fingers hovered near her phone.

---

The quiet of your apartment felt louder than usual. No music. No background show running just for noise. Just the low hum of the fridge, and her pacing footsteps against the hardwood floor.

You stood by the window, your phone in hand, thumb hovering over Jisung’s contact like it weighed ten pounds. Grey’s words were still spinning in your head, colliding with the memory of Jisung’s tired eyes, his hands pausing at her office door, the things he never said.

You pressed Call before she could overthink it again. The phone didn’t even get to the second ring.

“Hello?” His voice came fast, sharp, almost breathless. “Y/N? Hey. Hi—are you okay? Did something happen? I—I was just—Are you okay?”

You blinked at the window, lips twitching despite herself. “Hey, Jisung.”

“Hey,” he breathed, like your voice hit him like air after drowning. There was a pause. Then he continued, voice softer, still a little shaky:

“Sorry. Sorry. I didn’t think you’d… I mean, I hoped you would. I just—God, it’s good to hear you.”

Your chest squeezed at that. “I just wanted to check on you,” you said gently. “How are you?”

Another pause. A breath.

“I’m okay. I mean—work’s fine. Everything’s… fine. I’m just—” He stopped himself, then laughed under his breath, awkward and raw. “I’ve been better.”

“Yeah,” you whispered, heart aching. “Me too.”

You could hear his breath slow just slightly, like the ice between them cracked not broken yet, but thinned. “I wanted to ask,” she continued, voice steady now, “if I could see you. Tomorrow. In your office. Just us. If that’s okay.”

Jisung didn’t even hesitate. “Yes,” he said immediately. Then softer. “Yeah. Please. Anytime. I’ll be there.”

“Okay,” she said, a tiny smile ghosting her lips. “Tomorrow, then.”

“Tomorrow.”

There was another silence, but this one was warm. Almost comforting. And when they hung up, both of them stared at their ceilings for a long, long time. Waiting. Ready to try again.

---

The sun had barely settled into the sky when you stood at the threshold of Jisung’s office, your heart thudding harder with every breath. You weren’t nervous at least, you told yourself you weren’t. You were just… bracing yourself. For a conversation overdue. For feelings neither of you had signed up for. Your hand hovered over the handle, fingers curling in, then releasing. The hallway was quiet at this hour. No distractions. No excuses. Just you, a closed door, and the man you hadn’t stopped thinking about.

You finally knocked, three soft taps. Polite. Almost unsure.

“Come in,” his voice called through almost instantly, like he’d been sitting there waiting.

When you opened the door, the first thing you noticed was how he looked up fast, like he’d been facing the door the whole time. His hair was a little messy, eyes tired but alert, like he hadn’t really slept even though it was a new day. His tie was loose. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up just enough to show his forearms.

Your heart did a little tumble you didn’t appreciate.

“Hey,” you said quietly, stepping in. He stood up halfway. “Hey.”

And for a second, neither of you knew what to say. It was like the air between you was stitched together with tension and apologies that couldn’t be said in passing. Jisung cleared his throat. “Do you want to sit?” he asked, nodding to the two chairs by the coffee table near his desk. The sunlight was spilling in through the blinds, casting soft stripes of light over everything. You nodded and took a seat, smoothing down your skirt. He sat across from her, elbows on his knees, like he was ready to leap forward—or run.

“I wanted to talk,” you started, eyes locked on him.

“I know,” he said quickly. “I mean—I’m glad you did. I’ve been trying to figure out how to…” He trailed off, sighed, then ran a hand through his hair. “God, I’ve messed things up, haven’t I?”

“Not entirely,” you said softly. He looked up at you like that single sentence kept him from drowning. You licked your lips. “I talked to Grey.”

His brow lifted slightly. “Oh.”

“He told me things. About you. About how you grew up. About how… hard it is for you to get close to people.” Jisung shifted. The slight flinch in his posture wasn’t lost on you. “I didn’t come here to push you,” you said gently. “I came here because I needed to hear you. Not your file. Not Grey. You.”

He exhaled, almost crumbling.

“You scare me,” he muttered suddenly.

You blinked. “What?”

“You do. You walk in like you’re on fire and you don’t even notice the way the room bends around you. You don’t flinch when I’m cold. You challenge me. You see through me like no one ever has and I—I hate it because it’s terrifying and I love it because it’s you.”

You sat frozen for a breath. Then another. Your lips parted, stunned. “I didn’t mean what I said that night,” he said, voice lower now. “I knew I crossed the line the second I saw your face fall. I’ve been trying to figure out how to say I’m sorry ever since.”

You nodded once. “You did hurt me.”

“I know.”

“But I also didn’t let you explain.” Jisung stared at you for a long time, then whispered, “You didn’t deserve any of it.”

“I know,” she said back. Another moment passed. And then you reached for the coffee cup sitting cold on the table between them, lifted it to your lips, and made a face. “Jesus. How long has this been sitting here?”

He huffed a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Don’t drink that.”

“So, we agree it’s toxic waste?”

He nodded. “100%.” A beat. Then she smiled barely. But it was there. And Jisung? He smiled too, but his was full, slow, blooming like it had been dying to stretch across his face again.

“I still owe you lunch,” he said.

“And I still owe you a win,” youreplied.

They weren’t fixed. But they were trying.

Han Jisung’s hands have never felt so useless. He’d just begun to feel like the ground beneath them was leveling out, like he could speak to you again without hating himself. And then you had to look at him like that, half-curious, half-devilish. Like you were planning something dangerous, and he was helpless to stop it.

You sat forward, your eyes locked on him, voice honeyed but sharp.

“So… why didn’t you tell me?” you asked casually, like you weren’t about to unravel him.

Jisung blinked. “Tell you what?”

“That you have feelings for me.” His brain blue-screened. Full-on system failure. “I—uh—w-what? Feelings? Me?” You tilted your head, clearly amused. “Grey sort of told me yesterday.”

“Grey told—?!” he choked. “That—traitor—”

“Why didn’t you just say something?” you asked again, eyes twinkling. He fidgeted in his seat like it was suddenly too small for him. “Because! You’re—you. And I’m me. And this wasn’t supposed to happen. I’m your—supervisor,” he stressed, as if that helped.

“That never stopped you from bossing me around in meetings,” you teased.

He groaned. “Don’t say it like that, I already feel like I’ve committed emotional HR violations.” You leaned back, lips pressing together to hide your laugh. And then, slowly, you stood. Jisung watched you, wary. “What are you doing?”

You circled his desk like a cat, stopping behind his chair. “Wait,” you said, a grin tugging at your lips, “are you flustered right now?”

“I’m not—!” he squeaked, voice cracking slightly. “I am composed, thank you.”

“Flustered. About me,” you sang, enjoying this far too much. “Han Jisung has a crush on his intern…”

“You’re impossible,” he muttered under his breath, cheeks flushing even deeper.

“As if you aren’t too,” he shot back suddenly, the words slipping out before he could stop them. And it hit you like a slap of heat. Your smile faltered for half a second. You blinked. “What did you just say?”

Jisung’s lips parted, like he wanted to take it back but he didn’t. His eyes flickered to yours, wide and honest.

“Don’t act like it’s just me.”

A silence fell between them, heavy and buzzing. And then—God help them both—you leaned forward, bracing your hands on the arms of his chair. Close enough to see the stubble on his jaw. Close enough to feel his breath hitch.

You tilted your head. “You talk too much.”

Then, without warning, you kissed him.

Soft. Bold. Quick. But the second your lips pressed to his, your brain short-circuited with a thousand alarms. What did I just do? Your heart slammed against your ribs, panic bubbling up before you even pulled back.

“I—” you breathed, stepping back fast, “I shouldn’t have—”

But you didn’t get the chance to finish. Jisung was already out of his chair. And then his hands were on your waist, pulling you in, and his lips were back on yours, urgent this time. Messy. Real. Like he’d been waiting for this moment since the first time you argued with him.

You melted into it until you were both breathless and laughing against each other’s mouths.

“You totally overstepped,” he whispered, grinning. You rolled her eyes. “You literally chased me.” He smirked, still breathless. “And I’d do it again.”

One kiss turned into two. Then three. Then neither of you could remember who started what anymore. Jisung’s hands were frantic, like he couldn’t decide where to touch you first. Your waist? Your jaw? Your hips? He settled for all of them, one after the other, pulling you impossibly closer between kisses that left you both gasping.

You weren’t helping—at all. You were smirking against his lips, fingers sliding under the collar of his shirt as you murmured, “You know, for someone so professional in meetings… you’re kinda desperate right now.” Jisung pulled back just enough to look at you, mouth parted in shock. “Wh—” His voice cracked. “That’s not fair—!”

“Awww,” you teased, dragging your finger down the center of his chest, “did I hurt your feelings?”

“Yes!” he whined, genuinely, breath stuttering. “Why are you bullying me right now?”

“Because you’re easy,” you grinned, grabbing the end of his tie and giving it a little tug. “And cute when you pout.” Jisung muttered something incoherent—probably a curse—before he gave up entirely and kissed you again, this time deeper, one hand firm at the small of your back while the other traveled down, fingers skimming the edge of her thighs. You let out a sharp inhale when he hoisted you up onto his desk like you weighed nothing. Papers crumpled beneath you, a pen went clattering to the floor, and you couldn’t bring yourself to care because his hands God, his hands were trailing up your legs with reverence and want all rolled into one shaky exhale.

He was looking at you like he didn’t know whether to worship you or unravel you.

“You’re trouble,” he whispered against her skin.

“I learned from the best,” you shot back, already popping open the first button of his shirt. “Mr. Han.”

“Oh my God—” He was dizzy. Fully, utterly gone for you. His tie was undone, shirt halfway open, and your lips were ghosting along the edge of his collarbone like you wanted to memorize the taste of him.

And then—

RIIINGGGG—!!

The desk phone blared.

The two of you froze.

Jisung groaned. “No. No, no, no.” You snorted, forehead falling to his shoulder in disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I’m about to unplug that thing for life,” he mumbled into your neck. “Shouldn’t you pick it up?” you teased.

“I should sue it for emotional damage.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“You kissed me and now I’m ruined—of course I’m dramatic!”

The phone kept ringing. Reluctantly, breath still uneven, Jisung reached around you for the receiver, muttering a soft, “Don’t move,” like you were going to evaporate if he looked away for too long. He cleared his throat before answering voice still wrecked, like he’d just sprinted up a dozen flights of stairs.

“Y-Yeah, Han speaking…”

There was a pause. You watched his expression shift from annoyed to concerned, his brows furrowing, jaw tightening.

“Mhm. Okay—okay. Yeah. I’ll be right there.”

He hung up and sighed like he just aged ten years in thirty seconds. You tilted your head. “That didn’t sound like a lunch reservation.” Jisung winced. “It’s not. That was about the Parker brief—something blew up with the client and I need to help clean it before it spirals. They’re asking for me personally.”

He stepped closer, brushing your hair back gently. “I swear to God, if I didn’t have to go—”

“You’d what?” you teased, lips quirking. He grinned, leaning in to kiss you one more time, slow and deliberate. “I’d definitely get fired.”

You laughed against his mouth and pulled back. “So dramatic.”

“I mean it,” he said, his tone suddenly sincere. “But I am going to make it up to you tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Dinner. Just you and me. No work. No Grey. No emergencies. Just us.” Your brows raised. “Is this a bribe, Mr. Han?”

“This is me asking you on a date, finally,” he said, smirking. “And lowkey bribing you.”

“You’re lucky I like food,” you said, hopping off the desk as he helped her down. “Lucky you like me,” he mumbled under his breath.

You caught that. You both smiled. As you adjusted your blouse and smoothed your skirt, you stepped over to him and fixed his tie with practiced ease, eyes focused on the knot like it was the most delicate task in the world. Then you slid a finger down the center of his shirt, giving one button an extra pat.

“There,” you murmured. “Ready for war.”

“I was gonna say court,” he chuckled, “but same energy.” You turned to leave, heels clicking against the polished floor. And of course, his eyes dropped immediately to your hips. And stayed there. Shamelessly. You didn’t even have to look back to know. You paused at the door, turned slowly, and caught him red-handed, gaze glued to you like he was trying to memorize every step you took.

“So, you were staring,” you said, one brow arched in challenge.

Jisung blinked, caught like a guilty puppy. “I—I was just—I mean, technically, you’re walking in my office so it’s my job to supervise…”

“Supervise my ass?” He grinned. “Exactly.”

“God, you’re insufferable.”

“And yet, you’re still showing up for dinner.”

“Only because I want dessert.”

“Ohhh my God.”

You winked and walked out, leaving Jisung running a hand through his hair, muttering, “She’s gonna destroy me,” with the biggest lovestruck smile on his face.

Waw....our flustered boy always comes out in the end huh? 🥰

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[mrsha-ang-kim]

Part 5

𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐨𝐜𝐨𝐥

Pairing: ex!FBIagent!Chan x FBIagent!afab!reader, partners in crime to acquaintances?

Synopsis: he died. Everyone believed he did. But you found out. And whether you like it or not, keeping you alive is now his job.

Chapter Synopsis: Reynolds catches on to you two, and so do the Russians. Chan is now forced to tell you what happened in Cuba. But you feel like he's hiding even more

Warnings: violence, weapons, character death, blood, secrets within a truth, Russian (translations)

A/n: pay attention!! I should make a playlist for this atp...if you have extra eyes for errors, no you don't

previously... next...

The velvet buzz of laughter, clinking glasses, and live jazz hadn’t dulled. The charity event rolled on with practiced elegance as you and Chan moved through the ornate hallway, walking just fast enough to feel purposeful, but slow enough not to raise suspicion. Chan had slipped back into character—charming, cool-headed, his arm lightly placed around your lower back as you moved toward the grand staircase. You, still electrified from your exchange with Petrov and the revelations unearthed, schooled your features into polite disinterest, like a bored heiress ready to call it a night.

“You good?” Chan murmured under his breath, leaning just slightly closer.

“I’ll be better when we’re not in a building full of men with guns and secrets,” you replied softly.

Chan smirked.

You rounded the staircase, descending past clusters of partygoers, some mid-toast, others in deep political conversation. Security passed them once eyes glazed from routine but didn't stop them. Near the bar, amongst a circle of politicians and businessmen, Reynolds lifted his gaze. His glass paused mid-sip. There, moving across the hall toward the exit, he saw you.

His eyes narrowed slightly. Not in full recognition, but that kind of gut reaction the flicker of familiarity that twists in the stomach.

“Excuse me,” he said to the man beside him, handing off his drink and slowly stepping away.

You felt it first, that prickle at the back of your neck. Something subtler than fear. A sense of being watched.

Your stride faltered for half a second, enough for Chan to glance down at you.

“What is it?”

“...Someone’s looking.”

Chan’s hand gripped your waist a little firmer, subtly steering you toward the side door instead of the main one. The soft golden lights reflected off the glass, casting warped shadows across the tile floors as they passed the last few guests.

Behind them, Reynolds weaved through the crowd like a shark in still water, polite smile fixed in place, but his gaze locked. Then a flicker of a smirk curled on his lips. He recognized you.

But before he could call out, the couple vanished through the side exit, the heavy door shutting behind them with a soft click. A breeze swept through the night, ruffling the corners of your dress. The car Jisung arranged was parked inconspicuously near the garden’s edge, engine already running. Chan opened the door for you, eyes scanning the shadowed corners as he did.

As the car pulled away from the estate, the gala lights glowing like stars behind them, Reynolds stepped out onto the balcony above—watching.

And smiling.

Reynolds stood with a casual posture that masked the fury simmering just beneath the surface. His gaze didn’t leave the now-closed balcony door. That woman — you — walking out like you hadn’t noticed he was here too. And now… you’d come with someone.

“Get me the security feed from the east wing hallway,” he said sharply, breaking the silence.

A guard beside him nodded and tapped quickly on a nearby console. Footage blinked onto the screen smooth, grainy black-and-white. You and Chan, walking in sync. Close. Coordinated. Not lovers, not friends, most likely partners. That kind of body language didn’t lie.

Reynolds leaned forward.

“Who the hell is that man?”

---

Rain danced lightly on the windshield as Chan drove them through the quiet parts of the city, one hand on the steering wheel, the other propped lazily against the open window. The gala behind them felt like a lifetime ago. Next to him, you leaned back in your seat, arms crossed, face half-lit by the passing streetlights. You were still quiet. Processing. Your mind somewhere between Cuba, Petrov’s half-finished words, and the aching curiosity of what exactly Chan was keeping from you.

Chan’s voice broke the silence.

“I’m pulling into this convenience store,” he announced. “Could use a snack. Or six.”

You raised an eyebrow at him. “What? I just survived a gunfight and a ballroom. I deserve food.”

He parked smoothly and hopped out without waiting for an answer. You followed him into the little 24-hour shop with its fluorescent hum, cracked tiles, and sleepy cashier who barely looked up from his phone. Chan picked a table in the corner the kind only old men or late-night insomniacs gravitated toward. He leaned back, letting out a small groan as he stretched his arm, feeling the bruises already setting in.

“You get the snacks,” he said with a grin. “Get something classy. Like spicy chips and microwavable dumplings.”

You gave him a dry look. “You’re telling me what to do?”

“Aren’t we still a couple?” he added without missing a beat. You scoffed, rolling your eyes as you walked away. As you wandered off toward the fridges and snack aisle, Chan reached up to adjust the comms earpiece.

“Han? You there?”

There was a brief crackle, then Jisung’s voice slid in like a lazy breeze.

“Alive. Glad you guys could get out safe.”

“Thanks. You’re as comforting as always,” Chan muttered. “Where’s the gear?”

“Safe house three,” Jisung replied. “Same spot we used last time we were here. I restocked it earlier yesterday — clothes, weapons, burner phones, first-aid kits. The drive’s probably being flagged already, so you need to ghost fast.”

Chan drummed his fingers on the table. “And shelter?”

“Hotel’s too risky. There’s a secondary location on the north end of Malá Strana. I’ll send you coordinates. It’s off-grid — the guy who owns it owes me three favors and a kidney.”

Chan huffed a laugh.

“Take Y/N there. Lay low. I’ll monitor traffic on Petrov and Reynolds.”

“Copy that.”

Just then, you returned, holding a paper bag with a sandwich, chocolate milk, and shrimp chips. Chan gave you a knowing look.

“Thank you, my lovely wife.” You plopped down across from him with a soft snort. “It’s tradition.”

He took the bag, rummaged through, and held up a strawberry yogurt with mock betrayal.

“Eat your dumplings and shut up, if you wanted something different you would’ve gone by yourself.” you replied, but your lips twitched into a smile. For a moment, they sat in the soft, quiet lull of the dim store two ghosts in a city.

Then Chan checked the time, and the drive in his pocket. The corner of the store glowed dimly under flickering lights. Chan sat across from you, unwrapping the plastic off his microwaved dumplings with fingers that bore the bruises of the night. You sipped from your chocolate milk, one leg crossed over the other, your eyes flickering to the entrance every time the chime above the door dinged.

Stillness. Then, ding.

The door swung open. Three men walked in.

Not loud. Just… deliberate.

Chan’s head didn’t move, but his eyes tracked them through the faint reflection on the freezer door behind you. Their coats were too thick for the weather. Their hands bare. No gloves. No prints. One of them kept glancing over the aisles like he was casing a mark. The other? Walking like his boots were familiar with blood.

Then he saw the third man. His body tensed just enough for you to notice. Your brows pulled together. “Chan?” you asked under her breath.

“Put down the milk,” he said softly. “And listen to me carefully.”

Your back straightened. “Don’t turn around. Just get up. Walk to the bathroom hallway. There’s an emergency exit door that leads to the alley. Wait for my signal.”

“Why? I know how to fight Chan.” you stated, already hesitating.

“Don’t ask questions,” he snapped quietly. His voice didn’t raise but there was an authority laced into it.  Your eyes darted down. The sarcasm was gone. His expression had shifted. You rose, grabbed your bag, and left with practiced grace—casual, even adding a yawn, like you were just going to find the restroom. One of the men glanced toward you. Chan locked eyes with him immediately.

Look at me, bastard. Not her.

The man didn’t flinch.

As you disappeared into the hallway, Chan stood, tossing his empty food container in the trash as he slowly approached the drinks cooler again not because he needed anything, but to move.

The three men were now close. One stepped forward.

"Забавно видеть тебя здесь." the tallest one said. (Funny seeing you here)

Chan tilted his head. “Small world.” The man laughed but there was no humor in it. “I knew I recognized that face. You’re the one from Havana,” he said, switching to English with a thick accent. “Or was it Rome?”

Chan let out a low, exaggerated sigh. “You guys never get tired of the whole global hunter thing, huh?” The shorter one stepped closer. “You’ve got something. And apart from your life, we want it.” Chan glanced down at the dumpling sauce stain on his shirt. “If you want the drive, you’re gonna have to wait until I finish my midnight snack, bratan." brother

The tall one smirked, his hand shifting inside his coat.

Chan’s expression didn’t change but his weight subtly shifted to his back leg, hand grazing his belt loop. His eyes scanned the store four people inside now. Two of them civvies, too scared to notice. The cashier? Useless, still watching his phone.

“Don’t do it here,” Chan said. “Too many cameras.”

The Russian nodded slightly…then lunged.

Chan grabbed a bottle off the shelf and smashed it across the shorter man’s face. Shards flew. A scream erupted. The shoppers ducked. The tall man pulled a blade, but Chan swiped a metal tray from the counter and blocked it, twisting, using his elbow to slam into the guy’s ribs.

The third man grabbed Chan from behind—too slow. Chan slammed his head backward, breaking the man’s nose with a sickening crunch, then twisted out of his grip, grabbed him by the neck and shoved him straight through the freezer door with a deafening crash. Blood sprayed and glass cracked.

“Y/N, Move!” he barked into the comms, breathing hard.

The tall Russian wiped blood from his lip and sneered. “You don’t know who you’re messing with.”

Chan grinned, panting. “I’m counting on it.”

He threw a can of soup at his head, distracting him just long enough to leap over the counter, sliding on his side like it was second nature, then bolting through the back hallway.

---

You had already pushed the rusted emergency door open with your shoulder, heart hammering. You were halfway down the alley when Chan came skidding out behind you, limping slightly but still moving fast. You turned and grabbed his wrist, yanking him behind a dumpster as tyou both ducked. He leaned against the wall, breathing hard. He wheezed, then offered you a breathless, sarcastic grin. “What, you think I get beat up for fun?”

You stared at him, torn between adrenaline and fury.

“You need to stop playing hero.”

“Yeah? I’m sorry ma’am I don’t think I will.” You rolled your eyes, but didn’t let go of his wrist. Then the comms buzzed.

“You two still alive?”

“Barely,” Chan muttered. “We need to move. Russians just showed up.”

“You kidding? Shit. They’re probably tracking the drive already. But for what? I’m sending coordinates. Get out of there. Now.”

Chan looked to you. “Let’s go.”

Together, you disappeared into the shadows of the alley, hearts pounding, every step taking them closer to answers — and deeper into the storm.

---

Your footsteps echoed down the narrow alley as you both moved fast, side by side, slipping into darkness like they’d done this a hundred times before. The city blurred behind them with neon lights and the hum of late-night Prague drowned beneath adrenaline and the low buzz of the comms. Chan’s hand was still pressed to his ribs, where one of the guards at the gala got a lucky jab in. You caught him wincing and grabbed his arm, steadying him.

“Talk,” you said sharply. “Now. Who were they?”

He gritted his teeth, eyes scanning ahead.

“They’re not just any hitmen,” he muttered. “They’re part of the old Moscow syndicate. You remember? The Russians that came to the building that night.”

“They traced you here?!” He shot her a tired smirk. “Maybe.”

“Really Chris? What the fuck did you do?”

Chan pulled you around a corner, fast, ducking behind a parked van as a pair of motorbikes roared past the street behind them. Then he looked at you with a mix of regret and grit. “Back when I was still with the Bureau, I intercepted one of their arms deals. Took out half a warehouse. Left their second-in-command with a shattered spine and burned every dime they were laundering through East Asia.”

“Jesus, Chan…”

“I had a charming personality,” he muttered. “They’ve been looking for a reason to kill me ever since. And now that I’ve got that drive with Petrov’s little secrets? They finally have an excuse.” You exhaled sharply, tugging your coat tighter around you. “So, this isn’t just about the mission anymore. They want blood.”

“They always have.” He glanced at you. “Mine first. Yours if you stay near me.”

Your jaw clenched. “Well too late for that now, isn’t it?”

He gave you that look again that unreadable one. The one that used to mean I warned you not to follow me. But this time, it was layered. He was scared. Not for himself. For you. Before either could say more, the comms lit up again, with Jisung’s voice ringing through.

“I rerouted surveillance. You're clear to move east. Chan — the duffel bags are at an old supply unit three blocks from you. It’s got everything: burner phones, gear, passports, two handguns, med kit, and a toothbrush if you’re lucky.”

“What, no snacks?”

“You’re welcome, by the way.”

He clicked off, then turned to you.

“We get the bags. Then we find somewhere off-grid. No more convenience stores. No more chances for them to catch up.” You nodded, eyes hard. “And if they do?”

Chan’s hand settled on her lower back, guiding your forward.

“Then I do what I should’ve done in Havana.”

You blinked. “What’s that?”

“Make sure you walk away. No matter what happens to me.”

---

The lights were dim. A desk lamp flickered low, casting long shadows across glass walls. Reynolds stood stiff, one hand resting on the edge of the table, the other tapping a pen rhythmically as a grainy footage flickered across the wall-mounted screen.

“Back it up,” he muttered. His analyst glanced over nervously. “Sir?” Reynolds leaned in. His eyes didn’t blink.

“That woman… the one near Petrov. Back it up. Zoom in. Slow it down.”

The analyst did as told, typing quick commands into the console. The footage rolled backward—time rewinding in blurry frames—until the moment YN walked out of the lounge and onto the balcony. Reynolds’ jaw tightened.

“There. Who’s that with her?” The analyst hesitated. “I—I don’t have a match.”

Reynolds stepped closer to the screen, eyes narrowing as the figure in the video turned slightly. Just enough for the light to catch his face. The side profile. The walk. The damn posture. Reynolds let out a breath that almost sounded like a curse and whispered under it like a man seeing a ghost.

“…Christopher Motherfucking Bang.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. A sardonic laugh escaped, dry and bitter. “Of course it’s you.” The analyst looked up, confused. “Sir…?” “Nothing,” Reynolds said. “Just realizing I’ve been chasing phantoms with knives. And one of them’s real.”

He turned from the screen and gave a short, cold command:

“Run facial recognition through all the charity feed. Every angle. Every guest. I want confirmation. And if it is him… we burn protocol and escalate this to international watchlist status. Quietly.”

---

It was old. Dusty. Probably hadn’t been used since the Cold War. And you’d gotten used to sleeping in strange places at this point. But it was safe. Off-grid. Quiet. The floor creaked under your boots as you stepped into the main room. Chan had already collapsed onto the couch, one arm resting across his ribs, breathing shallow but still refusing to show pain. You set down the bag Jisung prepped and pulled out the first aid kit. No hesitation.

“Take your shirt off.”

He glanced at you with a smirk, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You offering or threatening?”

You didn’t blink. “Off. Now.”

He groaned, sitting up with effort. The bruises along his ribs were already blooming purple-blue, and a cut at his side had soaked into the waistband of his pants. He winced as the cold alcohol hit him, but you didn’t flinch. You was quiet at first. Focused. Until the silence between them started to turn thick.

Then you spoke.

“What happened in Cuba?”

Chan froze. Your fingers stilled against his side, waiting. Demanding. “I know that’s what Petrov was going to tell me,” you added, voice lower. “Right before his guard walked in. He looked at me like I should already know.”

He swallowed, jaw locking. You stepped back slightly, eyes narrowed. “Chris. What the hell happened during Operation Nightfall?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

You snapped. “Well too damn bad.”

Silence. He looked away.

“I’ll tell you everything when it's safe.”

You crossed your arms, eyes burning. “Were never gonna be safe. So, either I hear it from you now, or I hear it from Petrov later.” That name made his knuckles tighten around the edge of the couch.

He stood suddenly—halfway, anyway—and hissed from the pain, holding his ribs. “You don’t understand-.”

“I’m not here for the pretty version,” you said, softer now. “I’m here because somehow, I trust you. Even when I shouldn’t.” That’s when he finally looked at you. Something in his face cracked his usual sarcasm chipped off just long enough for you to see it. He sat back down slowly, jaw clenched, and turned his gaze to the floor.

“I’ll tell you,” he murmured. And with that, the silence returned, thicker now, coiled with all the ghosts of Havana still waiting to be named.

Chan leaned against the wall, a shadow cast over half his face from the lone desk lamp in the room. you sat across from him, still, her arms crossed over her chest—but her eyes… her eyes were soft. Not accusing. Just listening.

Chan took a breath, like it hurt to pull the memory from where he buried it.

“His name was Seungmin,” he began, voice low. “Kid was twenty-one. Barely out of Quantico. Fresh-cut suit. Could hack into anything, and still trip over a cable right after.” A small, sad smile twitched at the corner of his mouth.

“He wasn’t supposed to come to Cuba. Hell, I fought Reynolds on it. Said he wasn’t field-ready. But the kid was adamant. Said he needed to prove he could handle it. Said it was his shot.”

The house was small. Old fans spun slowly on the ceiling, blowing warm air around. Seungmin sat on the couch, legs crossed, laptop open, screens buzzing with codes and satellite pings.

Chan walked in from the back room, half-drenched from the heat and half-wary from a cartel meeting he’d just walked out of. No vest. No wire. Just a worn T-shirt and eyes that never stopped scanning. Seungmin perked up, pushing his glasses up his nose.

“You okay, boss?”

Chan dropped onto the opposite couch with a grunt. “Still breathing. That’s a win.” Seungmin smiled awkwardly. “You always say that.”

“‘Cause it’s always true.”

Seungmin clicked a few keys and sighed. “Man… when this op ends, I’m gonna apply for tactical. Maybe counterintelligence. Or cyber-terror. Think I got a shot?” Chan raised an eyebrow. “All of them?”

The boy nodded with wide-eyed hope. “Why not? Dream big, right?” Chan scoffed but fondly. “You puke at the sight of blood, remember?”

“Details.”

Chan chuckled, then went quiet for a beat. “You know you remind me of my brother?” Seungmin blinked. “You have a brother?”

“You're the most annoying.” Seungmin grinned, pride in his eyes like a little brother who’d just earned a badge.

Chan exhaled, rubbing his thumb across the scar on his knuckle.

“He was smart,” he said. “Too smart. A week before the takedown… he started feeling off. Said something didn’t feel right. That our usual data feeds from HQ had stopped cold. And he wasn’t wrong.”

You leaned forward slightly. “And Reynolds?”

“Brushed it off. Said there were protocol delays. But Seungmin—he kept pushing. He stayed up for two days straight combing through old code, searching for something buried in the encrypted files.” Chan’s voice cracked just a bit, barely enough to notice.

“I told him to rest. Told him to trust me. I told him—I told him I’d keep him safe.” Your gaze faltered, your chest rising slowly.

“What happened, Chris?” Chan’s jaw clenched. The next words took everything in him.

“We walked into a slaughter.”

Thunder rolled in the distance. The air reeked of oil and blood. Rain fell in sharp streaks across crates and crates of illicit cargo. Chan moved through the shadows, dressed like the enemy, wired to hell with cameras, gun tucked under his jacket.

Seungmin was beside him, pale but focused, scanning the area with shaking hands. “We shouldn’t be here, Chan,” he whispered, breath fogging. “Something’s wrong. Where’s the backup?”

“They’re coming,” Chan said, lying through his teeth.

And then— gunfire. From the wrong direction. It wasn’t the cartel. It wasn’t their own. It was a clean-up squad. Trained. Silent. Deadly. There to erase witnesses.

Seungmin’s scream cut through the night as bullets tore into his vest, knocking him backward into a crate. Gunfire echoed across the rusted steel crates as the downpour drowned the docks. Water slapped the concrete in sheets, mixing with the crimson that pooled beneath bodies—their men. FBI. Chan’s boots skidded over soaked gravel as he ducked behind a storage container, grabbing Seungmin’s vest and yanking him down with him. “We were set up!” Seungmin gasped, voice cracking, clutching his side as blood oozed between his fingers.

“I know, I know—just stay with me, okay?” Chan barked, yanking open his belt pouch and tearing gauze with his teeth.

Seungmin’s eyes were wide and terrified. His chest heaved under Chan’s hands.

“Where’s backup?” he choked. Chan didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

They were never coming. He pressed the gauze harder. “You’re gonna be fine, Seungmin. I got you.”

His fingers trembled. The gunfire was slowing now either they were running out of bullets or they thought everyone was dead.

Seungmin coughed, a splatter of blood painting his lips.

“I—I can’t feel my legs.”

“No. No, no, look at me.” Chan grabbed his face. “Just focus on me. You’re gonna walk out of here with me, yeah? We’re gonna finish this. You’ll make Tactical. You’ll get your badge. You’ll puke all over your first hostage rescue, and I’ll be there to laugh at you.”

That earned a tiny smile, watery and full of pain.

“Promise?”

Chan’s voice broke.

“Promise.”

But Seungmin’s eyes started to glaze. His hands were turning cold. Chan felt the shift, felt that awful drop in pressure when life tries to leave a body. “No. No, hey! Stay awake, dammit! Look at me—MINNIE!”

Seungmin blinked slowly… then locked eyes with him. And for a second, he wasn’t an agent. Wasn’t a prodigy. Wasn’t a casualty.

He was just a kid.

“Hyung…” he whispered, chest rattling. “I just… wanted to be like you…”

And then his head tilted. His lips parted, but no breath came. Just the sound of rain. Chan stared, frozen. The world slowed, and the thunder muted. Everything went distant—unreal. He touched Seungmin’s cheek.

Still warm. Still soft.

But gone.

Something in Chan cracked. Not loud. Not even violent. Just a silent, splintering collapse in his chest, like a dam breaking underwater. He inhaled sharply, jaw trembling. And then he screamed; muffled against his arm to not give his position away. A sound of rage and grief crushed down, a sound no one would ever hear.

Tears mixed with rain as he kissed Seungmin’s forehead.

Then footsteps approached with voices. Russian.

“Проверь за контейнерами.” Check behind the containers

Chan slipped into the shadows, rage coiling in his stomach, crawling up his throat. His fists clenched around his weapon, but he didn’t fire. Not yet.

He had to survive. He vanished into the dark, like smoke, Seungmin’s final words clinging to his back like a curse.

“I didn’t know, YN,” Chan choked, the memory slashing back with raw intensity. “I thought we were just gathering intel. But they… they used us as bait. To lure out the rivals. Then they burned it all.”

“He died in my arms,” Chan whispered. The room went cold. You sat frozen. The breath you finally let out trembled.

“You didn’t tell me,” you said softly. “I couldn’t,” he replied, hollow. “Because if I told you, you’d realize the truth.”

Your eyes met his.

“That Reynolds knew?”

Chan nodded once, slowly.

“He ordered the hit. Covered it. Buried the op with the help of Petrov.” He ran a hand through his hair, shoulders tight.

“But I remember every detail. Every shot. Every second. And every time I close my eyes; it’s his voice I hear.” Silence fell like a hammer between them.

And yet, when you finally moved, it wasn’t away.

Now, the room was dim, lit only by the faint yellow glow of a small desk lamp and the occasional flicker from the muted TV in the corner. Rain tapped lightly at the windowpane, a cruel echo of that night in Cuba. The scent of antiseptic still hung in the air. Chan sat on the edge of the bed, shirt off, bandages loosely wrapped around his side where you had cleaned and patched the wound earlier. His hair clung to his forehead, sweat and memory weighing him down like a phantom limb. His eyes didn’t look at you. They just stared—straight ahead, but not really seeing.

You stood across the room, arms crossed, silent.

You didn’t dare speak at first.

What could you say to a story like that? A part of you wanted to press on. Ask what happened to the intel? What happened to the cartel he worked for? One person’s death couldn’t just cause the FBI’s golden boy to go rouge. Yes, it was heartbreaking to lose someone like that but it doesn’t add up to why he left everything behind. That couldn’t be everything that happened in Cuba.

“I didn’t know,” you finally whispered. Chan chuckled softly. Bitter. Hollow.

“Yeah. No one does.”

You took a step closer. “Why didn’t you ever tell anyone?”

“What good would it do?” His voice was tired, dragging. “Reynolds buried the op the second the docks were reported clear. Said it was too much bad press. Too much blood for an operation they shouldn’t have greenlit in the first place. Didn’t even give Seungmin the credit he deserved, called him ‘an unfortunate loss.’ Like he was a typo in the mission report.”

Your jaw clenched. “That’s why you left.”

He gave a slow nod, finally meeting your eyes. And God, they were wrecked. Not red. Not crying. But the kind of wreckage that time doesn’t touch. That gets stitched into your soul.

“I was done following orders from men who sit behind glass walls while kids like him bleed out in alleyways.”

Silence stretched between them. The kind that hurt to break. You sat beside him, the bed creaking under the weight of grief and unspoken history. You reached for his hand, and to your surprise… he didn’t pull away. “You still carry it with you,” you said softly. “All of it.”

“I deserve to,” he murmured. “No,” you said, voice sharper now. “You don’t get to decide that.” He looked at you, something defiant flaring but it flickered and died when he saw the tears you was holding back too. “Seungmin made a choice. You didn’t kill him, Chan. You loved him.”

His lip quivered. He bit it down.

“Still lost him.”

“And you’ll lose yourself too if you keep living like this.” You squeezed his hand. “You don’t have to carry it alone anymore.” Chan didn’t answer. But the silence he gave you this time it felt different. Like the beginning of something instead of the end. He removed his hand from your touch. Then his comm crackled to life.

“Uh, hate to break up the trauma bonding,” Jisung’s voice buzzed through, voice low and alert, “but I think Reynolds might’ve just made you.”

Chan exhaled, slow. Gutted. You looked at him.

“What now?”

The night settled heavy over the city, the world outside muffled by thick walls and weary hearts. The rain hadn’t stopped, still weeping against the windows as though the sky itself mourned.

 Chan lay on the worn-down mattress, one arm tucked beneath his head, the other stretched across the empty side of the bed. You had already fallen asleep in the next room, the door left slightly ajar. A soft hum of the heater filled the space, but it couldn’t quiet his mind.

His eyes stayed open far too long until they blurred, until exhaustion finally pulled him under. But rest wouldn’t come easy.

Not for him. Not tonight.

He found himself standing barefoot on the sands of a beach that didn’t exist anymore. Not physically, anyway. The sky overhead was a blur of orange and deep violet, waves crashing rhythmically in the background.

And there—sitting on a washed-up log with his hands tucked into his sleeves—was Seungmin. Wearing that same old navy hoodie he’d worn in Cuba. The one Chan had always said made him look like a “K-Drama puppy.”

He looked up as Chan approached, face younger, untouched by blood or gunpowder. “You’re late,” Seungmin said, deadpan. Chan let out a dry breath, something between a laugh and a sob. “Sorry. The Russian mafia and unresolved trauma kept me.”

Seungmin smiled softly. “You always did have terrible time management.” Chan knelt in the sand in front of him. “God, I missed you, kid.”

“I know.” A beat passed. “I keep seeing your face,” Chan whispered, voice cracking. “Every time I close my eyes, you’re there—bleeding out in my arms, asking me to save you and I can’t—” His voice broke entirely, hands shaking. “I couldn’t, Minnie.” Seungmin just looked at him, gaze steady, kind.

“I never blamed you, hyung.” Chan’s chest tightened. “You should’ve.”

“You did everything you could. I knew the risks. I chose to follow you.” He leaned forward, eyes softening. “You didn’t lead me into death, Chan. You led me into purpose.” Chan dropped his head, shoulders trembling, fists buried in the sand. “I’m tired,” he choked. “I’m so fucking tired, Seungmin. I don’t know who I am without the Bureau. Without the blood. Without you and your motivation.”

Seungmin reached out, resting a hand on his shoulder. “You’re still the same guy who taught me to tie a tourniquet with one hand. Who played old Epik High songs at 3 a.m. when I was homesick.” He gave a faint smirk. “The guy who made me call him ‘boss’ even when we were off-duty.”

“That was for morale.”

“That was for your ego.”

They both laughed—soft and bittersweet. Seungmin's gaze grew more serious now. “You’re allowed to heal, hyung. You’re allowed to live.”

“How?”

Seungmin tilted his head. “Start by forgiving yourself. You always said, ‘Don’t carry weight that isn’t yours.’ Maybe it’s time you listened.” Chan swallowed hard, tears falling freely now.

“I'm scared, Minnie.”

“I know.” Seungmin leaned closer, their foreheads almost touching. “But you're not alone. Not anymore.” Then, Seungmin gave him one last smile. Warm. Real.

“You don’t have to be a weapon forever. And please, tell the pretty lady, everything.”

And just like that, the waves pulled him away, his figure fading into sea foam, into dawn—

Chan jolted awake, heart thudding. The lamp flickered beside him, casting soft shadows on the cracked walls. He sat up slowly, wiping his face—wet with tears he hadn’t realized he’d shed.

His breath caught in his chest, but something was different now. Not peace.

But a fragment of it. A beginning. He glanced toward the cracked door where you slept, your silhouette curled under the blankets. And for the first time in a long time… he didn’t feel completely lost.

---

Late evening. The city lights bleed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long shadows against the walls. The air smells faintly of cigars and ambition. Petrov sat first, hands steepled, posture loose but commanding like a wolf in silk. His signature cane leaned against the armrest. Reynolds entered shortly after, dressed in his usual monochrome suit, tie still crisp despite the hour. He nodded once, his expression unreadable, and took the seat opposite him.

A bottle of aged scotch sat between them, untouched.

For now.

“Petrov,” Reynolds said, calmly. “Always a pleasure.” Petrov’s smile was polite. Thin. “Reynolds. How’s the Bureau doing?”

Reynolds smirked. “Still alive, which is more than I can say for most of it.”

A pause. Then Petrov leaned forward, eyes glittering. “I heard you’ve been watching the tapes.”

“And I heard your guards need better training,” Reynolds quipped, but there was venom behind the words. “You let the lady in.”

“She was vetted. Clever. Disarming. I wasn’t aware you were still so concerned.”

“Not concerned. Just cautious.” He tapped the table twice. “He was with her, you know. At your gala. Bang Chan.” Petrov didn’t flinch, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “Interesting. So hes not dead?”

“He’s alive, reckless, and apparently, back on the grid. That makes things complicated.” Petrov reached for the scotch, finally pouring two glasses with the ease of a man who enjoyed control. “Complicated… or convenient?” Reynolds raised a brow. “You think this is convenient?”

“I think it’s catalytic,” Petrov replied smoothly, sliding a glass toward him. “If Chan’s involved, that means someone else is watching. And if someone’s watching… we have a stage.”

Reynolds didn’t touch the glass.

“I want him neutralized,” he said. “Quietly. No theatrics.”

“And the girl?” Petrov asked, swirling his drink. A long pause.

“She’s loyal to a ghost,” Reynolds muttered. “She still believes in the Bureau. That makes her dangerous… but also predictable.” Petrov leaned back. “So let me guess. You’ll let them run, watch what hole they crawl into, and then strike when the story’s at its climax.”

Reynolds gave a thin, mirthless smile. “Something like that.”

They sipped in synchronized silence, the tension between them a careful balancing act. History. Power. Betrayal. It all clung to the air like smoke. “You always were the romantic type,” Petrov muttered. “And you,” Reynolds replied, finishing his drink, “always underestimate ghosts.”

Hehehehe...so like what if there was a plot twist? Asking for a friend...

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[mrsha-ang-kim]

𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝

Pairing: vampire!Felix x afab!reader, strangers to potential lovers, vampire au

synopsis: to prove that you are once again always the brave one, you take one a dare. But meeting a cursed attractive vampire wasn't part of the deal.

Warnings: blood, angst?, curses, Felix falls in love easily (esp. with blood), but hes a meanie, dead people

A/n: this was a request made a while ago by a beautiful angel that I can't remember..but I know it was a request 😔 I'm sorry love! Please enjoy the story as it's my first time writing a supernatural au even though it's not my type. If you have extra eyes for errors, no you don't.

It all started with a bonfire and a bottle of cheap vodka.

The night was unusually cold for early autumn, and the wind that howled through the trees felt almost like whispers brushing against the skin. The fire cracked in the center of the clearing, surrounded by seven dare-hungry souls seeking thrills in a town where nothing exciting ever happened. Except for the one thing no one dared talk about—except in jest, when the alcohol flowed and the night felt invincible. The abandoned mansion at the edge of Marrow’s Hollow.

“It’s just an old ruin,” one of the boys, Devin, said, passing the bottle. “Creepy? Sure. Haunted? Nah. You’d die of boredom before any ghost got you.”

“But people have died there,” Margo whispered, her voice trembling just enough to sound like a challenge rather than fear. “Five kids from Cresthill went in last year. Never came back.”

“Because they ran off to the city. Typical runaway story,” someone laughed, brushing it off.

Then came the dare. Drunk on adrenaline, firelight, and fermented courage.

“Y/N,” Margo grinned, eyes glittering in the dark. “You’re always bragging about how brave you are. How about you prove it?”

Y/N raised a brow, the fire’s glow casting sharp shadows across her face. “Oh? And how exactly do I do that?”

“Spend the night in the mansion.”

The group erupted in shocked laughter, some clapping, others gasping, but all eyes were now on her.

“You’re kidding,” she scoffed. “That place is sealed off.”

“Nope,” Devin replied, digging into his backpack and pulling out a rusted old key. “Found this in my grandpa’s shed. He was a cop back when the town tried to shut the place down. This opens the back gate.” The air shifted then. Like something had turned to listen.

“The rules are simple,” Margo continued. “Go inside before midnight. Stay until sunrise. No phone. Just you, your flashlight, and whatever you find inside.” Everyone expected her to say no.

But Y/N smirked, heart racing with the thrill of being challenged. “Fine. I’ll go.”

None of them knew she’d return with eyes wide, blood on her leg, and a name carved into her skin.

Felix.

She packed her bag as the sun dipped below the hills, smearing the sky in shades of bruised violet and blood-orange. No phone—part of the dare. They claimed it was cheating, that the spirits “didn’t like tech.” Instead, Y/N grabbed a flashlight, a small notebook, two protein bars, a lighter, a flask of water, and a silver pocketknife she didn’t usually carry. Just in case. Her heart thundered like a drum, but her face remained calm, stoic. She’d accepted the dare. She wasn’t backing out. By the time she reached the edge of Marrow’s Hollow, the sky had turned black, and the wind carried the sharp scent of decaying leaves and something fouler, metallic, damp, like blood soaked into ancient wood. Her boots crunched over dried twigs and gravel as the path narrowed, twisting through skeletal trees that clawed at her jacket like they wanted to drag her back.

The mansion loomed in the distance like a corpse propped upright. Gothic spires stabbed the sky, and its shattered windows stared outward like blind, furious eyes. The iron gates stood crooked, rusted with time and something darker. Moss clung to the stone fence that wrapped around the property like a noose.

That’s when she saw them.

The graves.

Dozens no, hundreds of them. Scattered around the mansion in irregular rows, half-swallowed by the overgrown earth. Some headstones were cracked down the middle, others too weathered to read, and some… disturbingly fresh. The dirt on a few was still unsettled, as if the earth hadn’t finished claiming what was inside. Her breath caught in her throat as she counted at least seven graves marked only by wooden stakes, their surfaces smeared with what looked like dried crimson.

She swallowed.

“Just theatrics,” she muttered to herself. “Someone’s sick idea of a prank.”

The beam of her flashlight trembled as her hand shook, breath shallow, every instinct screaming to turn back—but she forced herself to step further into the mansion. The air inside was colder, as though the house itself had forgotten what warmth felt like. The scent of mildew, rotting wood, and something iron-like clung to her lungs, thick and suffocating.

Her footsteps echoed through the empty, crumbling foyer. A grand staircase loomed ahead, shrouded in shadow, its once-elegant banister now splintered and dark. She panned the flashlight upward, slowly.

That’s when she saw it.

Hanging upside down like some twisted bat from the rafters, a figure motionless. Pale skin, platinum-blond hair matted with streaks of red, arms hanging limp, face partially obscured by the tangled mess of bloodstained mesh fabric. At first, she thought it was a corpse strung up in some sick ritual. But then—the light caught his face.

She didn’t scream.

Not yet.

His eyes snapped open.

Crimson.

Not the dull, dead kind of red, but burning like fire and fury trapped behind his irises. Y/N gasped, the sound too loud in the dead silence of the house. Then he moved. In one fluid, inhumanly fast motion, the figure dropped from the ceiling—landing directly in front of her with a soundless grace that chilled her blood.

She screamed and fell backward, scrambling on the cold, dusty floor. Her flashlight clattered away, spinning wild beams of light across the walls. Her hands scraped against jagged floorboards as she kicked herself back until her spine slammed into the wall behind her.

Trapped. Frozen. He was crouched in front of her now, head tilted slightly, hair casting jagged shadows across his face. His mouth curled slowly into a smirk, fangs glinting in the dim light, and he leaned in—too close.

“Why did you come here?” he whispered, voice like velvet dipped in danger.

And Y/N… couldn’t speak. He was crouched in front of her like a predator—still, coiled, every inch of him humming with danger. His head tilted slowly to the side, platinum hair falling messily across one glowing eye, the other hidden in shadow. His lips curled into something that might have been a smile… if it weren’t so cruel.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, voice low and velvety, but with an edge like a blade dragged across bone. “This place doesn’t welcome the living.”

Y/N’s mouth was dry, her chest heaving. She could barely form words. “I—I was dared… I didn’t think it was real. I didn’t think you were real.” He leaned in, so close now she could see the blood dried along his jawline, the faint twitch of his lip as if the word ‘dare’ had amused him in some feral, irritated way.

“A dare?” His voice deepened, colder. “You risked your life because some idiot told you to? For fun?”

Her breath caught as he rose, standing over her now. “Leave. While you still have your limbs attached,” he growled. “Or stay, and regret it for however long I let you live.”

She stared up at him, trembling but unmoving. Her body was screaming to run—but her heart refused. Something in her, deep and stubborn, latched onto the way his voice wavered on the edge of warning and loneliness. She could’ve crawled away. But she didn’t.

“No,” she whispered.

Silence. The air thickened around them like molasses. His eyes narrowed, burning red. Then—pain. Sharp and sudden. He dug his nails into her thigh, not just pressing but sinking in—deep enough to tear through her jeans and into flesh. She cried out, her back arching from the wall, her hands scrabbling at his wrist in shock and agony.

“Do you want to die?” he snarled, voice close to her ear now. “Or are you just this stupid?”

Tears welled in her eyes from the pain, but still—she shook her head. “I just… I couldn’t leave. Not yet.”

His expression flickered something dangerous, but almost curious. He stared at her a long time, then slowly removed his hand, his fingers now painted in her blood. He brought them up, inspecting the crimson smeared on his skin with idle interest.

“Not yet?” he echoed, voice low, dangerous.

Y/N winced as she sat up straighter against the cold wall, her hands trembling against the floor. “I-I have to stay the night. That was the dare. I can’t leave until sunrise.” At that, the vampire actually chuckled.

A dark, guttural sound slipped from his throat, followed by a slow shake of his head as he crouched again in front of her this time more relaxed, his elbows resting on his knees. “You humans are so entertaining,” he drawled, tone thick with sarcasm. “Stay the night? What is this, some sadistic version of hide-and-seek?”

She didn’t answer.

He leaned in, eyes flicking downward and that’s when he saw it. Blood. A slow, lazy smile stretched across his lips, revealing just a hint of fang. “Oh…” he purred, as if delighted by a surprise dessert, “You're bleeding.”

Y/N followed his gaze in horror to the gash on her thigh—right where he’d dug his nails in earlier. It was deeper than she’d realized. Crimson soaked through the fabric of her pants, trailing in a warm line down her skin.

He didn’t ask permission.

He slid forward smoothly, his hand gripping her injured leg—firm, cold, and possessive. Before she could pull away, his head dipped low. His lips met her thigh, and she gasped—whether in pain or shock, she didn’t know. His tongue traced the blood in a slow, deliberate motion, warm and terrifyingly intimate. A groan rumbled from his chest, vibrating against her skin.

“Sweet,” he murmured. “So very… sweet.”

Y/N’s heart thudded violently in her chest, panic twisting with something else, something she didn’t want to name. She finally found her voice, strained and fragile. “W-Who are you…?”

He pulled back just enough to look at her, licking the remaining blood from his bottom lip, the tip of his fang glinting in the dim light. “You don’t know who I am?” he asked finally, voice hushed, but heavy with something ancient and cruelly patient. His crimson gaze locked with hers.

“Felix,” he said, his voice low, intimate. “The thing that haunts this house. The monster they warned you about.”

He leaned in closer, his lips nearly brushing her ear.

“And darling… you just walked into my cage.”

Felix didn’t pull away completely. He stayed close, crouched like a predator who wasn’t done playing with its prey. “You want to know how I became this?” he asked suddenly, his voice lower, weightier. His eyes didn’t glow as brightly now. There was something old in them—haunted, even.

Y/N swallowed hard but nodded.

He leaned back slightly, hands resting on his thighs. “A curse,” he said simply. “From someone I trusted. Loved.” He tilted his head, lips curling into a bitter smile. “She didn’t like that I left her. So she took everything from me. My soul. My time. My death. Gave me this… thirst instead.” His nails idly traced a line on the dusty wooden floor. “She said I’d rot in this mansion forever—feeding, waiting, watching. Everyone who comes through here ends up in the ground.” He glanced at her then, eyes flicking to the window, to the graves just beyond the overgrown glass.

“I didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to come in.”

Y/N kept her face as neutral as she could, though her heart was hammering in her chest.

She breathed in shakily, brushing her hair back from her face. “Well, I didn’t come for you,” she muttered. “I came to explore the house.” Felix blinked, stunned for a second then broke into a low, amused laugh. He stood slowly, fluid and graceful, brushing the dust from his pants. “That so?” he said. “And here I thought I was the main attraction.”

He stepped back, letting the distance grow between them. “Go on then,” he said, voice still rich with mocking humor. “Explore.”

Y/N’s leg throbbed, the cut still fresh. She gathered her bag and stood, wincing as she tested her weight on the wounded limb. The stairs loomed ahead, worn and shadowed. She took a step. Felix’s voice drifted behind her, casual. “Need help limping, sweetheart?”

“No,” she bit out, without looking back.

Her hand gripped the railing, jaw clenched as she pulled herself up step by step, trying not to let him see the pain with every movement. She was determined, stubborn, stupid she knew all of it. But she wasn’t going to run. Not yet. The stairs creaked under her weight. She could hear his footsteps below but when she turned, he wasn’t there. She took another step.

He was suddenly behind her—no sound, no warning—his breath ghosting the back of her neck. She spun around, startled, but he had already vanished again.

“Ghosts aren’t the only ones who haunt,” his voice echoed faintly from the upstairs corridor.

She gritted her teeth and kept walking. Room after room stretched out before her each one dust-covered, untouched by time yet heavy with it. Cobwebs swayed in the cold air. Mirrors were cracked and warped. A child's doll sat in a corner, its porcelain face fractured like it had screamed too long.

And every time she stepped into a room… he was there. By the window. On the ceiling. In the reflection of a broken mirror. Watching and following.

She tried to pretend she didn’t see him. Tried to act like the shadows weren’t moving with him. But her fingers trembled on the edge of the doorframe as she entered the master bedroom. She whispered to herself, more for courage than belief.

“I’m just here to explore the house…”

A deep chuckle echoed from the wall.

“Keep telling yourself that, little lamb.”

The room she finally settled in was at the end of a long corridor its once grand double doors hung slightly ajar, one barely hanging onto its hinges. The air inside was thick, still, like it hadn’t been stirred in decades. Dust swirled in lazy circles through the beam of her flashlight as she hobbled in, limping more heavily now. She didn’t care. Her thigh burned with each step, but her body was too exhausted to keep moving.

The room had a tattered armchair near the fireplace, a velvet couch that had long since given in to mold, and faded wallpaper that peeled at the corners. Moonlight filtered in through shattered glass, casting silver puddles across the wooden floor.

Y/N slumped into the armchair with a pained sigh, letting her head fall back. Her fingers grazed the torn fabric of her jeans where his nails had sliced her earlier. It was still bleeding. Dull, hot pain flared through her nerves, but she welcomed it. It meant she was still alive.

Still human.

She didn’t hear him enter, but she knew. The air shifted. Warmer. Closer. She opened her eyes, and sure enough Felix was there, lounging across the arm of the ruined couch like he’d been waiting for her all along. His boots were kicked up, his dark eyes locked onto her, lazy but alert.

“Done exploring already?” he teased.

“Shut up,” she muttered, leaning her head against the chair’s backrest. “I’m bleeding and tired.”

He smirked. “You should’ve left when you had the chance.”

“I already told you. I’m not going anywhere.”

A beat passed. Silence, except for the ticking of an old grandfather clock down the hall.

“Do you ever get bored?” she asked suddenly. Her voice was softer now, tired but curious. “I mean… being here. Alone.” His smirk faded just slightly. “Sometimes.”

“You have friends?” she asked, tilting her head to look at him. Felix’s gaze shifted to the ceiling, then back to her. “I did. Once. But time… time isn’t kind. Not to mortals. Not to memories.”

There was something sad beneath his words something that slipped between the cracks of his usual sarcasm. Y/N let the silence stretch again before speaking. “I had a brother,” she said quietly. “He used to dare me into dumb things like this. Climb towers. Break into abandoned schools. He died a few years ago.”

Felix didn’t say anything. He just watched her, expression unreadable now.

“I guess I kept doing it. The dares. The exploring. Because I didn’t want to forget the rush.”

He leaned forward slightly, interested now, his elbows resting on his knees. “And vampires,” she said, a breath of a laugh in her voice, “I always thought they were… I don’t know. Lonely. Tragic. Kind of romantic in a twisted way.”

His head tilted slowly. “Romantic?” he echoed, something sharp glittering in his eyes. She nodded. “Yeah. There’s something sad and beautiful about someone who can live forever but never really live again. Always hungry. Always chasing something they can’t have.”

Felix didn’t move for a long moment. Then he rose slowly, his movements fluid, predatory.

“You’re strange,” he said quietly, stepping toward her. “Most people scream. Cry. Beg me not to kill them. And you… sit here bleeding, talking about tragic romance.” She watched him approach, heart thudding loud in her chest, but she didn’t flinch. Not this time. He crouched in front of her, his face close to hers again.

“Careful,” he whispered. “You’re starting to sound like someone I might like.” And though every instinct told her to be terrified, something in her stirred drawn in, caught in the storm of his presence.

She didn’t look away. “Maybe that’s the problem,” she whispered back.

The silence between them grew heavier. Not awkward—no, something more dangerous than that. It pulsed in the air like a heartbeat, slow and charged. Y/N shifted in the armchair, the dull ache in her thigh impossible to ignore, but what really unsettled her was the way Felix was watching her now. His eyes weren’t just curious anymore they were hungry.

His tongue ran along the sharp edge of his teeth, deliberate and slow. “Do you want me to take care of that wound?” Her breath hitched. The question lingered in the air, heavy with implication.

“You mean like… disinfect it?” she asked, though she already knew the answer.

He tilted his head, a crooked smirk playing on his lips. “Not exactly.” There was a long pause. Her heart pounded against her ribs, but then she nodded small, cautious. “Okay.”

His smile deepened, something dark and pleased glinting in his crimson gaze. “You’re brave. Or reckless.” He crossed the room with a smooth, predatory grace and knelt before her. Without asking, his fingers ghosted over her torn jeans. Then, with a soft rip, he tugged at the fabric, exposing more of her thigh. The skin was slick with blood, the wound still fresh and tender. She winced, but didn’t pull away.

His lips hovered above the gash.

“This might sting,” he murmured, almost like a tease. Then his tongue touched her skin.

It was warm. Slow. Precise. He licked up the blood in gentle, deliberate strokes like he was savoring every drop. His hands anchored her leg, firm but not painful. And when he moaned softly against her flesh, she shivered. “God,” he whispered, pulling back just enough to look up at her. “You taste sweet. Like dusk and danger.”

Her breath caught in her throat. His eyes were glowing brighter now, pupils blown wide with something that looked disturbingly close to desire. And still, he didn’t move away.

He stared at her, lips stained crimson. Then his voice dropped, lower, almost pained. “You should stay away from me, you know.” She blinked, lips parting to ask why, but he spoke first—his voice raw, quiet, like a confession.

“Because if you don’t… I’m going to fall in love with you.”

Y/N’s heart stopped.

Before she could say a word, Felix stood, licking the last trace of blood from his thumb. His eyes lingered on her for a second longer searching, maybe hoping she’d stop him. But she didn’t. And he was gone. The door creaked shut behind him, and she was left alone, her wound clean, her pulse racing, and her mind echoing with the words she hadn’t expected to hear from the monster in the mansion.

…

The room was warm when Y/N stirred, the kind of warmth that only sunlight could bring the soft kind that seeps through worn-out curtains and brushes against the skin like a memory. She blinked slowly, her lashes fluttering, head heavy and sore. For a moment, she forgot where she was. Then the dull pain in her thigh reminded her.

She sat up, realizing she was no longer in the chair from last night. She was on a bed now, tucked beneath a thick, dusty quilt that smelled faintly of old wood and faint cologne. Her eyes darted around the room. The lamp was off. Her bag was still against the wall. But the window to the side was cracked open, golden light pouring in. The sun had risen.

She gasped and threw the covers off, adrenaline kicking in.

“I overslept—damn it,” she muttered, quickly limping to her things and throwing everything into her backpack with shaky hands. Her heart was racing not just from panic, but from everything that had happened. The wound on her leg was bandaged now—probably by him—and she didn’t know how to process the fact that a vampire had basically confessed to her hours ago.

As she zipped her bag shut, a voice from the darkest corner of the room, cloaked in shadow, interrupted her.

“You’re in a rush,” Felix said softly.

She startled, turning to the voice. The far corner was untouched by the sun’s rays, but his silhouette was unmistakable leaning against the wall, arms crossed, as if he’d been standing there for a while.

“How long have you been there?” she asked, breath catching.

He shrugged lazily, one brow lifted. “Since before you started dreaming. You talk in your sleep, you know.” Her cheeks flushed despite herself. “I didn’t mean to sleep in,” she said quickly, strapping her bag on. “I need to get going.” She turned to leave, but something about his silence made her pause. She glanced back and that’s when she noticed it.

He looked… sad. Not dramatically so. Just the subtle downturn of his lips, the slight slump of his shoulders, the way his eyes didn’t quite meet hers. It was the kind of sadness that came quietly, like a bruise blooming under the skin.

“I was just starting to love you,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

She froze. It wasn’t said with charm or seduction. It was said like it hurt to admit like every time he let himself feel, the wound from his past reopened. She turned fully, letting her bag fall from her shoulder, and stepped closer into the shade.

He looked different in the dark. The edge to him was softer, the menace stripped away. She hadn’t seen him fully before not like this. His skin was pale but not lifeless, like marble kissed with moonlight. His hair, tousled and shadow-drenched, framed his face like a halo of ink. And his eyes—those haunting red eyes—weren’t glowing now. They were watching her quietly, searching. She reached out, touching the sleeve of his shirt gently. “You say that like it’s a curse,” she said.

He gave a dry smile. “That’s because it is.”

Her breath hitched. Her fingers brushed his wrist, just barely, and still he didn’t pull away. He looked down at where she touched him, then back up at her face—taking her in like he was trying to memorize her.

“You really have to leave?” he asked, voice low.

She hated herself for saying it. The words slipped past her lips before she could stop them, fragile and foolish and far too human.

“I’ll come visit,” she whispered, eyes not quite meeting his. “Every other day… if you want.”

Felix didn’t answer at first. His red eyes remained unreadable, shadowed by the darkness of the corner he stood in. But the silence stretched, heavy and uncertain. Finally, he let out a low, dry laugh—one that barely sounded amused.

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not,” she insisted, taking a step closer, heart hammering painfully in her chest. “I don’t break promises.” His eyes narrowed slightly, scanning her face for a hint of insincerity. Whatever he found, it seemed to shake him a little. His shoulders relaxed. Just a bit.

“I never got your name,” he said, quietly.

She blinked, realizing she never told him. “It’s Y/N.”

He repeated it softly under his breath, like tasting it on his tongue. Then he moved slow, deliberate, and with the kind of grace that didn’t belong to anything human. He stepped out of the shadows, careful not to touch the spill of sunlight on the floor. When he reached her, he stopped just a breath away. His hand came up, ghosting against her cheek before he leaned in and pressed his lips to it. A kiss; soft and fleeting but it lingered like heat.

When he pulled back, he hovered there, his lips close to hers. Close enough to feel her breath stutter against his mouth. His gaze dropped to her lips, then lifted back to her eyes, searching.

He didn’t want to overstep. Not after everything. Not when he wasn’t sure if she truly meant what she said.

So, he leaned in… slowly. Hesitant. Shy. A boy hiding beneath a monster’s skin.

And Y/N… Y/N closed the distance. Their lips met gently, mouths molding together like they were made for this one moment in time. It was cautious at first, full of question and fear, but it didn’t stay that way. Her hands gripped the fabric of his shirt, and he angled his head slightly, deepening the kiss with a hunger that had nothing to do with blood.

When he kissed her jaw, she tilted her head, giving him space. His lips found her neck.

She gasped softly as he trailed slow, reverent kisses down the side of her throat, each one more possessive than the last. When he found the spot just above her pulse, her breath hitched, and his lips paused there.

He inhaled sharply, and for a moment, he forgot to breathe. Her blood sang to him.

His fangs throbbed with temptation. His hands tightened on her hips. But he pulled away just in time. He turned his face from her neck, lips parted, a shiver of restraint trembling through him.

“You need to go,” he said hoarsely, his voice thick with longing. “Now… before I forget how to be gentle.”

His eyes glowed faintly, raw with emotion and desire. And he stepped back into the safety of the shadows, watching her like a secret he was too afraid to keep.

“I’ll come back,” she promised again, softer this time, as if saying it any louder might break whatever fragile thing had just formed between them.

Felix didn’t respond right away. He stood a few steps behind her in the dim shadows of the mansion’s doorway, the place where the light ended and he could no longer follow. His red eyes were softer now, less hungry, less dangerous just… quietly watching her like he didn’t want to forget what she looked like. Y/N adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder, her fingers trembling slightly as she turned away from him. Her legs still ached, the memory of pain clinging to her thigh, but she didn’t look back just yet. She didn’t trust herself to.

The wooden door creaked as she pushed it open, a harsh contrast to the soft silence behind her. Sunlight greeted her like a slap—too bright, too warm—reminding her she was back in the world that made sense. She stepped outside and paused on the stone steps of the mansion, the cold air brushing against her skin. Then slowly so slowly she turned around.

The building loomed behind her, still and ancient, its windows like tired, sun-dulled eyes. The vines clinging to the stone looked like veins frozen in place, and the old wood creaked under the wind’s touch. And there he was. Felix stood in the shadows, just behind the doorway, his form half-ghosted by the dark. He didn’t speak. He didn’t wave. He just watched her his head tilted ever so slightly, as if he was memorizing her all over again. There was something vulnerable in his stillness, like a statue that longed to move.

She offered him one last look, her eyes lingering on his, before finally, reluctantly, turning away.

Her footsteps were slow at first, each one echoing against the cracked stone path that led back to the world. Then, quicker. Further. Her heart pulled back with every step, but she didn’t stop.

And Felix… he stayed at the threshold, his fingers curled around the edge of the doorframe like he wanted to follow but couldn’t.

Not yet. Not in the sunlight. Not in the world she belonged to.

…

When YN finally reached the edge of town and stumbled through the gates of her dorm, the weight of the mansion still heavy on her, she was immediately met with wide eyes and frantic voices.

“YN?! Oh my God—what the hell—where were you?”

“You actually went through with it?”

“Are you okay? You’re bleeding!”

The voices of her friends swirled around her like a whirlwind. Arms guided her inside, and she was gently eased onto the common room couch, blankets thrown over her shoulders, questions raining down before she could even catch her breath.

She winced. “Guys, I’m fine—seriously.”

“Fine? You look like you just crawled out of a horror movie,” one of them said, pointing at the tear in her pants and bandaged wound. They demanded answers.

“What did you see in there?”

“Was the mansion really haunted?”

“Did something attack you?”

Y/N’s lips parted, her throat dry. She could still feel Felix’s lips brushing her neck, the ghost of his voice in her ear, the aching sweetness of his presence. But she couldn’t tell them that. They’d never believe her.

So she lied, believably.

“There were... graves,” she started, voice low and steady. “Dozens of them, some old, some more recent. The place is completely overgrown. Windows shattered, furniture still inside, like everyone left in a hurry.” Her friends leaned in.

“I think I tripped on one of the broken floorboards. It was dark I didn’t have a good flashlight. I cut my leg on something… maybe glass or rusted wood. I panicked, stayed in one of the rooms till sunrise, then came back.” They stared at her, wide-eyed.

“You stayed the night there alone?” Margo whispered, half in awe, half in horror.

She gave a small shrug, eyes lowered. “I didn’t really have a choice.”

None of them questioned her further not about the wound, not about the strange tiredness in her eyes, not about the way she kept glancing toward the window as if expecting someone or something to be there, watching.

She never mentioned Felix. Not his name. Not his eyes. Not his curse. That part... was hers alone.

@pixie-felix @pessimisticloather @necrozica @sh0dor1 @leeknow-minho2 @jitrulyslayyed @igotajuicyass @bbokvhs @katyxstay @maisyyyyyy @day138 @katchowbbie @imeverycliche @yoongiismylove2018 @morkleesgirl @rockstarkkami @alisonyus @whatdoyouwanttocallmefor @lillymochilover @idol-dream-catcher @iknow-uknow-leeknow @maxidential @ebnabi @ari-hwanggg @rossy1080 @hanniebunch @tricky-ritz

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~kc 💗

[mrsha-ang-kim]

Minnie debut fic

𝐕𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐦𝐞: 𝐘𝐨𝐮

Pairing: hearingimpared!seungmin x afab!reader, established relationship

Synopsis: After many years of seungmin being deaf and slightly struggling in your relationship (which you always reminded him that it wasn't a struggle) you finally earn enough money to take him to the audiologist and get him better hearing aids

Warnings: angst, comfort, teeny fluff, quite emotional, seungmin cries when he hears reader clearly for the first time

A/n: if you have extra eyes for errors no you don't.

Seungmin wasn’t born deaf.

He still remembers faint traces of his childhood filled with laughter, music, and the soft hum of his mother’s lullabies. But everything changed when he turned ten.

It started with a high fever—nothing unusual at first. A week of being bedridden, some ear pain, dizziness. But when he finally stood up again, the world had gone muted. At first, it was like everything had just quieted. He thought his ears were clogged. But days passed, then weeks, and the silence never lifted. Doctors diagnosed him with sudden sensorineural hearing loss, likely triggered by the viral infection.

His parents tried everything from treatments, therapies, to hearing aids that whistled and buzzed more than they helped. But nothing brought back the clarity. Every sound was either muffled beyond recognition or screeching and distorted. The world became distant, like he was behind thick glass, watching everyone else live while he stood still. But it changed him. He grew quieter, more observant. The boy who used to hum songs while tying his shoelaces began to avoid music altogether. It was like losing a color from the spectrum life was still beautiful, but something fundamental was missing. 

At the time his disability was newly discovered, school was hell. He couldn’t keep up. People spoke too fast, teachers got frustrated repeating themselves, and classmates started calling him “broken.” He learned to lip-read out of survival, forcing himself to focus on mouths and facial expressions. But it was exhausting. Misunderstandings piled up. He withdrew. He smiled less. He began associating sound with failure.

The hearing aids became a source of shame. They were clunky, outdated, unreliable and they never worked right. Conversations turned into guessing games. He hated the pitying looks, the way people shouted slowly like he was stupid. Eventually, he stopped wearing them altogether. What was the point? Silence was at least consistent. He learned to exist in it.

Music, which once comforted him, became a painful memory. He’d press his fingers against the speaker, feeling the beat, closing his eyes to pretend he could hear the notes. But it wasn’t the same. He longed for the way voices used to sound and the way someone would say his name.

Years passed. He adjusted. His world was quiet, but he adapted. He became fiercely independent, doing everything he could not to burden anyone. But deep down, he still felt like he was constantly missing something like he was always one step out of sync with the world.

Then he met you.

You didn’t shout. You didn’t over-enunciate. You just... communicated. With patience, with handwritten notes, soft smiles, gentle touches. You asked how he preferred to talk. You learned his signs.

You were volunteering at a community arts center, helping organize a mixed-media class for differently-abled youth. Seungmin was there to support his younger cousin, who was on the autism spectrum. You caught his eye from across the room not because of anything loud or showy, but because you smiled at him like you already knew him. And when you introduced yourself, you didn’t speak first. You signed.

It was clumsy, adorable signing “Hi, me name… Y/N?” but it made Seungmin laugh, a breathy, silent sort of chuckle that made his shoulders shake. You looked up, startled, then broke into a grin. That moment cracked something open in him.

You started seeing each other more at events, over coffee (even though Seungmin didn't drink it), through text messages and quiet walks at night where he’d watch your lips move and you’d trace your fingers on his palm when the world was too dark for words. He never told you at first, but he thought you were magic. Not because you tried to fix anything but because you never treated him like he was broken.

And Seungmin, quiet but patient, would take your hands gently—never too long, never too forward—and guide them into the right shapes. You learned not just words, but expression. He taught you how emotion lives in the eyebrows, the tilt of a chin, the flicker of fingers.

It took weeks for you to realize he was looking forward to seeing you too. That he waited for you hesitantly, pretending to browse when he was really just hoping you’d show up.

Seungmin, who had long learned to carry silence like armor, found your presence disarming. You never flinched when he took a moment to respond. You never laughed when his voice slipped out softer, unsteady, after years of disuse. You spoke with your hands and eyes, letting him meet your where he was comfortable.

Their first date wasn’t even supposed to be one. They ended up walking home together after a sudden downpour soaked the city, and you insisted they find shelter in a late-night bookshop. It was there, under dim lights and the smell of paper, that she signed with a grin,

“This counts as a date, right?”

He had chuckled. Hands moving, sincerely.

“I guess it does.”

But falling in love wasn’t easy for Seungmin.

He had spent so many years blaming himself for being “too much.” Too silent. Too broken. Too hard to love. His old relationships had left scars with people who meant well but didn’t know how to stay. People who said things like “I just wish you’d talk more,” or “It’s hard when I can’t always reach you.”

He’d internalized it all, folding it into his chest like poison.  Like when he didn’t hear the doorbell and thought he missed your surprise visit. Or when he sat through a movie with you and couldn’t follow the storyline because the captions were out of sync, and he tried so hard to laugh when you did but his timing was off. You saw it in his eyes. That flicker of distance. That urge to shrink away from you because he felt like a burden.

Even though you learned sign language just for him, even though you took your time when speaking so he could read your lips, even though you’d repeat yourself over and over again without a hint of frustration he still felt the doubt creeping in.

Sometimes he’d pull away from you without warning. A bad day with static-filled hearing aids. A cruel memory triggered by something innocent. An accidental miscommunication that left him spiraling. He’d retreat, cold and distant, signing with sharp movements:

“You shouldn’t have to deal with this. With me.”

It crushed you every time. Not because he pushed her away, but because he truly believed he wasn’t worth staying for.

One night, after he pulled his faulty hearing aids out and tossed them across the room, his voice cracked in anger,

“I can’t even hear you properly. What kind of boyfriend is that?”

You sat beside him in silence for a moment, then gently took his trembling hands in hers. Slowly, you signed,

“You listen to me better than anyone ever has.”

Then you said it out loud, knowing he could read your lips and feel the words vibrating in your chest:

“Your silence has never scared me.”

And that night he cried.

Seungmin wasn’t someone who cried easily, but with you every dam he’d built up over the years broke. The guilt, the loneliness, the longing to be understood… it all poured out, and she held him through it. Not trying to fix him. Not trying to speak over it. Just there, solid and soft, like a light left on for him to find his way back.

You made a habit of leaving him small sticky notes when you left early. You practiced a little more sign language every night, even when he wasn’t around. You learned the difference between when he needed space and when he needed to be held. And Seungmin, he began to believe, slowly, that he was worth loving in full volume, even if he couldn’t hear it.

Loving Seungmin had always been a quiet kind of magic. Not because it was easy—no, love with him was layered, complex, and sometimes achingly delicate—but because it was real. It lived in the space between glances, in fingertips tracing signs in the air, in soft gazes across crowded rooms. It was in the way he’d tilt his head to better read your lips, or the subtle squeeze of his hand when he understood your joke a beat later than everyone else.

You never once saw him as a burden. But you knew he saw himself that way sometimes.

And it broke your heart.

From the very beginning, she made it your mission to never let him feel like he was lacking. You learned sign and KSL with aching fingers and late-night YouTube tutorials. You practiced in mirrors so your signs would be smooth, her expressions more natural, your hands quicker. You slowed down when you spoke not because you thought he was slow, but because you wanted to meet him where he was. Still, you saw it in his eyes sometimes. That flicker of shame. That silent wish that he could hear your laugh, hear his own voice clearly again, hear the world.

That’s when the idea took root.

You knew how much he hated his old hearing aids. He’d told you about them more than once the way they whistled when they weren’t supposed to, how the static from them made everything sound like muffled underwater echoes, how they were so bulky and outdated that he’d just stopped wearing them altogether. Seungmin had resigned himself to a life in silence, the hearing aids nothing more than an accessory to the inevitable.

But you couldn’t stand the thought of him living in that silence any longer. You wanted him to have the chance to hear your voice again, clearly, without the static that always filled the gaps. You wanted him to hear the world more fully the way he’d once done before it all changed. You wanted him to feel heard again.

So, without ever telling Seungmin, you decided to take matters into her own hands.

It wasn’t easy. You worked long shifts at the coffee shop, your fingers blistered from the constant motion of making drinks and wiping tables. You picked up freelance graphic design work, staying up late into the night, your eyes straining in front of your laptop screen. Every penny you earned, you set aside, hiding it away in a small envelope marked simply: For Seungmin. There were days when you nearly broke down from exhaustion, when your back ached from the weight of carrying your dreams for both of you. But every time you felt like giving up, you’d imagine the look in Seungmin’s eyes when he heard you  clearly again.

And then, after months of scraping together whatever she could—cutting back on coffee, on her usual weekend dinners, sometimes even selling old clothes—she had enough.

You researched hearing aids for weeks, making sure you found the ones that would work best for Seungmin, something lightweight, discreet, and most importantly, functional. You reached out to Seungmin’s audiologist and got the opinions of others who’d experienced similar challenges. You wanted to make sure that what you got for him wouldn’t be just another disappointment. You spent hours on forums, researching the best options, reading testimonials from other users who had finally found something that worked.

Eventually, you found them. Sleek, modern hearing aids that promised clearer sound and better comfort than anything he’d ever had before. They were expensive, but after months of hard work, you’d earned every dollar The day you bought them, your heart raced. You could already picture the look on Seungmin’s face. It was a mix of excitement and fear, but, you were afraid he wouldn’t accept them, that he’d feel overwhelmed, maybe even insulted by the gesture. But you pushed those fears aside. This was for him. For them. For the future you wanted to share with him, where their voices could reach each other across the space that silence had created.  So, you made a plan.

It started like any ordinary morning, or at least, Seungmin thought it did.

You had woken him up gently, brushing her fingers through his hair and signing, “Let’s go out today. There’s somewhere I want to take you.”

He’d blinked up at you, confused but trusting, nodding sleepily. He didn’t ask questions, you had a way of guiding him like that, always full of soft surprises.

You took the train, the city humming around them in its distant, quiet way. Seungmin watched you more than he watched the view. You kept looking at your phone, nervous fingers tapping your thigh, eyes flicking up to meet his every so often. You was trying to hide your excitement, but he knew you too well.

When they reached the small clinic, his brows furrowed. His heart sank. He stared at the clean white sign with the word Audiology on the glass door. He looked at you, confused, guarded. “Why… are we here?” he signed slowly, the motion tight, cautious. “You know I don’t—”

“It’s just a check-up,” you signed quickly, gently. “No pressure. Just trust me, okay?”

He didn’t want to go inside. His stomach twisted. But your hand slipped into his, warm and certain, and he couldn’t say no to that.

Inside, the receptionist greeted them warmly, and you leaned in to speak to her quietly while Seungmin filled out a short form. What he didn’t know was that you was whispering, “I made the appointment. Please don’t say anything about the hearing aids yet, it’s a surprise. I already spoke to Dr. Jin. He knows.”

The receptionist gave a small nod and smile. Everything was in place.

Soon enough, Dr. Jin came to the waiting area and welcomed them in. He was an older man, calm-eyed and kind-voiced, someone Seungmin had seen before years ago when he was still trying to find hope in outdated machines. They sat down in the exam room, Seungmin looking around nervously. Dr. Jin smiled gently at him and signed a little before switching to spoken words.

“Just a few questions, Seungmin. Nothing scary.”

Seungmin nodded, arms crossed over his chest. The doctor asked about any ear pain, if he’d experienced pressure or dizziness, if he ever had headaches with silence. Standard questions. Seungmin answered in a mix of voice and sign, slow but clear. He still had a beautiful voice—soft, low, and rarely used.

And then Dr. Jin leaned back in his chair, expression shifting.

“Seungmin…” he said softly. “This wasn’t just a check-up.”

Seungmin’s body tensed, eyes snapping to you.

Dr. Jin smiled. “She bought you new hearing aids.” Seungmin’s lips parted slightly. He didn’t sign. He didn’t speak. He froze.

“She saved up. Came to us. Asked all the right questions. Chose the model carefully. She wanted it to be a surprise. You didn’t know, right?”

Seungmin slowly turned to look at you.

You was already looking at him, your hands nervously clasped together, a soft smile playing on your lips gentle and trembling. Your eyes were glassy with emotion, and your fingers moved slowly: “You deserve better. You deserve to hear clearly again. To not suffer with broken things.”

Seungmin’s jaw trembled. His eyes shimmered.

Dr. Jin stood and walked to the drawer, pulling out a small, sleek black box. “These are top-grade. Lightweight. Fully programmable. Bluetooth compatible. And custom-tuned to your profile.”

He opened the box and held them out to Seungmin, who stared in disbelief.

“Do you want to try?” Dr. Jin asked softly.

Seungmin nodded, slowly. Silent. Tears clinging to his lashes. With practiced hands, Dr. Jin gently placed the hearing aids into his ears and began the tuning process, tapping the tablet in front of him.

Then he paused, looked at you, and nodded. You stepped forward, nervous and close to tears.

“Seungmin?” you said softly.

It hit like lightning.

Clear. Warm. Perfect.

No static. No distortion. No lag. No underwater echoes.

It was you. Your voice. For the first time in so long, he heard you as you were.

His face crumbled. He turned to her slowly, chest rising with a shaky breath. His lips parted in wonder, then broke into a sob. The kind of cry that shook his whole body. His hand flew up to his mouth, as if trying to hold the emotion back, but it was useless.

You reached out, taking his hand in yours, squeezing it tightly.

“I love you,” you whispered.

He heard it. He heard it. He collapsed forward, pressing his forehead to her shoulder, arms wrapping around her as if anchoring himself to the moment. Tears soaked into your shirt as he clung to your, silent no longer not because he needed to speak, but because she had already said everything he ever needed to hear.

And this time, he heard it all.

Dr. Jin, patient and warm, gave them a moment before gently asking, “Seungmin, can you hear me clearly?”

Seungmin nodded through the tears, wiping his cheek with his sleeve.

“Any whistling? Buzzing? Pain?”

He shook his head.

“Do the sounds feel natural? Not too sharp or mechanical?”

Seungmin managed a breathy, “Yeah… they sound real.” His voice cracked.

Dr. Jin smiled and turned to you. “They’ll need a few days to settle in. The brain takes time to readjust. Avoid crowded, high-noise places for now. Charge them overnight. Keep them dry. And…”, he looked between the two of you, “talk to him a lot. Let his ears fall back in love with your voice.”

You nodded, your heart swollen.

The train ride back was quiet, except for the world.

And that was the part that made Seungmin cry again. He looked around as they sat side-by-side. A baby giggling a few seats down. Someone tapping their foot against the train floor. The distant intercom voice announcing the next station. The wind brushing against the door seams. YN breathing beside him.

Sounds he’d grown used to missing were now everywhere.

Tears clung to his lashes again, and he tried to swipe them away discreetly, but you saw. You reached over, laced their fingers, and squeezed his hand.

When they finally got home, Seungmin didn’t even take his shoes off properly. The door had barely shut behind them before he turned and pulled you into the fiercest hug he'd ever given you.

He clung to you like a storm wth his arms tight around your waist, face buried in your neck, his whole body trembling. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “You shouldn’t have saved all your money for me. That’s too much. That’s everything. Y/N… that’s everything.”

“Exactly,” you murmured, pulling back just enough to cup his face, your thumbs brushing his wet cheeks. “You’re worth everything. Every coin, every hour, every little saving. You deserve to hear again, Minnie. You deserve this and so much more.”

He looked at you—truly looked at you—and then leaned in without a single ounce of hesitation. The kiss was deep, desperate, soaked in tears and gratitude. His lips trembled against yours, and your hands curled into his hair as if anchoring him in the present. He kissed you like your voice had brought him back to life. Like he’d been drowning in silence and your love pulled him up for air.

When you finally broke apart, foreheads pressed, Seungmin whispered, voice barely holding,

“Thank you… for giving me back the world. And for being the loudest, most beautiful part of it.”

And you just smiled, brushing her nose against his, whispering, “Welcome back, Seungmin.”

Seeing as he's a singer that kinda gave me inspo for this. Crying cleanses...trust

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