#A Place To Bury Strangers The Sevens

[viddybiblio]

A Place To Bury Strangers - Chasing Colors (Official Video)

[astraystayyh]

Bleeding heart dove

pairing: idol!chan x lawyer!reader. youngerbrother!seungmin.

genre: f2l. slow burn. angst (lots of it). fluff. (un)requited love. forced proximity. law/corruption sub-plot.

warnings: parental loss. grief. self-depreciating thoughts. suicidal thoughts. reader has she/her pronouns. this is a work of fiction. the actions and timeline depicted in the story don’t represent the idols in real life.

word count: 25.7k.

You are ashamed, even in the privacy of your thoughts, of this longing, of this sharp ache. For even thinking, daring to dream of a world where you could behold his warm hands into your butchered ones. Where he’d let you. Where you’d let yourself.

It feels like death to think of Chan, it feels like living too.

a.n: she’s finally here!!!! i haven’t written for chris in such a long time and i’m so grateful to @kayleefriedchicken for commissioning this fic :,) it spiraled and i took some creative liberties that’s why it’s so long now LMAO but i hope you’ll enjoy reading!!!! i challenged myself writing this, it is a bit different from my other fics. much heavier too. but i’m slowly finding a writing structure i truly enjoy. i love you all 🤍 thank you for waiting for me

They say that smells are little vessels of memories, wrapping themselves around moments in time. When a certain scent floats by you, it doesn’t graze your shoulder like a stranger in the streets, never to be seen again.

No, smells seize you by the wrist, their nails sinking deep into the softness of your skin. Scents do not pass. They pull. They lead you into the locked corridors of your mind, to places you thought had crumbled into dust, memories buried seven feet under by the weight of years.

You smell rust.

Many may not recognize it, most might not even notice it. But you do. The scent of rust is etched into your nostrils, carved along your nerve endings, again and again. It smells earthy, metallic, sharp—like blood smeared on your tongue against your will.

As everything in your life has ever been.

Every orphanage you lived in reeked of rust. It seeped into the walls, staining them beneath layers of pale, lifeless paint. It curled into the battered beds and damp linens. You tried to pinch your nose shut at night, suffocating against the foul scent. But rust was patient. Rust had time. And so, naturally, rust always won.

It was a cruel smell at that— the scent of things stolen— childhood, innocence, soft mornings, your very ability to dream.

You were ten years old when both your parents died in a tragic accident. A drunk driver slammed into their car and made it combust into flames. He was quickly caught and cast into prison. But what did that serve you? Your parents were gone. What respite would this semblance of justice bring you?

That part of your life remains hazy since there was no room to mourn, only movement, hands ushering you from one orphanage to another. Each time the walls could no longer contain any more children. Any more grief.

And you were only ten.

But Seungmin was only six.

Your brother didn’t understand what was happening. Why did he have to leave his shiny toys and Pochacco-themed bed behind? He cried at night for your parents, his wails cresting and receding like waves against a fragile shore.

Sometimes, he cried so fiercely that no one could calm him—not even you. You would leave him to sob until exhaustion claimed him. You envied him, in a way. Sleep refused to visit you. You were sentenced to lay awake instead, burdened by responsibilities too heavy for your small hands. Yet, when you glanced at Seungmin’s resting form, the ache in your chest eased, just slightly. If he could rest, that was enough.

You didn’t know it then, but this thought would become the basis of your entire life. You’d give and give, tear at your own flesh if it meant Seungmin would remain intact and safe.

The first orphanage was small. Twenty beds crammed together in a single room. It was a temporary holding place while the city council decided your fate. Orphans, you realized, were like misplaced luggage—tagged and eagerly discarded, waiting for someone, anyone, to claim them.

The second orphanage was somewhat worse. There were a hundred beds this time, a larger playground, warmer food. But the older kids were cruel. That’s what you remember. Rust and cruelty, entwined.

They shoved you hard against the ground on your first night there. And then, they turned to Seungmin. The moment their hands reached for him, something primal surged within you—a burning, blistering rage as if your very being was dipped into scalding water. You lashed out, punching the nose of one of the older boys. Blood. Yours, his, theirs. It all blurred together.

Then, punishment quickly followed: no more dinner for three days.

Seungmin didn’t understand. He tugged at your sleeve, crying that he was hungry late at night. That’s when you decided it was better to endure in silence. To take the blows, as long as your brother could eat.

By thirteen, you arrived at Promise Orphanage. Your hand trembled in Seungmin’s grip as Miss Jeeho introduced you both. Forty-four pairs of eyes bore into you, gliding over the faint bruises that painted your arms like ink stains.

You braced yourself for the worst. But then, a girl stepped forward, her hair a messy halo around her face. Her smile was wide, her eyes bright despite the dust coating her skin. She held out her hand, and you noticed how rough and calloused it was for her age. How warm it was too.

“I’m Winter,” she said, her voice soft.

You blinked at the odd name, then nodded. Later, you would learn she had been abandoned as a newborn, left nameless at the orphanage’s doorstep. It was a cold night when the workers found her, with heavy snow. It was surprising she didn’t pass from pneumonia.

Winter chose her name after the season she was born, since her parents didn’t bother to do so for her.

You came to realize that in these walls, even something as mundane as a name was a privilege, something the world could simply not grant you at birth.

“I’m Y/n, and this is Seungmin,” you replied, gripping your brother’s clammy hand. There was steel in your voice as you said his name, ensuring everyone knew he wasn’t to be touched.

But the other children simply smiled at you, and you tried to smile back. Though it came out much more like a grimace. Smiling felt foreign to you, like a muscle long unused.

Promise Orphanage then became your home for five long years. The children were kinder, their grins did not sharpen into unkind hands. Your bed was slightly bigger. You got gifts for your birthday and cake on New Year’s. You always gave yours to Seungmin— the better toys, the bigger slices, the softest pillows. You hoped it would make him feel better, even for a second.

But rust remained.

It followed you when you turned eighteen, into your first apartment. A single room, smaller than your childhood kitchen. But it was enough. Enough to build a life for Seungmin, to earn his custody, to gift him the privilege of dreaming.

Though even then, when Seungmin laughed, when he sang with Winter, when you had enough warm showers to forget the cold of the orphanage, you wondered if other people could still smell the rust like you did.

Perhaps it was your mind’s way of reminding you that, even if you shut your eyes so tightly that colors bloomed behind your eyelids— even if you thought hard enough of your summer home and salt-kissed winds, if you strained to hear your parents’ airy laughter calling you to dinner— this was not home.

It never could be.

“Y/n?”

Han’s voice slips through the fog of your memories, bright and familiar. You blink, the haze receding like chimney smoke to find him leaning casually against the doorframe.

He’s the first one out of the stylist’s room, his hair falls in soft waves over his forehead, and silver dust coats his eyes, catching the overhead lights like scattered stars.

“Hey, Han,” you greet, pulling him into a brief hug.

His grin is as easy as ever—warm and full of mischief. “Like the makeup?”

“It’s perfect,” you reply, poking his rosy cheeks.

“The boys are still getting ready,” he says, falling in step beside you as you walk toward the waiting room. Shelves stacked with instant noodles, water bottles, chips, and candy stare back at you.

“Figured.”

Your gaze flickers to the jelly candies, and you smile. You can already picture Hyunjin diving for them first and Seungmin scolding him for his sugar intake.

Jiho, the manager, greets you with a nod, and you return the gesture.

“You seemed far away just now,” Han notes, twisting the cap off a water bottle.

You exhale slowly. “The vents smell like rust. This whole place can quickly turn into a safety hazard. That’s a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

Han gasps in mock horror, clutching his chest. “Why is it that every time you talk about law, I feel like I’m about to be sued?”

You swat his arm, giggling at his theatrics, before pinching his forearm lightly.

“Hey—“ he yelps and you narrow your eyes at him.

“I should actually sue you for not visiting my new office though,” you point out, doing a neck-slicing motion with your hand.

“Okay, creepy. AND, for my defense, I sent you that fruit basket, didn’t I? Been busy writing songs. You know how it is when inspiration strikes me.”

You do.

It tugs at a distant summer, long days spent on the coast of Jeju Island alongside the boys, to celebrate your first successful case. Han locked away with his notebook while the sea breeze knocked at his window. He only joined you once he had finished writing the lyrics of two new songs. Some of your favorites too, at that.

“There she is! You’re smiling,” Han says, poking your cheek.

“Just remembering our trip.”

He sighs dreamily, before slinging his arm around your shoulders. “Best summer ever. Next time, the vacation’s on me. Pinky promise.”

Your smile softens, warmth pooling within the cracks of your heart.

Han was angry once, when you had first met him. Just like you. But where his anger burned bright, yours hid beneath the surface, smoldering slowly. But time softened his edges. You wonder if the same could ever be said for you.

“You’re here,” Seungmin appears suddenly, peeling Han’s arm away from your shoulder with a scowl. Han retaliates by blowing you an overly exaggerated kiss before wandering toward the vending machine.

“I finished up the case early,” you explain.

Seungmin’s gaze narrows slightly, scanning the lines of your outfit.

“And why are you so dressed up?”

“Can’t a sister look nice for her favorite brother’s first sold-out concert at the Kyocera Dome?” you tease, clasping your hands.

Jiho snorts from his seat. Traitor.

“I’m your only brother, and we both know you’re lying,” Seungmin deadpans.

It’s endearing—the way he shields you from heartbreak as if he hasn’t spent his whole life beneath the cover of your arms.

It’s foolish too— as if you still have a heart that beats hard enough to love, then to break.

“Fine. I have a date after the show.”

“With who?” Hyunjin’s voice drifts in as he steps into the hallway, Changbin trailing closely behind.

You smile. “Jaehyun.”

Seungmin pinches the bridge of his nose. “You know I don’t love him.”

“And who said I do?” you ask, a sly smile tugging at your lips.

“Then why do you still meet up with him?”

“Because he’s fun. And I like spending my time with fun people.”

Changbin leans in, grinning wide. “I’m fun too. Why not date me?”

He drapes his arm over your shoulder, and Seungmin groans, pretending to smash his head against the wall repeatedly.

“Alright, alright, stop the flirting,” you laugh, shaking your head. “I fear you’ll end up killing my brother.”

Seungmin pouts, and you laugh softly, pulling him in for a tight embrace. “Look at you, performing in such a big arena,” the words suddenly catch in your throat, a silky rope tightly binding the syllables together. “You know that I’m proud of you, right?”

You smile, and Seungmin holds you a little closer.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Thank you for coming. I really wanted you here.”

You clear your throat, stepping back with a playful flick to his arm. “I’ll see you after the show. Say hi to the rest of the boys for me.”

“You’ll do great,” you add, and his smile softens like sunlight melting across the sea.

His voice follows you down the hall. “We’re still talking about this date later, though!”

“Seungmin loves acting as if she isn’t older than him—” Swat.

—

There is one peculiar emotion that always beats within your heart at your brother’s concert halls. It is warm, like beholding a glowing sun within the empty hollows of your ribcage. It swells and swells, spreading within your being like paint spilled on canvas— soaking your heart in wildflower hues.

You feel relieved to see your brother and his friends so loved. You sense it in the cacophony of cheers, in the misty eyes of all the fans surrounding you. You know that the boys can feel it too. In the shaking of their voices as they take turns saying their ending ments. It is a monumental moment for them, something they only dared dream of back when they were still trainees and you had to sneak snacks into their dorm.

It is Seungmin’s turn to speak. His shaking hand barely manages to hold the mic. Seungmin doesn’t cry as often as before. Never in front of you anymore. He suddenly stopped once he turned fifteen, as if he had made a vow to himself, to lift off some of his worries off your burdened spine.

But tonight, unmistakable tears gather at the edges of his eyes, glinting like faraway constellations.

He tilts his head toward the sky, and you wonder who these words are really addressed to.

Deep down you already know the answer to this.

“My sister is here tonight,” he starts and tears glisten in your eyes, all of the sudden. “If I’m here today it’s all thanks to her, so I– I hope you’re proud of me,” he says, voice tight, breaking. But he still speaks. “You know, I… I don’t believe in forever—” his lips tremble like leaves at the mercy of autumn winds. A faint ringing surges through your ears, muffling the sound of everything until only his sharp words remain. “But just at this moment, being with the members and everyone who stood by our side, I— I want to believe in eternity with you.”

The crowd roars at his words. Cameras flash everywhere. The boys quickly move forward to wrap Seungmin in their arms.

But you’re not here anymore.

You’re somewhere quieter. Smaller. Somewhere dimly lit by flickering hallway lights and hushed whispers past curfew.

Your hands shake, pressing into your thighs as if their weight might ground you. But the cold creeps in anyway, walking alongside your veins, settling into your heart like an old companion.

—

He was eight.

His hair stuck to his forehead in damp curls, and the faint glow of the moon reflected onto his eyes like a gleaming water surface.

You remember smoothing his bangs away, tucking him beneath a worn blanket that didn’t quite reach his toes. He didn’t mind. Seungmin never minded the small things.

“Did you make a wish?” you whispered. It was his birthday. Birthdays never got easier for Seungmin, nor for you. Most days you were just pretending— that you knew what you were doing, that your knees were strong enough to hold you upright. Pretending that you had what it takes to protect your brother when you, yourself, were in desperate need of protection.

How do you salvage innocence in halls that spell out loss and grief at every turn? How do you make a birthday a happy memory in such a terrible place ?

Seungmin blinked up at you as his small hand curled around your fingers.

“I said that I want to see mommy and daddy again.”

The air had thickened then, and the knot in your throat twisted so tight it left no room for you to breathe.

You forced on a smile anyway. “You will,” you promised, voice soft but unsteady. “Soon.”

He paused, blinking slowly.

“What’s forever?”

The question felt like a swinging pendulum suddenly came to a halt— Seungmin’s innocence slipping away from your shaky grasp.

“Why do you ask?”

“I told Gyuvin I’ll see our parents soon. But he said that you lied, and it will take forever until then.”

Your chest tightened. You knew Gyuvin had a mean streak—sharp edges chiseled by loneliness and unspoken grief. You never held it against him. He was only eight too.

Still.

“He’s joking, Seungminnie,” you murmured, brushing your thumb over his knuckles. “Forever just means something that doesn’t end. Like numbers. Numbers don’t end, right?”

He thought for a moment, lips pressing into a pout.

“Would you like to believe in forever?” you asked, teasing gently.

“No,” he said quietly, “Because then I’ll be sad for a very long time. I want the time to pass quickly.”

Oh.

Seungmin drifted off not long after, his breaths soft and even. But you stayed awake—long enough for the world outside to fall silent. Long enough to bury your face in the pillow, stifling the sobs that trembled past your chapped lips.

Seungmin was only nine.

But you were only thirteen.

And you missed your parents, so terribly so. You wished your mom was there, combing your hair with fingers that seemed to be made up of silk. You wished you could press your ear to her chest and listen to her heartbeat, breathe it in, soak in the love that the sound seemed to spell out for you.

You wished your dad was here, holding your hand in his much larger, weathered down one— rivulets of age running between his knuckles. You wished he’d carry you once more on his shoulders, tall enough for you to reach out to the stars, to foolishly believe you’d be able to graze them with your fingertips. You wished they were still here. You hated them for being gone. You hated yourself for hating them, even for a millisecond. For allowing the thought to filter through the endless void that constitutes your mind.

You thought of what it’d be like to float atop the sea near your home. Of letting the waves carry you deep into the darkness of the water. Of sinking deep enough that you wouldn’t feel anything anymore. You couldn’t bear it. You couldn’t bear having a heart that kept demanding you to live. It felt like a curse, like every heartbeat spelled out horrible truths for you. You wished for it to stop. All of it. All of you.

—

“Yah, Y/n why aren’t you smiling?” Changbin nearly shouts in your face and you and Jeongin scurry away on cue, cradling your ears at his loud voice.

You plaster a smile on your face, force the corners of your mouth to tug forward— “Because! You’re all sweaty and pressing onto me,” you say, and a cacophony of protests erupts all at once— “this is the sweat of hard work”, “but our sweat smells nice though!”, a groan, “that’s just you Hyunjin.”

Your yelp as a hand suddenly wraps around your wrist, Felix’s, pulling into the middle for a group hug.

“Stop, your sweat will rub off of me!” Your high-pitched shriek causes all of them to back off on cue, giggling loudly.

You don’t give yourself a second to breathe, afraid that your mask will slip away quicker than you can stop it. You take advantage of the commotion to kiss Seungmin’s cheek quickly, avoiding his gaze as you run off to the entrance. “You all did well! I’ll have to go now! My date is waiting!”

You don’t leave him time to respond as you scurry away, leaving the backstage. You can feel the oxygen settle like stones into the pit of your heart, weighing the rushing of your blood down. It takes you excruciatingly long to breathe. Being here suffocates you all of a sudden.

You remember your wish, for the waves to carry you away into whichever place they rest in. What a violent thing for a thirteen-year-old to wish for. What a violent thing to still seek now deep into your twenties. You felt guilty. To be surrounded by many people who love you and yet to not feel loved.

You’re almost outside when a warm hand curls around your wrist.

“Seungmin, I told you I’m—” you turn around expecting to see your little brother’s gaze, full of mischief, full of affection, only to be met with Chan’s worried one. Your retort dies on the tip of your tongue, like a deflating balloon. You try your hardest to plaster a smile on your face but it comes off like a grimace. Chan’s frown only deepens further.

“I—” you think of something quick to say, to get his scrutinizing gaze off of you. You can predict the question forming, swirling his mind, you already know which way this conversation will head. But all your thoughts seem to melt, your mind unable to conjure something to save your facade.

Your phone suddenly rings, Jaehyun’s name lighting up the screen. You go to reply when Chan grabs the phone away from your hands, silencing the call.

“What’s wrong?” he finally asks and it feels as if the walls are closing on you once more. You can hear the waves thrashing around, calling. “And don’t say you’re just feeling emotional because we made it so far.”

You chuckle faintly. You know it’s no use lying to Chan, of all people. “Jaehyun is calling again,” you point to your lit-up screen, and his lips press into a flat line, rejecting the call.

“Cancel your date,” he cocks a perfectly shaped eyebrow at you, “you know you have the most fun hanging out with me”.

“Alright, Mr. Cocky,” your heart is heavy as you attempt to smile at him, as if you’re forcing it to perform something it does not wish to, to pump blood for an action as meaningless as smiling. What purpose does it really serve if you are not happy? “I'm not in the mood for you to psychoanalyze me, though.”

“I won't,” his eyes soften as he takes one step closer to you. “We'll go on a drive okay, like old times?”

What is the point of pressing ice to a third-degree burn? Nothing, if not a fleeting respite, to close your eyes and pretend as if the burn would come undone, to soothe the fire only for it to barge in again. With a vengeance. Stronger. Harsher.

That is what being next to Chan is like to you.

“Fine,” you concede, though. Because you despise worrying people. You despise worrying Chan mostly. “I don’t want Seungmin to know though.”

“Don’t worry,” he smiles as he hands you back your phone, his thumb brushing your wrist for a second before he walks back. “I’ll come to your car, alright? Wait for me.”

—

It was a late summer night when Chan first discovered his love for music. He was only five, the air fragrant with the sweetness of strawberries and the tang of lemon zest. His curls were damp, clinging to his forehead from how hard he played with the neighborhood kids. The glass of water his mother handed him felt like the sweetest reprieve against his parched throat. Because Chan was happy, a joy so vivid it seemed to have taken roots within his veins, blooming into gleaming eyes and a smile so vast it could mend every crack in the universe.

He didn’t know it then, but there was a beautiful carelessness in the way he dashed outside, barefoot and giggling to order ice cream from the vendor near his house. Vanilla and bubblegum. In the way he did not use a spoon, instead licking the ice cream directly from the cone, as the sun melted it into rivers of sweetness that coated his fingers, leaving them sticky and fragrant. In the way he paid no mind to the earth clinging to his shorts, the sweat glistening on his face, or the syrupy mess on his hands. Because his happiness was so full he was bursting at the seams with it.

Because he was still a child, and children did not care for perfection. Children did not see the world through a lens that sought out every flaw— Chan did not learn yet how to turn that lens inward, harsher as he aimed it at himself.

His dad had brought him a ukulele, gently placing it into Chan’s small hands. The notes stumbled out, clumsy and wrong at first, as if their melody were caught in the strings, hesitant to be set free. It took a few tries for Chan to untangle them, but he didn’t mind. Because within these notes he found a new kind of joy—one that seemed to amplify his racing heartbeat, spilling into the room and filling it with the decadent taste of happiness.

It was a late autumn night when Chan first hated himself.

It was a particularly exhausting training day, the kind that left Chan barely upright as he walked down the stairs, his legs shaking with every step. He couldn’t bring himself to head back to the cramped dorms just yet, nor did he want to speak to anyone. Or rather, he no longer knew how to talk to anyone anymore. How could he make futile small talk when his soul was seized by a terrible longing, one that lingered bitterly on his tongue like the cough syrup he used to drink as a child?

See, how could he explain to anyone that he even missed that—the syrup, the warmth of his home, the pieces of a life that now felt as if they belonged to somebody other than him. He felt as if the wound only grew larger each day, spreading farther into his ribcage, infesting every part of his heart—every vein, every molecule—tainting them with the blueish colors of sorrow and ache.

Chan had found a quiet spot by the Han River, tucked far from prying eyes, his shoulders slouched under the weight of nostalgia, not the sweet one, rather, the one that felt like pine needles digging into his skin, at once. He liked it here—if he closed his eyes long enough he’d pretend the salty air was Australia’s breeze. He missed the wind there and how it ruffled his hair like an old friend. He missed his father’s grilled meat, his mother’s lemonade, his sister’s shenanigans. He missed his dog.

Would Berry even remember him now? Has it been too long?

It had.

The thought stung sharper than he expected. Was it all for nothing then? Does Berry not remember him for nothing?

Sometimes, it only takes one second for the world to shift off its axis, for the seconds to march forward but for you to remain stranded in the past. It took Chan this single question to break apart. It was as if someone had driven their fist into his chest, their claws digging deep, twisting around his heart until it felt on the brink of bursting— an ugly eruption of crimson, staining the blissful river with its bloodied ache.

What is wrong with me? He’s been asking himself the same question ever since.

It was a late winter night when Chan saw you for the very first time.

He was seventeen, shackles of self-doubt and insecurity wrapped around his ankles, digging deeper into his flesh with each year spent farther from his dream. Chan hated looking at his reflection in the mirror. He hated thinking of home. He avoided thinking of the future, of who he was, of who he hoped to become. Sometimes, he wished his mind could just go quiet. The voices were very loud and very mean.

Yet, unbeknownst to him, there were fragile blossoms of hope that fought to flourish in his chest, tentative, frail, since they grew in barren soil that didn’t quite believe in meeting the sun once more. But they were there.

Because Chan wasn’t alone anymore. Jisung joined him first, a kid with a passion that burns so fiercely it scathes his own heart at times. Then Jeongin, a voice singing of a reverence that shook Chan to his core. Hyunjin, who saw in dancing a form of salvation. Changbin, the missing golden piece to complete the infamous 3RACHA.

And then Seungmin.

It was through Seungmin that Chan saw you.

You had just dropped off Seungmin at the trainee dorms, bags full of homemade food in his hands. You hugged him tightly as he waved you off before disappearing into the building. And then, as soon as Seungmin was out of sight, Chan saw you collapse against the wall, your body wracked by cruel sobs. Cruel, because it was winter, and he knew that crying during the cold was somewhat harsher on the soul. You can’t cling to blooming flowers, to warm sun rays, to anything beautiful to ease your pain.

Cruel, because he recognized himself in you. In the way you rushed to hide your tears, wiping them away with your sleeves so that no one would see you. As if you were not deserving of this moment of weakness. As if you were not deserving of being human too.

“Do you still pick at your nails?” Chan asks, glancing at your figure as the light turns red. “Can’t give up bad habits?”

“You’re the last one to talk about bad habits, Mr. Never Sleeps.”

“Touché,” he chuckles, and you shake your head, the faintest smile lingering on your lips.

The seasons passed, and Chan’s fragmented heart had somehow found itself pieced together again—not to its original form. That would be a fool’s hope. People noticed the external changes—the different hues of his hair, how his muscles grew more chiseled with time—but they couldn’t see how pain and self-doubt had altered him, down to the very molecules of his being.

Because pain doesn’t pass like an angry cloud, casting a dark shadow only to drift away. That would be too kind, too merciful for emotions forged to drain you dry. No, it breaks you, reshapes you, molds you with the thorns in its calloused hands. It forces you to relearn who you are, how to breathe, where to stand, how to cling to the fragile thread that keeps you from stumbling back into the darkness.

The heart Chan carries isn’t his own anymore. It belongs mostly to sorrow now. But it still beats.

And so it did. And that winter passed, and so did spring. Then summer came, and fall returned once more.

And the years went by, and Chan blinked, and suddenly it had been ten years since he first saw you. And yet, it felt as though you remained stuck in winter. Because you did not have anyone’s hand to hold, warm enough to make you believe that summer would come again.

“Is this about Seungmin?” Chan asks softly, his fingernails drumming absentmindedly against the steering wheel.

“No, yes—I… I don’t know,” you sigh in exasperation, and he nods, turning his head to glance at you.

You first went on a night walk with Chan when you were still a law student, and his group had just debuted. Your apartment was under renovation, so you had to stay in the boys’ dorm for a few days. It was late into the night, with both of you the only ones still awake, working through your respective tasks in silence. He had offered to go for a walk, and you had accepted.

Neither of you spoke. Chan pretended not to see the stray tears that silently slipped down your cheeks, with no previous warning. He wondered what had weighed on your heart so heavily that it searched desperately for any moment of solitude to escape.

Your eyes are distant now, glazed over as if your mind has carried you to a place where the sun never rises. You bring your hand to your mouth once more, but Chan gently pushes it away, cradling your fingers in his palm.

He has to pretend that the sensation of your hand in his doesn’t feel like a thunderbolt—a surge of electricity that shoots up from the tips of his toes, swirling deep into his chest and settling into warmth in his stomach.

“It will bleed, and then you’ll come whining because it hurts,” he jokes, though his heart pounds in his throat, threatening to choke him.

“When did I do that?” you exclaim, but you don’t pull your hand away.

Your hand is in his.

Your hand is in his.

Your hand is in his.

“Besides,” you say, your fingers slipping from his grasp to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, “You know I’m the last person to ever whine.”

Was it normal to still feel your hand on his? For his hand to memorize the warmth of yours so quickly? As if it had been thirsty, like a man astray in the desert, longing for what a drop of water would feel against his parched throat.

“Yeah, you should do that more often, actually,” he chastises softly. You exhale a shuddered breath in response.

It feels like a lifetime before you speak again. “You heard Seungmin’s speech,” you say quietly, like a wounded animal, hesitant and wary of what approaching another human might bring, of what baring your heart might cost.

Chan wants to say: It is safe with me, I would shred my own heart if it meant keeping yours intact.

“Hard to miss, since I was on stage next to him,” he jokes, and you finally giggle—a real laugh, not the artificial ones you’ve been giving him. It feels like Australia’s breeze ruffling his hair, like he can finally breathe again.

“You know,” you say, your voice shifting to something gentler, “It reminded me of Seungmin when he was still young, discovering the concept of forever.” A bittersweet smile tugs at your lips. “Seungmin was short, pale, and so fragile that I was afraid the faintest wind would break him. You should’ve seen him. When he looked up at me, his eyes were wide, his irises pitch black, and they looked so trusting. He was an easy target for the kids who needed someone to blame, someone to pour their anger into, to soothe their bruised hearts. There was no one else to punish. Too much injustice, and no respite.”

Chan’s hands tighten around the steering wheel. To think of such sad times for both you and him. Should he rewrite the march of time, he would have forced the universe to make him your friend, to entwine your hand in his, to stop the cold from making a home within the pathways of your heart.

“I remember when I first saw him. He was very shy. Like he didn’t quite know how to carry himself yet. But he ranked second in the open audition.”

“He did,” you smile. It’s a bit different from all your grins. You’re always different when it comes to Seungmin—softer, bursting with pride.

“And…” Chan trails off, glancing at you from the corner of his eye, a wide smile tugging at his lips. “I remember you.”

“Oh, please, no,” you hide your face in your palms. “That’s so embarrassing.”

Chan chuckles softly, but in his heart, he remembers your first encounter with such clarity. He had found you many things—beautiful, brave, human. ‘Embarrassing’ had never been an adjective that crossed his mind when it came to you.

He remembers.

“Here,” Chan handed you a handkerchief, and you looked up at him, a frown deepening in your eyes. Time had somehow stilled then. The seconds felt like years passing on Chan. The cold seemed to dissipate, his heart emanating a warmth he hadn’t known before. Everywhere. Consuming him.

You blinked, and time resumed, and yet Chan was changed.

“Thank you,” you said tentatively. “Something got into my eye.” You attempted to explain, and he simply nodded, humoring you.

“I figured. There’s a lot of dust around here. From the trees and all,” He cringed internally, realizing how silly that sounded. So, he fell into silence, as did you, both of you just looking at each other. Chan had never felt this way before. He ached to ask you what was wrong, if he could do anything to alleviate your pain. If you too would like to break near Han River with him.

“I’m Chan. Bang Chan. Christopher, actually. But you can call me Chan.”

You had giggled then, and his ears burned so fiercely he was sure they were a shade of fuchsia, bright and loud. The sound was melodious, like notes strung along a flute just right. Soothing and warm. He loved your laugh. He wished his piano could recreate it. He wished he could save it so he could dance to it later.

“Alright, Christopher Actually Chan,” you smiled, and his cheeks flared a shade brighter. He silently prayed you’d account for the harsh winds that wrapped around you both.

“And I know you, actually,” you continued.

His eyes widened in surprise, and you chuckled softly at his reaction. He liked making you laugh. He liked it so much he’d make a fool out of himself if he needed to. “I’m not a stalker, Kim Seungmin told me about you. He’s my brother.”

“Right,” Chan responded, his usual confidence slipping for just a moment. He was never awkward—social prowess was one of his greatest strengths. Still, with you, all semblance of normal interaction vanished. There was something in your gaze, something so beautifully haunting, like the sight of tree branches in autumn. Something that once was whole, now stripped bare, yet still captivating in its vulnerability. It made him wonder if beauty like this could ever be captured in music.

“I’m Y/n, by the way,” you bowed slightly, before quickly turning and walking away. Chan watched, breath hitched in his throat, as you paused, and then as if pulled by some invisible thread, you turned back to him.

Without a word, you grabbed his hand, gently placing something within his palm.

A cherry lollipop.

“As a thank you,” you said, a bit sheepishly, eyes still puffy from the sobs that kept you prisoner just a few moments ago. “Ah, and, you better debut with my brother!”

You pointed at him, and in that moment, a grin broke through your face—one so radiant, so full of life, he wondered if this was what witnessing the first sunset felt like to humans. A beauty so grand, so overwhelming, he didn’t quite know what to do with it.

Chan’s fate was sealed right then and there—he would spend the next ten years chasing after your smile, no matter how foolish it seemed.

For one would ask, what’s a drop of white against a sea of black? What use are cherries’ scent before the stench of sorrow? And the answer would always be everything. Everything, if it’s you.

Chan clears his throat, settling on the least incriminating adjective of the bunch. “You were brave, Cherry. You still are.”

“You think too highly of me,” you snort.

“I think of you just right, actually.”

You are nearly home when, out of nowhere, you speak. “What if I told you I’m terrified?” The words rush out, as though you are afraid they’d die in your throat before they could reach him.

Chan’s heart tightens in worry. He parks hastily in front of your place, the engine still humming as he turns to face you, you who’s like a Russian doll—layer upon layer of your soul wrapped carefully, each one guarding the other.

“Why?” he asks, his voice barely a whisper, thick with concern.

“I didn’t want to tell Seungmin,” you begin, pausing to bite your lower lip. “He’d be heartbroken... I know him, I—” you falter, your voice cracking just slightly. “My new case... It's about Promise Orphanage. They want to tear it down to build a luxury apartment complex. A fucking billionaire’s investment, with pools and golf courses.”

“Sun Corporation,” you explain, “it’s owned by the son of Gyeongdo Holdings’ CEO. They’ve been harassing Miss Jeeho for two months now because she refuses to desert the orphanage. It’s a mess, Chan.” you’re angry, he can feel it, the rage burning bright right beneath your skin.

“The city council caved in and granted them a permit because the land belongs to the state and this project apparently serves public interest, but that’s bullshit. Who would benefit from this other than billionaires?” you bite your lower lip, sucking in a deep breath. “I told you Winter became the vice director of the orphanage, right? She just learned about this and told me. They’re offering compensation but I’ve dealt with those kinds of people. They’re greedy. They’re corrupt.”

“I couldn’t turn my back on it,” you whisper. “I had to take the case. Those kids… they’ll have nowhere to go. And I know how cold it feels, how brutal it is when you lose your family and still have to look for someplace to call home.”

Your eyes glisten, tears clinging to the edge like dew on a leaf, only to be blinked away before they fall. How much does it cost your soul to bear this weight? How much longer until you fracture—like a pomegranate violently split open, bits of your soul scattering out in splatters of raw scarlet.

Chan’s palm finds your knee, squeezing it gently. “You’re worried they’ll end up forgetting about the orphanage and not building a new one?”

“Yeah. They did this before. I checked the civil files. They built over a nursing home and never gave them proper compensation, paid hush money to the owner to keep them from suing. What if I can’t stop them? This is all those kids have. This is all Winter has. Miss Jeeho too.”

“They won’t. you’ll stop them. I know you will, Cherry, alright?” he says with all the sincerity he can muster. You seem dubitative and he sighs, reaching out to hold your cold hands. Please warm up.

“You will, okay? I have no doubt you will,” he repeats with a fire that seems to light you up. A sudden light reflects off the broken shards of your heart.

“I will.”

—

Chan: you up?

Your phone lights up, distracting you from the mountain of paperwork scattered across your desk.

Y/n: What a fuck boyish text

Chan: akldkdkd so you’re definitely up

Y/n: I’m working on the case :(

Chan: open up!! i have snacks

You blink at the message, confused, before padding to the door. When you open it, Chan stands there, a wide grin stretching across his face. He’s wearing a grey varsity jacket that drapes across his broad shoulders perfectly, and a blue navy cap. You still don’t understand why he rarely allows his curls to see the light.

“What are you doing here?” you ask, crossing your arms.

“I got bored alone in the studio,” he shrugs casually. “So I thought I’d drop by.”

“Drop by?” you repeat, laughing softly. “Your studio is on the other side of town.”

“Okay, I guess you don’t want fish cake and tteokbokki—”

“Come back,” you interrupt, wrapping your hand around his forearm and tugging him inside. His body is warm, and it is only then do you realize just how cold your apartment truly is.

“It’s a mess, I’m sorry,” you apologize, glancing at the dirty plates in the sink and the papers all over the desk, and the floor, and the couch too.

“Need me to tidy up again?” he teases, grinning as he steps inside.

You swat his arm, rolling your eyes. “You did it once because I was bedridden, and Seungmin was in Japan for a schedule.”

“I don’t mind, Cherry,” he says softly, setting the food down on your coffee table. His gaze flickers to yours. “I’d do it even if you weren’t sick, you know.”

Chan has a habit of saying things that send your heart into a slow, painful thrum—one long pulse that stretches endlessly, forcing you to acknowledge its existence. But, as always, you avoid it. You never allow yourself to question the warmth that only blooms when he’s near.

You both sit cross-legged on the living room floor, the spicy scent of tteokbokki wafting between you. For a while, the only sound heard in the apartment is the soft clink of chopsticks against takeout containers.

“Any updates on the case?” he asks.

You nod, running a hand through your hair. “I filed for an injunction,” you say, sighing deeply. “Trying to stop the demolition for now, at least until I figure out what to do next. The city council is ridiculous.They keep saying this is for the public benefit, but how is that true? Who benefits from luxury penthouses except rich assholes? And because the orphanage is on state land, they think they can just sell it off like it’s nothing.”

Chan’s eyes have been tracking each one of your words intently, drinking in every syllable that drips from your mouth. He has long thought your calling was law, there is a certain logic in you, a peculiar fire that burns in your core that seems inherent to this job. Though oftentimes he wonders if this is truly what you’ve always wanted. Had you been raised in your home would you have turned out differently? Would you like to pursue something else? Would you sing like Seungmin too?

“I’m trying to figure out who’s behind those apartment deals. Jaehyun’s helping me track it down.”

Chan’s eyes darken, like a storm has gathered within his irises. He doesn’t realize his jaw is ticking. You do. You pretend as if you don’t notice.

“Jaehyun… are you guys together yet?” Chan asks, and your heart pauses at the change in conversation. You shake your head. “Hm? No. We’re just friends.” you say between bites.

“You go on dates with your friends?” he chuckles, but there is nothing funny in the sound. His eyes don’t morph into crescents, his dimples refuse to show.

“You know, we’re just messing around, or whatever,” you quickly say.

“Right.”

Chan remembers the moment with striking clarity—when you first mentioned Jaehyun. You were both at a hotpot restaurant, the steam from the bubbling broth curling around you.

You had said his name casually, A journalist you’d met at one of the court hearings, someone with the same fiery passion for justice that you had. He was annoying, you’d said, always bothering you with his questions, his relentless pursuit of truth. But there was something else in your voice when you spoke of him—something new, something soft and fond that made Chan’s chest tighten.

“Anyways, he’s friends with one of the junior employees in the city council,” you continue, voice tinged with frustration. “So he’s been trying to convince him to help us out.”

“An insider,” Chan says absently, his voice flat, like the surface of a pond long undisturbed by pebbles. He’s thinking, how long is it acceptable to harbor a crush on someone? Three months? Six? A year? What if Chan’s been carrying this weight for ten years? 3650 days spent thinking of you, chasing the shadow of your image away from his eyelids at night, yet always yearning for a dream where all he’d glimpse is you.

What if bile rises in his throat at the thought of Jaehyun so close to you, his fingers tracing the lines of your lips, memorizing the shape of your body, the rise and fall of your chest as you sleep? What if he cannot bear it, cannot stand the thought of anyone else knowing you in ways he never will?

You sigh, fingers digging into your temple as the weight of your exhaustion becomes tangible. “It’s tiring, Chan,” you admit as your forehead rests against your knees. Chan feels something shift inside him—a peculiar ache that only surfaces when you are in pain.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, his hand hovering above your back before it settles there. He slowly pats your back, dragging his nails along your spine. It’s very quiet all of the sudden, a calm that only manifests when two souls, not bodies, are sitting by one another. You lean into his touch, your body angling towards him like a sunflower tilting towards the sun.

“Do you remember when the possibility of us debuting became very high?” he says and you nod, resting your cheek against your knee to look up at him. His hand doesn’t stop caressing your back. You don’t wish for it to.

“What is it with you and my most embarrassing memories?” you giggle quietly only to sober up at the sincerity you gather in his eyes. They are like pools of amber, the color of decadent chocolate, like the rich bark of trees kissed by sunlight.

“Everyone was out and I was the only one in the dorm.” He recounts the memory as if you weren’t there; as if he needed you to hear this, not as a participant but as an outsider. “And then you came knocking on my door, disheveled, looking like you hadn’t slept in days. You asked me, ‘Is it true? Are you debuting soon?’”

You close your eyes, the weight of that moment flooding you—how raw and real it was. You remember it vividly: the way his eyes met yours, like he had seen you for the first time right there and then.

“You were petrified. Because yes, you worked overtime to pay off Seungmin’s vocal lessons, you supported him so much his confidence never wavered, and yet, you were scared,” his words soften, and the pit in your throat tightens. You can’t speak even if you wish to.

“I said yes and you started crying. and I hadn’t seen you cry in three years. Not since the night we first met.” You remember his worried gaze, how he sank to the ground with you when your knees crumbled beneath you. He called you Cherry for the first time then, as if he had kept the nickname a secret, wishing to speak it outloud but never daring to. He did it because he thought back to your first meeting, and the cherry lollipop in your hand. You thought of it too.

“Seungmin,” you heaved, “please protect him, Chan, I— please, you have to protect him, please.”

“What’s wrong?” He panicked. “Talk to me Cherry, hm?”

“What if they are unkind to him? What if they somehow find out he’s an orphan and use that against him? He doesn’t like telling me anymore when it hurts. What if he’s hurt and he can’t tell me?”

His thumb swipes at the lone tear slipping from your eyes, gentle and warm. What if Chan is too kind to you? What if your heart wasn’t crafted to handle it?

“Then when all the boys came back ten minutes later you smiled as if nothing happened. I had seen you break down on the floor a few moments prior, and yet, you found the strength to smile, so as to not worry anyone, especially Seungmin.”

Chan’s heart throbs in his chest, the rhythm uneven and insistent. His voice wavers as his gaze locks with yours. Your eyes glimmer, like a river kissed by the summer sun, like stained glass basked in the light of a centuries old cathedral.

His palms cup your cheeks, tentative and gentle, akin to a flower breaking through the soil for the first time. “You are the strongest person I know,” he says, his voice soft, “The most hardworking, too. You care, so much, even when you try to hide it. It’s that passion that makes you the best at what you do. You’ll win this case, and every case after it, because you’re the one handling them.”

His thumb brushes against your skin. “And you believed in me when I said I’d protect Seungmin. So I believe in you, Cherry. Please believe in yourself too.”

You nod, over and over, like a broken record stuck on a single note. Before he can process it, your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him close. Your head finds its place in the crook of his neck, and for a fleeting second, he’s frozen, the world tilting off its axis. Then, slowly, his hands slide to your waist as he breathes you in—your shampoo, your favorite laundry detergent, the faint trace of cherry lingering on your skin like a memory of a distant summer.

“Thank you, Channie,” you whisper against his shoulder.

He nods, his voice muffled by the turmoil caging his heart. “You’re welcome, Cherry.”

For how long is it acceptable to love someone who doesn’t love you? Chan doesn’t know. He doesn’t really want an answer. Even a lifetime wouldn’t be a waste if it’s spent loving you.

—

“Three penthouses are already registered under different names,” Jaehyun tells you, handing over a couple of lease contracts. You’re seated in a small café near Promise Orphanage, waiting for Winter to join you. The junior employee in Sun Corp. has finally caved and handed over the registrants to Jaehyun—names of the people who have already secured luxury apartments, long before the project even saw light.

“Park Yuna, Lee Seo-Jun, and Choi Joon-Ho,” you read aloud, glancing up at Jaehyun, who’s already smirking.

“Park Yuna…” you pause, “isn’t she the wife of the city council president?”

“Bingo!” he exclaims, his arms wide open, head tipped back as a sinister giggle rips out of his throat.

“Oh gosh,” you cover your face as some customers turn to look at you. “This isn’t an action movie stop it.”

Jaehyun pouts as you swat his arm and you laugh despite yourself.

“Anyway, you’re right. She’s his wife. I also found out Seo-Jun and Joon-Ho are tied to prominent council members. Second cousin and son-in-law. They had their penthouses promised before the project was ever public.”

“They didn’t even register them under their names. Subtle,” you mutter, shaking your head.

“Yeah, I bet they weren’t even expecting Miss Jeeho to resist the compensation.”

You sigh, leaning back in your chair. “They think those kids are just pawns, something they can move around for their benefit. They don’t get that those children have nothing but each other and the comfort of a familiar bed.”

The conversation lulls. Jaehyun grows quiet as you stare holes into your coffee, swirling the caramel syrup into the dark liquid. But no amount of sweetness can mask the bitterness on your tongue—the bitter taste of injustice, of watching people prioritize their greed over others’ lives.

“We’ll gather more evidence of their corruption,” Jaehyun says eventually, his tone firm. “And when we do, we’ll confront them. They won’t risk this becoming public with so many global investors involved.”

You nod. “You’re right.”

He leans back in his chair, a teasing glint in his eyes. “By the way, why did you cancel on me two nights in a row?”

The question catches you off guard, and your mind drifts to last night: Chan showing up at your home, his comforting words, the warmth of his hand on your back, the scent of pinewood and cinnamon lingering in the air, the clean apartment you woke up to. Something stirs in your chest, warm and soft.

“Chan came over,” you admit.

Jaehyun whistles, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.

“Chan,” he says, drawing out the name.

“Mhm,” you reply, suddenly shy under his gaze.

“The man who calls you Cherry.”

“Yeah. Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Because you’re so oblivious.”

“Agreed,” a familiar voice chimes in as Winter slides into the seat next to you. She presses a quick kiss to your cheek before sitting back with a knowing smile.

You groan, burying your face in your hands. “This isn’t the subject of discussion,” you say pointedly, glaring at both of them.

You’re momentarily distracted by Winter’s appearance. Her cheeks are hollow, her eyes shadowed with exhaustion. She’s poured so much love back into the orphanage she grew up in. Losing it would destroy you both.

“That man likes her,” Winter says casually, sipping from your drink.

You glare at her. “No, he doesn’t. He’s my friend.”

Winter raises an eyebrow at you. “He always looks at you differently. His tone is softer when he talks to you.”

Your eyes drift away, thoughts pulling you back to last night—to how Chan stayed with you until dawn, watching awful dramas with you despite his packed schedule, simply because he was worried.

“What’s the point of him liking me if I can’t like him back?” you murmur, voice barely audible. “My heart isn’t made for this.”

“Have you ever given yourself a chance?” Jaehyun asks and you scoff.

“A chance for what? To hurt someone?” you reply, shaking your head. “I don’t know how to love. I never had the time to learn. I was too busy surviving. We were,” you say glancing at Winter who averts her gaze.

This suddenly felt like a conversation too grim to have in the open. To speak of how your heart has been morphed into a cowardly being, shrinking at the simple thought of being looked at. What would anyone behold anyways? If not an organ that’s too battered, too bloody, unworthy of being seen, let alone to be loved.

“Anyway,” you say, forcing your voice to steady, “Can you set me up a meeting with that employee? We need more insider evidence and he’s the only one who can help us. I’d like to talk to him alone.”

“Yeah, I’ll try to convince him,” Jaehyun reassures you. The three of you nod and dive back into the stacks of paperwork, but the words blur in front of your eyes, forming an incoherent mass.

There are things you’ve always wished to escape—dark truths you thought you'd one day outrun. You still haven’t. Perhaps, you will never.

Perhaps, had you not been shaped by the cruelty of others, had you not been born beneath a star soaked in grief. Perhaps, if you never had to carve pieces of yourself out to survive, if you had the time, the strength to sit quietly with your own heart, to listen to who it wanted you to be, then, maybe, just maybe, you would have known the warmth of another’s touch.

You would have allowed yourself to melt into the softness of their gaze, you would have let your cheeks flush freely with the sweetness of their words, with no restraints, no shame. But the world is not kind. It will not offer you such a path. And so, this is your curse: to be one of grief’s favorite beholders, for you to wear it like a second flesh. To cling to it, as it clings to you because it is all you’ve ever known.

—

Your mother’s fingers were always warm as they entwined with yours, no matter the season. You remember the feel of them particularly when you went on walks by the ocean, her hand tugging you close to her frame. She was like an angel, walking softly on earth, coaxing the waves to slow down their feverish run as she brushed against their milky foam.

You can’t see her clearly in your memories anymore. Your temples ache each time you try to picture the fine details of her features. But you remember her humming along with the waves, as if singing a song to the sea, thanking them for the salty breeze they carry within their tides and swells. You remember closing your eyes to soak it in, as if you had known, even back then, that you’d forget the map of moles drawn upon her face, and the specific hue of her hair against the sun, and yet you wouldn’t forget her voice filling up your heart to the brim.

You remember coming home and trying to replicate her humming, through broken whistles at first, then, adding words where you saw fit. You remember singing to your mother in your living room. You remember feeling as if the sea was lodged right within your heart.

You loved singing, for the three years before your parents’ deaths. You sang in chorals, you sang to the birds and to the flowers blooming in your garden. You sang to the sun and to the moon. You sang to your reflection in the mirror. You sang, because it made you feel like your mother talking to the waves. And then, your parents died, and the music within you did too. The flowers, the sun, the birds… They were all an unworthy audience all of the sudden; since they all turned blind to your voice, allowing for your entire world to be stripped away from you. Leaving you bare, rootless.

You were then forced to learn that there isn’t just one big death in a lifetime. That the heart can perish multiple times before it finally stops beating completely. It felt like a little death when you began to loathe the ocean. It felt like a little death when Seungmin told you that he wished to become a singer.

You too, had wanted to, once. Maybe. If you had been given enough time to think.

It felt like a little death when you stepped into a recording booth for the first time.

You’d told Winter you were desperate for money. She mentioned agencies looking for anonymous artists to record backing vocals for prominent groups. It paid well, she said.

Your voice was well-liked. Not overpowering, but subtle, like a floral perfume—soft, seamless, blending effortlessly with whoever you sang alongside. It paid well to sing lifeless songs, to let your name dissolve into the footnotes of prominent groups, 2PM, Twice… Even your brother’s group when he debuted.

You knew that fans liked to speculate on who you were. You knew that the songs in which you sang were popular. And yet, it did not matter.

It felt like death, to kill your voice and for the sun to keep rising regardless.

“You were brave, you still are, Cherry.” Chris had told you. You wanted to believe him so badly. You wanted for the world to split open and atone for what it did to you. You wanted for the world to mend the cracks in your soul. You wanted for the world to disappear with you in it.

Your legs are growing weary of driving for so long with no destination in mind. Your eyes burn from how long you’ve stared at the road, unblinking. Somehow, you find yourself outside of Chan’s and Jeongin’s place.

It would feel like death too for you to head back to your empty apartment.

You grab your phone, sending Chan a message before you can second-guess yourself.

Y/n: Are you home?

You wait, fingers hovering over the delete button. His reply comes three seconds later.

Chan: yeah, innie is sleeping over at seungmin’s

A heartbeat.

Chan: why? are you here? are you alright?

You sigh, resting your forehead against the steering wheel. What the fuck are you doing? But still, you unbuckle your seatbelt and walk hurriedly to his door.

You knock. He opens immediately, eyebrows furrowed.

“I’m okay,” you say quickly, expecting the deluge of questions swarming in his mind.

“It’s 1 a.m.,” he replies, concern etched into his features.

“I can read the clock,” you joke, and his pout deepens as he steps closer. He’s beautiful in a way that makes your soul wish to split open to escape it. It overwhelms you.

“I’m just anxious about the next few days,” you admit.

“What’s happening?” he asks, already taking your coat and leading you to the kitchen. He pours you a glass of cold water, just the way you like it.

“I’m meeting a junior employee at Sun Corp. He’s called San. I need to convince him to give me materials proving the corporation’s corruption for our case.”

Chan’s worried gaze meets yours, and you shake your head quickly.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you murmur. “I didn’t come here to worry you. I just… I wanted your company.”

Chan’s demeanor softens at your words, like white foam finally resting against the warm sand.

“I think I feel less anxious around you,” you add, the warmth in your cheeks suddenly betraying you. Winter’s words echo in your mind: That man likes you. What a foolish thought to engrain in your mind.

“Oh, I…” His words stumble, and his fingers flex as if they’re debating reaching for you. Instead, he lowers them and smiles softly.

“So do I, Cherry,” he admits. His voice is gentle, his ears tinting red. “And I could come with you to meet San, if you’d like.”

“Really, you’d do that for me?” his being slacks off, his shoulders sinking low. If you were in a battle, this would be him dropping his sword, kneeling.

“Of course, you don’t even need to ask.”

You see it then—visions of yourself wrapping your arms around Chan’s neck in his kitchen, holding him long enough for his warmth to seep into your soul, shielding it from the many winters to come. You imagine, for a fleeting moment, putting down your defenses and letting one human in.

Perhaps this is the most violent act of all—to have visceral fantasies of something as innocent as a hug.

“Were you working?” you ask, and Chan clears his throat, nodding. “Yeah, working on some new songs. But I’ll take a break now.”

“The mighty producer CB97, taking a break for little old me. How wonderful,” you tease, a giggle escaping your lips. He rolls his eyes, his tongue pressing against his cheek in mock exasperation.

“Should we have a drink?” he offers, and you clap your hands excitedly. “Yes, I’d like that.”

It’s easy to recall with Chan—to relive the memories alive in your shared history. The summer vacation in Jeju, grilling meat for the boys, playing video games till dawn. Chan face-planting into the snow, the times you hid backstage to surprise them. You remember him accidentally body-slamming you onto the floor, the way you nearly drowned in the pool from laughing too hard.

The clock creeps toward four a.m., but you don’t feel tired. You’re tipsy, the wine warming your stomach—a bright, crisp taste, like biting into a ripe apricot. And you are happy. Your soul feels satiated, as though this laughter could sustain you for a lifetime.

Your giggles fade, leaving a comforting silence between you. You’re close to all the boys—you care for them deeply. But Chan is different. Because he dropped by only because he was worried. Because he calls you Cherry. So he remembers, and not alot of people remember you.

“I was thinking on my drive home of this… melody my mom used to sing,” you whisper, staring ahead. Your shoulder brushes against Chan’s. You rarely speak about your parents. Never this openly. Chan knows this well.

“She used to hum it to the ocean, to me when I’m about to sleep, when I was sick, when she was cooking,” you smile softly, bringing the drink to your lips. “I’ve been trying to replicate it on the piano but I’ve never managed to.”

You turn to look at him, only to find his gaze already fixed on you. His eyes are wide, vulnerable, twinkling like stars witnessing the birth of a galaxy. He licks his lips, hesitant, and your eyes linger on them. They are glossy, red, and impossibly inviting.

“Can I hear it?”

You start humming, singing what you remember off of your fragmented memory. Chan listens intently, his eyebrows tightly knit in concentration. You hear the waves, you taste the salt in the breeze. You miss the sea.

You finish, resting your cheek against his shoulder. “Thank you for sharing,” he says.

“Thank you for listening,” you whisper, and your eyes are closed, but you feel it, his lips pressing to your temple, soft as a petal. It quakes through you, unmaking you, as though your soul has been cleaved wide open. You are a supernova, unraveling, scattering light in a beautiful, dying burst.

You wake up to a note on the bedside, and a pink plaid blanket draped over you. It hits you then: you’re in Chan’s room. A blush spreads across your cheeks, igniting your skin. When did you fall asleep? Did he carry you here? Of course he did. Did he press another kiss to your temple? Why would you think of that? Still, you can’t help but wonder if he too felt it— the way your soul trembled under the weight of his touch.

You imagine him writing the note, his figure hunched near you, glancing at your peaceful form, his eyes fleeting to yours as if making sure you were still there.

‘I’ve made you breakfast, it’s in the kitchen. I have an early morning schedule, but I’ll see you tomorrow, Cherry. Thank you for coming to see me :)’

You close your eyes, burying your head deeper into the pillows surrounding you. You can’t help but inhale their scent—traces of Chan lingering in the fabric, pinewood and cinnamon, intoxicating, as though they were made for you alone to breathe in. Your skin tingles with the thought, as you imagine him beside you, what it would be like to press your face into the soft curve of his neck, to take in that scent and to fill all the hollow spaces inside you with it.

You are ashamed, even in the privacy of your thoughts, of this longing, of this sharp ache. For even thinking, daring to dream of a world where you could behold his warm hands into your butchered ones. Where he’d let you. Where you’d let yourself.

It feels like death to think of Chan, it feels like living too.

—

You find Chan leaning casually against his car, arms crossed over his chest. With his Chrome Hearts beanie nearly swallowing his eyes and a mask covering the rest of his face, he looks almost intimidating. Almost—because you can’t help but giggle at his over-the-top efforts to stay incognito.

“I think we’ll scare the poor boy away,” you tease in greeting, and he huffs, reaching out to lightly punch your arm.

“Do you want me gone? It’s fine, I can leave,” he mumbles, his pout clear even behind the mask. “It’s not like I made all this effort to come here—”

“Oh my god, you’re still a whiny baby at your big age,” you cut him off, laughing as you both step into the café.

You choose a table by the large windows, the sunlight streaming in and bathing the space in golden light. As Chan sits across from you, his grin spreads wide, making his eyes crinkle and nearly disappear. You miss the sight of his dimples, all of the sudden.

San arrives ten minutes later, sliding into the seat across from you. His eyes dart to the door every few seconds, as though someone might burst through at any moment. He fidgets in his chair, tugging at his slightly askew tie, beads of sweat gathering on his brow despite the cool air conditioning.

Your fingers curl loosely around a lukewarm cup of coffee you’ve yet to sip. “Thank you for meeting me, San. I really appreciate it,” you begin softly, and he barely nods. He reaches for his iced Americano but pulls his hand back.

“Look, Miss Kim,” he stammers, voice barely above a whisper. “I gave Jaehyun the names of the apartment holders, but what you’re asking of me now... it’s dangerous.” He avoids your gaze, eyes fixed on the floor, as if it might open up and swallow him whole. “They’re not the kind of people you cross. You have no idea how high this goes.”

“I do,” you say firmly, leaning forward. “I know exactly how high it goes. That’s why I’m here. And that’s why I need your help.”

San hesitates, his lips pressing into a thin line. His gaze flickers to Chan before meeting yours again.

You take a deep breath, knowing how delicate this conversation is, how crucial it is too. “Look, I’m not asking you to go public,” you murmur, lowering your voice. “I just need the truth. Documents, emails… anything that proves there’s a corrupt force behind this decision. I’ll keep your name out of it. I promise. Whistleblowers are common in our lines of work. No one has to know where it came from.”

“I want to help you, I do,” he says, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. “But they will find out, and I’ll lose everything,” he pauses, shoulders slumping, “I’m the sole caregiver for my mom… She’s in the hospital, and I still have bills to pay. You understand, right?”

Your eyes soften as you watch his anxious form. He’s still young, shouldering a burden you know all too well. You think he will understand, only if you bare a part of your heart to him.

“San,” you start gently, “I once lived in Promise Orphanage too.” you admit and his eyes slightly widen. “Before that, I was in two other orphanages in the city…” You pause, looking for the right words. “I still have nightmares about those places. About how cruel some of the people there were.” Your voice cracks, and Chan’s warm hand finds your knee.

“It’s hard to be happy in a place like that, but Promise Orphanage was the only place I ever thought of as home. It felt like family. I still visit to play with the kids. They’re happy, I see it, as best as they can, anyways. But they’re well taken care of. I know Miss Jeeho, I know Winter. They love those children. They allow them to dream. They don’t deserve to have their only familiarity stripped away from them.”

San swallows hard. "And what happens when Sun Corp. finds out anyway?”

“You’re here,” you reply, “you’re afraid, but you also believe in what we’re fighting for. Otherwise, you would’ve rejected this meeting.” You sigh, your voice softening. “You’re a good person, San. Don’t let them corrupt you too. You know this is wrong.”

“I do,” he admits, voice shaky. His resolve is unraveling.

“Look, I know they gifted the city council members penthouses to sway them in their favor. But no judge would consider this hard evidence since I can’t prove intent. What we need is what’s inside your office. You know, emails, memos, contracts, whatever. I can’t do this without you, San. I mean it.”

San stares at you for a long moment. Finally, he sighs, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “There are emails,” he admits quietly. “Some from the CEO, discussing how to ‘incentivize’ council members. And I’ve seen the transaction logs... Large deposits to personal accounts, listed as ‘consulting fees.’ It’s not hard to connect the dots.”

Your heart leaps in your throat. “That’s exactly what we need. Can you get copies?”

“I think so,” he says reluctantly. Then, in a quieter tone he adds, “I lost my father too, you know.” There’s a rawness in his voice that only those who’ve been burdened by grief can understand. “I’ll find a way. For those kids.”

You reach out, briefly covering his hand with yours. “Thank you,” you whisper, and he nods, a miniscule smile finally stretching across his lips.

-

“Should we celebrate?” Chan asks, his voice light, once you’re settled in his car. For a moment, you hesitate. Celebration feels foreign to you. You’ve been the prosecutor and the wrongfully accused, you tie the noose and gasp when it tightens. But now, it seems like you’ve closed this case without needing a trial. That’s something worth celebrating.

“You know what? Hell yeah,” you giggle, and Chan’s face lights up like the sun cresting the horizon. “Great! Because I already planned for us to!” His laughter bubbles over, and you yelp as the car suddenly accelerates.

“Cherry! you’re free tomorrow, right?” he shouts over the music, and you recognize the song—No. 1 Party Anthem.

So you’re on the prowl, wondering whether she left already or not…

“Hmmm, let me check if my schedule is clear for being kidnapped…” you tease, pretending to swipe through an imaginary calendar. He chuckles, his dimple deepening, and the sound makes you feel giddy, like champagne fizzing in your veins. “Looks like I am!”

“Perfect! Let’s go on a trip, then!”

Sunglasses in doors are par for the course…

“Where to?” you laugh, and he simply winks in response, “You’ll see.”

“Fine, you be mysterious, and I’ll…” You grab his Fendi sunglasses from the console, perching them on your head, “I’ll be your passenger princess.”

It doesn’t escape him— how readily you’ve let go, how much you’ve placed in his hands without hesitation. It makes him want to drive further, faster, to a place where your bruised hearts won’t catch up with the two of you.

Her eyes invite you to approach…

You stop along the way at a small, unassuming seafood stand nestled along the coast—one Chan seems to know well. The air is alive with the sizzle of grills and the briny scent of the ocean. The ahjumma behind the counter greets Chan warmly, her hands deftly working as she prepares your meal.

You’re served grilled crab, its shell glistening in a marinade of soy sauce, chili, and honey. The flavors burst on your tongue—savory and spicy with a delicate sweetness that reminds you of the sea itself. Chan insists on feeding you the oysters, gently placing each one on your plate. They’re buttery and tangy, kissed with lemon and sea salt and the warmth of Chan’s gaze.

Your heart softens as you watch Chan chatting easily with the older woman, a laugh bubbling out of him as she teases him for eating too fast, as he fist-bumps her grandson as he clears the plates. How tragic it would have been for him to remain closed off, a flower enclosed in itself, never sharing the vibrant beauty of his petals with the world.

And it seems as though those lumps in your throat that you’ve just swallowed have got you going…

You pause again at a roadside shop, picking out heart-shaped sunglasses and trading the ugliest souvenir T-shirts you can find, laughing until your sides ache. Chan drapes an obnoxious orange scarf over his shoulder, striking a runway pose that makes you topple over from how hard you’re laughing. But then, in the mirror’s reflection, you catch his gaze—soft, unguarded, and filled with something you don’t dare name. Your breath falters. You’ve never been looked at like this before, as if someone could unravel you completely and still leave you whole.

Come on, come on, come on…

The road stretches endlessly ahead, the horizon blurring as you feed Chan fresh strawberries from a farmer’s market along the road. You don’t question why your pulse skips each time his lips brush your thumb. You don’t question why you’re suddenly sure the fruit would taste sweeter off of his mouth. You simply let the wind whip past, wondering if his cheeks are flushed from the cold or from you. You pray it’s the latter.

Number one party anthem…

“Welcome to Gangneung,” he announces as the car rolls into the small coastal town. The sea glimmers outside your window, and the houses—painted in pastel blues and greens—climb the hills like a living postcard. A group of high schoolers are biking down a narrow street, their laughter reaching you even as you drive away. While three women walk uphill, groceries in hand, their wide-brimmed hats bobbing as they chatter energetically. They seem to be gossiping. They seem happy.

“You remembered,” you say softly, your gaze flickering to him.

“I’d like to go to Gangneung one day,” you had once told him during a late-night walk. “I heard it’s a small town, and the locals agreed to all paint their houses blue. Isn’t that sweet? I’d love to escape there one day, without telling anyone.”

“I didn’t tell anyone,” he says, giggling. “Well, except Winter—so she could pack a bag for you. And Jisung, so the kids wouldn’t worry. But I didn’t tell them where we’re—”

You don’t let him finish. Stopping yourself would feel unnatural, like damming a river mid-flow. You lean over and press a kiss to his cheek, right where his dimple is hidden.

The look of love, the rush of blood…

“Thank you, Channie,” you whisper. He simply nods, a bit dazed, so are you.

Come on, come on, come on…

Both your cheeks are still burning as you pull up by the sea. You’re the first to step out, stretching your arms to shake off the nerves while Chan rummages through the car. A sudden chill creeps over you, and you instinctively wrap your arms around yourself.

Number one party anthem…

“Here,” he says, draping a hoodie over your shoulders. He’s got a towel slung casually over one shoulder, and a basket balanced in his hands. “Come on,” he beckons softly, leading you to the shoreline.

He spreads the blanket atop the golden sand and you both lay on it, admiring the sea. You’re lost in your thoughts as you silently nibble at the cheese and crackers Chan brought with him. You haven’t sat before the waves in so long. For all your bravery in courtrooms, you were a coward in real life, scared that the mere sight of the overlapping water would make your buried wish resurface— to be adrift amidst waves, to sink with the peaceful certainty that you won’t resurface again.

But you haven’t felt this serene in a long time. Like you could draw in a deep breath and not dread the one that will follow it.

“I made you something.” Chan blurts suddenly, and you twist your neck to look at him. You’ve seen Chan in many states— happy, angry, weeping. But you haven’t seen him this nervous before.

“What is it?” you ask, your curiosity tinged with caution as you sit up.

He hesitates, his words tumbling over one another. “I’m sorry if this is too much, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the melody you hummed. I... I turned it into a piano piece. I recorded it. Do you want to hear it?”

He offers an earphone with trembling hands. Your own shake as you tuck it in, and then—oh god.

“Chan, I—” you choke, clutching his arm as the music flows into you. It’s her. It’s your mother, her voice resurrected in the notes. It’s as though he’s handed you a forgotten fragment of time, lighting it up, brushing away the dust of years. The memories flood back—her hand in yours, the melody she sang to you like a lullaby for your soul. Because she loved you, so much. You were once very loved.

You close your eyes as silent tears slip down your face. It’s a short recording, just fifty-five seconds, so you replay it, again and again, until the night falls gently around you. You want to live, you want to live if only to keep her voice alive.

“Should we go swim, Chan? I feel like swimming.” You suddenly say, a smile breaking through your face. This is the easiest it has been for you to grin in a long time.

“We’ll get sick,” he says, though a grin tugs at his lips.

“We haven’t been kids in so long”, you say and something shifts in his gaze. He understands, so he nods, suddenly picking you up and throwing you over his shoulder.

“Wait, not like this!” you shout, flailing as Chan hoists you up with ease. But it’s no use—he’s already running and the next thing you know, you’re plunging into the cold water.

He dives in after you, surfacing with a loud laugh that echoes across the shoreline. The water is freezing, but it doesn’t matter. He feels weightless, unburdened, like a child again, like he could do anything he wishes for in this world, like he could get on his knees and confess to you right there and then.

You’re both trembling still by the time you reach the hotel. You linger by the entrance, your gaze tracing the cracked wallpaper and worn-out carpets. Chan is at the desk, talking to the receptionist. Snippets of their conversation float your way—“only one room... unfortunately a pipe broke... an old hotel.”

Oh.

When he returns, his ears are tinged with pink. “There’s only one room left,” he stammers. “The other one has a water leak. But it’s okay! We can find another hotel. I understand you might be—”

“Christopher, I’m fucking freezing,” you interrupt, teeth chattering. He giggles softly, boyish. “I’ll let you shower first, then.”

The room is sparse, reminiscent of a hanok. There are no beds, only two padded mats that side by side on the heated floor, and a small desk in one corner. It feels intimate, ten times smaller as Chan stands behind you.

“Go ahead,” he says, “I’ll wait.”

You quickly grab your bag and retreat to the bathroom. With trembling hands, you unlock your phone.

Y/n: Winter!!!!!!!!!! Are you here?

Winter: OMG are you still with cherry man?

Y/n: Yes, and we’re sharing one room 🫣

Winter: Wooooooo my ship is sailing

Y/n: I hate you. Did you pack me cute pajamas at least?

Winter: Of course i foresaw this

You giggle slightly, gusts of powdery air materializing before you.

Y/n: I’ll kill you once I’m back!!!

Winter: you love me 😘 you’ll have to tell me everything when you come back

Y/n: I will ❤️ He’s very sweet… and confusing

Winter: Just trust your gut

Trust your gut? You’re quite unsure what your gut is trying to spell out for you. You sigh, before quickly heading into the shower. You know Chan must be freezing too even if he tries not to show it.

You hear the water cascade down when he goes in after you, still avoiding your gaze. It feels almost forbidden to imagine him standing there, steam curling in clouds scented with your cherry shower gel. He’ll carry it with him, you think—a faint trace of you on his skin. That thought seems to send goosebumps rippling down your spine.

Later, the two of you lay atop your mats in a quiet darkness. You can hear the hum of the heater, and the splashing of the waves far away. You don’t remember falling asleep, but the cold wakes you, sharp and biting.

“Chan?” you whisper into the quiet.

He hums instantly. He hasn’t slept.

“Aren’t you cold?”

“I am.”

“Should we move closer? Body heat and all,” you suggest, your voice barely audible. You hear him swallow in the dark.

Slowly, cautiously, he inches closer until your shoulders brush. You wrap a tentative arm around his waist, and he draws you in, his palm resting on your back. The embrace feels intimate, terrifyingly so, but you stay. He is warm. He smells like pinewood and cherry. He smells like you and him.

“Good?” he asks, voice rough, and you nod. “Yeah, good.”

You hear his heartbeat, frantic at first, mirroring yours, then slowing down as the minutes pass by. It feels familiar to lay so close to him, it feels natural, ordinary.

“Channie?” you whisper.

“Yes, Cherry?”

“How different do you think we’d be, if we hadn’t gone through the things we did?”

You don’t know why you ask, except that today, for the first time in forever, you feel like blank paper—uncrumpled, untainted, left to be.

He thinks for a while, his hand threading gently through your hair, lulling you back toward sleep.

“I think I would open my heart more,” he finally says, voice soft. “I’d be myself without fearing judgment or abandonment. I’d stop chasing perfection. I’d just... exist.”

You nod against him. “You should stop apologizing for wanting the things you do.”

It feels hypocritical coming from you, but you mean it.

“Yeah, Cherry,” he murmurs, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. “And you?”

“I’d allow myself to love. Without fear. I’d be someone worthy of being loved.”

A pause stretches between you, heavy and sharp. You inhale deeply.

“I’ve dated people,” you say quietly, “it drives Seungmin’s crazy because I know he wants to protect me from heartbreak,” you giggle softly, memories of the long talks Seungmin had dealt you flooding your mind.

“He’s a good brother.”

“He is,” you smile, before sighing. “But I don’t know how to tell him that it has always been for fun. They know what they’re getting into, which is, nothing beyond a few dates because... that’s all I have to give. I’m afraid someone might waste their time peeling away my layers, only to find nothing worthwhile. I’m hollow inside, Chan. A hollow chest can’t beat for another. Not in the way they deserve.”

His hand stills, his grip falters on your back. You hope he has heard your plea, unspoken, that he can read between the lines of your words. Please, you beg. Don’t love me. Don’t hurt yourself.

—

Chan sees it then, as evident as the rising of the sun. The truth of you, the truth of himself. Chan is loved by many, yet he doesn’t feel loved. You do not love Chan, perhaps you will never allow yourself to love another, and yet—he still loves you. Despite your warnings, he does. Even if you paint the image of the most violent of heartbreaks, he still will.

—

You judge heels by two criterias: one, how easy they are to stand long hours in, and two, how satisfying they sound when you walk. The powdery pink Jimmy Choos Seungmin gifted you hit both marks perfectly, sounding particularly delicious as you stride through the halls of Sun Corporation’s headquarters.

From the corner of your eye, you catch employees glancing up from their desks, whispers rising as you breeze past the secretary’s protests, her voice growing increasingly frantic. But you already know where you are headed: straight for the conference room, where you know an important meeting is currently unfolding.

Fun!

The secretary, a petite brunette, jogs after you, her heels barely keeping up with her urgency. She plants herself in front of the double doors, blocking your path, literally, with her arms outstretched.

“Miss, you can’t go in there,” she says, chest slightly heaving. “This is a private meeting.”

You flash her a thin smile, the kind that looks anything but kind. “Private? How convenient! It seems like they’ve kept their corruption private too!”

Her face pales, and she stammers. “I… I’m sorry, but I’ll need you to wait. Mr. Choi is—”

“Expecting me,” you cut her off, brushing past her without a second glance.

With a forceful push, you throw open the conference room doors. The chatter inside ceases instantly, replaced by stunned silence as ten executives turn to face you. At the head of the table sits Choi Min-soo, the CEO. His expression remains calm as his gaze locks with yours. He’s young, roughly in his thirties, surrounded only by men, of course. Perhaps that's why he keeps accumulating one bad decision after the other.

Choi leans back in his chair, his eyes narrowing in irritation. “Who let you in here?”

“Apologies for the interruption,” you say, though there’s not a shred of remorse in your voice. “I’m here about the demolition permit for Promise Orphanage.”

Choi leans back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. “I don’t recall scheduling a meeting with you.”

“No, you didn’t,” you reply coolly. “But I thought I’d save your secretary the trouble. Some things simply can’t wait. Surely you understand.”

An executive to Choi’s right clears his throat, tapping his fingers against the table in a measured rhythm. “This is a private meeting. You can’t just barge in—”

“Oh, but I can,” you curtly cut him off, “And I have. Now, if you’d prefer, we can do this in front of the press, but I thought you’d appreciate the courtesy of keeping this internal.”

Choi’s mask of indifference falters ever so slightly, his lips pressing into a thin line.

“Sit,” he says curtly.

You ignore him, instead leaning forward, your palms pressing into the polished surface of the table. “No need for pleasantries. Let’s cut to the chase. I have evidence that the city’s approval for your demolition project didn’t come through lawful means. Bribery, to be precise.”

A heavy silence blankets the room. The executives exchange uneasy glances, but Choi’s smirk betrays no concern. Though you know it is all rehearsed. Every expression is part of the masquerade that is their lives.

“I could sue you for defamation, you know,” he says, leaning forward. He’s beautiful, but in a sinister way. Like staring into the core of a bubbling volcano knowing it could swallow you whole.

“Is it defamation if it’s supported by your own emails?”

From your bag, you retrieve a thick stack of documents and toss them onto the table. One of the younger executives fumbles to pick them up, his face paling as he scans the contents.

“These emails detail discussions between your company and key city council members about how to tip their votes in your favor. Then there are the transaction logs. Substantial sums of money deposited into personal accounts, labeled as ‘consulting fees.’ Oddly enough, these transactions occurred right after a cozy dinner at that hotpot spot downtown. Convenient timing, wouldn’t you agree?”

Your grin widens as you add, “All of it obtained lawfully, of course.” You know they’re infuriated by you. You’ve learned over the years that men like these don’t fear consequences as much as they despise being brought down by a woman.

“There is nothing illegal about consulting fees,”a voice quips from your right, “it’s standard practice.”

“Standard practice,” you repeat, tilting your head. “How fascinating that these fees always seem to align perfectly with approvals for morally bankrupt projects. This isn’t your first rodeo, Choi, is it? Remember the nursing home? Your big debut? The one that earned you Daddy’s approval?”

Choi’s fist slams onto the table. The sound echoes sharply through the room. You don’t flinch.

“How dare you speak to me like this?”

“And how dare YOU prioritize greed over the lives of children?!” you fire back, your voice rising. “YOU are the one bulldozing an orphanage to fatten your pockets. Not me.”

The room shifts uneasily. The executives glancing at one another, avoiding your gaze.

“You have two choices,” you say, straightening. “Withdraw the permit and take responsibility for the lives you’re willing to destroy, or I’ll take this to the media. Every email, every transaction log, it’ll all be public knowledge. Let’s see how long you keep your title when the truth comes out.”

Choi chuckles, a sinister sound that sends shivers down your spine. Spoiled assholes are always somewhat deranged. “So let me get this straight. You barge in here, threatening ME in my OWN office? Do you have any idea what this project is worth? FUCKING BILLIONS! And powerful people back it, people who won’t tolerate interference.”

You pick up your bag, winking. “Then I suggest you start figuring out how to explain this mess to them. You have five days to withdraw the permit. Good luck!”

Without waiting for a response, you turn and stride out, the sharp clicks of your heels like music to your ears. You wave at the secretary who looks at you as if she’s just seen a ghost. And so do the rest of the employees. Your voice must have been loud enough then.

Now that was fun.

Winter launches herself at you as soon as you open the door to her car. “Fuck you were so badass!” she laughs, hugging you tightly and you giggle, the sound light and airy, as you take out your phone from your back pocket, silencing the call with her.

“I can and I have,” she repeats your words, voice dipping lower as you high-five excitedly, your palms almost ricocheting off one another.

“God winter you should’ve seen his face,” you laugh, cheeks almost splitting open, “he looked like a big baby throwing a tantrum!”

“Ah I think this is over, right?” she asks excitedly, as she gets out of the parking lot, “they’ll yield or else you’ll drag their reputation through the mud.”

“I think so,” you sigh, resting your head against the seat cushion. “If they’re any smart they’ll know that the general public will always empathize with children. We’ll wait and see,” you grin, pinching her cheeks. “Either way, I’m not letting them take away the orphanage from us.”

“Never doubted you will,” she smiles widely, before elbowing your side, “girls night then? It’s been so long.”

“Yeah, let’s do it!”

You glance at her as she drives, the sun threading between her blonde strands like molten gold. You’ve always found it ironic that she chose the name Winter for herself when she’s the warmest person you know— she’s the saccharine taste of honey, she’s the colors of the sun and the sounds of a joyous summer. She cannot possibly be a mere human. She’s too kind, too patient for the confines of such a flawed label. You suddenly remember her supporting you as you undertake your law classes, working long hours at the bakery near your home to pay for Seungmin’s lessons. You feel her move for you when your body was too weary to even stir.

“I love you,” you suddenly say, your voice a raspy whisper, and she turns to look at you, her eyes softening. “Yah save this for the sleepover.”

The sun has long slipped beneath the horizon, as you talked the night away with Winter, stomachs full of sweetened Soju and laughter on the living room floor. You rest your head on her stomach as she idly runs her fingers through your hair, reminiscing. It doesn’t hurt as much to remember these days.

“So, will you tell me about Chan?” she whispers, and you groan, hiding your face in your hands.

She giggles at your reaction, gently scratching your scalp. “Come on. How was your getaway?”

It takes you a few moments to admit it. Out of joy. Out of fear. “It was the happiest I’ve been in a long while, Winter.”

“You don’t sound happy about it,” she observes, and you nod.

“I’m terrified, because he’s confusing me.”

She’s silent, and you gather your memories—the ones that have kept you afloat for the past week, the ones that have mended some hidden part of your heart, though you can’t say which one. It is too scarred to keep count, but you can feel it, something inside you has healed, something caged within you can breathe again.

“He remembered which coastal city I wanted to visit, something I said on a whim during one of our walks, years ago, Winter” you say softly, as though speaking of his memory would make the universe take him away from you.

“He took me to eat oysters; You know how much I love oysters. He wore every ugly souvenir I gave him,” you giggle faintly before quieting down. You choose to skip over your mother’s piano piece secret. You feel as if you’d desecrate it by speaking of it, like it’s a memory that belongs only to Chan, you, and the sea. “And then… since we had to share a room, we cuddled because it was cold.”

You expect her to tease you, but her voice is gentle as she asks.

“How did you feel?”

You think hard of how you felt. How easy it was to fall asleep near him. How beautiful he looked as dreams wrote themselves behind his eyelids.

“I felt safe. Like I could let go, and he’d be there to catch me.”

“I don’t think he would hurt you. I don’t think he could, even if you hurt him.”

You sigh, straightening up to meet her gaze.

“I don’t want to hurt him, Winter. That’s my issue. And I know I will.”

“Why would you—”

“I’m a bundle of issues, grief, and sorrow,” you cut her off, resigned. “You know that. I didn’t choose to be this way, but I am. I will taint him.”

“What I know,” she says, taking your hands in her own, “is that you are a good person. Your heart is warm and full of goodness, despite everything that happened to you. Grief changes a person, injustice changes them even more. But your heart still overflows with love. That’s something not everyone can say.”

You shake your head, tears welling in your eyes.

“Winter, have you ever found a flower so beautiful? You see it, and its petals are the brightest colors, almost calling to your soul. Would it be right to cut it and take it home? Yes, it might bring you joy for a while. You’d change its water, add vinegar and sugar cubes. But then what? It’ll falter and die early. Because I was selfish. Because I hurt the flower, even though I loved it so much.”

Your voice cracks, and the tears you’ve been holding back are now dangerously close to spilling. She’s quiet for a long moment, and you begin to believe you’ve imagined this whole conversation. But then—

“What if that flower’s only wish is to be loved?”

Sometimes, words feel like a soothing balm coating your wounds. Sometimes, they feel like a dagger suddenly protruding what’s left of your heart. Sometimes they feel like both.

Your phone pings, and you reach for it through a hazy view, grateful for the small distraction.

Except it isn’t.

Jaehyun: Your cherry man just paid for San’s hospital bills.

You frown, and Winter leans over to peek at your screen.

Y/n: What???

Jaehyun: Yeah, he just called me. An anonymous (beautiful) man (with dimples ;) per the nurse’s description) paid for all his mother’s expenses.

Winter stares at you knowingly as your heart does somersaults—throbbing in your chest, in your throat, in your stomach. You feel him everywhere, Chan, like he’s made a home inside you and is now setting you ablaze.

Does he have to be so kind? Does he have to make it so hard for you not to love him?

Somehow, it’s 4 a.m. before you notice, Winter sleeps soundly beside you while you lie wide awake. You can’t stop thinking about Chan. His desire to be seen, his fear of it too. His voice. His warm hands. His soft lips. His heart. His soul.

You slip away from Winter and head to the balcony, a shawl wrapped around your arms. You hesitate for a moment, then press ‘Call’.

“Cherry?” Chan answers instantly, and your shoulders relax despite yourself. Is this what it feels like to be a flower plucked from millions? Cherished. Loved.

“Hi, Channie,” you whisper, and you hear him rustling in bed.

“Are you okay? Where are you? Do you need me to pick you up?” His questions come fast, and you stop him before he can leap out of bed.

“No, no. I just… I wanted to thank you. For what you did for San.”

“Oh, who told you?” he sounds sheepish, timid. “I thought I told the nurse to keep it anonymous.”

“Well, not many men have dimples as pretty as yours.” The words slip out before you can stop them. You don’t hate yourself when you hear Chan chuckling softly, the bed covers rustling with his movements. Does he too chase remnants of your perfume on his pillows? Does he too imagine you laying on his bed once more?

“Well, it’s the least I could do.”

“No, you didn’t have to do that. You didn’t have to take me on that trip, or rearrange your whole schedule to spend a night watching shitty dramas with me. You didn’t have to do any of it. So why? Why do you do these things, Chan?” you ask, breathless.

He sighs softly. “Does it make you happy, Cherry? When I do these things?”

“Yes.”

“Then you have your answer.”

Oh.

The silence stretches, long and endless. Your shoulders hurt from always being cowered, tense. You wish you could ease them down.

“Thank you for making me happy. Sleep well, Channie.” You hang up before he can reply, before he can call you Cherry again. Because it makes you feel like dying. To love Chan in a world where you won’t let him love you feels like the biggest of deaths.

—

Seungmin’s earliest memories have always been of you.

There was a hollow space in his small heart, carved with the dullest of knives, something that pulsed even though he didn’t know who was it far. He knew his parents existed, he remembers his old home, but only faintly. They’d been taken too soon, he didn’t have much to hold on to.

So it was always you and him.

He remembers being a whiny child, crying endlessly because he didn’t understand why the world was so cruel—to him, but mostly to you. It confused him deeply, the way people overlooked your kindness. You were his older sister, his light. Why, then, couldn’t everyone else see you the way he did?

By the time he grew more into his body, into his heart, the tears stopped coming as often. He noticed the way a light dimmed in your eyes every time you tried to console him, and it frightened him. He didn’t know how many lights you had to give, or how many were left. So, he stopped crying.

Seungmin started piecing together truths he didn’t yet know how to speak. He began to understand the sharpness in your voice when prospective parents visited the orphanage, the urgency in your words when you told him to hide in the bathroom. You were protecting him. You didn’t want to be separated from him. It was almost impossible for two children to be adopted at once.

He began to understand why you always came back a bit breathless from talking to the older kids, the ones you strictly forbade him from playing with. Why would blue marks always appear on your arms after those conversations. Why he often heard you crying at night when you believed him long asleep.

And it killed him. There was no other way to describe it, because Seungmin had scraped his knee and lost his parents, and yet it did not hurt as much as it did when you were hurt. So, he tried to be as small as possible, as quiet, he tried to not get sick, to get good grades, to do his bed and yours. He tried to be perfect, so you wouldn’t be burned by him. So you wouldn’t cry when looking at him asleep.

Joy was scarce in Seungmin’s life. And it was all tied back to you. He was practical, even as a child, understanding early that he’d have to work harder than most to make something of himself. But not for personal gain, it was all to repay you for everything you gave him.

Then, one day, he stumbled onto something unexpected—a gift. A cheat code. “You’ve got a beautiful singing voice,” Miss Jeeho told him on his second night at Promise Orphanage. She had caught him singing in the garden. He didn’t like singing in front of other people. He feared you’d be punished for it too. “Have you ever thought of becoming a singer?”

The idea felt like cracking open a window in a suffocating room, a breath of air sweeping through the dust and decay of a crushed life. For the first time, he saw a semblance of dream take shape. He felt hope settle below his ribs, softening the thorns in his chest.

So he researched in the library of his school obsessively on this topic. How to be a singer, how to audition, how to win. He kept it hidden from you in all the years you spent in Promise Orphanage. Only Miss Jeeho knew, and she was kind, he didn’t feel scared sharing his hope with her. He was fifteen when he told you, after a year of relentlesses fighting to gain his custody. “I want to be a singer.”

You froze for a second, and Seungmin hasn’t stopped wondering where your mind went in that moment.

“Will you help me?” he asked, voice burning with resolve. “It pays well. I promise I’ll debut, and I’ll make you proud. And I’ll repay you, for all of it, I swear.”

“What’s this talk of you repaying me?” you said softly, your eyes so kind it made him want to weep. “All of me is for you, Seungminnie.”

Seungmin felt a sharp, throbbing ache in his chest at that moment. There she was, his greatest supporter, promising to back his dream. And yet, he felt hideously worthless, as though merely looking at the mirror would make it shatter.

It was then he named it—the poison coursing through his veins, the thorn lodged deep in his throat—the guilt. He wore that guilt like a second skin, its barbed wires sinking deeper into his soul with each passing year. Did you have a dream, too? Did you abandon your own to make room for him? He should’ve asked what your dream was. He should’ve begged you to keep your heart for yourself.

Seungmin could not rewrite the past, could not save his parents, could not undo his own birth so that you would not carry the weight of him. So, he sought to make up for it. He never spoke of his weariness during practice, nor of the pain, the fear, or the anger that gnawed at him. He only shared the triumphs—him ranking second on the entry competition, his voice praised by the vocal coaches at the company, finding friends that turned into family who genuinely cared for him, and you with time, that he would debut soon, that he has made it.

He spent his first paycheck on you, buying you the heels you’ve been eyeing for a long time, the ones you wore to your first courtroom. He spent the next on you too, and the one after it. He overcompensated for the guilt– gifts, flowers, a luxurious coffee machine, a two weeks retreat fully paid. He grew overbearing too, when it came to your heart, when it came to protecting it, disapproving of every person you chose to date.

He understood after a while that you weren’t looking for anything serious, at least not for now. Your dates seemed to understand this too. But he was afraid that one day you’d fall for someone who’s still looking for fun, who wouldn’t care for your heart like it was your own.

His hyungs would always poke fun at him for his protective nature, but he couldn’t help it. He was terrified for you, terrified that a heartbreak would be the thing to take you away from him.

He still remembers the look on your face when you caught him sitting in the same restaurant as your date. You’d laughed, and he’d felt sheepish under your gaze. “I told him it was a bad idea,” Jeongin giggled, throwing his hands up.

“I don’t like him,” he grumbled and you had chuckled, ruffling his hair, “when do you ever?”

You had then spent the night with him at the dorms watching movies with all his members. It was a normal occurrence for you to hang out with them, his found family, because they too had been touched with your kindness, back when they were all still trainees and you insisted on making them homemade food.

Seungmin knew it was your way of clinging to a normal home, that too killed him a little.

He knew that the members loved you, that they too cared for you deeply. Though they liked to annoy Seungmin by flirting with you. Which made you giggle, so, although he despises it, he still lets it slide.

Which brings him to today.

Seungmin hasn’t seen you since the concert at Kyocera Dome. So, he spammed you long enough for you to finally agree to have dinner in his dorm. Except 3RACHA was there too since they were all working on a song. It wasn’t their presence that weirded out Seungmin. Nor the fact that Han and Changbin took turns flirting with you, turning more obnoxious and loud and making Seungmin wish he could hit them with the plates on the table. Not that.

It was Chan. Who looked tense, jaw tight, his fingers flexing each time they sent a flirty remark your way.

Was he… Jealous?

“Thank you honey,” Han says, blowing you a kiss when you hand him his chopsticks. You giggle and Seungmin buries his face in his hands when Changbin grabs your plate, declaring that he will cut the steak for you.

“She doesn’t like meat cut that way,” Chan suddenly says, taking away the knife and plate from Changbin. Your cheeks blush as if a dahlia blossomed there. Han and Changbin exchange knowing looks.

Okay. What?

“Is there something—” he asks when your phone suddenly rings and he quiets down, swallowing the question with the rest of his beer. That would have been a stupid question, anyways.

“Winter!” you pick up, tone cheerful. Though all the color drains from your face as she speaks, the flower withering and turning into ash.

“W-what…?” you ask, slightly dazed, your hand gripping the table.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. “Cherry, what’s wrong?” so does Chan.

Cherry?

“The orphanage…” you say, Chan seems to understand what you’re talking about perfectly. You don’t finish, getting up and running out of his dorm. Everyone gets up on cue following you. “We’ll take my car,” Changbin says.

—

Is it possible to have sinned right before birth? To have done something so terrible you cannot atone for it no matter how much time passes. You accept it, you accept that your star is an unlucky one. You accept that even the most restless waters will always drown you, not carry you. Still, for how long do you have to pay the price, over and over again? Till how long is it no longer justice? Till how long does it become the universe toying with you? Does it think you can’t break? Does it think there is no limit to how much you can take?

Because there is.

You think you’ve reached it now.

Time seems to have slowed down, so much you’re sure five lifetimes have passed between each of your breaths. You know that there must be people screaming, a loud shatter, the sirens of ambulances and firefighters. Still, it’s quiet in your head. Save for a faint ringing, a buzzing, like a swarm of bees has lodged itself within your ear.

The earth is moving beneath your feet, it threatens to split open and swallow you. And you’d let it. You don’t have the nails to dig yourself out. You don’t have the will. You don’t have the hope.

You almost feel like laughing. You’re cursed. Every bit of happiness comes back to haunt you down the line.

It’s hot, extremely hot, and ashy. And you’re before the orphanage but you don’t smell rust. You smell smoke, pungent and bitter. You smell loss. You smell your last hope dying.

The orphanage is burning.

The kids are outside, covered in blankets and hugged turn by turn by the staff— Miss Jeeho, Mister Seonghwa, the cook, the gardener, the teachers, the psychologist, Winter.

The firefighters are trying to control the fire, but it’s spreading rapidly before your eyes, emboldened by the wooden floors and squeaky doors. You are losing your home again. The fire is eating the room you slept in, the kitchen where you learned how to cook, the garden where you caught Seungmin singing to Miss Jeeho. It’s eating the stairs where you sat with Winter laughing, the attic where you hid when existing became too rough.

It’s eating your memories, it’s eating you.

“What’s— what’s happening?” Seungmin stammers, his hand on your shoulder. You feel like kids again, back when the policeman came to your home and found only you and a toddler inside. A kid caring for a kid.

Winter sees you from afar, rushing to wrap you in her arms. You don’t feel her warmth. You don’t feel anything, now that you’re thinking of it. Has your heart bled dry? Finally?

“Cherry,” you hear but you brush the hand away, walking towards two firefighters once only smoke remains. “Who started it? The fire?” you ask breathlessly.

“Why?” they ask, cautious, “do you have reason to believe it was intentional?”

“Who started it?” you repeat.

“It’s too early to tell,” he says, eyes fixed on his coworker, sweat dripping from his brow, his forehead smeared with ash. “Preliminary findings suggest it began in the garden, which is odd, since there’s no apparent cause and no sign of a cigarette. The owner claims no one smokes. We did find what looks like traces of gasoline, but more investigation is needed. It spread quickly towards to the utility room, where there are electric wires. Something, or someone must’ve sparked it, and now it’s out of control.” He sighs, “We’ll call the police.”

You feel it then, a stone that sinks deep within your gut: they burned it. Sun Corporation burned the orphanage because if there is no orphanage then there is no case. They burned the orphanage and you with it.

—

“Would someone tell me what’s going on?” Seungmin grows more agitated the more you remain silent in your apartment. You can tell everyone is looking at you, waiting for you to snap out of your daze. But you don’t know where to begin. You don’t know how this will end.

“Miss Jeeho called,” Winter says softly, reappearing from the balcony. “There’s enough suspicion to begin an investigation. They need my testimony.” Changbin, without a word, stands and grabs his car keys. “I’ll drive you,” he says. She nods in reply.

“Do the kids have a place to go tonight?” Han asks, his voice laced with concern. Winter shakes her head. “No, Miss Jeeho is still trying to figure that out.”

“Alright,” Han says, pulling out his phone. “Let me call the others for help.”

“You have my card,” Chan says, pressing a sleek, cold card into Winter’s hand.

“Text me,” you tell Han, and he nods, following Changbin and Winter out the door.

And then there were three.

“Would you please tell me?” Seungmin asks again, kneeling before you. His voice is quieter now, laced with something you hadn’t anticipated—hurt, confusion. A part of you stirs alive and you sigh, beginning to recount everything— the apartment, the corruption, San, the meeting, the fire— but your voice feels like someone else’s, void, unfamiliar.

“And why didn’t you tell me any of this?” he asks once you finish. There’s raw pain coating his gaze, Seungmin has always been an open book to you.

“I was going to tell you,” you murmur, “once the permit was withdrawn. I didn’t want to burden you with this.”

“But I want you to burden me!” his voice rises slightly, as he stands up, pacing before you. “I could have helped you. I would have stood by you!”

“Seungmin, please,” you breathe, the weight of it all pressing against your chest.

“You don’t always have to carry everything alone. It doesn’t make you stronger, it only makes the pain ten times worse,” he presses his eyes shut, “I wouldn’t have hid something like this from you.”

“Well, you’re not me!” You snap, and he flinches, recoiling like you’ve struck him. You’ve never raised your voice at Seungmin before.

There she is, the person who pushes those who love her away, the person who deserves to be punished.

“I’ll go help the boys,” he softly says, walking out, shoulders slumped. He looks smaller now, like you’ve just hurt the child within him mourning his only home.

“Cherry…” Chan’s voice cuts through the tense silence, and you rise to your feet, instinctively covering your face. “Not you too, Chan.”

“Would you talk to me?” His voice is gentle. “You haven’t said a word in over an hour. This isn’t healthy, I know this must hurt so you shouldn’t keep it all inside.”

“I don’t have anything to say,” you reply, your voice colder than you intended. Please go, you beg. Please, before I snap at you too.

“Just talk, okay? Say whatever comes to your mind. I’ll listen to you. It’ll feel better if you let it all out.”

“Except it won’t!” The words come out harsher than you meant, and you feel yourself spiraling. You’re throwing up thorns, and you can’t stop it. “You don’t always know what’s best for people, alright? You can’t always fix people, Chan! And I can’t be fixed! Talking about it won’t help, keeping it in won’t help, because this is who I fucking am. This is all I’ve known.”

“Cherry, please. You know that’s not what I meant.” His voice is soft, still tender, still trying to reach you.

He still calls you Cherry. He’s still here. You can feel the desperation creeping inside, a bitter realization that they should all run before you curse them too.

“Oh, come on,” you laugh, the sound hollow. It feels like daggers slicing through your throat as you speak. “Don’t you see me as a project to fix? Something to make you feel in control for all the years you’ve lost it?”

“Is this how low you think of me?” he asks, taking a step back, his face a mix of hurt and disbelief. “I never thought you needed fixing.”

“Well, it’s how I felt around you,” you say, the words spilling out like venom. Liar. Liar. Liar. “Like I’m the poor orphan and you’re the knight in shining armor, coming to save me.” He looks like you’ve just slapped him in the face.

Does he hate you now? Does he hate you as much as you hate yourself?

“You know, you should stop punishing yourself, Yn.” He says your name, not Cherry, but your name, plain and flat. It feels like all your little deaths combined in one. “You only have one sin and it’s that you wish to be loved.”

He pauses. You feel as if the world was cracked wide open. You feel as if your soul just splattered before his feet, naked, trembling.

“And I love you. God, I’ve loved you for the past ten years, and I wish you could open your heart just a little bit to see it.”

“What?” you ask, breathless, the words barely leaving your mouth before he turns away, silent. He doesn’t answer. He leaves.

He left.

Your feet move before your mind can catch up, and suddenly you’re running after him. “What do you mean you love me?” you shout, the words raw, desperate. Your chest is heaving, breaths coming in ragged gasps. You’re sure your neighbors are peeking from their windows, watching, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters now except him, nothing has in a long time. “What do you mean, Chan?!”

“Forget it,” he mutters.

“You can’t say that and ask me to forget it!” you shout and he chuckles, hand tightly gripping his hair in frustration.

“Has it not been clear? That you’d ask me to get you the moon and I'd fucking die trying. Can’t you see that I’d sacrifice the sun if it means making you happy?”

You back away, tears streaming down your cheeks in an unstoppable flow. No. Yes. No. How?

“N–no, you… You shouldn’t love me.”

“Do you think I haven’t tried?” His voice rises, raw and hoarse. “I’m human too, it kills me to love someone who I know won’t ever love me. But tell me, please, teach me how to pause the throbbing of my heart. Teach me how to silence it when it calls out your name, when it aches because it misses you so much I feel like I’m dying. When there is a void in my soul shaped after your laugh, your smell, your words, how do I—“ his hands land on your shoulders, his forehead resting on the crook of your neck. You can feel the shaking of his hands, you can feel his being unraveling before you.

Your hands curl in tight fists, you are broken, shattered, there is no glue that could piece you back together. Even if gold travels between your shards, it will not make you into something beautiful. You’ll remain a disaster. You’ll ruin him too.

“Look at me.” You shake your head, unwilling, unable to face him. “Please, Cherry, look at me. Even if you’ll leave me right now, please, I— I’d rather you leave while looking at me.”

You bite your lip, choking on the sob rising in your throat.

“Tell me you don’t love me,” he pleads, taking your palm and placing it atop his chest.You can feel the erratic thrum of his pulse, alive and desperate beneath your hand. “Say it. Say you never will. Make me believe it, so this thing inside me will die. Please.”

“I can’t say that,” you whisper. The world offers itself at your feet. “I can’t say that because I won’t mean it.” Your eyes finally meet his, you wonder what he sees in yours. You wonder how someone like him could ever love you.

You lick your lips tentatively, tasting the saltiness of your tears and the cherry of your chapstick.

“Do you know what a bleeding heart dove is? It’s a small pigeon, with a plumage so white and pristine it resembles the first snow. But right in the middle of it, there is a patch of crimson, it looks like a bullet wound Chan, it looks like his little heart is always bleeding.” Your voice cracks like glass, Chan’s eyes soften more than you’ve ever thought was possible. “That’s how I feel, like I always always carry this wound that won’t ever heal. It bleeds and it bleeds and the blood oozes so much at times that I choke with it. I don’t want to taint you with it too.”

“What if I want you to taint me?” His warm palms cradle your cheeks, threads of sunlight brushing against your skin. “What if I want you to change me? What if I want everyone who has looked at me to know that I’m loved by you?”

You smile softly, shaking your head. “That would be selfish of me.”

“Then love me selfishly, love me with greed. Just love me, Cherry. Please, love me,” he begs, his eyes boring into yours. You peer into him, his soul, the sincerity in his offering to you— his heart, so fragile, yet so resolute in loving you.

“You’re so beautiful, Channie,” you gently say, as your palms tenderly cup his cheeks. His eyes flutter closed, tears staining your hands as he leans into your touch, placing his heart right in your hands. “I’d like some time to think of myself as beautiful, too. Would you wait for me? Until I figure it out.”

He softens. “I waited for you for ten years. I’d wait for you for an eternity if I have to.”

A knot forms in your throat. “You’re so sweet, God, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I know you don’t pity me, I shouldn’t have said that. I’m just so overwhelmed and everything spiraled down and I don’t know where to even begin now,” you ramble, and he cuts you off by placing a tender kiss atop your wrist.

“Would you breathe now?” he smiles and your world somehow brightens despite it all. “I'm not mad, alright? And we’ll figure it out together, Cherry. You have us. You always did.”

Your voice is small as you mumble– “Seungmin is mad at me.”

“He’s not. He always wants to protect you so he feels bad when you don’t let him in. You know that.”

You did, of course you do.

You feel a little less ashamed of plucking a beautiful flower out of its soil. You’ll insuflate your own soul in it to keep it blooming.

“Will you stay with me, Chan?”

“Always.”

—

“So, they burned down the orphanage?” Jeongin asks, disbelief thick in his voice as you finish recounting the horrors of the past month.

Your small apartment is packed the day after the fire—Winter, Jaehyun, Miss Jeeho, San, and the boys. Some sit huddled on couches, others sprawl across the floor, leaning into one another. You’ve never known that warmth could become a tangible thing, that it could weave itself around your heart like silk, drip sweetness down your ribcage like rivers of honey. You feel it, despite how harrowing the situation is, because all your friends care. They care for the orphanage like it’s their own.

“Yeah, I’m sure of it,” you reply. “We got a report of a suspicious van speeding off right after the fire started.”

“And remnants of gasoline were found at the scene,” Jaehyun adds, taking a leisurely sip out of his beer. “The police are tracing it now.”

You nod, thinking back to the police chief who happened to be one of your high school classmates. He got promoted and he promised he’d tell you first, if anything happened. “Yeah, the firefighters confirmed that it was arson. Once the police officer gets back at us I’ll file a lawsuit against them.”

“But can you believe the fucking nerve?” Felix scoffs, “I just read their statement: ‘We are extremely saddened by the news of the burning of Promise Orphanage due to faulty wiring. We promise to work side by side with the community to ensure the children are safe and living in better conditions’. Do they think we are stupid?”

“They’re lying,” Miss Jeeho says bitterly. “Trying to save face while they can.”

Hyunjin’s face pales. “This makes me sick,” he whispers. “The fact that they’d endanger those kids just for their agenda…” He trails off, shaking his head, and the room falls into a heavy silence.

“They stopped communicating through emails after you confronted Choi,” San says, his voice tight. “They must’ve realized someone was leaking information. Now everything’s confidential.”

He slumps, defeated, and you reach over to pat his back gently. “It’s okay. I don’t think they’d be dumb enough to discuss arson in emails anyways. We’ll find another way.”

“What about the kids? Are they okay?” Jeongin asks, his brows furrowed in concern.

“They’re doing fine, considering,” Minho answers, nodding toward Han. “Yeah,” Han adds with a soft laugh. “We visited this morning. They’re warm, well-fed, like michelin chef well-fed, we made sure of it, and maybe a little spoiled, we might’ve gone overboard with the toys.” The group chuckles briefly, Minho throwing a pillow at Han’s face before smiling fondly at him.

“But this is all just temporary,” Winter whispers, her eyes suddenly brimming with tears. “We can’t keep them in a rented house forever. They’ll need to be sent to different locations, scattered across the country.”

“Is there really no other way?” Changbin asks, as he squeezes Winter’s shoulder gently.

“Unless we can rebuild the orphanage in record time, then no. It’s all gone,” Miss Jeeho sighs, and you feel the knot in your throat tighten. You’ve avoided looking at her ever since the fire, you can’t bear the sight of raw grief in her eyes, specifically.

“What if we rebuild the orphanage?” Seungmin suddenly asks. It’s the first time you’ve heard his voice during the night.

“We don’t have the funds for that, Seungminnie” you say softly.

“We do,” Chan interjects firmly, “If we all donate, we can raise the money. Start a fundraiser, maybe?”

You see it then, a fickle of hope blossoming in the air.

“You know, it’s not a bad idea,” Jaehyun says, leaning forward. “Media coverage of the case is really strong and it has garnered a lot of public sympathy. I also told friends in media to keep up intense coverage since something big is simmering beneath the case.”

“I can hold a press conference then,” you say, your voice quipping up. “Expose everything, from the beginning and ask for public support.”

“And me,” Seungmin says suddenly, looking up to meet your gaze at last. His voice is steady, but his eyes are tinged with vulnerability. “I want to stand by your side. It’ll help us garner more attention too.”

“Are you sure?” you ask gently. “Are you ready to reveal where you grew up?”

“I’m not ashamed of it,” he replies softly. “It’s because of that place that I’m here today.”

Your heart swells, and tears sting your eyes as you nod. “Alright. Sounds like a solid plan.”

—

You’ve known loneliness long enough to recognize that it doesn’t wear a singular face.

“Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen. My name is Y/n Kim, and I am the lead attorney representing Promise Orphanage.”

You’ve known the loneliness that slices your bones. That cuts so deep within your marrow you’re unsure whether the sun will rise tomorrow, whether you’ll be even there to witness it. You knew it when you were ten and your parents simply never came back home.

“You are aware that Promise Orphanage has been burnt down last week. A tragedy for our community as this orphanage housed forty children who only have that place to call a home.”

You’ve known the loneliness that doesn’t stab, its sharp tip always remaining at the edges of your soul, as if threatening you, reminding you that it could sink within you at any given moment. You knew it when you were fourteen and Winter shook your hand for the first time.

“I am here to explain that this isn’t due to uncontrollable circumstances. But a crime. The fire did not start hazardously but was intentionally caused. By Sun Corporation, the subsidiary of Gyeongdo Holdings.”

You’ve known the loneliness that doesn’t fill you, but rather sits beside you on a bench. Loneliness that only manifests when you’re surrounded by people who love you, and who you love. And yet, you feel as if you are enclosed in transparent glass, always keeping you at arm’s length from them. Because your heart is different. Because you grieved a lifetime before you were old enough to understand it.

But for the first time in years, you don’t feel lonely.

Not when the people in your life have worked tirelessly with you for the orphanage, for justice, for the children. Not when a room full of journalists hang onto your every word, cameras flashing, questions flying. Your eyes scan the crowd, landing on your loved ones in the back. They nod.

The legal case is airtight. You’ve worked tirelessly with your team to gather the proof—police reports, financial records, surveillance footage. You exhale, steadying yourself, and nod toward the screen.

“We have obtained documentation, in collaboration with the authorities, confirming that a van was seen fleeing the scene moments after the fire started getting out of control. That van was rented by a company in which Sun Corporation holds 45% of the shares. The individual who rented it is also an employee at Sun Corporation, whose identity we’ll keep anonymous. For now.”

Your eyes meet San’s, and he winks—he’s the one who verified the identity, right after depositing his resignation letter at Sun Corporation.

A journalist raises his hand. “Are you saying Sun Corporation committed arson?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. But don’t take my word for it, of course.”

You press a button on the laptop connected to the speakers.

The room falls silent.

Then, the recording crackles to life.

“Are you insane?! I said a warning, not a damn inferno!”

Murmurs ripple through the crowd, cameras shifting toward the speakers as the voice, angry, panicked, continues.

“You idiots lost control of it! The fire department is involved, you know that bitch is going to the police too. Do you have any idea what’s at stake? BILLIONS! I wanted to sue them for neglect and now we are the ones who will lose EVERYTHING! Fix it, or so help me—”

The recording cuts out. The silence that follows is deafening.

Journalists erupt all at once.

“Who is that speaking?”

“Was this obtained legally?”

“Is Sun Corporation under criminal investigation?”

You raise a hand, and a hush falls upon the room.

“The voice belongs to Choi Sungho, CEO of Sun Corporation,” you confirm. “This recording was obtained from a whistleblower inside the company and has been turned over to the authorities. The police are actively investigating Sun Corporation for arson, conspiracy, and fraud.”

You think back to the brunette secretary. You now know her name—Jia. She once dreamed of becoming a lawyer too, but she needed money for her sister’s medical bills, so she had to give up her aspirations. She heard snippets of the conversations authorizing the fire and recorded the aftermath. You know she’s watching this at home too.

“This is not just a case of reckless endangerment. This is a coordinated criminal act, executed for financial gain. Sun Corporation had previously filed for a demolition permit for the orphanage, but the permit was granted under questionable circumstances.”

You gesture toward the documents on every table.

“There is evidence that Sun Corporation bribed city officials to fast-track the permit process. However, because of our legal scrutiny, the project was delayed. Burning a part of the orphanage to argue neglect was their alternative. But as you can see, it backfired.”

More whispers, more frantic typing. A journalist from the back calls out, “Are you pursuing legal action?”

“Yes. We are also working closely with law enforcement to hold all responsible parties accountable, including those within the city council who enabled this corruption.”

You suck in a deep breath, nodding towards Seungmin who was standing behind the curtains, veiled from everyone’s view.

“There is someone I’d like you to meet now.”

He steps forward, taking the mic from your hand.

The camera flashes become incessant as the interrogations ripple from everywhere.

“Is that…?”

“Wait, Kim Seungmin?”

“What is going on?”

“Hello,” he says, voice reverberating around the room. “My name is Kim Seungmin. Some of you may be familiar with who I am, but today, I do not speak to you as an Idol.” A pause. “I am here as one of the children who once lived at Promise Orphanage.”

The cameras shift, zooming in on his face. Jaehyun excitedly signals that the viewer’s count is rising up rapidly.

“I’ve never spoken about this publicly before, but I am an orphan. My sister,” he nods at you, “raised me. My fans may recognize her voice from some of our songs,” he smiles softly, before sobering up. “We moved from place to place, but Promise Orphanage was the only orphanage that felt like home. The only place where we were truly taken care of, where I was allowed to dream, thanks to Miss Jeeho, the director. She’s the one who helped me become a singer. She’s also the one who helped my sister in her fight for my custody.”

He swallows hard, steadying himself.

“This crime is not just about corporate greed. It’s about children who lost their home overnight. And now, they face being scattered across different locations, losing the only family they have left.”

His gaze fixes every camera, every journalist in place. You feel pride swell in your heart, loud and bright and all encompassing.

“We are not just seeking justice. We are seeking solutions. We are launching a legal fund to rebuild Promise Orphanage. We ask for your steady support in holding Sun Corporation accountable and in ensuring that these children are not left behind.”

“Please don’t let this injustice go unanswered.”

He bows deeply. You follow. Cameras flash, a deluge of light and sound.

It’s done, now. The end of the beginning is finally over.

—

Sometimes a month is just a month. Sometimes a month stretches like ten lifetimes crafted solely to hurt you. Sometimes a month slips through your fingers like running water, not yours to keep.

The past six months have been both, somehow.

You spent sleepless nights building the most solid case against Sun Corporation. Exhausting weeks passed before the judge finally struck his gavel against the wood, charging them with arson, criminal activity, bribery, and interference with civilian law. It took the sweat and tears of many to rebuild the orphanage from the charred ground. It took a lot of love to fill its multicolor walls with children’s laughter again— yours, your brother’s, your friends’, the fans’, the general public’s too.

And yet, when it was all over, when you could finally exhale without fearing the consequences of letting go, you were left with a gaping hole in your chest. Void was an insatiable creature gnawing at your heart, void was a creature that sought something you could not name.

That is until Seungmin talked to you.

“Can I sit?” he asks, pointing to the patch of shade near you. You nod, scooting over as you both lean your backs against the freshly planted pine tree. For a while, it’s quiet as you watch Han and Felix, dressed as clowns, playing hide and seek with a group of children at the orphanage’s reopening party.

“They look happy,” he whispers and you smile softly, letting their giggles waft to your ears.

“They do.”

“I never apologized for that night,” he suddenly says, turning to look at you. “When I got mad because you didn’t tell me about the orphanage.”

“I’m the one who’s sorry,” you sigh. “I knew how much this place means to you. I knew this was where you figured out what your dream was. I just… didn’t want to burden you, not when you already have so much atop your plate” you explain, gently smoothing down his bangs. “I guess a part of me still sees you as the little kid I have to protect.”

“You were a child too, protecting me,” he whispers, voice hoarse as he places his warm palm over yours. “You don’t have to protect me anymore. I promise. I’d rather you look after your own heart. Listen to what it really wants.”

Your eyes drift toward Chan. He’s playing guitar for a group of older kids, their small hands clapping to the upbeat melody. His smile is the sun. His smile tastes like the ocean breeze.

“Do you like him?” Seungmin asks softly.

Your breath catches. “What?”

“Chan. I’m not blind. I see the way you look at him. The way he looks at you, mostly.”

“Does it bother you?”

“Why would your happiness ever bother me?” He smiles, and you feel a weight dissolve in your chest. The creature within you perks up at his words.

“Then yes,” you admit, breath hitching. “I like him. So much it terrifies me.”

You speak your feelings for the first time, and yet, the sky does not collapse, the earth does not tremble beneath your feet. It feels almost miraculous— to voice what you long for and not be punished for it.

“Sometimes the things that scare us the most are the ones that make us happiest,” he says. “Because we’re scared of allowing ourselves to feel joy. Because we’ve conditioned ourselves to think we don’t deserve it.”

Tears prick your eyes, and you crack a soft smile. “Look at you, saying such wise things.”

“I’m literally twenty-four,” he deadpans and you laugh, ruffling his hair. “But you’ll always be a baby in my eyes, Seungminnie.”

“All right, all right.” He laughs, pulling you into a side hug. “But would you do it? I know you’ve sacrificed a lot for me, it must have hurt to do so,” you go to interject but he stops you, “Please. Would you listen to your heart for once?”

It takes a week away from everyone to do just that. You return to Gangneung, you walk past the blue houses, you talk to the locals and play chess with the grandpas and drink tea with the kind women at the local market. You twirl barefoot by the waves until salt clings to your skin, you lay on the sand and trace constellations with your fingertips. You sit in stillness. And you listen, truly listen, to the silence between each of your breaths. And then slowly, the melody emerges. Faint at first, like a distant lullaby. Then clearer, insistent, unwavering—stuck on a single note.

Chan.

You’ve never quite known who you were. When personality quizzes asked how your friends would describe you, you hesitated. Funny? Sweet? Practical? What about nothing—an emptiness that expands to swallow you whole? You never knew what to say when interviewees asked about your strengths and weaknesses, the things you’d like to change in your being, the ones you’d like to keep. You felt like a water lily floating aimlessly atop the still water, untethered, with no roots to return to.

But you knew you were a coward when it came to your heart. That you craved love so violently you could cleave the earth open with your ache. You knew that your mind had convinced you that you were cursed, flawed, undeserving.

But for the first time, you allow yourself to simply feel human.

You sit by the waves once more, the endless sea stretching before you. The sun disps slowly beneath the horizon, the clouds are dusted pink. Are they blushing too, at the thought of what you are about to do?

You had asked Chan to meet you on the beach at Gangneung whenever he could free himself, and he did—without hesitation. Seungmin texted you that he left the mid-writing session and jumped into his car with no second thought. He seemed happy, he said. That made you happy too.

“You look different,” Chan observes, and you turn away from the sea. His eyes are kind and you don’t shy away from his gaze, for once.

“Different?” you echo.

“At peace.”

You nod, curling your knees to your chest, resting your cheek against them. He follows suit, his legs grazing yours now and then, grounding you in his presence.

“I’ve thought a lot about what it means to be human,” you murmur. “To soften my heart, to open doors I thought were long sealed. I don’t have all the answers. But I found something.”

“What is it?”

“I found you,” you confess, so softly like you are speaking of a prayer. His eyes widen but you press on. “I weighed in the pros and cons, of what I want, of what losing what I want would cost me. And yet, in all my most horrible twisted scenarios, where you’d leave me heartbroken and bleeding, it still feels worth it. It feels worth it if it means you’d love me for a while, and that I’d love you too.”

He gently tucks a stray lock of hair behind your ear, the gesture tender, as all his touches are.

“A while? The only way for me to stop loving you is if my heart stops beating, Cherry.”

“So you still love me?” you ask, a bit shyly, too hopeful.

Chan blinks, then deadpans, “Are we sitting by the sea?”

You burst into laughter, the sound rolling out of you freely. As it fades, you see him—your beautiful Chan—the faint smile lines etching themselves around his lips, the kind warmth in his eyes, the remnants of dimples on his cheeks. He is so achingly beautiful it feels like an axe splitting your chest open. It feels like being born once more.

“I haven’t listened to my heart in so long,” you confess, brushing your thumb against his cheek, letting it trail softly over the corner of his mouth, a whisper against his lips. “But right now, it only wants one thing.”

“I’m yours,” he breathes, lips slightly parted.

There is no one around but the two of you and the sea. Who is there left to pretend for? The play is over. You bow to the sadness. You bow to the grief.

You take a deep breath. You dive into the water. You finally kiss Chan.

You knew that his lips would be as soft as silk, that pressing your mouth to his would be akin to breathing in oxygen for the first time, and yet, you did not imagine it to be this soul-shattering. You did not foresee the fireworks going off behind your eyelids, the bees and the bleeding heart doves singing in your chest, the garden buzzing in your stomach, telling you that you are alive, and that you are loved, at last, and that that is all that matters.

You did not imagine that he would taste like salvation, like honey and cherries and everything beautiful in between. You did not imagine that his tongue dancing along yours would feel like floating atop the sea, warm as sun, carnal like surrendering to your heart’s rawest desires.

You did not foresee that his warm palms would cradle your cheeks, that he would kiss you with the urgency of a starved man. That he would not tire of you, never ceasing, never faltering. That he would lay you on the sand and kiss you till night fell above you both, till your lips are both swollen, tender, and bleeding cherries.

“I love you,” you finally breathe, your heart throbbing all over your body, “I’m sorry it took me so long to see it.”

“Nonsense,” He smiles against your lips. “Even if you only loved my last dying breath, it would still be enough for me.”

—

“So, does this mean I can officially no longer flirt with you?” Han asks, eyes wide with mock horror. Seungmin flicks his forehead in response, and Chan tosses a napkin at him, an amused smile playing at his lips.

“Wait, pause, I can’t believe I lost to Chan,” Changbin pretends to weep, earning a laugh from the others.

“She’s mine,” Chan cocks his eyebrows at them, leaning back on his chair. “Go find yourselves your own partners.”

You are tucked away in a remote town of Japan, a hard-earned vacation after the turmoil you’ve went through the past months. You figured it was the best time to tell the boys that you are dating, only for wave of questions (and indignation, mostly) to immediately crash over you, followed by a group hug that lasted two full minutes, courtesy of Felix.

“Wait, but we liked you first!” Han protests once more, and Seungmin groans, his face contorting in annoyance that borders on anguish. “God, I thought I would be free of this torture.”

“I literally liked her before you guys even saw her,” Chan chimes in with a satisfied grin.

“So you’ve loved her for ten years now?” Hyunjin shouts, raising from his seat dramatically. “Wait this is so romantic.”

“I’m sorry, Jisungie, Binnie,” you tease as you press a lingering kiss to Chan’s cheek.

“Oh my god guys he’s BLUSHING!” Minho shouts, pointing excitedly at Chan. “This is too funny! Channie hyung is so flustered,” Jeongin laughs, whipping out his phone to capture the moment. “Wait, Innie pan over to Seungmin’s face!” Felix claps in pure delight, and you turn to see your brother sulking.

“What? I’m still not used to… this,” Seungmin grumbles, wiggling his fingers in front of you both in exaggerated disgust, but there’s a soft gleam in his eyes. He’s happy for you, only after threatening Chan five hundred times to treat you right, but he’s happy.

“Who wants ice cream?” Chan suddenly asks, not waiting for an answer before he grabs your hand and pulls you away.

“What was that?” you ask once you are out of the house.

“Nothing, I just wanted you all to myself for a bit,” he smiles bashfully, and you giggle, wrapping your arm around his waist. “You’re making it a habit to kidnap me,” you tease.

“Do you mind?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“Good,” he grins, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “Also, it’s Changbin and Jisung for you,” he chastises, a big pout tugging at his lips.

“Does Mr. Bang feel jealous when I call them Binnie and Jisungie?”

“Yes, I am. Sue me, I worked day and night to be yours. Day and night and for ten years at that too,” he sighs dramatically and you tip your head back in laughter. Your giggles lull when you see it.

“Are we standing underneath…” you draw out.

“A cherry blossom,” Chan whispers, his gaze soft and full of warmth. His smile is so wide, so radiant, it feels like your soul is buzzing, melting underneath his light.

“This reminds me… Did you fall for me because I gave you a cherry lollipop?” you tease, wrapping your arms around the nape of his neck, his hands instinctively finding your waist.

“Yeah, you must have laced that lollipop with something,” he chuckles, eyes twinkling with mischief.

“What if I hadn’t given it to you? What if we hadn’t met at all?”

He softens, his palms cupping your cheeks gently. “I would’ve found you,” he murmurs, brushing his lips against yours. He can almost taste it, vanilla and bubblegum. “In the streets of Gangneung. As you swam in the sea. In one of your courtrooms… I would’ve found you, my Cherry, and I would’ve loved you just the same.”

What does it mean to soften your heart? What does it mean to open the doors of what you thought was long sealed? The answers didn’t come to you all at once, you found them serendipitously, as you rounded up corners of paths you never thought you’d walk in.

You learned that softness is the greatest act of courage. You learned that to tear down your defenses is the greatest act of rebellion. You learned that love is a patient being, that it is all encompassing, that it heals, but only if you allow it to, only if you let it make a home out of your ribcage.

You learned that being human, unapologetically so, in all of its sorrowful and joyous shades, is to forgive, first and most. To forgive the world, for being sharp at times, for being cruel. To forgive yourself, for depriving your soul of happiness, for doing what you had to do to survive the cold.

To forgive the rust, for walking by your side for a long time. To let cinnamon and pinewood and cherries invade your senses instead, settle upon your sheets and waft into your home. To let the fire within you simmer, to let the anger go, even if it had kept you warm for a while.

For you have the sun now.

You have Chan, and he has you too, at last.

[homunculus-argument]

Rural Finland gothic

the asphalt road you are driving has been cut through the woods. the sky is clouded and grey, the asphalt is grey, the forest on both sides of you is green. no other colour exists other than green and shades of grey. sometimes blue roadsigns point towards places whose names you've never heard. you don't google them. it's none of your business.

sometimes you drive past a house, a wooden house painted white, yellow or red. the paint is faded and chipping, there is moss growing on the roof tiles. there are lace curtains in the windows and a bench on the yard, but you cannot tell by the quick glance you get whether the house is abandoned or not. the residents don't want you to know. it's none of your business.

you pause at a gas station. it seems to be a part of a chain that you thought went bankrupt in the 90s. a handful of those wooden houses are settled around it, and you wonder if any of the people living there work at the station. not that it matters. it's none of your business.

there are a handful of locals gathered inside the gas station, drinking coffee at the table. They smell like pine soap, resin and mosquito repellent, and you can't tell whether paused their conversation to silently stare at you when you stepped in, or whether they had been sitting in silence to begin with. you don't ask. it's none of your business.

the station cashier doesn't talk to you save for a greeting and a few quick nods. you can't tell whether it's because they assume you don't speak finnish. they don't ask where you came from, or where you're going. it's none of their business.

the road leads you somewhere with more houses and buildings. the locals don't call the town by the name. it's just church town, the church is there. people don't say they're going to the town to buy their groceries, they say they'll be at the church. you're not sure whether the town was built around the church or the church was built into the town. It's none of your business.

people talk of going to the church when they're going to the town, but nobody seems to go in the church. people only go there to be christened, for confirmation, to get married and to be buried. a child has not been officially named before they're christened, and no-one will tell you the name of their baby before the child has been given their name by a priest. most of them don't seem to know why, and you don't ask. it's none of your business.

even the town is strangely quiet. you see seven people altogether, and half of that number is a family of four. besides the sound of a car rumbling by, and the occasional barking of a dog, you hear nothing. you're standing in the parking lot of a grocery store, across the street from a library, in a walking distance from the town square, and it's so quiet you hear the sound of wind whispering in nearby trees.

there is a dog barking somewhere. of course they are barking, they are guard dogs and hunting dogs. they're supposed to do that. they bark to alert their masters of game, of intruders, of strangers and outsiders. sometimes they bark at the woods, when it doesn't look like there's anything there. the locals don't go investigate it. it's none of their business.

you see the same symbol drawn, doodled and carved anywhere that graffiti accumulates to. an oval divided in the middle, with rays like a sun. it's called the "church boat", though everyone knows it's meant to be a cunt. you remember reading somewhere that it's an ancient symbol, from the time of the Old Gods before the christians came, when the inherent power of the woman of the house was considered stronger than even death magic. you don't ask what the people here know about this. it's none of your business.

the locals can tell you're an outsider here because you don't look like anyone they know. if you were someone's visiting grandchild, they could tell by your face which clan you belong to. they don't ask you what other business you could possibly have here. it's none of their business.

[iphigeniacomplex]

Frustrated, Arya threw down the brush. “Bad wolf!” she shouted. Sansa couldn’t help but smile a little. The kennelmaster once told her that an animal takes after its master.

—Sansa II, A Game of Thrones

“You’re a good girl, Sansa, but I do vow, when it comes to that creature you’re as willful as your sister Arya.”

—Sansa II, A Game of Thrones

“My daughter often forgets her courtesies,” Eddard Stark said with a faint smile that softened his words.

—Arya III, A Game of Thrones

“A royal wheelhouse is no place for a wolf,” Sansa said. [...] She turned to walk off, but Arya shouted after her, “They won’t let you bring Lady either.” She was gone before Sansa could think of a reply, chasing Nymeria along the river.

—Sansa II, A Game of Thrones

Sansa dropped to her knees to wrap her arms around the wolf. They were all gathered around gaping, she could feel their eyes on her, and here and there she heard muttered comments and titters of laughter. “A wolf,” a man said, and someone else said, “Seven hells, that’s a direwolf,” and the first man said, “What’s it doing in camp?” and the Hound’s rasping voice replied, “The Starks use them for wet nurses,” and Sansa realized that the two stranger knights were looking down on her and Lady, swords in their hands, and then she was frightened again, and ashamed.

—Sansa II, A Game of Thrones

“No,” she said. “No, not Lady, Lady didn’t bite anybody, she’s good…”

—Eddard VII, A Game of Thrones

She woke murmuring, “Please, please, I’ll be good, I’ll be good, please don’t,” but there was no one to hear.

—Sansa VI, A Game of Thrones

“Send Arya away, she started it, Father, I swear it. I’ll be good, you’ll see, just let me stay and I promise to be as fine and noble and courteous as the queen.”

—Sansa III, A Game of Thrones

The queen had given her freedom of the castle as a reward for being good,

—Sansa V, A Game of Thrones

“Stop them,” Sansa pleaded, “don’t let them do it, please, please, it wasn’t Lady, it was Nymeria, Arya did it, you can’t, it wasn’t Lady, don’t let them hurt Lady, I’ll make her be good, I promise, I promise…”

—Eddard VII, A Game of Thrones

“[...] What’s wrong with the girl?” Bran felt all cold inside. “She lost her wolf,” he said, weakly, remembering the day when four of his father’s guardsmen had returned from the south with Lady’s bones. Summer and Grey Wind and Shaggydog had begun to howl before they crossed the drawbridge, in voices drawn and desolate. Beneath the shadow of the First Keep was an ancient lichyard, its headstones spotted with pale lichen, where the old Kings of Winter had laid their faithful servants. It was there they buried Lady, while her brothers stalked between the graves like restless shadows. She had gone south, and only her bones had returned.

—Bran VI, A Game of Thrones

She was a good girl, and always remembered her courtesies.

—Sansa VI, A Game of Thrones

[bluesunss]

Moonbird T.O.P (Choi Seunghyun) x F!Reader

Big Bang april challenge - April 4th

summary: bumping into an ex at the most unexpected place...

warnings: nothing much really, tiny bit of angst and emotional cheating innuendos (but no actual cheating and NOT between the main characters - read to understand), sensitive reader

a/n: if I say I got carried away it would be an euphemism. this is quite long, literally a full fanfic on its own. a whole subplot has been created for it! I hope it will be enjoyable :) tysm @wcnderlnds and @ldydeath for the fun challenge!

p.s.: the Adrienette slow dance music perfectly fits the vibe

The hum of the passenger-filled airplane was the only sound reaching you. And yet, people continued to board the massive metallic vessel, speaking loudly as they hoisted their luggage into the overhead compartments. You could hear the rustling of jackets as strangers bumped into each other, the children asking how long the journey would take or whether they could eat.

You were already seated, and it was no accident. The moment boarding was announced, you had leaped to be the first in line, the first to present your passport, your documents, your ticket. In fact, the flight was scheduled to depart at four in the afternoon, but you had arrived at the airport at seven in the morning.

But that, too, was no coincidence. You were terrified of planes. Heights. An irrational, all-consuming fear that sometimes forced you to endure three-day train journeys just to avoid a simple flight. Even though your budding career as a seamstress required you to travel, it was well known that you never took planes, and the rare events to which you were invited were usually within Korea, around Seoul.

It wasn’t a bad arrangement, you thought. No, it was your fear that dictated your choices. Not just any fear, not the kind that makes you close your eyes for a moment. No, yours was the kind that made you tremble, cry, curl into yourself.

But this time, you had no choice. One of your closest childhood friends was getting married this weekend in Paris. And unless some magical form of transportation could bridge the gap between Seoul and Paris, you were left with no other option. You had considered declining. Hesitated for hours.

But in the end, you had no choice but to accept. Because your favorite fashion designer, DIANE, lived near the wedding venue and you were told she might attend. Because it was one of your dearest friends. Because you hadn’t seen him in over ten years, and you missed him terribly. Because at thirty-four, your life was just beginning, and it was a chaotic whirlwind of fabric, needles, phone calls, restless women, and fashion magazines. Of screens, austerity, discipline. A thrilling life, yes, but an exhausting one.

Head buried in your hands, you took a deep breath, trying to steady the irrational pounding of your heart. Your chest ached, tightening around your lungs, forcing you to breathe only through your mouth, in uneven, ragged gasps. You rubbed your clammy hands together, then wiped them on your jeans - only to repeat the motion as fresh sweat immediately replaced the last.

The plane was scheduled to take off in about ten minutes. Since your friend Dong-hyun and his fiancée had decided to gift flight tickets to all their guests, you had insisted on flying economy class despite their attempts to offer you a better seat. Dong-hyun eventually gave in, albeit reluctantly. His fiancée scolded him; she genuinely wanted you to be comfortable. You pulled the light shawl over your shoulders and breathed in its scent.

Lost in thought, you decided to calm yourself by opening a book from your carry-on. Time passed at that steady rhythm until you felt a shift, a faint tremor. Your fingers clenched around the book. The words dissolved into broken syllables.

“…his hand… rai… catch… and… c…”

The rolling motion began. Like a car, you murmured. Like. A. Car. Breathe. Stay calm. It’s going to be okay. A. Car. A train. It’s going to be okay.

At first, it was fine. The first ten minutes. The wheels retracting. The screech against the tarmac. And then it began. Your nails dug into the armrests. You squeezed your eyes shut, tried to control your breathing, counted the clouds, but nothing worked.

Beside you, a child sat with headphones on, absorbed in a book, while his mother dozed off, cradling a newborn. You couldn’t ask them for help. Across the aisle, a man was fast asleep.

The shaking started.

The plane sped up. Faster. Faster still. Faster, faster, faster - it was about to lift off, about to take flight. The seatbelt sign wasn’t even on yet, but you were braced, your heart pounding wildly.

And then, turbulence.

Your hand shot out and latched onto someone’s arm as they passed by, gripping their forearm with all your strength. Trembling, lips pressed into a thin line, you refused to let go. And then-

A voice instructed passengers to fasten their seatbelts.

You looked up.

The person looked down.

And you both froze.

He was wearing a mask. A cap.

But those eyes. Those strands of hair falling over his gaze.

Him.

Choi Seunghyun.

“Please return to your seats and fasten your seatbelts.”

Right there. In front of you. Your first love. The first person in your life. The one with whom you had built a future. Who had pushed you to enroll in fashion school. Whom you had encouraged to try rapping. Whose first lyrics you helped write. Who you graduated high school with.

Of course.

The one celebrating his birthday - Dong-hyun - had been your best friend back then. The nights spent playing board games after school. The words, the music. The way they used to tease you two, knowing you were in love but that neither of you dared to make the first move.

The time they abandoned you at the fair, forcing you two together.

The moment his lips met yours on the Ferris wheel.

The day he confessed, cheeks flushed, in the heart of your seventeen-year-old selves.

Oh.

If there was one thing Seunghyun knew, it was how terrified you were of heights. In the Ferris wheel, before he kissed you, you had cried and clung to his shirt. In the end, it had been purely instinctive. You had found him looking at you, soothing you, and it had simply happened. Your heart had pounded for an entirely different reason, and the world had fallen silent.

And the wheel had reached the bottom. Calmly. Without turbulence.

Seunghyun’s arm did not move. Another thing about him was his ability to make decisions quickly.

“Please return to your seats and fasten your seatbelts. I repeat, please-”

“Unfasten your seatbelt,” he ordered. You were too stunned to react. With a swift movement, you clicked open your belt. A flight attendant was striding toward you, but Seunghyun remained unfazed. He waited - waited for the command to reach your brain, for your fingers to press the metallic clasp, for his hand to calmly take yours and enclose it within his.

Gently guiding you, he led you all the way to the empty seats. The flight attendant approached, but then, suddenly, Seunghyun lowered his mask, and she blushed before turning away.

He took one of the vacant seats and sat down, then helped you sit before fastening your seatbelt. Without a word, he placed a hand on the side of your head, tilted it onto his shoulder, close to his heart, and let his fingers hover against your cheek for a moment before lowering his hand to your shoulder, keeping you pressed against him.

Not a single word. Only the rhythm of his heartbeat, the reassuring scent of clean linen and his cologne - unchanged - the warmth of his fingers on your shoulder, and the silence that said everything.

You no longer felt anything. You were at peace. The plane accelerated. The wheels screeched against the ground, and then your heart lurched as it took off, as the world tilted slightly and the landscape blurred past.

But Seunghyun held you close. He pressed your shoulder in that rhythmic way he had with his fingers, one after the other, like playing a piano, creating a cadence that regulated your breathing. He always did that when you panicked - whether over an overwhelming workload or when you came home crying after a failed deal. Seunghyun was calm and understanding.

Perhaps that was why you drifted apart. After high school, he spent two years at SNU studying history, but he never managed to love the university or academic life. Eventually, he dropped out, and gradually, you both ended up investing in a talent he had kept buried deep within him but had always cherished - singing, rapping, the world of stardom. Little by little, a career took shape.

You had been there, watching from the sidelines, as he traded textbooks for lyrics and study halls for underground stages. He started rapping again, reconnecting with an old friend, Kwon Ji-yong, and from there, everything snowballed. YG Entertainment. Big Bang. Stadiums and screaming fans. His name became something else - T.O.P - and the world claimed him.

You had hardly ever met the other members. You were too busy. You, whom he had encouraged to enroll in a fashion school, faced rejection after rejection.

He had always been there for you. All this time. His rhythmic tapping, his presence - him, simply. Always putting you before his career. Always. One call at any hour? He would be at your doorstep, canceling a concert for tens of thousands of people.

But you were the one who distanced yourself first. You were too much for him. Too much of everything, too much of his world, too much of his refuge, too much of his problem.

And then, you were finally accepted by an underrated Korean designer. She saw herself as a pioneer, advocating for pattern mixing - pairing a plaid shirt with a polka-dot skirt.

You were not an innovator, more conventional, but she guided you beyond the conformity of everyday life. Seunghyun always saw you as a little bird - his nickname for you was Dalsae. Moon bird.

But you had taken flight. Your first fashion show was a shock. She provoked, she attacked. Seunghyun warned you, saying you were going against your nature, but you thought he wanted to keep you from flying. You lashed out at him. You provoked him constantly, throwing barbed words, yet he remained as calm as ever.

But each time, he withdrew a little more.

A crack formed. And when the designer helped you spread your wings, she clipped them. She stole your sketches and created a new collection that shook the fashion world. A deafening silence.

However, Seunghyun was no longer there. He had pulled away - afraid for you, but also of you. You were always so quick to anger.

The cracks deepened. Mistakes were made on both sides: he withdrew when you truly needed him, and you let him go when he needed a sign to stay.

And so, your worlds crumbled. Even when you came back, proposed new designs, received countless calls, even when Nova was suddenly dragged to court for intellectual theft, and your sketches were finally unveiled to the world.

Even when your world rebuilt itself. He was no longer there.

Physically, yes, you still lived together. But the mistakes of your youth had turned you into wandering souls. Strangers.

The separation was silent. Slowly, things disappeared - first a toothbrush, then a jacket, then his underwear. Then the shelves emptied, the closets, the separate nights.

And then, one morning, he told you he would be staying over at a friend’s place for the night. And you knew he would not return.

He left you the furniture, the car, the apartment. But he took your heart. You didn’t cry in the first few weeks. You were too busy, still unaware.

Then, one Friday night, you came home, laughing, happy because you had been invited to your first event, and you wanted him to come. You had called his name, placed a cake you had bought on the dining table, and suddenly realized.

He was gone. The apartment was empty.

And only then did you cry, mourning the loss of the person dearest to you.

Seven years later, he was here. Holding you as he used to, just as calm. You stayed in his arms for long minutes. You even dozed off against his chest as his fingers stroked your hair.

Hours later, you woke with just an hour and a half left in the flight, realizing that throughout the twelve-hour journey, not once had you trembled. And against you, he breathed, deeply asleep, his hand still holding you - just as he had seventeen years earlier, in that Ferris wheel.

With a small movement, you lifted his arm, gently placed it back against his body, then slipped away to retrieve your bag and belongings. As you returned, you wondered why you were coming back to your ex’s side, but you chose not to think about it too much and let yourself sink into the seat beside him.

You pulled out your book, and even when the plane landed, the mere presence of the man with his steady breathing and familiar scent was enough to calm you.

You arrived at Paris Charles de Gaulle airport around four in the morning. Your body was stiff as you unloaded your luggage and belongings, and by the time you were through, it was nearly five, with the sun rising. Seunghyun and you had exchanged no words, but he remained close, his hand hovering over the small of your back, guiding you everywhere. He retrieved your suitcase, your handbag - a birthday gift from him as a couple - and you swore you saw his eyes soften behind his mask. You spoke little, in brief syllables - “All good?” “And you?” “Yes.” “No.” “Careful.” “Go first.”

The French air smelled sharper, a little less artificial than Korea’s. The airport was vast, filled with unfamiliar voices and sounds you didn’t understand.

“L'embarquement pour l'avion vers Riyad partira avec un retard de quinze minutes. Les portes de l'embarquement pour Genève sont fermées. À cause des travaux-”

Seunghyun was pulling his suitcase and carrying your backpack. After all the security checks (where you were forced to throw away a perfume bottle because you had apparently forgotten how to read numbers), you finally reached the airport exit together. You were the one to break the real silence.

“Are you going to Dong-hyun and Soo-yeon’s wedding?”

He had lowered his mask - in Paris, he was less recognized - and you took the opportunity to observe him under his cap, his dark brown hair always falling messily over his eyes, the way you used to love brushing it back. His deep eyes, which used to light up when you kissed him and he pulled you into his arms. His thin, rosy lips. He hadn’t changed, though a few lines creased his forehead when he raised his eyebrows or around his eyes. But that was only because you knew his face by heart. Anyone else wouldn’t have noticed.

You removed your shawl and shook your head, letting your hair fall over your shoulders. You thought his gaze lingered on you, but when you looked up, he was reading the screens.

You walked side by side, silent, save for the rolling of your suitcases on the parquet floor and the shrill voices of parents calling after their children.

“I received the invitation a month ago.”

Seunghyun rarely answered with a simple yes or no. He always took a step around his response, as if he already knew what you were about to say.

"Me too. I'm surprised he's doing it in Paris, even though Soo-yeon is French."

He still wasn’t looking at you. "Dong-hyun dreamed of Montparnasse."

Memories resurfaced. Dong-hyun didn’t care about the Eiffel Tower or the Louvre. He was obsessed with that tower - who knows why.

"His architectural project model was a replica of the tower, remember?"

Seunghyun’s lips curled slightly, and you thought you heard a quiet laugh escape him. "He was such an idiot, too. Who builds a famous tower? Did he think that just because it was in Korea, he could pretend he had invented it?"

You laughed too, your eyes glimmering. "He said great minds think alike. I haven’t seen him in a while."

"Ten years. Just before…"

Before you parted ways. A heavy silence fell again. You gripped your suitcase, your knuckles turning white.

"We’re here."

You lifted your head. It was the exit. Seunghyun lingered for a moment, his gaze resting on your face, which seemed so distant to him that his heart clenched.

"Do you have a taxi?"

You nodded. Soo-yeon and you had video-called because her fiancé had told her you two would get along perfectly, and she had adored you - both you and your designs. Her mother was French, and Soo-yeon had assured you that your fashion would revolutionize Paris. She had even sent a friend to pick you up directly.

And there he was. You recognized him from the picture - dark brown hair, green eyes, leather jacket.

He recognized you too. He walked up to you, pulled you into a hug, and kissed both your cheeks loudly. Then, he grabbed your suitcase, speaking in a choppy mix of French and English.

"Yoo, Soo-yeon told me so much sur toi. Askip you’re a designer. TROP excited to see that."

He walked with a swagger and smelled of cigarettes and leaves. You glanced up at Seunghyun as the man, in a hurry, dragged your luggage while monologuing.

Your cheeks were red, your eyes still damp. You grabbed your backpack from Seunghyun’s hand and gave him a quick wave.

"See you later."

He didn’t answer. His eyes flicked from you to the man, then to the signs and the ticking time. He hadn’t lost his composure, but you could have sworn you saw him falter.

☽

The hotel was a grand Haussmannian building in the sixth arrondissement. In the lobby, men carried your suitcases upstairs, the so-called friend, Benoît, kissed your cheeks again before leaving, and you found yourself lost in a foreign whirlwind.

Your belongings were brought up, you followed the elevator to the seventh floor, walked down the hallway, and a mustached man in red opened the door for you, handing you a key card.

Only then did you let yourself collapse onto the velvet bed. The wedding was in two days, and you felt yourself sink into sleep.

☽

Night fell, and you woke abruptly to a deep, thunderous rumble. Jolting out of bed, you searched for the source before realizing the window was ajar. You still hadn’t changed. Moving toward the small balcony, you stepped outside. In the distance, a construction site pressed forward, a massive yellow crane screeching as it moved. How did the workers dare to climb it? To you, it was the ultimate display of courage.

The night was deep, the sky a dark blue, starless. Far away, the Eiffel Tower pierced a lone cloud. It had not yet begun to sparkle. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of flowers placed along the railing and something warm. And just then, you felt a new world unfolding before you. It would be okay. Everything would be okay.

You smiled at the sky, stretching your hand outward as if to touch the Eiffel Tower from afar.

"Careful!"

The voice came from your left. You turned your head sharply, gripping the railing for balance - and then you saw him.

Seunghyun had the room next to yours. The moment he saw you, his fist clenched, and without another word, he stepped back into his room.

Your heart pounded violently. You turned back inside, shut the terrace doors, and stepped into the bathroom, flicking on the light. Quickly, you washed your body with the hotel’s Marseille soap, dried your hair in the modern bathroom, then changed to go for a walk.

Dressing wasn’t a simple task for you; designing clothes meant you played by your own rules. Your main principle lay in color - its chaotic harmony. That was why you were Korea’s ever-changing bird. And Seunghyun’s moonbird. His Dalsae.

But tonight, you wanted to exist quietly. Without colors.

So you slipped into one of your work sweaters and a pair of trousers - elegant and pressed, but loose enough to let you dissolve into your thoughts. You laced up your sneakers, unlocked the door, and left your belongings neatly stacked in the corner of the room.

The hallway was lined with red carpet, the walls gilded leather molded into a series of convex shapes. It was an attempt at blending Renaissance France with Versailles and Louis Le Vau’s influence while preserving the Haussmannian essence that came later in the early nineteenth century.

The mix was somewhat grotesque - clumsy in the way only forced luxury can be. Instinctively, your fingers reached for your ear, searching for a pencil as if to sketch out a better design, when a shadow moved behind you.

Seunghyun approached, carrying his scent like an unmistakable aura. He tilted his head.

"The hotel’s style is strange."

It wasn’t a question. He had figured it out. He always did. You threw your head back, grinning at him upside down.

"Yep. I want to redesign the whole building."

He smiled softly, and the two of you continued walking through the hall.

What was he doing here?

"Paris is dangerous at night," he replied, as if he had read your thoughts. "These are the nice neighborhoods, but every corner has a story. Don’t go out alone."

You nodded thoughtfully. His gaze swept over your ‘normal’ outfit, your barely-there makeup, the damp curls that had slipped from your low ponytail.

You walked in silence for a moment, reached the elevator, and waited patiently. You swung your foot slightly forward, feigning indifference.

The elevator arrived. You stepped inside, and then-

The silence of the corridor suddenly expanded into something immense. Overwhelming.

The seven floors that had taken only minutes before now stretched into endless hours.

You didn’t dare lift your head to meet his gaze. He said nothing, but you knew his head was lowered too. And that he had pulled the hood of his black sweatshirt - your favorite - over his hair.

"So… how are you?"

His voice sent a shiver down your spine. Between these four walls, it felt so distant yet so close, vibrating through you.

"I’m fine. But…"

Finally daring to look at him, you tried to catch his eyes as they darted away.

"And you? Are you… okay?"

His fingers tugged at the drawstrings of his hoodie. He wasn’t looking at you.

"Hyun?"

At the sound of his name, he reacted. His face lifted, revealing something shaken, fractured - all the emotions bottled up in those endless silences, in that dull absence.

"I…"

Ting!

The door opened. He composed himself, adjusted his posture, and let you step out before following suit. The hotel lobby had filled slightly with couples and murmuring voices, the scent of freshly brewed coffee lingering in the air. Every golden table was occupied. People spoke loudly, many in English. A blend of musk and old upholstery floated around you, and you mentally added it to the list of comforting scents.

Seunghyun stepped ahead as the grand doors swung open, and the two of you stepped into the fresh, dark night. A shiver ran through you, and you followed him. You walked in silence for a while, taking in the crisp scent of pine and sharp autumn leaves, until the quiet grew heavier.

So much to say, and no way to say it.

“How are GDragon and the others?”

Truthfully, GD was the only name you had remembered - because you loved dragons and the intricate scale patterns you often incorporated into your designs, and because you'd met Jiyong a few times.

Seunghyun exhaled softly. “They’re fine.”

You reached a winding street. Hundreds of cars crisscrossed in every direction, and well-dressed pedestrians crowded the sidewalks. For the first time in your life, you felt underdressed. The Eiffel Tower loomed closer.

“Not really,” he finally admitted, exhaling. “There have been… problems. A few scandals. It’s been rough.”

A gust of cold air made you shudder. He noticed but said nothing at first. “We’ve had problems. I don’t know if things will ever get better.”

Big Bang? Problems? You had been so consumed by your own world that you had ignored his. To this day, the wound of your breakup was still raw. Because neither of you had ever really spoken the words. And perhaps because of that, you still felt as if you were together. As if every man you had dated since was, in some unspoken way, a betrayal. You were still bound to Seunghyun.

The silence was unbearable.

The nights spent laughing like lunatics on the couch over some ridiculous comedy. The hours wasted on absurd video games he’d bought from obscure stores, games that made no sense. The virus he downloaded that turned your screen blue for months. The ridiculous nicknames. That time you both dyed your hair red and botched it so badly that your scorched ends turned into wild, lion-like manes for weeks. The rule 'No laughing at the other' that none of you respected, holding your stomaches with laughter. The kisses.

You missed him. More than that - you were dying without him.

“Seunghyun?”

He tilted his head slightly, listening. He had always been calm, but never this silent.

“Why did we break up?”

The question lingered in the air. It cut through the tension, shattering it into a thousand sharper pieces. Your breath caught in your throat. Too late to take it back now.

Glancing at him, you noticed the slight tremor in his lower lip.

“We never really broke up,” he said.

It was true. Exactly what you had feared all along.

“But you were afraid,” he added. “Terrified.”

Afraid? You barely had time to ask before he continued.

“When that woman - the designer, the one they called Super-”

“Nova.”

“Yes. Supernova. When she took you in, she made you scared of everything. You lost yourself after that. Your ambition, your sketches, your dreams.”

The sky was cloudless. Seunghyun’s steps beside you were light, steady, grounding.

“And me. You were so afraid of ruining everything that you did everything to push me away. You fear your own emotions.”

You only realized you were crying when the cold air brushed against your damp cheeks. Two quiet tears slipped down your face and disappeared into the pavement.

“Did you ever want to end it all?” you asked. The question that had burned on your tongue for years. Had he ever wanted to leave?

He did not answer immediately.

A street vendor tried to slip miniature Eiffel Towers into your pockets, but Seunghyun stopped him with a single, polite nod, freezing the man in place. The warm scent of crepes drifted through the air. Seunghyun followed your gaze and stopped at the stand. You protested, but he bought two - one with sugar, one with chocolate - and handed you the last one without expecting anything in return.

That was who he was. A giver. Even his happiness, at the cost of his own.

“Never,” he finally answered.

He shook his head as you bit into the buttery warmth, the sweet-salty contrast overwhelming your senses. Another warmth spread within you.

“You know Nova was sued?” you said.

He smirked. “Serves her right. She was unbearable.”

“Hey, not entirely. After meeting her, I’d come home with rolls of fabric and sew you the most stylish ties.”

He chuckled, the sound so familiar it sent a shiver of happiness through you.

“Stylish? I had to attend auditions wearing shirts with tiny penguins and monkeys on the cuffs.”

You nearly choked on your bite of crepe.

“You okay?” he asked.

Yeah. You were okay.

“You wore them! Every single one!”

You burst out laughing, picturing him rapping in his ridiculous shirts. And despite himself, despite everything, laughter finally took hold of him too.

“Yes. Every single one.”

Wiping his eyes, he turned to you.

“Because you made them.”

Your laughter faded into quiet warmth. You looked up at him, eyes bright, lips curved in a soft smile. You held his gaze for long, lingering seconds.

How you had missed him. All this time. All these years.

He studied you in return. Your eyes remained locked until he finally looked away and took another bite of his crepe. You resumed walking.

“Seunghyun?”

“Hm?” You swallowed.

“How did they find out Nova stole my sketches?”

The man beside you swallowed hard. You had often wondered who had leaked the signed designs you had hidden away, the ones that vanished right after his departure.

“The truth always comes out,” he said. But he avoided your gaze.

He had been your guardian angel all these years.

Your heart pounded again. The Eiffel Tower was just ahead now, glowing golden, its lights forming a mosaic against the night sky. Crowds of people laughed, danced, filmed, kissed. You climbed the steps, drawing closer to the iron lattice, watching it shimmer, your eyes full of stars.

Laughing, you turned to Seunghyun. “Take a picture of me.”

He couldn’t take his eyes off you.

You held out your phone, but he pulled out his own.

“The camera’s better,” he said.

He hadn’t changed his phone in years. The image froze in time - your eternal smile, your rosy cheeks.

You bounced back to him, beaming. “Amazing! Your turn!”

He shook his head, resisting. But you tugged at his sleeve, and before he could protest, you handed his phone to a woman with a stroller while her husband scolded two rowdy children. She smiled warmly and gestured for you to pose.

Seunghyun left a few inches of space between your shoulders.

“Closer!” the woman instructed in English. “Yeah! Perfect!”

You had moved closer. "Cheeese." She took the picture.

"Your arm! Come on, your girl is so beautiful!" She smiled at you.

Seunghyun swallowed hard. The woman made a sweeping gesture with her arm, prompting him to wrap his own around your neck.

"Bring her closer! Don’t you love the girl?"

So you nestled into his embrace. You let your hands linger on his chest, your head resting against his heart, and he tightened his grip on your shoulder, relaxing just slightly.

"Perfect!" the woman cried. "Excellent. A kiss, maybe?"

Seeing the horror on your faces, she laughed and handed you the phone back.

"So cute! Me and my husband?"

You took her picture, and she left, waving warmly.

"Can I see the photos?" you asked.

Seunghyun handed you his phone, and you scrolled through them. Then, instinctively, you tapped the small arrow in the rectangle to send them to yourself.

Dalsae.

Your breath caught. You were still here.

You hadn’t changed.

With trembling fingers, you hit send. Then you handed him back the phone, your lips quivering. His fingers brushed against yours. His eyes never left you. He picked up his phone. You extended your hand.

The Eiffel Tower sparkled. Darkness had suddenly fallen. Deep, luminous, fireworks bursting in the sky.

There. It was only him, and only you. Your eyes fell to his lips. His gaze traced your face, your mouth. Your body gravitated toward his. Your hands landed on his chest, his on your hips.

You were mere centimeters apart. It was cold. You were burning.

You lifted onto your toes. He tilted his head. His hair skimmed your cheeks, your forehead. Your nose brushed against his. Your lips-

"Ow!"

A girl behind you stumbled. You jumped, and Seunghyun abruptly pulled away.

"Sorry! I'm sorry, I-"

You reached for him again, but he withdrew feverishly.

"No, we can’t!" he insisted.

"But why?!" you snapped, feeling the sting of tears at the corners of your eyes. "Do you not love me? Do you not love me anymore?"

He shook his head, as if he couldn’t understand what you were saying, as if it were nonsense.

"Stop, please. We need to go back. You need to rest for the wedding."

"Seunghyun! You say I run from my feelings, but you’re the one running from yours! What is it?!"

His eyes were locked on you, but he wasn’t really seeing you. He had shut down. He was pulling away. You were sinking, nearly screaming.

"I can’t!"

"BUT WHY?!"

His mouth opened. You saw it coming. You felt it.

"I have someone! There!"

Your heart plummeted in your chest. In an instant, it collapsed. The world turned black, then blue, then gray, then orange. Then black again. So very black.

"Fine," you whispered.

"Listen, I-"

"No, it’s fine. Good luck."

You stepped back, watching him, and nearly missed the step behind you. It should have made you laugh, but instead, you broke, and you exploded into a thousand tears, fleeing into the streets toward the hotel.

Seunghyun reached out, but it was useless. Just like you and the Eiffel Tower from the balcony.

If he stepped too far, he would fall.

☽

The next morning arrived like a flash of lightning. You had no idea how your clothes ended up on your body, how you slipped into your quiet morning attire and made your way to the first hall, long before the festivities, starting tomorrow evening.

You were suprised to find the bride to be. Soo-yeon sat downstairs in the hall, at one of the gilded cafeteria tables, sipping tea in a delicate pink dress and chatting with five teenage girls. The moment she saw you, she turned, dropped her cup, and ran toward you.

"OH, darling! I’ve so dreamed of meeting you!"

She pulled away after pressing two loud kisses to your cheeks, leaving two bright pink lip marks on your face. Her strong perfume - lavender, mandarin, and bergamot - made your eyes sting. Her long hair was dyed pink all the way to the roots, concealing its true color, and despite her distinctly Korean features, her brown eyes seemed to shimmer a little blue.

"You’re gorgeous!"

She took your arm, humming, and sat you down on the sofa near the table, calling the waiter.

"Garçon!"

A man arrived, took your order - hot chocolate - and left. She spoke a lot, a mix of korean, english and french, quickly, but never stuttered or hesitated. Her posture was impeccable.

"Listen, I have a brilliant idea. How long does it take you to create a dress?" she asked.

You shook your head, a little overwhelmed. Then, thoughtful, you counted on your fingers. Sketch. Choose fabrics. Shopping. Cutting. Tracing. Dampening the fabric to give it texture, if the design required it. Crinkling. Ironing. Sewing. Assembling. Fitting. Adjusting. Re-sewing.

"Ah, a lot. Almost fifteen hours if I take a full day without eating, without breaks, and if the client patiently waits while I test everything on them."

Soo-yeon smiled, her glittery pink eyeshadow shimmering. She was too impatient.

"Well! Listen," she motioned for you to come closer, leaning slightly in, resting a manicured hand on your forearm. "If I give you an ideal world. A workshop. And even small employees. Could you make that work?"

You stared, confused, waiting for her to keep going as she examined your face with a small smile. When you did not respond, she continued.

"Make my dress for tomorrow."

You stared at her, dumbfounded. But she did not give you time to think.

"If you make it, just know that one of the best fashion designers in Paris will drop by my party. DIANE."

It was as if the breath had been knocked from your lungs. DIANE was your idol. You admired her as much as you feared her and her judgment.

"Of course, I have a dress, just in case. But this idea came to me just this morning at four AM, while I couldn’t sleep and was painting my nails. I want something new, I want to be the most original bride in Paris."

Your heart pounded. The other girls watched you with smiles. They were young. She gestured toward them.

"These are friends’ daughters who were looking for a job opportunity. They’ll be at your service - I’ll pay them, and I’ll pay for the dress. You get to impress DIANE. And I have a dress no one possesses in Paris by the future fashion sensation."

In around forty hours. It was nearly seven AM. The opportunity was incredible. Then an idea struck you. With five assistants, you could also create bridesmaids’ dresses.

You often got a bit too ahead of yourself, and that you would only realise in a few hours.

"How many bridesmaids do you have?" you finally asked.

If she was surprised, she didn’t show it.

"Well, I have many friends, but only three very close ones. Léa, Camille, and Mi-rae. And I’ve chosen you as well, of course."

Four dresses.

"The wedding is Saturday at eight PM?" you asked, jumping from your seat, nearly knocking over the hot chocolate that had just arrived.

She grinned brightly.

"Sharp, darling."

☽

Forty hours. Forty hours. Forty hours.

Soo-yeon lent you a friend’s workshop. It had everything you needed, from sewing machines to spools of thread. She had given you a magazine featuring different fabrics and had circled her favorites.

The five girls spoke English; only one of them understood and spoke Korean. She translated quickly for her friends and became your right hand.

“Okay, Ju-bin, tell them to fetch me the white tin fabric and the crystal flowers here.”

"Faut chercher les fleurs de cristal et le tissu blanc les filles!"

You pointed to the magazine. The girls, thrilled, dashed off. They returned swiftly. You stacked the fabrics, let them dry during the process, rushed all over the workshop, pricked your fingers seven times. Then, you started working on the bridesmaids’ dresses in raspberry red fabric, asking for off-white diamonds. One of the girls went to buy cream-colored heels, another returned with tights, Soo-yeon had left her number, and everything was going well.

Then, suddenly, in your exhaustion, you lifted the bride's dress and saw that you had made a mistake. One single stitch was sticking out too much. From afar, it was invisible, but with the bride in front of everyone, it would be immediately noticeable, and for DIANE, it was ruined.

The dress slipped from your hands, and you exploded. It was two o'clock. The day was almost over, and tomorrow you needed to get the bridesmaid's dresses done. You could never continue.

The girls, who had returned, surrounded you and tried to help, but you cried bitterly in your helplessness. It reminded you of the night with Nova when she said "See you tomorrow," and the next day, your sketches were her new collection. And that... Seunghyun had been there to comfort you. All night. Even though you were strangers. You knew the relationship was hanging by a thread, and you were tipping over to the wrong side.

“Are you okay?!" The workshop door opened with a gust of wind that carried the familiar musk scent, and there he was, standing in his large felt jacket, his chest rising with short, labored breaths. "I got a call from Dong-hyun and an insane idea from his wife - his fiancée - Dalsae?”

Seunghyun stared at your helpless and crumbled figure.

“What’s going on?”

The girls stepped aside. Ju-bin widened her eyes in surprise.

“T.O.P.?”

He flashed her a small smile, always polite.

“Ah, yes,” he replied. “Can we talk after?”

She nodded, stunned. In French, she said something to her friends, and you heard “Star” and “Korea,” and they left the room to get some fresh air. Ju-bin told you they were just going to have a juice across the street and would return as soon as you messaged them.

It was just you and Seunghyun now. Again. He crouched between the fabrics, took your face in his hands, and with eyes filled with concern, he whispered, gently caressing your cheek with his thumb.

“Are you okay? Dong-hyun told me that Soo-yeon is a bit impulsive and that he was worried about the task she gave you, but she refused to disclose it. He managed to convince her by saying it was because... because I’m your boyfriend and that you needed me.”

You stopped crying, sniffled.

“Is that true? You came for me?”

He released your face and pulled you into his arms.

“I’m always here for you.”

Then he pulled away again, grabbing your shoulders.

“So? What’s going on?”

You briefly explained Soo-yeon’s crazy plan and how you also wanted to make dresses for the four bridesmaids.

“Ahh,” he exhaled. “You’re always so energetic. Is there a reason you jumped in so quickly?”

So so understanding. Never blaming you. Always trying to understand you. Through your blurred eyes, you mumbled something.

“Hm? I didn’t hear.”

“Because I never succeed at anything. My sketches were stolen, I fail at everything. And you... you’re always succeeding at everything. I’m ashamed.”

His eyes lit up, and he squeezed your palm without responding.

He was smiling. He had forgotten the night before, and even if what he was doing didn’t seem the most acceptable with a girlfriend, you didn’t care right now. You needed him, you needed your friend first.

“Okay. Let’s go.”

He pulled you to your feet.

“We’re going to make these dresses. You’re going to crush it, okay, Dalsae?”

You nodded timidly. He went to fetch the girls from the café, and you started again. It was approaching two-thirty, and you worked harder, sewing, the girls sewing, not a sound except Seunghyun’s intermittent whistling. Ju-bin stuck close to his heels while maintaining a respectful distance, but she was so excited she worked twice as fast. They cut, followed all your orders, and Seunghyun had a blast with the fabrics and their assembly.

You were happy. Excited, you loved sewing, and felt like an actual seamstress with her workers.

You didn't know how it happened. At one point, you were sewing, and the other, you were sprawled out on the floor laying between the crumpled clothes, snoring, Seunghyun's arm around your shoulder. The girls dozed off on their work tables, seeing you resting, and you only woke up when from the workshop's transparent window rays of sunshine filtered and you heard birds singing. You rose, shook Seunghyun who mumbled in his sleep as he rubbed his eyes.

"Come back," he whined, trying to grab your waist and drag you down.

You resisted, face burning. The girls were sleeping and you did not need them just yet, you let them dream a bit longer. It was approximately five AM.

Naturally, you went back to sewing. You chose simple designs, even though the end result seemed intricate, it was patterns you were used to doing, and it only needed some stitches to put everything together. Your fingers moved quickly, you added the tiny pearls, the bridesmaid's dresses were easy, as the fabric had already a design on itself.

The girls woke up, everyone went back to work quickly, and Seunghyun tried to help as much as he could. At one point, he gave instructions to the girls and grabbed you as you were complaining, dragging you out of the shop. He bought you a juice and a pastry and forced you to eat.

"Thank you," you finally said.

He only smiled. Your heart fluttered. This. Just this smile. You could do with it for the rest of your life.

You went back to the workshop, drew some adjustments, sewed for a few more hours. You were not aware it was humanly possible to sew five full dresses in forty hours, no matter how easy the design was. But within all this exhaustion, you recognised passion. You were happy and felt satisfied.

Thank you Seunghyun for forcing you to enroll in fashion school.

You added some pearls, cut some pieces, sewed the zipper.

Around six-forty, you shouted.

“STOP. DROP EVERYTHING.”

Eyes wide, they dropped everything onto the disordered work tables.

“STOP. We need to try on the dress. We need Soo-yeon. We can’t continue without the exact measurements.”

Seunghyun scratched the back of his head, ran to get your phone, and Ju-bin handed him the paper with Soo-yeon’s number. He dialed.

The phone rang four times. Five. Six.

“The number you’ve dialed is not reachable. Please leave a message after the beep.”

“Shit! Call back.”

You waited nervously, fingers tapping on your worktable, legs crossed on your rolling chair as you rocked back and forth. Seunghyun complied immediately and dialed again. Same result.

“Dong-hyun?”

You bit your nail, but Seunghyun had moved closer to you and held your hand in his free palm, shaking his head, the phone pressed to his ear. It rang.

“Yes?”

A small voice. Frowning, he nodded. The call lasted mere seconds.

“Ah. Shit. Okay, thanks. Yeah, see you.”

He hung up. He looked at you, biting his lower lip, glasses perched on the tip of his nose.

“Soo-yeon is missing. He doesn’t know where she is and suspects she won’t return until the wedding. She’s unreachable.”

Oh no, no, no!

The ultimate failure for a designer is to create a perfect outfit that doesn’t fit the body. Because a garment is just fabric if it isn’t worn. DIANE would notice the slightest slip! The bridesmaids’ dresses had a belt that made them one-size-fits-all, the fabric would wear differently on each one but would fit perfectly on all. But the bride!

“We’re screwed!”

You put your head in your hands, on the verge of breaking down. Seunghyun crouched down, one hand on your shoulder, tapping to calm you.

“We can still...”

“I know.”

One of the girls stepped forward, Valentine, you think, speaking in English.

“Miss Soo-yeon is a bit like you.”

You removed your hands and wiped your tears.

“Like me?”

She nodded. Ju-bin agreed, the other girls stood up too.

“Yes! Almost the same body!”

You lowered your head, looked at your arms, legs, and hips. It was true. She was a few centimeters taller, but your bodies were similar.

“You mean I...”

“Yes! Try on the dress!”

The girls flittered around you. Seunghyun had stood up, arms crossed, but he gave you a half-smile of encouragement. He was the only one that mattered. With his mouth, he silently said "do it."

So, you nodded.

You pulled the girls into the next room, full of mirrors, needles in their mouths. Then you undressed, looked at your reflection in the mirror. Yes, it should work. The girls helped you bend over and thread the needle, it slipped, falling to the floor, caressing your shoulders and curves.

They zipped you up, adjusted the buttons, the bust, and finally, you dared to turn toward the mirror. Without realizing, the elastic in your hair had slipped. The strands cascaded down your shoulders. You called one of the girls.

“Hey Val, pull it over there!”

Valentine pulled, you bit a needle and slipped it to tighten toward your shoulder, did the same at the waist, and finally observed the result. It could work. Should.

“Can I come in?” Seunghyun asked.

“One second!”

You placed the veil on the top of your head, letting it fall over your face, then turned around. The latch clicked. The girls giggled as they slipped into the adjacent room.

Seunghyun froze.

The dress was simple - time constraint - the fabric was the main focus, reminiscent of the skin of a wet swan. Pleated, it flowed into a mermaid tail before breaking into an opening and a pool of white silk. Tiny jewels adorned the bodice, and the dress had no sleeves. Your face was veiled. The bride was supposed to wear gloves too, that you hadn't time to retrieve yet.

He buried his face in his hands.

"Don’t do this to me," he pleaded. His voice trembled, feverish, low. He pressed his back against the door, not daring to look at you again. You moved toward him, avoiding the needles poking your ribs, pushing his hands away as you cradled his face.

"Hyun? What is it?"

He didn’t resist your fingers, his body limp as his arms dropped to your sides. His face burned as he pointed a finger at the veil but didn’t dare touch you.

"If the dress doesn't please DIANE, horses can fly," he murmured.

You chuckled. So close to him, your body pressed against the door, surrendering to his embrace, melting into his arms.

"Oh yeah? And do you like it?" you whispered back, lips mere centimeters from his, separated only by the white fabric.

He nodded silently. Then, delicately, he tilted his head. Your noses brushed, his eyes fixed on your lips, which he caressed with his thumb beneath the forbidden fabric. Tilting his finger to lift it, he whispered,

"That guy from the airport, your French boyfriend, is he okay with us doing this?"

You didn’t fully hear him, leaning in closer, muttering something before realising,

"What guy, what boyfriend? I-"

"HEY! I’m SORRY!"

The door flung open. Soo-yeon was looking for you, the girls emerged from their hiding place, and the workshop filled. Seunghyun watched you, his heart unsteady. Then, he stepped back, his face flushed.

"We’ll meet at the wedding," he declared.

You heard nothing but the frantic beating of your heart.

☽

Soo-yeon was at the hairdresser’s and returned, bouncing with excitement, with the other bridesmaids. You took off the dress, and the young girls helped them get dressed. The bridesmaids twirled in their raspberry pleated dresses, giving the effect of a rose. You made the final adjustments before being dismissed to prepare, receiving two more loud and rosy kisses from Soo-yeon. She was over the moon.

You ran to the hotel, the dress tucked under your arm. You had forty minutes to shower, do your makeup, and get ready, you wanted to be perfect too.

Then, on your bed, you found a paper and a velvet box. Frowning, you plopped onto the mattress and grabbed it, examining the wine-red box that felt soft in your palm.

Heart pounding, you slowly opening it.

Inside was a shell pearl brooch. Mouth agape with surprise, you delicately took it out. It was heavy, you could feel it in your hand. It was real, it matched perfectly with the bridesmaids' dresses' pearls that you had sewed earlier.

You gently placed the brooch back in its compartment, and, fingers shaking, grabbed the small note, eyes scanning over the familiar handwriting.

"Dalsae, the bravest birds are those who fly at night. You carry within you all the rays of the Moon."

If you didn't have a wedding to attend, you might have collapsed right there and here and grinned like a teenager with a crush all night.

☽

Down in the lobby, you found Benoit. He greeted you with open arms, kissed you again. You were tired of kisses that evening.

"Woah, splendid!" he declared. "Very pretty and-"

A shadow made him stop mid-sentence.

"Wooo, airport guy!"

You turned. Your breath hitched. Seunghyun was wearing a black suit, black tie over a white shirt, his hair tousled elegantly. His dimple still left an adorable mark on his cheek, you wanted to bite him.

But he frowned. "We need to go. We can’t be late."

"Yes, I’ll take her!"

Benoit started pulling you, but Seunghyun grabbed your arm.

"No, I’m taking her with me."

Benoit let go of you and gave a surprised glance from him to you, then from you to him. "Well, I don’t know what’s going on, but I have a girlfriend to meet. She's waiting in my car."

"A girlfriend?"

Seunghyun’s eyes suddenly seemed less hard. He even smiled, a smile that stretched from one ear to the other.

"Oh really? Can you drop us off with you?"

What's with the sudden change?

"Ouais, if you want. We’ll have to squeeze," he shrugged. "Come on, let’s go!"

You shot Seunghyun a glare at his rudeness, but he grinned at you, unfazed. You pinched his arm once you were sitting on the cracked leather of Benoit’s car, all crowded together shoulder to shoulder while Benoit cranked up some French rock, singing loudly with his girlfriend.

"Well, what?" he asked.

"Well, nothing?"

You made a face, and he grabbed your wrist as you tried to pinch him again. The two lovebirds ignored you, making out at every red light.

"Well, yes. You’re as red as a tomato."

He smirked. But where did this sudden ease and shyness come from? What a brat! The Seunghyun of your youth was back, teasing and mischievous.

"Eyes on the road," he scolded. "You’re distracting me."

You tapped his shoulder gently, and he laughed. Then, you let yourself melt into your seat as you approached the Arc de Triomphe, where the ceremony would begin. Dong-hyun would have preferred Montparnasse, but you had learned, at your own expense, the impulsiveness of his fiancée.

"The brooch suits you so well," Seunghyun suddenly murmured, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. You shivered, brushed it away with a finger on your lips, but he smiled. "Dalsae."

He was there. Just him and you.

☽

The ceremony began with fireworks. Literally. Soo-yeon wasn’t necessarily rich, but she was a spender. “The last white dress we wear won’t have pockets,” she said, laughing.

In fact, she laughed a lot. All evening.

When Dong-hyun took her hand, he greeted Seunghyun and you, casting you an apologetic glance. He loved you two as a couple, after all, he was one of the reasons it ever worked out.

Later at night, you handed each of the of the teenagers a barrette, sewn at the very end, as a thank you, which they loved.

The bridesmaids were glowing. Passersby whistled, jumped, sang along with you, throwing confetti, and then the group walked toward the Eiffel Tower, where the next part would take place.

Throughout it all, Seunghyun stayed near you, silent. He had given Ju-bin an autograph and even one of his keychains, and she was overflowing with joy.

Soo-yeon was stunning. The most beautiful, a graceful swan with her hair styled in a pink bun. People couldn’t stop praising the dresses. Then, as you neared the Eiffel Tower, you suddenly felt your pulse quicken.

“Hyun…”

He turned to you.

“Hm?”

“The wedding… we’re doing it underneath, aren’t we?”

He looked up. Stared into the your pupils that pulsed with fear.

“Oh.”

Your eyes burned. You felt the tears stinging at the corners of your eyes. “Down there, right?” You pointed under the Eiffel tower. You were hoping that he wouldn't tell you you had to go up.

He took your hand. “Do you remember the Ferris wheel?”

You nodded, sniffling.

“Yeah… but…”

The first guests boarded the elevator - Dong-hyun, his wife, and then the rest of the guests gradually. There were some famous faces, but DIANE was still nowhere to be seen.

Seunghyun took your hand, briefly stepped away from the crowd, and you found yourselves in a secluded, dim alley. A stray cat ran away.

“Do you remember what I told you?”

You nodded.

“The bravest birds are the ones who fly at night. And you…” He kissed the edge of your fingers. “You are my moon bird. You can do anything”

Feverish, you shook your head, your hair suddenly cold against your shoulders, tears falling.

“Stop that! When you do this, I feel like we could try again!” you cried.

He let go of you for a moment, surprised. “But I-”

“No! Stop!”

You pushed him away and ran out of the alley. “You are bad! How dare you do that to your girlfriend?!”

You exited the alley, and he chased after you, grabbing your wrist, but you pulled away.

“Let go of me! You can’t do this to me! All these years I…”

Unconsciously, you followed him. He walked backward, and you entered the elevator without realising. Your shoulder hit the glass, and the doors closed, but you were alone, and your ears were ringing. You released all your anger.

“I can’t take it anymore!” you cried again. “I never wanted to leave you! Damn it, I loved you so much…”

He said nothing, just watched you with a calm face, slightly tilted as if to better listen, thoughtful.

“All those years away from you, it was torture,” you sobbed. “Every night, I thought you were there. That you’d come back. That it wasn’t really over.”

You wiped your eyes with your wrist.

“We never really left each other, did we?”

Your teary eyes lifted to meet his. He bit his lower lip, looked at you with all the words stuck in his throat. Taking one step toward you, he gazed at you in a way that made your heart flutter like it never had before. Under his eyelashes, his eyes shone like a constellation.

He lifted a hand, caressing your face with his index. And he leaned in, stopping just before your lips touched.

“There was never anyone else but you.”

You dropped your handbag to the floor and wrapped your arms in one swift movement around his neck. Finally.

You were so dizzy. The distance was infinite.

No more distance. Only the truth. You crashed your lips together. Seven years without feeling that escape.

He tightened his grip around your waist, his hand moving over your hips, the back of your head, your hair, just like on that Ferris wheel and that very first kiss of an intoxicating first love.

He didn’t pull away, breathless, until you felt the cool air on your bare shoulders and the sound of a door opening.

You had reached the top.

Seunghyun was there.

And you felt relaxed.

Seunghyun's lips stretched into a proud grin as he squeezed your hand. You blushed furiously. That was his plan all along?

The terrace was cold. Seunghyun removed his jacket and draped it over your shoulders, then kissed your hair. Hand in hand, you walked toward your group of friends. You recognized a few old classmates, chatted, and avoided looking near the barriers, but you felt content. Benoit chuckled when he found out Seunghyun had thought you were his girlfriend.

“No thanks, I like mine too much.”

He kissed her passionately. The terrace was decorated with white petals and arches. Benoit went on stage, and a troupe arrived, setting up a piano, and light music filled the air.

A slow song.

Seunghyun extended his hand. He invited you to dance.

His arm wrapped around your waist, your hands around his neck, trembling, you were eighteen again and the boy whose hand you dreamed of holding made you swirl in your room.

You melted into his arms, and together, you began to move to the intoxicating rhythm of the instruments. The air became pleasant. Seunghyun smelled good. The house. Your life, your youth, growing up. You wanted a life with this man.

He let you rest against his chest where his heart beat. Years ago, when, even though you two were official, you came home to red balloons and him in a suit holding a bouquet of red roses for your two-years anniversary. Your parents were smiling proudly, they loved him like a son. You had run to him, hurling yourself into his arms while your heart was threatening to break through your chest.

And when he invited you to your first dance in the living room, interlacing your fingers, whispering in your ear how beautiful you were. How familiar he smelled.

How you had told yourself that this was home.

Home was here. It had always been.

You pulled away slightly, watched him, chin resting on his chest. He looked down too, smiling softly, before leaning in and pressing a lingering kiss to your lips.

You could do with that, this as your home for the rest of your life.

The music stopped, you still hadn't time to separate, when a hand tapped your shoulder.

Looking behind you, fingers still in Seunghyun's hand, you saw a woman with a slicked bun.

"I was told you created... these pieces?"

The woman pointed with her long, manicured fingers at the dresses, all of them your creations. Soo-yeon watched you from afar, giving you a friendly wave and a wink. You blushed.

"I... Yes?"

The woman smiled slyly.

"It’s awful."

You froze, and Seunghyun shot her a dark look, starting to pull you away, but a small laugh, reminiscent of a cat's purr, cut through the air.

"Awful that we didn’t meet sooner!"

Your eyes widened.

"I am DIANE."

She was there, her face stern yet not too wrinkled, eyes like a lynx’s, lips tight. She extended a hand toward you.

"I’m looking for apprentices. Here, in Paris."

Seunghyun’s hand never left yours, tightening around it, encouraging you to listen.

"I’ve been told you’re quick and efficient, but I don’t take that on faith. I’m offering you a trial period. We’ll cover twenty percent of your rent and give you a salary. If it works out, I’ll keep you for a year, and after we’ve created a collection together, you’ll fly on your own."

Was it a dream? Seunghyun's fingers squeezed yours. Oh.

"Can I... think about it?"

DIANE wrinkled her nose but gave a small sigh, extending her hand.

"Fine. I’ll give you my number."

You took your phone from your small bag, opened the phone app. She sighed when you took too long, but finally, she entered her digits and handed it to you, making it ring. Then, she smirked confidently.

"See you soon."

As soon as she walked away, Seunghyun twirled you in the air. But when he let you go, you bit your lower lip.

"What’s wrong? You should be jumping for joy!"

You burst into tears again, wrapping yourself in his arms.

"I don’t want to leave! I want to be with you! But I also want to try!"

He remained thoughtful for a moment, then took your hand and played with each of your fingers for a while before letting your hand fall. "We had problems," he repeated. "With the group. Big Bang."

You tilted your head. "And?"

His gaze darkened. "It’s probably the end."

You held him tight, worried. "Really? And so what?" you asked, your voice trembling against his chest.

He pulled back slightly to see your face, placed a quick kiss on your forehead. "We can try. A year."

You took a moment to understand. A what? A year of-

"You mean-"

He nodded. "I need a long vacation, time to rebuild myself before rapping again. And you need this opportunity. So, maybe..."

You let go of everything you were holding, crashed your lips to his, pulled back feverishly, then kissed him again.

"Yes!" You exclaimed. "A thousand times yes! I’m so happy, I..."

You looked at him tenderly, and he too leaned in. The world felt gentle.

"I love you," you whispered. "I love you so so so so much, Seunghyun. I’ve always loved you."

He smiled and kissed you again.

"Me too. I love you," he caught your hand, palm to the sky, and closed each fingers one by one, starting with the thumb, "a little", then your index finger, "a lot", then your middle finger, "passionately", then your ring finger, "madly". Then your pinky.

You pouted. "Hey, the last one is 'not at all'!"

He laughed, kissed you. "No, the last one, it’s both of us, forever. Madly, passionately."

The moon shone high.

"Because you are my Moonbird. A fragment of happiness."

His lips found yours again.

"Forever."

You smiled.

Yeah. This was home. You could do with that.

if you read until there hiii ily! please lmk what you think <3 I hope you have enjoyed it! (it's very much a rom-com atp😭)

also my divider doesn't exist rendered. pain

tag list: @ldydeath @infinetlyforgotten @loveesiren @sevendaysummer @gdinthehouseee @eru-vande @bluesunss @emmiesoverthemoon @petersasteria @currentloser @makeitworse @berfgrimm @sherxoo @aizshallnotbefound @keiraryan

[rhyrhy]

Vital signs ـــــــــﮩ٨ـ

Greys anatomy AU! Doctor- Abby Anderson

Mlist | moodboards | prelude (you are here)|

Prelude: Welcome to Utah 🩺

⚕️ summary: At St. Mary’s Hospital, the rules are simple. Saving lives, avoiding attachment, and never going overboard. However, staying within those boundaries is becoming increasingly difficult under the constant gaze of the head of cardio.

Move to Utah, complete your internship, simple enough. This was your plan for the next seven years, as long as that sounded. It’s what you went to med school for. With a turned tassel and optimism fresh on the brain.

Even your first night was full of being in the arms of a beautiful stranger. You felt bad for not remembering her name, but she probably didn’t remember yours either. Hopefully anyway.

The annoying blare of your new alarm clock let the light from your eyelids pour in. You sat up, pushing hair out of your face, still reminded of last night when you were still sleeping peacefully. Her warm hand on your bare thigh.

You gently lifted her hand delicately and placed it back on the sheets. You scanned over her peaceful form. Face buried into the plush pillow, dirty blonde hair draped down her back as her chest rose and fell. 

It was a complete contrast to last night, with the small blurbs you could remember anyway.

Going out with a childhood friend who helped you move before they returned to your hometown. Home was far behind you now. The fresh air, new faces, and even a wardrobe change.

This was ‘home’ now.

A constant of side glances and winks in the fumes of liquor and neon lights led your slightly inebriated bodies closer together as the night dragged. A whispered question had your fingers laced with hers, disappearing into your new bedroom and closing it with an eager click. The ecstasy of her body tangled with yours was one to remember, blurred, albeit.

The soft thud of your feet hitting your freshly mopped floors echoed out into the mostly empty room. Button ups and bralettes tossed around the wood. Glancing back at the red numbers lettered against the black screen of your alarm, reminding you that today was it. Your first day at St. Mary, known for their cardio teachings. You were going to thrive, you told yourself. This was everything you’d worked for, and absolutely nothing was going to throw you off of your game.

Not even the blonde's gentle grip on your arm as you tried to lift yourself from the edge of the bed. Mumbling something that could have Been a good morning greeting, but you didn’t have time to do the whole ‘morning after’ act.

“Mmm… you sneaking off?,” a groggy voice mumbled.

“Good morning…” Jesus, what was her name? Never mind, just play it off. “I gotta go, big day…like life-changing ‘big’”

Her grip loosened as her hand dropped back to the sheets, which definitely needed to be cleansed before you even thought about sliding back in. The blonde hummed in reply before clearing her throat with a soft rumble.

“Oh yeah? What’s that?”

You guys must not have gotten to work last night; you didn’t have time to explain fully. So, a vague explanation will have to suffice for now. It was the rest of your life, the clack of Ortho cushioned shoes and whatever would keep you awake in the dead of the morning. Though you did wonder what she did for work, even with her disheveled appearance at the moment, she was very ‘put together’ from what you could pull from your previous rendezvous.

You gathered the clothes thrown to nowhere and placed her in the bed next to her stirring figure. The blankets pooled at her waist, dragging down her half-exposed torso before she continued.

“Because…. I thought the first day of the rest of your life was last night.”

You snapped your head back to her lazily getting dressed. She finally cracks that smile that had in-traced you last night, amused at your reaction. The white bone complimented by the pink of her gums.

“You’re awfully chatty for someone who was unconscious five seconds ago.” You replied.

“And you’re awfully dressed for someone who really, really wanted my shirt off last night.” She teased, pulling up the fabric of her jeans.

Yeah, that…tracks. You huff, holding back a smile. You pin the last few buttons of your blouse together and turn back to her before leaving the room.

“Oh, come on. We were, what—three tequila shots deep? Four?” You scoffed, this was just causal fun.

The woman laughed and rolled her eyes. Picking up her phone off the large box labeled ‘clothes’ in black sharpie, that was a makeshift bedside table for the time being. A loud sigh fell before she looked back up at you, running a hand through her messy hair.

“Sure you don’t have time for a round two? Or at least coffee?” 

You froze briefly, debating. It was tempting—too tempting. But the red numbers on your alarm clock screamed at you. 

“I really can’t..., but you enjoy your morning.”

“Alright, alright, I’m backing off. I had fun though.” She put her hands up in mock surrender. 

You chuckled, grabbing your bag and heading for the door. Just as you reached it, you glanced back, taking one last look at her—sleep-mussed hair, golden skin against your sheets, a satisfied glint in her eye. Turning on your heels, keys crashing against each other as you padded down the porch steps.

The engine of the car ceased, as you pulled your keys out with a small twist. There it is, large windows, people pouring in and out. You were looking at the next seven years of your life in brick form. You took a few deep breaths and cracked the car door wide. Let’s do this, you repeated to yourself mentally. 

the cold air hit your arms as you pulled the blue scrub top on. The room boomed with lockers open, chatter, and slight anxious glances as everyone sized up one another.

These folks, other surgical interns, weren’t friends; they were competition. most anyway. You were stuffing your bag into the locker when movement to your right caught your eye. 

There was one familiar face in the sea of blue fabrics. 

Jesse.

He was mid-conversation with another intern when his gaze flicked over, landing on you. There was a pause, a brief second of recognition, before a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Hey.”

You mirrored his smile. “Hey again.”

A short beat. You both glanced around at the chaos unfolding—people nervously checking their watches, adjusting their scrubs, some looking like they might throw up right there in their shoes.

Jesse let out a small breath, shaking his head covered in jet black strands.

“Still think this was a good idea?”

You exhaled sharply, closing your locker with a metallic clang. “Hmm, ask me in…12 hours.”

He chuckled, nodding. “Fair enough.”

Before either of you could say anything else, the locker room door swung open, and a voice called out—“Interns! Williams, Woodward!” Followed by your own last name, then surprising Jesse’s. You felt a flicker of relief to have the same resident. Even if you were with “General Marlene,” you weren’t sure if that name was supposed to intimidate you, but as you shuffled behind the small group, you started to feel it just a bit.

“That’s the … ‘general’?” Jesse jokingly asked you to confirm you guys were heading in the right direction. 

“She sure looks like one,” an auburn-haired woman with emerald eyes to your left remarks.

You came to find that she definitely was. As her voice was stern and loud.

“I have five rules. Memorize them.”Marlene crossed her arms as she scanned the group of fresh-faced interns in front of her. The room had gone dead silent the second she stepped in.

“Rule number one: Don’t suck up. I already don’t like you, and that’s not going to change anytime soon. Trauma protocols, supply lists, pagers—you’ll get all of it. You figure it out, or you get out.”

She took a slow step forward, eyes narrowing.

“Rule number two: You eat when I say, you sleep when I say, and you do not whine about it. If I see one of you yawning while you’re holding a scalpel, I’ll personally kick you out of my OR.”

She pointed at the group huddled together.

“Rule number three: This hospital does not tolerate mistakes. You mess up, people die. You hesitate; people die. You’re slow; people die. And when they do, you don’t get to cry about it. You learn from it, and you move on.”

A few interns shifted uncomfortably, but no one dared speak. You weren’t sure if you should be writing her monologue down or not, seeing how the others stood up a little straighter at her tone. She definitely introduced herself to the fellow interns with a no-nonsense attitude. You had no choice but to respect it in a way. She’d clearly been here awhile, her stomping grounds. You almost felt like a guest on the tiled flooring between your feet.

You and Jesse exchanged looks for a brief moment like you were telepathically telling each other to buckle up. Taking a deep breath, you braced yourself for the long hours ahead of your first shift. You just prayed you wouldn’t be crawling out the automatic doors and still in one piece. 

You’ve got a more complicated, putting it nicely, patient assigned , a teenage girl complaining of constant side stomach pains.

You did your best to gather information on the clipboard, giving you a run over her charts asking about different symptoms, but she seemed to be a little more snooty than anticipated.

Once her parents came pouring into the room, asking you questions you weren’t sure of the answers to, you scrambled to find Marlene leaning over the front desk talking to the nurse. Her black coils tucked into a head and bun. Glancing down at her nametag, ‘Abel,’ ,huh? You weren’t sure if you even needed to know names yet since you were still basically on trial. Two interns still had to leave so the rest could go through, and you weren’t looking forward to being one of them.

Once Marlene caught sight of you sitting, she came over with curiosity in her gaze as to why you weren’t still busying yourself. 

The explanation was quickly cut off as Marlene told you where to go to find the doctor who could help assist you on your case.

“Yeah, Dr. Jackson is off the case; your patient belongs to the new attending. Dr. Anderson. She’s over there,” she shushes your rambling. as she makes her way back down the hallway, giving you a brief point, leaving you to figure it out for yourself. 

You watch her figure disappear and slowly turn back around to the sea of bodies in the room. Scanning over name tags to find the resident she was referring to.

Only to feel your shoulders tense when you see something that makes you blink a few times. That same sleepy figure that was in your bed seven hours ago. It’s now wearing the same name tag you were directed to look for.

You blink.

You stare again.

But no matter how many times you do it, she’s is still standing there. Not tangled in your sheets, not half-asleep in your bed, but here, in a white coat with a name tag that makes your stomach drop.

Dr. Anderson.

Her eyes flick to yours, and for a brief moment, there’s a flash of recognition. Then—amusement. Like she can’t quite believe it either. She barely gets a word out before you grab her wrist, dragging her into the nearest supply closet.

“Okay,” you sighed, shutting the door behind you. “We cannot do this.”

Abby leans against the counter, arms crossed, that damn smirk still plastered on her face. “Do…what?”

“You. Me. This.” You gesture between you two. “We have to pretend it didn’t happen.”

She lifts an eyebrow. “What, that you slept with me last night or…you ran out of your own house on me this morning?—“

You shush her of embarrassment, reading over her tag name like it would magically change. Nope, still Dr. Abigail Anderson. This just couldn’t get any better.

“You—you didn’t tell me you worked here,” you accuse, arms crossing over your chest.

Abby shrugs, still looking far too amused by all of this. “You didn’t ask.”

You open your mouth but then quickly shut it, heat rising to your cheeks. Unfortunately, she has a point. You guys didn’t talk about it at all.

“Well,” you huff, straightening your shoulders, “we weren’t exactly doing much talking—regardless. Katie, room 107, her parents need you. So can you just” You sighed deeply, collecting yourself and pointing to the door you’d pulled her through.

Abby rolls her eyes, pushing past you and slipping out the door like this is all some inside joke.

And just like that, she’s gone. You took a long needed breath. This was the last thing you needed. You left home for a fresh start, not whatever the hell this was going to be. Pushing out the swinging door a stormy cloud swirling with emotion, hung above you.

Later that night…

You and Jesse find yourselves slumped against a random door in the locker room, scrubs stained, bodies aching, brains mushed to nothing. You weren’t sure how you kept bumping into each other but you didn’t mind the company. Your head tilts back against the cool wall as you exhale.

 “So this is my life now? Tired, sore, and running around in constant …panic?” You asked out loud, to the universe honestly.

Jesse, equally exhausted, pats your shoulder with mock sympathy. “Yep, welcome to Utah.”

The two of you sit there in exhausted silence as the hospital hums around you.

What a’ warm welcome’, sigh.

[leejenowrld]

‘love me back?’ — six

pairing — mark lee x reader

word count — 35.5k 

genre — angst, smut, fluff, strangers to lovers, forbidden love

synopsis — you and mark aren’t together anymore, but somehow you’ve grown closer than ever. every moment you share feels more intimate, blurring the line between friendship and love. but secrets, old wounds, and buried pain threaten to tear you apart again. campus tension, a difficult practice, and an eventful party only add to the strain. now, you’re left wondering if closeness is enough to mend what’s been shattered.

chapter contents/warnings — college au, small town vibes, 2000s teen show vibes, this fic is heavily based on one tree, explicit language, explicit sexual content, phone sex, sexting, explicit themes, lots of pent up frustration and tension, really angsty chapter (get tissues), y/n bit of a girlboss in this i fear, mark and y/n have difficult conversations, he’s very needy and messy in this, mark this chapter will make you realize all guys are the same and only want pussy😭, for once y/n is emotional support queen, emotional outbursts from mark, mark is quite cold and distant this chapter at times, horny mark, mark who tries to use sex as a distraction and escape tut tut, in general mark will give you whiplash this chapter, i delve into a side of him that you haven’t seen before, yn finally not taking people’s shit for once!, karina is hot as always, karina and jeno… yeah, y/n and jeno are shippable in this i fear, don’t take them seriously, they’re just besties who don’t know how to stop flirting!, but in all seriousness, jeno is 🥺 the best fucking brother and friend ever, college party scene ofc, mentions of pills, drug dealing, stay safe !!

authors note — the finale is 80k words. i’ve decided to split it into two parts. it’s all written but i’m uploading this now and part 7 next week. the finale is connected, meaning part 7 takes place exactly where part 6 ends… enjoy, this is gonna be one hell of a ride.  

[fic ml]

ONE | TWO | THREE | FOUR | FIVE | SIX | SEVEN

The apartment feels unnaturally still, like it’s holding its breath alongside you. The faint hum of the city outside, usually a comfort, feels distant tonight, muffled by the thick tension hanging in the air. Even the soft glow of the string lights draped over the windows seems dimmer, their warm hue failing to chase away the shadows clinging to the corners of the room. You sink into the couch, the plush cushions swallowing your frame as if they could somehow shield you from the weight pressing on your chest. 

The faint scent of vanilla—Karina’s favorite candle—lingers in the air, too soothing for a night like this. Across from you, Karina sits perched in the armchair, her legs tucked beneath her like a cat settling in for the long haul. She doesn’t say a word, but her watchful eyes, softened by concern, flicker to your face, scanning it like she’s searching for a crack in the silence. Her fingers absently play with the hem of her oversized sweater. Her face is unreadable at first, but her furrowed brows and the way she bites her lip betray her concern. She doesn’t rush you, doesn’t push, just waits in the silence that feels like it could swallow you both whole.

Finally, you let the words fall, heavy and raw. Her eyes widen slightly as she leans forward, sensing the shift before you even finish speaking. When you tell her everything, she’s silent at first. Completely still. You can almost hear her mind racing as she processes it all, her gaze flickering between sympathy and disbelief.

“So… it’s over?” Her voice is tentative, the words breaking the silence like a stone dropped in still water.

You hesitate, your throat tightening as the memories of last night replay in your mind—You tell her everything—how the argument had been the breaking point, how the two of you had finally laid everything bare, resolved what you could, communicated in a way that you hadn’t in weeks. But even with the air cleared, the weight of it all had remained, and you’d come to a mutual understanding that, for now, you had to let go. The words still feel foreign on your tongue, too final and jagged to fully accept but you force yourself. “Yeah,” you manage, your voice barely a whisper. “We broke up.”

Karina’s face shifts immediately, her lips pressing into a thin line as she takes it in. There’s no hesitation in her reaction. In a heartbeat, she’s up and crossing the small space between you. She sits beside you on the couch, her warmth engulfing you as her arms wrap around you tightly. It’s not a gentle embrace—it’s firm, grounding, as if she’s trying to hold you together while you unravel. “Oh, babe,” she murmurs, her voice thick with empathy. “I’m so sorry. I know how much he means to you.”

Her words hit you like a dagger, and your already wobbly composure crumbles further. Your throat tightens, your chest feels heavy, and Karina’s embrace, meant to ground you, suddenly feels too much—too close. You squirm, shifting uncomfortably in her arms, desperate for a sliver of space to breathe. She notices immediately, her head tilting as if to ask, Really? But instead of loosening her hold, she only pulls you closer, squeezing tighter.

“Oh no,” she says dramatically, her voice dripping with exaggerated sympathy. “You’re not getting away from me that easily. I’m your emotional support bestie, and you will accept this hug whether you like it or not.”

“Karina, stop,” you groan, trying and failing to push her away as she holds on for dear life, resting her chin on your shoulder. “I can’t breathe.”

“You don’t need to breathe. You need to feel the love,” she says, completely unbothered, patting your back with mock seriousness.

You huff, but a reluctant smile tugs at your lips, and Karina seems to sense the crack in your armor. She finally lets go, brushing a strand of hair out of your face with deliberate gentleness. Her teasing melts into something softer as she studies you, but the twitch of her lips hints at trouble.

She tilts her head, her eyes narrowing with a familiar glint. “You’re doing what’s best for you both right now,” she says carefully, her tone sincere, but her smirk betrays her. “But if I know you—and him—this isn’t over. Not for real.”

You glare at her, though it’s half-hearted. “Don’t,” you warn, but she only raises an eyebrow, looking entirely too pleased with herself.

“What?” she says innocently, leaning back into the armchair, her grin widening. “I’m just saying, you two are like… inevitable. A little break isn’t going to change that.”

Before you can retort, your phone buzzes on the armrest, cutting through the tension. Karina’s grin only deepens as she wiggles her eyebrows at you, clearly enjoying herself. “And that, my friend, is called perfect timing.”

You grab it instinctively, expecting anything but the name that flashes on the screen.

mark — y/n, are you awake? mark — i need u mark — y/n.  mark — five missed calls.

Your heart stutters as the notifications glare back at you, each one a tug on the fragile strings holding you together. The urgency in his words is unmistakable, a magnet pulling your thoughts entirely to him. Your chest tightens as your thumb hovers over his name, your breath catching in anticipation.

“Karina,” you murmur, your voice almost trembling as you break the silence. “He’s—he’s texting me.”

Karina leans forward, her eyes narrowing as she takes in the messages on your screen. Her expression softens, concern flickering in her gaze, but it’s soon overshadowed by something else—a mischievous glint you don’t trust. “What does he mean, ‘I need you’?” she asks, her tone caught somewhere between genuine worry and playful curiosity. Before you can answer, her gaze flicks toward the door, and a sly smile tugs at her lips. “Actually,” she says, her voice lilting with amusement, “I know exactly what he means.”

You let out a frustrated sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Karina, now is not the time for this,” you say sharply, though your voice wavers under the growing weight of the moment.

She shrugs, entirely unbothered. “I’m just saying,” she replies breezily, leaning back against the armchair as if she’s already won this round. But before you can fire back, a sharp knock echoes through the apartment.

Your heart leaps to your throat, and your head snaps toward the door. “No way,” you whisper, your voice barely audible. Your eyes dart to Karina, who looks far too smug for your liking.

“Oh, way,” she says, practically bouncing up from her spot on the couch. “And you’re welcome,” she adds, her tone dripping with self-satisfaction as she strides toward the door with all the confidence of someone about to deliver the punchline of a joke they’ve been sitting on for hours.

“Karina, don’t—” But it’s too late. She swings the door open in one fluid motion, stepping aside dramatically as if presenting the answer to all your questions.

Mark stands there, disheveled and strikingly vulnerable, the faint glow from the hallway light catching on his features and casting soft shadows across his face. His hoodie is slightly wrinkled, the fabric clinging to him in places as if it had been tugged and twisted during his anxious movements. His joggers hang low on his hips, the waistband slightly skewed, like he hadn’t bothered to fix them in his rush to get here. His hair is a wild mess, strands sticking up in every direction, as if he’d been running his hands through it all night. And his eyes—those familiar, piercing eyes—are a storm of exhaustion and unspoken desperation. They meet yours instantly, and your chest tightens at the sight of him.

“Mark,” you whisper, his name falling from your lips so softly it’s barely audible, like a prayer you didn’t even realize you were saying. The breath catches in your lungs, and for a moment, you don’t move, the sheer presence of him freezing you in place.

His hand rakes through his hair again, the motion rough and frustrated. “I need you,” he says again, his voice low but steady, the weight of those three words heavy with meaning. He doesn’t blink, doesn’t falter, his gaze locked onto yours as though he’s afraid you might disappear if he looks away.

You take a small step back, your hand still resting on Mark’s forearm as the question tumbles out, unbidden. “Did you finally tell—” Your voice cuts off mid-sentence as the weight of his gaze shifts, his eyes flickering briefly to the side. You follow his line of sight and immediately catch Karina, still perched on the bottom step of the staircase, her head tilted with blatant curiosity. Her chin rests on her hand, her eyebrows raised as though she’s watching the climax of a particularly juicy movie.

Mark’s jaw tightens slightly, and you can feel the tension radiating from him. It’s enough to make your stomach twist. The memory of his earlier plea echoes in your mind: Don’t tell anyone—not until I’m ready.

Karina notices the shared glance between you and Mark and suddenly seems to realize she’s been caught. She sits up straighter, blinking innocently. “What?” she says, her voice far too casual, but her wide eyes betray her interest. “I’m just… here for moral support.”

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Karina,” you murmur, a quiet exasperation lacing your tone. Mark doesn’t say a word, but the sharpness in his eyes speaks volumes.

She groans, throwing her hands up as she rises to her feet. “Fine, fine,” she mutters, clearly unimpressed with being dismissed. She starts toward the stairs with a dramatic sigh. Her door clicks shut, and the apartment falls into a heavy silence once more. Mark’s shoulders relax, but only slightly, his hand brushing against yours again. You feel the weight of his gaze pull you back to the moment, his expression unreadable but filled with something vulnerable, something raw.

You exhale, finally looking back at him. “Mark…” You step forward instinctively, your movements slow, almost tentative. Your bare feet pad softly against the hardwood floor as you close the distance, and the moment you’re close enough, your hand reaches out before you can stop it. Your fingers brush against the sleeve of his hoodie, and the contact feels electric, grounding, like touching something you’ve missed for far too long.

“Come inside,” you murmur, your voice softer now, almost pleading. You tug lightly at his arm, your grip firm but gentle, and he lets you pull him over the threshold, his body following yours as if he’s been waiting for this, for you, all night. The door clicks shut behind him, but you don’t let go of his arm. Instead, you pull him deeper into the apartment, leading him into the warm light of the living room.

Your hands shift, one sliding down to his wrist while the other lingers on his forearm. His skin feels warm beneath the fabric of his hoodie, and your thumb grazes the edge of it absentmindedly, as if trying to ground yourself in the reality of him standing here, in front of you. You don’t know if you’re holding him or if he’s anchoring you—it feels like both.

When you stop, he’s standing so close that you can feel the heat radiating off him, the faint scent of his cologne mixing with something distinctly him—something familiar and comforting. Your eyes roam over him, taking in every detail: the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw tightens as he looks at you, the slight redness in his eyes, as if he hasn’t slept. You reach up without thinking, your hand brushing against the side of his face, your fingers lingering just below his jaw. His stubble feels rough against your skin, and the contact makes your stomach flip.

“Talk to me,” you whisper again, his name trembling on your lips. This time, it’s not a question or a greeting—it’s an acknowledgment. A reminder that he’s here, and so are you. The intimacy of the moment feels overwhelming, as if the weight of everything unsaid hangs in the air between you.

His eyes soften for a fleeting moment, just enough for you to catch the vulnerability behind the storm raging in his expression. Slowly, his hand rises to cover yours, his palm warm and steady against your knuckles. The contact feels grounding, like he’s anchoring himself to you, and when he leans into your touch—just slightly—you can feel the tension in his body begin to ease. His exhale is shaky, like he’s finally releasing a breath he’s been holding for hours, and it pulls at something deep in your chest.

“I couldn’t stay away,” he admits, his voice low and raw, the words heavy with meaning. It feels like a confession, like he’s laying a piece of himself bare for you. “I tried, but I just—” His voice falters, cracks under the weight of his emotions, and he looks down, his grip on your hand tightening as if afraid you might pull away. “I need you, Y/N. I don’t know how else to say it.”

The sincerity in his voice sends a wave of emotion crashing over you. For a moment, all you can do is stare at him, your throat tightening as his words settle deep in your chest. Slowly, your thumb brushes along his jawline, your touch gentle against his tension. “I’m here,” you whisper softly, and somehow those two words feel like a promise—one you’re both desperately trying to hold onto in the chaos of everything.

But the moment doesn’t last. Reality crashes back in like a cold wave as your thoughts shift. “Did you tell Coach?” you ask abruptly, your tone sharper than intended as your hand falls away.

Mark’s jaw tightens, the muscle feathering as he fights to hold back whatever storm is brewing inside him. His gaze drops to the floor, his shoulders stiff with tension, as though the weight of your words has settled squarely on them. The silence between you feels heavy, stretching for a moment too long, and yet the guilt etched across his face tells you everything before he even opens his mouth. It’s in the way his brows knit together, in the way his fingers curl into loose fists at his sides, as if he’s grappling with something he can’t quite articulate. When he finally exhales, the sound is low and strained, carrying with it an apology he hasn’t yet spoken but that you can already feel in your chest.

“Mark,” you press, your voice rising with worry and frustration. “Are you serious?”

He doesn’t respond right away, his head bowing further as he takes a hesitant step closer. His eyes, filled with a mixture of guilt and pleading, meet yours. “Y/N, I—”

“No,” you cut him off, taking a step back. Your voice cracks under the weight of your emotions, but the edge of frustration sharpens it. “Your health is not a game, Mark. This isn’t something you can keep putting off like it’s not a big deal. Do you know how scared I am for you? How helpless I feel every time I think about what could happen to you?”

His shoulders sag under your words, his hand rubbing the back of his neck in a gesture of frustration. “I know, okay? I know,” he says, his voice strained. “That’s why I’m here.”

“You’re here,” you repeat, crossing your arms over your chest as you glare at him. “But you still haven’t told Coach, have you?”

“Y/N.” His voice is soft but carries an urgency that demands your attention. He takes a tentative step toward you, his gaze searching yours for an opening, for understanding.

“Mark,” you interrupt, your tone sharp, though your heart clenches at the look on his face. “If you don’t tell Coach, then I will. I mean it.” Your voice wavers slightly, but the resolve in your words is clear. You’re not letting this go, not when his health is on the line.

He sighs, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. “That’s what my best friend keeps telling me,” he says, almost like he’s admitting defeat.

Your brows furrow, confusion cutting through your frustration. “She knows?”

Mark nods slowly, his jaw tightening. “Yeah. She's known for a while. She found my medication… or, well, the full packets of them. She put two and two together and realized I haven’t told Coach, and that I haven’t been taking any of it. Even though I’m supposed to.” His voice drops, laced with guilt, and you can see the weight of his own choices pressing down on him.

“Mark,” you murmur, the sharpness in your tone softening. You step closer, your hand reaching out instinctively to touch his arm. “Do you even realize how much this scares me? I can’t—I can’t stand the thought of something happening to you. You mean too much to me.” Your voice cracks slightly, and you press your lips together, trying to steady yourself. “I don’t care how strong you think you are, or how much you want to push through this on your own. You can’t. You need help, and I can’t just sit here and watch you ignore this.”

He looks at you, his eyes filled with something raw and unspoken. His hand brushes over yours, his thumb running across your knuckles like he’s grounding himself. “That’s why I came here to you,” he says, his voice low and steady, though there’s an unmistakable vulnerability in it.

Your chest tightens, your voice soft but firm as you respond. “Mark, this isn’t just about me being here for you. It’s about you taking this seriously. You can’t keep putting this off, thinking it’ll just go away.”

His head snaps up at that, his eyes wide and searching your face. “Y/N, don’t,” he pleads, taking another step closer. “I promise I’ll do it. I came here to tell you that I’ve made up my mind. I just… I need you with me. I can’t do it alone.”

The weight of his words settles heavily in your chest. You know how hard this is for him, how deeply he struggles with the idea of vulnerability, but that doesn’t make the fear you feel for him any less intense. “I’ll be there,” you say softly, your tone steady but firm. “Coach needs to know, Mark. And so do your parents, your doctor—people who can help you. This is your health, and it’s too important to keep brushing aside.”

“And I will tell him,” he promises, his voice soft but filled with determination. “I swear to you, Y/N. I’ll do it. Just… be there with me.”

You nod, a sense of relief mixing with the overwhelming love you feel for him. “I’m proud of you,” you whisper, your voice breaking slightly. “But I’ll be prouder when you actually do it.”

His hand moves to cover yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in slow, deliberate strokes. His touch is steady, grounding, but there’s a nervous energy in the way his fingers linger, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he lets go. His gaze locks onto yours, unwavering, raw. “You’re the reason I’m doing this,” he murmurs, the words almost trembling on his lips, yet spoken with certainty. “You make me want to be better… to take care of myself.”

Your chest tightens as his words sink in, the weight of his sincerity nearly overwhelming you. You lift your free hand to his face, letting your palm cradle his jaw as your thumb traces the faint stubble along his cheek. His eyes flutter closed for a moment, leaning into your touch as though he’s been starved for it. The vulnerability etched across his face makes your heart ache in ways you can’t put into words.

“You’ve got to take care of your heart, Mark,” you say softly, your voice trembling as you press your hand just a little firmer against his chest. “Your heart… it’s what makes you, you. It’s why you care so deeply, why you give so much of yourself, why—” Your voice catches, your words faltering under the weight of your emotions. Your eyes lock onto his, and you feel the sharp ache of vulnerability settle deep in your chest. “I can’t stand the thought of it failing you. Not physically, not in any way. I can’t lose that part of you. I just… I can’t.”

Mark’s lips twitch, a faint smirk playing at the corners as he tilts his head, the teasing glint in his eyes softening the heaviness of the moment. “You’re getting awfully poetic on me,” he murmurs, his voice low but laced with warmth. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, his touch grounding. “Didn’t know you thought about my heart this much.”

The shift in Mark is so sudden it feels like emotional whiplash, but you don’t flinch. You know him too well for that—know how he clings to humor when reality cuts too deep. The teasing edge in his voice, the way his lips twitch with that familiar smirk—It’s his shield, his way of reclaiming control when everything else spirals beyond his grasp. You’ve seen this before, and you’re ready for it, prepared for him to use you as his distraction. It doesn’t surprise you when his thub brushes over your knuckles with a deliberate slowness, his gaze darkening with something playful, something just shy of dangerous. It’s a dance you’ve learned by heart—the way he turns vulnerability into teasing, the way his sarcasm softens the cracks he won’t let you see fully. And even as his smirk deepens, his thumb still lingers against your skin, grounding himself in you while pretending none of it matters.

Your cheeks grow warmer under his gaze, and you bite the inside of your cheek, trying to steady the swirl of emotions inside you. “Stop that,” you mutter, your voice quieter than you intended, almost drowned out by the sound of his steady breathing. Your fingers twitch slightly against his chest, as if betraying your words. “Stop teasing me,” you add, pouting, though the way your voice falters ruins any attempt at firmness.

His gaze softens, his smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, but there’s a quiet heat simmering in his eyes. “You make it so easy,” he murmurs, his voice low and velvety, the teasing laced with something deeper, something that sends a shiver down your spine. His thumb brushes against your knuckles in a slow, deliberate rhythm, like he’s savoring the moment. “You know I can’t help it when you look at me like that,” he continues, his voice dipping lower, warmer, each word drawing you closer.

“Like what?” you whisper, your voice soft but unwavering as you hold his gaze. “Like you mean the absolute world to me? Because you do, Mark.”

His breath hitches, and a quiet groan escapes him as his eyes flutter shut for a brief second before locking back on yours, filled with a raw, unguarded softness. “God,” he mutters, almost like he’s cursing himself for the way you undo him.

“I’m just being honest,” you whisper, your voice trembling slightly, not from nerves but from the intensity crackling between you. Your eyes stay locked on his, refusing to waver.

“You’re fucking with me, baby,” he murmurs, the nickname slipping out, his tone rougher now, like he’s grappling with the way you’ve stripped him bare.

“I’m not doing anything,” you reply innocently, though the small tilt of your lips betrays you. 

“Oh yeah? You’re the one who keeps pressing your hand here—” His hand presses a little firmer over yours, trapping it against his chest. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat vibrates under your palm, grounding the moment, “—telling me how much my heart matters. Making it sound like it’s the most important thing in the world.” His voice drops into something almost hypnotic, laced with a teasing edge that sends a shiver through you. His eyes flick to yours, dark and intent, but behind the heat lies an unmistakable softness, a tenderness that slips through and holds you there, captivated.

He leans forward slightly, pressing a kiss so soft to the back of your hand that it makes your breath catch. He lingers there, the warmth of his lips sinking into your skin, before lowering your hands and resting them under his chin, cradling them gently as if you’re something fragile he refuses to let go of.

“That’s because it is the most important thing in the world for me,” 

His breath catches, his gaze flickering with something unspoken. Then, his lips twitch into a faint, almost self-deprecating smile. “You’re dangerous, you know that?” His eyes hold yours like they’re searching for something deeper, something only you can give him. “You’ve got me wrapped around your finger, and you don’t even have to try.”

“You’re the same for me,” you whisper, your voice soft but heavy with meaning as your fingers thread through his hair. He exhales sharply, leaning into your touch, the vulnerability in his gaze unraveling something deep inside you. “Can we get more comfortable?” you murmur against him, your eyes dark and laden with a hidden message that makes his breath hitch.

The question slips out before you can retract it, instinctive and unguarded, because you need him just as much as he needs you. Around Mark, your self-control has always been fragile—something the two of you indulge and dismantle in equal measure. You’ll allow him to use you as his distraction tonight because it’s the only way you know how to meet him in moments like this, when everything feels too raw and too real. 

He nods softly, his hands sliding to your waist with purpose, steady and unhurried. His fingers curve firmly against your sides, and with a gentle but deliberate pull, he guides you onto his lap, your knees settling on either side of him. The press of his hands doesn’t falter, holding you close as though making sure you won’t slip away. His thumbs trace slow, deliberate lines over your hips, grounding you in the warmth of his touch as he shifts you just enough to align your bodies perfectly. The soft rustle of the sheets beneath you and the press of his thighs against yours add to the intimacy, his hands lingering at your waist, strong yet tender, as if savoring every inch of closeness he’s claimed.

Your palms slide over his shoulders, up the curve of his neck, until they cradle his face. His skin is warm under your touch, and you take a moment to just feel him, the closeness erasing the tension that’s been building between you. You don’t care that you’ve just broken up. None of that matters right now. What matters is the way your bodies gravitate toward each other like magnets, the way his eyes soften and darken all at once as he looks at you.

You crave his space, his warmth, the way his presence grounds you even when everything feels unsteady. The heat of him beneath you is intoxicating, and it takes every ounce of restraint not to move, not to grind against him the way you’ve been used to. Your chest rises and falls with shallow breaths as you try to steady yourself, your hands still framing his face.

“I’ve never cared about anyone like you,” you say, your voice trembling with the weight of your emotions. “Never cared about wanting to keep them safe, to keep them away from harm. I’ve never felt this before.” You pause, your thumbs brushing over his cheekbones as you lean in closer, your forehead almost touching his. “Every time I think about what you’ve been dealing with, it gives me agony.”

“But you don’t have to face any of it alone. Ok?” you continue, your voice breaking slightly as your emotions spill over. “I never want you to get that idea. This isn’t only your burden to carry. When you push yourself too hard, when you refuse to take care of yourself… it ripples outward. It hurts everyone who cares about you, whether you see it or not. You think you’re sparing us, but you’re not. We’re in this with you, whether you like it or not.”

Your words trail off, leaving a charged silence between you. His gaze softens, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes—curiosity, maybe, or a quiet understanding he doesn’t voice. The pad of his thumb brushes over your skin again, slow and deliberate, grounding you even as your emotions threaten to overwhelm. His breath, warm and steady, ghosts across your lips, and you can feel the unspoken tension thickening the air around you.

“So what is it, hmm?” His voice softens, but the teasing edge remains, a challenge hidden behind his tenderness. “What are you trying not to say?” His eyes flicker down to your lips for a fraction of a second before meeting yours again, the moment hanging like a thread between you, waiting to snap.

Heat rises to your cheeks, and you falter, your fingers trembling under his touch. “I’m just trying to get you to take care of yourself,” you say quietly, deflecting, though your voice wavers under the weight of his attention.

Mark’s smirk deepens, his eyes narrowing just slightly as he studies your face. “Take care of myself, huh?” he echoes, his voice dipping lower, smoother, like he’s testing the words on his tongue. His thumb continues its slow, deliberate stroke over your knuckles, grounding you in the warmth of his touch. “You sure about that? Because it sounds like there’s more to it than that.”

He leans in closer, his forehead almost brushing yours, his breath warm against your skin. “You’re trembling,” he murmurs, his tone a mix of teasing and tenderness, his gaze flickering down to where your fingers rest against his chest. “And you still can’t stop pressing your hand right there—like you’re trying to feel every beat, like you’re afraid to let go.” His lips hover near your temple, so close you can feel the ghost of his words as he speaks. “So tell me, Y/N… is it just about me taking care of myself, or are you trying to say something else?”

The heat in his gaze makes your chest tighten, a pressure building that feels both overwhelming and irresistible. His voice, soft but insistent, wraps around you, pulling at something buried deep within—a feeling so profound it leaves you breathless, yet fragile enough that naming it feels impossible. It’s in the way his eyes hold yours, unrelenting, as though he’s reaching into the parts of you you’ve kept hidden, the parts you’re not sure anyone is supposed to see. 

You huff, your chest rising and falling as you cross your arms, narrowing your eyes at him with mock irritation. “This is so unfair. I just opened my heart to you, being softer than I’ve ever been, and you’re just… sitting there. Like it doesn’t even matter.”

His lips twitch, almost like he wants to smile, but he doesn’t. His silence only fuels your frustration, and you shift, trying to push off his lap. “Fine, whatever,” you grumble. “Clearly, I’m wasting my—”

Before you can finish, his hands glide to your hips, his touch warm but deliberate as he steadies you. His fingers press gently into your sides, guiding you back into place with a quiet authority that leaves no room for argument. “Don’t,” he murmurs, his voice low and velvety. 

Then his lips hover near your ear, his breath warm and uneven as he leans closer, pressing himself against you. The way he tilts his head, the deliberate slowness of his movements, carries a weight you can’t ignore. The heat of him radiates against your skin as his nose brushes along your jawline. He whispers into your ear, it’s soft, almost reverent, his words slipping into the space between you like a quiet plea. 

He tells you how much he needs you—not just now, but tomorrow morning, and every moment after that, how you’re the only thing keeping him steady when the world feels too heavy. His voice trembles, each word carrying a weight you can’t resist, and in that moment, your resolve shatters, breaking apart under the raw intimacy of his touch and the quiet desperation in his voice.

Your throat tightens in annoyance. The look in his eyes—steady, raw, and searching—pulls at something deep inside you. It’s too much, and not enough all at once. “Stop trying to make this about me. This is about you, about you taking your health seriously. I need you as much as you need me but I need you safe and healthy.” You whisper, your voice trembling but edged with a quiet, desperate plea. Your thumb brushes over his chest absently, like you’re trying to soothe the ache you know lingers there for both of you. “This isn’t a game to me, Mark. You’re not a game to me.”

His head tilts slightly as he studies you, his gaze softening but never wavering. “And you think you are to me?” he asks, his voice low and intimate, the question so quiet it feels like it’s meant to echo only between the two of you. His fingers tighten subtly on your waist, pulling you closer, and you can feel the heat of his body sinking into yours.

You let out a shaky breath, your hand trembling against his chest. “No,” you admit, your voice barely audible, each word heavy with emotion. “But I can’t—Mark, I need you to stay. I can’t handle losing you. I can’t.”

His lips part like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t. Instead, he moves closer, his forehead brushing against yours with a tenderness that feels almost unbearable. His hands slide up, his thumbs grazing along the curve of your sides before settling on your waist, holding you like you’re something fragile, something he’s afraid to lose.

“You’re not losing me,” he whispers, his voice so soft it feels like a secret meant only for you. His breath brushes against your lips, warm and steady, as his hand moves to cup your face, his thumb stroking your cheek in slow, tender circles. The closeness between you is overwhelming, his forehead resting lightly against yours, the faintest brush of his nose against your skin sending a shiver through you. “You mean everything to me, Y/N,” he breathes, his words trembling with emotion, his lips ghosting over yours without closing the distance. His fingers weave into your hair, his touch deliberate and soothing, like he’s trying to hold you together. “I’m here. I’m yours. I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs, his voice breaking with quiet sincerity as he presses a lingering kiss to your forehead, his lips soft and reverent.

You hesitate, overwhelmed by the intensity of his words and his touch, by the way his touch lingers on your waist like he’s trying to memorize the feel of you. “I don’t… I don’t know how to be okay with how much I care about you,” you confess, your voice cracking under the weight of the vulnerability you’ve tried so hard to hide. 

His hands tighten on your waist, his grip grounding yet gentle, as though he’s keeping you steady while drawing you closer. His forehead remains pressed to yours, his breath warm and steady against your skin. “I’m here because of you,” he says softly, his voice rich with certainty, each word deliberate. “Because no one else sees me the way you do. No one else pushes me to be better, even when I don’t want to be.” His thumb brushes over your hip in a slow, deliberate stroke, the intimacy of the gesture speaking volumes.

You feel the weight of his words settle over you, warm and steady, much like the quiet rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your palm. For a moment, your voice fails you, breath hitching as his gaze locks onto yours, intense and unwavering. Finally, your fingers press just a little firmer against his chest, anchoring yourself in his presence. “Mark,” you murmur, the faint tremor in your voice revealing the storm of emotions within. “You make it impossible to stay mad at you, I just—” Your voice falters, but you push on, your chest tightening with the raw truth you’re finally laying bare. “I just can’t stand the thought of you going through this alone. You always carry so much, like you have to handle everything yourself, but you don’t. You don’t have to.”

The quiet between you stretches endlessly, thick with the weight of everything unspoken. His forehead rests against yours, the warmth of his skin anchoring you to the moment, and you let your eyes flutter shut for a heartbeat, steadying yourself. His breath ghosts over your lips, warm and familiar, drawing you closer to him even as your chest tightens with the words you’ve been holding back.

“Stay the night,” you murmur, your voice soft and full of hesitation, yet carrying a thread of longing that makes his gaze flicker. The words hang between you, delicate and charged, as his fingers brush along your waist with an almost absentminded tenderness, his touch grounding and impossibly gentle.

His eyes darken slightly, something unreadable flashing across them as he leans in closer, the space between you shrinking until his lips are a breath away from yours. His hand slides up to cradle the back of your neck, his touch featherlight but deliberate, sending a shiver racing down your spine. His forehead tilts more firmly against yours, his thumb brushing along the line of your jaw with an intimacy that leaves your heart racing.

The tension between you tightens, and you can’t help the way your breath catches, but before he can close the distance, you pull back, your voice a quiet plea. “Not like that,” you whisper, the words trembling as they fall from your lips. The moment breaks, just barely, and the heat rushing to your cheeks betrays your resolve.

He groans softly, low and frustrated, tilting his head as if trying to regain the connection you’ve just disrupted. His hand remains firm at your waist, his thumb still caressing your jaw, as his darkened gaze searches yours. “Y/N,” he mutters, his voice dipped in exasperation, though it softens into something gentler, something tender. “You can’t just say that and then do this to me.”

You bite your lip, caught between the flurry of emotions swirling in his eyes and the teasing edge in his voice. “I mean it,” you murmur, your tone quieter now, though the faint tremor in it betrays your resolve. “Not like that.”

A small, exhausted chuckle escapes him, his breath fanning across your skin. “Whatever you say,” he murmurs, his voice dipping low, the teasing laced with a softness that makes your stomach flip. “Not like that.”

You roll your eyes, the action lighthearted despite the heavy air around you, and curl your fingers into the fabric of his hoodie, pulling him closer again. His forehead brushes yours, his nearness calming you even as it sets your nerves alight. “We’ll go first thing tomorrow,” you say quietly, your voice steadying. “And I’m glad you’ll be here tonight. At least this way, I can make sure you actually tell them.”

He pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you fully, his hands still resting on your waist, his grip warm and steady. His gaze roams your face, lingering on every detail—the curve of your lips, the flush on your cheeks, the way your eyes meet his without hesitation. His thumb lifts to your cheek, brushing lightly against your skin, and there’s a softness in his expression that makes your breath hitch, the weight of it impossible to ignore.

Without a word, he shifts his grip, his hands guiding you with a tenderness that feels deliberate. His touch never falters as he adjusts your position, his strength effortless yet measured as he moves you from his lap. You let him, your body pliant in his hold, until you’re stretched over him, your weight resting gently on top of his.

The shift feels seamless, his arms wrapping securely around you as your chest presses against his. His hand finds the small of your back, his thumb tracing lazy, soothing circles there, while his other hand cradles the back of your head. His fingers weave into your hair with a gentleness that makes you shiver, his breath warm against your temple as you settle into him.

His body is firm beneath you, steady and grounding, yet his touch is so careful, as though holding you any other way might break the delicate moment between you. The soft rise and fall of his chest beneath yours lulls you, the quiet strength of his heartbeat anchoring you in his closeness. He tilts his head slightly, brushing his nose along your hairline before murmuring, “You make me feel so strong.” His voice is soft, almost like he’s afraid to say it out loud, the vulnerability in it wrapping around you like a quiet confession.

You tilt your head slightly, just enough to meet his gaze, and the raw emotion in his eyes nearly undoes you. “You’re stronger than you think,” you whisper, your fingers brushing lightly against his jaw. “But even if you weren’t, I’d still be here. I’ll always be here.”

He exhales slowly, his forehead dropping to yours once again as his eyes flutter shut. The warmth of his breath mingles with yours, and the closeness is so overwhelming it’s hard to breathe, yet you wouldn’t trade it for anything. “You don’t know how much that means to me,” he whispers, his voice trembling slightly, the weight of his emotions pressing into every word.

“I do,” you reply, just as softly, your hands smoothing over his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breaths beneath your palms. “Because it’s the same for me, Mark. You’re my safe place, too.”

For a moment, the two of you simply stay there, wrapped in each other’s presence. The world outside feels distant, irrelevant, as you lose yourself in the quiet intimacy of the moment. His hands hold you like you’re something precious, and you can feel the unspoken promise in his touch—that no matter what comes next, you’ll face it together.

Finally, he tilts his head, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead, his lips warm and soft against your skin. “Okay,” he murmurs, his voice steadier now, like he’s drawn strength from your words. “I’ll stay.”

The corner of your lips tugs into a small, relieved smile as you nuzzle into him, letting his warmth surround you. “Good,” you say softly, your voice laced with quiet affection. “Because I wasn’t going to let you leave anyway.”

──────────────────────────────

The campus feels unusually quiet, the early morning light filtering through the trees and casting soft golden hues across the pathways. The sound of your footsteps, slow and measured, fills the quiet, the rhythm syncing with the soft rustle of autumn leaves at your feet. Beside you, Mark walks in silence, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his brown jacket, his shoulders slightly hunched against the crisp air. You glance at him, at the faint tremor in his breath, the way his eyes are fixed ahead but unfocused, as if his thoughts are spinning too fast to land on any one thing.

In all fairness, though, you’re pretty sure he’d be a lot calmer right now if you’d listened to him last night. He tried to coax you into riding his cock last night, multiple times, murmuring soft pleas as his hands wandered over your body. Or, at the very least, just letting him fuck you, claiming it was for no other reason than to relieve his stress before the weight of today. “It’ll help me focus,” he had whispered against your ear, his lips trailing down your neck, his hands sliding down to your hips, pulling you close. His tone was low, velvety, but you knew better. You knew it wasn’t just about stress relief, not with him.

Because no matter how casual he tried to play it, you know him. You know how seriously he takes everything with you. He wouldn’t just fuck you and leave it at that. He’d slow down, cup your face, and whisper things that always feel like they’re meant to ruin you—how much he needs you, how much you mean to him, words you can’t let yourself hear right now. It messes with your head in ways you can’t handle.

The two of you walk together now, your steps falling into an unspoken rhythm as you head toward Coach Suh’s office. The silence stretches between you, heavy with the kind of anticipation that makes your chest feel too tight. You sneak a glance at him, at the way his jaw is set just a little too tight, his teeth clenched like he’s holding something back. His shoulders look broader somehow, weighed down by an invisible pressure, and it presses against you, too, as if his fear and uncertainty have become your own.

Your heart twists, and the protective instinct surges in you, sharp and unrelenting. He’s always been the strong one, the steady one, the one who makes sure you’re okay. But now, seeing him like this, so vulnerable and so human, all you want to do is take that burden from him, to shield him from whatever’s waiting behind that office door.

But you can’t. This is something he has to face himself, and the thought makes you feel helpless in a way you’re not used to. So you do the only thing you can—you keep holding his hand, your thumb brushing over his knuckles in a quiet, steady rhythm, grounding him the way he always does for you.

When you finally reach the office, the air seems to shift, the tension thickening. Mark stops a few feet from the door, his hand still clasped in yours, and his breath hitches, barely audible. His gaze drops to the floor, his lashes casting soft shadows over his cheekbones, and you can feel the fear radiating off him like a tangible thing.

You step closer, letting go of his hand only to place both of yours gently on his cheeks, tilting his face up so he has no choice but to meet your eyes. “You can do it,” you whisper, your voice soft but steady. “I’ll just be right here, outside, when you come out.”

His eyes search yours, wide and uncertain, and for a moment, he looks younger somehow, like the weight of everything has stripped him of the confidence he wears so easily. “I don’t know if I can,” he admits, his voice barely above a murmur. “What if he says I can’t play anymore? What if—”

“Mark,” you interrupt gently, brushing your thumbs over his cheeks. “You have to go in there. You have to hear what he has to say, even if it’s not what you want. You need to know. And no matter what happens, I’ll be right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

He swallows hard, his hands coming up to cover yours, his grip warm and firm but trembling slightly. “I just… I don’t want to do this alone.”

“You’re not alone,” you promise, leaning in closer so your foreheads almost touch. “But this is something you have to do yourself. It’s important, Mark. You need to show him that you care enough to fight for this, that you’re willing to face it head-on. And I’ll be here, waiting for you, the whole time.”

He nods, but his breath is still unsteady, and you can see the way his chest rises and falls too quickly, the nerves threatening to overwhelm him. You don’t know what else to say, don’t know how to make this easier for him.

Without thinking, you lean in, closing the small distance between you, and press your lips to his. The kiss is soft, barely a whisper of contact, but it holds everything you’ve been struggling to say, every unspoken reassurance, every ounce of quiet support. His breath catches, his chest rising sharply against yours, and for a moment, time seems to stop. The weight of the tension that’s been pressing down on him melts away as he leans into you, his hands leaving his sides to find your waist. His touch is hesitant at first, almost like he’s afraid you’ll pull away, but when you don’t, his fingers tighten, anchoring you to him.

His lips part slightly, a subtle sigh escaping into the kiss, and you feel him relax, the rigid line of his shoulders softening. His hands slide around your waist, pulling you closer, like he’s drawing strength from your presence, grounding himself in the warmth of you. The moment stretches, intimate and unhurried, as if the world beyond the two of you has faded into nothing.

When you finally pull back, your forehead rests against his, your breaths mingling in the quiet space between you. His eyes flutter open, heavy-lidded and filled with something tender, something raw. His lips are still parted, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corners, and his hands remain on your waist, holding you as if letting go isn’t an option.

“I—” he starts, his voice low and breathless, but you cut him off with a faint, almost shy smile.

“It’s for good luck,” you murmur softly, your hands brushing against the front of his jacket, smoothing the fabric like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Your fingers linger for a moment, fidgeting as you try to steady your own racing heartbeat.

He lets out a quiet, breathy laugh, the sound tinged with disbelief. “Good luck, huh?” he repeats, his tone teasing, though there’s a warmth in his voice that makes your chest ache. His forehead stays pressed to yours, his eyes searching yours with a mix of affection and curiosity. “What happened to just friends?”

You roll your eyes, though the gesture is light, playful. “This doesn’t count,” you whisper, your voice soft but teasing, a hint of a smile tugging at your lips. “Now go. You’ve got this.”

“I’m feeling nervous again,” he quips, his tone light but threaded with that teasing edge that always gets to you. He tilts his head, his gaze flicking briefly to your lips before returning to yours, deliberately slow, and far too confident for someone about to walk into the hardest conversation of his life. “Think I can get another ‘good luck’ kiss?”

You roll your eyes, though the way your lips twitch betrays the affection bubbling under the surface. Your hand moves to his chest, giving him a light shove that does nothing to move him. “Don’t push it, Lee,” you shoot back, your tone sharp but playful, though the warmth in your voice softens the bite.

His smile grows, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he watches you, that boyish charm now mixed with something deeper, something unspoken. His gaze lingers on you for a moment longer, like he’s committing every detail to memory—the curve of your lips, the way your hand stays lightly against his chest, the warmth in your expression that seems to calm the storm inside him.

You take a small step back, giving him space but not letting the connection between you falter. “I’ll be right here when you’re done,” you promise, your voice steady, the conviction in it clear.

He nods, his hand hovering briefly over the door handle before he turns back to you one last time, his eyes soft but filled with something resolute. “I know,” he says quietly, his lips curling into a smile that holds all the gratitude he doesn’t say out loud. Then, with a deep breath, he turns the handle and steps inside, leaving you standing there with your heart still racing and his warmth lingering in the space between you.

Mark hesitates outside the door for a moment, taking a deep breath before finally turning the handle and stepping inside. The room feels heavy, the quiet hum of fluorescent lights amplifying the tension in his chest. Jeno and Coach Suh are leaning over the whiteboard, markers in hand, deep in conversation about defensive strategies. Jeno, animated as always, gestures to a play diagram, his voice steady and confident.

Despite Coach Suh’s presence, his role as head coach hasn’t officially resumed yet; he is still recovering from his recent operation, the strain of returning to full-time duties too much for him at the moment. Taeyong and Doyoung continue to stand in to lead the team during his recovery, but Suh remains deeply involved, doing everything he can to support the players from the sidelines. Even now, his sharp focus and unwavering dedication are evident as he listens intently to Jeno’s suggestions, nodding occasionally while holding himself upright with visible effort.

“Look, if we shift the zone this way, we can force the turnover,” Jeno says, tapping the board with the marker. “It’ll work, trust me.”

Coach Suh nods, his arms crossed over his chest. “Not bad, Jeno. That could plug the gap on transition. You’re finally starting to think like a leader.”

Mark clears his throat, his voice tight. “Coach, you got a sec?”

Both men turn to look at him, surprised. Suh glances at Jeno and then back at Mark, setting down the marker. “Oh yeah, sit down,” he says, his tone firm but welcoming. “This about the game?”

Mark shakes his head, his grip tightening on the backrest of the chair in front of him. Jeno, sensing the shift in mood, steps back from the whiteboard, his brows furrowed in confusion. He glances at the door, starting to gather his things. “If this isn’t about plays, I’ll give you guys some space—”

“You need to hear this too, Jen,” Mark says quickly, his voice steady but low, stopping Jeno in his tracks. His words hang in the air, weighted and deliberate. 

Jeno furrows his brow, whiteboard pen faltering. “What’s up? You good?”

Mark takes another breath, his voice low and steady, though the weight of his words hangs in the air like a storm cloud. “I can’t play in the state championships… I have a heart condition.”

The room falls silent, the statement cutting through the easy energy from earlier. Jeno freezes, his jaw tightening, and Coach Suh straightens, his expression unreadable. Mark finally sits, his elbows resting on his knees as he looks up at them, his eyes glassy but determined.

“I have HCM,” he continues, his voice wavering just slightly. “Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. I’ve had it for a while, but… I haven’t been taking my medication because I didn’t want it to slow me down on the court. And if I play—” He pauses, swallowing hard, his voice breaking as he finishes, “I could die.”

Jeno’s marker falls to the table with a soft clatter, and he stares at Mark, wide-eyed. “What the hell, Mark?” he finally says, his voice filled with disbelief.

Coach Suh, who’s rarely ever fazed, blinks and shifts his stance, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Jesus, Mark,” he mutters under his breath, but he doesn’t interrupt.

Mark stands suddenly, pacing the room, his hands raking through his hair. “I know how selfish I’ve been,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “I just didn’t want to leave the game behind. The game… it changed my life, you know? Just like it changed yours. It gave me something to fight for, something to be proud of. And it’s gonna be hard to let it go.”

The words hang in the air, raw and vulnerable. Jeno steps forward, his face softening as he places a hand on Mark’s shoulder. “The game can only change you if you’ve got a lot to change, right?” he says quietly, his voice steady but warm. “And, Mark… you’ve already done that. You’ve already become someone people look up to.”

Mark looks at him, his lips pressed tightly together, fighting the emotion threatening to spill over. He nods, but his jaw clenches, the weight of the moment pressing down on him.

Coach Suh sighs, stepping closer, his voice steady and firm. “Mark, I know how hard this conversation must be for you. It’s not easy to admit this, not to yourself and especially not to us.” He glances at Jeno, then back at Mark. “But you must know, I can’t use you as much anymore. You can still play, and you will—but you’re gonna have to be an impact sub, with limited minutes. No more pushing your body past its limits.”

Mark closes his eyes briefly, exhaling as if releasing a part of the burden he’s been carrying. “I get it, Coach. I… I’ve been trying to prepare myself for this. I just didn’t know how to say it out loud.”

Suh steps forward, placing a hand on Mark’s other shoulder, his grip firm. “You’ve already done the hardest part, son. You told us. That’s what leaders do—they face the hard truths and do what’s best for the team and for themselves. And you’ve got a team behind you, no matter what.”

Mark’s gaze shifts between Suh and Jeno, his chest tightening with both gratitude and grief. “Thanks,” he says softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Jeno gives Mark a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder, a small smile breaking through his initial shock. “We’ve got you, man. Always.”

Mark nods again, a faint, bittersweet smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah. Thanks, Jen. Thanks, Coach.” He exhales, his hands steadying against the edge of the desk. For the first time in a while, he feels like he can breathe.

The hallway feels stifling as you wait outside, pacing back and forth in a futile attempt to burn off the nervous energy coursing through you. Every second feels like an eternity, your chest tightening with the weight of the unknown. Your mind churns, flipping relentlessly between fear and hope, each thought heavier than the last. What’s happening behind that door? Is Mark okay? Did he find the right words? You can’t stop imagining the worst—his emotions spilling over, his voice cracking under the pressure, the weight of it all becoming too much. You glance at the door every few seconds, your gaze lingering as if you can will it to open, waiting for him to come out so you can hold him, comfort him, and be the anchor you know he’ll need.

The air feels thick, suffocating in its stillness, and you force yourself to take a deep breath, hoping it will steady the relentless pounding of your heart. You rub your palms together absently, as if preparing yourself for whatever is coming, though nothing could really prepare you. The weight of his confession feels like it’s pressing down on you too, and all you can do is hope he’s getting the support he needs inside, even if you’re not there to see it.

As you exhale slowly, the sound of footsteps breaks through the tense silence, pulling you from your thoughts. You turn your head sharply and see Mark’s best friend approaching. Her expression is a mix of curiosity and concern, her brows furrowed slightly as her gaze flicks from you to the closed door. Her presence catches you off guard—she doesn’t usually come around unless there’s a game or practice, and there’s no obvious reason for her to be here now. Maybe she was passing by, or maybe she sensed something was off. Either way, the sight of her stirs a new wave of unease in your chest.

“Why are you here?” she asks, her voice sharp but not unkind.

“I’m waiting for Mark,” you mumble, the words spilling out before you can think them through. “He’s finally telling Coach about his heart condition.”

She gasps, her eyes widening. “You know?”

You nod, shifting uncomfortably. “You know too,” you say quietly, and her silence confirms it. She does.

Before the conversation can continue, the door opens, and Mark steps out. The sight of him hits you hard, your breath catching as you take in the raw emotion etched into his face. His eyes are red-rimmed, heavy with the weight of everything he’s just gone through, and they lock onto yours almost instantly. The message in his gaze is clear and unwavering: he needs you. The sheer vulnerability in his expression, the silent plea for comfort, sends a jolt straight to your chest. He looks utterly drained, like he’s been holding himself together for far too long, and you’re the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

You step forward instinctively, your arms already reaching for him, ready to pull him close and hold him until the world feels steady again. But before you can close the gap, his best friend gasps and rushes past you, throwing her arms around him in a quick, tight hug. Mark stiffens at first, clearly startled, before he relaxes just enough to return the embrace. His movements are mechanical, his focus not fully on her, and though the gesture is friendly and comforting, it’s nothing compared to the connection you’re aching to offer him.

“You finally told Coach?” she asks, her voice soft but brimming with pride. “I know how hard it must’ve been, I know how long it’s taken, but I’m so proud of you now that you’ve done it.”

Mark nods faintly, his lips pressed into a thin, tight line. He looks overwhelmed, his silence speaking volumes, and you can tell he’s barely holding it together. His best friend continues, her voice turning lighter, trying to ease the tension. “I can’t believe it took you months to listen to me and finally tell Coach, but I’m glad you heard me out—”

She pauses mid-sentence, her eyes catching the way Mark’s gaze hasn’t left you. His focus is entirely on you, his eyes soft but desperate as they follow your every move. He’s barely acknowledging her words, his need for you palpable in every subtle shift of his expression.

“Oh,” she murmurs, realization dawning on her. “You didn’t listen to me, did you?” She turns back to him, her tone teasing but affectionate. “Y/N told you to tell Coach, and that’s when you did.”

Mark finally speaks, his voice quiet but steady. “Just made me realize how serious it was.”

His best friend huffs playfully, rolling her eyes with exaggerated annoyance. “You didn’t listen to me for five entire months, but all it takes is your girlfriend to tell you once, and suddenly you’re all ears,” she jokes, glancing at you with a knowing smile.

You freeze, your lips parting slightly, but the intensity of Mark’s gaze keeps you rooted in place. Neither of you moves to correct her, you weren't his girlfriend, not anymore. The tension in the moment begins to lift, but it doesn’t fully dissipate—not with the way he’s still looking at you, his eyes full of longing and need. Slowly, he breaks away from his best friend and takes a step toward you, his shoulders weighed down as though he’s been carrying too much for too long.

“Hi,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, and he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he falls into your arms, letting the rest of the world fall away.

His hug is intimate, desperate, and consuming. His hands grip your waist firmly, pulling you flush against him, as if the space between you is unbearable. His fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt, clutching it like it’s the only thing tethering him to reality. His body presses into yours fully, his warmth seeping into your skin as his trembling becomes more pronounced. It’s not just a hug—it’s a surrender. He’s letting himself fall into you, letting you hold him together when he no longer can.

Your arms wind around him instinctively, one wrapping tightly around his shoulders while the other threads through his hair. The soft strands glide between your fingers as you hold him close, your touch tender and deliberate, meant to comfort and ground him. You feel his breath on your neck, shaky and uneven, the warm exhale brushing against your skin in a way that makes your chest ache. He tightens his grip on you, his arms encircling your body completely, holding you as close as physically possible, as if letting go would break him.

His weight shifts slightly, leaning more heavily into you, and you adjust, your arms pulling him even closer, steadying him. Your fingers slide slowly through his hair again, each motion gentle and soothing, and he exhales shakily, his breath hitching as he tries to steady himself. Your free hand moves to cup his face, your palm warm against his cheek as you tilt his head back just slightly. You pull away just enough to see him, your gaze locking with his.

His eyes are red and glassy, the sadness in them so raw it makes your throat tighten. His lips part slightly, but no words come out, just the weight of everything he’s been holding in. The way he looks at you—like you’re his anchor, his solace, his safe place—makes you want to wrap yourself around him even tighter.

“I’m so proud of you,” you whisper, your voice trembling with emotion. Your thumb brushes along his cheekbone, wiping away the faint trace of tears. He doesn’t respond, but he presses his forehead to yours, his breath mingling with yours in the quiet space between you. His eyes flutter closed, his face tilting into your touch as if seeking out more of your warmth, your reassurance.

“Can we go?” he finally says, his voice barely above a whisper, thick with exhaustion and vulnerability.

You nod softly, your fingers still brushing through his hair as you press a light kiss to his temple. “Wanna get some breakfast?” you ask, your voice soft and inviting, a small attempt to bring a little normalcy back to the moment.

He nods again, and this time his hands loosen their grip on you, though they linger for a moment longer before he lets you guide him. Your hands slide down to rest on his shoulders, steadying him as you both take a step back. You keep your touch light but constant, one hand lingering on his arm as you turn to walk with him. He leans into you slightly as you leave, his warmth a constant presence beside you, the heaviness of the moment slowly easing with each step.

──────────────────────────────

The café is quiet, the morning rush having faded into a gentle hum of soft chatter and the hiss of the espresso machine. The sunlight filters through the large windows, painting warm, golden streaks across the small table you’ve claimed by the corner. It feels like a pocket of calm amidst everything, a temporary sanctuary away from the weight of the day.

You return to the table, balancing a tray with his usual coffee order and an assortment of pastries, including his favorite—a pistachio one with its flaky, golden crust and a hint of powdered sugar dusted over the top. His eyes flicker up as you approach, but the usual spark in them feels dimmed, like the exhaustion resting on his shoulders has seeped into his gaze. He offers a soft smile—polite, tired, distant—and it makes your chest ache in ways you can’t quite name.

Setting the tray down, you slide his coffee toward him, the familiar aroma filling the air between you. “Your favorite,” you say softly, trying to infuse some lightness into your voice, but his response is slow. His fingers wrap around the cup, holding onto its warmth as if it’s anchoring him. “Thanks,” he murmurs, his voice low, like it takes effort to get the word out. He takes a sip, his shoulders dropping a fraction, but the tension doesn’t fully leave his frame.

The two of you fall into a silence that feels less like comfort and more like a fragile ceasefire. You glance at him over your coffee, catching the way his gaze lingers on the table, avoiding yours. He picks at the sleeve of the cup, his movements slow and deliberate, like his mind is elsewhere. The golden light catches the faint furrow in his brow, and you wonder if he’s even tasting the coffee.

He reaches for the pistachio pastry eventually, taking a bite with an almost mechanical precision. The crisp layers crackle beneath his teeth, and for a fleeting second, his brows lift in approval. “Mmm,” he hums, but there’s a hollowness in his tone, like he’s performing a version of himself you’ve always known but that he can’t quite summon now. Still, he pushes the remaining pastry across the table toward you, his eyes flicking up to meet yours briefly, offering silent encouragement. The gesture feels genuine, but there’s a hesitation in it too, like he’s searching for something in your reaction.

You pick it up, your fingers brushing the crumbs from its edges, and take a bite where his had been. The rich pistachio filling melts on your tongue, the buttery sweetness almost grounding you. You nod back at him, mirroring his earlier gesture. “You’re right,” you say softly. “It’s good.”

His lips tug into another smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. You hesitate for a moment before reaching across the table to take his hand. His fingers are warm but tense, his grip firm yet hesitant, like he’s holding back even in this simple touch. You trace your thumb over his knuckles in slow, soothing circles, watching the way his eyes follow the movement rather than meeting yours.

“How did it go?” you whisper finally, your voice careful, breaking the silence. The question hangs between you, heavy and expectant. He exhales slowly, his hand tightening briefly around yours as his other one wraps protectively around the coffee cup, as though bracing himself.

“Probably how you’d expect it to go,” he says, his tone blunt, cutting through the quiet. You know he doesn’t mean for it to sting, but it does, the sharpness of his words settling in your chest.

“Mark,” you call his name softly, a quiet plea for him to let you in, to trust you with the weight he’s carrying. But he doesn’t look at you, his gaze fixed on the table, as though the answer lies somewhere in the grain of the wood.

He sighs then, the sound low and heavy, his shoulders slumping as the fight drains from him. “Coach said he’s proud,” he begins, his voice monotone, devoid of its usual warmth, as if he’s reading from a script. “Said I can’t play like I used to. Limited minutes. Impact sub. For my safety.” Each word drops heavily, stripped of emotion, as though detaching himself from them will make them hurt less.

The flatness in his tone is more jarring than the words themselves, and it leaves an ache in the silence that follows. You squeeze his hand gently, wishing you could reach past the walls he’s so carefully constructed.

For a moment, he says nothing, his gaze lingering on your joined hands. The sadness in his eyes is a weight you can feel, pressing down on your chest. Wanting to ease the tension, you reach for the tray and grab an almond pastry, holding it out to him. “Here. Try this,” you say softly, your tone light and encouraging.

Mark glances at the pastry, his lips quirking upward just slightly as he takes it from you. He bites into it thoughtfully, and a small hum of approval escapes him. “Mmm,” he nods, finishing it quickly, and for the briefest moment, the faint shadow of a smile crosses his face. You watch him with soft eyes, charmed by how endearing he is, even with all the sadness he’s carrying.

But the sadness lingers, etched into his expression, heavy in the way his gaze drifts somewhere beyond you, as though caught in a place you can’t reach. It tears you in two. You call his name, leaning forward slightly to catch his attention, and crack a joke—a bad one, deliberately silly in its delivery, your smile faltering as you wait for his reaction. All he offers in return is a tight-lipped smile, barely there, one that doesn’t come close to reaching his eyes.

You sigh, shifting from your seat to sit beside him on the same side of the booth. Without hesitation, you take his hand in yours again, your other hand resting lightly on his forearm, grounding him in the only way you know how. “I hate seeing you like this,” you say softly, your voice tinged with the kind of vulnerability you usually hide. “Mark, let me help.”

Mark exhales sharply, the sound a mix of frustration and defeat, his thumb brushing absently over the back of your hand. “There’s not much you can do,” he mutters, his voice quiet, clipped, and carrying a finality that settles like a stone in your chest.

You push further, unwilling to let the moment close on his dismissiveness. “Mark, please, let me in. Talk to me,” you say softly, but the persistence in your tone makes his jaw tighten. His hand withdraws slightly, his shoulders tensing as his gaze darts away.

“Just drop it,” he snaps, the sharpness of his tone cutting through the quiet. It wasn’t loud, but it stung, his words holding an edge you hadn’t expected. His eyes flick to yours briefly, regret already pooling in his expression, but the damage was done.

Your breath hitches, and you pull your hand from his instinctively, your fingers trembling as you place them in your lap. You bite your lip and look away, blinking rapidly to steady your breathing. This wasn’t fair. You were trying, and he was shutting you out.

But as quickly as you withdrew, he reached out again, his hand closing over yours firmly. He clasped your fingers tightly, bringing your joined hands to his lips. The gesture was soft, apologetic, and when you turned back to him, his eyes were filled with unspoken regret. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his voice low and genuine, the weight of his earlier frustration melting away.

Your lips part, but it takes a moment for the words to come. “I’m just trying to be here for you,” you whisper, your voice trembling but steadying with each word. “You don’t need to snap at me.”

He doesn’t answer directly. Instead, he glances down at your hands, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. The silence stretches for a beat, heavy with things unsaid, before he finally exhales again—this time softer, less burdened. “I remember my first game,” he begins, his tone quieter now, edged with a melancholy that clings to every syllable. His voice is still flat, monotonous, but there’s a faint spark of emotion breaking through.

“I was four. Doyoung randomly took me to the river court one day. I didn’t even know what basketball was, but he handed me a ball and told me to try shooting.” A faint smile tugs at his lips, but it’s fleeting, more wistful than joyful. “I made every shot—without even trying. I don’t know how, but it just felt right. The way the ball left my hands, the sound of it swishing through the net… it made me feel special, important, like I was finally good at something that mattered.”

His breath steadies, his voice gaining a quiet rhythm as he continues. “When I was eleven, I joined a little league team. It wasn’t anything big—just kids messing around, learning the basics. But those games changed everything for me. Every time I had the ball, it felt like I mattered, like I could be something more than just a kid abandoned by his father and resented by his brother.”

He falters, his voice catching on the edge of his next words. “I don’t know how to handle this,” he says finally, his voice low and strained. “Basketball… it’s who I am. It’s the one thing I’ve always been able to count on, the one thing I know I’m good at. And now… now it’s slipping away, and I can’t stop it. I can’t play the way I used to. I can’t push myself anymore.”

The weight of his sadness is palpable, threading through every word, every shallow breath. You want to speak, but he shakes his head slightly, cutting off your attempt. “This condition… it’s not just changing how I play,” he says, his voice breaking slightly. “It’s changing everything. My future, my identity… it feels like I’m losing all of it, all at once.”

His eyes are distant, unfocused. “I don’t know who I am without the game,” he continues, quieter now, the monotone delivery layered with rawness. “It’s been everything to me—more than just a sport. It was my escape, my outlet, my home. When my dad left, when everything felt too big or too hard, I could go to the court, and for those hours, nothing else mattered. The river court—it’s where I found myself. Every late night I spent there, every game I played, it was the one place where I didn’t feel like a screw-up or a disappointment. It made me feel alive.”

His voice cracks, and when he looks at you, his eyes are glistening, brimming with raw, unfiltered emotion. “And now it feels like it’s being taken from me. The one thing that made me feel like I was good at something, the one thing that gave me purpose—it’s slipping away. And it’s not just the game, it’s everything tied to it. The memories, the moments, the person I thought I was. I don’t know how to imagine a life without it.”

Your heart aches for him, your chest tightening as you take his face in your hands, your thumbs brushing softly over his cheekbones. “Mark,” you whisper, your voice trembling but steady with conviction. “You’re not losing yourself. I know it feels like the ground is shifting under you, like everything you’ve built is slipping away, but you are so much more than basketball. It’s a part of you, yes, but it’s not all of you. You’re still the person who inspires everyone around you. You’re still the person I believe in with everything I have. That doesn’t change because the game looks different now.”

He closes his eyes, leaning into your touch, his breath uneven as the weight of your words settles over him. And for the first time in the entire conversation, the tension in his shoulders seems to ease, just slightly, like a small sliver of light breaking through the heaviness.

──────────────────────────────

The room is quiet, the soft hum of the heater the only sound breaking the stillness. The bedside lamp casts a warm, muted glow, its light stretching lazily across the walls and pooling on the bed in soft, golden hues. You’re sprawled on the mattress, your knees bent, feet planted, the familiar comfort of the space grounding you. Across from you, Mark stands at the edge of the bed, his movements slow and hesitant as though the weight of his thoughts is pinning him down. There’s a heaviness in his posture—the subtle hunch of his shoulders, the tension in his hands as they hang at his sides, the way he keeps his gaze fixed on the floor.

The sight makes your chest ache. You know he’s holding back, keeping the dam intact even though it’s cracking under the pressure. It’s not like him to hesitate, and that hesitation speaks louder than anything he could say. The air between you feels charged, thick with the weight of things unsaid.

Without a word, he steps closer, his presence filling the space between you. His hands brush lightly over your knees, the contact warm and steady, and your heart skips at the unexpected intimacy of the gesture. You glance up at him, about to ask what he’s doing, but his expression is unreadable, his focus entirely on you. He presses down on your knees gently, flattening your legs against the mattress, and the quiet determination in his movements keeps you still, anticipation threading through you.

Then, he moves—climbing onto the bed with a slowness that makes your breath hitch. The mattress dips under his weight, and you feel a ripple of warmth as his body shifts closer. When his knees settle on either side of your hips, the realization hits you: he’s going on top of you. Your body tenses instinctively, not in resistance but in sheer surprise, your hands pressing lightly into the mattress to steady yourself. The air between you feels charged, intimate, and it sends a rush of something deep and unspoken through your chest.

His weight settles over you, warm and grounding, his body aligning with yours in a way that feels both deliberate and natural. His chest presses lightly against yours as he lowers himself, his head dipping to find its place in the crook of your neck. His breath is warm against your skin, and your arms instinctively rise to meet him, your hands gliding up the curve of his back as though reassuring him that he’s safe here. The softness of his hair brushes against your jaw, and your fingers tighten gently around him, pulling him closer as he nestles into you.

Your heartbeat thrums in your chest, the sensation of him so close, so heavy against you, making everything else fade away. His arms slide around your waist, locking you against him, and the way he clings to you feels like he’s asking for something wordlessly. His body trembles faintly, and you feel the weight of his vulnerability in the way he holds you, pressing into you like you’re the only thing keeping him from falling apart. Your fingers trace slow, soothing patterns along his back, silently letting him know that you’re here—that you’re not going anywhere.

It’s unusual, this shift in roles. Normally, he’s the one pulling you into his chest, comforting you, shielding you from the world. But tonight, he’s the one unraveling, and the change feels jarring in its unfamiliarity. He looks like he’s carrying too much, his strength fraying at the edges. 

The first shaky breath he lets out sends a ripple of ache through you. He’s silent for a long moment, but then you feel it—a faint tremble in his shoulders, the way his breaths grow uneven. And just like that, he breaks.

You didn’t expect it—not after the drive to the apartment, when Mark had been so quiet, so unlike himself. He’d barely spoken a word, his blunt responses cutting the air between you, cold and distant. You’d understood, though, and given him space, thinking he just needed time to process. But for him to break this quickly? It catches you off guard, like the world tilting suddenly beneath your feet.

“I’m scared,” he whispers, his voice so quiet you almost don’t hear it. The words are raw, unfiltered, and they cut through the stillness like a confession he’s been holding onto for too long.

The first shaky breath he lets out sends a ripple of ache through you. He’s silent for a long moment, but then you see it—the subtle signs that his composure is slipping. His shoulders tremble faintly, his breaths uneven as he fights to hold himself together. And then, like a dam breaking, it all comes crashing down. His head dips forward, and the first sob tears from his chest, raw and unrestrained.

You stiffen at first, unprepared for the sight. He’s always been the steady one, the one to calm you, to hold you through your tears, to reassure you when you felt like falling apart. Seeing him like this, breaking so openly, sends a jolt through you. You gulp, unsure of how to react, but instinct takes over. You do what he’s always done for you—your fingers thread into his hair, stroking softly, grounding him. You press gentle kisses to his temple, whispering quiet reassurances, promising him over and over, “I’m here. It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”

His sobs wrack his body, his grip on your waist tightening like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. Tears stream down his face, staining your shirt as he buries his head into the crook of your neck. His breaths come in uneven gasps, his body trembling as he clings to you, letting himself break in a way he’s never allowed before. You feel the hot, damp trails his tears leave against your skin, the shudder of his exhale each time he tries to steady himself but fails.

It takes time, but eventually, his sobs begin to subside, the tension in his shoulders loosening as your hand continues to stroke through his hair. His breathing slows, though it’s still uneven, and his arms remain wrapped tightly around you as if you’re the only thing holding him together.

Finally, he pulls back just enough to look at you, his tear-streaked face breaking your heart all over again. His eyes are red, swollen, glassy with remnants of his pain. He blinks slowly, trying to form words, but his lips tremble, his voice failing him. You cradle his face gently, your thumbs brushing the tears from his cheeks as you wait for him to find his voice.

“I blame myself,” he whispered, his voice barely audible but heavy with anguish. It cracked at the end, shattering the fragile silence between you. “I should’ve taken care of myself. I should’ve listened. The medication… if I had just done what I was supposed to, maybe—maybe I wouldn’t be here now.”

The words hit you like a physical blow, and your heart clenched at the way he was crumbling in front of you. You shook your head immediately, your hands rising to cradle his face. Your thumbs brushed against his damp cheeks, and you gently forced him to meet your gaze. His eyes were glassy, filled with so much pain that it threatened to drown you too.

“Mark,” you said softly, but there was no mistaking the conviction in your voice. “This isn’t your fault. Do you hear me? This—this was never something you could have controlled. You didn’t ask for this. You couldn’t have stopped it, no matter what you did.”

His lip quivered, his jaw tightening as tears spilled silently down his face. “But I—”

“No,” you interrupted, your voice steady, your grip on his face firm but tender. “Look, I’m not saying it wasn’t stupid not to take the medication. It was. But taking it sooner wouldn’t have changed anything about this condition. It’s serious, Mark, no matter when you started managing it. You need to understand that it wouldn’t be less serious if you’d started earlier. What matters now is that you take it seriously now, that you listen to the people trying to help you, that you take care of yourself from here on out.”

His breaths hitched, his shoulders trembling against you. “I just feel like I made it worse,” he muttered, the guilt still thick in his voice.

“You didn’t,” you insisted, your voice softening as you brushed your thumb along his cheek. “This was never something you could have prevented. It’s not about what you didn’t do before—it’s about what you do now. And you’re doing it. You’re making changes, you’re showing up, you’re facing it head-on, even when it scares the hell out of you. That’s what matters, Mark. Not the mistakes you think you made.”

Mark stared at you, his expression unreadable as a single tear traced a slow path down his cheek. His lips parted, trembling slightly as he tried to speak, but no words came. His eyes were glassy, filled with so much pain that it made your chest ache. And then, like a dam breaking, his shoulders shook, and the tears came harder. He bowed his head, his hands clutching at your waist as though you were the only thing holding him together

His voice came low and rough, barely audible at first. “I don’t even know who I’m mad at anymore,” he admitted, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “It’s just… so fucking unfair.”

You stayed quiet, letting him speak, your heart breaking at the pain etched across his face.

“I don’t get it,” he continued, his voice cracking slightly. “What did I do to deserve this? I’ve worked so hard, done everything I was supposed to do, and now… now it feels like my body’s betraying me. Like no matter what I do, it’s not enough. I can’t fix this. I can’t stop it.”

His eyes met yours, glistening with tears he didn’t bother wiping away. “I hate it. I hate feeling weak, like I have no control. Like all the things I’ve spent my life building can just be taken away like that.”

His words hit you like a blow, the raw anger and vulnerability in them leaving you breathless. You stepped closer, your hands sliding up to cradle his face, forcing him to meet your gaze. “Hey,” you said softly, your voice steady despite the ache in your chest. “You didn’t do anything to deserve this. This isn’t your fault. Sometimes life is just… cruel. But that doesn’t make you weak. It doesn’t take away who you are or what you’ve done.”

He exhaled shakily, his forehead pressing against yours as his hands finally unclenched, rising to grip your waist like he was anchoring himself. “It just feels like I’m losing everything,” he murmured, his voice hoarse. “I’ve fought so hard, and it’s still not enough.”

“You’re enough,” you whispered, your thumbs brushing against his damp cheeks. “And you’re not losing everything. You’re still here. You’re still you. And you’re not alone in this.”

A shudder runs through him, and he buries his face against your shoulder, his breaths warming your skin. His grip on you is still firm, but now it feels less like desperation and more like trust, like he’s finally allowing himself to let go of the weight he’s been carrying for so long. And as you hold him, you feel it—the unspoken understanding between you both, the promise that no matter how heavy things get, you’ll carry them together.

He presses into you—his head buried in the curve of your neck, his breath hot against your skin, his arms wrapping tightly around your waist—speaks louder than anything he could say. His grip is desperate but full of trust, as if he’s letting himself fall completely into you, surrendering the weight he’s been carrying. And you welcome it, your touch unwavering, your presence steady, giving him the space to let go in a way he never has before.

“I’ve got you,” you whisper, your lips brushing against his temple. “I’m here. You’re not alone in this, Mark. Not now, not ever.”

For a moment, his body stills, his breathing uneven against your skin. But then his expression shifts, darkening—not in anger, but with something deeper, more raw. The way you’ve been so good to him, the tenderness in your tone, the way you ground him in his darkest moments—it stirs something in him that feels too overwhelming to bear.

“Baby,” he moans, his voice thick with desperation as his hips grind against you, pulling a gasp from your lips. His hand slides down to your stomach, pressing lightly but firmly as he leans in close, his breath hot against your ear. “Don’t you wanna feel me here?” he whispers, his tone low, rough, and dripping with need, sending a shiver through you that you can’t suppress.

“Mark.” You give him a quiet warning, but the plea in your voice doesn’t stop him. He surges forward, capturing your mouth in a kiss that steals your breath. It’s hard, rough, bruising—everything he’s feeling poured into the way his lips crash against yours, the way his hands grip your waist like he’s afraid to let go.

Your body responds instantly, arching into him as his lips crash against yours, the kiss all teeth and desperation. Your fingers twist roughly into his hair, tugging hard enough to draw a low, guttural sound from his throat. His hands grip your waist, almost bruising, pulling you closer as if he’s trying to fuse your bodies together. You know exactly why he’s doing this—why his touch is so rough, so demanding—and you feel the tension radiating off him like a storm about to break.

For a moment, you give in, letting him drown in you. His hands slide under the hem of your cardigan, the fabric pushed aside hastily as his fingers fumble with the buttons. They pop open one by one, his movements frantic and unrelenting, his touch burning against your skin. He presses against you harder, his hips grinding into yours with an intensity that leaves you breathless. The sound of his ragged breathing mingles with your own as his mouth moves to your neck, sucking and biting at the sensitive skin until you know it’ll leave marks.

Your breaths hitch as his intensity consumes you, your movements instinctively mirroring his rhythm. His hands are firm, unrelenting, roaming over you with a desperation that speaks louder than words. But then, under the heat of it all, you feel the crack—the slight tremble in his grip, the unevenness of his breath as it stutters against your skin. It sends a shiver through you, pulling you out of the haze.

You gasp, your hands pressing against his chest as you push him back and break the kiss, your heart pounding in your ears. “Mark,” you say, your voice shaky but steady. His dark eyes meet yours, frustration flashing before confusion settles in their depths.

You shake your head, swallowing hard. “We can’t,” you whisper, the words catching in your throat. “Having sex with me isn’t going to make the sadness go away. It won’t fix anything, Mark.”

His jaw tightens, his breathing still uneven, his hands hovering at your sides like he doesn’t know whether to let go or hold on tighter. “Yes, it will,” he whispers hoarsely, his voice breaking with raw desperation.

Your chest tightens at his words, at the raw vulnerability etched into them. You smack his chest lightly, your voice catching as you speak. “No, Mark,” you say, frustration and tenderness mingling. “This isn’t how you fight it. I’m here for you—I always will be—but not like this. You don’t need to lose yourself in me to feel okay.”

You cradle his face, your thumbs grazing his cheekbones as you hold his gaze. “I know you’re hurting,” you murmur, your voice steady yet tender. “I know it feels unbearable, like you need something to make it stop. But this isn’t the way, Mark. Let me be here for you, let me hold you—but don’t use me to numb the pain.”

His shoulders slump, the fight leaving him in a slow, heavy exhale. He doesn’t say anything, he just leans into your touch, his breaths shaky but steadying. Then, without a word, he presses a soft kiss to your temple, his lips lingering there as though drawing strength from the closeness. His eyes flutter closed as he rests against you, his body molding into yours like it’s the only place he feels safe. Slowly, you feel the tension ease from him, his breaths evening out as he tries to let sleep take over in your arms, his quiet surrender breaking your heart and mending it all at once.

──────────────────────────────

The glow of Mark’s laptop screen casts soft shadows across his dimly lit room. His desk is a chaotic mess: scattered papers, highlighters tossed carelessly, notebooks with half-finished thoughts scribbled in the margins, and empty coffee cups piled haphazardly in the corner. He sits hunched over, fingers hovering over the keyboard, his jaw tight as he forces himself to focus. The weight of the silence around him presses against his chest, and the words on the screen blur as his thoughts drift.

Mark’s restlessness feels like a constant ache, gnawing at him from the inside out. Missing basketball practices to prioritize his health wasn’t a choice he wanted to make, but one he had to. It leaves him feeling untethered, the absence of the game creating a void he doesn’t know how to fill. Basketball was his escape, the one thing that grounded him when everything else felt overwhelming. Now, with his condition forcing him to step back, he feels lost, his body buzzing with energy he doesn’t know how to release.

He throws himself into his music compositions, desperate for a distraction, his fingers moving across the keyboard like he’s chasing something he can’t quite catch. The melodies echo faintly through the room, but they don’t bring him the comfort he craves. He tries to focus, tries to drown himself in the rhythm and flow of creating, but no matter how hard he works, his mind keeps circling back to you.

He wants you to be his distraction. He wants the comfort of your presence, the way you always seem to know exactly what he needs without him having to say a word. He wants the touch of your hand against his, the sound of your laugh breaking through his heavy thoughts. But he can’t have that. Not anymore. Not since you broke up. The thought twists in his chest, sharp and unrelenting, making the space around him feel even smaller.

Mark leans back in his chair, running a hand through his hair as frustration boils over. His eyes flick to his phone resting on the desk, the screen dark and still. He hasn’t heard from you today, and it gnaws at him, the need to reach out clawing at the edges of his resolve. He exhales sharply, dragging his hands over his face, but the ache doesn’t subside. He’s restless, frustrated, and his thoughts of you shift into something deeper, something primal.

His mind starts to wander, the memory of your voice, your touch, the way you’d look at him when it was just the two of you. He remembers the way you’d cling to him, your body trembling beneath his, the soft moans that would spill from your lips as he pushed you closer and closer to the edge. The memories make his breath hitch, his body responding instantly. He clenches his jaw, trying to focus back on the screen, but it’s useless. He needs an outlet. He needs you.

The room feels too empty. Too quiet. Too wrong without you.

He picks up his phone, scrolling aimlessly through your old messages, re-reading the little things: the way you’d remind him to take breaks, the jokes that made him laugh even on the worst days, and the texts you’d send just to check in on him. The space you’ve left in his life feels massive, and no matter how much he tries to fill it with work, it doesn’t stop the ache. He misses you—not just your presence but everything about you.

He misses your laugh, the way your hands felt on his skin, the way you always seemed to know exactly what he needed without him having to say a word. And deeper still, he misses the intimacy you shared—the way you made him feel whole, grounded, alive. The memory of being with you, being inside you, flickers in his mind, and he shifts uncomfortably in his chair, a heat rising in his chest that he tries to suppress.

But the frustration grows. The longing twists into something sharper, more unbearable. His fingers tighten around his phone as he scrolls to your contact, his thumb hovering over your name for a moment before he gives in, typing out a message with unsteady hands.

He presses send before he can overthink it, his breath catching in his throat. The seconds stretch into an eternity, and he wonders if he’s pushed too far, if you’ll ignore him entirely, but then your reply comes through, and his pulse quickens.

His screen lights up with the video, and the world around him ceases to exist. The glow illuminates your body—every curve, every movement, framed so perfectly it feels deliberate, like you knew exactly how to wreck him. The lighting is soft, intimate, and he instantly recognizes the lace thong hugging your hips: his favorite, the one he always begged you to keep on, the one he’d pull to the side just enough to sink into you. His breath falters, his pulse pounding in his ears as his eyes drink you in.

Your hand moves slowly, teasing yourself, your fingers gliding beneath the delicate fabric, and the wet sound of it is enough to send a jolt straight to his groin. Then you moan his name—his full name, breathless and needy—and it unravels him completely. A low, involuntary groan escapes his lips, and his entire body reacts. His chest tightens, his thighs clench, and he feels himself throb painfully against the confines of his sweats. Every detail—the arch of your back, the way your head tilts back in pleasure—burns into his mind, leaving him dizzy with need.

The moment the video fills his screen, Mark loses any shred of control he’d been clinging to. The sight of you—your legs spread, fingers working between the delicate lace of his favorite thong, your soft moans filling his ears—has his chest tightening, his breath stalling in his throat. He watches intently as your body moves, each subtle shift of your hips, each tremble in your thighs, sending a pulse of heat straight through him. His hand moves almost instinctively, trailing down to his waistband as he groans softly, “Baby…” The word slips out in a husky, desperate tone, his fingers brushing over the hardness straining against his sweats.

His resolve shatters completely as your moan echoes through his headphones—a breathy, broken call of his name that feels like a physical pull. He shoves his sweats and boxers down in one rough motion, freeing himself with a sharp exhale. His hand wraps around his length, his thumb brushing over the slick tip as he takes a moment to steady himself. But the video keeps playing, your movements hypnotic, the sight of your fingers disappearing beneath the lace leaving him throbbing in his hand. He starts slow, stroking himself deliberately, his grip firm, never taking his eyes off the screen. The need to feel closer to you becomes overwhelming, and his free hand fumbles for his phone.

Without breaking his rhythm, he flips the camera to record. The angle captures his hand wrapping firmly around himself, the way his skin glistens, and his chest heaving as he moans your name, raw and unrestrained. His voice is shaky but thick with desire as he speaks into the mic, desperate to pull you into the moment with him.

“Look what you’re doing to me,” he murmurs, his voice low and dripping with need. “You’ve got me so fucking hard, baby. I can’t stop thinking about you—about how tight you’d feel around me, how perfect you’d look under me, falling apart.”

He adjusts the angle slightly, showing the full view of himself, stroking harder now as his hips rock into his hand. The slick sound fills the quiet room, mingling with his heavy breaths. “I’d give anything to be inside you right now,” he groans, his tone breaking with desperation. “You’d take me so well, wouldn’t you? Fuck, I’d ruin you. Make you scream my name until you couldn’t think straight.”

He leans his head back against the chair, his grip tightening as his strokes grow faster, his voice dropping even lower. “I miss the way you’d beg for me,” he mutters, his words punctuated by sharp exhales. “The way you’d pull me closer, tell me not to stop. God, baby, I need you so bad.”

The video loops again, and his eyes snap back to the screen—your fingers moving faster, your lips parting in a moan that sends him careening toward the edge. He stutters, his entire body tensing as a guttural groan tears from his throat. His release spills over his hand, hot and messy, his body trembling violently as he moans your name, raw and unfiltered.

As the aftershocks ripple through him, he lets his hand slow, his chest heaving as he fights to catch his breath. His camera is still recording, capturing the remnants of his desperation: his glistening skin, his trembling thighs, the way his hand runs lazily over himself, already half-hard again. He finally angles the phone back toward his face, his eyes heavy-lidded, his lips parted as he speaks into the mic.

“Fuck, baby,” he murmurs, his tone rough and drenched with lust. “You’ve got me so desperate for you. I want to feel you, taste you, ruin you all over again. I can’t stop thinking about you. I need you so fucking bad.”

He ends the recording, his fingers still unsteady, and hits send without hesitation. As the message disappears, he collapses back into the chair, the longing for you still thrumming through his veins, even stronger than before.

The moment the video fills his screen, Mark loses any shred of control he’d been clinging to. The sight of you—your legs spread, fingers working between the delicate lace of his favorite thong, your soft moans filling his ears—has his chest tightening, his breath stalling in his throat. He watches intently as your body moves, each subtle shift of your hips, each tremble in your thighs, sending a pulse of heat straight through him.

He records a quick video, his chest heaving as he grips himself tightly. He angles the camera down, showing every movement of his hand, the glistening tip, the way he’s losing control. “This is what you do to me,” he murmurs into the mic, his voice heavy with need. “I need you so fucking bad, baby. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

“Baby,” he groans, the word tumbling out in a husky, desperate tone. His free hand trails down to his waistband, fingers brushing over the growing hardness straining against his sweats. His touch is hesitant at first, teasing himself, as if trying to hold back, but the sound of your voice breaks him entirely. The way you moan his name—soft, breathy, full of need—pulls a guttural sound from deep in his chest, and he can’t resist anymore.

He shoves his sweats and boxers down in one motion, freeing himself with a sharp exhale. His hand wraps around his length, his thumb brushing over the tip, already slick with his arousal. His movements are slow at first, his grip firm as he strokes himself deliberately, never taking his eyes off the screen. He replays the video, memorizing every detail: the way your hand disappears beneath the lace, the way your back arches slightly when you moan, and the way your lips part as if calling out for him.

“Fuck,” he mutters, his voice breaking as his hips lift into his hand. His mind is a mess of thoughts, all of them consumed by you. The way you’d feel beneath him. The way you’d gasp when he’d push deeper. The way your nails would scrape along his back as you begged him for more.

“Y/N,” he groans, the sound rough and desperate. His hand moves faster, each stroke slicker as he imagines it’s you, your body wrapped around him, holding him the way only you can. His head falls back against the chair, eyes fluttering shut as he lets the fantasy consume him. He sees you clearly in his mind—your thighs trembling as he grips them, your lips parting in a scream as he thrusts harder, deeper, hitting the spot that makes you fall apart for him.

“You’d take me so well, wouldn’t you?” he mutters under his breath, his voice dark and thick with lust. “Fuck, I’d stretch you out so good. You’d feel so tight around me, baby. Just like always.” His free hand grips the edge of the desk, his knuckles white as he fights to steady himself, his hips bucking into his hand with increasing desperation.

The memory of your body, the way you’d tremble beneath him, the sounds you’d make—it’s too much. His breathing grows heavier, his strokes faster and more erratic as his body chases the release that only thoughts of you can bring. “I miss the way you’d scream my name,” he growls, his voice breaking. “The way you’d pull me closer, telling me not to stop. God, I’d give anything to hear you beg for me right now.”

His hand moves relentlessly, his hips rocking into his fist as his moans grow louder, rougher. The tension in his body builds, coiling tighter and tighter as he teeters on the edge. “You’d let me ruin you, wouldn’t you?” he murmurs, his voice low and unsteady. “You’d take everything I give you. Fuck, I miss the way you’d cry for me, baby.”

The final push comes as he watches your face in the video again, the way your lips part as you moan his name. His head tips back, a shuddering groan ripping from his throat as he spills over his hand, his release hot and messy, leaving him trembling. “Y/N,” he moans, your name breaking from him like a prayer, his body jerking as the aftershocks ripple through him.

He sits there for a moment, panting, his body still thrumming with the intensity of it all. Then, with shaky hands, he grabs his phone, flips the camera to record himself. He doesn’t bother cleaning up, the sight of his slick hand stroking himself slowly as he recovers still raw and unapologetic. His voice is low, rough, dripping with desire as he speaks into the mic.

“Look what you do to me, baby,” he says, his hand running lazily along his length, already half-hard again. “I can’t stop thinking about you. I need you so fucking bad. I want to feel you, taste you, fuck you until you’re screaming my name. You’ve got me so fucking desperate for you.”

As he finishes, his body shudders, his release spilling over his hand as he moans your name one last time, his voice raw and unfiltered. He sends the video to you without hesitation, his heart racing as he collapses back into the chair, desperately waiting for your response, the tension momentarily gone but the longing for you only growing stronger.

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The morning light filters through your curtains, soft and golden, as you shuffle toward the front door. Your heart pounds with a rhythm you can’t quite control, anticipation and nerves tangling in your chest. The handle feels cool under your fingers as you pull it open, revealing Mark standing just beyond. He leans casually against the frame, his posture easy, but there’s an intensity in the way his eyes lock onto yours immediately, sharp and unwavering.

He looks good—too good. The warmth of the sun highlights the lines of his jaw and the subtle curve of his smirk. It’s subtle but deliberate, a flicker of amusement playing on his lips as his gaze drifts over you, lingering just long enough to make your stomach twist.

“Good morning,” he murmurs, his voice low, rich, and teasing, like he knows exactly what’s running through your mind. There’s a weight to his tone, something unspoken but impossible to ignore.

You try—really try—to meet his gaze, but your confidence falters almost instantly. Instead, your eyes dart downward, catching on the worn fabric of his sneakers, the edge of his jeans, anywhere but him. Your body betrays you, your fingers curling into the hem of your sweater as if the soft material could anchor you against the flood of emotions threatening to spill over. Your shoulders feel tense, your breathing uneven as you shift on your feet, suddenly hyper-aware of every tiny movement.

Mark doesn’t say anything, but he notices. He always notices. The way you hesitate, the way your lips part as if to speak but nothing comes out. The way your lashes flutter against your cheeks when you glance up at him briefly, only to look away just as quickly, like his gaze is too much to hold.

His eyes stay on you, unrelenting, and you can feel them moving over every detail: the flush creeping up your neck, the way your fingers fidget nervously, the way you can’t seem to stand still under the weight of his presence. He doesn’t move closer, but he doesn’t need to; the space between you feels impossibly small, charged with something electric.

There’s a subtle shift in his expression, something softer, though it’s fleeting. His gaze lingers on the curve of your jaw, the way you bite your lip when you finally manage a soft, “Hi.” It’s barely audible, but he hears it, the faintest flicker of satisfaction passing through his features before he schools them back into something unreadable.

He knows why. He knows why you’re flustered, still reeling from yesterday.

After exchanging those videos last night, things escalated quickly. The call that followed left you completely at his mercy. Just his voice—low, commanding, and utterly filthy—had you coming undone three more times, each climax leaving you more breathless and trembling than the last. He knew exactly what to say to have you at his mercy, completely undone and helpless to resist him.

The first time, it was his instructions. Precise, deliberate, and spoken with the kind of authority that left no room for hesitation. “Slower,” he’d murmured, his voice rough with desire. “I want to hear every little sound you make.” And you gave him everything, your breath hitching as you followed his commands, your body arching as his words wrapped around you like a tether, pulling you closer to the edge.

The second time, it was his praise. Dark and intoxicating, his voice softened just enough to send shivers down your spine. “That’s it,” he’d growled, the sound thick with approval. “You’re so fucking good for me, baby. Don’t stop now.” And you didn’t. You couldn’t. Not when his voice was the only thing anchoring you, pushing you higher and higher until the wave crashed over you, leaving you gasping and trembling.

The third time, it was pure desperation—both his and yours. His breathing had grown heavier, rougher, and the way he spoke was almost a plea, laced with need so raw it made your chest tighten. “One more,” he’d rasped, his voice cracking with hunger. “You’ve got one more for me, don’t you? Give it to me.” And you had, your body writhing as you chased the release his words pulled from you, his name spilling from your lips like a prayer.

Even after the call ended, the sound of his voice lingered, echoing in your mind as you lay there, completely spent. The weight of his control, the way he’d taken you apart and pieced you back together with nothing but his words, stayed with you long into the night, leaving your body humming with the memory.

“What are you doing here?” you manage to ask, your voice quiet, almost breathless. You’re too aware of how your words tremble slightly, the question spilling out before you can stop it.

His smirk deepens, the corner of his lips tugging upward as he tilts his head slightly. “Did you forget?” he asks, his tone low and teasing, like he’s enjoying this far too much. “You asked me to take you to campus. Said you wanted to come in with me today.”

Your brows furrow as you try to remember, the haze of last night still clouding your mind. Then it clicks, and your lips part slightly as the memory surfaces. “Oh,” you say softly, feeling the heat in your cheeks deepen. You lower your gaze again, unable to meet his eyes as the realization settles over you.

Mark doesn’t say anything, but the flicker of satisfaction in his expression is impossible to miss. He steps aside, gesturing toward the car parked at the curb, his movements deliberate and smooth. You nod silently, stepping out and closing the door behind you, your heart pounding in your chest as you follow him to the car.

Even as you slide into the passenger seat, you can feel his gaze lingering, heavy and deliberate. He doesn’t say anything, but the curve of his lips and the subtle clench of his jaw tell you he’s thinking about last night too. The silence between you isn’t empty—it’s alive, buzzing with the tension that neither of you can ignore. You can feel it in the way his hands tighten slightly on the wheel, in the way your thighs press together, the ache from last night still fresh and impossible to forget.

Mark starts the car, his movements calm, but the tension in the small space between you simmers, unspoken and undeniable. You can’t bring yourself to look at him, not when the memory of his voice, his commands, and the way he pushed you to your limits still lingers, heavy and electric, in the charged air around you.

The drive to college is too quiet. The hum of the engine fills the silence, but it feels suffocating. You keep your gaze fixed out the window, your hands fidgeting in your lap as Jeno drives, his grip firm on the wheel. He doesn’t seem bothered by the quiet—not at first. He’s calm, composed, but there’s an intensity in the air, in the way his eyes flick toward you at every red light, sharp and unrelenting.

Time stretched painfully, the weight of your unspoken thoughts pressing against your chest, until finally, he breaks the silence. “You okay? Thighs not aching?” he asks, his words deliberate, laced with something dark and teasing.

Your head snaps toward him, your expression caught between shock and indignation. “Why would they?” you quip, your tone defensive, but the heat rising to your cheeks betrays you.

He doesn’t respond right away, just smirks faintly, his fingers tapping lazily against the steering wheel as his gaze stays fixed on the road ahead. But there’s something dangerous in the curve of his lips, something dark and deliberate that makes your stomach flip and your skin burn under its weight. It’s not just a smirk—it’s a challenge, a reminder of the hold he has over you, and it’s infuriating how easily he can make your body betray you.

“You don’t remember?” he drawls finally, his voice smooth, slow, and dripping with amusement. The sound alone is enough to send a shiver racing down your spine. “Last night. The way you couldn’t stop shaking after the second time. Or was it the third? I lost count.”

Your jaw tightens, heat crawling up your neck to your cheeks as his words sink in. You glare at him, trying to ignore the way your heart pounds, but his smirk only widens, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. “You’re unbelievable,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest in a vain attempt to shield yourself from the weight of his teasing.

“And you,” he says, casting you a brief, pointed glance before looking back at the road, his tone dipping lower, smoother, “are still so shy. It’s adorable.”

His words hang in the air, heavy and intimate, and you bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response. But your silence only seems to fuel him, his low chuckle breaking the tension, the sound vibrating through the confined space of the car and settling deep in your chest.

Then his hand shifts on the gearstick, a small, casual movement that becomes anything but when his fingers brush against your knee. The touch is fleeting, light enough to be innocent, but the heat it leaves behind is anything but. You stiffen at the contact, your breath catching as your eyes dart to his hand. He doesn’t pull away—of course he doesn’t. Instead, he lingers for just a moment, long enough for you to feel the deliberate weight of his presence before he lets his hand return to the gearstick, his smirk softening but no less smug.

You want to say something, to snap at him, to remind him that you’re trying very hard to keep your composure, but the words die in your throat when he speaks again.

“Relax,” he murmurs, his voice dipping into something softer, though the teasing edge lingers just beneath the surface. His gaze flicks toward you again, his eyes scanning your face briefly, and the subtle way his lips curl tells you he can see right through you. “Literally just trying to drive my car.” 

The air between you feels heavier now, every subtle movement amplified—the way his fingers drum against the wheel, the way your thighs press together in an attempt to quell the warmth pooling low in your stomach, the way your breathing has quickened just slightly. You can’t help but think he notices it all. Of course, he notices.

And when his eyes flick back to the road, you catch the faintest shake of his head, as though your flustered reaction amuses him more than it should. The tension simmers, unrelenting, the memory of last night lingering in every unspoken glance, every subtle shift in the confined space between you.

“You need to stop using all your energy trying to fuck me,” you tease, your tone light but edged with something warmer, something heavier, “and instead save it for today. You’re gonna need it.”

He hums softly, the sound low and rumbling in his chest, though there’s a flicker of confusion in his expression. “Hmm?”

“You’re going into practice today, right?” you ask softly, your voice careful not to disrupt the fragile quiet. “When you tell them what’s been happening…” You hesitate, searching for the right words. “I’m sure the team’s gonna have a lot to say when you show up.”

His lips press into a thin line, and he nods once, curtly, his eyes focused on the road. “Yeah,” he murmurs, the single word heavy with something unspoken.

The reminder of practice shifts the mood instantly, a quiet tension settling into the car as you glance at him again. His teasing demeanor falters, just for a moment, and you notice the subtle changes in his posture—the way his grip tightens on the steering wheel, his knuckles whitening against the leather, and the slight furrow in his brow as your words settle in. His fingers, which had been drumming lightly against the wheel, fall still, as though the weight of what he’s about to face has rooted them in place.

You study him closely, the sunlight filtering through the windshield highlighting the sharp angles of his face. His jaw tightens, a subtle shift that you’ve come to recognize as a tell for when he’s deep in thought, when the world around him feels too heavy. He’s grappling with more than just today; you know that. Basketball has been his constant, his escape, the one thing he’s been able to rely on through every upheaval in his life. The idea of stepping back onto the court, even with restrictions, has been weighing on him in ways he hasn’t fully admitted.

Mark exhales slowly, the breath deliberate but not quite reaching his shoulders, and you notice how his posture feels too composed, too intentional—like he’s bracing himself against the storm he’s been carrying inside.

The silence stretches again, heavier now, and your chest tightens at the sight of him holding so much inside. You’ve known Mark long enough to see through the mask he’s trying to keep intact. The teasing earlier, the flirting, the smugness, the light banter—it was all a distraction, a way to steady himself against the weight he’s been carrying. Now, his shoulders look too still, his relaxed posture almost forced, like he’s trying to avoid thinking about what’s coming next.

You can’t let him carry it alone. Not today.

“Mark,” you say softly, your voice breaking the quiet, your tone filled with all the care you know he needs. “I know how much this means to you. And I know how hard it’s been. But I promise you…” You pause, your words trembling. “I’ll be there. If you need help telling everyone, if you need me to steady you, or just… if you need me to hold you after—it doesn’t matter. I’ll be there.”

His breath catches as his hand slides onto your thigh, his palm warm against your bare skin. The contrast between the cool morning air in the car and the heat radiating from his touch is startling, sending a shiver up your spine. His thumb begins to move, slow and deliberate, tracing lazy circles just beneath the hem of your skirt. The motion is subtle, almost teasing, but the weight of his hand feels grounding and possessive, like he’s silently claiming the space he’s touching.

Your heart pounds harder, each gentle press of his thumb making it impossible to focus on anything else. His fingers flex slightly, gripping your thigh as though he’s drawing reassurance from the softness of your skin, the strength in his touch betraying how tightly he’s holding himself together. The heat from his hand spreads through you like a slow-burning flame, pooling low in your stomach and tightening your chest. Every motion feels intentional, the pads of his fingers brushing against you with just enough pressure to make your breathing hitch.

You glance down, watching the way his hand rests against your skin, the way his knuckles disappear beneath the edge of your skirt. The sight alone sends a flush of warmth through you, and you can feel the tension growing thicker in the confined space of the car. His grip tightens briefly, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh of your thigh like he’s anchoring himself, as if he needs this contact to steady the storm brewing inside him.

For a moment, your own hand hovers uncertainly, the urge to touch him back overwhelming. Then, with a deliberate movement, you slide your fingers over his, pressing lightly against his skin. His breath hitches audibly at the contact, and his hand freezes for a heartbeat. You know what he’s thinking—that you’re about to move his hand away. The hesitation in his touch makes that clear. But instead, you push his hand higher, your palm guiding him firmly up the length of your thigh.

His knuckles brush against the fabric of your skirt, the motion slow and deliberate as the material shifts slightly with the movement. His fingers curl instinctively, gripping the sensitive skin of your inner thigh with more urgency, and a soft exhale escapes him, low and shaky. The air between you feels charged now, electric with something unspoken but undeniable, and you press his hand even higher, until the warmth of his palm is nearly unbearable.

The way his fingers spread against your skin, exploring just beneath your skirt, sends a shiver racing through you. His touch feels like fire and restraint all at once—like he’s holding back but not entirely. The tension builds with every shift of his hand, the sensation of his rough fingertips brushing against you igniting something deep within.

You hold your hand over his, not to stop him, but to keep him there, pressing your fingers down as if to say, don’t move. The weight of your touch is grounding, deliberate, and when his thumb drags a slow, agonizing line along the sensitive skin of your thigh, you can’t help the way your breath catches in your throat.

He doesn’t speak, but the way his hand lingers, the way his grip tightens, tells you everything you need to know. His need, his restraint, the way his fingers tremble just slightly as if he’s fighting himself—it all speaks volumes. And as the tension grows, the heat between you feels like it might consume you both, leaving no room for anything else.

──────────────────────────────

The gym hums with life, a constant thrum of activity. Players’ voices echo against the high ceilings, mingling with the dull thud of basketballs hitting the floor and the sharp clap of sneakers gripping the court. The air is thick with energy, an almost electric charge that clings to everything, amplified by the faint buzz of fluorescent lights overhead. Walking in alongside Mark, you immediately notice how everyone seems to move with purpose—the players warming up, coaches already shouting instructions, and clusters of students loitering on the bleachers, whispering and watching.

Coach Taeyong stands at the far end of the court, clipboard in hand, his brow furrowed as he watches a few of the guys run drills. His stance, stiff and authoritative, screams frustration, though he doesn’t yell like you’d expect. Instead, his gaze flickers over the team like he’s measuring their every move. Nearby, Coach Doyoung leans against the wall, arms crossed and a faint smirk tugging at his lips. His presence is calmer, but there’s a sharpness in the way he observes the players, a readiness to step in the moment something goes wrong. His role feels more protective than demanding, like he’s watching over them, ensuring they stay safe while still giving Taeyong the reins.

Karina spots you the moment you enter, her ponytail bouncing as she waves you over enthusiastically from her spot near the bleachers. You return the gesture with a small wave of your own, but before you can move, your gaze catches on a group of familiar faces. Aisha, Mia, Yeji, and Lia are huddled together near the benches, their heads tilted toward one another as they whisper animatedly. Their eyes dart to you and Mark, lingering for a moment too long, before they turn back to their conversation. You catch snippets of giggles and quiet murmurs, the kind that crawl under your skin and make you hyper-aware of yourself.

Mark seems oblivious to their stares, his focus fixed ahead as his steps slow just slightly. You notice the way his hand brushes against his side, a subtle tell that he’s nervous. You place a hand on his arm, stopping him for just a moment, and his eyes flick to yours.

“If you need me,” you say softly, your voice steady despite the knot in your stomach, “I’m right across the court.”

He nods once, his lips pressing into a thin line, but his gaze holds yours for a beat longer than usual. There’s something unspoken in his expression, something almost vulnerable, but before you can linger on it, he pulls away, heading toward the guys gathering near the center of the court.

You watch him for a moment, your chest tightening at the way his shoulders seem a little more rigid than usual, before finally turning toward Karina. She’s still waiting for you, tapping her foot impatiently as she gestures for you to hurry.

As you make your way over, you catch another round of giggles from Aisha and her group. They’re still watching, their whispers cutting off abruptly when you glance in their direction. This time, you don’t look away. Your gaze hardens, and their smiles falter slightly, though the smugness doesn’t disappear entirely. By the time you reach Karina, your nerves are buzzing, the weight of their scrutiny settling heavily on your shoulders.

Karina raises an eyebrow, her lips quirking into a knowing smirk. “What was that about?” she asks, nodding subtly toward the group as you drop into the seat beside her.

You shake your head, letting out a sharp breath. “Nothing worth worrying about,” you mutter, though the tension in your voice betrays you.

Karina doesn’t push, but her eyes narrow slightly, the wheels in her head clearly turning as she takes in your expression. “Did Mark spend the night?” she asks instead, changing the subject with a teasing grin. “Because, babe, you were moaning like a bitch in heat yesterday.”

The comment pulls an unexpected laugh from your chest, but your cheeks burn instantly. “He didn’t,” you admit, the memory of last night flooding your mind. “But we—”

The words die on your tongue when you notice Aisha and her friends again. They’re still watching, their eyes sharp with curiosity and something more—something that makes your stomach twist. Whispering resumes as you turn away, their laughter soft but pointed, and you feel your fingers curl into fists against your sides.

You take a deep breath, willing yourself to ignore them, but it’s impossible not to feel the weight of their stares. Their giggles cut through the ambient noise of the gym, each one like a needle pricking at your skin. You can’t make out the words, but you don’t need to. The glances they throw your way, the smug little smiles—they’re enough to make your blood simmer.

Karina notices the shift in your demeanor instantly, her teasing smirk fading as she follows your gaze. “What’s their problem?” she mutters, leaning closer to you. Her tone is sharp now, protective.

“I don’t know,” you reply quietly, trying to keep your voice steady. “But I’m done with it.”

Something hardens in Karina’s expression, her jaw tightening as she watches the group. “You should say something. Seriously. Don’t let them get away with this crap.”

Your instinct is to brush it off like you always do, to let it slide and avoid the confrontation. But this time feels different. This time, you can’t push down the irritation bubbling in your chest, the heat rising in your cheeks as their laughter grows louder. You’ve been dealing with their snide remarks and side-eyes for weeks now, and you’re tired—tired of shrinking yourself, tired of pretending it doesn’t bother you.

You stand abruptly, Karina raising an eyebrow as she steps aside to let you pass. The scrape of your sneakers against the gym floor draws attention, but you don’t care. Your focus is locked on them, your chest tight with a mix of anger and determination as you cross the court.

Aisha is the first to notice you approaching, her head tilting slightly, a sly smile curving on her lips. The others follow her lead, their expressions ranging from amused to smug. They don’t speak, waiting for you to make the first move, their silence as pointed as their earlier whispers.

“Do you have something to say to me?” you ask, your voice sharp and steady as you come to a stop in front of them. You cross your arms over your chest, your stance firm.

Aisha shrugs, feigning innocence. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Really?” you counter, your tone laced with sarcasm. “Because you’ve been whispering and laughing since I walked in.”

Yeji leans forward slightly, her grin widening. “We were just curious,” she says lightly, the edge in her voice impossible to miss. “Did you and Mark break up?”

You nod, your expression carefully neutral. “Yes.”

Yeji claps her hands together, her voice lilting with fake surprise. “I knew it. Told you, didn’t I?” she says, turning to Mia. “He’s fair game now.”

Your jaw clenches, a sharp flare of anger igniting in your chest as her words cut through you. “No, he isn’t,” you snap, your voice low and laced with steel. Your eyes narrow, locking onto hers with a glare so sharp it could pierce through her. The weight of your possessiveness hangs heavy in the air, daring her—or anyone—to challenge it.

Aisha scoffs, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “See? I told you they’d only last a month,” she says, addressing the group as if you’re not standing right there. “Didn’t I say he’d get bored and move on? The fact that I gave them a month but it hasn’t even been a month yet.”

Something inside you snaps, a surge of confidence bubbling to the surface as you step closer, your voice cold and sharp, cutting through the air like a whip. “Funny,” you begin, your tone laced with a biting edge, “you’re so obsessed with Mark, but he wouldn’t even look at you twice, no matter how hard you tried. You could throw yourself at him, beg for his attention, and he still wouldn’t give you a second of his time.”

Aisha scoffs, rolling her eyes. “Oh, please,” she snaps, her voice dripping with condescension. “You sound so confident for someone who can’t even keep him. Or did you forget you two broke up?”

Your jaw tightens, but you don’t back down, your gaze narrowing as you take another step forward. “You’re right, we did,” you fire back, your tone steady and unyielding. “But here’s the difference: even when we weren’t together, you still couldn’t catch his attention. And you never will.”

Aisha laughs, short and mocking, glancing back at her friends for validation. “Oh, come on. You act like you’re the only girl he’s ever cared about. Mark’s got a type, and let’s be real—it’s not commitment.” She leans in slightly, her eyes glinting with smug satisfaction. “You think you’re special, huh? Like you’re different from the rest of us? Newsflash: you’re not.”

Your gaze flicks over Aisha and her little entourage, each of them faltering under the weight of your words. You step even closer, letting the tension build, letting the heat of your anger—and your unwavering confidence—radiate from you. “Do you know how many girls Mark fucked before me?” you continue, changing the subject, your tone softer now but dripping with menace, making them lean in to catch every word. “A lot. And you know what’s even funnier? You weren’t one of them. Not you, not any of your little minions.”

You smile, slow and deliberate, watching their faces pale as your words sink in. “Do you want to know why?” you ask, your voice low and mocking. “Because you’ve never even been on his radar. Not even once. You’re not his type. Hell, you couldn’t even get his attention if you tried—and trust me, I know you’ve tried.”

You cross your arms, your stance confident and unyielding, your glare slicing through the false bravado in their smirks. “So maybe instead of spending all your time whispering and giggling like middle schoolers, you should focus on yourselves. Because whatever you think you’re going to get from Mark? It’s never going to happen. Not now, not ever.”

Aisha’s smirk slips for a fraction of a second before she recovers, flipping her hair over her shoulder with a casual shrug. “Maybe he just likes a challenge,” she says, her voice light but biting. “If you’re so sure he’s yours, why are you even wasting your breath? Sounds like someone’s a little insecure.”

You step closer still, the space between you practically crackling with tension. “Insecure?” you repeat, your voice like ice. “And for the record,” you continue, stepping closer, “Mark didn’t move on. He didn’t get bored. We broke up because we both have a lot going on, something I wouldn’t expect any of you to understand since all you seem to care about is gossiping like middle schoolers.”

Her expression freezes, her lips parting slightly as if to retort, but nothing comes out. The other girls glance between you, their whispers and giggles suddenly silent as the weight of your words sinks in. There’s a beat of stunned silence, and you feel the tension radiating off them, but you hold your ground. For once, you don’t look away, don’t shrink under their scrutiny.

You don’t consciously decide to cross the court, but something in the way Aisha and her friends are still staring—watching, waiting for you to falter—pushes you forward. It’s not about flaunting anything; it’s about reminding yourself, and them, that Mark has never been theirs to wonder about. He’s yours in a way that’s undeniable, unshakable, and entirely effortless. He doesn’t see them, never has. His attention, his focus, his everything—it’s always been you. And you know, with a confidence that feels rare but earned, that you can have him whenever you want, however you want, because it’s you he chooses every time. So you let your steps carry you to him, your head held high, the weight of their stares dissolving as the distance between you and Mark closes, like the rest of the world no longer matters.

The moment your eyes find Mark, something inside you settles. He’s standing with the team near the far side of the court, his posture deceptively relaxed, one hand tucked casually into his pocket while the other grips a basketball. He’s mid-conversation with Jeno, his expression neutral, but you know him too well. The slight tension in his shoulders, the way his gaze flickers across the court every so often—it’s subtle, but it’s there. He’s checking on you, watching without being obvious about it, sensing something’s off even from a distance.

Your chest tightens as you take him in. It’s not just the way he grounds you, the way his presence alone feels like a steadying force—it’s the fact that you know he’d cross the entire gym if he thought you needed him. And right now, you do. Not because you’re upset, not because of the whispers still buzzing faintly around you, but because you’ve had enough. Enough of their giggles, their pointed stares, their pathetic attempts to rattle you. You don’t owe anyone silence or the space to tear you down. You want Mark—not out of weakness, not because you need him to save you, but because you know he’s yours in a way that’s undeniable. 

Being with him isn’t about seeking refuge; it’s about showing them, and reminding yourself, that you don’t have to explain, defend, or prove anything. You’re tired of playing small, tired of pretending you don’t care when every look they shoot your way only fuels the fire. Mark centers you, but more than that, he amplifies you, and right now, you want them to see it—you want them to see him—and know that none of their whispers will ever come close to touching what you have.

As you approach, his head turns, his eyes locking onto yours instantly. You can see the flicker of concern in his gaze, the way his brows knit together slightly even as he straightens, adjusting his stance as if readying himself for whatever it is you’re about to say. Jeno glances at you too, his curiosity evident, but he steps back without a word, giving you the space you don’t even have to ask for.

Mark’s hand drops from the basketball, hanging loosely at his side as he watches you close the distance between you. His lips part slightly, like he’s about to speak, but you don’t give him the chance. You come to a stop right in front of him, your heart hammering in your chest as the world seems to shrink to just the two of you.

You don’t say anything at first. Instead, you let your hand slip into his, the motion natural, almost automatic. His fingers curl around yours immediately, warm and grounding, his grip firm but careful, like he’s afraid to hold you too tightly. His touch steadies you, the earlier tension in your body melting away as you feel the weight of his presence settle beside you.

His eyes search yours, his brow furrowing slightly, the faintest trace of worry flickering across his face. “Everything okay?” he asks softly, his voice pitched low, just for you.

A corner of his mouth quirks upward as he lets out a quiet laugh. “Thought you were about to slap her then,” he teases, his tone light but laced with curiosity.

You smile faintly, shaking your head as you let the tension in your shoulders ease. “Everything’s fine,” you reply, your voice steady, though the warmth of his gaze makes your pulse quicken. His fingers tighten ever so slightly around yours, grounding you, and you let yourself exhale, letting go of the last remnants of irritation. “It is now.”

When you turn back toward the girls, their wide-eyed stares meet you immediately. Aisha and her minions are frozen, their earlier smugness wiped clean, replaced with disbelief and a flicker of something else—something almost uncomfortable. They don’t say a word as you let them see it, the way Mark’s hand fits so easily in yours, the way he holds onto you like you’re the only thing anchoring him. You smile, letting your confidence radiate through the simple gesture, the subtle shift in your posture as you stand taller now.

Let them whisper. Let them watch. You’re done shrinking under their gaze, done letting their shallow judgments chip away at you. This time, you’re the one holding the power, and it feels like reclaiming a piece of yourself you hadn’t realized you’d been giving away. Mark’s hand in yours, his quiet, unwavering presence at your side—it’s all the reminder you need that their words don’t define you. They never did.

“Y/N,” Jeno says, his tone firm but tinged with concern. You glance over your shoulder, and he’s already walking toward you, his gaze flicking between you and the girls. “You okay?” he asks, his voice lower now, but there’s no missing the protective edge in his words. “You need me to do anything?”

You shake your head quickly, offering him a small smile. “No, it’s okay, Jen,” you reply softly, your voice steady despite the earlier tension. “Really.”

Jeno stops just a step away, his sharp eyes moving back to the girls briefly. His expression darkens, a silent warning flashing in his gaze that’s enough to make them look away. But when he turns back to you and Mark, his entire demeanor shifts. His grin spreads wide, warm and easy, the kind of smile you hadn’t seen from him in a while. It’s genuine, approving, and there’s something almost teasing in the way his eyes linger on Mark’s hand wrapped around yours.

“Wow,” he says quietly, his voice softer now as his glance shifts between the two of you. There’s no judgment, no hesitation—just a kind of quiet acceptance, like he’s starting to realize how much this makes sense, how natural it feels.

Mark nods at him, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. Jeno just shakes his head lightly, his grin widening as he takes a step back, giving you both space but keeping his presence nearby, protective as always. His gaze lingers on you for a beat longer before he turns toward the team, his body language calm but still watchful.

“Mark,” you whisper, your voice barely audible but enough to make him turn his head toward you. His eyes find yours immediately, and without hesitation, he leans in, his movements slow and deliberate. His lips hover near your ear, his breath warm and steady against your skin, sending a subtle shiver down your spine. His hand, still wrapped tightly around yours, flexes slightly, like he’s grounding himself in your touch.

The closeness feels almost suffocating in the best way, the air between you heavy with everything he hasn’t said yet. You tilt your head toward him instinctively, your voice soft and intimate as you ask, “You gonna tell the team now?”

He doesn’t answer right away, his jaw tightening as his eyes flicker downward, his thumb tracing slow circles against the back of your hand. When he finally nods, it’s slight, almost hesitant, but there’s a weight behind it that makes your chest ache. “Yeah,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, like he’s trying to steady himself through the words.

Your grip on his hand tightens, your fingers intertwining with his, holding him there for a moment longer. “You’ve got this,” you whisper, your lips brushing close to his jaw as you speak. The words are quiet, meant just for him, but you can feel the way his body responds—the slight shift of his shoulders, the deep inhale as if he’s taking your reassurance and letting it settle in his chest.

Mark turns slightly, his forehead nearly brushing yours as he lets out a slow, steadying breath. His hand lingers in yours, his thumb still moving in that comforting rhythm, before he finally steps forward. The absence of his touch feels immediate, but the warmth of it lingers on your skin as you watch him straighten his back, his shoulders squaring as he faces the team.

“Hey, guys!” he calls out, his voice louder now, steady despite the weight behind it. You can see the tension in his jaw, the slight quiver in his fingers as he flexes them at his sides, but he stands tall, the air around him shifting as the team begins to gather. You can’t help but follow him with your eyes, your heart tight with both pride and an ache you can’t quite put into words. Even now, as vulnerable as he is, there’s a strength in the way he carries himself, and it’s magnetic.

But you stay rooted in place, your fingers still tingling from where they’d been intertwined with his, knowing that whatever happens next, you’ll be there. Always.

The boys gradually gather around, their movements slowing as they notice the serious set of Mark’s expression. Jeno hangs back slightly, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp, already attuned to what’s coming. He doesn’t ask any questions—he doesn’t need to—but you can see the way his jaw tightens, the subtle shift in his stance as he braces himself for Mark’s words. Always one step ahead, always ready to offer quiet support, Jeno’s presence feels like a steadying force even before Mark speaks.

Mark glances at you briefly, the silent connection between you giving him the courage he needs as he begins to speak. “I need to tell you guys something,” he starts, his voice steady but tinged with emotion. “It’s about why I haven’t been playing as much lately.”

The group falls silent, all eyes fixed on him. Chenle and Jaemin exchange quick glances, their expressions curious but concerned. Doyoung steps forward slightly, his face already lined with worry, while Jeno stays close, his presence steady and grounding.

Mark takes another breath, his free hand brushing through his hair before he continues. “I have a heart condition. Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy,” he says, the words heavy as they leave his lips. “It’s something I’ve known about for a while, but I… I didn’t take it seriously at first. I thought I could push through it, play like I always have. But I can’t anymore.” His voice wavers slightly, and you feel the faint tremble in his hand as he grips yours tighter.

The gym is completely silent as Mark’s words hang in the air. The team’s faces reflect a mixture of shock, confusion, and concern. Jaemin’s brows furrow deeply, his usually calm expression giving way to worry. Renjun’s lips part slightly, his eyes wide, flicking between Mark and Jeno, searching for confirmation that what he’s hearing is real. Chenle’s hand comes up to his mouth, his eyes already glistening, and you see him blink rapidly as though trying to keep the tears from falling.

Mark’s voice shakes as he continues, his vulnerability cracking through the usual strength in his tone. “I thought if I ignored it, I could keep going. Keep playing. Basketball’s been everything to me for as long as I can remember—it’s the one thing I’ve always been able to count on. But I can’t anymore. If I push myself, it could…” He swallows hard, the word catching in his throat before he forces it out. “It could kill me.”

The room remains silent, the weight of his confession settling over everyone. Doyoung’s face crumples almost instantly, his emotions clear as his lips part in disbelief. “Son,” he whispers, his voice thick with sadness.

At the same time, Taeyong takes a step forward, his usual stern demeanor replaced by something softer, something almost unfamiliar. “Son,” he says, an unusual fondness in his tone, but he halts when Mark’s gaze snaps to him, cold and deadpan. Taeyong freezes, his mouth closing as if he knows he’s already lost the right to step closer.

Doyoung takes a sharp breath, the sound cutting through the room as his face contorts with distress. “Son,” he whispers again, his voice trembling. He takes a step forward, his hands reaching out slightly, but he hesitates, stopping just short of touching Mark. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

Mark’s jaw tightens, his grip on your hand the only thing grounding him. “Because I didn’t want to let anyone down,” he admits. “I didn’t want to let you down. Or the team. Or myself.”

The weight of those words sinks in, and you see Jeno shift beside him. He doesn’t speak, but his hand comes to rest on Mark’s shoulder, the small gesture carrying a silent reassurance that only a brother can give. Mark glances at him briefly, and for a second, you see the tension in his frame ease just slightly.

Jaemin, ever the optimist, steps forward, his voice quiet but firm. “Mark… none of us would ever think that. You know that, right? We’d never think you’re letting us down.”

Chenle sniffs quietly, and when he finally speaks, his voice wavers. “You’re one of the best players we’ve ever had. And not just because you’re good at basketball. It’s you, Mark. You’re… you’re just…” His voice breaks, and he rubs furiously at his eyes, unable to finish.

Renjun places a hand on Chenle’s shoulder, his own expression somber but composed. “We’re a team,” Renjun says firmly, his gaze locking on Mark’s. “And teams stick together. We’ve got you.”

Doyoung’s lips press into a thin line, his emotions barely contained as he steps forward again. “Mark,” he says, his voice thick with something you can’t quite place. “I’ve always been proud of you—on and off the court. This doesn’t change that. Not even a little.”

The silence stretches for a moment, until Jeno, ever the steady presence, squeezes Mark’s shoulder again. His voice is calm but firm as he says, “You’re not doing this alone. You’ve got me. You’ve got them. We’ve got you.”

Mark swallows hard, his eyes flickering around the circle of his teammates. His grip on your hand loosens slightly, and after a moment, you let go, stepping back to let them close in around him. The team moves as one, their voices quiet but filled with reassurance as they offer words of encouragement and solidarity.

You see Chenle’s tears fall freely now, his shoulders shaking as Jaemin pats his back lightly. Renjun murmurs something soft to Mark, his voice too low for you to hear, but the small nod Mark gives in response speaks volumes. Jeno doesn’t leave Mark’s side, his protective stance solid, grounding Mark in a way only he can.

Your gaze drifts to the edge of the court, where Taeyong stands alone, watching the scene unfold with an expression that’s difficult to read. For a fleeting moment, there’s a flash of regret in his eyes, but he doesn’t step forward again. He stays where he is, his figure framed by the shadows of the gym, a silent

You couldn’t help the sting of tears pricking at your own eyes as you watched the scene unfold. The vulnerability in Mark’s confession, the way his teammates rally around him, the unspoken love and respect in every movement—it’s overwhelming. 

The gym echoes with the distant creak of the heavy double doors as the last of the team filters out, their chatter fading into the hallway. The once-bustling court is eerily quiet now, the air heavy with everything left unsaid. Mark stands near the edge of the court, his shoulders slightly slumped, the tension of the day etched into his frame. Beside him, Jeno adjusts his bag strap, his focus on the exit as he steps toward it.

Just as they both reach the door to leave, Doyoung’s voice cuts through the silence, firm but gentle. “Mark. Wait.”

Mark pauses mid-step, his head tilting slightly as he looks over his shoulder. His brows furrow faintly, his exhaustion evident in the way his stance wavers for a moment before he turns fully to face his uncle.

Jeno, sensing the shift in tone, glances back briefly but doesn’t stop moving. His hand presses against the door, fingers curling around the cool metal. Behind him, Doyoung hesitates, his gaze flickering between his two nephews. There’s a visible pause, the air around him thick with indecision as his lips part, then press together again. His expression softens slightly, a mix of something unreadable—maybe uncertainty, maybe regret—before his voice cuts through the quiet, sharper this time.

“Jeno. You too.”

Jeno turns slowly, his brows furrowing as he processes the unusual request. He’s not used to this—being included, being needed in a moment like this. His gaze flickers to Mark, who offers the faintest nod, before he makes his way back toward them, his steps deliberate, his shoulders tense.

Doyoung steps closer, his arms crossed, but his expression is open, softer than usual. “I just wanted to talk to you both. This isn’t something I can say to the team—it’s for you two.” His voice is steady, but there’s an undercurrent of emotion that gives his words weight.

Mark lifts his head, meeting Doyoung’s gaze. “What is it?”

The gym feels cavernous now, the silence amplifying every breath, every subtle movement. Doyoung stands in front of his nephews, his arms crossed tightly over his chest like he’s trying to shield himself from the weight of the moment. His eyes flicker between Mark and Jeno, lingering longer than usual, as if searching for the right words.

“This isn’t just about basketball,” he begins, his voice quieter than usual but steady. He takes a step closer, his stance softening as his gaze lands on Mark first. “What you’ve been carrying, Mark—it’s more than anyone your age should have to deal with. Between the expectations, the pressure, and everything with… your dad…” Doyoung pauses, exhaling deeply. “It’s a lot. I know you’ve felt like you had to take it all on alone, but you don’t have to. Not anymore.”

Mark swallows hard, his jaw tightening. He doesn’t say anything, but his shoulders drop slightly, like a part of him is finally allowing himself to believe the words.

Doyoung turns his attention to Jeno, his expression shifting into something softer, almost hesitant. “And you, Jeno. You’ve been carrying your own weight, haven’t you? I see the way you look out for Mark, the way you protect him—whether it’s from himself, from others, or from all the crap life throws at him. You don’t just step up when someone asks you to. You do it because you care. Because you’re loyal. And it’s not just about Mark. You’ve been trying to hold this family together in your own way, even if you don’t realize it.”

Jeno’s brow furrows slightly, his posture stiffening. “I don’t know about all that,” he mutters, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I just do what I can.”

Doyoung shakes his head, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “It’s more than that. It’s the way you show up. For Mark. For everyone around you. And I want you to know, Jeno—I’m proud of you.”

The words land heavily, and Jeno’s head snaps up, his eyes widening slightly as if he didn’t hear right the first time. He blinks, looking away quickly, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “Uh… thanks, I guess,” he mumbles, his voice quieter than usual. He glances at Mark, who gives him a small, knowing smile.

“You don’t hear it enough,” Doyoung says, his tone firm. “And that’s on me. But I see you, Jeno. I see the man you’re becoming. And you need to hear that I’m proud of you. Both of you.”

Mark looks up at that, his eyes meeting Jeno’s briefly before flickering back to Doyoung. There’s a weight to his gaze, a quiet acknowledgment of everything unsaid.

“You both grew up missing pieces you should’ve had. One of you had your dad, and the other didn’t, but somehow his absence—and all the toxic ways he left his mark—still linger in both your lives. It’s all tangled up in ways neither of you can really escape.” Doyoung continues, his voice trembling slightly. “And I know… I know I can’t change the past. I can’t erase your Dad, the gaps he’s left in your lives. But you’ve built something for yourselves despite all of that. You’ve stayed close, stayed strong—and that’s because of the two of you, not him.”

Mark’s jaw tightens, his gaze fixed on the floor as if trying to keep his emotions in check. He swallows hard before looking up, his voice low and rough. “It doesn’t feel like strength most of the time,” he admits, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. “It feels like we’re just… surviving. Like we’ve spent our whole lives cleaning up his mess.”

Jeno shifts beside him, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His expression hardens for a moment, but the flicker of vulnerability in his eyes is unmistakable. “Surviving is strength,” he says, his tone sharper than he intends. “He didn’t give us much of a choice, did he? We had to figure it out on our own.”

But then Jeno’s gaze softens as it lands on Mark, his shoulders relaxing slightly. He exhales slowly, his voice quieter now. “…But you’ve had it worse,” he says, almost as if admitting it to himself. “You grew up with all of his bullshit right in your face, having to deal with his absence and his neglect. I didn’t, well, not in the same way that you did.” His arms drop to his sides, and he shakes his head, glancing away briefly before looking back at Mark.

Mark lifts his eyes to meet Jeno’s, his expression unreadable at first. The words sink in, settling somewhere deep inside him, and for a moment, he doesn’t know how to respond. He feels the weight of Jeno’s gaze, the honesty in his voice, and it stirs something raw in his chest.

He exhales slowly, shaking his head as his lips press into a tight line. “Maybe,” he says, his voice low and measured. “Maybe I had it worse in some ways. But it’s not like you came out of this unscathed, Jeno. He screwed both of us over, just… differently.”

The moment feels lighter for a second, but Doyoung’s next words pull them back into the gravity of the conversation. “You’ve both turned out better than anyone had the right to expect, considering what you’ve been through. And I’m proud of that. I’m proud of you.”

The air between them shifts, a subtle but significant softening. Mark and Jeno exchange a look, one of mutual understanding, before their attention returns to Doyoung.

As the three of them stand there, unaware of the figure lingering outside the gym doors, Taeyong leans against the frame, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His expression is unreadable, but the shadows cast over his face betray the regret etched into his features. He doesn’t step forward, doesn’t interrupt. He simply watches, the distance between him and his sons feeling more like a chasm than ever before.

──────────────────────────────

The mirror reflects two flawless versions of yourselves—both of you radiating confidence and allure in a way that makes the room feel electric. You smooth down the fabric of your dress, a satin black slip that clings perfectly to your figure, its midnight black hue shimmering faintly under the soft lighting. Karina stands beside you, her dress equally stunning—a deep emerald green that compliments her skin tone, the neckline daring and framed by her loose, effortless waves. You both look undeniably good, your makeup sharp and glowing, as if the night was already yours before even stepping out the door.

“God, we’re so hot,” Karina laughs, tilting her head slightly as she adjusts her pose, her phone capturing endless selfies. You laugh softly, your fingers grazing your neck as you glance at your reflection again, momentarily distracted by your thoughts. You fiddle with your phone in your hand, biting your lip in contemplation. Mark’s been on your mind all evening, especially after everything that happened. The idea of sending him a picture flutters into your thoughts—one part wanting to show him how good you look tonight, the other part… well, maybe to remind him of what he still lingers on.

Finally, you give in, leaning subtly toward the mirror to snap a single shot. You tilt your head, letting the delicate strap of your dress slide slightly off your shoulder in a way that feels artfully careless. After a moment of hesitation, you attach the image to the message and hit send, your heart skipping a beat as you wait for his reaction. It doesn’t take long for your phone to buzz.

“Wait, so Mark has a heart condition?” Karina asks, her voice slicing through the soft hum of the playlist you’d put on earlier. Her words pull your gaze from your phone, where Mark’s latest text had left a smile tugging at your lips. She’s standing by the mirror, adjusting her hair with practiced ease. Her eyes meet yours through the reflection, eyebrows raised in genuine curiosity.

“Yeah,” you say softly, glancing back down at your phone. “He does. And… it’s been hard on him. He’s upset about it, and I can tell it’s eating at him, even when he tries to act like it’s not.”

Karina turns, leaning a hip against the counter as her full attention shifts to you. Her lips curve into a small smile—gentle but knowing. “Of course he’s upset. It’s a lot to deal with. But you’ll be there for him, won’t you?” Her tone is light, but there’s an underlying seriousness in her question, like she already knows the answer.

“Always,” you reply without hesitation, your fingers idly brushing against the strap of your dress to adjust it. “I’ll always be there for him.”

Karina hums, studying you with a look that feels just a little too perceptive. “I have to say… you two have been spending a lot of time together lately. Are we just going to ignore the fact that you seem very close again?”” She pauses, her grin widening as she leans closer, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “But I don’t hear a single sound from your room when he’s over, so either he’s fucking you so hard you can’t even make a noise…”

You gasp, your cheeks heating instantly. “We haven’t been having sex!” you protest, but Karina only raises an eyebrow, her skepticism loud and clear. You throw your hands up in defense. “Okay, fine! I gave him one blowjob, but that’s it!” Her smirk widens, and you sigh. “It only happened because, when we were still together, I lost a game, and my punishment was to, well… you know.” You hesitate, glancing at her pointed look before blurting out, “And we broke up the next day, but I couldn’t break the damn promise!”

Karina bursts into laughter, her hand flying to her stomach as she doubles over dramatically. “You ‘couldn’t break the promise’?” she repeats, her voice dripping with mockery. “Oh, my god, you’re unbelievable. That’s the dumbest—and most you—thing I’ve ever heard. You broke up, but you still felt obligated to… follow through?”

She wipes a fake tear from her eye, shaking her head in disbelief. “You’re telling me you were single, yet you still gave him a goodbye blowjob out of sportsmanship? I can’t—this is too much.”

You glare at her, your arms crossing tightly over your chest. “It wasn’t like that,” you mutter defensively, though you can feel your face burning.

Karina grins, stepping closer to throw her arm around your shoulders. “Oh, babe, it was exactly like that. You’re too loyal for your own good. But hey, at least you kept your word, right?” She winks, her teasing relentless. “Mark must’ve been devastated losing you and the perks.”

“Shut up,” you snap playfully, rolling your eyes. “It’s different this time with us.”

Karina smirks, tilting her head to the side as she eyes you. “Different how? Like ‘we’re taking things slow and mature’ different? Or ‘we’re seconds away from ripping each other’s clothes off but pretending it’s about feelings’ different?”

You groan, shoving her shoulder lightly. “You’re impossible.”

“Hey, I’m just trying to gauge the vibe here,” she teases, raising her hands in mock surrender. 

You laugh despite yourself, shaking your head as you lean against the counter beside her, your shoulders brushing. The teasing gives way to a more vulnerable quiet between you as you exhale slowly. “It feels more emotional between us now,” you admit, your voice softer, more contemplative. “It’s like… we’re actually talking. Like, really talking. He’s opening up to me about things he’s never talked about before, and I’m doing the same. And, believe it or not…” You pause, your lips curving into a small, almost disbelieving smile. “We haven’t even had sex since the breakup.”

Karina freezes mid-pose, her mouth falling open slightly. She turns to you with an expression that’s part disbelief, part amusement. “You haven’t had sex? Not even once?”

You let out a laugh, shaking your head. “No, not even once. Sure, I can count four different occasions where it nearly happened but it didn’t! That’s so unlike us. And honestly? That shocks me. I thought I’d be the one to break first, but… I haven’t.”

Karina narrows her eyes at you, her teasing grin making a comeback. “What happened to the girl who swore she couldn’t resist going without his cock for more than a day? Who is this new woman standing in front of me?”

You snort, giving her shoulder a playful shove. “I’m evolving, okay? Growth.”

Karina raises a skeptical brow, her lips twitching in amusement as she grabs her bag from the bed. “We’ll see about that. I bet the second you see Mark, you’ll forget all about this so-called growth and be all over him.”

You roll your eyes, following her to the door, grabbing your keys and clutch on the way. “Let’s just get to Jeno’s before you start placing bets on my life choices.”

The two of you head down the hall of your apartment building, your laughter echoing softly in the quiet. Karina adjusts her dress as you step outside, the night air cool against your skin. “You call the ride?” she asks, glancing over at you.

“Already on the way,” you reply, the distant hum of city sounds filling the space between you. Moments later, a sleek car pulls up to the curb, and you both slide in, the buzz of anticipation swirling in the air.

The drive to Jeno’s feels light, Karina scrolling through her phone while you stare out the window, your thoughts drifting. The air smells faintly of bonfires and fresh grass as you step out of the car, the distant thrum of music seeping through the cracks of Jeno’s grand house. The last time you were here, everything changed—shifts in relationships, realizations, breaking points. But tonight feels different. As you approach the house, illuminated by soft golden lights strung across the patio, you feel something lighter, something that settles into you like peace.

Inside, the warmth and noise hit you all at once. People are sprawled across the expansive living room, some leaning lazily against counters, others clutching red Solo cups as they sway to the low hum of music. A chandelier above glimmers like a starburst, casting flickering patterns across polished floors and sleek furniture. The smell of spilled beer and faint vanilla candles mixes with laughter and the occasional clink of glasses.

Jeno is leaning against the kitchen island when you see him, his black shirt unbuttoned slightly, the casual chaos of his hair making him look effortlessly cool. His eyes lock onto you the moment you walk in, but instead of looking at your face, they travel downward, tracing every curve and detail of your outfit. His brows raise slightly, and he lets out a soft, appreciative whistle.

“Woah,” he says, his voice low and teasing.

You laugh, shaking your head as you approach him. “Like it?”

“If you and Mark don’t sort out whatever the fuck is going on between you,” he drawls, his grin widening, “then I’m allowed to bend you over the table and finish what he clearly hasn’t started.”

You roll your eyes, though your lips tug into a smirk. “You can still do that,” you counter, your tone light but daring. “Doesn’t have to have anything to do with Mark.”

Karina doesn’t even blink at the exchange; she just arches a perfectly sculpted brow, her expression amused but knowing. “You two,” she mutters, shaking her head with a wry smile. “Always the same.” Her words carry a hint of exasperation, but it’s obvious she isn’t taking it seriously. No one ever did. You and Jeno had this unspoken, flirtatious rapport, one that people had stopped questioning long ago. It was a game you both played—a harmless, teasing dance that never meant anything deeper. 

Her heels click softly against the polished floor as she makes her way toward you both. Every movement of hers is deliberate—hips swaying just enough, her emerald-green dress clinging to her figure like a second skin. Her confidence radiates as her sharp eyes land on Jeno, who doesn’t miss a beat. His lips curl into a smirk that’s half invitation, half dare, his hand casually adjusting the chain at his neck as his gaze sweeps over her like he’s taking in every detail.

“Don’t be jealous, Rina,” Jeno murmurs, his voice low and teasing as he leans in closer, the nickname rolling off his tongue like it’s meant to unravel her. His eyes flicker briefly to her lips, then back to her eyes, dark and full of intent. The way he moves is subtle but purposeful—like a predator closing in on its prey, confident in the effect he’s having.

Karina raises a brow, her red-painted lips curving into a slow smirk. Her hand finds her hip, the smooth fabric of her dress gliding beneath her palm as she tilts her head. “Jealous?” she echoes, her tone clipped but dripping with amusement. “Please.”

Jeno’s laugh is low, a deep rumble that vibrates in his chest. His arm tightens around her shoulder, his fingers brushing bare skin just beneath the strap of her dress. The casual way he holds her contrasts sharply with the intensity in his eyes as he tilts his head down, bringing his face closer to hers. His breath is warm, the scent of his cologne sharp and lingering in the space between them. “Come on,” he murmurs, his voice smooth as silk, yet rough enough to scrape against her defenses. “Admit it—you only want my eyes on you.”

Your breath hitches, a soft gasp escaping before you can catch it. The air feels heavy now, charged with a tension that’s both magnetic and suffocating. The teasing line between them blurs, and you feel your chest tighten at the intimacy in their exchange. Jeno had changed, right? He doesn’t play with people anymore—you know that. He doesn’t cross lines, doesn’t toy with emotions. But the way he’s looking at Karina right now, like she’s the only person in the room, sends a ripple of confusion and something sharper—something closer to unease—through you.

Wasn’t Jeno seeing Mark’s best friend? You think about the way they were always together, the quiet smiles exchanged in corners of rooms, the way she seemed to be a constant presence in his life. What is he doing? You’re not sure what unsettles you more—the possibility that he’s stepping into murky waters or the fact that you don’t want to stop him.

Because, god, it’s undeniably hot. There’s something electric about watching them—two hot and attractive people. Jeno’s fingers flex against Karina’s shoulder, grounding and deliberate, as if testing the waters. His smirk deepens, his gaze flicking between Karina’s eyes and lips, his head tilting slightly as if daring her to rise to his challenge. “You talk a big game,” he murmurs, his voice smooth and teasing, edged with a quiet confidence. “But I don’t think you’re ready for me.”

Karina’s brow arches sharply, her lips curling into a sly, knowing grin. She steps closer, her movement fluid and commanding, closing the distance between them until there’s barely a breath of space left. Her hand slides up slowly, fingers grazing the cool chain around his neck before curling around it. She tugs lightly, her eyes never leaving his, the challenge in her gaze unmistakable. “Ready for you?” she says softly, her voice low and edged with playful disdain. “Jeno, if I wanted you, you’d already be mine.”

The smirk on Jeno’s face deepens, his expression darkening with something primal. His free hand slides from her shoulder to her waist, his fingers splaying against the curve of her back, holding her firmly against him. His thumb brushes over the fabric of her dress, the small motion deliberate, sending shivers down your spine even from where you’re standing. His voice drops to a near growl, the sound rough and full of heat. “Oh yeah?” he murmurs, his lips just a breath away from hers. “Prove it.”

Before you can intervene with a sarcastic comment of your own, Karina tilts her head and leans in, her lips brushing against his. It’s brief at first, teasing, like she’s testing the waters, but when Jeno doesn’t pull back—in fact, he leans in—Karina presses her lips fully to his, her hand tightening on the chain she’s been playing with.

When Karina pulls away, her lips curve into a victorious smile, her thumb brushing the corner of Jeno’s mouth with a playful delicacy, as if wiping away an invisible smudge. “Told you,” she says smoothly, her gaze holding his, daring him to counter her confidence.

Your eyebrows shoot up, but you don’t interrupt, crossing your arms as you watch the moment unfold with an intensity that makes your chest tighten. Karina’s fingers stay curled around the chain at Jeno’s neck as their lips clash again, harder this time—hungry and unapologetic, the air between them charged with rough desperation. There’s no hesitation in their movements, no softness, just raw energy that draws your eyes like a magnet.

Jeno doesn’t pull back. His hand grips her waist firmly, fingers digging into the fabric of her dress as he tugs her closer, their bodies pressing together in a way that makes the air in the room feel heavier. His other hand moves to cup the back of her neck, his hold firm, possessive. The angle of his jaw shifts as his lips press harder against hers, the kiss growing almost frantic, a battle for control that neither seems willing to lose.

Almost simultaneously, their gazes shift to you. It’s not subtle— Karina’s lips quirk into a knowing smile, her head still tilted as though she’s daring you to react. Jeno just smirks, the sharpness in his expression softening slightly. He doesn’t make the comment you expect—a sly invitation to join in, the usual quip he’d toss your way without hesitation.

Instead, the silence stretches for a beat too long, and you let out a quiet gasp, breaking it. “I thought you were with Mark’s best friend?” you ask, your voice light but laced with genuine curiosity. 

Jeno shrugs, his hand finally dropping from Karina’s waist as he steps back slightly. There’s something in his eyes you’ve never seen before—a flicker of something unspoken. Sadness? Dismissal? It’s hard to place, but it’s enough to make you hesitate. “Well, I’m not,” he says simply, his tone clipped, the kind that warns you not to push further.

Karina, ever perceptive, tilts her head, watching him closely. “That’s new,” she murmurs, though her voice isn’t teasing this time.

Jeno’s shoulders relax slightly, and he forces a grin back onto his face, the sharpness returning as if to push the moment away. “Anyway,” he says, turning to you both. “Who’s ready to get completely fucked up?”

You blink, caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone, but Karina’s grin returns almost instantly. “Always,” she says, her confidence unwavering as she adjusts her dress.

Jeno pulls a small bag from his pocket, the faint sheen of its contents catching the low, golden party lights. “You two are in for a treat,” he murmurs, his voice low and dripping with a quiet confidence that sends a shiver through you. His fingers curl around the edge of the bag, tipping it just enough to let a few muted-colored pills spill into his palm. The smirk on his lips is teasing, daring, as his gaze flicks between you and Karina.

Karina doesn’t even blink. She snatches one between two manicured fingers, rolling it thoughtfully before popping it into her mouth. “Easy,” she says with a grin, chasing it down with a generous sip of her drink. Her eyes flash to yours, the corner of her lips curling mischievously. “Come on, we’re not driving tonight. No excuses.”

Jeno watches your hesitation, the pill resting between your fingers as you turn it over, biting your lip in quiet contemplation. His smirk sharpens, something teasing and confident flashing in his eyes. Without a word, he steps closer, closing the small distance between you. His presence feels overwhelming, his cologne mixing with the electric hum in the air.

“Need some help?” he murmurs, his voice low and smooth, the kind of tone that sends a shiver down your spine. Before you can respond, he plucks the pill from your fingers with a deft motion, holding it delicately between his own. He tilts his head, his lips quirking into that ever-present smirk, and you watch, entranced, as he lifts the pill to your lips.

“Open,” he says simply, his tone equal parts playful and commanding.

You hesitate for half a second, your breath catching as you look up at him. But the anticipation, the weight of his gaze, and the steady buzz of the party around you make it impossible to resist. Slowly, you part your lips, your eyes never leaving his.

Jeno slips the pill onto your tongue with a deliberate slowness, his fingertips brushing your bottom lip in a way that feels entirely too intentional. The contact is brief but electrifying, the weight of it settling somewhere deep in your chest. You swallow quickly, the pill going down easily, but the heat of his touch lingers far longer.

“There we go,” Jeno says, his voice quieter now, his smirk softening into something more dangerous, more intimate. His hand lingers for a moment, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth as if to check if the pill’s really gone—or maybe just to leave you breathless.

Karina snorts beside you, breaking the spell. “Jesus, Jeno. Are you seducing her into taking it?”

“Maybe,” he replies smoothly, leaning back with a laugh, his fingers running through his hair as he follows suit, popping one himself and chasing it with a lazy swig of his drink, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the motion.

The effect creeps in slowly, like a warm tide pulling you under. The party around you begins to shift, the music deeper, richer, vibrating through your chest like a heartbeat. The lights seem softer yet more vivid, every flicker and hue painting the room in golden tones that feel almost unreal. Laughter and voices blur together into a soothing, rhythmic hum, the buzz settling into your body like a familiar warmth.

Karina’s laugh cuts through the haze, drawing your attention. She leans closer to you, her arm brushing yours, her lips curling into a knowing smile. “Feeling it yet?” she asks, her voice soft but full of mischief.

“Just starting,” you admit, the edges of your thoughts beginning to soften, your body sinking deeper into the moment. You glance over at Jeno, whose gaze lingers on you with a quiet intensity, his smirk turning sharper as if he knows exactly what you’re feeling.

“Good,” Jeno murmurs, his voice a low rumble that seems to reverberate through the charged air between the three of you. He steps closer, his presence magnetic and undeniable, the heat of his proximity making your breath hitch. Karina tilts her head, her lips parting slightly as she watches him, her expression unreadable but filled with a confidence that makes the moment feel even more intense. The tension between them crackles, thick and palpable, drawing you in even as your chest tightens.

Jeno leans back against the counter, his posture relaxed but his presence commanding as always. “You know I love when you’re around,” he starts, his voice teasing but edged with something firmer. His dark eyes flick over you, lingering just long enough to make you feel self-conscious. “But how can you come to the party looking like that and you’re not even trying to find Mark? Why are you here with me and Karina?”

You laugh, trying to deflect the tension curling in the air. “I like being around you both?” you say lightly, but even you can hear the waver in your tone.

Jeno isn’t buying it. His grin sharpens, his gaze unwavering as he straightens slightly, his tone turning more authoritative. “Go and find Mark,” he says firmly, like it’s not a suggestion but an order.

Your breath catches, your heart pounding harder as his words settle over you. The weight of them presses down, and you find yourself nodding despite the unease twisting in your chest. “Fine, I’m going,” you mutter, stepping back slightly. Your voice is softer than you mean for it to be, and you glance between the two of them, your pulse racing. “I’ll talk to you later.”

Jeno doesn’t move, his gaze still fixed on you. His dark eyes flicker briefly, something unreadable flashing in them before his grin returns—sharp, knowing. His hand brushes against Karina’s waist casually, the motion almost imperceptible, yet it carries a weight that makes your stomach churn. “Good,” he says simply, his voice low and steady, dripping with something unspoken.

Karina’s gaze softens as she looks at you, her lips curving into a knowing smile that sends a pang through your chest. “Go get him,” she says quietly, her voice tinged with amusement but not unkind. There’s something in her tone, an unspoken understanding that leaves you both comforted and slightly unsettled.

You nod faintly, turning away and slipping through the crowd. The distant thrum of the music fills your ears as you make your way toward the back of the house, the weight of their gazes lingering on your back. You try to shake it off, focus on Mark, but the moment feels etched into your skin, lingering like an unfinished sentence.

The music grows louder as you weave through the thrumming party, every bass drop vibrating in your chest and blending with the growing buzz in your head. The pill Jeno had given you earlier is starting to work its way through your system, softening the edges of the world around you. Colors feel more vivid, the laughter and voices blending into a surreal hum that makes everything feel weightless. Your body feels lighter, like you’re gliding rather than walking, but your focus is sharp—trained on finding Mark.

You follow the location he sent you, his message still fresh in your mind, until you reach the back of the house. The room you enter is quieter than the main party, dimly lit with soft yellow light that pools around the corners. Your steps falter as you spot him, his broad shoulders framed against the glow of the room. He hasn’t seen you yet; his back is to you, and he’s leaning against a high table with a drink in hand. Chenle and Donghyuck are flanking him, their easy laughter filling the space.

Mark looks relaxed, or at least he’s trying to. His stance is casual, his head tilted slightly as he listens to Donghyuck animatedly recount something you can’t quite hear over the music. But you can tell—it’s all a mask. The tension in his shoulders is evident even from here, his free hand clenching and unclenching at his side. You start to move toward him, your heart pounding faster now—not from the drugs, but from the magnetic pull you always feel when he’s near.

Then you hear your name.

You freeze mid-step, your breath hitching as your ears hone in on Chenle’s voice.

“I don’t get it,” Chenle says, his tone low but not malicious. He glances at Mark, his expression both concerned and confused. “Why are you so hung up on her, man? I mean, she broke up with you, didn’t she? And… I don’t know. It just seems like she’s not fully in it. Like she’s not committed.”

Your stomach twists, the words hitting you harder than they should. The high in your veins does nothing to soften the sting, and you can feel your pulse pounding in your ears.

Mark doesn’t respond right away, taking a slow sip from his drink before setting it down on the table with a deliberate clink. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says evenly, his voice low but firm. “Y/N’s been there for me through everything. She’s committed, more than anyone else ever has been.”

“Then why’d she leave?” Donghyuck interjects, his tone sharper but not unkind. “I’m just saying, Mark, maybe Chenle has a point. You’re putting a lot on her. Are you sure she can handle it?”

Your chest tightens, the weight of their words pressing into you like a stone sinking in water. For a fleeting second, you consider stepping forward, announcing your presence, and shutting down the conversation. But your feet stay rooted to the spot, your body buzzing with a tangled mix of anger, hurt, and the sharp edge of the drug coursing through you. Instead, you slowly step back, slipping further into the shadows as the ache in your chest grows heavier.

You take a moment to breathe, but it feels futile. The high makes everything sharper—every word you overheard echoing in your head, louder, crueler, twisting and cutting deeper with each replay. Your back presses against the wall as your trembling hands rise to cover your face, trying to block out the noise in your mind. For a moment, you want to run, to slip out the back door and vanish into the night, leaving the whispers and unbearable weight behind. But there’s that part of you—that stubborn, unrelenting part—that refuses to walk away from Mark. Not yet. Not again. 

You stay where you are, rooted in place, the ache in your chest steady but not unbearable. And you’re glad you do, because the next thing you hear changes everything.

“Enough,” Mark’s voice cuts through the low buzz of conversation like a blade. There’s a tension in his tone you rarely hear, sharp and commanding. “I’m not gonna sit here and let you talk about her like that.”

A pause follows, heavy and uncertain, before Chenle’s hesitant voice breaks through. “Mark, I didn’t mean it like—”

“No,” Mark interrupts, his voice firm now. “You meant it exactly how it sounded. And I get it—you’re trying to look out for me, and I appreciate that, but you don’t know her like I do. She’s trying, Chenle. She’s been through more than you could imagine, and she doesn’t deserve to be talked about like she’s not enough. She is. More than enough.”

His words hit you like a wave, warm and overwhelming. Your heart swells, the heaviness in your chest momentarily lifting as his voice softens, turning raw. “She’s everything to me,” he adds quietly. “And if you can’t understand that, then maybe you don’t know me as well as you think.”

You press your palm against your mouth, trying to hold in the sob that threatens to escape. Tears prick at your eyes, this time not from hurt but from the sheer weight of his words. He’s defending you—fiercely, unapologetically—and it feels like a balm on a wound you didn’t realize had cut so deep.

But as much as his words warm your heart, the reality of the situation still stings. You know how awkward it would be if they realized you’d overheard the entire conversation, and a part of you can’t shake the lingering shame of Chenle’s comment. The words, sharp and careless, had burrowed into your mind before Mark could pull them out.

So, despite the comfort Mark’s defense brings, you decide to leave. You step back further into the shadows, biting the inside of your cheek to keep your tears at bay as you slip toward the exit. The sound of laughter and music grows fainter behind you, muted by the ache in your chest.

As you make your way toward the door, the tears you tried so hard to suppress spill free, tracing hot trails down your face. You swipe at them quickly, not wanting anyone to notice, but the sadness feels relentless, bubbling up faster than you can control.

Why is it always like this with Mark? you wonder bitterly. Whenever things feel good—when the rhythm between you feels steady—something always comes along to break it. Chenle’s words replay in your mind, cruel and undeniable: Mark deserves someone who can meet him halfway.

The sting of it runs deeper than it should, and you hate that it feels so true. Not because you don’t care, but because you’ve always been scared you’d never be enough for him, not really. You press your hand against your chest, willing yourself to breathe, to push the hurt down long enough to remind yourself of why you’re here.

You came to see Mark tonight. To be there for him. But right now, the ache in your chest is too raw, the weight of it too much. You need space to steady yourself, to gather your courage before you can face him again. You know you’ll be okay—you always are, eventually—but tonight, you need a moment to yourself.

The party hums around you, the distant thrum of bass-heavy music vibrating through the floor, blending with the sound of laughter and muffled conversation. The air feels thick and hazy, amplified by the lingering ache in your chest and the sharp edge of everything you’ve overheard tonight. Your steps are slow, almost reluctant, as you weave through the crowd, your vision still slightly blurred by the tears you’ve yet to fully wipe away.

And then you spot him—Jeno, one of the few people who always makes you feel grounded, no matter how chaotic things get. He’s tucked into a quieter corner of the party, lounging on a couch with one arm draped lazily along the backrest and a joint held loosely between his fingers. The faint glow of a nearby lamp casts a warm light over his sharp jawline and tousled hair, accentuating the effortless confidence in his posture. A faint smirk plays on his lips as he takes a slow drag, exhaling a stream of smoke that curls upward, blending with the muted haze of the room. His gaze flickers idly across the party before it lands on you, softening slightly as it meets yours.

For a moment, his smirk falters, his eyes narrowing slightly as they meet yours. You know he notices the redness around your eyes, the faint shimmer of tears threatening to fall. But he doesn’t call attention to it. Instead, he shifts slightly, patting the space beside him in silent invitation.

You sink onto the couch without hesitation, your body pressing into the cushions as you try to steady your breath. Jeno leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees as he takes another drag from the joint. The smell of smoke and faint cologne clings to him, comforting in its familiarity.

Jeno notices the tears spilling out in an uncontrollable manner. His body tenses briefly, and then he moves, the gesture slow and deliberate. His free hand reaches out, his knuckles brushing lightly against your cheek, wiping away the tears with surprising gentleness. His touch lingers for a moment, the warmth of his skin grounding you in a way that words couldn’t.

“Hey,” he murmurs softly, his voice low and soothing. “None of that, okay?”

You swallow hard, your breath hitching as his gaze locks onto yours. The way he looks at you—steady, unwavering, and far softer than you expected—makes your chest ache in a different way. His thumb grazes your cheekbone, catching another tear before it can fall.

“Here,” he says quietly, lifting the plastic cup back to your lips. “Drink. It’ll help.”

You hesitate for a moment but eventually part your lips, letting him tilt the cup just enough for the cool liquid to touch your tongue. The alcohol burns slightly as it slides down, but it’s a welcome distraction, a way to dull the sharp edges of your emotions.

You let yourself lean closer, your head resting lightly on Jeno’s shoulder. He glances down at you, his movements slowing, his smirk softening as his gaze flickers over your face. His thumb brushes against your shoulder—a small, grounding gesture that feels more comforting than anything else. “Comfortable?” he asks quietly, his voice low and warm, the teasing edge in his tone softened by something gentler.

“Very,” you murmur, tilting your head up to meet his gaze. A faint smile curves your lips, but it falters almost immediately as another tear escapes, trailing down your cheek. His eyes narrow slightly, catching the movement, and without hesitation, Jeno’s free hand moves. His knuckles brush lightly against your skin, wiping it away with a touch so delicate it makes your breath hitch. His gaze lingers on yours, steady and warm, before his lips curve into a soft, wide smile that feels grounding in a way words couldn’t.

“Pretty girls shouldn’t cry,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper, but the words settle over you like a balm. His thumb lingers just beneath your eye, catching another tear before it can fall, the tenderness in his movements catching you off guard.

You huff out a shaky laugh, your cheeks warming slightly as you glance away. “You can’t just say things like that,” you murmur, the corner of your lips tugging upward despite the weight in your chest.

He chuckles softly, the sound low and rich as his arm tightens around your back. “I can and I just did,” he murmurs, his tone playful but steady. “It’s part of the job.”

“What job?” you ask, glancing up at him, your brow arching slightly.

“Making you smile,” he says simply, his gaze dropping to meet yours. His voice softens, a warmth threading through it as he adds, “You’ve got a pretty smile. You should show it off more.”

Your chest tightens, but this time it’s not from sadness. You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to fight the small grin threatening to form, but his words have already done their work. For the first time tonight, the ache in your chest loosens, replaced by a flicker of something softer.

Jeno’s hand moves again, his knuckles brushing gently against your cheek as if daring another tear to fall. “There it is,” he murmurs, his lips tugging into a faint smile of his own. “Told you. Prettiest smile in the room.”

You exhale a quiet laugh, the sound shaky but genuine as you let your head fall back against his shoulder. The scent of his cologne, mixed with the faint smoke clinging to his clothes, grounds you in the moment. The party hums in the background, distant and insignificant compared to the calm he anchors you in.

Jeno lets the quiet hang for a moment, his gaze steady on you, his thumb tracing lazy circles against your shoulder. “I’m not complaining,” he starts, his voice light, though there’s an edge of curiosity beneath it. “I love having you here. But…” He tilts his head slightly, his eyes narrowing. “Why are you here? I was expecting Mark to be balls deep inside of you right about now.” 

“I…” Your voice cracks, breaking under the weight of everything you’ve been holding in. “I just needed a minute, okay?” The words come out shakier than you intend, trembling with the emotions you can’t seem to control. “I couldn’t face him like this.”

Jeno shifts slightly, turning toward you, his body language open but attentive. “A minute from what?” he asks, though there’s no judgment in his tone—just curiosity laced with concern. “Did you two have a fight or something?”

You exhale shakily, your chest tightening at the memory. “No. Not exactly,” you murmur. “I overheard Chenle talking about me… about us. It wasn’t great.”

Jeno’s expression sharpens, his jaw tightening slightly. “What did he say?” His voice is calm, but you can feel the subtle tension in it, the way his posture shifts as if readying himself for action.

“It’s not important,” you reply quickly, shaking your head. “Mark defended me. But still…” You trail off, your voice faltering as you search for the right words. “It just hit harder than I expected. Like… maybe he’s right. Maybe I’m just—”

“Don’t even finish that sentence,” Jeno interrupts firmly, his tone cutting but not unkind. His hand slides to your upper back, grounding you with a steady touch. “You’re not just anything. Don’t let Chenle or anyone else make you doubt that.”

His words make your throat tighten, and you swallow hard, trying to push past the lump rising there. “I didn’t want to ruin the night,” you admit softly. “I thought maybe giving myself some space would help.”

Jeno leans back slightly, studying you with a look that’s both exasperated and fond. “You think running off is gonna fix things?” he asks, his tone lighter now, almost teasing. “Mark’s over there probably wondering where the hell you went.”

His words make your throat tighten, and you swallow hard, trying to push past the lump rising there. “I’m not running off,” you reply quickly, your voice quiet but firm. “I just… I needed to get away for a second. To breathe. It’s a lot sometimes, you know? I’ll find him. I will. I just couldn’t face all of them right after hearing that.”

Jeno studies you for a moment, his expression softening as he takes in the sheen of tears still clinging to your lashes. He leans forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees, and nods. “Yeah, I get it,” he says, his voice quieter now. “Sometimes it’s too much. People say things, and it gets in your head. You just need a second to clear it out.”

You glance at him, your chest loosening a little at the understanding in his tone. “Exactly,” you murmur, a faint smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “But I’ll go back to him. I came here to see him, and I’m not going to let this… whatever this is, stop me. I just needed a minute to remind myself why I’m doing this.”

Jeno leans back again, letting out a soft, thoughtful hum. His gaze lingers on you, sharp but not unkind, and his lips twitch into the beginnings of a smirk. “Good. That’s good,” he says, nodding slowly. “But maybe don’t make him wait too long, yeah? He’s probably over there thinking he did something wrong. You know how he is.”

You sigh, running a hand through your hair as you glance toward the crowded room. “You’re right,” you admit, though the thought makes your chest tighten all over again. “He doesn’t deserve to feel like that.”

But Jeno’s expression shifts, his tone suddenly sharper. “I think you’re stupid, though,” he says bluntly.

“Jen?” you pout, tilting your head to look at him, your voice laced with half-hearted protest.

He doesn’t hold back. “I just think breaking up with him wasn’t a good idea. You’re making excuses and running away when it gets too much. You and Mark? You’re destined to be together, and you know it. So you need to sort yourself the fuck out.”

His words hit you harder than you expected, and you huff softly in defeat, unable to find anything to say in response. He wasn’t wrong, and the truth of it made you sink deeper into his side. You closed your eyes, pressing your forehead against his shoulder as a wave of frustration and guilt washed over you. Jeno didn’t sugarcoat things—he never had—and though his bluntness stung, there was an odd comfort in how direct he was. Still, it didn’t make his words any easier to swallow.

“You’re a dumbass,” he muttered, his voice quieter now but no less cutting. “Disrespecting my brother like that.”

You shook your head, biting back a small smile as you turned your face away. Jeno’s honesty was brutal, but there was something endearing about it, something that reminded you why you’d always appreciated him, even when he pushed too hard. You ignored the sharp edges of his words, choosing instead to focus on the fact that Mark and Jeno were finally embracing their bond.

Their relationship hadn’t always been this strong, but now? There was no denying the love and connection between them. It suited them—the way they teased each other, supported each other, and finally stood side by side as brothers. They’d come such a long way, and you couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pride watching them grow into this version of themselves.

“You’re smiling,” Jeno said suddenly, his tone suspicious as he glanced down at you.

You didn’t bother denying it. “I’m just thinking about you and Mark,” you said softly, still leaning into him. “You two are good together. You’ve both come so far.”

Jeno’s expression softened, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes before he scoffed lightly. “Yeah, well, he’s my brother.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

Jeno’s lips twitched into a smirk, but he didn’t respond, his hand giving your hand a brief squeeze before letting go. The silence between you felt different now—not heavy, but steady, grounding. It was his way of showing you that he believed in you, that despite all his sharp words, he knew you could make things right.

The moment you push yourself off the couch, ready to head to Mark, you catch sight of Karina weaving her way through the crowd toward you and Jeno. Her steps are slightly uneven, her face glowing from the haze of alcohol and drugs, but there’s a sharpness in her gaze that cuts through the dim light of the party. Your tears must’ve dried up completely because she doesn’t say anything about your face or your mood, her grin wide and unbothered as her eyes flick between the two of you.

“You two look cozy,” she remarks, her tone light but edged with something that feels strangely playful—and something else you can’t quite name. Was it jealousy?

Jeno doesn’t miss a beat. His smirk deepens, his head tilting slightly as his gaze locks onto hers, a teasing glint sparking in his eyes. “You jealous?” he asks, his voice dipping into that familiar lilt, low and smooth, with just enough bite to make it clear he’s not joking.

Karina stops in front of him, her hands sliding to her hips as she leans forward, closing the distance between them. “Maybe,” she whispers, her voice dropping to something soft and dangerous, her lips hovering just a breath away from his ear.

Jeno’s grin sharpens, his body shifting slightly toward her, his arm stretching out lazily along the back of the couch as if to invite her closer. “Guess you’ll have to do something about it,” he murmurs, his voice rough, charged with heat that makes your pulse quicken.

You watch them with a heated gaze, frozen for a moment as their exchange unfolds. The tension between them is palpable, electric in a way that’s impossible to look away from. Karina straightens slightly, her hand brushing down his arm before she moves to sit on the other side of him.

The moment she settles beside him, it’s like they slip into an unspoken rhythm, their bodies relaxing into each other in a way that feels both charged and strangely comfortable. Karina angles herself toward him, her fingers brushing casually against his thigh as she starts to talk animatedly, her voice lilting and full of energy. You can’t quite focus on what she’s saying; her words blur into the background as your gaze shifts between the two of them.

Jeno sits back, his posture lazy and inviting, his arm draped along the backrest of the couch. In one hand, he holds a joint loosely between his fingers, and he brings it to his lips occasionally, taking slow, deliberate drags. His gaze stays on Karina as she talks, his lips curling into a faint smirk like he’s humoring her, though you doubt he’s actually listening.

The difference between how Jeno interacts with her versus how he was with you is stark. With you, his touches were light, deliberate, and grounding—friendly and steady. But now, his hand brushes against Karina’s thigh, the contact lingering and deliberate in a way that feels undeniably more intimate. His fingers flex lightly against her skin, the movement subtle but full of intention. His gaze, too, has shifted. Where it was warm and protective with you, it’s darker now, more commanding, his attention locked fully on her like she’s the only person in the room.

Karina leans closer, her laughter soft and warm as her fingers toy with the chain resting against Jeno’s collarbone. He chuckles lowly, the sound rumbling through his chest as his hand slides further along her thigh, his thumb brushing against her skin in a way that feels almost possessive. The air between them thickens, and before you can fully process it, Karina tilts her head, her hair falling over one shoulder as her lips meet his.

Their mouths collide with a hunger that makes the air feel heavy, their movements rough and unapologetic. Jeno’s hand moves to her waist, gripping her firmly as he deepens the kiss, his other hand threading into her hair. Karina responds eagerly, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as she pulls him closer. Their bodies press together, the tension spilling over into raw, physical connection.

They look like something out of a movie—two impossibly attractive people lost in each other, their chemistry palpable. Jeno’s jaw tightens as he angles his head, his lips parting against hers, and Karina’s hands roam over his chest, clutching at him like she can’t get close enough. The way they move together is fluid, unrestrained, and utterly captivating.

The soft sound of their muffled moans pulls you out of your daze, heat creeping up your neck as you feel flustered by the scene unfolding in front of you. When Karina shifts onto Jeno’s lap, the intimacy of the moment becomes undeniable. Respecting their privacy, you quietly push yourself up from the couch, your resolve strengthening with every step. This isn’t your moment, your place. It’s time to find Mark—time to face him and figure out where the two of you truly stand.

They don’t react to you leaving, their focus entirely on each other, their moaning and gasps fade into the hum of the party as you weave through the crowd, your thoughts already shifting toward Mark and the resolve you’ve finally found to face him. But then, as you glance back one last time, something catches your eye.

Across the room, Mark’s best friend stands frozen, her gaze locked on Jeno and Karina. Her lips press into a thin line, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears, her expression a mix of disbelief and hurt. How long has she been standing there? You don’t know, but the realization makes your stomach twist.

Her gaze flickers to you briefly, and the moment your eyes meet, her composure cracks. She looks away almost immediately, her head bowing as she turns on her heel and walks off, her movements hurried and deliberate. The sight leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, the weight of her hurt pressing against your chest. You swallow hard, guilt mingling with confusion.

Turning back to Jeno and Karina, you find them still tangled together on the couch, oblivious to the scene that just unfolded. Jeno’s lips move against Karina’s with an intensity that feels almost detached, like he’s pouring himself into the moment for the sake of the moment alone. His hand grips her waist firmly, pulling her closer as her fingers curl into his hair. The way they move together is electric, charged with pure lust and chemistry, but there’s nothing personal about it—no depth, no connection beyond the physical. It’s borderline, shallow, all heat and no substance.

You sigh quietly, the sound lost in the hum of the party. Why was Jeno like this? You’d seen him care, seen him protect, seen him hold so much more in his hands. But now, he was throwing himself into something fleeting, momentary. Was it just a distraction? And what about his thing with Mark’s best friend? They’d seemed good for each other once, balanced in a way that made sense. But was it truly over? Or was this just another way for him to avoid whatever that was?

The questions swirl in your mind as you tear your gaze away from the scene, your heart heavy but your resolve sharper now. You move forward, your focus shifting fully to Mark. Whatever this is with Jeno, it’s not your battle. You’ve got your own to face.

You moved through the dimly lit hallways, the stark overhead lights casting long shadows that stretched across the polished floors. The ambiance was harsh, almost sterile, with the faint hum of the building’s old heating system underscoring every step you took. The air felt heavier with each turn, the tension inside you mirroring the unwelcoming edges of the space, a mix of unease and determination propelling you forward.

Pulling your phone out of your pocket, you frowned. Your heart sank as you saw the notifications: five missed calls from Mark, along with a string of unread messages, all from half an hour ago. The realization hit you like a punch—you’d forgotten to take your phone off Do Not Disturb.

A pang of guilt tightened in your chest. Mark didn’t send messages like these often—he wasn’t one to chase, to beg. But here he was, trying to reach you, and you’d been too caught up elsewhere. Without hesitation, you turned on your heel, determined to find him now.

The living room was the most packed room in the entire party, people crowding the space so tightly that it felt like the walls were shrinking inward. The usual clutter of an apartment gathering filled every surface—half-empty drinks, scattered snack bowls, and someone’s discarded jacket draped over a chair. Groups leaned against the walls, sprawled on the furniture, or chatted in animated circles. A few familiar faces stood out among the crowd, boys from the basketball team. You spotted Soobin near the kitchen, his easygoing smile lighting up a conversation, while Jaemin leaned against the far wall, casually sipping a drink and laughing at something Chenle had just said.

And then, there was Chenle. You hadn’t expected to make eye contact with him, but the moment your gaze locked, your chest tightened. His sharp eyes scanned your face, as though he could see right through the carefully constructed mask you were putting on for tonight. You gulped, forcing yourself to look away quickly, your heart thundering in your chest. There was no way you were dealing with that conversation tonight—not here, not now. You pushed the guilt and uncertainty down, burying it beneath the buzz of the room. This would be a conversation to have later. Tonight was about masking it all, letting yourself get lost in something else—someone else.

As you stepped through the threshold, your breath caught in your chest. There Mark was, seated on the edge of a low couch in the center of the chaos. The dim overhead lights, tinged golden, seemed to spotlight him, casting shadows that emphasized the sharp cut of his jawline and the confident set of his shoulders. His dark hair fell messily across his forehead, and the faint smirk tugging at his lips made your stomach flip. The fitted black tee he wore clung perfectly to his frame, the loose shorts brushing his knees somehow making him look even more appealing.

A basketball rested casually against his knee, his long fingers drumming idly on its surface, while his guitar leaned beside him, its polished body catching the light like a quiet reminder of his many talents. The room seemed to orbit around him, his presence anchoring the space as if he belonged there in a way no one else did.

But he wasn’t alone.

authors note — hi loves! if you’ve made it this far, thank you so much for reading! it truly means the world to me. i poured so much effort into this, so if you could take just a moment to send an ask or leave a message sharing your thoughts, it would mean everything. your interactions—whether it’s sending an ask, your feedback, a comment, or just saying hi—give me so much motivation to keep writing. i’m always so happy to respond to messages, asks and comments so don’t be shy! thank you from the bottom of my heart! <3

taglist — @bigjugz03 @hyuckkklee @hegdus @sungchannel @kidult0325 @hcluvie @second-floors @xjxnox @keelbeel @hyuckkklee @ahgasezennie @lovetaroandtaemin @steadyparkjisungbookishspy @carelessshootanonymous @remgeolli @toroufriteh @sinsgaybutthatsokay @fancypeacepersona @cathamada @gomdoleemyson @ppeachyttae @strcwberi @yunjinsart @millyswife

[thebearer]

Can we get something with Carmy his wife and his girls trick or treating?

yes!! omg this is so cute.

i feel like their neighborhood really goes all in for halloween (much to carmen's slight dismay, because he has to decorate. "we're not going to be the only house without decorations, carm!" "we have decorations. look, we got pumpkins.")

but it's also the perfect place to trick-or-treat. pete and sugar always bring their kids and they all go trick-or-treating together.

picturing that willow is maybe four, teddy's seven. teddy is a trick-or-treating pro, she loves it. loves halloween, really- carmen tells you she gets that from you. she's had her costume picked out for weeks, and is soooo excited to go bounding up door to door to get candy.

willow on the other hand, is not as much.

she likes the decor, she liked picking out her costume, and she likes candy, but... she's not a big fan of the trick-or-treating aspect. usually hiding behind your or carmen's leg, eyes wide and blinking in fear, too scared to speak to the stranger at the door with the candy.

and that's how carmen ends up living his worst nightmare, which is going door to door with willow, having to also speak to strangers.

"trick or treat!" teddy chirps, grinning widely, a charming smile that she inherited straight from mikey- a pure berzatto trait.

"oh, look at you. aren't you just precious." the elderly woman coos, grinning back at teddy, dropping pieces of candy in her bag.

"what do you say, hm?" carmen mutters, running a hand over teddy's head.

"thank you." teddy sing-songs, turning and running back to you, babbling about the candy she got.

the woman turns to willow, still half hidden behind carmen's leg. "oh, and who's back here, hm?"

willow only clings to his leg tighter, barely peeking around to look. "aw, is someone a little shy?"

carmen fights back a cringe. "yeah, she, uh, she's still gettin' the hang of it." he tries to coax willow out. "c'mon wills, what do you say? can you say trick-or-treat?"

"twick-or-tweat." willow says quickly, before burying her face in carmen's side.

the woman takes mercy, passing carmen a gentle smile and two pieces of candy for her bag.

willow runs back to you, the candy wrapped tight in her fist, her scared expression now traded in for excitement. "i got two mama!"

"what? no fair." teddy huffs. "i only got one. why did she get two?"

"go up to the next house and get another piece. we'll call it even." carmen nods towards the other house, lips curling in a smile at how teddy grins, darting off down the sidewalk.

willow is too excited to notice, situated on your hip, babbling with excitement about how she got the candy. "i-i said twick-or-tweat and she gave it to me." willow was in awe, looking at the candy in her hand.

your heart swelled at her little lisp, peppering her cold cheeks in kisses. "that's amazing, sweet girl. you did so good." you cooed, voice lilting high and sweet. "do you want to go to another house?"

willow hesitated, looking at the houses then back at you and carmen. "d-do i have to go alone?"

"no, baby." you said before carmen could, shaking your head. "daddy or i will go with you, i promise. we'll help you got all the candy, won't we?" you grinned at carmen, who nodded, his hand settling on the small of your back.

[yoonia]

lost boys: threadbare hearts — masterlist

— subtitle | Odes for The Brokenhearted

— premise | A collection of short stories about seven boys who are unfortunate in love, and how they walk down the path of redemption in search of healing, finding new meanings in life and love. 

— series ratings & full warnings | +18 / M for Mature; stories included in this series will involve multiple explicit scenes, with graphic depiction of mature scenes, alcohol consumption, stories mentioning or depicting infidelity and past trauma, mentions of failed relationships; more appropriate warnings will be added in each story once they are released. 

— note: stories may not be posted in chronological order. all fics written by @yoonia

— title: Love Is Banned | pairings: Jaebum/Jay B (GOT7) x female reader | genre: pwp (porn with very little plot), post break-up!au, brother’s best friend!au 

— summary | Heartbroken beyond repair, you escape to your brother’s place hours away from home, desperate to avoid the Valentine’s Day soiree happening around you—only to find yourself trapped in the middle of his love-filled house party. Seeking solitude, you are surprised to find the perfect source of comfort from the last person you had ever expected to meet tonight.

— read here | teaser

— title: If You Let Me | pairings: Mark Tuan (GOT7) x female reader | genre: single parent!Mark, exes to lovers!au, brother’s best friend!au

— summary | Years have passed, and you thought you had moved on. But when he returns with a child, everything you worked so hard to bury resurfaces. Avoiding him was the plan, but that becomes impossible when he makes you an offer you can’t refuse. And as if resisting him wasn’t hard enough, his son quickly wins you over with his charm and innocence. And the boy also seems to be determined to piece his father’s broken heart back together… through you. 

— read here | teaser

— title: We Go Down Together | pairings: Jackson Wang (GOT7) x female reader | genre: pwp (porn with very little plot), friends with benefits!au

— summary | You've shared moments of pleasure—both pure and carnal—always perfectly in sync, even if those moments never last long enough. You've told yourself this is enough, that all you want is a night in his arms, not a place in his heart. But what if he wants more? What if, between the fleeting nights and the spaces between your busy lives, he’s longing for something deeper than just desire? 

— read here | teaser

— title: The Perfect Mistake | pairings: Jinyoung (GOT7) x female reader | genre: best friend’s brother!au, forbidden love!au, rom-com

— summary | One-night stands are nothing new to you—avoiding messy relationships has always been your way of steering clear of trouble. But waking up next to your best friend’s older brother after a drunken night? That’s a complication you never saw coming. One that might be even harder to escape.  

— read here | teaser

— title: You Are | pairings: Youngjae (GOT7) x female reader | genre: best friends to lovers!au, unrequited first love!au, mutual pining

— summary | Youngjae has long given up on love—or at least the hope of having his feelings returned. Being your best friend is enough, even if it means hiding the gaping void in his heart shaped by your presence. But he isn’t the only one keeping secrets. And when the truth finally comes to light, he may have to face the possibility that his dream of being yours was never meant to be.  

— read here | teaser

— title: Crash Into Me | pairings: Bambam (GOT7) x female reader | genre: strangers to lovers!au, runaway bride, rom-com

— summary | Spending his free weekend at his estranged cousin’s wedding was the last thing Bambam wanted to do. He had no real expectations coming to the ceremony—aside from enduring nosy relatives and enjoying a few drinks. But he certainly didn’t expect to be accused of kidnapping the bride while trying to slip away from the disaster that the ceremony had become. 

— read here | teaser

— title: The Way We Lie | pairings: Yugyeom (GOT7) x female reader | genre: roommates to lovers!au, fake dating!au, rom-com

— summary | Moving to a new city feels like a fresh start—especially when you stumble upon an online ad that turns out to be a total jackpot. A spacious yet affordable two-bedroom apartment, a charming roommate who's both a goofball and a great cook—what more could you ask for? But things take a turn when a stalker ex-girlfriend and your conservative parents come into the picture, leaving you with only one way out; a little white lie that blurs the line between pretend and reality.

— read here | teaser

— series tracklist | listen to story playlist here

— masterlist | wip | divider credit | ko-fi | patreon

Note: If you’re interested to be tagged/notified on any of the stories included in this series, please leave your blog username/url in the replies down below! Or you can enter through the taglist form here. Please make sure that your url is searchable and your blog is public so I can tag you. 

— ©Yoonia, all rights reserved. reposting/modifying of any kind, translations, unsanctioned adaptations are not allowed.

[thejoyofviolentmovement]

New Video: A Place To Bury Strangers Share an Explosive Ripper

New Video: A Place To Bury Strangers Share an Explosive Ripper @APTBS @dedstrange @pitchperfectpr

Led by Death by Audio founder and Dedstrange Records co-founder Oliver Ackermann, New York-based JOVM mainstays A Place To Bury Strangers — currently Ackermann (vocals, guitar), John Fedowitz (guitar) and Sandra Fedowitz (drums) — have long been fueled by Ackermann’s restless creativity and propensity to be surprising: Over the past close to two decades, A Place To Bury Strangers have delighted,…

[stevie-petey]

WE THOUGHT LOVE WAS SOMETHING (WE WEREN'T MEANT TO FIND)

season two of "come home"

as you approach a year since will's disappearance, things seem to be back to how they were. you still have jonathan and the boys, hawkins is boring again, and you and steve harrington aren't really friends. you convince yourself that it's fine, but time can't heal all wounds, and you sure as hell have your fair share of them. when will starts having episodes and your brother hides a literal monster from you, junior year becomes a lot more painful than it already was. (and because you can never win, steve gets dragged into it). (more complicated feelings arise). (as usual).

episode one: MADMAX

what does steve fear more ? you or the plague ? currently it's you, some guy with an awful mullet stares you down in the parking lot (gross), nancy invites you to a party from your nightmares, and you become an official unlicensed therapist for will. yay for junior year !

episode two: trick or treat, freak

you and nancy have a bonding session in the library (kinda hot tbh), billy gives jonathan and steve a common cause to unite on: Protect Y/N, you're a chauffeur to a very sad steve harrington, and dustin uses will's trauma to his advantage.

episode three: the pollywog

you lecture jonathan about daddy issues and then have an intellectual debate about healthy relationships, you play Mr. Love Dr with Steve, nancy and jonathan go on a sick side quest (and actually inform you this time !), meanwhile: you're about to put a leash on your damn brother.

episode four: will the wise

jonathan is gone for one day and suddenly all hell breaks loose, your hesitant friendship with steve is already rocky (thanks billy) but steve is hot when he's angry tbh, you become a couple's counselor to lucas and max (sorry dustin), and you're now officially the world's worst cat owner ever. and babysitter. but what else is new ?

episode five: dig dug

you and dustin bury a body and con your mother into fleeing town, great sibling bonding time ! you play hockey with a monster, dustin gets ghosted by his friends, and now it's your turn to kidnap steve (technically dustin does, but you don't stop him) who later gives you some terrifying realizations.

episode six: the spy

dustin and steve haggle a butcher, you throw some meat at steve and then have a weird conversation about love, you stop dustin from becoming an incel, and then you wrestle some demodogs like any real woman would. side note: steve is hot protecting the kids.

episode seven: the mind flayer

jonathan is back and has a lot of questions and you have even more for him, the gang gets back together and ties will to a chair, you tell the kid a story to distract him from his demons, steve is a confused mess but at least youre with him, and someone makes a surprise appearance (her name rhymes with shell).

episode eight: the gate

you encourage nancy to take your place (everyone is shocked), you and steve are the newest babysitters in town, billy ruins things as always, tunnels are weird when youre concussed, you remind jonathan of an old promise, and when the snowball comes you make your own promise with steve that you know you can keep.

SET BETWEEN SEASONS AND 3

episode nine: the fall

surprise ! life still carries on even with minor brain damage from constant concussions :( on the bright side, you and the gang all become homies. meanwhile, steve grapples with the warm fuzzies and parental issues before his worst nightmare happens: you meet robin. the horrors !

STATUS: complete

season two title based on this song x

blurbs set within the "come home" universe can be found here x

“COME HOME” SERIES MASTERLIST

this is a part of my stranger things rewrite, “come home”, and other seasons can be found linked above :)

[chelseeebe]

everything has changed

you and steve were once the bestest of friends, cruelly torn apart when you’re forced to leave hawkins suddenly. fifteen years on, everything has changed and yet, nothing has changed.

i had this idea a while ago and then have recently become re-obsessed with the song so decided to give it a rewrite! it’s kinda giving seven x everything has changed and i love that. i have a sitcom level idea of a part two for this but i’m not sure it’ll ever come to fruition

18+. no smut but my blog is 18+ :) mostly just fluffy friends to lovers stuff hehe

‎♡‧₊˚

“you promise we’ll be friends forever?” steve asks, quirking his little eyebrows up. still so innocent, so unaware that the world was a cruel place.

“i promise!” you’d shrieked, toothy grin beaming over at him as you sat poised on the climbing frame. “we’ll write letters every week and in the summer you can come and visit!”

steve whooped with glee, the metal frame shaking from the force of his body, “okay! my mom has your mom’s number so i can call you,” grubby hands clinging onto yours.

you throw your arms around his neck, pulling him into a hug, wobbling atop of your tower. full of hope and your shared joy. oblivious to how the next 15 years would play out.

-

life hadn’t been so kind as to keep the two of you in contact. steve’s mom had tried to explain it to him, but his poor seven year old brain couldn’t quite grasp it.

it was only when he was older that he had realised what had happened.

you had been whisked away to california, your mother’s home state, far away from your dad. for your safety of course. his mother had warned him not to mention where you had gone to anyone, and he’d stuck by that.

and really, life had gotten in the way of thinking about you too much. basketball tryouts and getting girls into the back of his bmw had taken precedence over fading thoughts of freckly girls he once knew.

steve was at college now, admittedly tagging along with robin, but he was enjoying it. he played basketball, studied children’s education and had even scored himself a kinda stable girlfriend.

he’s sat in the library, book open and unread in front of him on the table as robin attempts to convince him to go out tonight.

“it’ll be fun! besides, i promised my roommate that i’d go.. y’know she’s having a hard time,” turning on the puppy dog eyes that more often than not, worked on him.

he groans, “i don’t know rob.. finals are coming up soon and i really need to get this down if i wanna graduate with you,” though he makes no effort to actually pick up the book, more interested in the coffee robin had used as a bargaining chip.

“steve,” almost warningly, “come for an hour,” nodding at him, as if to subliminally make him agree, “and then i’ll help you study all day tomorrow, okay?” tilting her head, bright green* eyes glistening at him.

“fine,” succumbing to her pleas, “but you owe me,” sending a glare across the table as he finally turns the page.

robin grins, happy she’d gotten her own way. again.

-

they walk arm in arm into the bar, squeezing through the crowd as they attempt to locate robin’s mysterious roommate.

steve sighs, whispering into robin’s ear, “why do i have to be here? just because your roommate is a lonely weirdo, doesn’t mean you have to drag me out too,” pouting like a petulant child.

she pinches his arm, causing him to yelp into her ear, “this is why i used to pray for the ceiling light to fall on your head in mrs click’s class,” pulling away from him as she spots whoever she’s looking for.

“wait.. what?” he calls out after her, weaving through the crowd to find her again.

she has her face buried into someone’s shoulder, blabbering about the busy bar and how good it was to get out.

robin pulls away, gesturing over to steve as this lucrative stranger meets his eye.

it’s you.

the little girl who had promised to be his best friend forever now stood before him, all grown up. he almost doesn’t believe it. in fact, he can’t. not until you speak, his name echoes around meaninglessly.

“what the fuck?” he gasps, still in utter shock.

“it’s really you? you’re.. oh my god, you’re steve of course you are,” wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him in for a hug, the exact way you had fifteen years ago.

you even smell the same, a distinct sort of vanilla smell that takes his mind hurtling fifteen years into the past. he almost wants to throw up from the turbulence of it all.

“i can’t believe you’re here,” you gasp, still nuzzled into his shoulder, “this is so surreal,” now holding him at arms length, dissecting his face in the same way he was yours.

you looked the same and yet completely different. no more gappy smiles or sun bleached hair, very pretty. his seven year old self had thought so too, but your friendship had meant more.

“you two know each other?” robin perplexes, watching the scene unfold with zero context.

“we.. uh- yeah,” unsure of how much he can divulge, still under strict orders from his mom to never tell a soul where you’d gone.

“we were friends, i was born in hawkins so.. god, this is so weird,” you exasperate, letting go of his frame to talk to a bewildered robin.

“you’re from hawkins? you told me you were from california?” robins face twists in confusion.

“it’s a.. complicated story,” you look back at him, still trying to decipher if he was even real, “i moved away when i was young but we were like, best friends,” baring your teeth with your smile.

“well shit, i’ve got time,” robin laughs, sliding into the booth, she looks up at steve, “drinks on you.. you know, to celebrate,” wiggling her brows in that irritating way she did when she wanted something.

he dutifully obliges as you begin your story, he supposes that now you probably can.

your dad had moved out of hawkins a while ago, it wasn’t exactly a secret as to why you guys had just up and left so abruptly. steve had always hated him, made sure to glare daggers into his back when he and his mother would pass him in the street or in melvalds. he felt he owed you that.

plus steve was angry, angry that you’d had to leave him behind because of your dad. his tiny mind couldn’t comprehend that it was for the better, only understanding that it was your dad’s fault his best friend had been taken from him.

steve’s curious about california, how your life differed from hawkins. you play it off as nothing special but you smile differently when you speak of afternoons after school spent on the beach and learning to surf.

he makes some off-hand comment about making it out which causes your brows to furrow, “so did you,” tapping the table in front of him, “remember we would talk about college? living in a big house together?”

he chortles, almost choking on his beer, “yeah, with ten dogs and three cats,” shaking his head at the ridiculousness of it all.

“wow..” robin butts in, “so you did this with other girls before me?” faux-offence written all over her face.

you beam, looking between the two of them, “so are you guys dating?”

steve does choke this time, sputtering as the bitter liquid slides down the back of his throat.

“no!” they chime in unison.

“jesus christ, you think i’d date him?” robin falls into a fit of giggles, it didn’t hurt his ego anymore. robin had very particular tastes and that very much didn’t include men.

“thanks rob..” he snarls jokingly, “i uh, i have a girlfriend.. just not robin,” he’s not sure why he’s apprehensive to tell you. christ, he’d only re-known you for five fucking minutes.

“sorry, i just assumed..” shrinking into your seat, desperate to change the subject.

he’s modestly pleased that you don’t ask any more about his girlfriend, which in turn makes him feel a rotten sense of guilt.

“yeah well, to assume makes an ass out of you and me,” robin adds, giving you a poke to your ribs for good measure, “and he’s definitely not my type,” her nose shrivelling up in disgust.

you snigger, poking robin right back as she explodes into her myriad of reasons why she would never date steve. she kept a list.

there’s a sickening feeling of affinity, like all the years you hadn’t been together just ceased to exist, they no longer mattered.

especially when your eyes meet as robin prattles on, like you’re sharing an old joke.

he doesn’t like this, doesn’t fancy his odds of coming out of this unscathed but that doesn’t stop him from shifting his chair closer as the night goes on. nor does it stop him from walking you home, supporting a tipsy robin on his arm.

and it most certainly doesn’t effect him when you hug him goodnight, nestling your chin into his shoulder the way you used to.

fuck.

-

steve climbs down the steps into the strange smelling studio, he hadn’t even known this ever existed. there’s art littering the walls, the shelves, just about any surface that was available.

you’re at the back of the empty room, dabbing a paintbrush onto a canvas, completely unaware of his presence.

“hey.. robin said you’d be down here,” he speaks softly, so as to not startle you.

you still jump, clutching your chest as you spin on your heel, “jesus christ,” panting rather dramatically, “you scared the shit outta me,” shock turning into a wide smile.

“sorry,” he chuckles, weaving through the easels, trying his damn hardest not to touch or knock anything over, “what ya’ working on?” peering at the canvas.

it’s a beautiful scene, a lone swing set lies in the middle, surrounded by a peachy-pink sunset. it’s reminiscent of something he can’t quite place.

“oh just..” shrugging him off, “some stuff for my exhibition.. i dunno if i like it yet,” downplaying the glorious work of art in front of him. as if there were any need.

“what are you talking about? it’s so good,” still clinging onto his backpack strap.

you shake your head, taking the apron off of your body, tossing it onto the hook full of other dirtied aprons. “i can do better.. anyway, did you trek all the way down here for a reason or..?”

he lingers by the painting for a second longer before turning to face you, remembering his actual aim, “yes! are you joining us for dinner tonight? robin wants you to meet all of our friends,” he offers, though he’s aware it’s not much of a deal for you.

“uh.. who’s gonna be there?” you ask, quirking a brow. he’s aware that you’re not exactly a social butterfly.

“well, nancy, jonathan, vickie.. argyle, if jonathan can convince him to come out,” they were all nice enough, if he and robin liked you, they definitely would too.

“i dunno..” wrinkling your nose.

“come on,” he pleads, “it’ll be fun.. they’ll love you. nance’s been begging me to get you out.. please?”

you shake your head, as if weighing up your options, “okay.. fine, but dinner’s on you,” as you drop the pallet into the sink for someone else to deal with.

“great,” he beams, there’s something to be said about the fact he still hadn’t introduced katie to the rest of his friends yet.. but he doesn’t wanna think about that.

his hand comes to rest on what he thinks is a dry desk, waiting for you to finish up, only to find his hand now covered in goopy white paint, “oh shit,” he fusses, pulling your attention from the sink.

“oh fuck, i should’ve told you that was wet..” looking between his outstretched hand and his eyes, a giggle bubbling on your lips as he stomps over to the sink.

“oh is this funny to you, huh?” joining you at the basin.

you run the hot water for him, grabbing the bottle of soap ready to clean his hand, “well it’s a little funny,” lips twitching while he stands like a lemon.

as steve normally does, he acts before he thinks, pressing his paint-covered palm to your cheek, only registering what he had done when you shriek in response, splashing water everywhere.

“you asshole!” you gasp, brows furrowed as you conjure up something for revenge.

that’s when you grab the still paint-covered brush and smear it over his cheek and nose, staining his features a daring bright orange.

“oh it’s like that is it?” he grins, grabbing your wrist with his clean hand, threatening to mark you again. “you don’t wanna mess with me, i’ve got the upper hand,” sticking his tongue out slightly, unable to shake the way your eyes still glistened the same.

“if you want me to come to dinner, you’ll put your hand down.. call a truce,” bargaining with him.

he obliges, holding his hands up in surrender, “okay.. okay, you win,” unable to contain his laughter as he washes the paint from his palm.

you shoulder barge him as you come back to the sink, pulling your clean brushes from the water and leaving them to dry on the metal board.

“we’re gonna have to swing by my room,” you smile begrudgingly, shoving your stuff into your bag, watching as he dries his hand.

“okay,” his grin still lingering, “personally, i think you should just come to dinner like that.. it looks great,” enjoying the ribbing that came with being your friend.

you scoff, practically pushing him out of the studio, ensuring he couldn’t wreck havoc on anything else.

the pair of you glide down the hall, steve filling you in on the guests that would joining you for dinner when a voice calls his name from in front.

katie bounds up to him, smile fading the second she sees the new colour of his face, “why are you orange?” face screwed up as she rescinds her offer of a kiss. he’s slyly thankful that your adorned his face now.

“oh we.. i- i tripped, got paint everywhere,” he chuckles, feeling like a scolded child.

katie hums, “right.. that’s kinda weird,” her eyes flit over to you and the paint on your face, “you trip too?” a judgemental look flashing across her features.

“no,” shrinking into yourself, “steve.. tripped,” doubting your own words, like your measly paint fight needed to be kept secret. but maybe that’s just how he felt, is that wrong?

he can’t decide.

“hmph,” katie frowns, her attention turning back to steve, “go and clean up.. you look like a clown,” before speeding off down the hall, ponytail flouncing around as she goes.

he just rolls his eyes continuing out of the building as you scurry along behind, “she seems nice,” sarcasm dripping off your tongue.

“ignore her,” brushing the whole encounter off, “she’s just.. pissy because i’m busy tonight, don’t take it personally,” offering a short smile. he glances at his watch, grimacing at the time, “oh shit, we’re late,” grabbing your hand as he starts sprinting ahead.

“i can’t meet your friends like this!” you holler, bounding behind him.

“they won’t mind!” he screams into the wind, dodging other students with a skill only possessed by someone who chronically sleeps through their alarm.

they really don’t.

in fact, robin bursts into laughter as you walk into the diner, “i’m not even gonna ask,” tapping the plush cushion for you to slide in next to her, steve follows closely behind.

the two of you share a look, an inside joke that was just yours. he liked that, it made him feel strangely important. like he was worthy of sharing things with just you.

everyone is lovely, obviously. he had no doubt that they would be. argyle corners you about california, discovering that it is a rather large state and no, you won’t have bumped into each other.

steve doesn’t want the night to end, he’s selfish like that. so he does the sane thing to ensure you spend as much time together as possible, walking you and robin back through campus, still adorned with paint.

“thank you.. for making me go,” you smile coyly once you reach your door, robin had already disappeared off inside, leaving just the two of you.

“no worries.. i told you they’d love you,” shoving his hands into his pockets, mostly so he doesn’t do anything stupid.

you chuckle, reaching for the door handle, “i’ve really missed you, you know? it’s like it’s all hit me at once,” shrugging your shoulders as if that were just some nonchalant comment he would ever be able to forget.

“i missed you too,” he adds, truly meaning it.

sure, he’d found friendship again but nothing had ever felt quite like you. it was different, and even now after years and years of being in separate states, with no idea that the other was even still alive, it all felt normal.

like you could walk back into that park tomorrow, sit on the swings and just natter away about everything and nothing like you used to.

“goodnight, see you tomorrow?” you smile, sliding through the door, waiting just long enough for his reply.

“of course,” returning the smile.

he hums all the way home, a child-like joy overrunning his senses. he thinks about you when he dreams, of sharing crayons and candy. high-pitched giggles and an unfaltering feeling of love.

-

it had been weeks of hanging out now, sharing tales from your childhood, robin was still struggling to understand that you were also from hawkins. “you’re just.. it’s crazy, you’re nothing like the usual hawkins dwellers and the fact that you were friends with him? wow..” she had muttered with a swift jab to steve’s arm.

she had had the bright idea of a sleepover, they hadn’t really been able to since moving to chicago, out of respect for their roommates but now her roommate was you, what was stopping them?

“why don’t we push the beds together?” robin blurts out, like a lightbulb had just gone ding on the top of her head.

you nod excitably, going to heave your bed across the room. steve pushes the end of the bed frame, connecting it to robin’s as she stands there doing absolutely nothing to help.

“phew thanks robin, couldn’t have done that without all your help!” steve quips, throwing his best friend a snide smile.

“shut up dingus, my nails are still wet,” as if that made it okay.

you smile at the two of them, stood in your pyjamas that steve had definitely not been gawping at. he doesn’t mean to, he knows it’s not like that. he has a girlfriend for christ’s sake.

that’s what he’s been telling himself anyway.

“you’re in the middle,” robin declares, looking at you, rather than him, “put your cold feet on somebody else for once,” before climbing into her side of the bed.

you slide in next, cuddling up to robin as you do. steve’s next, fashioned in his excuse for pyjamas, namely a chicago university shirt and his boxers. it probably wouldn’t go down well if katie were to find out but he didn’t particularly care.

there’s a joke there, something about sharing a bed with a lesbian and his childhood best friend but he can’t be bothered to think about it.

not when you turn over to face him, all smiles and warm cheeks, he has to remind himself that robin is on the other side of you, mumbling something about not waking her up early.

“goodnight,” you grin, relaxing into the pillow you shared as the light flickers off.

“night,” he replies, pulling his eyes away from your shadowy features, deciding that staring at the fuzzy ceiling was better than being a freak.

you roll over slightly, head falling onto his shoulder making his breathing falter, sworn to this position until you up and moved. it’s a sacrifice he’s willing to make.

he shouldn’t be thinking like this, you’re friends, old friends to be exact. and he has a girlfriend.

-

except, he awakens in the morning, stiff shoulder and a cricked neck, taking a peek at the other side of the bed to find robin had forced you into him with her sprawling limbs.

you rouse not long after he does, blinking at the light and hurriedly moving your head from his dead arm.

“oh my god,” you remark, “i’m sorry.. was i on you all night?” wriggling around the small space you held.

steve exhales, lifting his arm in the air in an attempt to get some blood flowing back into the extremity, “yup.. it’s okay though,” quickly rolling over to face you, “sleep well?”

“well, apart from robin’s foot in my back.. yeah, pretty well,” chuckling into the pillow as you shy away. he wishes you wouldn’t.

“then it was worth the dead arm,” returning your abnormally bright smile, you were far too chipper for this time in the morning but he didn’t mind. made a difference from the usual grump robin was in, for sure.

“you should sleep over more often,” you smile.

he heart soars, god he’d love to. “oh yeah? like we used to?”

the crinkle by your eye returns, remembering times gone by, “yeah, just like that,” speaking softly, as if it wouldn’t take an industrial alarm to wake robin.

“you wanna go get breakfast?” he asks, before this devolves any further.

“absolutely.”

-

there’s a knock at the door, tommy doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even make a half assed effort to pretend to care so steve huffs and gets up to answer.

you’re stood on the other side, already smiling as you wait. it’s a welcome sight, without robin he’s been a little stir-crazy, not yet brave enough to venture to your room without her there.

maybe he’s afraid that something would happen, maybe he’s not. he’s not entirely convinced that he’d have the power to stop himself.

“i just came to give you a ticket.. for my exhibition, it’s on saturday so.. if you’re busy i totally get it,” you fret, offering out the ticket to him.

there’s an undetermined feeling in his stomach, looking down at the paper ticket in his pal, warmth rushing to his chest at the fact you’d even considered him.

steve steps out of the room, closing the door behind him, away from tommy and listening ears. tommy and katie were friends somewhat, mostly by association through his girlfriend carol. anyhow, he wasn’t keen on him telling some misconstrued story to carol and then reaping the punishment from that.

“wow..” still starstruck that you had asked him. “i’ll be there.. wouldn’t miss it,” sliding the ticket into his pocket, mostly so he would stop looking like a weirdo for staring at it.

“okay,” you nod, smile up to your ears, “it’s only small..” here you go again, downplaying your talent as if steve would ever care.

“stop it,” he warns, jokingly rolling his eyes, “hey, i’ll walk you back.. i needa get out of that fucking room,” gesturing for you to take the lead.

you chatter all the way across campus, talking about everything and nothing, he wants to ask if that painting of the swingset will be there but doesn’t. letting you blabber on about composition and the asshole gallery manager that wants you to set up at 6am.

its only when you reach your hall that you stop, turning to face him with a genuine smile that makes his heart thud.

“it’d really mean a lot if you came..”

he nods, stepping closer only just, “i will, i’ll be there,” assuring you as much as he could. he meant it, too. there’s really nothing he could think of that would make him not go.

he allows his gaze to slip to your lips, he lets himself do that even though he shouldn’t.

studying the curve, the slight gap between your bottom and top lip, the way they twitch with what he hopes is anticipation.

you’re both inching closer, neither of you acknowledging what’s about to happen. the air is thick, silent even. a knowing sense that you’re either about to ruin everything or become something more.

two doors down, a door swings open, a voice bellowing out, “i’ll catch up!” before a boy speeds out, glancing at the two of you briefly before disappearing.

you clear your throat, averting your gaze, studying the dirtied floor, “okay.. i’ll see you saturday,” coy smile as you unlock the door and potter off inside.

steve stands there, blinking at the wooden frame as if you’d somehow materialise from the other side.

he hightails it back to his room, in some sort of daze as he attempts to reconfigure himself. his relationship and his friendship with you. nothing made sense.

he’s not sure it ever will again.

fuck he wishes robin were here. of course she’s at some stupid family reunion when he needs her most. his next port of call would be you and well.. that didn’t seem particularly helpful.

he errs on calling robin, floating around his room with no purpose. at least tommy was no where to be seen, unsure if he could’ve handled his beady little eyes and snooping questions.

katie would be waiting on him, he always stayed over on thursdays, at least he used to. before you were back i. the picture. before you had completely consumed his mind with your stupid smile and stupid face. both a distant memory and an important part of his current life. it’s fucking dizzying.

it’s not really stupid, he thinks he’s stupid actually.

steve does what he does best and decides to ignore his brain, grabs his keys and storms out of his dorm. he’s grateful that katie’s house is on the opposite side of campus from your building. that way he couldn’t accidentally wind up there instead of where he’s supposed to be.

she welcomes him in, a pink, frilly house that steve had always detested a little bit. it smelt too strongly of vanilla and the other girls always side-eyed him, bitter and judgemental over something he couldn’t figure out.

it’s now that they’re sat on katie’s satin bedsheets that he realises that he really, really doesn’t want to be here.

nevertheless, he swallows it down. putting on false pretences as they fake-watch the shitty rom-com she’d turned on to fill the silence.

“so.. have you got your suit for saturday?” katie asks, playing with his limp hand.

“yeah,” resisting the urge to move his hand away, “sorry- saturday? i thought it was tomorrow?”

katie had asked- or more precisely begged him to escort her to this senior send off ceremony. some bullshit sorority ritual that made zero sense to him.

“uh.. no, always been saturday,” she’s still smiling, still trying, “steve, i told you weeks ago,” her frustrations seeping out of her pores, spilling over onto her features.

“you said friday,” so sure of himself, so sure that she was wrong. how would he forget that?

unless something, or perhaps someone was shrouding his mind.

“well, what plans are more important than your girlfriend’s senior send off?” she asks, all defensive.

he struggles to answer, there’s no way he can really spin it to make it sound less bad, strangled noises drift from his throat as the words fail to form.

“exactly,” katie pouts, crossing her arms over her chest, “you’ll just have to rearrange.”

steve doesn’t stay over, makes up some shoddy excuse about needing to study to get out of it. she’s not happy, obviously, but when is she?

he’s grateful that the campus is quiet as he stalks back to his dorm, thoughts swirling through his brain. everything is so confusing, his cushy little college life had been majorly disrupted and now all of the plans he had made had come crashing down.

there had been conversations about finding a house after graduation, moving in together randomly starting their life and yet, that couldn’t be further than what he wanted.

at least now.

-

steve finally gives up, turning to the only person he thinks will rationalise his thoughts, robin buckley. who has pulled her grandmother’s phone into the private dining room just for this conversation.

“we nearly kissed,” he spits out, eyeing the group of drunk students passing in the hallway. wouldn’t it be great if it somehow got back to katie through some nosy busybody.

“what? when? why didn’t you call me sooner?” she demands, “why didn’t you kiss? oh my god steve harrington, you’re so useless.”

“uh.. what do you mean why didn’t we kiss? remember my girlfriend? who’d chop my balls off if i ever cheated on her?”

“who cares? nobody likes her anyway,” robin roars right into his ear.

“i’m not gonna even acknowledge that.”

“okay, well, did you want to kiss her?”

steve pauses, perplexing the situation. he doesn’t need to really, of course he wanted to.

“..yeah.”

“well there you go!” she shrieks.

“it felt.. weird, i dunno, i think she wanted to too,” he curls the cord around his finger, “and now katie wants me to go to this senior send-off thing but there’s the exhibition.. i don’t know what to do,” his shoulders slumping.

“wait wait wait, what do you mean it felt weird?” dismissing his dilemma. you know, the thing he had actually called her about.

“well it felt right.”

the line goes silent but he can still hear her faint breathing down the line. she’s thinking, probably attempting to sweeten up her words. but eventually she sighs, “i think you know what to do.”

“but i don’t! rob i really don’t! why do you think i’m calling you at fucking one am?”

she clicks her tongue and steve can picture what smug look she has on her face, it was a signature feature of hers, especially when she’d been able to prove him wrong. “you do. i think you called me because you wanted me to tell you what you want to hear.. but i don’t even need to do that.”

he wails into the receiver, all he’d wanted was a clear cut answer from his best friend. a little advice and maybe some confirmation bias, was that too much to ask for?

“you’re no help,” he scowls, patting his now empty pockets in search of more coins, “i haven’t got any more change.. i’m gonna have to go,” sighing as he’s left on his own with his head once more.

“you’ll do the right thing, steve. i know you and i trust you,” before the line cuts out, the dial tone screams out.

he slams the piece of useless plastic back onto the holder. that wasn’t helpful, rather just some weird, reverse psychology lesson. he feels cheated, his first option of just flipping a coin would’ve been more helpful.

his feet drag along the carpet back to his room, swallowing the guilt and all of the other confusing emotions he seemed to have accumulated.

it’s funny that even though robin hadn’t exactly said anything specific, he’d known what she was talking about. it’s even funnier that as he climbs into bed, all he can think about is you.

-

steve hangs back, stood at the back while the speech finishes. he doesn’t know what he’s doing here, what he’s supposed to be looking at or talking to, incredibly out of place.

no one pays him any mind, too interested in whatever this balding man has to say.

you don’t spot him either, keeping your eyes trained to the art director. he can tell you’re nervous, picking indiscreetly at your hangnail, chewing on your cheek. you’d never liked, or been particularly good at public speaking, steve was your voice for many years. not that he minded.

there’s lots of chatter, people walking around the small space with their hands behind their back, putting on this facade that they were art snobs and not just weird middle-aged people looking for something to do on a saturday afternoon.

they all sort of disperse, ogling the paintings and such. leaving him stood in the middle of the room like a lemon, wondering if he should just go over to you or wait until this had all finished.

but you meet his eye momentarily, head snapping in his direction when you realise who it is. your lips slowly curve into a smile, ditching the conversation to weave through everyone to him.

“you came,” you state, like there was ever a chance of him not coming.

“i told you i would,” he’s not one to break a promise. ever.

“no i know but, robin mentioned something about your girlfriend, she didn’t know if you were.. forget it,” throwing your hands about, ridding the air of your words.

he’s not exactly surprised that you’d have doubts, not after your almost-kiss the other night. he hadn’t seen you since, too busy with the exhibit to sit and dwell on it, he bets.

steve shakes his head, “nah, i had something more important to do,” full of unbridled exhilaration, it’s like his body knew he had made the right choice.

you flush, avoiding his eyes as you usually do when you’re nervous or embarrassed. “well.. thank you,” shrugging him off. he so wish you wouldn’t.

he decides to just lay it all bare, tired of skirting around the truth and minimising his obviously very real feelings. “this isn’t the right time but,” smoothing down his wrinkled shirt, “i just wanted you to know that i’ve wanted to do this for weeks and.. shit,” he sighs, cupping your cheek and moving in before you can protest.

your lips connect, sending flames through his veins, you’re not expecting it judging by the lack of movement on your part, stood frozen even as he pulls away.

“sorry,” the first thing he says, watching your face as you stand shocked.

he was so sure that his feelings would be reciprocated, had pretty much convinced himself that you were destined to grow grey together but maybe he’d got it all wrong.

his cheeks burn as you just blink, time slows and he wishes that the floorboards would just collapse under him so he could disappear forever.

in lieu of a reply, you smash your faces together again, this time steve’s not quite expecting it, your noses bang against each others. but he doesn’t move, his smile growing against your lips.

there are a collection of muttered oohs from the crowd. it was rather a lot for a saturday morning.

“sorry,” you echo, biting down into your bottom lip, “not the wrong time at all,” your eyes shining through your spindly lashes.

steve bursts into laughter, drawing an even bigger crowd of eyes as he does so. his eyes dart around the vaguely stunned audience, “hey look, find me after.. i’ll be here,” gently pushing you off to go and do whatever the hell it is that artists do at these things.

you nod, all dazed and smiley, immediately falling into conversation about a painting.

-

he’s only dozing when the door creaks open, too encapsulated by sleep to bother to open his eyes. you’re dead to the world, snoring softly curled into his chest.

a quiet gasp rings out from the door and then just as expected, robin bounds over to your bed, poking his arm that was both underneath your shoulders and hanging off of the bed.

he peeks a look at his slightly deranged best friend, the lamp was just bright enough to showcase her enthusiastic grin, “you did it!” whispering far too loudly, “i knew you’d make the right choice,” buzzing around the room.

she damn near jumps in the air, clicking her heels together like some freak.

steve just closes his eyes again, falling back into sleep with a grin on his face and you between his arms.

[allwaswell16]

All the One Direction fics I read and enjoyed in April 2025. For more new fics, check out this month's fic roundup at @1dmonthlyficroundup ! You can find my other fic recs here.

- Louis / Harry -

🌸 Pretty Please (With Sugar On Top) by @angelichl

(E, 113k, omegaverse) Harry is a sugar baby omega who cons rich alphas for a living. Louis is a rich alpha with too much self-control.

🌸 The Money Mark by @brightgolden

(E, 52k, omegaverse) Where Louis is Harry’s first sugar daddy who dumped him over text and their paths cross, seven years later.

🌸 HL 80s NYC verse (series) by superglass / @gaymoustache

(M, 51k, HIV) In the midst of the AIDS crisis, Harry meets Louis after coming home from a drag ball. 80s NYC au.

🌸 Mountain Investigation by babyhoneyhslt / @babyhoneyheslt

(T, 35k, mystery) As a plane crash investigator, Louis has handled his fair share of strange cases, but something is different about the crash of British Airways flight BA278. Crashed into the Brecon Beacons, over the Pen Y Fan mountain, very few survived. One of them being the pilot, Harry Styles.

🌸 All Of You For Eternity by @signofcomfort

(M, 29k, soulmates) Meet the walker of the night, aka, vampire, aka Louis Tomlinson, who is dwelling between the lovers from the past and the present!

🌸 Not having a breakdown! (I'm just here for the kid.) by louisismycat / @liminalkittyfics

(E, 28k, omegaverse) Harry has to park outside his ex-husband’s (Louis) wedding so that he can whisk their kid away if a meltdown ensues during the day. Guests will not know this and will only see him parked outside, it cannot be stressed enough, his ex-husband’s wedding.

🌸 Lucky Again by BoosBabycakes / @boosbabycakes28

(T, 10k, exes) It’s been 7 years since Harry and Louis broke up and one special tattoo on Louis’ fingers might be what brings them back together again.

🌸 Birthday Boyfriend by @emmli28

(M, 6k, meet cute) It’s Harry’s birthday, and he has had a rather shitty day, to be honest. That changes the moment a complete stranger sits down across from him at a bar and decides to make it the best birthday ever.

🌸 in the middle of the night, when the wolves come out by larryftnoctrl / @the-larry-way

(T, 4k, omegaverse) A snowstorm ruins Harry's Christmas plans. Presented with an alternate in an equally stranded Louis, he finds that he doesn't mind so much.

🌸 X Marks The Spot by galactic_larry / @galacticlarry

(T, 4k, exes) Breaking up six weeks before their best friends’ wedding wasn’t ideal, especially given the fact that both Harry and Louis are part of the wedding party. What happens when they see each other at the wedding and actually get a moment alone during the reception?

🌸 My husband (29/M) died and has been possessed by a demon and now he’s cooking eggs in my kitchen as if nothing happened, what do I do? by cosycryptid

(M, 4k, MCD) The man, Harry, his husband, is standing there. Louis still hasn’t removed his wedding ring and he doesn’t think he ever will. He looks down and sees it still sitting on Harry’s finger also, though, there’s mud and dirt staining the silver. Actually. Come to think of it. He’s covered in mud. His whole body. The suit they buried him in is torn in places and there’s grass stains lining his wrinkled white shirt.

🌸 Sweven by @1diamondinthesun

(NR, 4k, Idiopathic Hypersomnia) "So this Harry,” Liam chuckled, reaching for the business card, “Harry Styles, witnessed you in a near nap state and gave you his card? And his personal number?”

🌸 Through Darkest Clouds by LadyLondonderry / @londonfoginacup

(T, 3k, Orpheus and Eurydice AU) “That’s the deal. You cannot look at him. You cannot speak to him. Until you’re over the border, he is to know nothing.” Harry nods, face set. “If that’s what it takes,” he says. After all, he has no choice.

🌸 Silently Calling You Home by Spigityspack

(NR, 3k, established relationship) Harry is coming home from a trip and wants to take Louis out as a way to celebrate. Louis falls ill and feels awful for ruining Harry's plans.

🌸 The lights are a little too bright by @sunflour28

(G, 2k, chronic dizziness) Louis' a little done with his situation. He's seen the same hospital room far too many times in his life. Maybe things will start looking up though- now that Harry's in the same waiting room as him.

🌸 calm down girl by larryftnoctrl / @the-larry-way

(T, 1k, meet cute) Harry can't handle the stress of boarding his darling cat. Louis is happy to ease his worries.

🌸 What If We Were Penguins? by Worldsofdreamers / @defences-down

(NR, 1k, penguins) A late night question turns into the strangest dream... or is it?

- Rare Pairs -

🌸 Let Us Be Lovers by @lululawrence

(NR, 27k, Louis/Diego Luna) Louis and Diego were only supposed to have a one night stand. When Diego's parents unexpectedly turn up the morning after, Louis finds himself getting a crash course in Mexican culture and Diego's family, and quite possibly the healing he didn't even realize he still needed.

🌸 Two, He's Kissing On You by @louislittletomlintum

(E, 10k, Louis/Harry, Louis/Zayn/Harry) the one where louis' a life model, zayn is a photographer, and harry is also there

[chackyxyooj]

Vol. 3 - Craving Your Love: Sad Girl Sex

→ “Sleepin’ with somebody makes nothing better, just ignites my loneliness.”

╭──────────.★..─╮

Description: Garroth doesn’t invite people over with the express intent to sleep with them. That being said, he’s not sure how he ended up sleeping with you but he’s not one to complain.  || ONESHOT, SMUT (Size Difference, Overstimulation, M!SoftDom)

Included: MS!Garroth X Reader

WC: 2.5k

CW: Strong Sexual Themes | NSFW

One Night Masterlist

╰─..★.──────────╯

Sexual Content Ahead: If uncomfortable with this type of content, please DNI! - Minors & Ageless Blogs DNI!

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

“Are you… ah…” Garroth can feel himself melting into your touch. The hand you hold against his face is so warm. So calming. It almost makes him forget that his cock is buried deep inside of you. Almost, but not quite. “I can’t think straight. That’s how good you’re making me feel.”

As Garroth admires your flushed expression, he can’t help but wonder how things ended up this way. He’d be doing you a huge disfavour if he didn’t admit to how beautifully captivating you are, but he’d be doing himself a disfavour by saying he knew what he was doing. It’s not like the boy is completely clueless, he’s had sex before, but he’s never had a one night stand.

Until tonight, it seems.

It isn’t very often that a group of young adults partake in a game of seven minutes in heaven - not in Garroth’s opinion, anyway. That kind of thing is usually reserved for teenagers and college-goers, not for something like a block party.

Target demographic aside, Garroth found it strange that such a game would get started at a time like this. He found it even stranger that his group of friends would set up this kind of game, much less the fact that he found himself being shoved into a dark closet without his consent. As it goes, it was a similar story on your side, too.

Despite what many outsiders might assume, you and Garroth decided to skip the kissing and the awkward silence to partake in some pleasant small talk instead. It was one of the best decisions Garroth has ever made.

To be honest, Garroth isn’t sure how he hadn’t met you earlier! Someone like you, who he could only think to describe using compliments, was a genuine joy to be around. He was thrilled that you decided to stick around and chat after the two of you were released from the confines of the closet - even more so when you accepted his offer to walk home together.

It came as a surprise to Garroth that, despite meeting you at a block party, you didn’t, in fact, live on the block. You only came clean with this information after the two of you had walked around the entire block for the third consecutive time.

At first you were too embarrassed to admit that the person who promised to be your host had left earlier in the night, but time has a funny way of bringing out the truth. An early exit isn’t usually a problem but you were 90% certain that your host was engaging in some fun you weren’t keen on overhearing.

Being the person he is, Garroth obviously offered to let you stay at his place. Sure, the boy may have two roommates but his door has a lock!

Garroth’s grip on the bedsheets tightens as he attempts to maintain his self-control. As much as he wants to pull himself close to you, he doesn’t dare lay his hands on you - lest the boy accidentally end up hurting you. He’s already sizably larger than you, not to mention his abnormal strength.

But oh, how good he feels every time he sinks deep into your cunt. Feeling you around his length is like nothing he’s ever known. It’s addictive; so very damn addictive.

Your hand slips from Garroth’s face as you gingerly bite down on the side of your hand. Every thrust of the boy’s hips causes another quiet sound to slip past your lips. It feels good - you feel good - but you can’t help but feel like the boy is not enjoying himself quite as much as you are. It’s as though every movement he makes is made in an effort not to go too far.

You turn your gaze up to the boy. His expression looks tense and sweat lines his hairline. You try to open your mouth to speak but the quiet, involuntary moans choke out the words you want to say.

Embarrassed, you turn your head and tuck your face into the pillow.

Having your eyes closed seems to make the boy’s hesitance all the more clear. It almost feels like he’s faltering before every move he makes. Even after getting this far, you can’t help but fear the worst.

You’ll be the first to admit that getting thrown into the closet with the cute blonde was the best thing that could’ve happened to you, but even that was something that he didn’t have much choice in. He offered you a place to stay since your friend was nowhere to be seen, but it never seemed like he had intentions to sleep with you. It was only after you suggested it that he went along. Was he just trying to spare your feelings? Is the boy not actually enjoying himself?

Despite the flaring uncertainty that festers in your stomach, you put your hand against the boy’s chest and give him a small shove. “W-wait.”

Upon hearing your request, Garroth stops himself immediately. Has he done something wrong? He certainly hopes not. If the look on your face is anything to go off of then, well, it’s probably best that he just asks you straight up. “Are you okay?” He asks, noticing how you refuse to meet his gaze.

“Yeah, I’m okay. It’s just that…”

Despite the ache and desire to continue, Garroth quickly pulls away. “I’m so, so sorry! I hurt you, didn’t I? Good Irene, I should’ve been more careful-”

“No, that’s not it at all!” You assure the boy. You don’t try to pull him back in, but you do sit up beside him. “I just… I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Me?” Garroth repeats, confused. “I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

“I don’t know. I mean… it just seemed like you were…” Garroth watches as you hide your expression behind your hands. Worry immediately sets in but he prevents himself from reaching forward. After a deep breath, you continue. “It seemed like you weren’t really enjoying yourself. Or like, it feels like you’re holding back. Did I…? Is this too much?”

It hadn’t even occurred to Garroth that you might be picking up on his deliberate attempts to stop himself from accidentally squishing you. It comes as an even bigger surprise that his actions might be interpreted as reluctance.

Garroth is stunned. It’s true that you were the one who initiated, but that hardly means that Garroth was doing this out of obligation! Shouldn’t that be obvious?

“You have nothing to worry about!” Garroth insists. “I’m not just going through the motions. Far from it!” He finishes and gently holds your hand, caressing the skin with his thumb before leaning down to place a kiss against your fingers. It’s affectionate - far more affectionate than one might expect from something like a one night stand - but for Garroth, it feels natural.

He places another kiss against the palm of your hand, then another on your wrist. His lips keep traveling further up your arm until his kisses have reached the base of your neck. 

What you think will lead to hesitation surprisingly provides none. There’s no semblance of hesitance as the boy turns your face and presses a kiss upon your lips. It’s a slow and cherished kiss; as if this will be the only time he’ll ever get to kiss you. Something that, to be fair, might not be inherently wrong.

While your first instinct was to pull away from the kiss, the boy quickly chases your lips with his own. One of his hands slips around your waist and the other glides across the top of your thigh. You nearly lose yourself in the moment when your companion suddenly pulls away.

“Do you want to keep going?” He asks, his eyes peering up at you with a quiet but desperate plea.

Despite how the words sit right on your tongue, you’re too bashful to want to admit what’s painfully obvious. Beneath the boy’s gaze you can only nod at his request; let alone how you can hardly manage to hold his gaze at all.

With that simple reply, Garroth gains confidence.

Garroth takes his time with you. He carefully guides you back against the bed while whispering sweet words of affirmation the whole time. Once your head is against the pillow, Garroth dips down and peppers kisses against your neck and chest. A girl like you deserves to be pampered.

You’re beautiful. You’re so gosh dang beautiful! Garroth can’t get enough. From your chest down to your hips, Garroth is tempted to kiss every single inch of skin. He knows that’s not reasonable but he can’t help but love the way you shudder beneath every kiss. Your every reaction fuels his desires, to keep kissing until he’s satisfied, but Garroth knows not to keep a lady like yourself waiting for too long.

Garroth pulls away from you and sits between your ankles. He places his hands on the inside of your knees and, while lowering himself onto his stomach, carefully pushes your legs apart. Once he’s comfortably settled, Garroth presses a kiss just above your clit.

With no notable reaction from the action, Garroth begins to use his tongue against your clit. At first he tries to get a good rhythm but that quickly becomes a challenge when your hips start to move out of time with his gentle strokes. The boy is still quite adamant about not hurting you, but that doesn’t mean he won’t touch you.

The blonde is quick to wrap his arms around your thighs and pull your cunt flush against his face. He uses your attempts to grind as a guide to where you desire his touch the most. It isn’t long before the boy finds the perfect way to tease your clit.

Despite the short time he’s known you, Garroth can easily see himself getting addicted to you. From your fingers tangled in his hair to your increasingly needy movements, Garroth can only hope that he’s helping to bring you to your climax. If the way you roll your hips is anything to go off of, you’re getting really close. He hadn’t thought about it before, but the image of you reaching your climax suddenly floods his mind.

To see you arching off the bed; hear your voice consumed by pleasure; feel you pulling him in as you ride out your orgasm; it’s all Garroth can think about. He’s not sure if he should be thinking about you in such a blatantly dirty way, but when his face was literally between your legs he figured it wasn’t a problem.

Garroth is so enthralled by the notion of making you cum that he fails to realise that you do, in fact, reach your climax. Instead, he keeps going.

While you’re trying to come down from your high, your companion’s efforts keep you from coming down. The feeling is nearly as excruciating as it is pleasurable. A part of you tries to pull away, but another urges you to stay right where you are.

With a mind muddled with pleasure and desire, you try to get the boy’s attention through other means. At first you try tugging on his hair but his grip on you grows tighter and his pace becomes more relentless. You can’t even begin to get his attention with your words - your every attempt to speak is swallowed up by your breathless pants and moans.

Things really come to a head when the boy decides to gently push two of his fingers into your cunt. What you hopped was a moment to breathe was nothing but the boy’s efforts to keep you feeling good. To his credit, you were feeling good - too good.

Right on the precipice of giving in to your desires, a desperate plea slips from your lips.

Hearing you whine so loudly causes Garroth’s attention to snap over to you. To his surprise, you have your face buried between your arm and the pillow.

Garroth climbs over your body in an instant. He uses one of his arms to hold himself up while the other gently caresses the side of your face. “H-hey, are you okay? Was I too rough with you?” Garroth tries to get you to look at him but you keep your gaze hidden.

A mix of guilt and worry pools in Garroth’s stomach. He’s about to pull away when you quietly whisper something.

Garroth leans closer on instinct but he still can’t make out what you’re saying. Against his better judgement, Garroth gently pries your face out of your hands and forces you to meet his gaze. He wasn’t sure what he’d find when you looked up at him, but gosh. You’re so much prettier than he first realized.

“Geeze…” You shy away from the boy’s gaze. “Are you really gonna make me ask you again?”

Garroth suddenly clues into the situation and realises that you’re subtly grinding against the length of his cock. He barely has the chance to give you his reply before he’s bottomed out inside of you.

You grasp the boy’s arms tightly, almost desperately, as he starts to pull out. You’re almost embarrassed when a moan slips from your lips. Your companion, however, seems more than delighted to catch the quiet sound of pleasure.

You can feel the bed shift beneath you as the boy slowly pushes his length back into you. You’re still pretty sensitive from everything before so adding this on top is really pushing you to your limit. It’s no wonder why, when the thrusts of the blonde’s hips become more consistent, you can hardly hold back.

You can tell from the way your companion’s thrusts falter that he’s already really close to his climax. For a moment you think he might be holding back, but that’s when he suddenly pulls away. You open your eyes just in time to see the boy cumming on your stomach.

You’re surprised, but not because of anything your companion did. Rather, you’re surprised that the first thing he does is reach for his discarded shirt and clean you up - without climbing off the bed, no less. It isn’t long before you find yourself watching the boy in a mix of amusement and awe. You don’t suppose it’s very odd that the boy who was so afraid to hurt you was such a gentle caretaker.

When all is said and done, the boy is lying down beside you with a look that’s akin to affection. It’s flattering, to be sure, but not quite what one would expect from a night such as this.

“You’re so beautiful.”

If your face wasn’t flushed before, it was about to be. “Y-you think so?” You finally manage to stammer out. “I’m not one to toot my own horn, but thanks.” You start to sit up but feel compelled to stop when the boy starts to follow.

The boy, whether knowingly or not, breathes a sigh in relief when you stop mid-way. No matter how hard you try, you can’t help but find him ever-so endearing. “I don’t want to overstep my bounds, but, do you want to…?” He smiles at you ever so gently, asking you to stay with nothing but his open arms.

And you, of course, smile back.

[silkscream]

CHAPTER 4: EYES WITHOUT A FACE

ੈ✩ gojo satoru x reader, geto suguru x reader

He’s never known what to do with his feelings, always choosing to bury them where no one else could reach until all of it would rot by itself. It didn’t concern him. It was why he lived life somewhat carelessly. Avoidant.

He’s never known what to do with his feelings about you, either.

ੈ✩ chapter cw/tags: explicit content, angst, dub/noncon, underage alcohol usage

ੈ✩ wc: 4.3k

ੈ✩ a/n: chuckles nervously... the plot thickens

playlist ✸ read on ao3 ✸ series masterlist

November, 2008

You are downing your third gin and juice when you start to feel your bones loosen. Anxiously, you had already downed a glass of wine before you arrived at Satoru’s house, and that wasn’t enough to settle your nerves. You’d only been here for about an hour and a half and had mingled with a few classmates you recognized from school, otherwise keeping to yourself amidst the chaos.

That is, until a wired Shoko slings her arm around your shoulder, nearly tripping over herself.

“You came!” she beams. You’d only met her a few times, mostly in passing, each time at Satoru’s house while you were with your mother working and not as a guest. 

She’s deer-like, with a dazed, sleepy expression on her face and a joint hanging out of her mouth as opposed to her usual Seven Star. She leans on you close enough for you to smell the smoky scent of her hair, which is currently adorned with small black devil ears.

“Happy birthday, Ieiri-san,” you smile, fishing a small box out of your coat.

“Oh, you didn��t have to get me anything! Those idiots only got me like two cases of beer as a present, anyway,” she laughs. She unwraps the gift to reveal a zippo lighter with a scorpion design on it.

“I thought cigarettes would’ve been too on the nose,” you shrug.

“I love it,” she smiles, hugging you. “Suguru always steals my lighters. He’s definitely not getting a hold of this one.”

“Do you know where he is? Or Gojo-kun?”

She looks at you, then, with an unreadable expression. Something of simultaneous confusion and amusement.

“Probably doing something illegal. I’d guess upstairs or outside, maybe? I just saw them.”

You snort. There wouldn’t be one without the other. You blame your eagerness to drink on why you hadn’t caught them earlier, though when you check your phone again for the fifth time tonight, there are no messages. Satoru is inconsistent in his texting anyway – either silent for a few days, then blowing up your phone in the middle of the night with his random thoughts.

“Thanks.”

“Hey, let me know if you need anything, okay?” She squeezes your hand like a friend would. “Don’t be a stranger.”

“Thank you, Ieiri-san,” you nod. 

You explore the kitchen, frowning at the clear spills on the countertop and the nearly empty cabinets that used to be full of glasses and mugs. You roll your eyes at your immediate thoughts of cleaning up. Always your mother’s child, never a real guest in a place like this.

You don’t think you can handle another gin and juice, though the drunken devil on your shoulder still goads you to drink more. You were a lightweight, less so than Satoru, but enough to feel blurry at the moment. You settle on a forgotten bottle of plum wine, justifying it with its lesser alcohol content.

The taste is sweet, sickeningly so. Something that Satoru would like. It tastes like he would.

You ignore the slight ache in your head. The music is too loud, blasting in your ears, and the number of people who have arrived at the party since you’d spoken to Shoko has multiplied tenfold. 

You stare at your phone again. Nothing.

You’re too warm in your coat now, huddled shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers. There’s probably a safe chance that the boys were upstairs, and even if they weren’t, you could take a breather in Satoru’s room and leave your coat there.

It’s humid once you get to the top of the staircase. Your hair sticks to your back a little as you carry your coat in your arms. The black slip dress you decided on feels too thin, suddenly, but you think it suits your body. Shows just the right amount of skin because of how short it is. Satoru would like it.

The door to Satoru’s bedroom is slightly ajar. You hear more than one voice – a round of them, boisterous. There are several bottles of alcohol on the floor that you can see, a full ashtray, and a small group of strangers that you assume to be Satoru’s friends, though you realize they’re all women. When you tilt your head, you can see him.

He’s sitting on Suguru’s lap, laughing. You notice the way Suguru’s hand rests on Satoru’s stomach, while Satoru absentmindedly taps his fingers along Suguru’s thigh. He’s sprawled out on the boy, taking up space the way he always does, and it looks… intimate. Like they belong to each other.

Satoru whines when Suguru bites at the exposed skin of his collarbone playfully, swatting him away. It’s a similar gesture you do to him when he sneaks up behind you at school. When he gets you alone. When he gets you to follow him home until you end up in his bed.

You know that Satoru is a touchy drunk, but you’ve never seen such adoration in his eyes before. It makes you feel sick. 

But you can’t find it in yourself to be angry or shocked. Rather, you feel a bit pathetic. Looking from the outside in, in a place you practically grew up in, feeling more alone than ever.

You want to watch them for longer. Like a voyeur. 

There’s an itch in your body that wants to see if the boys will kiss. Satoru has never been this touchy with you in the presence of others. With Suguru, it looks like muscle memory.

Your knuckles pale as you grip the bottle of plum wine in your hand. You chug the rest, not caring about the taste making your insides swirl. After discarding your coat in one of the hallway closets, you take a deep breath and retreat downstairs.

Shoko bumps into you in the middle of the dancefloor. The way her face lights up almost dissipates the pit in your stomach. Almost.

“Hey, baby! Come dance.” 

“I need a smoke, actually, but I will after.”

“I didn’t know you smoked,” she says, handing you one of her Seven Stars cigarettes and her zippo.

“I can get matches from the kitchen, don’t worry.”

Once you’re outside, the music is a dull ache in the back of your head. The November air is colder than you expect considering the recent days of decent weather, but the alcohol keeps you numb. You inhale smoke, eyes fluttering at the memory of intimacy. 

“If you guys drank all my birthday sake, I’m seriously going to castrate you both.”

Shoko pulls the bottle out of Satoru’s hands while he’s in the middle of sipping. He nearly chokes from the force of her, liquid dripping onto his chin. Suguru wipes it off and laughs.

“This isn’t your birthday sake, dumbass!”

“Gross,” Shoko says, wrinkling her nose at the off-brand label. It’s cheap and sweet, just the way Satoru likes it.

Fiending for more alcohol, Satoru frowns when he examines the other liquor bottles scattered around the circle of them, only to find that there’s only hard liquor. He drinks from a bottle of Sprite instead to satiate his craving, in addition to stealing a maraschino cherry out of Yuki’s cocktail. 

“You finished every bottle of sake, Satoru,” Suguru frowns.

“Great! Let’s play spin the bottle.”

“No,” Utahime interjects. She throws an empty beer can at Satoru’s head.

“Yeah, I’m downvoting that, too,” Shoko adds. She takes the joint that Suguru finishes rolling and lights it. “It’s my birthday and I’m not letting this idiot try to fuck everyone like he does at every party.”

“That’s because his type is everyone. He’s a whore,” Yuki chuckles.

“I don’t try to fuck everyone–”

“Go find your girlfriend if you want to get your dick wet so bad,” she interrupts, mumbling with the joint in her mouth. “We should find her and get her to play poker with us. She looked a little sad when I saw her.”

“Huh?” Satoru blinks.

“Oh, and why does she call you by your last name? Is it because she technically works for you?”

“No fucking way Gojo found a poor soul to be his girlfriend,” Utahime mutters. She settles her head on Shoko’s lap in the bed, stealing the joint out of her mouth. “Do you pay her?”

“No, she’s like a servant or something, right?” Yuki says.

“Gojo! That’s sick. The poor girl.”

“Stop, you’re making her out to seem like she’s my fucking concubine,” Satoru asserts, a bit too fiercely than he means to. His lips twitch at the mention of you.

Suguru raises his brows at Satoru, knowing the boy is too drunk and too befuddled to know what to say. The girls stare.

“She’s not my girlfriend, either.”

“You should fuck her, then,” Shoko slurs. “She’s so cute.”

“She’s our friend,” Suguru drawls, tipping back vodka like it’s water. “You haven’t seen her yet, Satoru?”

Satoru shakes his head. His heart pounds quicker now that you’re the topic of conversation. That feeling comes back – the one that makes him panic, as if he’s discovering that something he owns is lost. It twists in his stomach, knowing how selfish it is. He wants to keep you in a way that’s separate from the rest of his life because you were his.

He gets up and mumbles something about going to the bathroom. In the hallway, he opens his phone and stares at your contact. Your photo hasn’t changed in years – a goofy close-up that he took when he was thirteen. 

When he calls you, his heartbeat quickens the longer the phone rings, only to realize that he hears the sound of your ringtone from behind the closet. He finds your phone and your coat, but there’s no trace of you.

It sobers him up considerably. The lights in the house flicker.

The temperature drops as the night drags on, which is why you have the firepit to yourself. The fire is still glowing, warming your bare legs. 

Fuck. You want another cigarette.

You jump at the sound of another’s presence. When you turn, you see your classmate, Haru, nursing a half-empty bottle of wine in his right hand.

“Getting up to trouble, I see,” he grins.

You laugh. It’s more of a scoff, but you smile at him.

“Yeah, some crazy delinquent activity. Some might even call it mischief.”

The joke makes him laugh, which makes you laugh, genuinely. Haru had the demeanor of a puppy, always excitable and easy to please. It used to be a little annoying when you were first years but he’d mellowed out since then, it seems.

Under the glow of the fire, he looks handsome in a boyish way. His hair has gotten longer over the year, like Suguru’s, but he lets it fall to his shoulders. You scoot over on the patio couch, welcoming him to sit.

“You look very pretty, by the way. I like your dress.”

“O—Oh,” you stammer, surprised. “Thank you.”

He offers you the bottle of wine in his hand and you accept, taking a swig of pinot grigio. Future you is going to kill you for mixing so many different alcohols in your stomach. Current you is basking in the warmth of your surroundings.

“Sorry if this is awkward, but uh—” He fiddles with his fingers, but the eye contact he makes with you feels oddly intense. “Are you, like, seeing Gojo?”

His name makes your face burn. You almost choke on the wine.

“Uh, no. Just—um, what made you think that?” 

“He just seems possessive over you,” Haru shrugs. 

“Yeah, right. He never talks to me in school.”

“But he does, sometimes, and I notice it. He looks at you in a certain way. S’why I was kind of scared to approach you, actually.”

You furrow your brows at the idea of Satoru scaring other boys away. Other boys didn’t talk to you, never have. You didn’t think you were exceptionally attractive in a way that made other people pine over you. You were always focused on academics anyway. But has Satoru always driven other boys away?

“He’s not my bodyguard or whatever,” you try to joke. “And I don’t bite. Unless you’re into that.”

Haru widens his eyes. You curse yourself in your head. It’s the wine talking. It has to be.

“I think I might be.”

When did he get so close to you? You notice you’re both thigh to thigh. Your stomach drops when Haru caresses your jaw. His touch doesn’t feel right. It’s not what you’re used to, not what you want.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, face inches from yours. You freeze when you realize what’s happening, closing your eyes to accept it. A drunken kiss won’t hurt anyone. Maybe it’s what you need.

He’s soft at first until his tongue pries your mouth open. From there, there’s spit and teeth, his hand squeezing your throat the tiniest bit in a way that makes you whimper. The sound of it encourages him. He has his other hand on your thigh, underneath the hem of your dress.

You’re brainless. A used toy. Your head is swimming rapidly, too messy to register all of it. The panic subsides into blankness as your body surrenders. Everything feels so heavy.

“H-Haru–”

“I’ve always liked you,” he mumbles in between kisses. How is his grip on you so tight?

“Haru, I don’t–”

You can’t get a word in with his tongue down your throat.

You’re barely kissing him back now, but he takes from you anyway. Licks your teeth and inches his hand higher and higher up your thigh. When he finally releases your mouth, he has his tongue on your neck instead, and it feels sordid. You are numb and he is molding you in his hands.

Satoru’s voice is in your head calling you weak.

You recoil when you feel calloused fingers grazing your core. You make a weak attempt to push him away, small fists to his broad chest. When your gaze drifts, you see a pair of burning blue eyes.

“The fuck do you think you’re doing—”

Haru’s hair is yanked, and his body is pulled backward and thrown onto the ground. It’s all too fast—a whiplash of crushed bone and bloody knuckles. White hair and burning blue eyes.

“What the fuck, man–”

You watch in horror as Satoru kicks the boy on his side. You don’t even notice that Suguru is pulling you away with a hand on your waist.

You’ve never seen Satoru so angry. Never seen him be violent outside of playfighting Suguru in the grass. He’s a whole other being in front of you now, and it scares you, and it’s somehow… beautiful.

“Touch her again and I fucking kill you,” he seethes, spitting on Haru’s cheek. “Get the fuck out of my house.”

He’s breathing heavily and glances at you. There’s a look of betrayal and disbelief that you see briefly before Suguru sweeps you away. When you’re back inside, you let go of his hand to run to the bathroom and vomit.

Your eyes fucking ache.

It’s the dried tears and strained pupils underneath the disgusting overhead light of the downstairs bathroom. Your head pounds. You don’t remember when you came to, but you find comfort from the arm around you. Shoko sits next to you and runs a reassuring hand through your hair.

“I’m sorry,” you croak. “I ruined your birthday.”

“Are you kidding?” Shoko chuckles. “That was entertaining as hell. Even if I only saw half of it. Leave it to Satoru to steal all the attention on my birthday.”

You frown, staring at her. How can she be so nonchalant that someone left her party with a broken nose? 

The ghost of Haru’s touch makes your skin crawl, making you reflexively shut your thighs together. The bathroom floor is cold underneath your skin.

“I’ve never seen him so mad before,” you lament quietly.

“Neither have I,” she exhales. “It takes a lot to work him up. He had no room to be jealous, though. He said you weren’t his girlfriend.”

Her words prick you like the blade of a dagger. Slowly. Drawing blood. 

“I– I wasn’t trying to hook up with that guy,” you say. “I was so drunk. I didn’t want it.”

Shoko looks at you with pity. “Oh, fuck.”

When she wraps your arms around you, you’re too numb to cry. The door opens and the boys enter. Your eyes stay on the floor. Your gut twists inside out.

“How is she?” you hear Suguru ask.

That again. Talking about you instead of to you.

Shoko mouths something, you think. A soundless gesture as she rubs your back soothingly like a sister would. 

“You want a ride home, princess?” Suguru asks.

“She can sleep here. There’s a room for her.”

You look up at the sound of Satoru’s voice. His face is cold, unreadable. You don’t expect him to lift you and carry you to his room, but he does. There’s a pang in his heart when you wrap your arms around his neck.

“Take this.” He tips your head back for you and parts your lips with his hands so he can get the painkillers on your tongue. Water down your throat. 

“Good girl.”

“I can take care of myself,” you grumble, curling into yourself on the edge of his bed. 

“Clearly you can’t, otherwise you wouldn’t have fucking blacked out.”

“I’m sorry, Satoru,” you say with dejection. “Just—please don’t be angry with me.”

“I’m not angry. Not with you.”

But he is, just a little. The mere idea of someone else touching you makes him see red, and having it be real and at his fucking house made him livid beyond repair. How dare that piece of trash touch you. Like you aren’t Satoru’s and his alone. 

He’s also upset at himself because he knew it wouldn’t have happened if he’d found you sooner.

He lays on his side behind you and pulls you close. 

“I don’t understand you,” you say, weakly. Your nose feels fuzzy again the way it does before you cry.

“I don’t, either,” Satoru sighs.

You turn to face him, then, and the look on your face devastates him.

“I shouldn’t have gotten so drunk. I didn’t know what was happening. I mean, I did, but I didn’t—I didn’t want all of that,” you sniffle. “Didn’t want him to touch me.”

You say it like you’re confessing. Pleading. Guilt swallows him whole.

What you want to ask: Why am I only something to you when someone else touches me?

“I’m so sorry,” Satoru whispers. “I’m sorry that I wasn’t there to stop it and that you had to see me like that. I’ll never let anyone hurt you like that again. Okay?”

Touch her again and I kill you.

You nod weakly, smiling. He holds you and lets you cry until you fall asleep. It feels like he’s committing a crime to be able to hold you like this.

Satoru closes his eyes and breathes through his nose. He’s never known what to do with his feelings, always choosing to bury them where no one else could reach until all of it would rot by itself. It didn’t concern him. It was why he lived life somewhat carelessly. Avoidant. 

He’s never known what to do with his feelings about you, either. 

He didn’t think they would come back. Ideally, you both would’ve finished school and he would go to Jujutsu Tech and forget about you. Maybe you see you on the off-occasion he’s home, but he doesn’t plan on being home that often. But he’s young and stupid and hungry, and when you were there for him on a platter, he wanted to take you. Consume you.

He feels powerful when he knows that you want to consume him, too. He can’t live with himself knowing that that power will only hurt you in the end. 

He almost wishes you were angry at him. You could scream at him if you wanted and it would be justified, but you’re here in his arms again instead. Apologizing.

Something ugly twists inside of him. He remembers what you said in bed the other day. 

You could do anything you wanted to me and I think I’d let you.

It made him sick with desire then, but it makes him sick with remorse now.

November, 2008 (Three days later)

“Is she okay? She hasn’t responded to my text,” Suguru asks.

“You text her?” 

Satoru tries not to look annoyed. Instead, he looks away and kicks away a discarded Ramune bottle across the pavement. On Mondays, he liked to skip his last class and force Suguru to accompany him for a late lunch that usually consisted of konbini sweets.

“Not really. She has my number, though,” Suguru says, taking a puff of a cigarette. Shoko’s influence. “Why, you jealous?”

“Fuck off.”

“You are.” Suguru gives him a sly grin. “That’s why you knocked the lights out of that guy.”

“He was assaulting her.”

Satoru sighs, sprawling his legs on the bench (which is too short to fit the length of his body) and puts his head in Suguru’s lap. He flinches when Suguru pokes his nose.

“She’s okay, though?”

“I don’t know, to be honest.”

Satoru thinks of your dejected gaze and the limpness of your body when he touched you the next morning. He was softer than usual given the situation, and you bound yourself to him like you always do. Clung to him, almost. He blushes at the memory of your face after he made you cum from his mouth. 

You seemed fine at breakfast Saturday morning when Satoru treated you to pancakes. But even with your sarcastic remarks and usual banter, the light in your eyes seemed dimmer.

It had barely been 36 hours since then, but he missed you.

“I think I would’ve done the same thing as you,” Suguru says.

Satoru sighs crankily, throwing an arm over his face to block the sunlight.

“I probably would’ve killed him if you guys weren’t there,” he grumbles. “Sometimes I want to kidnap her, I swear. Never leave her out of my sight. I shouldn’t have gotten so fucking drunk.”

Suguru looks down at him, raising his brows. One of his usual looks – astute and slightly shaming. 

Satoru is grateful for the darkness of his lenses, though he knows that regardless, Suguru can easily tell what expression he’s giving him. He’s looking away, anyway, examining a stray cat on top of the roof of the konbini.

Satoru takes a moment to trace his eyes along the sharp lines of Suguru’s jawline. Clenched at the thought of you being hurt, a similar sentiment that Satoru’s had for the past few days. His fists burn with the ghost of that bastard’s blood. He wishes he could do it all again—punch his fucking teeth out harder than his nose.

While he thinks of you and the fragility of your far-away stare, he also thinks of your skin. At the moment, the thought is subtly replaced with Suguru’s hands absentmindedly scratching his head. It’s funny — you and Suguru had the same habit when it came to giving Satoru affection.

Prodigies, the two of them. Their abilities would rank them as Grade 1 by their first year of Jujutsu Tech, special grade by the time they complete their first few missions. Satoru really did see Suguru as his other half. It was why your inclusion made him uneasy despite how much he cared for you. 

It wasn’t anything personal. He was simply wrapped around Suguru’s finger first. They had drunkenly kissed two years prior, fresh-faced and seventeen, and would continue to on random occasions that weren’t dictated by anything other than hormones and energy shifts in the air.

Maybe Satoru would consider Suguru as his first love, if he knew anything about it. He didn’t know what you were, yet. He couldn’t describe his feelings for you. It was something beyond words, which scared him.

“Do you think you’re going to take her to the New Year’s Party?” Suguru’s voice shakes Satoru out of his thoughts.

“What? I think I’m taking Mei Mei or something. Mother’s orders.”

“Mother’s orders?”

“Dude, I don’t know. She was like, assigned to me months ago. I still don’t get why it’s such a big deal for the clan, but Mei Mei and her family are close to the family or whatever.”

“I just thought you would bring Y/N, s’all.”

“Why?” Satoru asks.

Suguru smiles, giving him a knowing look before he rolls his eyes.

“You like her.”

“What?”

“You don’t have to lie to me, dude. I figured you were fucking her since she started hanging out with us.”

“She’s… my friend,” Satoru defends. His brain feels fucking scrambled. “My oldest friend.”

“Okay,” Suguru chuckles. “I was kind of thinking of asking her, then.”

“To– to what? The party?”

“Yeah.”

Satoru sits up from Suguru’s lap.

“It’s not really her scene.”

“She hangs out with you, I’m sure she can handle a little party thrown by your family.”

“It’s not little. It’s—fucking annoying and extravagant. I literally only go because I have to and there’s always an open bar,” Satoru prattles. “I thought you’d take Shoko.”

“Jesus, then I’d have to take care of her drunk ass. She’d probably want to get wasted with Utahime anyway. You know how much she wants to fuck her.”

Satoru is screaming in his head. If his worlds collide more than they already have, he might just break open completely. He straightens his posture in an attempt to not appear particularly haughty, though he knows Suguru can probably see right through him. 

He makes a non-committal noise, stone-faced when he looks at his friend. He hides his face as he rolls his eyes. 

His tone is bored, lips quirking in a bitter smile.

“Right, okay,” Satoru yawns. “Do whatever you want.”

[whencyclopedia]

The Resuscitation of the Only Daughter

The Resuscitation of the Only Daughter is a Sioux story about a young maiden who dies and returns to life, helped by a hunter and his wife, and then lives into old age. The story is open to many interpretations including the concept of fate and that there is a time appointed for one's death.

The story could be interpreted in accordance with one of the seven sacred rites of the Sioux – the Keeping of the Soul – in which a lock of hair from the deceased is taken, purified, and kept in one's sacred bundle (also known as one's medicine bag) for a certain time, usually a year, before it is released to the air, freeing the soul to return to the Great Mystery (Wakan Tanka) at its appointed time. The tale might also be interpreted as encouraging one to make the most of the time one has been given, to mourn one's loss for a culturally appropriate season and then let go and move on, and also to emphasize the importance of hospitality and kindness to strangers – even if they come from the land of the dead.

The tale – which is given as an account of a historical event – includes several details relating to the funerary rituals of the Sioux and their understanding of life after death. The corpse of the young maiden is raised on a scaffold outside of the village and her parents cut their hair short after her death and go into mourning. The hunter and his wife make their camp a half mile away from the burial ground to avoid any "things of the shadow" – the realm of the dead – and yet, when the resurrected young maiden approaches, they welcome her without fear and offer her all hospitality as though she were a living stranger, completely in keeping with the Sioux practice of hospitality in the past as well as today.

At the same time, the Sioux held – and hold – that the dead belong in their own realm and should not return to the world of the living. The story, therefore, inverts a central cultural belief in that the resurrected woman, after being welcomed and healed by the hunter and his wife, goes on to lead a full life, marries three times, and becomes a distinguished physician. Even so, as her life after her resurrection seems to lead to the deaths of her three husbands, the story may still be understood as maintaining the understanding that interaction with the dead is a risky business that brings trouble to those who engage in it, even if it might result in good for others.

Sioux Funerary Rites & Keeping of the Soul

The Sioux, like all Native American nations, believe in the eternal nature of the soul. After the physical death of the body, that which had animated it survives and needs to be acknowledged. The funerary rituals only lay to rest the physical remains of the person, not necessarily their spirit. Scholar Larry J. Zimmerman comments on the Sioux funerary rituals:

A corpse might be cremated, buried, or left to decompose in the open air on a scaffold or in trees. The resulting bones might be left on the ground or later gathered for interment in a conical or linear burial mound. Both scaffolds and burial mounds were sacred areas deemed by some to be spiritually dangerous. Among the Lakota , wanagi ("things of the shadow") spirits are said to guard the graves and can harm anyone who disturbs the dead. (247)

The soul itself, however, might also "stand guard" over the corpse, especially, if it had been released from the body before its appointed time. Whether in cases such as these (when a person died young or without an apparent cause) or any other, the Sioux developed the concept of the ritual of the Keeping of the Soul, which has several stages. After a person dies, a lock of their hair is taken and purified over the smoke of sweet grass or sage and is then placed in a sacred bundle. The person who agrees to keep that hair – and so care for the soul of the deceased – takes a vow to live harmoniously for a given time – not engaging in angry altercations or in other types of behavior that might dishonor the spirit they are entrusted with – for at least a year.

At the end of that time (however long it may be), in a ritual ceremony, the soul is released to the heavens and is understood to travel along the Milky Way to attain union with the Great Mystery, the creative force of the universe. The soul is thereby thought to have been released at the appropriate time for such a union in that the Great Mystery (or Great Spirit) will be expecting it. Although there is no mention of this ritual in the story, it may be assumed that the parents of the maiden would have engaged in it and, perhaps, this is how she is able to return to life, because her spirit had not been released to travel on to eternity.

Ghosts who remained on earth to haunt the living, for whatever reason, were not usually welcome – as in many cultures worldwide throughout history – unless they were recognized as friends or family members who had come to deliver some important message. One of the many fascinating aspects of this story is that the maiden, dead two years, returns as an animated corpse and requires the kindness and ministrations of the hunter and his wife to return fully to life. If the hunter were simply cursed afterwards for helping to revitalize the living corpse, this would be in keeping with the cultural understanding of how it was always unwise to interact with the spirits of the dead.

In this story, however, the actions of the hunter and his wife not only revive the maiden but also relieve her parents of their grief and, presumably, restore them to the community and, further, provide the people with an exceptional healer who goes on to help her people into her old age. Although the hunter, and then the maiden's two other husbands, seem to pay for this with their lives, the overall message of the story is positive, which, generally speaking, is at odds with the Native American understanding of interactions with the spirits of the dead.

As in many Native American tales, however, the obvious interpretation is not always the correct one. This story, like many others of the Sioux and other Native American nations, offers many different possibilities of meaning, and ultimately, it is up to an audience to arrive at their own conclusion as to what the final message of the piece might be.

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