#DHLcollab

[bitchlessdino]

Killer Courtship (m)

Pairing: divorce lawyer!jihoon x ex fiance!fem!reader Genre: crime, angst, smut Word count: 25.9k rating: R tags: Ft. Seungkwan, brother in law!seungkwan, mentions of crime/murder, mentions of blood, murder suspect!reader, murder suspect!reader, mentions of controlling parents, heiress!reader, divorce lawyer!jihoon, college au, domestic au, unwanted touches, unprotected sex, oral sex Summary: It you were lucky enough in love, you'd end the doomed engagement before it stirs up in inevitable divorce. If you were unlucky, however, you'd end up going to your divorce attorney ex for a different marriage you're trying to get out of. Bonus points if you're a murder suspect. author note: thank you @lovetaroandtaemin for beta reading i always love and appreciate your help. part of DON'T HATE, LITIGATE Collabe hosted by @/Haologram. everyone else enjoy and sorry for the drought 🥲

Tag: @shiningstar-byulxx @misssugarlips @tommolex @hoeforhao @dkakapizzaboy @junhui-recs @svtup @buffhoshi @meowmeowminnie @caratochan @lovebot4han @camisun93 @emmmui @toruro @jeonride @novalpha @nvmrljk @feat-sun @tinkerbell460 @aaniag @tacosandbitch @kyeomiis @wonwooz1-blog @horanghaezone @stagefrjghts @pantumin @aaniag @mochisdayone @gyuguys @idubiluranghae

The happiest you’ve ever been…

“I can’t believe I’m gonna be Mrs. Lee Jihoon.”

Jihoon chuckles at your whimsy before shielding your eyes with his palm, drawing the heat away from the sun. “How long are you gonna look at that thing?”

You let your simple band bestowed on your ring finger gleam in the sunlight, turning your hand over and back with no rest. “Oh, this is gonna be my personality for… the end time.”

“For the end of time?”

“For the end of time.”

He conjures an impressed expression, gently tracing over the curve of your jaw. “That’s a very long time.”

You place your hand over his, beaming up at your now fiancé. “And yet it’s still not enough. I feel like I’m dreaming.”

He shares the same sentiment, but still he asks, “Why?”

Your hand reaches out to touch his face, feeling how tangible he is, how real he is. The man of your dreams, the reason you breathe, the embodiment of everything amazing and wonderful is in your grasp, looking in admiration at you the way you are at him. You gush, his smile making you feel more elated than the giddiest of schoolchildren. Meanwhile, your heart moves in a steadily growing rhythm, and you don’t think you could be more happy until you’re at the aisle walking towards this same man. “I never thought I’d meet someone that could want me so much. Especially you. And now I can’t imagine it being anyone else.”

His eyes soften, gently stroking the side of your head. He bends down to meet your lips that naturally fits his mold, tasting each other as you’ve done a million times, and yet are never sick of. “I love you so much.”

“I love you.” Your eyes bat slowly back at him, swallowing the breath you take as you take in everything for all it is. “I always will.”

Present day…

The clock hands tick away as if taunting the young lawyer’s last moments. He twirls a pen between his fingers, finalizing the last case for the hour before the annoying clock inevitably strikes 6 PM, his quitting hour if he can help it. 

For the last few years, Jihoon has done nothing but work past the last work hour to make ends meet, but today is the day he’ll leave on time for once. No buts, ands, or ifs. No exceptions.

Fifteen minutes and going. He’s gonna make it. He’s so sure, that he even let the office aide head home early so she can tend to her kids and useless husband. She deserves it, much like Jihoon deserves this. A proper end of the day. 

Five Minutes. Everything is looking flawless. He’s looking front and back, left and right, electrically and manually handling everything to avoid errors. He’s going to make it. He’s going to make it.

One minute. Suddenly, there’s a knock on the door, and he’s betting on it being Cheryl, the office aid, so he can scold her for going against his orders but not really. He appreciates her too much and knows she has it rough. 

Despite the guest being unwelcome—“Come in. This better be good,” he shouts from his desk.

The knob turns reluctantly, anxiously even, and Jihoon still has not looked up from his desk to check who it is because there is not a single person he could think of that would be worth overtime. Despite that, he knows he's not looking forward to whatever case is being thrown his way, judging by their inconsiderate choice of timing.

“Hello, my name is Lee Jihoon, Family Law attorney at large. How may I help you today during the very late work hour…?”

When he finally lifts his gaze from the desk, he sees the source of the disruption. All thoughts are suddenly out of the window. His legs move before his mind catches up, pushing him upright as awe anchors his gaze. Slowly, he removes his glasses from the bridge of his nose, narrowing his focus on the figure before him. Is it his eyes deceiving him—or his mind—that conjures this painfully familiar mirage standing just out of reach?

“Hi, Jihoon.” You finally say, a soft smile on your beautifully aged face. “I’m sorry for coming so late. I needed assistance as soon as I could, and I just came out from work.”

“Hey, you.” Great start there, big guy. “How are you here?”

“Well,” you point your thumb over to the obvious, “the door to start.”

“Ha, yeah. I mean what brings you in,” he asks slowly, putting back on his glasses and settling down in his chair before gesturing to you to do the same in one of the seats in front of him.

“Well,” you begin settling in the leather of the chair, “I want a divorce.”

Well. Those are never words he thought to hear from your mouth. And he never thought he’d be on the other end relieved to hear them. Fuck it.  Another late night it is.

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that,” he replies with the utmost sympathy, hiding the hint of interest threatening to slip through his tone. This is his first love after all, god forbid he isn’t still a little in love with them, and happy to hear they’re looking to be back on the market again.

Your hands settle on your thighs, acknowledging his gesture with an incoherent mumble before meeting his eyes, remembering how beautiful they always looked gazing back at you. “Yeah, well it was a long time coming. The marriage lasted a lot longer than it should’ve.”

“I bet.” Jihoon quickly catches himself, “I mean, a lot of clients feel that way, but before any big decisions, I should ask you the standard questions I always ask potential clients before we proceed.”

“Of course,” you amicably agree. “Do what you need to, Hoon.” You’re now the one catching yourself, finding yourself calling the familiar nickname you called your ex-boyfriend/fiancé. “I mean Jihoon. Mr. Lee? Attorney Lee?”

“Please stop. It hurts to watch.” He teases, crinkling his nose with a feigned look of cringe, but smiling like a man who feels otherwise.

You playfully roll your eyes. “Okay, okay. Lay it on me.”

Jihoon asks you the typical questions. Living arrangements? Presence of children? Assets? Reasons for divorce? And any heavier topics that he wouldn’t ask otherwise unless put in the situation. Then again it was you. He’d probably learn all there he needs to know to have you safe.

He’s pleased to learn that no children were involved, and you’ve been living at your summer home away from your husband for a few months now; and it’s a no-fault divorce, but he knows that already. That was a good sign for him already. Assets, however—

“You kind of know the gist, having been there at the beginning. I was inclined to marry him, and if I didn’t, risk future inheritance and be possibly shunned from my family until the end of time. The divorce would bring that all come to fruition with the prenup. Doesn’t help that he has the same deal with his parents, so there’s been a little friction with that, but at this point, it doesn’t matter. I don’t need their money. I just want out.”

He taps his pen against his notes, earnestly analyzing the words from front to back. “Hmm, it’d be useful if you’d bring it the next time you visit. Hopefully during working hours this time? Like lunch or something.” He hints and feels the regret seep in as the guilt washes over your face.

“I really am sorry again.” You make yourself small in your seat, squeezing your thighs tightly together as you bow your head. “God, I’m treating you like a therapist.”

He waves his hand reassuringly. “It’s alright. What’s divorce attorney ex-fiancés good for if not to help out their ex with their divorce and listen to their marital issues?”

You break out in a smile, shaking your head as your cheeks fail to deflate. “It really is so good to see you.”

“You too. You look good.” The weight of his words is damning, dripping with longing poorly masked by his professional disposition. He feels his role as lawyer that he’s worked at for several years slips away in a matter of seconds as his eyes take in every atom of you.

The simple words heat up your cheeks, and his shameless gaze knocks the wind out of your lungs, all the familiar feelings rushing back. “You look good.”

He savors your saccharine tone as it makes his blood rush down in places he wouldn’t dare mention in front of a client, even you. He hides his impatience behind his desk, gripping the edges to support and restrain himself from crossing the lines that take him out of a rational mind. “So, how did you find me?”

“Excuse me.” You cross your arms with a warped smile. “You probably have one of the most common names in existence. ‘Lee Jihoon?’ I’d have to look through hundreds—if not thousands—of them to find you.”

“Well, did you?”

“Well, I would be lying if I said I wasn’t kind of excited seeing your face on the website.”

Jihoon has to remember to thank Wonwoo, who insisted on taking his work profile picture for him, later. “I make you excited? Well, Miss, I may be arranging your divorce, but you are still married. Find some self-control.”

“Shut. Up.” You attempt to feign sternness, but your smile deceives you, almost inviting the banter the lawyer incited. 

“Make me.”

You stare back at him for a moment, watching the flirtatious challenge ooze from his eyes in a familiar way, which stirs something in you that you haven’t felt in a long time. Its lightheartedness starts to burn hotter, turning your stomach and deflating your chest as you expel a faint breath.

“I…should go,” you respond, breathless. You pick up your purse and turn away, a sly grin tugging at your lips as you toss the next words over your shoulder. “Lunch tomorrow it is. I’ll bring the paperwork.”

“And I’ll be here,” he bids with a salute, which he quickly regrets as soon as you leave.

Jihoon feels compelled the following day to dress in his best office attire, well-tailored but not trying too hard, and spritz a cologne he thought he threw away a long time ago along with the relationship that came with it. Its familiar notes fill him with a warm sensation. The kind that tightens his chest and tenses his muscles that cling to the fabric of his clothes. And he knows that when he checks himself every few minutes in the bathroom mirror or the reflection off the glass of his office room window—making sure it emphasizes just how much he’s been building his body to be at peak physique while simultaneously watching the time slowly tick until his appointment.

When you finally arrive, you carry a certain demeanor that makes him feel twenty again, as if you had just stepped out of class to see him waiting for you to walk you to your next one. You're perfect in your perfect blouse and perfectly tight pencil skirt. It makes him take a breath, loosening the grip on his tie to lessen the strain. “Hello, Miss Client.”

“Hello, Mr. Lawyer,” you lightly greet back.

Jihoon chuckles, waving you over. “So, what are you craving while we work on things? Lunch on me.”

You talk shop over gyudon, a meal that immediately comes to mind, and fortunately, a good and quick spot is just nearby. It reminds you both of something you would eat together religiously back then. To this day, Jihoon sometimes can’t pick up a piece of shredded beef topped with caramelized onions without picturing you parallel to him doing the same.

He knows he’d be crazy to admit out loud that it is straight out of a dream to be eating lunch with you again, but it is. Even more surreal that you’ve now become a client in a case that caused your breakup in the first place. 

Before the breakup…

To say Jihoon felt drawn to you instantly the first time you met was the understatement of the century.

But before you, he only knew the law. Having grown up with Criminal Minds and SVU, he knew since his pubescence he was going to be a lawyer. No tragic backstory of a relative dying from a crime. No story of him or someone else being almost convicted. He just simply thought that to be in the hands of someone's fate in the courtroom was not only intriguing but dangerous. A power not to be taken lightly.

It became his whole life and the only thing he’d ever thought about doing ever. So, he did the only rational thing he could do: he studied his ass off every minute of his life if he wanted to pass the bar one day.

That is, until a little distraction like you came along. At the ripe age of twenty years old, Jihoon met someone who would one day change the trajectory of his life. Someone just as important as becoming a lawyer was. He didn’t think that was possible for someone as ambitious and driven as him. Distractions came rare to him. There was never space for a romantic subplot in his story.

He mentally thanked his former roommate, Soonyoung, everyday for taking the last afternoon slot for the required Psychology course. If he hadn’t, he wouldn't have been forced to take the morning classes, the same morning classes that you ended up attending. 

He wouldn’t have gotten to occupy the seat next to yours every day for all of the semester, having the habit of getting to know you and learning things about you that he would’ve otherwise ignored about anyone else. Like how you prefer iced coffee no matter how below freezing temperature it was, or how your fingers curl and crunch up anxiously before giving a presentation—the little things.

And he most certainly wouldn’t have given in to the pressure of asking you out if he hadn’t gotten to know you in the class the way he did. There wasn’t a chance in hell he would’ve had the courage to approach you. A blessing in disguise shaped in the form of a breathtaking human being. And for some crazy reason, you said yes, because you liked him back. Gosh, his heart was soaring that day. He finally understood what butterflies in one's stomach meant.

What had started as a budding infatuation, blossomed into an epic love story for the ages—well, at least he liked to think so. He knew he’d remember and relive this period of his life for as long as he was alive. There was nothing like being in love.

And what was crazy to him was that you liked him as much as he liked you. The way you’d look at him as if he held the universe in the palms of his hands, or how tight you’d hold him when he would pull you towards his chest and lock you in a secure embrace. It’s as if the world faded around you—or maybe, you just became his world.

Before he realized it, you had become just as much a part of his life as his studies were, if not more. It pivoted his life in a path he never planned for, and strangely enough, he looked forward to it. He looked forward to the route you were taking him in. Whatever life had to throw, he’d be ready if you were by his side.

And that’s how it was for the first couple of years. You spent every waking moment together, every meal, every lecture, everything that mattered. With you, everything seemed to matter. And that’s how he ended up proposing too; that day during a picnic with the sunniest of skies under the biggest tree in the park with the cheesiest smile on his face. He was truly the luckiest man he knew.

God, did he love you. And god, did you love him. 

But something changed shortly after the proposal. Drastically.

You had been distant with Jihoon for reasons he couldn’t explain, but he’s never been one to pry, so he'd given you your space, even when you never asked for it. He respected boundaries and would never make you give up yours for the sake of his comfort, so he waited.

Maybe that’s when it started. When he didn't fight for your attention. He wonders if that’s where things started going wrong.

Unlike you, Jihoon isn’t one for confrontation, but if you want him to burn the world, in a heartbeat he would. There isn’t a thing he wouldn’t do for you, he just needs to hear it. It’d be anything.

“I can’t marry you,” you say in a quiet voice.

Almost anything.

You push your engagement ring towards Jihoon, unable to meet his eyes, as dark clouds hover above your head.

Jihoon gulps, choking on a breath he’s been holding since you called him over for this lunch date. He’s thinking things are just turning around, that you’d stop avoiding him like you have been. Then this hurdle–hurricane is thrown in his face.

And he knows exactly why. 

After he proposed, he met your parents for the first time, your parents who lived in a different world than he ever could. They didn’t approve of your choice of a partner given his inferior background. They didn’t approve of this marriage. They didn’t approve of Jihoon. They had other plans in mind for their one and only daughter. Bigger, grander plans than Jihoon could ever fathom.

Since then, hope seemed lost. However, you thought you could convince them. Jihoon put his faith in you, because why wouldn’t he? He’s madly in love with you. He trusts you. He knows that you did the best you could.

“Didn’t budge, huh?” he asks with a bitter smile. 

You sigh, before running your hands over your face in frustration. “You know it’s not your fault. They’re so stubborn about me marrying to preserve the company. Why should it be my responsibility? I didn’t ask for any of this.”

Your eyes flit to meet his, barely staying open. “If I had it my way—“

“But you don’t,” he cuts off.

“Hoon.”

He holds your hand in his, his thumb caressing over your naked knuckles. He swallows back a laugh of disbelief. He knew that happiness couldn’t have been that easy and within reach. Finally, he looks back at you and brings your hands towards his lips, kissing the balls of your palms as a single tear falls from the corner of his eye. “I love you. You make me the happiest person alive. And I want to marry you…but if our worlds are tearing us apart…”

The image of the man you love crying rips you to shreds, the agonizing pain stretching throughout your entire body, and you move towards him and you take him in your arms. Your lips quiver, letting out a shattered breath, feeling his tears now soaking through the cotton of your shirt. You don’t know what else to say at this moment except, “I love you, Jihoon.”

Present day…

“Okay, the prenup settles pretty much most of what we’re looking for, so the process will luckily be pretty straightforward.”

“Okay,” you nod in acknowledgment. “Like I thought. How long of a process is it going to be?”

Jihoon hums, tapping his pen to his chin. “Depends on the talk with his attorney. It'll be a clean and quick process if they're anything like me.”

You can’t help but smile. “No one’s like you, Hoo—Jihoon.”

He grins, catching your slip-up. “Well, one can hope.”

You press your lips in a firm line, your ears growing warm as you gather your files, tapping them on the desk to line them up in a neat stack. “Well, this was really helpful. Thank you for taking time out of your lunch to do this. You really shouldn’t have.”

“Anything for a friend.”

A light dims in your eyes, and your grip on the belongings tighten. “Right. Well, I’ll talk to him about the situation, and we’ll set up an appointment so we can all meet. I’ll let you know.”

“I look forward to it,” he responds earnestly.

Finally, Jihoon would be able to meet the bastard that your parents thrust upon you face to face. 

He wants to assume that now and in the past your husband is just like you, forced upon this marriage for the sake of appearance and business ties. However, the more he spends time, how little you speak of him, the more he notices how you grow stiff when he’s audibly brought up, implying a strained relationship. That guy has already lost Jihoon’s good graces by that alone.

“Thank you. So what can we do in the meantime?”

“You make your plans moving forward as a single woman. Get your things in order, and that includes your personal matters, like your family that I assume are involved.”

You stiffen, nodding at the sad reminder. “Yeah. They are. Thank you for lunch.”

As you begin to leave, Jihoon can’t help but stop you in your tracks. He knows if he doesn’t say what is on his mind now he’ll regret it, unwilling to make the same mistakes he did in the past. “Hey, um. If you’re looking for more advice regarding this matter or what to expect after this whole ordeal, my office is always open during lunch hours. For you anyways.”

You give him a soft frown, shaking your head. “I couldn’t do that to you.”

“No, really,” he insists, not taking no for an answer, a touch of plead in his eyes. “I think with you around it’s the only way I actually eat during lunch.”

The corners of your lips finally turn up, tugging at Jihoon’s heartstrings and eating him up from the inside. “Then, maybe I’ll take you up on it.”

There is a certain comfort in the routine, knowing there’s something to look forward to every weekday at noon between the hours of 11:45AM to 12:55PM. You inevitably have to go back to your office, but Jihoon looks forward to those hours now, watching the hands of the clock tick by until lunchtime. It’s a game he’s started to play by himself, somehow always the loser with a big grin on his face when you’re right at the front of his door and the same loser with a sad smile when you have to leave.

“That’s so you. I can’t believe you still listen to that stuff.” Jihoon chuckles, stabbing at his teriyaki chicken pieces before stuffing them in his mouth.

“Oh, of course I do! These are real! Cut-throat! Blood-thirsty murder-cases! Most of the time involving women. That could be me one day. Can never be too safe,” You playfully warn, pointing your chopsticks at him.

“Maybe, but you come from one of the wealthiest families in the country and married into one of the other wealthiest families in the country. You no doubt have a near impenetrable security system keeping you very locked up and safe in your very nice big home.”

“Which makes me an even bigger target. Ah-ha. Didn’t think about that, did you?”

He rolls his eyes, grinning ear to ear. “Fine. But what does that have to do with crocheting again?”

Your eyes light up, giddily clapping your hands at his reminder. “It’s really nice—well, nice isn’t really the right word—but I listen to it when I'm crocheting. I once made a whole blanket listening to an entire season about a missing person’s case that turned out to be a missing people's case.”

“Of course, you did.”

You get a quick glance at your phone when you grab your drink, seeing a notification pop up to reveal the time. “Oh shoot, I have to head back.”

“Already?” Jihoon tries not to sound too disappointed.

“Yeah. Sorry. It feels like these lunch hours are getting shorter and shorter every day.”

“Maybe it doesn’t have to be just lunch. We can always get dinner—to talk more about the process and what your next steps can be. How about tonight? Unless that’s too soon?”

You blink back at him, unable to suppress the growing smile on your face. “S-sure. I’ll meet you at your office?”

”Actually, I thought of picking you up at yours?”

With a gentle hum, you nod. “It’s a date.”

So he waits, watching the clock's hands tick until it reaches the hour that indicates the end of the day. He has something he’s looking forward to, giving him all the more reason to take advantage of the extra suits in his office wardrobe for emergencies. Something that has only ever used to be for emergencies, not if he feels like the color navy brings out his eyes more today. But tonight, he has the excuse to look his sharpest, unsure if he’ll ever get this opportunity again.

He can’t help the smile on his face as you walk out of your office building, pushing himself off his car to completely take in your presence as if he hadn’t just seen you hours ago. Resembling someone watching their prom date dramatically descend a flight of stairs, Jihoon feels his chest squeeze as you walk closer before standing in front of him, and every date you’ve gone on flashes through his mind, leading up to this very moment.

“Hi.” he softly greets.

“Hey,” you greet back, taking a step closer.

”Ready?” he asks, and a nod is all he needs before you lose yourselves in the night.

You explore deeper in the center of the city, sauntering the streets aimlessly as you look for a spot to situate yourself, somewhere you could talk and enjoy each other‘s presence without interruption. As if someone heard your pleas, a cafe catches your attention off in the distance, its white fluorescent sign flickering its bold cursive back at you, beckoning you towards it. And as you turn to Jihoon, his expression matches yours, knowing you’ve found just the place.

Once the door swings open, Jihoon is immediately hit with the aroma of freshly ground coffee brewed to perfection. Its nutty sweet scent dances in the air as sweet, fruity notes linger nearby. Nostalgia hits him in an instant, and he recalls a younger version of himself with you by his side feeding him a sip of your devilish concoction of a strawberry mocha with two shots of espresso. The disdain on his face was evident, when he kissed your lips, it was a different world. It was tolerable, or maybe everything you had to offer made him infinitely love you more.

“Oh my god,” he quietly whispers to himself.

“Jihoon?”

He jolts back into reality, your beautiful face warped as your eyes scans over him with concern. “Sorry. I think I got lost in a moment there.”

You curiously narrow your eyes, following after him as he entered the cafe. “Really? What happened?”

“Let’s sit first. What’ll you have?”

After retrieving your drink order, Jihoon glances at the drink in your hand, saddened that you opted for a plain americano over your college usual. It was about every other day that you’d order one, and to this day he wonders how you’re alive and kicking with thousands of calories you consumed from that beverage alone. It seems things have changed since, and he’s unsure whether it's for the better, but it gave him all the more reason to order it for himself. Although he hated it in the past, maybe he'd like it now.

“Blech!” Nope. Still awful.

You muse at his disgusted expression. “Oh my god, Jihoon. What did you order?”

“Don’t recognize it?” He lifts up the drink, licking up the whipped cream from the corner of his lips. “Your famous strawberry mocha.”

“You remember that? You hated that drink!”

“Yeah, but,” he holds the drink close to his chest, as if cherishing it. “You liked it. Why don’t you anymore?”

“It’s not that I don't, it's just…so bad for me.” You grip your Americano loosely, gulping at the decadent visuals of the nostalgic drink in his hand. “I can’t have something like that all the time.”

Meanwhile, Jihoon sips the drink as you explain yourself, making faces as he listens in. You narrow your eyes at him, the corner of your lips turning down before you give him a disciplinary tap to the shoulder.

“Stop drinking it!”

“I paid for it. I’ll do what I want.”

You groan, shoving the untouched Americano and stealing the strawberry mocha for yourself. “There. Now everyone’s happy.”

“Who said I wanted an Americano?” He retorts with a smile, happy to see his previous beverage right where it belongs.

“You definitely don’t want the mocha.”

“I do though.”

You roll your eyes, softly scoffing and giving him a wry smile. “You’re so stubborn. It's written all over your face how much you hate it.”

“But you like it,” he retorts, sipping his new Americano, somehow missing the conflicting taste of his previous beverage.

You cover your hot cheeks with the palm of your hand, eyes pointed away from him as the sound of your accelerating heart pounds against your ear drums. You start to wonder to yourself how this man at damn near thirty years is still as cute as he was at twenty years old. 

“You really haven't changed.”

He snorts. “You insulting me?

“Not at all.” Chuckling, you sip your newly acquired drink, the clash of the bitter coffee and sickly sweet fruity syrup battling on your taste buds. It may have been more of your tastes back in college. “So that moment you had. What was that about?”

“Moment?”

“You stopped all of a sudden when we came through the front door. It was like a lightbulb went off in your head or something.”

He softly smiles, taking small sips of his drink, warmth rushing toward his cheeks in contrast to the chilled beverage wrapped with his slender digits. “Something like that?”

You tilt your head, “Hmm?”

He hesitates, avoiding your gaze. “I…just suddenly thought about back then…when we were together honestly. It was nothing.”

You suck in your teeth dubiously, smiling with your eyes. “Sure didn’t seem that way.”

“It made me happy,” he admits earnestly, his voice coated in something reminiscent of honey, so decadent, you feel the strong desire to taste more.

“The memory?”

“Yeah,” he confirms with a faint smile, “A lot of things you did make me happy.”

Your lips part as you drink in his response, whatever words you were about to say next dying on your tongue as you take a long nervous sip of your stolen beverage, cheeks ablaze. You watch as the blood rushes towards his cheeks, flushing them a soft pink as he leisurely sips his newly acquired drink, stealing glances at you.

Jihoon finds it nice to divulge his past once in a while, but he doesn’t have many people to do that with, and the person he wants to do it the most with for the longest time was married and out of his life. But even if he did talk about his past, that meant having to confront the obstacles he jumped, the losses that were out of his control, and the pain that he endured only to end up the loser. Now, he doesn’t have to be scared anymore. You’re back. Back in his life and hopefully for good whether it is as a friend, or employer and employee, he’ll take it.

“This was really nice.”

Jihoon hums in agreement. “Yeah, kinda felt like we were back in college again.”

You chuckle, turning to him as you reach towards the steps of your residence. It was a lot different than the dorms from back then. Yet, you can’t help but understand where he’s coming from. “Yeah. It’s funny. You’d always walk me back to my apartment too, even though yours was in the opposite direction.”

“And it was worth it,” he retorts, stubbornly. “Because I got to see you get inside safely. The distance didn’t matter to me.”

“And you wouldn’t take my gas money.” You pout, tugging on his sleeve.

“No, I didn’t.” He shakes his head, accepting your hand in his and finding them naturally interlock. “Not when I can pay for myself just fine.”

“So I would invite you inside, let you have a drink—or three.”

Jihoon chuckles, reminded of his coke zero habit that you’d always indulge with a splash of rum. “And…” he steps closer towards you, closing the distance. “I’d end up staying over longer than I expected to.”

You lightly grasp the lapel of his coat, eyes glossing over his appearance. “And I didn’t mind it one bit.”

Your gaze drifts off to his lips, softly puckering as they part. Your chest heaving, you feel yourself drawing closer. Jihoon’s warmth is a tempting mistress before he holds you in place, startling you as he puts a halt to your movements. Your eyes shoot back at him, rapid panic in your eyes, disappointment seeping through you.

“That might be a bad idea,” he warns, but not backing away.

Your hands creep up his neck. “When have we ever let that stop us?”

He lightly scoffs, able to name once—the last instance you were together. It emerges, memories that he can’t help but twist up his heart that’s been stretched and pummeled until past recognition. He has to be realistic. “We’re a little older now and…you’re still technically married.”

“We’ve spent the better half of a decade avoiding each other because we were scared of the consequences. We don’t have to be scared anymore. I haven’t seen you in years, and I still feel the way I did all those years ago. Tell me you don’t.”

“You know I…” His words die on his lips. It’s obvious what he wants. He wants you. It’s all he’s ever wanted.

Your hands caress over the nape of his neck, and the hairs of his neck stand stiff as goosebumps pebble his skin. “You what, Jihoon?”

His eyes flutter in disbelief, melting against your touch as he succumbs to your warmth, the world around him fading. The only drinks he had tonight night were of the nonalcoholic variety, but staring back at you, he feels drunk, feening for a taste of something else right in front of him. “Want you more than anything.”

When his lips crash against yours, he can feel your heart leap from your chest, air pushing against his lungs. The heat that radiates off your body envelopes him despite the biting cold winds, flustering his cold cheeks as he feels you kiss him back. He takes a deep breath, reveling in the silken sensation of your lips, searing against his as his hand falls into your hair.

He isn’t sure if he knew how it felt to kiss you again, but it was muscle memory. From the way you drag him by his coat collar, slipping through the thick fabric to find the warm body underneath, he knows nothing is coming back from this. And even if there is, he doesn’t want it if it doesn’t have you.

You both barely make it up the steps of the house after hearing how one of you haphazardly closes the automated locking door, and he follows your footsteps to a room of your choosing, knowing he’ll follow you anywhere. 

The large coat is tugged immediately off of him, hearing it thud on the ground, you make his sweater follow suit. You grapple at the seams of his dress shirt, gingerly unlatching one button at a time, and Jihoon’s lips find your neck, burying himself in the crook, rendering you speechless as he tastes your flustered skin. Meanwhile, his hands roam over your figure through your clothes before the skirt becomes as useful as his coat as he shoves it down your thighs and lets it fall to your ankles to be kicked aside.

Your flesh spills between his fingers, kneading your ass between his knuckles, and he feels your moan vibrate in your throat against his lips. Jihoon sighs, familiarizing with the ache and longing of your voice as he lifts you from the ground to wrap your legs around his torso, nudging his excitement against lower abdomen.

He presses you against a wall, his hand cushioning the impact to your lower back, he reunites with your lips, devouring you endlessly. He feels for your thighs as he holds you still, dragging his hips against them as he rid himself of his shirt and you of yours, the only thing keeping you apart being his trousers and the underwear scantily clad on your body. The body he’s imagined for years after you left.

“Jihoon, don’t stare.” Jihoon lets out a shattered breath before regaining clarity, realizing that he let his eyes linger longer than he intended, broken from his trance at the sound of your whines. 

“A lot has changed since we were last intimate, ” You softly defend, pressing yourself against his body to shield your build, only letting his hunger to swell against the seams of his pants.

“It has.” His lips land on the center of your lips, hugging yours as he slips through and collects the underside of your breast in his palm. With a gentle squeeze, the vibrations of your mewl run a chill path down his spine. “You’ve never looked more beautiful.”

“And you…Fuck,” You cry in anguish, holding his face in your hands, fingers combing through his hair as your chest heaves. “You have no idea how much I wanted to see this gorgeous face again.”

You’ve taken the words right out of his mouth, and hearing them out loud only kindles the fire in his stomach brighter and uncontainable. He can’t take it anymore, he has to have you. In sheer desperation, he maneuvers the unbuckling of his pants, adjusting the waistband of briefs, too frantic to even bother pulling either of them down properly. Instead, his desire springs out from their confines, raging and bold as he grasps himself by the shaft, the elastic hanging by his firm thighs. “God, I missed you. I need to find a condom. Please tell me where one is before I embarrass myself on your floor.”

Chuckling, your hands slide down his cheeks, meeting his eyes that glisten in anticipation as his swollen lips part in an eager quiver. “I don’t want you to use one. After so long I just want to feel you—all of you. Please...”

“You’d let me do that?”

Your fingertips softly dance over his pink cheeks, emitting tingles against his skin. “I’d let you do anything you want.”

“What I want to do…” He lets the tips of your noses meet, and you bite back a premature moan, melting at your flushed skin pressed against each other. “...is make you remember what you sound like screaming my name. Have you feel so much pleasure you’re begging me to stop.”

You take a sharp inhale before your mouth curls in a smug smile, letting your hand the firm touch of chest, pulsing beneath your palm. “How convenient. Our interests align.” You close the gap, tasting the heat and your blended breaths. “I knew I picked a good lawyer.”

“Or I just know the right clients to accept.”

Sliding your panties aside, he feels for your slit, finding your slickness as it satisfyingly coats his fingers. He lets his fingers run over your arousal, gliding across your folds, reacquainting himself with an old favorite pastime, and wedges himself between your folds tauntingly. Your smile drops as you bite your lip to suppress a mewl, stabling yourself on his shoulders, while he invades your arousal and thumbs over your clit agonizingly slow. Your throat tightens at the same time your abdomen tenses, unable to stop yourself from arching your back and leaning into his touch.

Your vision flutters in and out of view, legs tingling as he dips a single digit to penetrate your blossoming walls, the slickness welcoming his thrusts. Your jaw drops slightly, the pads of your fingers pressing dents into his shoulder blades as he curls himself inside you, and you shudder and a whimper exposes your urgency.

“That good?” He gives you a cheeky grin. “Must be if you’re that fucking wet.”

“Shut up,” you lightly retort, only to feel him push it in deeper, holding it inside you before plunging himself into you at a gradually growing pace.

He draws his lips to your ears, his usually gentle voice dropping lower and saying that familiar expression that always made you a little crazy when you heard it. “Make me.”

The finger is joined by another, and he starts playing with your vocal cords as if they were strings of violin, making music that bounces from wall to wall. His toned body pinning you down only taunts you, the lack of mobility only offering you the opportunity to sink your teeth in his shoulder or mark his neck in splotchy love bites. Otherwise, you writhe under his claim, grind your sensitive bud against his palm, and your mind draws a blank, any once coherent thought becoming a jumble of words that doesn’t even come close to belonging in the English dictionary.

Jihoon’s eyes flicker with determination, consumed with unbridled lust, and deep down you revel in it. You weren’t sure if Jihoon had moved on from you since everything happened, and selfishly you hoped that he hadn’t. When your hopes rang true, you jumped at the chance. Perhaps had you done it sooner, you’d see these gates of this heaven earlier, and the angel before wouldn’t any longer just be a wet dream, but a soaking reality.

“I’m gonna cum,” you weakly warn.

“So soon, should I stop?” He teases, only shoving his fingers deeper, reaching past his knuckles. 

“But I want to cum on you.” Your bottom lip swelling up in a subtle pout, gripping his form. “I want to cum on your cock.”

His nose traces over yours, his Cheshire grin gracing your flushed cheek. “And you will, because the first time won’t be the last. So, just cum, hmm? Cum all over my hands for me, Angel.”

You brace for impact against the wall, back arching as the moment hits you like a lightning bolt, striking you in erratic shakes, and you clench your legs against his sides. The heat of your climax travels up to your head as it spills out of your body and bucks your hips into his palm. 

Jihoon strokes your side, soothing you as he carries you through your moment of weakness. He coos at you, peppering kisses on your face as he savors your faltering shudders then pulls out his fingers and watches how your eyes shift when they vanish past his lips. Biting back a soft gasp, you hear the sound of his gentle moan against his knuckles as his tongue runs across his digits, snaking and sucking everywhere that shined, chuckling and seeing a burst of fire reignite in your eyes.

“Now put it inside me,” you command, panting and clenching around nothing, already missing the presence of his company.

He tilts his head, smirking. “Already? So soon.”

You shake your head, “I can handle more. A lot more.”

Jihoon scans over you, watching everything from the rise and fall of your bare chest to the tears that briefly stain our cheeks. He can feel his heart pounding his ears and throat drying up like the desert as he stares at your kiss-swollen lips, holding your gaze as if he has only begun appreciating the visionary you are for the first time in what felt like forever. Looking at you feels like falling in love all over again. And love makes Jihoon do anything you want. 

He fiddles with the hem of your underwear, rubbing the lacy material between the pads of his fingers before pulling them down. He lifts your body slightly off the ground, exerting you against the wall, nudging his knee to hold you in place before aligning himself, licking his lips, seeing your arousal on your thighs as they seep out of you like honey. “You asked for it, okay?” 

Your pupils flicker at the back of your skull before looping your arms around his neck, anchoring your legs around his waist as your pussy swallows him between your folds, stretching your walls and spreading your legs wide as your thighs squeeze tightly around him. “Oh, my–fuck…”

There’s only a fraction of him inside you, yet he already has your brain short-circuiting. “Shit,” Jihoon scoffs, dragging his hips in a tight thrust and slamming you hard enough for the vanity table beside you to have a bottle knocked over. “You still feel like you were made just for me.”

“W-wait. Why do you feel so much bigger than I remember?”

His hands caress the underside of your thighs, bouncing you in his grip, as they stiffened in his grasp. “Well, it’s been a while. Maybe you need to get adjusted to my size again. Would you like me to help with that?”

You timidly nod, holding on to his biceps in a vice grip. “Is it going to hurt?”

“Do you want it to hurt?”

“…Yes.”

Snickering, he plunges into your walls, pulsating as he molds you into his shape down to the veins. Your bodies meld into one, not one without the other, and he honors his word. Every second of him buried inside you stings as skin collides, stretching your strained walls, letting you consume the agonizingly indulgent sensation. You swallow the drool pooling in your mouth as his hips continue to snap. You dig your nails into his flesh, forming white crescents, attempting to retain some of your sanity.

Your heart drops the split second you feel his hands leave your body, and you almost plummet to the ground before he slams you against the wall, catching your thighs just before it’s too late and conveniently pushing in deeper. If he cares at all about the mini heart attack he gives you every time he decides to do that, it doesn’t show. No matter how many times you scold him, although, in his defense, they get drowned in the sound of your hunger. 

“Hoon…” You weakly jab at him. “Asshole…”

“You like it,” he teases, before thrusting deeper as his lips roughly trace your mouth. “I hear it in your voice, try to be better at hiding it if you want to convince me.”

You anchor on him by the shoulders before he does it again, almost dropping you to the ground before catching you at the last second, ripping ungodly moans from the depths of your throat. Jihoon finds them delicious, almost as sweet as the sound of his name on your tongue. He doesn’t want to stop when you sound that enticing.

And you hate to admit it, but here’s a thrill every time he does it, the way he manhandles you as if you are his to play with. As if you are his. You could get used to that. After years of being forced apart, you’re ready to take on the world with him again. 

You rake a hand through his hair, pulling at his bottom lips with teeth before he sharply rams into you, hitting your head against the wall only once before pulling off it to carry you to bed. He drops your bodies on the mattress and revels in your heat as he buries deeper inside you. His hands roam up your arms before they pin down your wrists, lips parting in moans as your legs anchor around him.

“I’m never letting you go,” he softly mumbles. “Nothing—no one will get in my way again.”

“Hoon,” you whisper, eyes looking back at him with awe. “And nothing will.”

Your nostalgia filled pleasure plays like a cinematic movie, and your moans and whimpers are the soundtrack of the night. The way your fingers still curl with every caress transforms the home you use as an escape from the rest of the world into a safe haven, completed with the presence of the man you have loved all your life. Lee Jihoon’s mark on you is something that could never be washed away, and once this whole damned situation is over, you will be eternally his. Just as it is meant to be, as it was always supposed to be.

Your bodies fit together seamlessly, nestled underneath the thickness of the thousand-thread count blanket that trapped you both in its security. Your hand slides perfectly over his, while his firm and strong arms envelop your body as his head knocks against yours. You hear him smile as his heart pounds against your ear, fast and alive even in moments of rest.

“You’re staying the night, right?” you timidly ask, turning your head slightly towards him to meet his eyes. “I want to stay in this moment a little longer. Even if you have to leave.”

He gazes down at you, pressing his lips to your temple, the scent of his sweet breath wafting into your nose as you fight off sleep to be conscious in his presence. “I’m not leaving even if someone tried to pry me off you with a crane. I’m staying with you all night.”

Your heart swells as you tenderly smooth your hands over his backside. “Promise. I’ll wake up and you’ll still be here.”

He grabs your waist tighter, the hum of his voice tingling your cheeks as he speaks. “I promise, Angel.”

You bury your face in his chest, arms looped around his neck, inhaling what you’ve longed for for years. There’s nothing else like his warmth. You’ve passionately love it for years, and being stripped of your 

“I feel like I’m dreaming,” you muffle.

You can feel your heartbeat restless against his. It’s as if they’re both catching up with one another, just as you and Jihoon are intimately doing now. All the time you spent married to someone you didn’t love in the slightest, worried about what your parents wanted for you, worried what they’d do to the people you love, what they’d do to Jihoon. All those years wasted when you could’ve been here, simply his. If you had each other, just as you both promised, perhaps there would be more nights like this.

“Me too,” He admits. “I don’t think I ever stopped loving you.”

You pull away from his chest to face him, tears blurring your vision as you clasp your hands on his face. “I know I never stopped loving you. I thought of you every day when I knew I never had the right to.”

He strokes your sides, bewitched by your sincerity, and he embraces you. “We were twenty, you were listening to your parents—”

“And at twenty years old, I was still wise enough to know a good man and have a heart when I see one. I could never make it up to you, but just know you’re never getting rid of me, Lee Jihoon.”

He wistfully smiles. “Is this a life sentence?”

“And an afterlife one.”

Your lips crash against his, melting into him before losing yourselves in one another, losing yourselves into the heat of your reunion before you’re overtaken by the night and fall deep asleep in his embrace. Unlike you, however, Jihoon can’t sleep, fearing that the moment he closes his eyes, he’ll be the one left alone. He’s dreamt of nights where he’s holding as close as he is now, breathing in your essence, savoring your skin, basking in your warmth. And the dreams are cruel the moment he opens his eyes and realizes you were a figment of his deepest desires. Experiencing it in person is better than anything his consciousness could come up with.

He moves your hair away from your face, letting his fingertips ghost over the curve of your cheek, and tenderly smiles down at you. Holding his breath, he feels you stir, that saccharine tone of voice ebbing in mumbles as you press closer against him, tucking your legs between his.

He feels as if he can stare at you for hours, relearning the rhythm of your breath, the number of strands of your lashes, creases of your lips. He does not want to miss a single thing. If he is going to have you, it’ll be all of you. If not, then he’d let himself be all yours. He hopes at least you can give him that much. Especially when he’s missed several years of your lives together.

Before he knows it, morning arrives as the sun rises higher in the sky, peeking through the small division of the bedroom curtain, and Jihoon realizes he didn’t sleep a wink. Yet, he does not mind it one bit. And when your eyes pry open to see him still holding you, his smile stamped on your forehead, that it had been all worth it to hear you greet him with sweet words and your lips that taste even better than he last had them several hours ago. It truly feels unreal still.

But now it’s morning, and that means he is to take care of you like he promised himself he’d do if you ever reunited, so he jumps out of bed to make breakfast. Your tired expression chuckles as he enthusiastically asks you over his shoulder what ingredients you had in your fridge. He’s never and has never been much of a cook, but for you, he is willing to put in the effort. 

“You never really learned what to put in an omelet, did you?” You tease, seeing him toss sliced cucumbers, diced ham, and cottage cheese in his egg batter.

He shrugs, softly pouting as he tugs you towards to join his side. “I can’t make it as good as you. Sue me.”

“How did you go on living without me?”

The corner of his lips softly jerks up. “I’m wondering the same thing.”

You pull him towards you by his waist, letting your hands glide over his exposed back and settling on his shoulder blades. You inhale the natural aroma of his body, inhaling him and remembering every second of the night you shared. Your memories of intimacy with Jihoon haunted your present day, but images of last night make you feel as if you could finally breathe. “Well, stop wondering. I’ll eat your weird omelets and burnt toast. Just never leave me.”

He strokes the back of your head, fingers threading in your hair. “I should be the one saying that to you, Angel.”

Your smile grazes his skin and your grip on him tightens. “I can’t believe I’m hearing that name again after so long. Now it really doesn’t feel real.”

“Then we can stay in dreamland forever,” He hums, slotting your lips between his with the tilt of your chin.

His arms border either of your sides, pressing you against the counter, parting his mouth wider as his moan vibrates against your lips. Like always, his kisses start sweet before they’re hungry, feverish to taste every inch of you. You feel him lift you from the ground, planting your bare thighs on your cool marble counter as he settles between your legs, hands moving towards the festering, wet heat between them.

“Now I’m feeling like dessert for breakfast first.”

Beneath the shirt that you stole from him to wear is nothing but your vulnerability, coated in the slickness that he remembers was heaven on his tongue, yet sinfully addictive at a mere whiff. He pulls up the hem of the shirt, letting it meet your lips whispering, “Bite it,” before watching you claim it between your teeth.

There, he smooths his hands over your thighs, kissing and tasting the skin before his plush lips aim for your burning core. His eyes shoot up at you before dipping his tongue, letting it run up along your slit before sucking against your folds. You clench your raised hands, shielding the lower half of your face as the sound of his endeavor invades your ears, blood rushing towards you rapidly and fiercely. 

“H-hoon…”

He pulls you closer towards him, his moans vibrating against your skin and his tongue slithering inside you as it massages your walls. Meanwhile, the pads of his finger rubbing against your swollen bud, swirling your arousal in circles, the intoxicating scent wafting into his nose before he delves deeper. “I’ve missed this so badly. You have no idea.”

“You’re gonna make a mess,” you blurt out in a moan.

“Get used to it for the rest of our lives,” he mumbles, hungrily devouring you with no remorse.

You feel closer to reaching the peak so fast, your whole body going up in flames until the very last second, and his name is all either of you hear. He still remembers all the right spots, effortlessly bringing you to the tears streaking your cheeks.

Before the moment can last a second longer, your attention is ripped away by the doorbell. Your head falls on his shoulder, hands clinging to his forearms. You groan, bringing you back to reality. “You have to hide.”

He tilts his head with a straight face, sighing. Standing upright, he cups your face to meet his gaze, the warmth of your cheeks so inviting and sees you clasp your hands over his in response. “Am I now the secret lover that has to hide my passion for the woman I love from the world?” he asks dryly, earning him a soft whine.

“It could be him, or worse, my parents. So, to not complicate things any further,” You drag your hands over his bare chest, letting the ripple of muscles stiffen against your palm, instilling your gaze with mischief. “You’re my dirty little secret until the divorce papers are processed. After that, it's you, me, and the end of time.”

He softly scoffs before pressing a chaste kiss on your lips with a smile. “Please get decent. No matter how good you look in my clothes, it’d be best not to look like you just stepped out of my wet dreams for whoever is at the door.”

You grasp at the cotton, enjoying his lingering scent that you hope never goes away. “So, you still dream about me.”

“Angel.”

“Alright, alright.” You interlock your fingers through his before hopping off the counter and returning to the ground. “Help me pick something out?”

You tug him upstairs to your bedroom, giggling like teenagers and trying to get you ready as efficiently as possible with Jihoon’s lips attached to your neck. From last night up until this morning, it’s been nothing short of thrilling. Had the doorbell not rang, you would’ve returned the favor and continued what he started. You couldn’t see how the rest of the day could go wrong. Even if it were your soon to be ex or your parents, you didn’t think they could take away the smile permanently tattooed on your face. You just couldn’t wait to get back to him.

But for now, this can wait. You have all the time in the world to rekindle the flame that had exploded in your bedroom. For the time being, he has to stay hidden, and the first place you think of is your walk-in closet that’s more than enough space for him to hide. And after choosing something decent to wear, you leave him with a peck on the cheek before descending towards the front door doorbell sounds again, hearing whoever is on the other side evidently impatient. As you swing the door open, you mentally strategize for whoever is on the end, but nothing—no amount of courage or time could have prepared you for this.

“Officers, good morning. How can I help you?” The pads of your fingers are pressed against the door, your bottom lip caught between your teeth, and your breath seizes just at the entrance of your mouth.

They ask for your name and your relationship with that man you’ve been trying to sever ties with for the last several weeks—or admittedly, several years. You blink back at them, heart picking up pace as you clutch your blouse. “Has something happened?”

“Your husband, Boo Hyunkwan, was found murdered in his complex today.”

Your eyes shoot open, skin running cold at the break of the news, and you expel a breath of disbelief. “What…? I don’t understand.”

“I’m sure this is shocking news, however, Miss, we are arresting you for the suspected murder of Boo Hyunkwan. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you.”

“Wait–” You’re trembling as you’re put in handcuffs, feeling the cold metal snap and squeeze around your wrists as your panic sets in. 

Your head oscillates from one officer to the other, pleading in your eyes as you insist that this is a mistake, asking how this was sanctioned. Then, your main concern dawns on you, and now all that you can think about is the man you left hidden in your closet. You suppress the instinct to call for him, letting his name die on your tongue as you tuck away in the police car.

You had just reunited, and now you’re getting taken away again. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. Not now. Not like this.

Jihoon. Help. 

The man in question has always respected your wishes, but his curiosity got the best of him, blaming it on the years spent away from each other. He just had to see that you’re okay, maybe get ready to break out in a sprint if the situation calls for it. Careful to not to get caught, he undercuts through the big windows looking out towards the front lawn, peering just over the windowsill enough from your bedroom window to make out the scene outside when sees flashing red and blue lights.

Standing pin straight, his hands plants against the window, watching the scene before him unfold without a say otherwise. Eyes glued to your restrained posture shoved in the backseat of the cop car, and it reeves its engine before leaving your driveway. The man still in hiding could only grit his teeth as your name burns and swells his throat shut, breathing no longer an option.

Not that he has many options at this point.

After meeting your parents and after the engagement…

“That couldn’t have gone worse.” Jihoon loosens his tie, but he’s unable to rid himself of the tightness around his throat.

You fall on the couch beside him, a soft gaze directed at him as you smooth out his collar. “It wasn’t that bad. You were perfect, my parents—”

“Were looking after their precious only daughter. As would I.” Jihoon holds your face in his palms, feeling the heat fester as he brushes his thumbs over the plane of your cheeks. “I would protect this Angel too.”

You clasp your hands over his, your scowl only deepening as you take them in your hands. “They still shouldn’t have treated you like that. They’re a reflection of me. What does that say about me?”

He presses a soft kiss against the tip of your nose, feeling your grip on him tighten. “You’re a product of nature, not nurture. It’s your nature to be beautiful inside and out, Angel.”

“What did I do in my life to deserve you?” You coo, throwing your arms around his torso and pressing your ear to his chest, his heartbeat resonating louder by the second.

It’s soothing. The purest form of truth that not anyone could deny. You don’t need to hear a single song if it means giving up this sound and the body that contains it. But his kind words, the words to match the rhythm of his restless heartbeat. One is not one without the other. Just like you are not yourself without Jihoon.

“Love me. So don’t stop now.”

You let out soft gasp, clinging tighter as warmth fans throughout your body. It’s clear as day. You couldn’t imagine a world with him, not a world where you aren’t miserable. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Jihoon has already been nervous about meeting your parents, but having met them just confirms his suspicions. You’re the heir to an empire, while Jihoon’s family is nothing remarkable. He had a good family, a decent home life, but almost nothing to his name. He was painfully ordinary with the passion of being a lawyer, but the passion didn’t make him one. After all, he wasn’t on the path of many currently successful lawyers that paid thousands for their education.

Despite it all, Jihoon knows that he has a future with you in it. For the time being, Jihoon is determined to see it through.

“I assume you know why you’re here, young man.”

The sternness in the older woman makes Jihoon’s blood run cold, even with the hot tea that was provided for him. He knows what this is. He’s watched enough television to understand this is the inevitable meeting that he is destined to face. 

“You wanted to discuss your daughter.”

She scoffs, emphasizing her smile lines. She crosses her arms, leaning against her chair before bringing the tea cup to her lips. Now the sudden fear of liquid—or in this case, scorching hot tea—dawns on him. He hopes that this is something you just see in film, and he won’t have to suffer from second degree burns from a soap opera cliche. “I suppose you aren’t daft, perhaps that’s why she likes you so much, but clearly still not smart enough to realize you are not suited for her.”

Jihoon bows his head, the thought of meeting her eyes bringing an irrational amount of fear he never realized he could garner. He tries to swallow it, but it only ends up clogging the words of bravery that he had practiced so many times to win your parents over.

“If you care about her, you’ll walk away. She has a future bigger than this.”

She doesn’t stop for his response and instead throws a thick envelope on the table, the kind you see on multiple cliche dramas with an amount that could change his and his family’s life if he accepts it. An offer he can not dare to refuse. 

“$500,000. Should pay your student loans and all of your tuition. Plenty left over for your family.”

Jihoon clenches his fist, biting his bottom lip until he tastes iron. All for you. All for their one and only daughter. They need him out of your life so badly that this money is nothing to them but a hunk of change they can throw to get exactly that. “I can’t accept this.”

“So much pride with so little to show for it.” She stands from her seat, looming over him coldly. “She is arranged to be married. Someone of equal status. You’d understand, Jihan, is it?”

His thoughts are running amok in his head, bouncing off every corner of mind and rippling waves of ache every passing second. Yet, not one of them revealed themselves in front of the woman before him. Cowardice comes naturally in this circumstance, but Jihoon never thought he’d be a victim of it.

“No matter,” she continues, “Break it off as clean as possible. Or better yet, make it hurt, so that she won’t come running back. This will be good for the both of you.”

Jihoon knows that is the last thing he needs to hear. He knows you don’t think this way. You never gave implications you do, but he can’t help but wonder if your mother is right. Maybe what your parents are offering is better. He couldn’t possibly match up their standards, your standards that you grew up with. What can he offer you that a family with generations of fortune can’t? He has no idea.

Maybe…he shouldn’t hold you back. Maybe this arrangement is what you really need and deserve. If he truly loves you, letting you go would perhaps be the last biggest sacrifice he can make for you. 

So, he coordinates a date, what he assumes would be your final date. He’d take you to somewhere private, in the nicest place he can afford, and buy you your favorite meal with the money he’s saved up from working his part time job. He’ll give you your happiest day before breaking your heart and the news that you can’t be together. He at least has to give you that.

But you beat him to the punch.

“I know what this is.”

He grimaced, looking up from his dinner, feigning innocence. “What do you mean?”

Your eyes stare through him, piercing, ebbing beads of sweat down his forehead even when he tries avoiding your eyes. “I know you met with my mother.”

“Angel–”

“I’m not giving up, Jihoon.” You twist the plain gold ring on your finger, thumbing over the band. “I love you too much.”

He desperately wants to trust you, to believe in the words you speak, just as he always has. But doubt gnaws at him, fueled by mounting evidence and a gut feeling he can't ignore. The stakes are too high, the consequences too dire to rely solely on blind faith. In his most vulnerable moments, when fear and uncertainty cloud his judgment, it feels as though your love alone isn't enough to withstand the inevitable.

Present day…

Jihoon charges into the police station, haphazardly dressed in yesterday’s clothes with his shirt untucked and buttoned up until the first two top buttons. Everyone present in the room looks towards him momentarily before turning their eyes back to their current task as if it’s an ordinary occurrence. Meanwhile, the man fueled by panic staggers over to the front desk, running his hand frantically through his hair as he tries settling his nerves to garner the right words.

“I-I’m looking for someone,” he stammers, eyes bulging out of his head and brimming with tears. “She just detained. Her name—“ 

Before he can complete his inquiry, his phone goes off, only heightening the stress he’s experiencing. Barely mustering the motor skills to retrieve it from his pocket, he glances at the caller ID that immediately grabs his attention. His gaze flickers back at the officer for a moment before he’s fixated on his phone. “I’ll be right back.”

He scurries over to his car, accepts the car, and presses it to his ear. “Hello?”

“J-Jihoon.”

The quiver in your voice brings him to tears. He tries to keep his composure as their warmth streams down his cheeks. “Hey, hey. Are you okay?”

"They said I could call a lawyer.”

He chuckles softly at your flawed reasoning. "I’m a divorce lawyer, my love."

“Even if you weren’t a lawyer, you were the first person I wanted to talk to.”

His heart aches, clutching his phone as he swallows back his trepidation. “What happened?”

“Hyunkwan. H-he’s dead.”

Jihoon tightly shut his eyes, unsure if he heard currently with how disorienting this whole circumstance is. “Hyunkwan…your husband.”

“T-they found him murdered at home, dead for a couple of days according to autopsies.”

Jihoon sighs coming to realization. “The police suspect you have something to do with it.”

“Yes.” You say voice cracking on the other side. He hears the rustling of your clothes, with the undertone of your whimpers barely making it through on the call. “They think I…I’m sorry to be taking business away from you after all the work you’ve done and hours you’ve put in.”

“Never mind that now. Just remember you didn’t do this. You stick to that. Don’t let them bully you into saying anything else but that.”

“But I didn’t do this,” You insist through your sobs. “I really didn’t.”

He frowns, clutching his chest as he leans his forehead against the front passenger door. “I know. I know you didn’t. Just stick to this, okay?”

“Okay…I just got you back. Why is it I have to fight for you all over again?” You softly whine.

His hand presses flat against his car window, steadying himself. “Once I get you alone again, I’ll let you do absolutely everything to make up for lost time.”

“Hoon…”

“Wait for me, I'll get you, Angel.” 

The second the call ends, Jihoon walks back into that building with a newfound confidence and looks straight into the officer he spoke with before. “Pardon me, urgent call. I’m here to represent my client.”

In the interrogation room, Jihoon has never been more concerned than he is at that very moment. Even disheveled, you look as beautiful as you did this morning when you woke up together with your tear streaked cheeks and red swollen eyes. He wants to do nothing but take you in his arms, kissing the stress away from your body and distract you with long languid kisses until you’re breathless and he’s the only thing on your mind.

But against his wishes, Jihoon keeps it together, trying to remember anything helpful he learned in criminology to help you with your situation.

After a long 72 hours of interrogation and containment, due to lack of evidence, Jihoon has you released. Now, he watches you in his peripheral view as you sit stiff in the front passenger seat, staring off in the distance, unsure whether there was nothing or a multitude of things on your mind. 

The car's interior was thick with silence, punctuated only by the soft hum of the engine and the rhythmic thrum of tires against asphalt. Jihoon's gaze flickers repeatedly towards you, his brow furrowed with concern. Your rigid posture and the vacant stare in your eyes boring into the road, painting a picture of inner turmoil that words couldn't quite capture.

He racks his brain, desperately searching for the right words to break the silence, to dissipate the awkward tension that thickened the air. But what can he say? How can he possibly understand the maelstrom of emotions you were undoubtedly experiencing?

It’s been nothing less than a harrowing ordeal of relentless onslaught of accusations, interrogations, and the suffocating confines of a cold, sterile cell. And now, despite the nightmare having come to an end, the dark memory still clings to you, its icy fingers refusing to release their grip.

Jihoon's heart aches in your presence. He longs to reach out, to offer comfort and reassurance, but he fears that any attempt at consolation would only serve to further expose his own helplessness in the face of your trauma. He’s acutely aware that his presence, while a source of safety and security, is no medicine for the bundle of nerves that festers like a million ants in your stomach.

Jihoon's grip on the steering wheel tightens as he struggles to maintain his composure, while the silence stretches on. Each passing second amplifies the palpable tension that strangles his neck, suffocating his being. The once familiar surroundings of the car now felt alien and depressing, the silence a deafening roar that drowned out all rational thought.

“We’re almost home, Angel—”

“He’s gone, Jihoon. He was here, and now he’s gone.”

Jihoon retreats to the silence that once held him hostage, accepting there are no words in the universe that could give you the solace you need right now.

“Sick bastard,” You hiss. Putting your fingers to your lips, you succumb to the habit of biting your nails. The habit that you put a lot of effort into getting rid of, apparently only done in vain. “Even in death, he finds a way to take me down with him.”

“You and Hyunkwan…”

“It was business,” you clear up before taking a beat. “Mostly.”

Mostly.

“I see,” Jihoon responds, keeping a neutral tone, while in his head, he’s running a hundred miles per hour imagining you with a man that isn’t him.

You swallow a lump in your throat, lightly clawing at his leather seats. “We were in the same boat. Two kids forced together by their families because of an agreement made so, so long ago. We got along for a little bit, the only reason why it lasted so long, and then we tried to make it work. At least for the beginning of the second year, but old habits die hard, and he couldn’t give up his playboy lifestyle. Then there was me, who never stopped loving you.”

His chest tightens, each breath a struggle as your confession reverberates through him. Every word, a searing touch against his soul, burns its way into his brain. He feels the weight of your admission pressing down on him. His heart pounds a frantic rhythm against his ribs, its wild beat echoing and taking root in every wrinkle of his brain.

“So he went back to partying, and I spent the following several years alone, surveillanced, controlled, and the person I married couldn’t care any less about me, but that’s fine because the person that really mattered was safe.”

Jihoon readjusts his grip on the wheel, gritting his teeth at the thought of your solitude. He had hoped that you’d find some peace in the unavoidable obligation, but knowing that you suffered in silence is worse than knowing you had attempted to build a romantic relationship with your husband. At least with the latter, you would have some semblance of joy.

“Safe? Angel—”

“Hoon, stay with me for the time being.” You grip an of of his with reach, your eyes glossed in your desperate tears, your cracking voice tearing piece by piece. “I don’t want to live alone in that house.”

“You don’t have to. What about the place you’ve been staying now?”

You shake your head with a deep scowl. “My parents found out about me living there and changed the key code. I’m locked out, but they’ve sent my things to my legal residence. It’s the only place I can stay.”

“How can they still be—after hearing their son-in-law has passed?”

You roll your eyes, obviously used to their aggressive and shameless tactics to get exactly what they want. Just as they always have. “They want to keep the ties to the Boos as long as they can. They can’t do that by being estranged. They’re already furious enough that I’ve been living somewhere else.”

Dilemma becomes a lingering companion, making the lawyer question and challenge every selfish thought and desire to stay by your side when it combats with his logic that dares keep you at a distance. “Wouldn’t it be strange for me to stay there?”

“I need you. I can just tell anyone who asks that my lawyer and I are working closely on this case. I’ll say anything I have to to keep you by my side, Hoon.”

Jihoon's breath hitches as he shifts the car into park, his eyes drinking in the grandeur of your house. It was far larger than anything he had ever imagined, a sprawling testament to a life he felt utterly removed from. A wave of insecurity washes over him, the stark contrast between his own modest upbringing and the opulence before him serving as a harsh reminder of the vast sea that divides your worlds.

He swallows hard, his heart pounding against his ribs as he turns to face you. Despite the trepidation that gnawed at him, his love for you is and has always been unwavering. Reaching out, he pulls you into a tight embrace, his arms wrapping around you like a lifeline. "Then I'll stay by your side," he murmurs in your hair, pressing his lips against the side of your head as he feels you reciprocate.

Amidst the uncertainty and the fear, Jihoon makes a solemn vow to himself. No matter the challenges that might arise, he will remain steadfast. He will not falter, no matter the trials and tribulations that lay ahead. With unwavering determination, he pledges to devote every waking moment to fighting tirelessly for your case, and to ensure that you remain by his side. No matter how many mornings and nights it takes, he’ll keep at it relentlessly until you see the light at the end of the tunnel.

After the break up, before the wedding…

Jihoon had been single for his entire life, a lonely existence that spanned twenty years. That was until he met you, an impossibly enchanting presence who immediately bewitched him at a mere glance. The way you love was generous, addictive. Something that would make a man go mad. His life was irrevocably altered from that moment; he couldn't envision a future without you by his side.

The day your relationship ended was a paradox of emotions, as if his heartbreak and logic were at combat. That day had to have been the worst day of his life. It was as if your absence left a gaping hole that made him feel like only a shell of his former self. He was worse than before he had met you. Then he was antisocial, and now he didn’t want to look at another person for as long as he lived. If it were within his power, he would erase it from his mind entirely, but the pain of losing the love of his life was an indelible scar, a torment he wouldn't wish upon even his most hated enemy.

"Long time no see.”

You stand bashfully beneath the sprawling branches of the grand oak tree that dominated the center of the campus park. The same park where you both make a recurring date spot since you insisted on him getting some vitamin D on the especially sunny days, the sacred ground where Jihoon had professed his undying love and asked for your hand in marriage. The last happy memory you had together before it all went to shit.

His head lifts abruptly, drawn away from the pages of the book he'd been staring at without truly reading. The words had blurred into meaninglessness after you'd walked out of his life. His gaze locks onto yours, and for a moment, time stands still, disbelief warring with a glint of hope in his eyes. You offered him a bittersweet smile, the curve of your lips swelling the organ that put him at ruin countless times before gracefully settling onto the grass beside him, the shade blanketing over your presence like the gray gloomy cloud did him.

"Hi," he breathes, his voice barely above a whisper. "You're...you're talking to me."

"That I am," you confirm, your voice gentle and warm.

His brow furrows, and the hope melts off his face, turning the corners of his lips down. "I don't know if your parents, or your...fiance," he says, emphasizing the word that has his voice thick with distaste, "would like that."

The corners of your mouth turn down in a sad smile. and you draw your knees up to your chest, resting your head against them. "No, they wouldn't, but I don't care."

"Maybe you should.” His voice laced with a chilling indifference as he turns his attention back to the dense textbook that lay open in his lap, his focus appearing unwavering.

The sting of his snide remark makes your heart feel as if it’s being crushed, mangled by a hand until it’s deduced to nothing. Nonetheless, you push the ache down, forcing a casual, eased tone. "Funny. It's only been a month, but it feels like an eternity."

He merely hums in response, feigning disinterest while his every nerve thrums at  the knowledge of your existence that makes concentration feel like combat against a formidable opponent.

"I'm done avoiding you," you declare, your voice firm.

His fingers pause their rhythmic flipping of pages, his lips twisting into a nervous line, his eyes still fixed on the pages. "Really?"

"Really.”

A flicker of something akin to intrigue passed over his features before disappearing in a split second, replaced by a stone face. "...That's nice to hear," he replies, his voice measured, guarded.

Silence hangs in the air for a moment before you break it, hoping to lighten the atmosphere. "So, what are you studying?"

"Forensic science," he bluntly answers, his voice devoid of any inflection. "The scientific methods used to investigate and examine evidence."

Your lips pucker in  feigned curiosity, looking to prolong this encounter no matter how cold he makes himself to be. "How's it going?" 

He lets out a sigh, the sound heavy with frustration. His eyes seemed to blur the images in front of him as if the words on the page were swimming before his eyes. "Like my brain developed a severe intolerance for new information.”

A soft chuckle escapes your lips as your gaze lingers on him, his frustration evident in the way he’s now violently flipping through the pages. You took a moment to etch his features into your memory, wanting to remember every detail of how he looks now, what will  one day be a passing image that you’d never get to see again. "Too bad you're pursuing criminal law, huh? Any chance you might become a divorce lawyer and take my case one day when it comes?"

Jihoon scoffs softly, his gaze falling to his feet as he goes silent for a moment. That thought has crossed his mind countless times since you had reluctantly agreed to your parents' arranged marriage. Though his expression remains stoic, his words reveal the truth you both had tried so hard to ignore. "In a heartbeat," he grips the book tightly, as if the act would get rid of the ache in his chest. "You know I would."

Your heart hammers in your chest, the determination in his eyes almost overwhelming as he glances at you from the corner of his eye. "Don't," you choke out, shaking your head. "I would never want to take that away from you. Your whole life is centered around being a criminal justice lawyer."

"And you," he lifts his gaze from his lap to meet your eyes with tears that threaten to spill. His hand twitches with the urge to wipe them away. "Criminal justice and you. Angel."

You know there's nothing he wouldn't do for you. And that's what terrifies you. The extent of his sacrifices knows no bounds. He's unconditionally devoted to you in a way that’s almost suffocating, but to be smothered in that love is an end you don’t mind meeting. Jihoon has always considered himself a logical man, but from the moment you met, he's become the epitome of a romantic. "I love you more than anything in the world," you remind, "but don't. Please."

He sighs, his attention returning to his book, his fingers flipping the pages. "I won't," he assures you, "if it means that much."

Except, that is what he fully plans to do.

Present day, a week after the release…

“Hoon?”

Jihoon, his glasses slightly askew, glances up from the cluttered desk, a warm smile gracing his lips as he sees you standing in the doorway. His fingers pause their rhythmic dance across the keyboard, the soft click-clack momentarily silenced as he greets you. "You're home.”

You scan over his workspace he’s made for himself in an empty office of your home, unable to ignore the neverending mountain of documents. "You're still here working on my case?" 

A soft smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth as he plucks off his glasses, his eyes holding yours an unwavering confidence. "Of course. My clients always get the best service."

Your brow furrows slightly. "You haven't been going into your office," you point out. "Won't that be a problem?"

"I've transferred any ongoing cases I had to other recommended lawyers in the area," he reassures, fingering through stacks on stacks of paperwork. "They'll be helping them. Don't worry about me."

“How can I? You’re losing work because of me. Plus, you’re a divorce lawyer. Is this even allowed?”

He pauses, his gaze softening at your concern painted over your features. "You and I both know I am well versed in criminal law just as much as I am in family law. I majored in criminal justice, remember?”

Your eyes narrow back at him as you cross your arms. “Yes, and you went against me and became a divorce lawyer.”

He grins a little too hard, like a child with their hand caught in the cookie jar. “It brought you to me, didn’t it? And as for losing work. it's a small price to pay to make sure you get the justice you deserve."

"Isn't this a lot for you to take on? You must have other responsibilities, work, errands..."

His eyes lock onto yours, unwavering and steady. He points at you domineeringly with the pen in his hand as if you’re about to be lectured for being tardy to class. "You're facing a trial for a murder you didn't commit. You shouldn't be wasting your energy worrying about me."

"Hoon—" 

"I won't let them take you away from me a third time.” His preservation only grows stronger with your concern, heart heavy as he replays the image of you put in handcuffs, actively getting taken away from him.

"Still, you can't put yourself through all of this just for me.”

"Why not?" His voice rises slightly, kindling a fiery path down his throat. "You didn't do this, and I'm not going to just stand by and twiddle my fingers. Everything we’ve rebuilt, it’ll all come crashing down. Again."

"It won't.” You shake your head with unwavering resolve before you reach his side and gently tug his arm. "I won't let it."

His expression softens, but it does not deter his persistence. "Then let me double my efforts to help you." 

“But—" He silences you with a look, his eyes pleading desperately as the air around you wraps around your throat and squeezes it shut.

He gently places the pen on the table, his hand moving to cup the side of your face. His gaze holds yours, filled with a longing that betrays the initial confidence his words carried. His lips tremble slightly, a reminder of the fear that’s taken over that past week as he inches closer towards you.

"It may be hard to believe, but," he whispers, his voice husky as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his eyes hover over your parted mouth, his face drawing closer until your breaths mingle in the space between you, "talking to you through a glass partition and dressed in orange is not nearly as fun as it sounds. Please, Angel," he takes you in both his hands, forcing your gaze on him as your hips meet in desperate pleas, "let me help you."

“Jihoon-” His lips capture yours, clutching you against him as your hands settle over his waist, succumbing to an insatiable lip-lock, burying your mixed bag of emotions as he presses you against the edge of his desk.

He parts from you in heavy breaths before you propel over to reclaim him, the hunger overtaking your logic as you fill your mind with Jihoon and him only. Your ferocity drowns out the softness of his tenor voice as your hands fiddle over his button-down, undoing each one in a hurried pattern before his hands clasp over yours in a forced halt, pushing them down. 

Your lips part softly, the air between you heavy with insatiable desire. The intensity in his gaze deepens, a lustful darkness swirling within that reflects your own yearning. You find his presence intoxicating, a high that won’t come down, and he reminds you how easily he can have you succumb to his every whim. It's as if he's peering into your very soul, igniting a fire within you that is not only tempting but threatens to consume you both. He realizes that he needs to be the one in control to prevent that from happening. Especially considering the hunger he fears is already fueling you and threatens his clarity.

“Don’t try distracting me,” he half-jokingly says, his hands tracing the sides of your torso, betraying his conviction. “You know I can’t resist you.”

You snicker, your bottom lip being pulled through your teeth as you throw your arms around his neck, drawing his presence dangerously closer. “Yeah, you can’t.”

“Angel,” he gently warns, breath hitching in his throat as your touch trails down the exposed plane of his chest as it heaves, while the hairs on his neck stand stiff, his lust talking over his reasoning.

“Knock off all the papers off your desk like you want to, Hoon,” your lips ghost over one another, daring another kiss to get lost in. “Don’t you remember? That fantasy of yours where we lose ourselves in each other? You wanna ruin this desk with me?”

“You…” His smug smile grazes your lips as he borders you with his arms, pushing you into a locked cage of his fervent heat that sends your aroused state ablaze. A sweet moan leaves your lips as his thigh parts your legs as it takes residence against your clothed core. “Just don’t know when to quit, don't you?”

Before the moment escalates any further, the familiar sound of the doorbell rings throughout the house, eliciting a frustrated groan from the man in front of you as he clings to your frame. “We need a sign or a scarecrow or something if we keep getting interrupted like this.” He chastely kisses the giggles off your lips. “I’ll get it—but after, no more distracting me.”

Your eyes widen in clear offense before you playfully shove him away. "You kissed me!" you loudly reminded, your head double taking in the incredulity. "And why would you open the door? It's my house."

"Consider it a trauma response," he answers dryly as his fingers gently brush against the back of your head, watching the endearing pout swell your kiss-swollen lips. “I won't take long. Just follow behind me if you're worried."

You huff, crossing your arms and sounding out in a firm and resolute tone, "I was going to do that anyway."

"I knew you would,” he says with a knowing smile.

Jihoon's footsteps trickle down the steps as he follows the incessant ringing of the doorbell, echoing through the house with an urgency that intensifies his irritability. Before he can reach the door, it swings open, revealing a figure who rushes in, nearly colliding with Jihoon in their haste.

"Um, hello?" Jihoon stammers, taken aback by the intrusion.

The individual doesn’t bother acknowledging the man that welcomes him, his eyes frantically scanning the room. "Where is she?" His gaze darts from one corner to another before finally landing on you.

"Seungkwan?" 

Seungkwan's face softens as he sees you. He rushes towards you, pulling you into a tight embrace, his chin resting in the crook of your neck. "Oh my god," he mumbles into your skin, "You have no idea how worried I was."

Jihoon steps back, standing frozen as his fists clenched tightly at his sides, watching the scene unfold before him. Like a knife twisting in his gut, he’s unable to ignore the intimacy of your skinship. The way you lean into the newcomer's touch, how familiar it all is to you. You might as well send a sharp slap to his face.

He prides himself on his self-control, his ability to maintain a stoic facade even in the face of adversity—crucial for a lawyer. But at this moment, he feels powerless, his confidence depleting. He wants nothing more than to stride forward, to pull you away from the stranger's embrace and make it known that only he has the privilege to greet you so warmly. But he can't. He shouldn’t. Instead, he tucks away his jealousy and pride, maintaining a pretense of civility in front of the person who looks at home in your arms.

You gently release yourself from his embrace and place him at your side, his gaze oozing with concern. "It's okay, for now," you reassure him, "but you almost hurt my guest."

Seungkwan's expression shifts to realization as he turns to Jihoon. "My apologies," he extends his hand for a handshake. Jihoon accepts, noting the firmness of his grip which he returns just as boldly. The other man doesn’t waver, only conjuring a polite smile, one Jihoon is all too familiar with in his line of work. "I am her legal guardian."

You roll your eyes. “No, he’s not.”

The young man sulks and childishly pulls at your sleeve with doe eyes, “Yes, I am. After my brother's death, I might as well be.” He clings to you like a fly in a sticky trap. “I booked the earliest flight right after my business meeting and got here as soon as I could. I'm here now.”

You gently push him away again and rest your hands on his shoulders. “I'm an adult. I’m my own guardian.” You glance at the lawyer, hands tied as he witnesses the scene, and you’re suddenly overtaken by a sense of guilt. “Jihoon, this is my brother-in-law, Seungkwan. Seungkwan, this is Jihoon, my…lawyer for the time being. He's staying at the house so we can work closely on the case and get the whole picture.”

Your hesitation to define Jihoon’s presence is clear, but amidst the chaotic rally, it goes unnoticed by the newcomer. He inserts himself between you and Jihoon, acting as a barrier.

"Thank you for taking on her case with such short notice." Seungkwan takes your hand in his, stroking the back with his thumb and staring back at you with an immeasurable warmth as he interlaces your fingers. Meanwhile, Jihoon feels a surge of possessiveness as his gaze lingers on your intertwined fingers, maleficence passing over his eyes as he thinks of the limitless ways he can pry Seungkwan’s fingers off you before snapping every ligament.

"Of course," the lawyer responds calmly, maintaining a stoic composure despite his clenched jaw. "Just doing my job."

“Sweetheart…” Seungkwan's voice drips with a luscious honey as he nuzzles his head against your shoulder, his boyish face etched with a charmingly innocent grin. "Let big brother make all your worries disappear," he coos, gently guiding you towards the staircase, his hand resting possessively on the small of your back. Jihoon, observing the scene from across the room, feels a flicker of irritation twitching at the corner of his eye.

"Kwan, I'm older than you. What 'big brother' are you talking about?" You cast an apologetic glance over your shoulder at the lawyer standing alone in the corner. Seungkwan pouts playfully, his hand descending your lower back, and Jihoon gets closer to resort to violence.

“Well, for the time being, I’m big brother, so anything you need, I can do. Don’t worry your little head over anything.”

Jihoon's body moves mechanically, slowly trailing behind the chattering duo before the door to your bedroom clicks shut. The silence of the room presses down on him, bitterly reminding him of the loneliness he has briefly escaped. The familiar ache of rejection settles deep within him, a long-forgotten companion that he has grown accustomed to evading. There is nothing he can do to change the situation, not without causing more harm than good. 

With a heavy sigh, Jihoon turns his attention back to the office and returns to your case, channeling his restless energy into something productive. But even as he immerses himself, cataloging every detail, your image of you leaving returns. The vision of you disappearing from his sight, guided by another's touch, lingers in the back of his mind, and in turn, reopens the throbbing wound once sewed by you coming back in his life.

For the following month, Seungkwan doesn't leave your side, which gives Jihoon plenty of time to develop your case. However, Jihoon can't shake his unease about your brother-in-law. Seungkwan's constant affectionate gestures toward you—the loving gazes, lingering touches, and overly sweet words of affirmation—make Jihoon want to throw himself off a cliff. Or better yet the other man off one instead.

Seungkwan's presence, equivalent to an annoying pest, has made it nearly impossible for you and Jihoon to have any privacy. Not that you’ve tried anything while he’s in the house, both you and your lawyer/lover have you carefully hiding private messages, considering how close he can get to you at any given time. His unwavering presence feels insurmountable, leaving you and Jihoon with no choice but to roll with the punches.

“Sweetheart, let’s get dinner!”

You roll your eyes, barely looking up from your book. “Kwan, I know I’m not working now, but that doesn’t mean I can go out and goof around with you all the time.”

“Boo…that’s exactly what it means!”

You sigh as you gaze at the cracked door that leads to the private office on the same floor. Peering through, you catch a glimpse of Jihoon diligently shuffling through papers, his glasses perched on his nose in a way that makes you swoon.

“Let’s just order in, we can get something for Attorney Lee too. I’m worried he’s not getting any real meals in with all the time he’s putting into my case.”

Seungkwan nods gingerly, “Sure, what’ll you have?”

“One moment,” you scurry over to the door that stands in your way, pushing it open with a knock and alerting the man in the room. “Anything you’re craving? We’re getting lunch.”

The lawyer glances up at you above his frames, readjusting them to fit over his eyes. “Uh, anything. I’m not all that hungry.”

“You must want something.” You look at him expectantly, pressing your lips in a firm line as you scan his appearance, resisting the urge to tear his haphazardly worn dress shirt off him and devour him like a rabid animal. “It could be anything.”

He rests his arms on the desk, pursing his lips in thought. “If anything…I’d like to try your cooking. You’d seem like you have a colorful palette.”

You grin, narrowing your eyes at him in feigned annoyance as a hint of a smile graces his face. He turns back to his work, his teeth biting back a bigger smile.

“Well, I better get started then.”

Too distracted by the alluring dishevel of the man buried in paperwork, you don’t discern the eyes burning a hole in your back. The smile that would be a constant on Seungkwan’s face is visibly misplaced. When you return your attention to him, he quickly conjures one on the spot, acting as if nothing had changed at all.

“Kwan, how do you feel about kimchi fried rice? I’ve been meaning to make use of the kimchi taking space in the fridge.”

Seungkwan nods. “I’m down.” He stands up from the couch and strides towards you, putting his hands behind his back. “Sounds like you’re in need of a partner…a cooking partner that is.”

“That I am,” you nonchalantly agree, briefly shifting eyes back to Jihoon, “I’ll let you know when it’s ready.”

“I look forward to it.”

You gleefully consume yourself with your culinary ventures, tasting and scavenging for all your ingredients and giddy that Jihoon requested it after being forced to hide your affinity for another. You aren’t used to the stiff wall he’s built; even starting as a client, he acted more familiar than this. But if you can show your love in any way possible, you’ll do it. 

Amidst your joy, Seungkwan busies himself by chopping the vegetables you’ve assigned him, glowering at your back turned toward him while you remain oblivious. You don’t notice how his eyes trail up your body, surveilling you like a hawk. Or him pressing his lips together in restraint when you bend over to pick up something you dropped. He only mutters under his breath, hardly audible with your soft humming that fills the room.

“Hey, Kwan, help me find the sugar. It vanished on me.”

He makes a semblance of a smile. “Sure.” 

As he pretends to scavenge for your targeted ingredient, he continues stalking your moves. He takes a sharp inhale when you brush past him, the comforting scent of your skin bringing him. He chuckles to himself, amused by your mounting frustration, savoring the soft grumbles under your breath. Finally, you’re met with triumph as you spot the elusive ingredient tucked away on a high shelf, hidden behind a bulky cabinet. “Found it!”

“Let me get that for you.”

Before you can make way for him, his body presses flush against your backside, and you can feel every detail on him you’ve made contact with. You let out a sharp gasp when he shifts against you closer. The feeling of his presence lingers long enough for you to process your emotions before his fingers grip the sugar jar and place it on the counter in front of you. “How did that get up there? You should put it within closer reach to avoid hurting yourself trying to get it.”

You hum, acknowledging his advice. As you turn to face him, you lock eyes, catching the hint of something in his eyes before he descends his gaze, cheeks undeniably red. Awkwardly, you force a cough and cast your attention to the lunch in progress. “Right. Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

That moment replays in your mind, leaving a disconcerting tension that hinders your movements. You are unable to stop yourself from fixating on two qualities of that encounter: the unfamiliar glint in his eyes that makes your stomach churn and the firm sensation you felt when he stood behind you. Despite your feelings, you brush the thought aside. Recalling all the past instances, you should be accustomed to his lack of personal space by now. Perhaps you’re misinterpreting what you think you felt, making excuses for him alone in your head. This could all become a big misunderstanding, and it’d be best to ignore all together to avoid trouble.

As you carefully arrange the lovingly prepared meal on the dining table, grinning to yourself with the placement before calling out to Jihoon. You’re surprised when he turns up almost instantly. "That was quick." Your lips turn up in a teasing smirk, raising an eyebrow. Considering the office is located all the way at the end of the first-floor hallway, it shouldn't be humanly possible to get to the dining room this quickly. 

“It…smelled good,” the lawyer bashfully pats his stomach, maintaining his aloof expression. “I got curious, so I couldn't wait. I needed to use the bathroom anyway, and this one was closer than the others.”

“Well, wait no further. Dig in, boys!”

Dinner is seemingly to some, but not others. Seungkwan, emboldened by the seating arrangement, has an idea pop into his head. Laden with unspoken intent, he picks up his own spoon, insisting on feeding you. He makes a thinly veiled excuse of having "too much meat" to eat alone, and every accepted bite makes the corner of his lips turn up higher.

Jihoon, on the other hand, quietly observes. He harnesses a mask of disinterest, but he can feel it crack under the pressure of the underlying tension at the dining table. Inconspicuously, his eyes dart up to survey the air between you and Seungkwan; brief but intense, each glance leaves him with more questions left to be answered. He finds it increasingly challenging to suppress his indignation amidst the seemingly amicable gestures, deflecting his attention to the clinking of utensils and drink glasses as he tries to ignore the incessant hum of their conversation.

He deliberately doesn’t mention the moment in the kitchen—the scene that had you and your brother in law too close for comfort. He doesn’t ask how it rendered you speechless, or confess how it ignited a silent fury within him, causing his hands to ball into fists and his jaw to clench. The tension in that scene stretched on, feeling interminable, until you managed an escape, ducking your head so low that Jihoon fails to catch your reaction, unable to determine your true sentiment. 

The lawyer had the unfortunate opportunity to witness the ‘unintentional’ embrace from behind you, and out of all the new memories he’s made, that is one he’d pay to burn to ash. He hates this feeling, this jealousy. This possessiveness consumes him like a famished beast tearing into its feast. Nothing would please him more than ridding himself of the intrusion, keeping you to himself for none of the world to see. Alas, he bites back the lechery, swallowing the lump along with a spoonful of fried rice.

“Jihoon.”

His attention captured by the sound of your voice, he looks back at you expectantly. "Yes?"

Your grin immediately softens his cold demeanor and loosens the grip he hadn't realized he had on his spoon.

“Are you going to give yourself any grace and momentarily take your eyes off work? I’m grateful for everything you’re doing, but I can’t help but be concerned for your well-being.”

Your formal vernacular twists the knife already sunken in his chest, and he can’t suppress the soft sigh of acceptance that makes past his lips. “I’d appreciate it if you don’t act so familiar with me. As your lawyer, there are boundaries we should breach. Thank you for your concern, but it’s superfluous to prolong it.”

“Hey!” Seungkwan finally addresses Jihoon after seeing the color drain from your face. “She was only being nice. You don’t have to act like an ass with your pretentious vocabulary.”

“Seungkwan!” you scold, turning his angry scrutiny away from the man opposite him with a slap on the back. “Calm down. He’s right,” you glance back at Jihoon, picking through his meal with disinterest, hiding the guilt that swallows up his appetite. “I’m sorry. I just couldn’t help but feel guilty.”

“It’s alright.” He pushes up his frames. “Perhaps, I was harsh. I’m taking this case seriously, for your benefit. I assure you every minute counts.”

“I believe it. Still, you perform best in peak condition right?”

A hint of a smile touches his lips. “I suppose so.”

Seungkwan scoots closer to you, hugging your arm to his side, batting his eyelashes like butterflies fluttering in the wind. His hand falls in your hair, threading his fingers through tangled strands. He draws his lips close to your ear, speaking in a mellow yet effervescent tone that sends even the man opposite of him into shivers. “Let him do his job, sweetheart. It sounds like you’re in good hands. Just focus on laying low with me. I’m sure it’s what Hyunkwan would’ve wanted.”

You don’t have the fight to argue, and the argument ends as quickly as it began, leaving a bitter taste in its wake. It’s the most you and Jihoon had spoken since Seungkwan unexpectedly moved in. The overly affectionate newcomer has effectively blocked all advances either of you make, having this arrangement be a harrowing, sexually frustrating hell to say the least.

Jihoon knows intimacy is impossible under these circumstances, out of the question with the risk of being caught, but he underestimates Seungkwan and his tenacity. His meddlesome demeanor stands like a wall between you and your formerly estranged lover. Seungkwan is a constant, his interference a source of endless aggravation. Every attempt Jihoon made to navigate the situation was thwarted by Seungkwan, who inserted himself in every scenario possible.

And there’s something you are oblivious to that Jihoon isn't: the intent behind your brother-in-law’s eyes. Seungkwan possesses an intense, disturbing gaze that makes the lawyer’s blood run cold. At a mere glimpse, Jihoon could feel the hairs of his body stand on all ends, raising his already made suspicion that he isn’t to be trusted with even a pet rock. The lawyer can recreate from memory that chilling gaze that’s sharp as a blade, as if sketching a portrait of a criminal on the run. 

And if it isn’t obvious enough, Seungkwan holds an apparent animosity towards Jihoon, unwavering. Whether it's through necessary legal interactions or simply sharing a space, Seungkwan's hostility is evident. His dislike for Jihoon is palpable and persistent, an enduring tension that time doesn't seem to diminish. The sentiment, unsurprisingly, is mutual; Jihoon harbors an equal measure of antipathy towards the young heir. 

However, unlike the childish rival, the older man knows how to pick his fights. He doesn’t let the other man intimidate him more than he already does. A few glares and obnoxious scoffs isn’t enough to deter the lawyer’s confidence. Seungkwan acts like a puppy around you, a shameless, lovesick puppy trailing after his master, and that’s all he’ll ever be. Jihoon knows he’s different. Different in the looks you cast at him or the secretive touches you make throughout the day just out of the other man’s view. You actually love him. Undeniably. Rest assured, Seungkwan, at the end of the day, will be a passing thought after the investigation is resolved; at least that’s what Jihoon tells himself.

It’s like any other day when Jihoon's focus shifts from his work, hearing a cheerful voice say, "Knock, knock." Seungkwan, the man who constantly occupies his thoughts, stands confidently in the doorway, leaning against the frame.

“Mr. Boo,” Jihoon greets indifferently, “How can I help you?”

"Please, call me Seungkwan," Seungkwan insists with a disarming smile, "Mr. Boo is my father."

“Well, then, Seungkwan,” He barely managed to keep the documents in his hand from falling off the already towering stack of papers on the corner of his desk as he set them aside. “Is there anything you need from me? Is she asking for me?”

“Oh, no, no, nothing like that.” The young heir closes the door behind him and walks over to the desk with unbridled confidence. “She’s preoccupied with something much more important.”

“I see. Then, what brings you here?”

The plush leather chair behind the imposing mahogany desk creaks ominously under the weight of the man who occupies it. A cold shiver snakes its way down his spine, and the air in the room seems to thicken. The once amiable mask slips out of view before the lawyer’s very eyes, leaving their true dark colors in its wake.

Gone is the casual slouch and the easy smile. The intruder leans forward, his hands gripping the edge of the desk, knuckles whitening with the force of his hold. His shadow falls over the furniture, looming large over the man seated behind it. The once friendly eyes now hold a steely glint, boring into Jihoon, and the lawyer tastes something he’s had before: displeasure with his mere existence, just like your mother years ago, only if she’d had a knife behind her back.

"You need a stern talking to, Mr. Lawyer." Seungkwan leaves no room for misinterpretation as he embodies disdain, spitting the last two words, laden with mockery.

Jihoon’s expression doesn’t falter, his innocuous stoicism is kept strong as he decides to entertain his guest’s obnoxious efforts. “About anything in particular?”

Seungkwan scoffs, narrowing his eyes that look as if they could bulge out of his head. “How about the fact you’re living in this house with a woman you’re not married to? A fresh widow at that.”

“Mr. Boo, I assure you, I’m just doing my job—”

“Then, stay in your lane,” he hisses. “It’s as easy as pushing you into—” Seungkwan cuts off his thoughts as he runs a hand through his hair, expelling the rage building up inside him in deep sighs. “Don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be, Mr. Lee.”

Jihoon feigns ignorance, tilting his head to the side in mock confusion. “I don’t follow.”

“Bullshit!” Seungkwan swings his hands over a neatly stacked pile of papers, startling the once composed lawyer as the pages fan around the room and lie scattered on the ground. The cause of destruction slams his hands against the desk, worn chips of wood falling to their demise. “You don’t think I don’t see the way you look at her? How she looks at you? You’re him, aren’t you? The little ex-boyfriend she gave up to marry my brother and please her family.”

Jihoon gets up from his seat, having heard enough as a scowl threatens an appearance. “You are jumping to conclusions. I am just here to represent her in court.”

“STOP,” Seungkwan shouts from the top of his lungs, face twisted in a grimace, “telling me what I am doing. I know exactly what I’m talking about.”

He backs him into a corner, the lawyer relenting his body to the hostility as he reigns in his own anger, displacing it in his fists before putting an arm between them as a barrier. The corners of Seungkwan’s lips tug up arrogantly, shoving himself against the pathetic excuse of a defense. “I fucking looked you up. You are a measly family lawyer. Now, are you going to stay here and stand in the fate of my destiny, or am I going to have to force my fucking hand?”

“...What do you mean by that, Mr. Boo?” Jihoon treads lightly, his forearm shoving back into his assailant.

“I mean,” he bends his neck forward to peer into the other’s soul, the manic in his eyes gradually intensIfying. “I am not afraid to get dirt under my fingers if you overlook your work lusting after something you can’t covet even in your dreams.”

Now the boy’s gone too far. Jihoon’s pride is suddenly on the line, and he’s quick to defend himself. “Now hold on—”

“Why don’t you,” the menace jabs his index finger into the other man’s chest with every word, “hold on and get a grip of reality, unless you want to find yourself in a ditch becoming worm food.”

The fragments of information started coalescing within the recesses of Jihoons's mind, drawing from the vast expanse of his memories of living in the shared residence. Each piece slots into place, and the picture becomes clear. His eyes flare on as the realization dawns on him.

"Y-you," he stammers, his body going stiff. "It was you. You killed him, didn’t you?"

Seungkwan's lip curls in a sneer, his grip loosening for the briefest moment, a flicker of vulnerability quickly replaced by a surge of aggression. With a forceful shove, he slams the other man, a pained groan escaping his lips as his backside collides with the wall behind him as he feels the bruises etch into his skin. "Congratulations," Seungkwan displays his master class act of sarcasm, "You want a cookie?"

“Why on earth would you tell me this?” Jihoon’s voice booms, proving his strength as he takes the offense, seeing the other’s feet stumble to find the ground beneath them.

“Because you’re not going to fucking say a thing if you want to stay alive. I know people in high places. I can snap you and your lineage in half.”

“She wouldn’t want this—”

Seungkwan palm crashes right by Jihoon’s head, missing him by a hair. “She doesn’t have to know. All you have to worry about, though,” he points at him, “is getting her free. Pin it on anyone, literally. A jealous maid, one of his mistresses, a rival client. My brother has more enemies than you can count with all four hands and feet.”

Jihoon fixes his shirt as the heir pulls away, disgusted as he dusts himself of debris that could’ve deflected on him. “It’s the matter of evidence, Mr. Boo.”

“Make some.” Seungkwan hisses before turning to the exit, satisfied with his threat, and stopping once he’s breached the door and leaving Jihoon with his bidding words. “Do your fucking job. Or I’ll just have to pin it on you.”

Jihoon scans his surroundings; the mess conjured in a fit of anger points right in the direction of the culprit hidden under his nose. A fiery rage burns inside the man as he takes his turn slamming his desk with his fist, raking his hands in his hair as his composure comes crashing down. Never in his life had he met someone of Seungkwan's caliber—rude and demeaning soon-to-be divorcees, sure—but nothing like the monster that marked his territory in that room.

His hands shake erratically as he picks up the fallen documents, crinkling in his hands as he forms fists. A shattered sigh breaks free. His heart hammers rapidly at an unmeasurable pace. Perspiration coats his entire body, seeping through the fabric of his clothes to show stains of his uncontainable rage. All Jihoon sees is red, and it will be a frozen day in hell before he relents you to that psychopath. He just has to be smart, and unfortunately that involves you out of the way. Your case—your freedom is still his top priority, but as Seungkwan so enthusiastically suggested, getting his hands dirty is the only way to do it.

The event goes unnoticed by the owner of the home, cleaning up your own mess upstairs in your bedroom as you shuffle through your things in your closet. You look over all the things you’ve left behind, reacquainting with items that only serve as reminders of everything that’s transpired the last few months.

It should be easy knowing he’s gone now, but it does not take away that he was somewhat present for your early adulthood. Whether you like it or not, Hyunkwan’s death affected you, but more than anything, it worried you about the future to come. And like clockwork, your parents call while you’re in the midst of collecting your thoughts, speaking only of the merger and how it now changes things.

Naturally, as next in line, Seungkwan would take his brother’s place in the executive position, keeping the legacy that was left behind, and it leaves you to maintain close ties. Because as the only living heir left, he holds almost power, it’s only a matter of time before he and his family realizes that your family has no place in the Boo empire. After an appropriate time has passed, and the investigation eliminates you as a suspect, it’d only be right for you to join your brother-in-law as his wife. Only your parents would suggest you plan the possibility of engagement as a future course of action.

Dread washes over you as you speak. You feared this would happen. Your parents, with their incessant need to control every aspect of your life, had taken it upon themselves to arrange your second marriage when the body of your first husband has yet to hit the ground. The fact that they have already booked a wedding venue, without even consulting you, is a testament to how little they care about your happiness.

Despite being a fully grown adult, you feel trapped in a perpetual childhood, your parents' controlling grip as tight as ever. Their actions are a constant reminder that they still see you as a child, incapable of making your own decisions. The suffocating feeling is as strong as ever, reminding you why you are hardly willing to talk to them.

Now, with Seungkwan around your house, your parents must be over the moon at the news. It works very well in their favor. However, you aren’t feeling as keen knowing what that means for your current living arrangement with Jihoon. While you typically enjoy Seungkwan's company, it’s hard to be excited with the weight of possible engagement and lack of opportunity to sate the longing of your reunited lover.

You miss Jihoon desperately, and being forced to be separate only makes you crave him more. You've resorted to unusual comms, using secret signals, and hiding your incriminatingly suggestive messages. The need for discretion and secrecy has become necessary, seeing as carving out any sliver of alone time with Jihoon has been impossible because of Seungkwan's constant presence. This boy is an innocent bystander in all this mess. If anything, you feel bad that Seungkwan got so heavily involved, considering he had just lost his only brother. He must feel so down under that happy facade.

“Are you incompetent or plain fucking stupid?”

The voice, chillingly familiar yet unnerving in its unexpected proximity as you take the route to the stairs, blaring loud enough to be coherent from just behind a tightly shut guest room door. It sends a shiver down your spine, a voice you recognize but can't immediately place.

“What’s it going to take to get some real fucking progress…Yes, I gave him a warning. Are you an idiot?”

Your breath catches in your throat while your feet freeze in place. Every muscle tenses as you strain to decipher the torrent of words erupting from the other side of the door. Their voice is so alive with an intemperate anger, each syllable dripping with bitterness. This is a side of your brother-in-law you have never encountered before, something you’d never associate with the man you thought you knew so well.

You cling to the door, careful to avoid making a sound, and listen as the angry ramblings continue. The words paint a picture of a man who apparently is still a stranger to you, a far cry from the Seungkwan who always was kind and sweet to you as someone who was family only by obligation. You can't help but wonder what you have missed to not know this side of him.

This is the man who always seems to have everything under control and gets everything he wants, now unraveling before you.

Boo Seungkwan, just what is going on inside that head?

Before the proposal…

"The butler did it." 

You playfully throw a popcorn kernel at him. "You don't know that!"

"It's always the butler," Jihoon retorts dryly, his voice deep and resonant.

This is one of your many cherished weekends spent with Jihoon. Whether it is curled up with a good book, enjoying peaceful slumber, or as is the case tonight, debating between mystery movies and true crime documentaries, your time together is always precious. Tonight, you were in the mood for a suspenseful mystery, something to keep you on the edge of your seat.

"This is all so predictable," Jihoon sighs, feigning boredom.

"Oh, stop being such a Negative Nancy and just enjoy the movie, will you?" you playfully chide, snuggling closer to him on the couch, seeking to dispel his discontent. 

You know, despite his critiques, he’s enjoying this more than he lets on because of your company. As he’s told you before, movie night is never boring with you around. You nuzzle your head into his shoulder, and the clean scent of his soap and his radiating warmth puts you at ease. You feel the warmth of his chin resting on your head; it’s comforting weight making you melt deeper in his touch. His chuckle rumbles through his chest, making his body vibrate pleasantly against yours, and you feel a content smile tug at your lips. 

"It's kinda hard to enjoy the movie when the camera keeps zooming in on a naked torso every five minutes," he snorts.

"Sexy suspects make for a sexy murder mystery." you retort, a playful glint in your eyes.

"Whatever they're being paid, it's not enough."

You both continue to exchange witty remarks as the movie progresses, dissecting the plot and playfully mocking the characters' over-the-top reactions. Jihoon's playful commentary and your shared laughter fill the room. The suspenseful twists and turns keep you both engaged, invested even, and you both feel at peace in each other’s presence.

"Huh, so it wasn't the butler." 

You shake your head, overflowing with pride. "Nope, everyone always dismisses my most innocent looking one," you reply with a smug grin. "The brother had all the motive, and he played the victim perfectly." You turn to your boyfriend, a mischievous glint in your eyes. “If you were in the midst of a murder crime scene, how would you prove your innocence? Do you think you could outsmart the detective or shift suspicion onto the others?

He scoffs, confidently answering, "I wouldn't need to.”

You raise a brow. "What do you mean?"

"Once you're in the game long enough, that's when the pressure hits," Jihoon explains, crossing his arms and huffing his chest. "They will start pointing fingers, and the 'culprit' will either reveal themselves or look guilty enough just to be guilty. Innocence doesn't matter as much as perception."

"Wow, you're more cynical than I thought," you note with a hint of intrigue. "Is it weird that I find you hotter for that now?"

Jihoon chuckles, his eyes softening as he leans in to kiss you. "You're such a weirdo," he murmurs against your lips, his voice filled with affection, soon reveling in the moans that fill his mouth.

The movie's final scene flickers on the screen, the volume a soft murmur in the background. Neither of you pays it any attention, your lips meeting each other endlessly as his arm clutches your backside, pressing your bodies together. The heat of his body and the steadily growing rhythm of his heartbeat lulling you into a sense of peace and contentment as the flickering light of the screen casts dancing shadows on the walls, and you bask in its warmth.

"You know," you begin to say in an unserious tone as you pull away slightly, "even if you did kill someone...I wouldn't let you get caught."

Jihoon arches a brow, his eyes twinkling with amusement, and he parts your hair away from your face. "If I kill someone, you run in the other direction. I'm bloodthirsty, remember?"

With playful indignation, you inch away and retort, “Are you saying you’d run from me if I killed someone?"

He pauses, considering your question with mock seriousness. His hands have a mind of their own as he reels you back towards him to hold you in a firm embrace, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Well...you're too sexy to give up to the cops."

You laugh, lightly punching his arm. "Mr. Lawyer! Where is your sense of justice?"

He shrugs, nuzzling his nose against your cheek, "I'm selfish. The culprit can't be that bad if it's you.”

You cup his face, leaning into his touch. "You give me too much credit."

"No," he counters, drags the tip of his nose over the side of his jaw. "I just think I'd be happy to be your accomplice."

You let out a small squeal, feeling his breath tickle the column of your neck. "Oh, you love me so bad."

"Yes," he breathes, his lips finding yours in a kiss that has you explode from the inside, "I do."

The credits roll, and the movie's final notes fade into silence, but the night has just begun. In the dim light of the room, with the taste of his kiss still lingering on your lips, you move even closer to each other, melting into one another until it drowns out the next movie that automatically plays. It isn’t any mystery what other exciting events transpired that night.

Present day…

Jihoon has devised a plan for the impending evening. He just needs to get Seungkwan alone for just a moment to coax him to the point of threats, putting him into a compromising situation that could be documented and subsequently utilized as irrefutable evidence. The absurdity of the situation isn't lost on Jihoon; he’s never felt more like a cable show cliche. All the late night viewings of crime shows from childhood up until now has caught up with him, and finally he’s making use of their unorthodox, bizarre methods.

Ever since that unnerving confrontation with Seungkwan in the confines of the office, Jihoon had been grappling with a rising tide of unease. And he’d had just about enough images of this psycho trying to get cozy with you when he was present. It’s about time Seungkwan gets exposed for the person he really is and keeps your name off the docket.

Seungkwan stands before the lawyer in the secluded area of the house, hardly occupied by anything but dust and untouched furniture. The young man’s usual sunny disposition is replaced by an air of annoyance. His arms are crossed tightly across his chest, and his brow is furrowed. "Okay, I'm here," he says flatly, his voice laced with impatience, "What is it?"

Jihoon moves cautiously towards the other man, feeling his heart in his throat. His eyes stay ahtead, nervously aware of his phone tucked discreetly into his pocket, perfectly positioned to capture the scene in front of him. He clears his throat, "There's something I'm failing to understand," he begins, his tone measured but firm.

Seungkwan's response is sharp, his tone dripping with sarcasm as he lets out an arrogant scoff. "You mean like work ethic?"

His gaze locks onto the other man's face. "I just want to know…why and how?" His tone remains polite, but an undeniable edge that makes the young heir’s intimidating mask reveal an irreparable crack.

“What are you talking about, Lee?”

Seungkwan's face contorts with a crooked smile. His eyes narrow as he glares at Jihoon. The question that hangs in the air, although vague, conveys its meaning and its clear intent of the response it is to receive. Seungkwan's jaw clenched, his body language screaming his contempt. He knows exactly what Jihoon is insinuating, and the mere suggestion is enough to make his blood boil.

The lawyer simply smiles, satisfied to know he’s hit a nerve. “My curiosity is just piqued. It’s not every day I come across a murderer.”

The other man cocks his head to the side, smirking. “Takes some balls for you to say that to me.”

Jihoon shrugs. “Just color me curious.”

“Why? Want to peer into the eyes of a dead man?”

It’s like taking candy from a baby. “You know that well, don’t you? Second hand at least. The same hands you like to get dirty.”

“What are you getting—Wait a minute.” Seungkwan storms over to the other man only to see him take a full step back. 

Suddenly more alert, the younger man's eyes narrow, suspicion etched onto his face as he scrutinizes the other. With a sudden burst of movement, he lunges forward, gripping the man's forearms in a vice-like hold. His breath comes in ragged gasps, and he can practically see beads of sweat forming on his enemy’s forehead. "You're hiding something," he accuses, his voice laced with certainty.

Jihoon strains against the other man's grip, his mind racing. He knows Seungkwan's reputation for pushing boundaries, but this is a blatant disrespect for his personal space. "Mr. Boo—”

However, Seungkwan is relentless. With a deft maneuver, he reaches into Jihoon's pocket and extracts his phone. A triumphant smirk curls his lips as he sees the recording app displayed on the screen. "You must think I’m a moron?"

He throws the phone on the ground before crushing it under his heel. Jihoon stares blankly at his evidence as it gets repeatedly smashed, the deafening sounds of the other man’s stomps rendering him speechless. Seungkwan grabs his collar, eyes wide with an indecipherable fury. “Plan on joining my brother for the case? How passionate. You must really want an early retirement.”

“Is anyone here?” Your voice echoes from the hallway, and the aggressive man is bitterly forced to release the other.

“Just in this room, sweetheart. Wanted to discuss something with Mr. Lee here.”

You appear at the door, swinging it open to peer inside. “I heard a noise and thought to check. No matter how many times I walk through this house, I always find something that takes me by surprise.”

“That’s alright. We were just enthusiastically discussing current events. Nothing to concern you with, just boring man interests,” he eyes the man he just previously attacked, “Isn’t that right?”

“...Yes. All is fine, Miss.”

"Yeah, but I hear something really loud, like stomping? Smashing?" you persist, your brow furrowed with concern. The sounds are so distinct, you couldn't have just imagined it.

Seungkwan pauses, his expression thoughtful. "Hmm, strange," he muses, feigning deep contemplation. "Perhaps it is an animal—"

"Oh my god, someone's phone is destroyed!" You rush over to the scene of the commotion, where an unsalvageable device lies smashed beyond recognition. "Does this belong to either of you?"

Seungkwan's face takes on a look of feigned realization. "Ah, that," he chuckles, "Perhaps we've acted more aggressively with our quips than we realize. That, my dear, belongs to—" 

"It's mine," Jihoon interjects, his voice flat. "Someone probably must've stepped on it repeatedly when we got in the fight."

"Fight?" you repeat, your voice rising an octave.

Seungkwan waves his hand dismissively. “Oh, sweetheart, he’s joking. You are just too gullible—”

"Yeah, we fought." Jihoon shoved past his assailant forcefully, his eyes blazing with defiance as he took his place beside you. "Seungkwan has something he's hiding from you, and before you—"

He takes your hand, grasping it affectionately, leaving you momentarily stunned. Before you could utter a response, another voice cut through the tension.

"Mr. Lee. This game of pretend is going too far. We had only discussed humorously if any of us happened to be the murderer. All in good fun." Seungkwan’s voice is firm, touched with disapproval, as the light started slowly leaving his eyes.

"Kwan? What—"

"Don't believe a word he says, Angel." Jihoon's voice was low and urgent, holding your hand firmer and taking the initiative to step in front of you.

Your eyes widen at your pet name, your heart momentarily stopping to take everything in. "Jihoon—"

Seungkwan's sweet, innocent facade wavers. "Angel," he repeats, feigning ignorance. The word lingers on his lips like a bitter taste before he clenches his jaw. “Does this collaboration go deeper than described, sweetheart?”

You gently wave your hand, gesturing for him to calm down. “Seungkwan, calm down. We—I can explain, but tell me, what is it both of you are talking about? What fight?”

Seungkwan's jaw clenches. "I told you, sweetheart. It's nothing," he repeats, his voice strained.

“No, stop changing the subject! What are you hiding from me?”

Jihoon's arm tightens around your waist, pulling you closer to him as he watches Seungkwan's agitation grow. "He's been lying to you, Angel," Jihoon's voice is low and cautious. "He knows exactly what happened to his brother."

“Hyunkwan? What—” 

Seungkwan’s menacing laughter echoes throughout the vast room. “You’re really pushing my buttons right now. Instead of the theatrics, I suggest you stick to your day job.”

"Seungkwan," you intervene, your voice trembling with disbelief, "you couldn't have possibly..."

"Of course not, sweetheart," he insists desperately, keeping up with his ruse, "As if I had anything to do with my own brother's death. That's preposterous! It's a farce. This lawyer you hired has clearly lost his marbles."

"Jihoon would never lie to me. What aren't you telling me?"

"...Jihoon,” He looks aimlessly in the room with a sardonic smirk. “ You’re on a first-name basis, I see."

"I trust his intuition," you assert firmly, "More than anyone else."

His expression hardens, a wounded note creeping into his voice, "How... how can you say that when... you have me?"

Jihoon had about enough. “He killed him, Angel.”

“Shut. Up.” 

"Seungkwan," you stammer, the truth lodging in your throat like a large pill. It's hard to swallow, but like you said, Jihoon would never lie to you. "You...you killed—"

Seungkwan smoothly cuts you off, "You're really going to believe this stranger over me, darling? And for an accusation so far-fetched? Don't stoop to his level of intelligence, sweetheart."

"Stop patronizing me," you retort loudly. "Did you or did you not kill your brother?"

"I didn't!" Seungkwan's voice booms, intensity burning within his eyes. You can see the sincerity in them, the desperation for you to believe him, but his composure momentarily shatters, and instead you feel a shiver run down your spine at the raw emotion in his voice. You look from Seungkwan's furious face to Jihoon's grim expression, your heart pounding loud enough for everyone to hear loud and clear. At a disadvantage, he uses the moment to take a deep breath, self-sedating. "Of course."

"Boo Seungkwan," You take a deep exhale. "Tell me the truth. Did you or did you not kill Hyunkwan?"

Seungkwan laughs, but it's hollow and devoid of humor. "You're kidding yourself if you believe any of this crap—"

"Don't make me ask again," you warn, your patience wearing thin.

“You might have to, Angel,” Jihoon interjects, muttering in your ear, “Looks like he won't quit.”

"STOP... calling her angel, you insufferable swine."

“Seungkwan!” you exclaim, heart shatteringly so.

Seungkwan's eyes narrow dangerously at the man in front of you. "All you've done is get between me and my darling here. How many times do I have to so kindly remind you?”

Jihoon scoffs in disbelief at how he can keep lying. "Did you give that same kind of mercy to Hyunkwan?"

"You rat ba—"

"Stop it, you two," you fiercely interrupt.

"Fine.” With a defiant glare at Jihoon, the accused grabs your hand and tugs you towards him, leaving Jihoon standing alone, losing his confidence seeing you follow after Seungkwan.

Seungkwan's touch is gentle yet firm, his hands gliding over your shoulders and then up to your head, fingers threading through your hair. His gaze holds a tenderness that sends shivers down your spine, but it also ignites a blind fury in Jihoon's eyes.

"I’ll tell you. All of it," Seungkwan's voice is low and steady, "And maybe then you'll understand where I’m coming from."

Jihoon takes a step forward, "Angel-"

"Enough, Jihoon." You turn to face him, your expression stern, "Seungkwan has something to say. Don't cross the line."

Jihoon's heart sinks. You have never spoken to him that way before. The sting of your words is sharp, the disappointment in your eyes even sharper. A sense of dread settles in his stomach, and he feels as if he can die in a hole.

"Kwan," you gently take his hand, "I'm listening."

"Thank you, sweetheart. You've always been so understanding." His voice is colored with a subtle desperation, a plea for absolution masked by affection.

"You're very important to me," you respond, your voice trembling slightly. "Anything you have to tell me, I'll handle it with the same care I've always shown you."

"You really are the embodiment of love..." His voice cracks, the facade of calm crumbling. "...which makes this all the more difficult to admit." He pulls you into his embrace, your warmth melting the harshness of his prior mood. His forehead rests against yours, his breath hot against your skin. "I did it," he confesses, his voice barely audible.

His eyes, glistening adoration now joined by teary guilt. "I killed him."

Your breath hitches in your throat, your lips parting in a silent gasp. "Kwan..." 

"You know I would treat you so much better than my brother ever could..." He drowns in his twisted conviction. "I love you...enough to kill."

"How could you—”

"It was the only way," he insists, his grip tightening on you. "And now nothing can stop us from being together."

Your silence, born of bewilderment, is unreadable. Yet, a flicker of triumph dances in his eyes, quickly replaced by a softer emotion as he misconstrues lack of protest with immediate acceptance. "Absolutely nothing," he murmurs.

He cups your face, his thumb brushing against your cheek. His breath mingles with yours, his lips hovering tantalizingly close. His surroundings melts all around him, leaving only the intensity of his  delusion that crosses the line with obsession. Just as his lips brush against yours, a single word shatters the spell.

“Except.”

Seungkwan's soft chuckle sends a shiver down your spine. His breath caresses your skin as he tenderly whispers, "Except what, my love?" 

"Me." You meet his gaze with an icy stare, your voice devoid of emotion. "I will never love the way you love me."

"...What?"

Before he can comprehend the full extent of your rejection, the door to the room bursts open. A wave of armed officers floods the space, their weapons trained on Seungkwan. "Put your hands up!" they command, their voices echoing through the room.

Seungkwan's eyes widen in panic as he raises his hands in surrender. You take a step back, putting distance between yourself and the man who has held you captive in his twisted affection. As the officers close in on Seungkwan, you can't help but feel a sense of relief wash over you. Liberated to be free from the clutches of a man that suffocates you with his ‘love.’

“Sweetheart—”

“Stay where you are, Boo Seungkwan. You have the right to remain silent,” the officer continues, unfazed by Seungkwan’s pleas as they run through the whole spiel necessary. The click of the handcuffs echoes in the tense silence, stealing his free reign.

“What the hell is this? Did you do this, Lee?” Seungkwan spits, his gaze burning into Jihoon.

You take control of the conversation before Jihoon can argue. “No, he has nothing to do with this. I did.”

“My love…WHY?!”

"How did you know?" Jihoon asks softly, his gaze gentle as the hardened exterior he puts up to hide his true sentiment dissolves.

"I heard him," A hint of a smile touches your lips as you meet his gaze. "When he didn’t know I was listening, I heard everything. So I set this up. For definite proof."

With swift, deliberate movements, you begin to unbutton your dress shirt. The room is plunged into a shocked silence, the only sound the rushed soft rustle of fabric as your fingers work their way down the buttons. Several eyes, including Jihoon, instinctively avert their gaze, some faces visibly more affected than others. A wave of murmurs ripples through the room, but one voice unexpectedly rises in alarm.

“Sweetheart, stop that right now!” Seungkwan commands in a cracking voice, choking through his tears.

You ignore him, your fingers stilling on the buttons as your attention is turned to the person most shocked from your abrupt actions. "Look at me, Hoon." 

Jihoon's face flushes crimson as he reluctantly relents to your request, staggering with bulging eyes from what he sees. He laughs humorlessly, not believing the extent you took, but of course you did. "You seriously-"

A mischievous grin spreads across your face as you carefully detach the thin wire discreetly taped to the fabric of your camisole, protecting your exposed skin from the cold, hard hardware. "It's not a coincidence the police know exactly when to come in," you declare triumph.

Jihoon's expression shifts from disbelief to begrudging admiration. "I should've known," he mutters, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Expected of a true crime junkie."

"But that's one of the many things you love about me, isn't it?" With a teasing grin, you hand the recording device over to a nearby officer before rushing into Jihoon's open arms and surprise attack him with a slap to his shoulder, eliciting a dramatic wince from him. "That was incredibly stupid of you," you scold, "What if he had actually hurt you?"

"Speak for yourself," Jihoon lightly retorts. Yet, he hesitates, the dejection he felt from your harsh act lingering. However, slowly and surely, he matches your relief and gently pulls you closer by the waist. "You don't know what could've gone wrong getting so close to him like that."

"But nothing did," you counter cheekily, tilting your head up to meet his gaze.

The officers tighten their grip on Seungkwan's arms as he struggles in their clutches, his gaze locks onto your figure, which is turned away from him. "Sweetheart," he chokes out in desperation, "How could you?" Tears well up in his eyes, blurring his vision as the pain in his chest spreads throughout his entire body.

You pause, your footsteps faltering for a moment before you step away from Jihoon, who stands a few feet away, cautiously observing your movements. Your face remains impassive,  masking yourself with indifference, concealing the turmoil if it existed. "You have to pay for your crimes, Mr. Boo Seungkwan.”

Seungkwan's shoulders slump as the reality of the situation sinks in. "Hyunkwan was awful. You despised him just as much as I did. I just gave him what he deserved."

Your eyes recover a glint of something akin to understanding, momentarily softening the harsh twists of your features. Your eyes meet his as you concede with soft sincerity, "I do understand that you care about me, and for that, I am truly grateful."

Your eyebrows dip slightly as you continue, taking a deep breath, and your expression shifts, a shadow falling over the planes of your face. Your mercy is indiscernible, and you are unrecognizable. “But to do that to your own brother..."

"I did it for you!" Seungkwan roars, his voice echoing through the room as he struggles against the officers' restraints. "I did it for us!"

Your gaze hardens. "It got me arrested," you remind him sharply. "There is no us. You were my brother-in-law, whom I found solace in and confided in. I thought you were my friend, Seungkwan."

Seungkwan's eyes widen in disbelief. "We're more than that," he insists, his voice trembling with suppressed anger, "We are meant to be together! We were brought together by fate, don't you see it? I should've been the one set up to marry you, not my brother! I love you."

You shake your head slowly knowingly. "No..." you murmur, "You love coveting what was your brother's: his house, his company, love and attention from your parents. And you used me as a pawn. I don't ever want to see your face ever again."

Seungkwan's patience snaps. "Why are you behaving like this? We are-"

"Alright, Richie Rich," one of the officers interrupts, his voice gruff and impatient, "Time to go." They tighten their grip on Seungkwan and begin to lead him away. His protests fade into the distance as the officers escort him down the hallway, A wave of relief washes over you as Seungkwan's voice disappears. Finally to yourselves with nothing to interrupt you. You turn to Jihoon, your face breaking into a radiant smile as you throw yourself into his arms ."I missed you.”

His breath hitches in his throat, and your confession burns his skin as his arms tighten around you. "Now, I'll never give you the opportunity to feel that way again." 

There amidst the flashing lights blaring from nearby windows and adrenaline finally dying down, you shamelessly melt into each others’ touch, comforted knowing there’s no one that can’t take this away from either of you.

It isn’t long after you’re relinquished from your suspect status, and you hear about the aftermath of the case. Seungkwan’s parents, devastated by the monster they raised and remorseful for the late Hyunkwan, refuse to pay his bail. The weight of their son's crimes presses heavily upon them, their hearts aching for the son they lost and the one they failed. However, despite the turmoil the brothers have caused, you hold no animosity towards the Boos. They had been caught in the web of their youngest son's dark, twisted deceit. With a heavy heart, you choose to leave them be, allowing the couple in misery to retreat from the wreckage of their lives without further retribution.

And the Boos’ continued cooperation derived from the guilt and gratitude, along with their descending reputation, your parents no longer find it necessary to push you into another marriage. You sense a lingering bit of regret as they finally surrender your autonomy, unsure of whether it's because of the horrifying situation they've forced you into or their unwillingness to let you go. You don't dwell on it and instead revel in your time well spent with Jihoon, using every given opportunity to make up for lost time.

Your relationship reaches new heights as he moves in with you. Leaving behind the dark vibes of your previous lodging, the new place feels quaint and cozy in comparison. It’s as grand as anything your parents would have provided, and that’s perfect for you. You envision yourself building a family here, reminiscing in the new memories you make over a warm meal or under the warm glow of the television—just as you dreamt it would be with him. Everything falls right into place. Days are shorter, nights are longer, and every second of it feels as if you've fallen for him all over again. You couldn't ask for anything more. Your heart feels so full.

However, there is one last thing you need to do to truly feel at peace. Something you know will gnaw at you if you delay it any further.

“Hello, Seungkwan.”

You speak sternly into the metal receiver attached to the wall beside you, connecting you with a beloved former relative. Your deposition translates well over the call, but Seungkwan still looks at you with a sense of yearning, visibly battling the betrayal that stands in the way of the joy of your visit.

Seungkwan smiles grimly. "My love, you look well. How disappointing."

Lacking sympathy, you retort with a roll of your eyes and a wry smirk. “I just wanted to bid you a final farewell in jail. Someone has to, not like your parents will.”

His forced smile wavers, the corner of his lips twitching involuntarily with suppressed anger, and any semblance of warmth portrayed by a congenial smile. "How incredibly thoughtful of you," he says through gritted teeth.

"Generous of me, isn't it?" You reply with mock sweetness, your taunting not lost on you. "Well, I've done what I set out to do. I'll take my leave now. Brother."

"Hey!" Seungkwan's voice explodes in the tense silence, his composure shattered. His eyes blaze with indignation. "You think you can waltz in here like it's the zoo? I'm not an animal exhibit."

"Could've fooled me, considering you couldn't control your bloodlust like a filthy animal."

His face contorts with rage, gripping the phone in a vice, and he speaks over you harshly. "You're not innocent in all this, sweetheart. Your boy toy will realize that soon enough."

You scoff, your confidence unwavering. "He won't, because you're the one behind bars. You're the murderer."

His laughter is hollow, mirthless. "Don't play with me. You wanted him gone just as much as I did. You even conspired with me, even if it was in jest... You and I both know it."

You firmly cup your hand over the receiving end of the phone, responding to his threats sharply, with no room to argue. "But he never will." You cross your arms with a defiant tilt to your chin, chuckling disparagingly at his loose temperament. You find it easy to add fuel to the fire. "Orange always was your color."

Desperation seeps into Seungkwan's voice, a plea replacing the earlier malice. "You can't do this to me—"

"Good bye, Kwan. Enjoy your life sentence."

With those words, you cut off communication, slamming the metal phone receiver against its cradle, letting it echo in the small, sterile room as you turn to leave. Seungkwan's enraged screams follow you, muffled by the thick glass and quickly silenced by the guards escorting him away.

Now, there’s your peace.

[wqnwoos]

You were once deeply and irrevocably in love with Kwon Soonyoung, and it’s incredibly hard to avoid that fact when he works literally two offices down from you. It’s even harder to avoid when you’re stuck in a broken elevator with him for hours, and he seems determined to dissect everything that went wrong three years ago.

⇢ pairing: kwon soonyoung x f!reader

⇢ genre: angst, fluff, exes!au, lawyer!au

⇢ wc: 5.6k

⇢ warnings: minor alcohol consumption, lots of flashbacks

⇢ a/n: early happy new year!! this is my gift to u all <3 thank u to @haologram for hosting this collab and for just being alive. and thank you SOO much to ally @lovetaroandtaemin and em @gyuswhore for beta'ing i appreciate u both endlessly 💗

as part of the don’t hate, litigate! collab hosted by the wonderful @haologram

SOMETIMES IT TRULY feels like God, or the stars in your skies, or whatever the hell is controlling your fate down on this measly earth, hates you.

Sometimes it truly feels like this indefinite being is determined to deal you the worst set of cards, and this – this trumps all. Being stuck in an elevator with your ex-boyfriend sounds like the beginning of a shitty romcom, except it’s not. It’s your life, and it’s been your life for the past eight minutes, since the metal box you stepped in ground to a creaky, noisy halt halfway between the sixth and seventh floor. 

And it takes eight minutes before Soonyoung sighs resignedly. “Are you just going to ignore me forever?” 

Forever, you think, is your least favourite word. There were a lot of things you thought you’d have forever, and one of them is standing right next to you.

You swallow thickly. Your reply comes measured and clipped. “For as long as possible.”

When he speaks next, you can hear the attempt at a forced smile in his tone. “Well, you kinda just failed.”

You stay silent. If anyone had told you five years ago that Kwon Soonyoung would be begging to talk to you and you’d be ignoring him, you would have called them crazy; and yet, here you are. Ignoring him like your sanity depends on it, because actually, it does. So for the past eight minutes – nine now, but who’s counting? – you’ve barely spoken a word. You’re both stuck; the recovery team can’t make it for two hours at least; and God hates you, basically.

Soonyoung’s trying to make the most of it, and you’re not letting him.

He says your name, ever so softly. “Really, though. How – how have you been?”

It’s weird, going from years of no contact to working together. It’s been a year since Soonyoung joined your company, but it hasn’t become any easier. Not when he’s such an open book, so fucking easy for you to read. Every time you cross paths, he gets this look in his eyes – sad puppy, you’ve nicknamed it. Now is no different.

“I’ve been okay,” you say finally, stiltedly. You’ve never been able to resist that face, and you’re pretty sure he knows it too. “What about you?”

The silence is painful, but the way he says fine stings a little bit more. You know when he’s lying, and he never used to do that to you.

“So…” He shifts his weight awkwardly, huffing out an uncomfortable laugh as he gazes intently at his shoes. “This is weird, right?”

You match him with an equally uncomfortable smile. “The weirdest.”

“Our longest conversation after forever,” he says. “But I wasn’t expecting it to go like this.”

You cock your head to the side, fixing him with a questioning gaze. All hopes of ignoring him are sailing out the hypothetical window. “How were you expecting it to go?”

Soonyoung looks up at you with one of those embarrassed, endearing smiles. “Better.”

There’s a pregnant pause, and then – “You know, Jeonghan calls you the one that got away.” 

He’s always had a habit of dropping things like that on you; things that leave you a little winded.

“That makes it sound like I escaped,” you say, with an ease you don’t feel.

Clearly, Soonyoung doesn’t feel it either — he exhales heavily. “Maybe you did. Escape, I mean.”

You snap your head towards him, eyes almost owlish in your surprise; “You’re not serious.” When he doesn’t say anything, you continue haphazardly, “Soonyoung, that’s not — there wasn’t anything to escape from.” 

Your ex-boyfriend looks miserable. Avoids eye contact, staring fixedly at his shoes with a dejected expression he can’t properly disguise; even throughout the three years of your relationship, you rarely saw him like this. He looks…

Heartbroken, your mind suggests.

“I’m serious,” you insist again, pushing the thought out of your mind. “You weren’t a bad boyfriend, Soonyoung.”

He snorts then. “Okay, we both know that isn’t true.”

“It is!” 

“If we had, like, a counter of who fucked up however many times, I would leave you in the dust.”

You don’t know how to tell him this might even be half of it. This weird pedestal he puts you on – it’s not even guilt-tripping. You’ve seen that, but never from him; Soonyoung just truly, sincerely feels bad. Whenever you look back on your relationship, which is more often than you’d care to admit, it’s plain as day. He truly, sincerely feels that he has never deserved you. Like you’re something out of this world, out of his world. 

“Wow.” Soonyoung huffs out the one word, and it’s half a laugh, half admiration. “You are so out of my league.”

“Stop,” you whine, pushing his shoulder lightly. “Don’t say stupid things like that.”

“Well, not everyone gets to date the prettiest girl in law school,” he retorts quickly, lifting his brows. “Not sure why I of all people get to, but thank you.”

“Stop it,” you repeat, rolling your eyes and fixing the tie he’s wearing. “You’re gorgeous and you know it. You should know it, at least.”

“Not just that!” he protests quickly. “I just mean… you’re so smart. And good. And kind, and funny, and — ”

“Ah, yes! Of course, Kwon Soonyoung, known famously for being mean and horrible and extremely unfunny,” you say sarcastically, before tugging his tie and pressing a quick kiss to his lips. “I choose my league, and you’re the only one in it.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” he murmurs, slightly breathless.

“Oh, shut up and kiss me.”

There were a lot of things that went wrong with you and Soonyoung. You’d started off wonderful: both of you bright, flaming, drawn to each other like magnets. You managed the stresses of law school, graduated together, and lined up jobs – jobs that were miles and miles from each other.`

There were lots of things that went wrong with you and Soonyoung, but if you had to pick one, it would be long distance.

“When did we stop trying?”

The question makes you snort. “What, you want a date and a time?”

Soonyoung smiles ruefully, but there’s nothing happy about it. It’s more of a painful grimace. That’s always been the way with you both: you deflect, he feels. He doesn’t hide the way you do, not from anyone. And for a few years, he was the only one who you didn’t hide from. 

Maybe that’s what has you opening your mouth again. “I could probably give you one. A date, I mean.”

Soonyoung hugs his knees to his chest, eyes searching your face. You can read him so well it physically makes you ache. The hint of uncertainty in his eyes, the twitching of his fingers – he’s nervous. He’s torn between wanting to know what you have to say and the strong sneaking premonition that it might hurt. “Go on,” he says finally, just as you knew he would. 

Honestly, you don’t have an exact date. Things fell apart slowly, and then all at once. A toppling tower – leaning, leaning, leaning, until it crashed. 

“There were probably a few things,” you say, softly. “My birthday, for a start.”

He winces reflexively. “That…” he begins, and then breathes out, shutting his eyes. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to make up for that.”

“I mean, in the end, it wasn’t that big of a deal.” You’re not sure why you’re trying to reassure him, even if it's true. You forgave him almost immediately.

“Shit.” 

Soonyoung’s first eloquent word when he walks into the apartment only means you become sure of what you already suspected. He takes in the half-eaten cake on the table, candles blown out and tossed to the side, the scraps of wrapping paper littering the floor, the cards; you take in his face. And you know, as quick and as simple as that – he forgot. 

Some small part of you had been holding a sneaking hope that maybe this was just an elaborate attempt at a surprise. You’d told him once, months and months ago, that you didn’t think ignoring people on their birthday to surprise them later was a very nice thing to do. But you’d rather he forgot that than your entire birthday.

His eyes meet yours, both of you frozen to your places. Him at the doorway, you at the table. The distance between you isn’t more than a few metres, but suddenly it feels like an engulfing abyss. Still, even from the other side, you can feel the guilt pouring out of him. 

“Shit,” he says again, before rushing his words out. “Shit, baby, I’m so sorry.”

You haven’t cried all day. You haven’t let yourself, but this has your eyes brimming over before you can control it.

“I’m going to bed,” you say finally, hugging yourself tightly, making yourself smaller. The apartment is warm, but you suddenly feel freezing. And despite your best efforts, there’s a waver in your voice, verging on a crack. “I’m tired.” 

You glance over the remains of your birthday party, one that you plastered a fake, painful smile on the whole way through, and then you turn to leave. 

“Baby, wait,” he implores quickly, and takes a step towards you — you mirror it immediately with a step back, and it makes him pause, his expression falling even further. “Baby.”

“You’re not allowed to call me that.” Your voice is obviously shaking now. “Not today. Maybe — maybe tomorrow.”

Maybe tomorrow you’ll be able to hear his excuses, his promises, but today, you’re allowed to be upset. You’ll let yourself have today, at the very least.

He’d driven hours to see you that day, but he’d still forgotten why he was there. You hadn’t really celebrated your birthday before you met him. Soonyoung was the one who made it a big deal, back when you first started dating, and even now, there’s a sharp pang in your chest when you remember how hurt you were that day.

“You made up for it tenfold,” you remind him now, because it’s true. He made the rest of the week practically a utopia, once you banned him from apologising. And he’d been so busy at work, so incredibly tired the whole month before, and you could understand. Both that he upset you, and that it was an innocent mistake. And you’ve never seen more sincere apologies than those that came from Soonyoung.

He looks grim, shakes his head, but doesn’t say any more. Probably because you’ve had this conversation a few times already, both of you too stubborn to give in. 

“Keep going,” he says, then, looking at you head on. “What else?”

All of a sudden, you don’t want to talk about what else. All of a sudden, you’re annoyed with him, his stupid face, this stupid elevator. “Do we have to do this?” Your voice has switched from somewhat reassuring to harsh – for want of a better word, angry. It makes his brown eyes a little round with surprise, his mouth parting a little.

“What?”

“What else and what if have been on my mind for three years, Soonyoung,” you say acidly. “Forgive me if I don’t really want to talk about it to your face.”

Again, his mouth opens a little bit, stays open as he tries to form words. Until he gives up, seals his lips and nods. “Alright. Okay. That’s fine.”

“I know it’s fine!” you cry out, only more angry that he won’t argue back. You’re lawyers, it’s what you do. And just to be petty, you add — “Besides, I bet your girlfriend wouldn’t be happy about this anyway.”

Finally, his passive poker face drops, and he looks a little confused. “My what?”

Immediately, you regret opening your mouth, but it’s too late to back down. “Your girlfriend. You know, that girl from accounting.”

“The girl fr— You mean Rachel?” Soonyoung gapes at you, and something in you bridles, until he continues. “Mrs Choi, who's married to her wife and adopting a kid next year?”

Well, now you feel stupid as fuck.

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” he continues, and if you weren’t afraid to look at him right now, you’d swear he was hiding a smirk.

“Whatever. I don’t care. Why are we even talking about this?” you snap, irritated and embarrassed.

He still sounds smug. “You brought it up.”

“You sit with her every lunch hour,” you mutter, heat creeping up your neck. “I just assumed.”

“Well, there’s nothing there. So don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried! I don’t care who you date, Soonyoung!”

He looks a little taken aback, blinking once or twice, cockiness gone without a trace. “Wow,” he says, finally. If you didn’t know him as well as you did, you wouldn’t notice the slight tremble in his voice. “That’s the first time you’ve said my name since — ”

He cuts himself off, but you complete the sentence in your head — three years ago. Three years since you packed up and walked out of his life. It feels like a decade ago; it feels like last week. You’d been so sure that you wouldn’t see his face again after that, that it was a decided end of a full four years of your life. Until last year, when he’d waltzed straight back into your life, this time at your workplace.

“This is the new hire.” Your boss is speaking, but you’re still finishing up the last sentence on the document you’re working on, and you listen absently as he fires a couple instructions — “Jeon, you’ll show him around. Filing system, get him logged on, the works.”

You look up then, to cast Wonwoo a knowing smile, because he always gets lumped with showing around the newbies, but halfway to making eye contact with your friend, you catch the familiar tilt of a jaw, the soft lines of a nose you know so well.

You’ve seen Soonyoung in a hundred people since you left him. You’re always looking over your shoulder at the bus stop, at the grocery store, at the library, finding a tiny piece of him in everyone and everything, a tiny piece that lodges itself tight and sharp into your throat until you take a second look, until you see unfamiliar eyes or too dark hair or shorter legs. Until you find something to make you swallow, exhale, and keep walking.

Now, your second look doesn’t yield anything unfamiliar. Except maybe his hair, gone from blonde to black, but everything else — everything else. It’s him, and he looks just as shocked to see you as you are to see him. There’s a heavy moment that seems only heavy to the two of you, everyone else still talking, the boss still giving instructions, but you and Soonyoung are looking at each other, dumbfounded, and all you can think about is the distinct taste of bile in your throat and the tie he’s wearing is the one you got him for his birthday.

Your initial plan is to avoid him. He foils that plan within two hours, cornering you in the break room, whispering urgently, “I had no idea you worked here, I swear I’m not, like, following you or – ”

The thought hadn’t even crossed your mind, and you just pin him with a blank stare. 

“I could quit.”

You’re shaking your head before he can even finish the sentence. “I’m not so butthurt that I can’t be a professional.”

“Right,” Soonyoung nods, breathing out a little. His lips are chapped. He never used to wear lip balm, just used to borrow yours. You hate yourself a little for remembering that.

The memory almost makes your lips twist with an sardonic smile. “I was so pissed when you showed up here.”

You can see his half smile, rueful and charming, through your peripheral vision. “I felt so bad about it, you know. But you just seemed annoyed when I saw you in the break room, so I figured you weren’t… mad or upset or anything.”

“I went straight from the break room to cry in the bathroom for fifteen minutes,” you admit truthfully. “I had to tell Wonwoo I had curry for breakfast.”

“You cried?”

You scowl. “I’m not saying it to be pitied, Soonyoung. I’m just saying, I’m not, like, some heartless jerk with no feelings. Of course I was upset.”

“I know that,” he says quickly, vehemently. “Of course I know that.” He hesitates, and then continues, words practically inching out of him. “It’s not really my place to ask, but… you and Wonwoo… are you guys…?”

“You’re right,” you say, and press your cheek onto your knees to fix him with your eyes. “It’s not your business. But that’d be hypocritical of me, so… no. No, we’re just friends. I’m friends with his girlfriend too, Cam, she works at the plant shop down the road.”

Soonyoung tilts his head back, lets out one of those breathy laughs that aren’t really laughs. “It’s so weird that you have new friends now.”

“Thanks,” you say, dripping with sarcasm.

“Not like that! I just mean I’m so used to – like, it used to be our friends, you know what I mean?”

“Not since three years ago,” you say with false lightness, because when you lost Soonyoung, you lost the friends he brought you too. You catch the glint of pity in his eyes again, and scoff. “It’s not a big deal. They were your friends first.”

Frowning, he speaks again. “First doesn’t matter. It didn’t matter to them either. Seungkwan said you were the one who stopped answering their calls.”

It’s true, and the feeling still burns a little, because Seungkwan and Jeonghan had called so many times. Even Vernon called a couple times, and you weren’t even that close to him, but Soonyoung has always attracted good people. Like calls to like. Maybe that’s why you ended up leaving.

“I was trying to make it easier,” you say bluntly., “for them to choose you.”

Your ex-boyfriend clicks his tongue, rakes a hand through his dark hair. “It’s not about sides, ___, for fuck’s sake.”

“Well, it felt like it at the time, alright?” Your words come out louder than you mean them to, and you pause, trying to quell your defensiveness. 

Soonyoung raises his hands in half-hearted surrender. “Alright. Alright.”

Something in your stomach feels acidic. Leaning your head back against the cool wall of the elevator, you manage to meet his eyes apologetically. “How – how are they, though? Seungkwan and everyone?”

Graciously, he ignores your quick show of temper. “They’re good. Seungkwan’s working freelance photography now. Jeonghan still hates his job, but keeps getting promoted anyway.”

Jeonghan. You told him you thought you were going to break up before you even told Soonyoung. You wonder if he remembers it, because that night is seared into your memory – New Year’s Eve, three years ago.

You’re much drunker than you ever intended to be when you finally find a place to sit in the cramped apartment, waved over by a sympathetic looking Jeonghan. He pats your head affectionately as you groan. 

“Feeling alright?”

“No,” you say elaborately.

Jeonghan never pries, which is probably what makes people tell him everything. He only raises his eyebrows at you, a hint of scepticism toying with his smile.

You look away, eyes drawn immediately to your boyfriend, laughing in the middle of the kitchen. Throwing his head back, squeezing his eyes shut, looking so fucking happy; when you see him like this, your heart always feels so incredibly warm and so incredibly full. 

Except today, there’s something else intertwining it, something similar to dread, and it causes the faint smile on your face to fade a little.

Jeonghan sees it, of course, and when you look back at him, his eyebrows only raise higher. 

You sink further into that horrible, looming feeling. “Jeonghan.”

“___.”

“I think I’m going to break up with him this year.”

If you didn’t know Jeonghan as well as you do, you’d think the information hadn’t affected him at all; his features remain completely impassive, but you catch the flash of surprise in his eyes. He stays quiet for a long time, the silence between you filled with thumping bass and indistinct conversation, until finally, he asks the only question there is to ask. “Why?”

It’s ridiculous, how one word can bring you to the verge of tears. But that one word holds so much weight – why would you break up with him? Why would you, when you’ve pictured a future with him a thousand times over? 

Why would you leave the best thing that ever happened to you?

You blink back the tears, and Jeonghan waits.

His voice is soft, but you still hear him under the din of the party. “Is this about your birthday?”

You shake your head quickly. “No.” You stop. “Maybe. It’s – there’s just – little stupid things.”

“Little things add up,” Jeonghan says gently. You hate how he’s already understanding.

“Sometimes – ” You swallow thickly. “Sometimes I just feel so far away from him.”

You don’t have to explain that you don’t mean physically. Because that’s part of it, but it’s not all of it, but without you saying that, Jeonghan knows. You barely notice when he takes your plastic red cup from your hands, setting it on the table next to him. “And I know he loves me, and he’d never hurt me on purpose, and – he’s been so good to me, Jeonghan.”

Jeonghan only hums, waits for you to continue. And you do, the alcohol only pushing more words out of your mouth. “The distance,” you say, “is killing us.” You rub furiously at your eyes. “No matter how hard we try, Jeonghan, it’s not working, and I feel like – I’m the only one who can see that. He’s ignoring it, but we can’t keep going like this.”

Jeonghan hesitates for a second, looking torn, more torn than you’ve ever seen him look. “Do you still love him?”

Tears blur your vision again, but don’t quite escape this time. “I don’t know how to stop.”

When you kiss Soonyoung after the countdown, your cheeks are wet.

“Long distance.”

“What?”

“You asked what else,” you say, picking at your nails. “I think it was the distance. I think that’s what – you know. Broke us up.”

Soonyoung has that look in his eyes, the one where he wants to argue but knows he’s going to lose, knows that you’re right. He breathes out, licks his lips and tries to speak. “We tried so hard.”

It’s not even a counter-argument. You agree with him, even. The two of you were brilliant at long distance, until you weren’t. Hours-long video calls, surprise weekend visits, staying over for the holidays, until it all started collapsing. Weekly movie nights kept getting postponed. Visits had to decrease in number. You were missing each other’s calls – if one of you wasn’t working late, the other always was. It was like the entire universe was working against you both, and suddenly, you felt like a burden rather than a lover, and Soonyoung would probably say the same. It’s hard not to feel that way, when you’re celebrating your anniversary over FaceTime and both of you keep dozing off while the other talks.

In a way, Soonyoung is right: you both tried so hard. In a way, he’s so wrong: neither of you tried hard enough.

Towards the end of it all, you were too tired to fight. Both of you were. The breakup was a quiet affair, mostly. You brought it up first, standing in the kitchen of Soonyoung’s apartment after realising you had no idea where he kept his cereal bowls.

“Soonyoung?”

“Babe, I told you, it’s the third cupboard from the left,” he calls, but he’s rounding the corner to his kitchen anyway. He stops in his tracks when he sees your face, smile fading, and for a second, time freezes.

“Soonyoung,” you say again, quieter.

And he knows. “Don’t,” he says, faintly, but there’s no weight behind it, because he knows.

Tears are already brimming your eyes, and you’re wrapping your arms around yourself, shaking your head. “I can’t,” you say, and you’re not sure what you mean. I can’t end it. I can’t keep going.

The picture before him is enough for Soonyoung, and any defence, any fight he still had in him (because he’s always been the more tenacious) drains. He gives in, same as you. 

“Okay,” he says, in a voice that’ll haunt you for years to come, a clashing harmony of gentle and damning. “Okay.”

You try to formulate words. You fail. All that you can say is “Soonyoung.” before you trail off. 

You don’t finish. He gives you a tired, forced smile, says something about, “We had a good run, didn’t we?”, but you’re too busy trying to wrench the tears back into your eyes to focus properly. Your efforts are in vain, of course, tears slipping down your cheeks hot and heavy, no matter how much you try to stop.

“I’m sorry,” you say tearfully, but he shakes his head.

“Don’t be sorry.”

After that, he only helps you load your bags into your car and says thank you when you give him the house keys. He does everything so quietly, so methodically, so defeatedly. It’s like he’s just lost a war he’s been fighting for far too long.

It turns out that in the end, four years can be reduced down to this: two cardboard boxes, three bin bags, and two broken hearts.

It’s your fault, in technical terms. You finished this. You’re the one who said the words, or almost said them, the one who spelled out what was so obviously ignored. More than once, because you’d tried this before, six months ago. Soonyoung was the one who fought back. He’d said no, of course, that first time. He’d said no with tears in his eyes, like it was a surprise to him, like he couldn’t see it the way you saw it — that you were on two very different paths. 

Soonyoung didn’t believe in following diverging paths, he believed in forcing yourself straight ahead hand-in-hand, come hell or high water. He believed in it, until he didn’t, and then he let you go.

When it’s time for you to leave, he accepts the hug you can’t help but fling on him just before you step in the car. Both of your arms around each other, fitting into place like you have a hundred times before, but so much tighter and so much briefer this time. Soonyoung clings to you like he’s never going to see you again, because he isn’t. You cling to him like this is the last time you’ll ever hug him, because it is.

And then both of you are pulling away, laughing awkwardly at the wet patch you’ve left on his shirt, and then you’re getting in your car and he’s waving you off and it’s over, just like that.

“It’s kind of ironic, isn’t it?” There’s an acerbic quality to Soonyoung’s laugh as he continues. “We broke up because of distance, and here we fucking are.”

There’s a metre and a half between you two.

“Maybe it was a dumb reason,” you say. Voicing the thought that’s tormented you since the day you drove away. Because maybe it was stupid. Maybe it was a temporary rough patch, and if you’d stayed, if you’d fought a little more and a little longer, you’d still have Soonyoung.

But you didn’t, and you don’t.

There’s a heavy expression on Soonyoung’s face, a strange mix of anger and confusion and guilt. “Maybe,” he says, at last. There’s the vaguest trace of bitterness, the little tiny sting that reminds you again that you’re the one who called it quits. 

“It felt like the weight of the world at the time,” you say ashamedly, squeezing your eyes shut for a second.

Soonyoung takes the chance and scoots closer to you, sitting against the wall with you, shoulder-to-shoulder. (How easy it would be to just rest your head there, as you’ve done a thousand times before.) “It can’t have been easy,” he says, patting your hand with his own. Warm and familiar in its unfamiliarity, which is when you realise you’ve misread him, for once – he’s not bitter. He’s empathetic.

“It wasn’t stupid,” Soonyoung continues softly, rubbing his eyes, “but God, I wish you’d just talked to me. Actually — I wish we’d talked to each other.”

“Yes, well,” you say dryly, wondering if he’s going to catch your reference, “I’ve always had a problem with communication.”

He catches it; it makes him pause, lift up his head, give you a tiny smile.

It takes you a minute to register that the seat across from you has been occupied. When you do look up, you realise Soonyoung’s mouth has been moving since he sat down, and you haven’t heard a word of it. Also, somewhere between the class you guys shared two days ago and his presence in the library this morning, his hair’s gone from a discreet dark brown to a particularly indiscreet blond.

“I’m sorry,” you shake your head, taking out your earphones and setting down your pen. “What?”

“I said – do you have a problem with communication or something?” Despite the nature of his words, he’s practically beaming at you.

You blink at him, bewildered. “I mean… maybe? But — what?”

He holds up his phone. “Project,” he explains elaborately. “I’ve been texting, and I didn’t get a reply, and then I saw you over here, so I thought I’d ask.”

You frown, grabbing your phone. “I didn’t get any texts.”

Soonyoung mirrors your expression, tapping at his screen, and you’re struck by how much the blond suits him. As did the brown. As did the black he had a semester ago. Not that you’ve been keeping track, but it’s hard to not notice someone like Soonyoung. Even if the first time you talked to him was two days ago to organise the project you’ve been paired up for — you know him. Of him, at least.

He swivels his screen round to face you, showing you a contact with your name and what you quickly realise is almost your number. You smile a little awkwardly, tapping the last digit. “That’s meant to be a seven. You’ve got an eight.”

“Fuck,” he exhales, “that explains it. Who the hell have I been texting about litigation then?”

Something about his expression and his tone is so comical it makes you laugh, which surprises him a little – he glances up at you with a blatantly admiring smile, and he taps the edge of the desk. “Your eyes light up when you laugh, did you know?” And as quickly as he says it, he moves on, gesturing to your phone. “I’ll text you about the project, okay?”

He’s like a hurricane, and you’re trying your best to keep up. “Okay,” you agree confusedly, still hot-faced from the sudden compliment. “Yes. That’s — yes.”

As he gets up to leave again, he shoots you another one of those blinding, dazzling smiles, and sticks his hand out. “We’re friends now, right?”

His question sounds childishly sweet, and you can’t find it in yourself to do anything other than agree. 

Your one little reference sets you both off. You spend the next two hours talking and talking and talking, every other sentence beginning with “Remember when…”, as the two of you dredge up the long-buried memories of four long years spent together.

Soonyoung talks about the massive crush he had on you before you even got paired up for the project. You talk about how you never believed him, even when he did ask you out – it took three tries before you understood how serious he was. And then you remember the time Soonyoung sprinted from campus to his accommodation and back just to get you the calculator you forgot for your exam – and the time you both went to a frat party and ended up playing the most intense game of UNO in the bathroom with Vernon, which ended in a drunk Soonyoung trying to flush the cards down the toilet. 

He talks about the surprise party you threw for his birthday, and you talk about the time he tried to make you pancakes for National Girlfriend Day and failed horribly. You ate them anyway.

You don’t, however, talk about other things, even if you remember them. You remember Soonyoung kissing your forehead every morning he woke up next to you. You remember him buying your favourite flowers for your favourite vase every week. You remember coming home after a long day to food already delivered and paid for when he was working hours and hours away. You remember being so incredibly in love that it made you giddy and so in love it made you calm. And you don’t talk about it, just store it away somewhere as a reminder of what love is meant to feel like. If four years with Soonyoung brought you anything, it’s that: it taught you how to love and be loved.

When the recovery team finally arrives, you leave the elevator feeling like a new person. It doesn’t hurt when you look at Soonyoung anymore, there’s only a vague, warm fondness. And he can look you in the eye now, which he does. He smiles at you, sticks out his hand the same way he did all those years ago.

“We’re friends now, right?”

an / AHHH!!!!!! i know this fic is only like 5k but it took a lot out of me so i’d love to hear your thoughts. literally any thoughts. i wanted this fic to be longer but it happened this way and. what can i do. i may be the author but im NOT in control. it’s not a fic i’m 100% proud of but i think it’ll still hold a special place in my heart!!!! i love an angsty exes au.

anyway — this will be my last fic this year!!! see you all in 2025 and thank you so much for all the notes and all the reblogs and all the wonderful conversations this year i love you

perm taglist: @n4mj00nvq @eoieopda @som1ig @glowunderthemoon

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[100vern]

how to cancel your faustian bargain | wjh

FAUSTIAN BARGAIN 🔥 a pact whereby a person trades something of supreme moral or spiritual importance, such as personal values or the soul, for some worldly or material benefit, such as knowledge, power, or riches. faustian bargains are by their nature tragic or self-defeating for the person who makes them, because what is surrendered is ultimately far more valuable than what is obtained.

pairing: attorney!junhui x devil!reader genre: (very lite) enemies to lovers, lawyer au; crack, fluff, smut summary: as the devil, you’re more than happy to grant favors in exchange for someone’s soul, and you’re known for having the most iron-clad contracts around. which is why wen junhui—the scene’s newest contract attorney hell-bent on returning all those souls you’ve acquired—is really starting to piss you off. rating: explicit. minors do not interact with this or any of my work. warnings: member pov, reader is thee devil so needless to say there is a bunch of religious themes and topics here (as a person whose roman-catholic grandfather temporarily disowned her for stopping ccd classes i am qualified to write this dw), jihan as literal devil's advocates, hoshi as a shit-stirring angel who wears questionable shirts, i am the opposite of jovan and do not know the law (especially hell law), i also blocked out most catholicism so don't take any of this for canon, god is genderless and the devil is a sympathetic character sue me, alcohol use, low self-esteem/self-doubt, open but optimistic ending. smut warnings: kissing, mentions of a handjob (actually a major plot point), an actual handjob, oral sex (both receiving), some scratching/marking and biting, jun kinda likes/yearns for pain but it's not a whole thing, light nipple play, fingering, unprotected penetrative sex, everyone orgasms, jun is down bad. in general it's probably much softer than sex with the devil would usually be? wordcount: 22k credits: jess (@starlightkyeom) and bee (@imnotshua) for reading this along the way, beta'ing, and suggesting stupid hoshi shirts. mj (@kkaetnipjeon) and jade (@eoieopda) for helping me with law stuff. everyone in the c&e server who helped me along the way — i yapped so much about this fic that i cannot remember everyone. i am sorry but i love you. note: this somehow wound up being my longest oneshot to date. i don't know how and i still feel like there are parts not fleshed out enough, but big shoutout to my adderall for getting us here. wen junhui, you are a strange little man; i had a blast writing you. this was written for the don't hate, litigate! collab, hosted by @haologram. thank you so much for letting me participate!

The thing is, Wen Junhui is not really supposed to be here.

Not, like, literally here—sitting across from you, the literal devil, at your desk, ass burning a little because it’s really hot here and he is, admittedly, not used to the heat—but metaphorically. Big picture-ly. This is not how I envisioned my life turning out…ly.

The thing is, Wen Junhui barely made it through law school. Barely passed his licensing exam. Watched his classmates score prestigious internships and receive exclusive offers and network and schmooze and, he thought at the time, all but sell their soul to graduate with jaw-dropping salaries awaiting them and no debt.

And it fucking sucked watching that, because he was about to become a lawyer, sure, but he’d gotten scarlet fever as a kid, swore he was going to die, swore he saw not only the light but Jesus himself (his mother called this a delusion, still insists to this day the prodigal son did not travel all the way to Shenzhen to visit him), and decided if he survived he was going to dedicate his life to the church and become a priest.

(He only decided on law school after he got a little carried away with his high school girlfriend, received an honestly mid handjob that had him crying for three straight days and contemplating confession before he decided to take it to his grave, and he’d announced the next night at dinner, weighed down by an impressive amount of guilt and religious trauma, that he was just going to go to university and major in business or finance instead.)

Anyway. Turns out that whole selling their soul thing wasn’t a joke, and where others would’ve seen a loophole, Wen Junhui had seen an opportunity.

Because he didn’t have the grades. Didn’t have the family name or even the drive, because in another life he’s at least a deacon, so he had to do something. Had to think outside the box, get a little creative, carve out a niche for himself that none of his classmates would also be trying to occupy because he had student loans.

“How did you even get in here?” you ask, doing one of those really cool pen flips Jun has never figured out how to do. “A human hasn’t just strolled into my office in at least a millennia.”

Jun swallows, tries not to let show how nervous he is. “I, uh—I’m not sure? I sort of just… walked in, I guess.”

You blink. Study him for a while, eyes narrowed, before you make a small ah! sound and snap your fingers. What the heck? Jun can’t do that, either. “I know who you are now.”

“You do?”

“Mmhm, sure do. You were pretty famous around here for about thirteen seconds when you got that handjob and changed the trajectory of your own life forever. Some of the lower demons had bet money on you eventually becoming the Pope, so you can imagine their heartbreak… and the amount of coin they lost.” You click your tongue, return your attention to the scroll in front of you. “I kept telling them not to bet on that kind of stuff. Teenagers are wildly unpredictable, especially hormonal teenage boys. One of my finest creations, if I do say so myself.”

Not that he had any expectation of privacy here, but to say he’s mortified would be an understatement.

“Oh. That’s… really embarrassing.”

You nod, distracted as you press a large red button on your desk. “Yeah, I imagine for you it would be.”

Two men immediately materialize on each side of you. One is all cheekbones and sharp, calculating edges. Looks like the personification of mischief or perhaps temptation. After that handjob and the subsequent mourning period, Jun had come to really, really appreciate women, but he’s secure enough in his sexuality to acknowledge that the man in front of him—with his long, dark hair and lithe figure; his nonchalant, blasé attitude—is very attractive.

And the other one is no slouch, either. Has what Jun presumes is meant to be a friendlier disposition, a foil of the other man, good-cop-bad-cop, and they must be quite successful, he figures. Can’t imagine a world in which there’s anything that’d be denied to either of them.

Still, they’re well-acquainted with you, because they barely blink as you say, “Please say hello to our intruder,” with a frightening amount of bite.

The dark-haired one offers up a sleazy grin as he leans back against the wall. “Hello, intruder. Do you have a name?”

It’s a predictable question, and yet Jun still startles. Goes slack-jawed as he fixes his posture, sits straighter in his seat. Has the first syllable of his name sitting on the tip of his tongue when the other man sighs and gestures for Jun to stay quiet. “Don’t tell him your name. Better yet, don’t tell him anything, just pretend he doesn’t exist.”

“That’s rich coming from a person who chose to call themselves Joshua.”

Joshua pouts. “I thought there was something to be said for the irony.” A snort tumbles out of him, and Jun realizes that he is not the foil of the other man: he is, in fact, just as impish and rogue. “God is deliverance.” The dark-haired one does not react. “Aw, c’mon, it’s funny!”

“If you have to convince someone it’s funny, it probably is not so.”

Joshua rolls his eyes. “Alright, Jeonghan. As if you didn’t do the same thing.”

“At least when I strive to be ironic, it actually is humorous—”

With an exasperated sigh, you return your attention to Jun, who has suddenly found a fascinating piece of lint on his trousers. Pointedly does not make eye contact with you, because you had been intimidating and hellacious on your own—and, he’s a little flustered to admit, very attractive—but he’s extremely out of his element sitting across from the literal devil and two demons.

“So, Wen Junhui,” you say, tossing a pair of reading glasses onto your desk, “why are you here?”

(“Wen Junhui?” Joshua whispers to Jeonghan. “As in the Wen Junhui that got the handjob?”

“How the fuck am I supposed to know?” Jeonghan whispers back.)

And now it all feels a bit silly, because Jun had walked straight into Hell thinking he’d be able to… what, exactly? Strike up a friendly conversation? Start making demands? Cut a deal that didn’t include handing over his mortal soul?

Maybe the whole becoming a priest thing hadn’t worked out but he’d still learned a thing or two, and he remembers all the words used to describe you, your original purpose. Meant to reflect God’s glory, anointed, given the highest seat at the table. They’d blamed your downfall on pride, on vanity and violence, and Wen Junhui from Shenzhen, China, who once had scarlet fever and got a bad handjob, was a fool to come here and think he could go toe-to-toe with you.

Overcome with nerves, all he can do is laugh as he toys with the hair at the nape of his neck. Considers saying something like you’re gonna think this is so silly before he decides against it. You’ve been accused of having a sense of humor, but Jun can’t imagine this harebrained scheme of his would make the cut.

Still—he wouldn’t be where he is if the bad ideas sitting on his shoulder had kept quiet, and they’re still whispering to him now, reminding him how he wound up here to begin with: less fortunate than his classmates, less connected, looked over for all those internships and opportunities because he wasn’t born with the proper credentials. Those god-forsaken student loans. Desperation forced him to do this, and it’d be a real shame if he got this far only to give up at the last second, wouldn’t it?

So, he does what he did best all those years of law school: he fakes it.

“Let’s say I’m interested in… a partnership, of sorts.”

Jeonghan and Joshua share a look.

“Ah,” you reply, hands folded in front of you. “And what kind of partnership would that be?”

Let no man (or demon) ever accuse Wen Junhui of doing things half-assed, because he’s doing a concerning amount of oversharing and trauma-dumping before he can talk himself out of it. Spills all the highs and lows of his twenty-odd years, including his infamous handjob, much to Joshua and Jeonghan’s delight. They listen with rapt attention, elbowing one another as they gleefully press him for more details, and to their credit they only interrupt him once with lewd gestures before they’re slapping at and falling over one another with laughter.

He gets to his time in law school. Talks about feeling lapped by his classmates and all the advantages they’d been given, the benefits that weren’t on offer for someone like him: the oldest son of a piano teacher and a seamstress. Someone who showed up to class with a worn leather bag (repaired weekly by his mother) and secondhand books yellowing at the edges. Someone who spent his Friday nights and weekends holed up in his dorm room, not invited to parties and mixers.

“I had to do my first internship in personal injury,” he says, arms gesticulating wildly. “No one wanted those internships, and do you know why?” He pauses for dramatic effect. Jeonghan mimics a sound that sounds like game show countdown music. “Those pictures were gross.”

“Tragic,” you deadpan.

“It was,” Jun insists. He’s starting to feel fidgety. Has no idea how his plight is being received. “It wasn’t paid, either, and I had to take out student loans.”

Joshua beams. “Her second best invention.”

“What?” Jeonghan retorts, brows pinching in the middle. “No way, second-best is definitely cocaine—”

From you comes an exaggerated, long-suffering sigh, and Jeonghan and Joshua immediately cease their bickering. You turn your attention to Jun, and if he’d been able to trick himself into thinking a glimmer of patience or good humor or—god forbid—genuine affection had been visible before, no such delusions are available now. Your face is stern, the pupils of your eyes reflecting flames behind him that don’t exist, and the corners of your mouth are tugged severely downward.

He swallows hard.

“Wen Junhui, get to the point. Your human skin is starting to stink up my office.”

Subtly, he tries to sneak a sniff of his armpit. It’s not mountain fresh, but he’s certainly smelled worse, and he thinks he deserves a little leeway as his body acclimates to such extreme temperatures. He then crosses one leg over the other, ankle on thigh, and leans forward on his elbows. Tries to project some—any—amount of authority and confidence as he says, “I need a niche. Something just for me; something none of my classmates are going after.”

“Because you’re unable to compete with them,” you tack on. Unnecessarily and rudely, in Jun’s opinion, but he nods anyway. Behind you, Jeonghan and Joshua are once again elbowing one another, giddy at Jun’s impending failure while desperately trying to keep their expressions neutral. “Let me guess: you want the same deal?” You begin rifling through a drawer in your desk. “I think I still have all those contracts around here somewhere, so I’m sure I can get you something similar, but if we’re being honest you’re worth a good bit more.”

Jun blinks. “I’m sorry?”

“What part are you having trouble with?” you ask, still sorting through files. Only the top of your head is visible over the ledge of your African blackwood desk.

No horns, Jun notes. He was so sure you were going to have horns.

“Er, both, to be honest. What do you mean I’m ‘worth more’?”

Jeonghan rolls his eyes before slamming his palms onto your desk, causing Jun to startle. Just for fun. “Hey, moron, were you not listening when she told you earlier that you were supposed to be the goddamn Pope?”

“You weren’t even here when she said that,” Jun mumbles, every bit the moron Jeonghan accused him of being, because it’s far easier than acknowledging… well, the entirety of that statement.

Does the Pope get a salary? If he does, surely it’s more than Jun’s making now—

“He doesn’t,” Joshua says. Then clarifies, “Get a salary. Just some coins. A woefully underpaid position, if you ask me, considering how many babies he has to kiss.” He shudders. “Disgusting! When you could just eat them instead!”

Aside from the whole eating babies thing, Jun can’t really disagree. Only a handful of coins for being in charge of all of Catholicism and having to know Latin? And having to live in Italy?

“Also,” Joshua continues, “it’s kind of our job to know everything that goes on down here, so we did, in fact, know she told you that you were supposed to be the Pope.”

Jeonghan rolls his eyes. “And yet he became a lawyer. Imagine if Fibonacci had done the same—the eighth circle would be so boring.”

“Boniface,” Jun corrects him, immediately shutting trap at the look the three of you send his way. “He’s really in the eighth circle? I thought Dante just said that because he was upset about the exile.”

Upset is underselling it, Joshua mumbles. Looks like he wants to say more but has enough sense not to. Beside him, Jeonghan is once again rolling his eyes, growing more perturbed and borderline-homicidal in Jun’s proximity by the second.

Does he really smell that bad? Should he wear cologne next time? Is there a particular note those in the Underworld find appealing? Because Jun doesn’t mind tracking it down. He’s here on your turf asking for a favor, after all, so it’d be basic manners to smell nice and not stink up the place.

He’s about to ask when a booming sound of acknowledgement comes from you. A sly grin sits lopsided on your face as you toss a manila folder onto your desk, so thick a yellowing rubber band struggles to fit around it once. “This is you, Wen Junhui,” you say, pushing it closer to Jun.

All he can do is stare. Feels like his heart is going to pound right out of his chest, and he can’t pinpoint why, doesn’t know what’s got him so uneasy. He doesn’t have to look at it to know his entire life is in that file—perhaps even the before and the after. All the possibilities, all the could-have-beens. The consequences of him going right at the fork in the road instead of taking the left. Endless, and he finally realizes the boulder sitting on his chest is dread: existential variety.

“It’s, uh.” He licks at his lips. “It’s really big,” he finally says, feeling stupid and embarrassed at the way his voice trembles.

“Aish, this fucking kid,” Jeonghan grouses at the same time Joshua snickers and wonders aloud, “Do you think that’s what that girl said when he got the handjob?”

You press the red button again and Jeonghan and Joshua disappear without a word.

“Even in the lowest pits of Hell you must still suffer the displeasure of men,” you say, as if you’re imparting ancient wisdom upon Jun. “I must admit I’ve grown quite familiar with your file.”

“Manila,” Jun replies, also as if he’s being extremely wise. “Didn’t expect to see that around here.”

“Yes, well, the cheap ones are great for papercuts.” You pause and your demeanor grows serious, belying the importance of what you’re about to say. “You’re one of a select few, Wen Junhui. Not many files that come across my desk are this size.”

Pride swells in his chest, booting that existential boulder to the curb. “Oh,” he says, trying desperately to tamper down his excitement. “Yay!”

He does a little wiggle. Mortifying.

“Something you said earlier stuck out to me—something about certain things not being on offer for someone like you.” Your eyes meet Jun’s, and it suddenly feels like he’s been catapulted off the edge of the world. “I don’t think you realize just how much is on offer for someone like you.”

Jun swallows hard. Tries to, anyway—finds that his mouth has gone bone dry. His limbs, too, refuse to work, feel both heavy and weightless, and he’s anxious again, hands and feet saturated with sweat, no wonder he smells, and he knows, he knows, he knows who and what you are, knows this is a trick. Knows he’s offered himself up on a silver platter.

Good god, he came here willingly. No wonder Jeonghan kept calling him names.

“So,” you begin, moving your glasses to the top of your head, “what is it you want? You’re in an elite tier; I could give you almost anything you ask for.”

“Um—”

“You mentioned loans; is it money you want? You’re not quite qualified for billionaire level yet, but I think you’d find both the terms and the offered amount to be quite… agreeable.”

Oh, you’re good. Just as he had with the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice, Jun always thought the story of Adam and Eve was simple: don’t do the thing you’re explicitly told not to do. But now, seated across from Temptation itself, he understands it’s not that simple, that those two never stood a chance. Because the longer he’s silent, the more relaxed he starts to feel. That headache he’s been fighting off for three days finally starts to recede. He feels confident and a bit euphoric, but he supposes everyone would feel that way if they were being offered any and everything they could ever want.

“Actually…”

Wen Junhui isn’t very religious anymore, but he used to be. Used to believe in all the teachings; used to sit at the piano in the living room and hum along as his father played processionals; used to beg his mother to read from the Studium Biblicum at bedtime so he could fall asleep and dream of utopia.

Wen Junhui isn’t religious anymore, but he remembers the basics.

Enough to steel his voice and say, “Actually, I didn’t come here to talk about money.”

Jun doesn’t know what time it is.

It’s late enough that the city has gone mostly quiet. The buses have stopped running, the elevator just outside his door hasn’t dinged in a while, and the light that’s refracted onto his bedroom ceiling is a familiar shade of blue-silver. Not long after two a.m. if he had to guess.

He doesn’t know how he got back to his apartment, either, which would’ve been the more pressing issue at any other time.

But he’s had a long day. Took a little trip to Hell, got laughed at, got offered a lot of money, and got laughed at again. Now he’s got the anxiety shakes. Keeps seeing figures in every shadow. Can’t sleep even though every part of his body is bogged down by exhaustion. All he can do is stare at the swirls in the ceiling plaster and be glad he doesn’t have to work for another two days.

At first, he thinks the knocking is on someone else’s door. Then, once it doesn’t cease, he chalks it up to hallucination. It’s only once it goes from hey, I’m here! to OPEN THE GODDAMN DOOR RIGHT GODDAMN NOW does he stumble out of bed and through the living room.

Through the peephole, all that stares back at him are the dingy fluorescent lights of the hallway.

“You know, judging by the outside, I thought this place was gonna be a real shithole, but it’s not that bad.” Jun shrieks, collapses to the floor with his hand clawing at his chest. “Oops, sorry, dude. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

There is a man in his apartment.

There is a man in his apartment. At two o’clock in the morning.

“Wh-who are you?” he stammers out, eyes squeezed shut as if it’ll protect him. “I do-don’t have any mo-money.”

The man scoffs. If Jun was looking, he assumes it was accompanied by an eye-roll. “Not to be rude, but I was able to ascertain that, yeah.”

Jun peeks one eye open. Before him stands a man of average height, looks to be early to mid 20s. He’s wearing gray sweatpants and a black hoodie that says FEMALE BODY INSPECTOR in large white lettering. His hat, which is so neon pink it seems to glow, simply says SWAG.

He opens his other eye and quirks an eyebrow. “Are you a demon?”

“Ew, no.”

“What are you, then?”

The man pouts. “You can’t tell by my extremely good looks and”—he pauses, clears his throat like he’s trying to remember something—“awesome sauce fashion?”

“I—no, sorry. Also, your what?”

“I’m an angel,” the angel says quickly before he starts digging through his pockets. “Do people not say awesome sauce anymore?” Jun shakes his head. The angel pulls a pen out of nowhere and strikes out something in a notebook. “What year is it?”

“Er, 2024. Almost 2025.”

“What year did people stop saying awesome sauce?”

“I don’t know,” Jun says. “Do you have a name?”

The angel sighs, the pen and notebook both blink out of existence. “Hoshi,” the angel replies. “It means star, which I am. By the way.”

“Okay. May I ask why you’re in my apartment?”

“You ask a lot of questions. You got anything to drink?”

“I don’t remember any angels named Hoshi in the Bible.”

“It’s my Earth name.” Hoshi flutters his eyelashes. “Suits me, right?”

Jun’s eyes narrow. “You also aren’t biblically-accurate.”

Hoshi scoffs, hands immediately finding the waistband of his sweatpants. “I am where it counts.” He starts to pull them down, much to Jun’s horror, and all he can think is, oh my god I’m about to see an angel’s penis, what’s the protocol for this, do I have to look at it, would it be rude not to, this is the weirdest day of my life, I must be in a medically-induced coma—

“I’m getting the impression you don’t really want to see my dick.”

Jun covers his eyes again. “I don’t!”

“Bummer. I’m gonna summon a Baja Blast, do you want one?”

“I—no, no thank you. I think I just—I really need to sleep? But I’m not tired? It’s been a long day and I’m still not one-hundred percent sure I’m not hallucinating all of this.”

Hoshi snaps his fingers and a garishly blue bottle of soda appears in his hand. He beams. “Trade offer: I help you sleep and you take me out for breakfast when you wake up. We have a lot to talk about.”

“You’re just gonna… hang out here? In my apartment?”

“Yes,” Hoshi confirms. “I’m going to look through all your stuff.”

Jun wants to say no. He should say no. Has half a mind to consider Hoshi is lying about being an angel and is instead another demon sent by you from Hell to keep tabs on him, but his aura is different—less… oppressive—so he gives in and nods.

He’s asleep within seconds.

It’s only a few hours later when he stirs awake. Sunlight streams in through the curtains, and the sounds of the city are drowned out by birdsong. Jun feels more rested and weightless than he has in years, and it allows him to wake slowly, recount the events of the past 24 hours and take stock of his body, how he’s feeling. Do some breathing exercises. Briefly contemplate if he has now twice altered the trajectory of his life for the worst.

“Get up!” someone yells from his living room. Right, the angel guy. “I want waffles and the diner stops serving breakfast in thirty minutes!”

Jun stares blankly at the ceiling. There’s no diner anywhere near him that serves American breakfast, but he assumes that isn’t going to stop Hoshi, who has no concept or time or space and no constraints on either.

Thirty minutes later, they’re sitting across from one another in a retro American-style diner.

“Where are we?” Jun asks, peering outside the large window to his right. All the cars are American makes; the walls look like they're made out of silver; all the signs are in English. He doesn’t have to ask why he can understand them. “Besides America. I’m gathering as much.”

Hoshi pours an entire sugar packet in his mouth and grins. “New Jersey. They have more diners than any other state in America, and some are even open 24 hours! It’s my favorite place on Earth.”

“Okay,” Jun acquiesces. What else is he going to do? He’s never been to America before, let alone New Jersey. “What do I order? I don’t know what any of this stuff is.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll order for you.”

Famous last words.

Whatever Hoshi had ordered for him has more sugar in one bite than Jun usually eats in an entire week, but it’s so good he can’t help himself. Half of his meal is devoured before they can get to the heart of the meeting even though Hoshi yaps the whole time—talks animatedly about things Jun doesn’t understand but thinks sound important, like his dog and his favorite music. Hoshi also talks about his love for dancing, and when Jun cocks his head to the side and asks, like Saint Vitus?, all he gets in return is a small smile.

“Okay,” Hoshi says, pushing his plate towards the middle of the table, “now that I’m ready to throw up, it’s time to talk business.” Jun swallows, no longer hungry. “I saw your entire pitch. It was embarrassing.”

Jun groans and face-plants onto the table. “Yeah.” Syrup sticks to his forehead.

“However, it was a convincing story. That’s why They sent me here.”

“They?”

Hoshi waves him off. “Whatever you know Them as: God, the Lord, The Big Boss. They also heard everything.”

Jun slowly picks his head up and studies the angel across from him. Hoshi is weird, no doubt about that, but he’s also endearingly earnest. “And They… what? Want to help me?”

“Precisely,” Hoshi confirms. “And before you ask why, I think that part is quite obvious, but it’s two-fold: yes, it’s partly out of spite, but also—some of those souls were supposed to be ours.”

Jun blinks. Feels like his brain is filled with primordial goo and is about to split at the seams. “Explain this to me like I’m an idiot.”

“That’s what I’m doing,” Hoshi replies, tone measured and slightly confused. “We’re all-knowing up there, as I’m sure you know. We know who’s meant to be ours at the moment of their birth and we keep an eye on them throughout their lives. We’re not allowed to intervene, though, which the Devil knows. Free will and all that.” Hoshi rolls his eyes. “With free will comes temptation, and temptation is a powerful thing. Most people are not immune to it, which is why They took notice of you.”

“Wasn’t I—”

“Supposed to be the Pope? Yeah. They weren’t, like, super thrilled about the outcome of that, but contrary to popular belief, it’s not against Their Word to get a handjob.”

“But I spilled seed.”

The look on Hoshi’s face almost looks like a grimace. “And you’ve spilled a lot more since then. Look, all I’m saying is if the worst thing you do in your life is have sex, you’re not disqualified. We look at the entire itemized receipt, not a single purchase, if you catch my drift.”

“Yeah,” Jun replies, a little dazed. He still could’ve been the Pope. “I became a lawyer for nothing?”

“Not nothing,” Hoshi insists, shaking his head. “You’ve actually put yourself in a very unique position, which is what I’m trying to get to. Some of those souls were meant to be ours, but they fell into temptation and made deals with those fuc—” He coughs. “Those… beings… down there.”

Hoshi reaches across the table and places a warm hand over Jun’s. “They want you to help return their souls to where they belong.”

“And how am I supposed to do that? You saw it: she laughed at me, not to mention she now knows what I’m up to. And how am I meant to advertise? If these souls are already in Hell, it’s not like I can put up a billboard!”

Hoshi’s eyes narrow. “She?” he asks. “That’s how the Devil appeared to you?”

“I—yeah. Is that not how she appears to everyone?”

“What did she look like?”

Jun trudges through the slime in his brain. Tries to remember anything besides—“Pretty,” he answers. “I don’t really—that’s all I can remember. I just remember she was really, really pretty.”

“Like the kind of woman you’d be attracted to on Earth, right?” Jun nods. “You need to be careful. She’ll appear to you again in similar forms, especially now that I’ve been here and told you Their intention.”

“So you’re telling me I have to be suspicious of any beautiful woman that finds me attractive?” Hoshi nods, soliciting a tortured groan from Jun. “This just keeps getting worse and worse.”

“You won’t be able to avoid her, nor are you expected to. It’s to your advantage she entertained you at all, and she certainly wasn’t lying when she said you are of a higher status to her and everyone in Hell. If we want you, it’s only natural they would as well.”

Jun mulls all of this over. Stares into his mostly-empty mug of coffee and tries to make sense of it. “I can’t even remember how I got there. I just had the idea, and then it was like I woke up in Hell. I didn’t mean to—what if I don’t even want to do this anymore? Can’t I just go back to my regular, boring life? This is—this is too much.”

“Unfortunately it’s too late for that. You have been chosen, Wen Junhui, and not just for this.”

Jun scoffs. “You’re making me sound like Harry Potter.”

“Thankfully that lady does not belong to us. Now, would you like to go back to your apartment before we get into specifics? It may take a while.”

“...Can we take another order of these things to go?”

Hoshi grins and flags down the waitress to order another massive stack of sugar-dusted waffles. “I think I’m going to enjoy my time on earth with you, Wen Junhui.”

The specifics are thus:

Hoshi is in charge of what earth-bound lawyers would call advertising. Jun isn’t privy to the specifics; he doesn’t know how Hoshi is even capable of it, if he’s just going to waltz into Hell and hand out business cards or what, but it’s more than he’s able to do so he doesn’t ask. (Well, that’s not entirely true. He did ask, and all Hoshi said in return was, “You know Metatron?” and left it at that.)

Hoshi is also in charge of The List: the souls Heaven wants freed from their contracts and returned upstairs. He allows Jun a brief glimpse of it, who is none too surprised to find a few law school colleagues but still overwhelmed at its length. It’s long—so long it had taken Hoshi quite some time to unfurl the scroll—and it isn’t static. Anyone destined for Heaven that makes a deal with the devil while Jun’s at work will simply be added to the bottom of the list. On and on it’ll go, ad nauseam, until Jun either dies or retires.

Which, speaking of retirement—

In a shocking turn of events, the job comes with benefits. Hoshi had been reluctant to call it a salary. For all intents and purposes Jun will be self-employed: he will be provided with a small office space in a nice area of downtown with no signage, although he’s also welcome to work remotely or wherever he feels most comfortable. Money will appear in his account, though he can opt for other forms of payment if he so wishes. (He’d been offered enough to live off of for a year for even accepting the job but chose to have his student loans paid off instead.)

They will keep him healthy. They will keep his sleep schedule regular and his refrigerator stocked with nutritious food. They will ensure people leave him alone and that no suspicions are cast upon him. They will ensure Jun has every tool at his disposal to be successful.

(It was a lot. Felt like making an inverse deal with the devil—he knew he was playing for the right side, but it was non-negotiable and non-refundable. Wen Junhui had been chosen, and in a moment of self-doubt and self-deprecation, he’d joked, “Can They make me smarter?”

Hoshi’s brows had furrowed. “The list of benefits makes no mention of increased intelligence.” Jun pouted; let out a whiny little oh. Hoshi grabbed another sheet of paper. “Your intelligence stats are nearly maxed, dude.”

“I barely passed law school!” he protested.

“I don’t know what to tell you. If we made you any smarter your brain would explode. Literally.”)

After that, there wasn’t much left to discuss. Hoshi had a lot of planning to do; needed to talk to someone in the marketing department but promised he’d be back as soon as possible. Left a tome in Jun’s possession and told him to study.

Theological Contract Law: A Very Comprehensive Introduction: Cases and Materials - 2326th Edition, it says, and Jun stares down at it full of foreboding. It’s bound in black leather, giltstamped in red. Nothing good comes bound in black leather with shiny red letters.

Still, he does what’s asked of him, lest his student loan pay-off gets reversed. He spends hours hunched over his small dining room table with a legal pad to his right, taking notes on any and everything that may prove important—what he can make sense of, at least, because it doesn’t resemble any legal or governmental structure he’s ever seen.

He groans. Tosses his pen onto the table and leans back in the stiff wooden chair, lets his head loll off the back as the wood digs into his neck. Says, “What the heck am I supposed to do with this?” to the empty space of his apartment, and before he’s even opened his eyes another book appears on the table.

Theological Law For Mortals: An Introduction (Sorry!!!! - Hoshi)

He swears.

The days bleed together. Hoshi pops in briefly to officially assign him his first case: one Kim Mingyu from Anyang-si, South Korea. Apparently sold his soul to be “tall and hot” and Heaven desperately needs him back. “This one’s important to the big boss,” Hoshi says, dropping off a stack of papers with a picture paperclipped to the front with the most attractive, symmetrical man Jun has ever seen. “He was meant to work in recruiting,” Hoshi explains.

Jun whistles low. “Understandable. Look at his face.”

“Exactly, so you get the need for a little urgency.” He tries to stamp it down, but Jun feels the panic start to rise. Has to dig his fingernails into the palm of his hand. “Hey, just do your best. Call me if you need anything.”

Hoshi turns to leave, ugly pair of brand new sneakers squeaking against the linoleum floor of the kitchen, but Jun’s able to stammer out, “What—what if I can’t do it?”

The angel turns, face marred by genuine confusion. “Why would you think you can’t?”

And then he’s gone.

Fueled by Hoshi’s unwavering—and frankly incomprehensible—confidence in him, Jun finds what he needs just after four o’clock Sunday morning. There, on page 4,837 of Theological Contract Law: A Very Comprehensive Introduction: Cases and Materials - 2326th Edition, in subsection 69 of section 567, it clearly states that souls handed over in exchange for vanity-related reasons must adhere to strict guidelines, limited to but not including:

General facial appearance

Eye and/or hair color

Penis, breast, and/or butt size

Height and/or weight

Others TBD

Pushed beyond the threshold of exhaustion, eyes going in and out of focus, he’s not sure the text following the sub-bullet point is real, but there it is: In regards to height, men must be made at least 6’2” or 188 centimeters for the contract to be considered legally binding.

“Hoshi!”

At once, the angel appears across from him. He’s decked out in another stupid t-shirt (Don’t Bully Me, I’ll Cum, this one says) and is drinking a 7-Eleven slushy through a bendy straw. His lips and tongue are stained blue when he smiles and asks, “Good news?”

Jun shakes his head. Tries to erase the scene in front of him. “Maybe,” he answers. “I need you to get an accurate height on Kim Mingyu. And I mean really accurate. Shave him bald if you have to.”

Hoshi’s smile fades as he grows serious. “You really think you’ve got something?”

“I think so.” Jun pushes the book across the table. “Take a look at that part I highlighted. I know his file says he’s 188 centimeters tall, but imagine if whoever measured him just rounded up? If he’s even a millimeter under that, the contract is void.”

Before he can comprehend what’s happening, Hoshi climbs halfway across the table, grabs Jun by the cheeks, and plants a wet, noisy kiss in the middle of Jun’s forehead. “Wen Junhui, you sneaky little minx, I may be a little in love with you.”

Jun’s face flushes hot and red.

“Just—just look into it, okay? I’ve been over the rest of this and I can’t see any other way out of it.” With a sarcastic salute, Hoshi disappears. Feels like he’s only gone a few minutes before he pops back up in the living room wearing a somber expression. “What?” Jun asks, panicked, feeling his stomach drop out of his ass. “What’s wrong?”

“Bad news,” Hoshi replies, heaving a sigh. Won’t look up from the floor. Does an impeccable job at selling it, before he looks up at Jun with a shit-eating grin, barely able to contain his excitement. “For the Devil! Ha ha ha!”

Whiplash. All Jun can feel is whiplash, and he stumbles out of the chair, can barely feel the ache in his bones. Trips over a rogue object on his way to the living room. “What? You mean—”

“You did it! Kim Mingyu officially measured in at a glorious six-foot-one-point-nine repeating.”

Jun grabs onto the back of the couch so he doesn’t pass out. Oxygen is not reaching his brain right now, nor is coherent thought. All those agonizing days in law school during which he resigned himself to being a failure. All those back-breaking nights he had to run to the bus stop to get home from his internship, only a handful of hours before he had to be awake again for class. All the meals he upchucked from anxiety before critical exams. All his classmates that’d ignored and belittled him. And now—

“I did it…” he says, voice colored with pure disbelief.

Hoshi starts doing some kind of concerning, robotic-looking dance. “Yeah, bitch!” A bolt of lightning strikes right in front of him and Hoshi startles. Rubs at the back of his neck and has the good sense to look sheepish. “I forgot I’m not supposed to swear.” He looks up at the ceiling. “Sorry, Boss!”

He turns his attention to Jun. “Go take a shower and get dressed. Wear something nice; we’re going out to celebrate.”

Whatever club Hoshi has brought him to is humid and sticky.

With what, Jun can’t be sure, but every time he presses his fingertips together it takes a concerning amount of time for them to peel apart.

Hoshi leads him to the bar. Hops onto a stool and kicks his feet as he waves over the bartender. She’s cute, Jun thinks; a bright, open smile splits her face as she pulls away from Hoshi, clearly endeared by whatever it was he had said. She moves around the bar with an easy confidence, does a little twirl to avoid her coworker, and Jun doesn’t realize he’s hypnotized until Hoshi digs an elbow into his ribs.

“Take it easy, killer. I ordered us some shots.”

Jun snaps out of his reverie. “Can you even drink?”

“Of course I can, I just can’t get drunk. Not here, anyway. Big Boss made the real good stuff exclusive to you-know-where after a few, uh… mishaps. Down here.” He coughs. “Let’s find somewhere to sit. I’ll come back for the drinks.”

There’s an empty booth tucked away in a corner. Jun takes the side that gives him an eyeline shot of the bar even though it feels a little creepy, and if Hoshi knows what he’s doing he doesn’t mention it. He’s back to yapping about one thing or another, gets distracted by all the commotion in the club—the group playing darts, the packed dance floor, a couple making out near the restrooms. Quite enthusiastically, Jun might add.

True to his word, Hoshi disappears for a second to retrieve the drinks. Jun watches as the bartender hands over a tray of rainbow-colored shots and also as Hoshi pats the pockets of his skin-tight pleather plants. Watches as he panics and frantically waves Jun over. Once he’s in his personal space, Hoshi leans in and whispers, “They say they need a card for the tab. I don’t know what that is so I’m assuming I don’t have one.”

Jun sighs. Explains, “It’s a credit card. How do you survive down here with no money?” Nevertheless, he digs out his wallet and hands his card over. “I can’t believe you invited me out and I’m getting stuck with the bill.”

Hoshi tuts. Hands Jun’s credit card to the bartender without an ounce of remorse. “Relax, I’ll have Matt reimburse you.”

“Who the heck is Matt—” Jun begins to say, but he’s interrupted by the most annoying angel God ever created placing the tray of drinks in Jun’s hands, then asking, “Can you take this back to the table? I’ll be right there.”

Hoshi is not going to be right there. Hoshi is going to hover around the bar because the cute bartender was making eyes at him, and Jun is going to return to their formerly-shared table to drink alone. There aren’t many things more depressing than going out with a friend to celebrate a personal achievement only to end up downing six shots on his own.

…Which are not to Jun’s taste at all.

He’s a habitual Tsingtao drinker. Never bothers to order anything else because he knows what he likes and it has never steered him wrong. Never had his head stuck in a toilet bowl, either, which is territory he’ll rapidly be approaching if he actually goes through with this.

“Is this seat taken?”

Jun knows it’s you without having to look up. Your aura is tangible—something thick and syrupy like molasses and just as dark; something suffocating, something that would drown him—and it follows you like a shadow. Slides into the booth before Jun can answer, just a nanosecond before your physical form does the same, and when you’re at eye level he has to swallow his gasp.

You look completely different.

Still beautiful, he thinks, because it’s hard to think of anything else. Jun knows who and what you are, of course; remembers the warning Hoshi had given him. Knows that this is just another one of your tricks, another layer of temptation, but it’s a beauty like quicksand. It’s a beauty like the misunderstood creatures at the heart of every fairy tale—those haunting kinds of myths meant to both make you wary and suck you in. It’s a beauty accentuated by darkness.

Worst of all, it’s a beauty that’s making his pants a little tight in the dick area.

“What does that imbecile have you drinking?” you ask, reaching for one of the remaining shot glasses. You grimace as you hold it up to the light. “You know, I once watched a man throw back twelve of these things before he stripped down to nothing but a diaper and attempted to rob a convenience store across the street.”

“Oh. What happened?”

You sigh. Place the glass back on the tray. “A comedy of errors, of course. He somehow managed to make it into the store unnoticed, but he had neither a weapon nor something to store the money in. He tried climbing across the counter to get to the cash register, but the clerk hit him in the head with a metal step stool and knocked him unconscious before calling the police.”

“I’m assuming he got arrested?”

“Oh, no.” You laugh, and Jun’s taken aback by how normal it sounds. “He came to before the police got there. I guess the sirens freaked him out because he ran out of the store and got hit by a bus.” Jun must be wearing a particular look, because you follow that up with, “He was always meant to be one of ours, so don’t worry, you won’t have to meet him.”

Right.

Jun had expected this. Not that he’d had a whole lot of time to expect it, considering Kim Mingyu had been freed from his contract for a whopping fifteen minutes before Hoshi was shoving Jun into the bathroom to shower, but it had been a passing thought on at least four separate occasions.

You’re not going to apologize, he tells himself. Wonders if you can hear his thoughts and desperately hopes you can’t, considering he’d thought about getting a semi from how pretty you are. It wasn’t even a semi, really, if he’s being honest. What’s half of a semi? One-fourth of a boner? That’s what he’d gotten, and if you can read his thoughts it’s very important that you know that.

“I’m not Joshua.”

Jun startles. Feels all the normalcy leak out of his body and form a gloopy puddle on the floor. “Um,” he replies stupidly. “Then how did you—”

“I can feel you thinking. Always feels like chickenpox when humans overthink around me.”

He wrings his sweaty hands together. Rubs them on his jeans when that doesn’t work. “Sorry,” he says instinctually. “It’s just—I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say.”

“Why?” you challenge. “Is there something you want to say?”

“I don’t think so. But I can’t imagine you’re very happy with me, and I get this sort of, um. When I know someone’s upset with me it feels like chickenpox, too. And even though I know, logically, that I did a good thing, I still feel like I’m going to throw up?”

Tense silence hangs between the two of you. Jun’s on the verge of word-vomiting another apology when you snap your fingers and turn the remaining shots into something resembling watery honey. You hold one out to him. “Drink this,” you instruct, and Jun makes a point not to let your fingers touch when he takes it.

“Is it poison?”

You heave another sigh. “Wen Junhui, there are some things you need to understand about me. First of all, this is an inherited job. Being The Anointed One comes with a lot of work and responsibility so we get burned out, okay? So there’s only ever been one devil as far as humans are concerned, but in a weird avatar-y kind of way that’s hard to explain and not worth my time to explain to you, specifically, considering you’re the enemy now. Second, I am capable of killing you in ways your human brain cannot even begin to conceive of. I do not need to poison you with ginger tea to take you out.”

Jun looks down at the glass. Raises it to his noise and takes a hesitant sniff.

Oh. Yeah, that’s ginger tea.

That you conjured him… because he said he felt nauseous?

“The last thing you need to understand is that the loophole you found was… unfortunate, to say the least, but Kim Mingyu’s contract was not one of mine. The next contract that idiotic angel is going to ask you to work on was also not my work. If you free him, too, it will be regrettable, but it will pale in comparison to what will happen to you if you even think about touching one of mine.”

You’re gone before the fear can even set in.

Jun blinks, staring at the empty seat across from him. No indication at all that you’d been there, no lingering shadow, just the taste of ginger on his tongue and one of those cartoon scribbles in a thought bubble hovering metaphorically above his head.

He doesn’t—

He can’t—

No, he decides, he is not going to have a mental break in this club. Not while “Friday” by Rebecca Black plays on a loop. Not while he can hear someone to his left vomiting all over the floor. Not while he watches Hoshi skip back to the table and he notices, for the first time all night, what he’s wearing.

“Did you change?”

Because he swears the angel wasn’t wearing that when they left the apartment. The pleather pants, yes, but not the baby pink cropped tank with a decal of a creepy child in the middle that says BOYS ARE STUPID, THROW ROCKS AT THEM.

“What? No,” Hoshi answers, sliding into the seat you’d occupied only moments earlier. “Why does it smell weird over here?”

Jun plays stupid. “One of the dartboard girls puked on the floor.” He’s not very good at it.

Hoshi shakes his head. “Not that.” An exaggerated sniff, not unlike a bloodhound. “It smells like… it definitely smells familiar. I know this smell. It’s like—you know how it feels when it’s about to snow? How the cold and the air burn your nose, but it doesn’t actually smell like anything? As if it used to have a smell, once, a long time ago, and all it is now is just an imprinted memory?”

Jun lies, “No. Nope, no idea.”

Hoshi visibly deflates. “Well, it’s kind of like that. Also a little bit like you used wet moss to put out a wildfire. It fills me with—” Hoshi pauses. Narrows his gaze as he studies Jun intently. Being stared at like this by a guy in that particular shirt is a bit disorienting, he must admit. “She was here, wasn’t she?”

He’ll know he’s lying, but Jun says no again because it’s a lot easier than explaining that being threatened within an inch of his mortal life made him cum in his pants a little.

After the club, Jun gets a few days of reprieve.

He doesn’t hear from Hoshi at all, nor does he materialize unexpectedly in his apartment. No mysterious books show up, either, which is a relief. He’d stored both Theological Contract Law: A Very Comprehensive Introduction: Cases and Materials - 2326th Edition and Theological Law For Mortals: An Introduction on a seldom-used bookshelf in his living room and now the shelf is starting to bow in the middle. One more tome of that size and the whole thing is going to come tumbling down and earn him a noise complaint.

Another one.

Because Hoshi has already racked up three in Jun’s name.

So he tries to go back to life as usual until he’s needed again. Does his grocery shopping in the middle of the week in the middle of the day when it’s not so busy and he can navigate the aisles without crippling anxiety. Goes to a check-up and has to lie about turning over a new leaf and taking his health seriously when his cholesterol levels are back within perfect range. He plays video games, picks a nice willow tree in the park to sit beneath and read (normal books this time), takes some of the Mingyu money to buy a decent watch and a few tailored suits.

For the first time in a while, he’s able to sleep through the night.

But he can’t shake the feeling that it’s all… strange. Ever since you’d shown up at the bar, he swears he sees you everywhere: in line a few registers over at the supermarket, in the waiting room of the hospital, coming out of a fitting room in the mall. It’s that aura again. Stalks him like prey. Has paranoia pricking at his skin, and it’s not healthy, the way it has him looking over his shoulder at every turn, scurrying away from every attractive woman with a frown and mumbled apologies.

Surely this cannot be the rest of his life.

Hoshi swings by on a Tuesday. Just like you said he would, he asks Jun to work on an assignment for one Lee Chan who tried to sell his friend to the devil but accidentally sold himself instead. “Wouldn’t have really mattered,” Hoshi explains. Today, his shirt says BIG DICK IS BACK IN TOWN. “It’s sort of against the rules to try and sell other people.”

Jun spits toothpaste into the sink and prays the towel stays snug around his waist. Hoshi had cornered him in the bathroom. “So why do you want him back, then?” Rifles through the medicine cabinet for his nice hair serum. “Seems pretty open and shut to me.”

“Why do They want him back,” Hoshi corrects, “and I don’t know why They want this one.”

Jun thinks about what you said: how Mingyu and Lee Chan hadn’t been your contracts, were basically freebies; the… avatar-ness; the not-subtle-at-all threats on his life. Says, “Can I ask you something?” as he rolls on antiperspirant.

Hoshi, who’s sitting in the tub making animals out of shaving cream, simply nods.

“She said something interesting to me—”

“Before or after being mean to you made you ejaculate in your pants like a teenager?”

Jun blinks. “Before,” he answers slowly. When Hoshi makes no move to interrupt him again, he continues, “She said the Kim Mingyu and Lee Chan contracts weren’t hers. That the role is… inherited? Something about an avatar? How does that work?”

The angel hums. Adds what appear to be bunny ears to an amorphous blob that does not look rabbit-shaped at all, and Jun tries to tamper down his excitement at the impending explanation. Everything he’s dealt with so far will have been worth it because he’s going to be in the know. The powers that be will reward him with their trust. He’ll finally get some answers to all those questions he fell asleep pondering as a child.

And then Hoshi waves him away dismissively and says, “You know I can’t tell you any of that,” and everything comes collapsing down like a house of cards.

Fair enough, Jun thinks—he’s only successfully completed one assignment. It’s still early days. “But you will eventually,” he says, and whoever’s listening in must think the optimism in his voice is so pathetic, “right?”

Hoshi is not cruel. They haven’t known each other long, but Jun knows that much. He wasn’t created from some Old Testament mold, when cruelty was the point of it all—intended to impress fear and strict adherence to Their Word. So when Hoshi laughs it isn’t meant the way Jun takes it. When Hoshi laughs it isn’t meant to make Jun feel disregarded and unimportant, small and irrelevant, but that’s where it strikes him all the same.

When Hoshi laughs and has no reassurances to offer, Jun is seventeen again, reckoning with his loss of faith. Now he’s a decade older and is constantly confronted by all those old names and characters, and when you’re trapped in the middle of their bidding, where can you go when you need to hide?

Jun has the Lee Chan assignment completed by Thursday night.

A significant amount of money appears in his bank account. He wakes up on Friday to an enthusiastic message from his landlord, thanking him for paying his rental contract through the end of his lease. His parents thank him for the grocery delivery. On the side, away from the proud ears of his father, his mother is especially thankful. She’s choking back tears as she thanks him profusely, says business has been slow, tells him he’s a good son and he’s made them proud, always, even if he traveled a different path than the one he originally planned to take.

None of it takes away the ache in his chest.

None of it makes him feel any less empty. It’s hard to feel fulfilled when you know you’re just a pawn, stuck in the middle of a holy war that existed long before him and will persist long after he’s gone. Wen Junhui will always be on the outskirts, because everyone needs him, but he’s not important enough to trust. He is someone and no one all at once. He is Purgatory.

He needs to feel human—needs to make human mistakes, destroy himself the way humans do. Needs to commit a few cardinal sins and scold himself, wonder what the fuck he’s doing as he rattles ice around his third glass of baijiu. Needs to wake up with a splitting headache and a fractured memory. Needs a hoarse voice beside him to ask what time it is as he stares at their naked back and wonders how to get out of it.

There’s a bar not far from his apartment. A dive, by every definition of the word: broken, flickering neon sign out front, cheap linoleum floors peeling at the corners, 70s paneling on the walls, the stench of cigarette smoke outlasting all the old regulars. It’s the kind of place ghosts gather; the kind of place Jun was always too scared to go, knew the questioning, distrustful stares that’d be there to greet him as soon as he stepped through the door.

Tonight, though, it’ll do just fine.

He sits on a stool at the bar and orders a beer to start. Intends to stay a while. Watches a trio of old men play dou dizhu at a table near the back, empty bottles at their feet, fat cigars stuck between their teeth, insults and accusations shouted around them. To his left, a middle-aged man tries bartering for another drink. Needs it, he says, because he lost his job and his wife in the same week. Fourth job this month, the bartender replies, no pity to be found. It’s only the twenty-second.

Across the bar sits a kid that reminds Jun a lot of his brother. Can’t be much older than eighteen. Might not be old enough to drink legally at all, but that’s none of his business. There’s dirt beneath his fingernails and a large chip taken out of a front tooth. Not a clean break, all jagged edges—the kind that probably hurts to run his tongue over.

Jun feels guilty for a moment, surrounded by all these people with real problems. He’s got money and a respectable career. Has a roof over his head that’s been paid for by someone else. He’s good-looking, has his health and his youth. Has enough to take care of his family.

“Give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you.” You sit beside him with a humored smile that shines through a truly pinched expression.

Jun snorts as he empties his drink. “Thessalonians. Gotta be honest, not one of my favorites.” Spares a glance at you: you’re different again, appearance-wise, but the scent you wear like a signature perfume is the same. Heady, like it was bottled at the center of the earth. “Is this your way of telling me that comparison is the thief of joy or whatever?”

Your turn to laugh. The bartender sets a drink in front of you that Jun hadn’t heard you order. “No,” you reply simply. “I’m not all that concerned with human joy. Just thought it was ironic. Come sit with me.”

“This is starting to sound familiar,” he snarks, but he follows anyway.

A rickety table by the window. Winter air seeps through, frosts the glass; has Jun wishing he’d worn a thicker coat. It was warmer by the bar. The two chairs you occupy are upholstered in peeling vinyl, one ripped with the stuffing peeking through. Jun takes that one, figuring you’ll laugh at his human chivalry, but you take the seat opposite him without a word. That old flickering sign outside reflects on your face.

He didn’t come here for a therapy session—he came to get drunk on questionable liquor surrounded by people who don’t know him. You do, of course, which throws a wrench in his plan. You seem to know everything about him, including that he’d be here brooding. “Why’d you follow me here?”

“Well, it certainly wasn’t for your jubilant demeanor and fantastic conversation.” You put your drink to the side. Fold your hands in front of you. “Congratulations on Lee Chan. The outfit upstairs must be very pleased with the work you’ve done thus far.”

There’s no bite. No sardonic tone.

Jun realizes then how differently you treat him. How honest you are. You don’t lie or stretch the truth; you don’t brush off his questions. Hoshi is truthful at an arm’s length. Makes his stomach feel sour.

“I’m just a pawn, aren’t I? It doesn’t really matter if they’re pleased so long as I get the work done.”

You hum an acknowledgment. “People forget what They used to be like. The atrocities They committed and had others commit in Their name—humans, just like you, who were so desperate to appease their God they would’ve done whatever was asked of them.” Jun’s drink refills. He empties it in one go. “They killed their sons, waged war on their neighbors, have done unspeakable evils in Their name. It’s not only you, Wen Junhui, that has been a pawn to Them.”

He doesn’t react. A glass shatters at the bar. “And you?” he questions. “What are you, then, if those are the things They demand?”

“I’m a foil, of course. Would you still believe in good if there was no evil? Would you believe in the promise of eternal life if there was no threat of eternal damnation? Would you still be moral if there was no corruption?” Rhetorical questions. “Although you’re no stranger to crises of faith, are you?”

He isn’t. The handjob had rattled him, sure, but it hadn’t been the catalyst. Not really. Jun had still gone to church that Sunday. Still kneeled and received Communion and allowed himself to be blessed and prayed over. Still bowed his head before each meal and mouthed along as his mother said grace.

No, his loss of faith had been gradual: a question he couldn’t find an answer to, suffering he could no longer brush off with blind faith, words he used to treat as gospel that began tasting acrid in his mouth as he also lost his conviction. Everything started feeling like bullshit, and once everything started feeling like bullshit, he had to wonder what he’d spent eighteen years of his life chasing. What he spent eighteen years of his life believing in.

Until he found he didn’t believe in all that much anymore.

He has to ask: “Was it your doing?”

You shake your head. “People forget who I am, too. They call me the original liar. They say I am the source of all evil. They attribute every sin and misdeed to me, say it must’ve been my will, and yet it says right there in their holy book, in Isaiah 45:7: I form the light, and create darkness: I make peace, and create evil: I the Lord do all these things.” You focus all your attention on Jun—he feels the weight of it like a millstone. “I was the anointed one until I was overcome by sin and became the tempter, right? That’s what they say; how they wrote my story. And yet, by Their own word, it was They who created evil. It was God who created darkness.” A hefty pause. “Some may look at me and say I, too, was a pawn.”

“Do you feel like you were?”

You don’t respond. Instead, Jun watches as his view of the bar crumbles once you snap your fingers: block by block replaced with the interior of his apartment. His dining table instead of the off-balance one in front of the window. The ambient noise of his building instead of the bar. A mug of coffee in place of the baijiu.

“What the he—”

It’s within the four dull walls of Jun’s apartment building that you answer: “Even if I was, why should I feel like a victim? Did I not get the better end of the deal?” Jun feels like he’s standing atop a trap door. Like any second it’ll swing open and down, down, down he’ll go. “I rule over my kingdom and make no demands of anyone. I am a consequence of free will and not an inhibitor of it. I dole out punishment only for those deserving of it.”

The coffee is strong. Bitter. Just for a second before it melts away into something sweet. “You are temptation, are you not? Do the demons not do your bidding? Sow chaos in your name? Are you not the originator of all these contracts I’ve been tasked with destroying? If They are to be believed, those people were not meant to be yours, and yet you wound up with them anyway.”

“I like you, Wen Junhui,” you say. “You have an insatiable curiosity that is both admirable and ill-advised.”

He feels his face flush. “Sorry. Got carried away, I think.”

“It’s of little consequence to me. I must admit I have smited men for asking questions, but they were of a more crude variety. More coffee?” Jun nods. “I am who I am. It is who I’ve always been—I was created to walk this path and so I know no different.”

“Predestination.”

“Precisely, just as those dreadful fucking Puritans believed. God needed a foil, a betrayer, and so They created me. I know no other role.”

“You were an angel,” Jun argues. “They say you were beautiful, powerful, and intelligent; they say you were full of light. You don’t remember any of that?”

Sorrow etches across your face. Only for a second—blink and you’ll miss it. It is not in the same realm of pain Jun is experiencing. Yours is an ancient grief. It is something palpable and overwhelming, something liable to consume and destroy everything within its reach if left uncontrolled. Jun wonders if it has been; if you’ve let it unfurl before reigning it back in. If those are the plagues they speak of. Catastrophic disasters and genocides and everything on earth he cannot conceive of.

And then your face shutters. That grief is now nowhere to be found, borrowed features rearranged neatly once again. “Of course I remember,” is all you say.

Companionable silence. Jun sips slowly at his coffee and enjoys it. Wonders, briefly, how he wound up here, with the CEO and overseer of Hell sitting at his dining room table, before he lets those thoughts get chased away by a more pressing fact: there is an extremely beautiful and kind of terrifying woman sitting at his dining room table, and she hasn’t murdered him—yet.

He’s not above noticing it. Isn’t going to pretend he hasn’t thought about the night in the club roughly every twenty minutes since it happened; isn’t going to pretend he didn’t get a little hard in the shower that same night and that he didn’t relieve himself. Isn’t going to pretend that this isn’t doing something for him—the different disguises, each one just as enticing as the last, all of them conjured from deep within his psyche, checking off all his boxes.

Jun also isn’t going to pretend he has very much game. He hadn’t left university a virgin (although it’d been close) and nowadays women aren’t really falling over themselves to date a newly-licensed lawyer with little money and thrifted suits that feel like they’re playing at adulthood. However, if nothing else, this… partnership he has going on has served him well in the confidence department. He has disposable income and no debt. His clothes fit. He upgraded his cheap Casio watch to something that doesn’t turn his skin green.

“You didn’t really answer my question earlier.” You roll your head to the side, cock an eyebrow. His bravado falters slightly at the line of your throat. “Are you stalking me?”

What he aims for: cheeky, a little saucy; the kind of question that’s delivered with a shit-eating grin and earns him a coy laugh in response as you tuck your hair behind your ear. Oh, knock it off, you’d say as you playfully swatted at him. Of course I’m not. He’d catch your hand and press his lips to your knuckles before trailing them up your arm. The first kiss to the side of your neck would be gentle, a little hesitant, and then the heat would take over.

How it lands: an accusation completely lacking in charm and sass. Jun’s eyes widen in panic as soon as the question leaves his mouth, has him wondering how he’s still alive if the glare you send him is any indication of how you’re feeling. He should’ve known better. Jun is not the sort of person who can pull off a comment like that. Doesn’t have the charisma or the confidence. Isn’t sleazy enough. Jun is the kind of guy who lurks your social media after a one night stand to figure out your favorite breakfast so he can have it waiting the morning after; the kind who takes note of where you work so he can have flowers delivered to your desk and not for any other nefarious purpose.

Which, now that he’s thinking about it—

Every accusation is a confession, or whatever it is they say.

“That’s not—”

“What you meant,” you finish for him. Thankful for the lifeline, he nods, not trusting himself to not dig a deeper hole. “You want to know why it is I’ve shown up twice now, during both of your nights out.” He nods again. “You wanted to be suave when you said it, maybe even a little seductive, but you forgot your claim to fame is crying for three days over a handjob and how excruciatingly awkward you are.”

He waits for you to continue. When you don’t, he nods again, wishing he’d spent more time as a teenager on the degenerate parts of the internet rather than at Bible study.

“Are you an idiot?”

Not that it’s undeserved, but the question leaves him stunned. Has his mouth gaping open and shut like a goldfish. This is a trap, right? There’s a correct answer here that he’s expected to give. “...No?” he tries, and when your eyes narrow he quickly changes course. “Yes,” he says definitively. “Yes, I am an idiot. Sorry for my… idiocy.”

It looks like it’s being dragged out of you by force, but the clouds part, birds start chirping in perfect harmony, Jun feels the warmth of the sun—you laugh. You laugh, and it’s reluctant but it’s real, and Jun’s smile is so wide his face feels heavy under the weight of it. It’s so wide you say, “Wow, even your mouth is heart-shaped,” and, if Wen Junhui knows nothing else, he knows he’s in real big trouble.

“You know what else is heart-shaped?” You gesture for him to continue, except he’d just been yapping. Didn’t have a plan. There’s no punchline. And he can’t set it up as a dick joke because that doesn’t make sense. My dick is heart-shaped? What does that even mean? Unless it’s in a cute way? My dick is heart-shaped… for you. It could work, he reasons. Worse things have worked for other men. “My di—”

“No.”

He pretends to pout. “You didn’t let me finish.”

“Because you were going to make a dick joke.”

“No I wasn’t.” You roll your eyes. “I was going to say my… digantic heart.”

A pause. Another beat of silence.

“I’m not going to laugh at you twice.”

A shit-eating grin on Jun’s face. “But you would, is what you’re saying? If you didn’t already meet your one-laugh quota?”

“Don’t push your luck.”

I want to kiss you, he wants to say. Feels the words biting at the back of his teeth, begging him to open his mouth so they can escape and be real. I want to kiss you but I don’t know if it’d be real. Because it can’t be, can it? All the ways you’ve been described throughout human history, not once has anyone said you’re capable of love. Which—that’s not what Jun is looking for here, right? That’d be ridiculous. He has a crush.

A crush on a beautiful woman who looks like all of his wet dreams combined. Who’s terrifying and smart and maybe misunderstood in all the same ways he is. Who is halfway responsible for his current employment. Who conjures ginger tea for him when he feels sick and hasn’t snapped her fingers to turn him into dust… yet. It’s natural, especially for a late bloomer such as himself.

But that doesn’t mean anything.

You look like all of his wet dreams combined but it’s still just a costume. The same way Jun was playing at adulthood in his ill-fitting suits, you’re playing at being human. Take it off and you’re still the devil. Still primordial. Still not bound by the constraints and constructs of time. Not bound by mortality, which is probably the second-most pressing issue behind the whole fallen angel, prime ruler of Hell, purveyor of iron-clad contracts that are really, really pissing off Heaven thing.

“Congratulations,” you say, ripping Jun out of his spiral, “your overthinking has bypassed chickenpox completely and went straight to shingles.”

“They have a vaccine for that now.” Wow, he is really not nailing this.

“I know. Pestilence was devastated. Moped around for ages. Imagine all your hard work gone, just like that, because of science? That’s why I created Jenny McCarthy.” You sigh. “Anyway, out with it.”

Jun chews at the inside of his cheek. “I’m trying to figure out how to ask in a non-offensive way.”

You blink. “I am literally the devil.”

“Who can kill me,” he says slowly, trying to buy time. So are you, it seems, because you’re content to stretch the silence. Wait until it settles in Jun’s bones as anxiety. One of those old tricks he learned during law school that’s now being turned on him. He coughs. “Anyway, I—” He deflates. “It’s stupid, I don’t know why I even thought—”

“Out with it,” you repeat.

“Right.” He sucks in a breath. “Does this mean anything to you? Not in, like, an affectionate, I’m in love with you kind of way, but in a… human… way? Is it offensive to phrase it like that?”

“I think you’ll find not much offends me—except for you and your fucking lawyer thing ruining my contracts.” There are those flames behind your eyes again. The temperature in the room increases tenfold. “So no, it’s not offensive to wonder how human I am or am not, but I don’t know if the answer will be to your satisfaction or understanding.”

“Try me.”

You huff a laugh. Mumble something about the hubris of man. “You’ve read Their book, so you know how and why the angels were created. Ministering spirits, I think it says. Spirits without bodies. I have never known what it means to be human because I never was. I appear as one to you out of necessity.”

“Because my brain would melt if I saw your true form?”

“What? No. Because it’s terrifying. Would you rather hand over your mortal soul to someone who looked like an eldritch horror or someone who looked like one of those women you’ve jerked off to in porn magazines?” Jun swallows audibly. “Exactly.”

“But what does it feel like when you’re like this? When you’re here?”

“I don’t know,” you answer honestly. “It feels different, but I can’t say it feels human because I do not know what that feels like. You’ve interacted with me and have been to Hell—if I asked you how it felt to be the devil, how would you answer?”

Jun doesn’t have to think. He says the first word that comes to mind, which is, “Lonely. I think it’s lonely, because They have worshippers, Their followers are devout and love and trust without proof, and you were created to be hated and feared.” You move to interject, but Jun continues. “Maybe you have those things too, but they’re not the same. They gave you everything and then They ripped it away. Their followers heed every word of the Bible, name their children after its characters, but where’s your book? Why wasn’t anyone allowed to tell your story?”

“Maybe you should write it.”

What you aim for: cheeky, a little saucy; the kind of suggestion spoken around a sly smile that’s also a little self-conscious at someone taking you into consideration—at someone seeing you.

How it lands: fractured; words spoken slowly and intentionally so nothing is given away. How ironic that it’s the most human Jun has heard you sound.

But your bravery is inspiring, even if you’re unaware of it. Even if you aren’t making a conscious choice to be so, Jun can watch you be vulnerable and think he can do the same. He can finally say what he’s been dancing around this entire time, which is, “If I kiss you, what will it feel like for you?”

“The same as any other kiss, I imagine.”

“You’ve done this before, then? As a… human?”

Seems your patience with him has run out. You stand, make your way to Jun’s side of the table slowly. Drag a finger along the back of each chair, nails cherry red and sharpened to a point. He wants to feel them. Wants the sting as they dig into his thighs; as they scratch down the length of his back and mark him up. He wants to feel the phantom bite for days, long after you’re gone and he’s come to his senses. When he stands beneath the spray of the shower and his skin feels raw, he wants to know it was you that had done it.

He understands, now, why people make those deals and shake your hand.

As you loom above him, slowly encroaching upon his space—as the heady scent of you overwhelms him and makes him dizzy, has his eyes fluttering closed and rolling back in his head—he thinks he’d give you anything you asked for.

You lean in close. One hand on the arm of the chair, one wrapped around the meat of his thigh, just on the edge of sharp. Closer, closer, until he can feel the warmth of your breath against his cheek, the line of his jaw, the lobe of his ear. “Tell me: does this feel human?”

It does. Drives him a little crazy how he can feel each word punctuated against his skin; how he can feel your body heat seep through the fabric of his pants—heat he didn’t expect to find. And it isn’t like it matters, because he’d want you no matter how you felt, but it helps to ground him. Keep him in the moment. So he says, “Ye-yeah,” and knows you’re smiling at the need in his tone.

Need that starts in his toes and settles in his belly. Need that grows as your hand trails up his thigh and settles over his zipper, over the bulge you find there. Jun’s breath catches in his throat. He knows the mechanics—in, out; in, out; in, out—but can’t convince his lungs to work. Feels lightheaded and a little embarrassed because you’re not even touching him properly and he already feels untethered.

All you do is pull away, back out of his space, and for all he knows his world’s been turned upside down. Doubly so when he cracks one eye open and sees you on your knees, looking up at him with a half-lidded gaze, lashes impossibly dark. He can’t help it. He reaches out, places his thumbs in the contours of your cheek, cups your jaw, and presses his lips to yours.

Immediate searing heat.

Jun is engulfed in it. You taste like a storm—taste like the first deafening crack of thunder and the lightning that follows. And he knows he’s coming across too eager with the way he licks into your mouth, but you don’t seem to mind. You match his pace, groan into his mouth, palm at his cock with more intention. Jun’s hips roll, seeking the friction; wants more of the stinging pleasure. Wants to haul you into his lap and fit his hands in the curve of your waist, leave bruises on your hips with his thumbs. He wants to trace every inch of your skin and commit it to memory.

But you’ve got plans of your own.

You plant your hands against his chest and push. Jun goes willingly, chest heaving, missing your mouth already. There’s a crooked grin sitting on your face that sends a spark of excitement up his spine, has alarms sounding in his head, but he can’t look away. Everything you do mesmerizes him: the way you run your tongue along your bottom lip, the slow drag of his zipper, how your voice is husky and deeper than he’s ever heard it when you ask him, what do you want, and your smile when he answers, whatever you do.

And what you seem to want is to destroy him in record time. Pants at his knees, hard cock straining against his briefs, he feels like he’s back in high school. Has that same sense of adolescent urgency, like everything’s happening both in slow-motion and not fast enough, because he knows what’s coming. Watches with a lip tugged between his teeth as you free his cock. Whimpers when you wrap your hand around him, reminds himself to breathe; grips white-knuckled at the arms of the chair when you begin to move.

Your pace is torturously slow to start. You seem to delight in tormenting him; in hearing all those breathy moans that escape him and spur you on. You lean forward and spit and everything is slick. Jun feels like he’s going to come out of his skin. He grips at the chair tighter. Digs his nails into his thighs when that doesn’t work and lets his head roll back, neck on full display. Maybe it’s to tempt you. Maybe he wants you to sink your teeth into him and mark him up. Maybe he has a million fantasies, and not a single one compares to—

Your mouth. The sound that comes out of him is unholy. It takes every ounce of restraint he has not to roll his hips and fuck his cock deeper into your mouth, down your throat. All he wants to do is chase the bliss of that wet heat and give in to it.

But he needs this to last. If this is the only time he’ll have you like this, he needs to make it worthwhile.

He needs to tell you, needs you to slow it down before he embarrasses himself by coming in your mouth, except he can’t find the words. Doesn’t want to deny himself even a second of pleasure. Five minutes is all it’s taken to make a hedonist out of him. And that’s… well, it’s not a philosophy he ever thought he’d adopt, but who could blame him when you feel like velvet? When he starts babbling nonsense and you hum in response and everything feels electric?

“I’m gonna—” A sharp nip at the inside of his thigh has his declaration dead on arrival. His body shivers, trembles, tries to collapse in on itself. “Shit, don’t do that, I’m gonna—”

He feels your smile against his skin. Whimpers as you mouth at his balls. Wonders if he’s going to die like this; if someone will come to check on him and find his pitiful, half-naked body right here in this chair, and that is not a sight he wants anyone to walk in on, so he reaches for you, finds your hair and tugs at you gently. Seals his lips over yours before you can come up with any more ideas.

He hauls you into his lap, just like he’d wanted, and dips his hands beneath your top. Skims his hands over the warm skin he finds. Digs his nails in when you bite at the column of his throat and groans as his cock—so hard he can barely think straight; can’t think of anything except burying himself inside of you—brushes against the harsh fabric of your pants.

“God, c’mere.” You oblige. Kiss him with such intensity he no longer cares where he dies, so long as this is how he goes out. Watches as stars explode behind his eyelids when he realizes he can taste himself on your tongue, that you taste like him. Moves his hands to your chest, traces lightly over your hard nipples, delights in the way you react, that it’s him making you feel good. That it’s him you let pull your top over your head. That it’s him that presses praise into your skin like scripture.

He mouths at you indiscriminately: your collar bones, the space between your breasts, the swell of skin there. Whines as you grab at his hair and tell him how to please you. Thinks he’s learning a lot about himself when he does as you say, when he sucks and bites at your nipples, and grows impossibly harder.

You sigh, blissed out; tell him you want his mouth elsewhere, fill his mind with thoughts that have him rolling his hips uselessly, thrusting at nothing, but fuck, he wants it all. Wants to taste every part of you. Wants to drag you to the edge and watch as your body writhes in satisfaction. Wants to know how beautiful you look when you come on his tongue, head thrown back, your nails digging into his scalp.

Wants to bury his cock inside of you before you can come down and watch as your eyes roll back and know, with every thrust of his hips, that he’s leaving his mark just the same as you are.

So that’s what he does. He stands, lifting you with ease, tells you to wrap your legs around him as he carries you to his bedroom. Lays you in the middle of the bed and helps strip you bare. Tells you, in every way he can think of, how much he loves seeing you like this, how stunning you are, how lucky he is. Kisses his way down your body until he’s level with your cunt. He breathes in your scent, desperate for all of you, before he circles a thumb over your clit and follows it with his mouth.

Ironic, he thinks, that you taste like heaven.

He gives as good as he got—flattens his tongue and works you over with long licks. Laps and sucks and doesn’t let up when your legs start to shake. Places one over his shoulder and dives back in. Swears fall from your lips in fractured syllables, breathless cries in between commands to keep going. He’s a man possessed. Doesn’t want to waste a second. Doesn’t want the taste of anyone else on his tongue.

You come with a sob, his name the only thing you seem capable of saying. Jun, Jun, Jun, like a chant.

…Like something he’d hear in church.

No reprieve. He stretches you on his fingers, almost delirious as he presses against your g-spot and feels how much wetter you get. Ruts against the mattress at all the crude sounds he’s pulling from you, unable to help himself. Says, “Can I…?” and slicks himself up with what he’s gathered from you when you nod.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck. Kisses the spot just below your ear as he runs his hands up and down your thighs. “How do you want me?” he asks. “Whatever you want, I’ll give it to you.”

He expects you to want it from behind. Maybe on top so you’re in control, turned away. He doesn’t expect you to say, “Just like this,” as you hitch a leg around his hip and pull him as close as possible. He doesn’t expect you to say, “I want you to look at me,” in that tone, like it’s imperative. Like you need it. He doesn’t expect you to grab the back of his neck and kiss the air from his lungs as he pushes inside.

Heat. Everything is white, blinding heat.

Jun whines into your mouth. Rolls his hips slowly as you swallow it. Your hands move to his shoulders and down his spine, settle in the small of his back, press into the dimples there. He pulls back only so he can tell you to mark him up, that he wants to feel you days from now, and you indulge him. Shallow at first—your nails ghost across his skin, more ticklish than painful, before they dig in a little deeper. Jun feels the bite as the welts begin to form and he thinks his smile must look crazed.

He keeps his pace steady. Fucks in as deep as he can and rocks back slowly, trying to hold on to the way your cunt squeezes him, but you need more. You tell him as much and don’t say please, and when Jun tries to be a little cocky, when he thinks he has a modicum of control and says, “You’re okay, baby, you can take it,” you send him such a nasty glare he immediately gives it to you harder and faster.

But he can’t help but laugh. “What, I can’t call you baby?” he jokes. There’s a rebuttal on the tip of your tongue that Jun does away with with a sharp thrust of his hips. He knows he’s playing with fire, that he’ll pay for this one way or another, but the thought thrills him more than anything else.

“I’m the—fuck,” you swear. Jun doesn’t have to ask why. Everything’s starting to feel tighter, wetter. Both of you are hurtling toward the inevitable, and Jun needs to feel you come on his cock, needs to watch you unravel beneath him.

He grabs your hand. Sucks two of your fingers into his mouth. “Touch yourself,” he says. “Make yourself feel good, I wanna see you come.” He moans, loud and unabashed, when you do as he says.

Each pass of your fingers over your clit makes you jerk, has electricity licking at your heels. Jun feels each one. Feels the way you clench and tremble. A bead of sweat runs down the column of your throat and he traces it with his tongue. Keeps fucking harder, deeper; grinds his pelvis against your clit and falls in love with the way you sound in the throes of lust. Wants to bottle it and keep it forever.

“Jun, I’m gonna—”

Another roll of his hips. Deep, deep, deep. “I know.” Two words he’s barely able to choke out. Feels like he’s being suffocated as his vision starts to go hazy at the edges. All he knows in this moment is your pleasure, your satisfaction, you.

Your orgasm hits with a shattering cry. Jun follows right after, unable to put up a fight against the vice grip of your cunt. It feels pathetic, the way his body shakes with the force of it, but when it passes, when he comes back into his body, all he feels is bone-deep euphoria.

He collapses onto your chest. Presses another kiss there. Sighs contentedly when your nails scratch lightly at his scalp. “Okay?” he asks.

“Yes,” comes your easy answer.

Minutes pass in blissful quiet. Neither of you speak, letting your heavy breathing do the talking, and for once Jun enjoys the sounds of the city outside when there’s someone beside him to hear it, too. “I’m gonna pull out,” he tells you, even though it feels a bit silly.

He feels the loss immediately.

Unsure of the protocol for something like this, Jun does what he always does: pretends there’s absolutely nothing out of the ordinary happening at all.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, punctuating his words with a kiss to your temple. He grabs a clean pair of underwear from a drawer, pulls them on, pads down the hall to the bathroom. He pointedly does not look at his reflection as he turns the tap on and waits for the water to warm. Knows his face is blotchy and flushed and his hair’s a mess and that you’re spread out on his bed looking like the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, so he doesn’t want to look at his reflection and feel bad about himself. Doesn’t want to taint this moment by feeling unworthy of it.

But a bit of that self-doubt still manages to creep in, because he returns to his room and is surprised to find you haven’t left. That, above all else, you look content: laying on your front, one of Jun’s pillows tucked beneath your head, sheets barely covering your ass. You smile when Jun puts a knee on the mattress and you feel it dip. Smile wider when he kisses the length of your spine and tells you, in a voice unrecognizable even to his own ears, to roll onto your back so he can clean you up.

If it’s too intimate, you make no mention of it. If there’s no room in this moment for this kind of care and affection, if all of this is for Jun’s sake and you’re just letting him go through the motions, you don’t mention that, either.

He works slowly and with care. Apologizes when you hiss at the first swipe of the washcloth, the water warm but still colder than your skin. Cracks a joke about taking you out for breakfast in the morning even though both of you know you’ll be long gone by then, and he waits for that knowledge to sting but it never does, but he’s relieved when you laugh anyway.

It’s when you stop laughing, when your smile slowly disappears from your face, that it all starts to sink in. Because you ask, “Did it feel real to you?” and he’s not sure how to interpret that. If it’s a masked plea for reassurance or if you want to make sure he got his money’s worth.

Maybe it’s both. Or maybe it’s neither.

“I know it can’t be for you what it is for me,” he answers, “but if you’re asking if I had a good time, then my answer is yes. And I know what this is, so you don’t need to look like that, okay? I’m not about to confess my love for you and start crying.”

(That’s not entirely true. He really might start crying, but he’ll at least have enough sense to wait until you’re gone.)

“Well, it wouldn’t be the first time, so I…” You sigh, avert your gaze, tangle your fingers in the sheets. “It’s just—you’re doing all this nice stuff for me, so I didn’t… I wanted to make sure.”

“‘Nice stuff’? You mean helping you clean up and offering you a glass of water?”

You laugh again, but there’s no humor in it. “You’re treating me like I’m human, Wen Junhui. Like I’m the same as any other woman you’d sleep with.”

He cocks his head. “Why wouldn’t I?” he asks, and that’s the end of that.

Jun doesn’t use his downtown office much, but since his apartment still smells like you, he figures he can use a change of scenery. Hoshi will know where to find him if he’s needed.

He ducks into a recently-opened coffee shop and orders an expensive latte with ingredients he’s never heard of. When he pops the lid, he’s both horrified and intrigued by the purple-blue coffee that greets him. Back outside, he breathes in the musk of the city: the exhaust fumes, cigarette smoke, the sweat from people rushing to work.

A jianbing vendor is set up at the corner, fills him with nostalgia—smells just like the ones he ate nearly every morning during law school. He smiles as he orders and asks for extra lajiao, foolishly ignoring the questioning glance he receives in return, and he’s happy as he walks the remaining two blocks to his office with it warm in his hand. Sticks it in his mouth to hold between his teeth as he digs in his pockets for the key. Jiggles it in the lock as he accidentally bites down, and it takes a second, maybe five, but then—

He should not have asked for the extra chili sauce.

All 182 of his centimeters crash through the door and carelessly toss aside his briefcase. Water. He needs water desperately, even though it’s just going to make it worse, which he knows, but his mouth all the way down to his esophagus feels like it’s been set ablaze. Feels like he’s breathing magma. Feels like if someone stood in front of him right now and caught wind of his breath, they’d turn to ash.

Which explains how he misses the person sitting at his desk, their feet kicked up and face hidden behind a newspaper from six months ago.

He finally notices them some ten minutes later, after he locks himself in the bathroom and douses his face in cold water and can be sure he’s not about to die from excessive heat intake. Not that this is any less embarrassing for him: he shrieks, clearly not expecting anyone to be there, and the stranger shrieks in turn. The shriek-off lasts approximately thirty seconds and is cut off by an elderly woman sticking her head through the door and asking if everything is alright, to which Jun sheepishly nods and bows in apology as he thanks her for her concern.

Once she’s back on the street, he whirls around to face his intruder.

“Good morning,” Hoshi says, seemingly nonplussed by the entire sequence of events that have transpired. “Had a little mishap with the chili sauce, huh?” Jun ignores him. Snatches the newspaper out of his hands and shoos him out of his chair and into one intended for guests. “Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.”

Jun glares. “Why are you—”

“Or should I say the only side of the bed, considering you had erotic entanglements with the devil.”

Annoyance flares within him. Has that lajiao heat rushing back to his skin. Hoshi’s got a lot of nerve—the same guy who refused to tell him much of anything, who just takes and takes and takes, is now criticizing him for exercising his free will. Well, Jun’s not going to accept that, he decides. Adopts a snotty little tone and says, “So you were spying on me? Wow, okay, you pervert.”

Hoshi balks. Trips over his words as he tries to mount a useless defense. “I didn’t—that’s not—no,” is the best he can come up with.

“Did you like the show?”

“Wen Junhui—”

“Very convenient that’s the thing you watched. Missed my whole crisis of faith, huh? Both of them? Didn’t think I’d maybe need some support during those times?” He shakes his head. Tries to hold on to the anger, because it’s less humiliating than crying after acting like a hard-ass. “At least she’s been honest. At least she’s always been upfront about who and what she is. You guys—you guys have all these demands, all these requirements, but at the end of the day none of it matters. We’re all just pawns, and that’s all you’ll ever see us as.”

The angel stays quiet. Can’t quite discern if Jun’s tirade is over. He narrows his gaze, opens his mouth as if he’s going to speak just to see if Jun will interrupt him. (He doesn’t.) He clears his throat and tries to remember the correct pitch for his Comforting Voice: this will prove to be a pivotal moment in Wen Junhui’s partnership with Upstairs, and he’s going to need it.

“Wen Junhui,” he attempts again. No, the tone isn’t right—needs to be a little lower. “Wen Junhui, I am… holding space for everything you’ve just told me.” That’s better. Sounds convincing enough. “Is it fair to say you feel abandoned and unimportant?”

Jun’s cheeks warm to a mortifying shade of red. “I guess,” he mumbles.

“Great!” Hoshi beams. “Thank you so much for trusting me with this sensitive information.” He snaps his fingers and another manila folder appears in front of Jun. “Since you’re feeling better, this is your next assignment! If you open to the first page, you’ll see the contractee’s name is Choi Seungcheol and that he is of the utmost import—”

“No.”

“—ance.” Hoshi, unused to being caught unawares not once but twice in the same conversation, simply blinks, limbs frozen mid-air. “Pardon?”

“I said no.”

“Right, right… See, I heard that, but I’m not following. What do you mean no?”

Jun stands and starts clearing off the desk. Not that there’s much on it besides a framed picture of himself sandwiched between his parents at his graduation and an unused candle. Peach bellini. Hoshi had procured it from who-knows-where, said it was “an important part of Internet history” (that Jun must’ve missed) and called it a “belated graduation gift,” except the smell was so sickly-sweet it immediately gave him a migraine as soon as the lid came off.

All of this is besides the point, which is this: Jun doesn’t need this office. He doesn’t need this weird job where he reports to these weird people.

He says as much.

“Hey!” Hoshi objects, to which Jun responds, “You’re wearing a shirt with a cartoon wolf on it that says Fighting the Gay Allegations Again. I mean come on, dude, where do you even find these things?”

“You don’t like my shirts?”

“No! And I also don’t like that you just pretended to care about my feelings so I’d get back to work like a good little corporate soldier!” He’s able to fit the picture frame in his briefcase, but the candle doesn’t fit. Even if they’re arguing, it seems rude to give it back to Hoshi when he’d gone out of his way to get him a gift to begin with, so he lets out a frustrated screech and decides to carry it back to his apartment. “Find some other would-be Pope to help you.”

Although his face is blotchy and wet, Hoshi seems undeterred. There are, of course, no other would-be Popes available on such short notice—especially not one that’s earned the favor of the devil—so he needs to think up a plan quickly. If he fumbles Wen Junhui, he’ll either never hear the end of it from the lower-ranking angels or he’ll be stoned, and neither sounds very favorable right now.

So he does the only thing he can think to do: he snaps his fingers.

Kim Mingyu looks exactly like his picture.

He’s just as tall and symmetrically good-looking as Jun thought he would be, dressed in an impeccably-fitting white suit that elongates his legs and makes him look far taller than the six-foot-one-point-nine-repeating he’d measured in at. Dark, slightly wavy hair frames a perfect set of cheekbones, and whatever cologne he’s wearing nearly has Jun drooling.

He might actually be doing that, he realizes with horror, because Kim Mingyu also looks supremely uncomfortable. Is fluttering from one thing to the next, never staying more than a few seconds in each spot, tidying and organizing the same items over and over, muttering apologies all the while. And the board room really is not that big, so all that anxiety is starting to wear off on Jun, who was in his own office only a few minutes ago arguing with an angel that is currently nowhere to be found.

“So sorry about the mess!” Mingyu chimes. Jun can tell he’s trying (and failing) for unaffected. “I didn’t know we were having visitors, but no matter! My mother always used to say…” He pauses. Straightens his posture. Grabs a bouquet of white hydrangeas from a stunning pearlescent vase just to drop them right back in. “Er, I suddenly don’t remember anything my mother used to say.”

Jun grimaces and hides it behind his hand. “‘Have a wonderful day at school’?” he offers.

Mingyu smiles, makes a little a-ha! sound as he snaps his fingers; seems thankful for the lifeline he’d been thrown. Says, “Yes, yes, of course!” and starts fussing over the state of the table. He squirts a concerning amount of cleaner and wipes at it so aggressively Jun fears he’s going to wear a hole in the wood. “I’ve been told there was a slight security issue, but please rest assured that the rest of our guests should be arriving very soon! Any second now!”

That last bit comes out more like a demand.

Even though he feels far less intelligent than Hoshi claims he is, Jun is still smart enough to deduce he’d been snap-blasted to Heaven, not only because Mingyu is here and there are vaguely ominous security issues, but also because there’s a placard next to the door:

Board Room 17 Pearly Gates Wing

“It’s weird seeing you in real life after staring at the picture in your file for so long,” Jun says, continuing to look around. Everything is stark white, which he expected, with accents of gold that dazzles so brightly it hurts his eyes and pink freshwater pearl, and the flowers are abundant and fragrant. Jun feels at peace here. If it weren’t for Mingyu and his rapidly-fraying nerves, he might even call it tranquil. “I think I have a crush on you.”

Mingyu flushes. Unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth to stammer out a response that’s interrupted by three more figures materializing by the door.

Hoshi stands in the middle of Jeonghan and Joshua, arms slung around both of their shoulders. The two demons, naturally, do not look pleased. Jeonghan especially looks tortured, which is at odds with his new pink hair, and he’s the first to shrug off the angel. He grabs the chair closest to him and makes sure it scrapes against the floor as noisily as possible before slumping into it, arms crossed, scowl so fierce his frown lines nearly touch his jaw.

Joshua does the same, though he looks far more delighted to have a seat at the table.

From an invisible speaker, Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5 in C Minor comes blaring. Hoshi and Mingyu startle; the latter goes in search of a tablet, completely frazzled, mumbling oh no oh no oh no as he rummages through drawers. Jeonghan and Joshua side-eye one another and come away wearing matching glares. To his credit, Jun sits ramrod straight and doesn’t flinch. When no one’s looking he sticks his fingers in his ears to dampen the noise and smiles politely at Mingyu when they make awkward eye contact.

The music cuts out, Mingyu heaves a sigh of relief, and once the tense silence settles back into the room, he turns to Hoshi and stage whispers, “Should I put it back on, or…?” to which Hoshi frantically nods.

Opening blaring once again, it’s then that you walk through the door, flanked on all sides by an impressive security detail. (Heaven’s, of course. They’re also dressed in all white and wearing mitre hats with SECURITY embroidered across the front in gold beadwork. Jun wonders, briefly, if this is where Hoshi gets his inspiration from.)

You’re escorted to a seat. There are seven chairs on the side of the table opposite Jun; you’re given the one in the middle, and Jeonghan and Joshua immediately move to sit on each side of you. You carry yourself with an easy confidence, not at all rattled by being here in this setting. It’s almost comical how your body language contrasts with Hoshi and Mingyu: how they’re at home, where they’re meant to be, and their unease is so apparent; and you’re where you’ve been exiled from, antithetical to what you’ve been put in charge of, a place that Jun knows picks at all those old wounds like a buzzard, and your composure is faultless.

Something you have to be, he figures.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, what’s with the long faces?” you ask, brows knit in faux-concern. You look the same as the last time Jun saw you—he’s sure it’s a power play, meant to throw him off, and it works. Heat simmers along his skin as the memories come flooding back. He wonders what you look like to everyone else. “It’s so lovely to see you all again.” You turn to Mingyu, who seems to shrink under your undivided attention. “Especially you, handsome. We’ve all been mourning the loss of our favorite eye candy.”

Mingyu squeaks. “Um!” He scrambles to the head of the table. His hands shake as he tries to unlock the tablet. “There’s, uh—an ag-agenda! For this me-meeting. Very important! Just one moment, please, and I’ll—”

“Very fascinating,” Jeonghan interjects. “Do you anticipate this happening at any point today? I have to oversee a workshop this afternoon about new ways to make men insecure about their penises and I simply cannot miss it. It’s my second-favorite event of the year.”

“What’s the first?” Jun can’t help but ask.

“The social media workshops. Next month’s is about online bullying and new ways to avoid getting banned by safeguarding teams so you can continue trolling in peace without fear of repercussions. The one after that is about sending in anonymous gossip to those Spotted In Such-and-such Facebook pages for places no one cares about.”

Joshua nods. “I think the Stevenage one is my favorite. When’s the workshop about the new Lego shapes to step on?”

Mingyu’s mouth snaps closed. In an attempt to nip the derailment in the bud, Hoshi says, “I think what our Head of HR meant to say was—”

“HR? None of you are human.”

“It stands for Heaven Relations, obviously,” Hoshi snaps, “and we’ve called this emergency meeting because we’ve been made aware of a very troubling development.”

You gasp. Lean forward and widen your eyes like you have no idea what he could possibly be referring to. “No! A troubling development, you say?” You fold your hands on the table. “Tell me all about it.”

Jun, however, cannot possibly play it so cool. Feels dread overtake his body as restless anxiety sets in. The mind reader that he is, Joshua sends him a discreet wink that does very little to settle his nerves. Still feels like he’s drank fifteen cups of light roast coffee and is about to sit for a law school exam he forgot to study for.

“It has come to our attention that…” Mingyu looks down at the tablet. Looks up and over at Hoshi. Grimaces. “Do I really have to say this?”

“Yes.”

He huffs and continues. “It has recently come to our attention that one Wen Junhui, would-be Pope and recently-licensed lawyer accepted into a contracted position at Their approval, has engaged in… sexual relations… with the being known colloquially as the Devil.”

Jeonghan looks sideways at you with the most disgustedly disappointed look Jun has ever seen appear on a face. To the contrary, Joshua leans across the table to high-five him and say, “You dirty dog! I bet it was better than that handjob, huh?” He leans back, whistles low. “Goddamn, why is it every time you get some action it’s like some end of days shit? You ever consider becoming celibate?”

“Not involuntarily,” Jun mumbles.

“Shame,” Jeonghan intones. You laugh at this.

Hoshi, once again fed up with his meeting being derailed, says to Jeonghan and Joshua, “Why are you two even here?” to which they reply, “We’re her advocates. We’re advocating.”

“No advocating has ever taken place while the three of you have been in this room.”

Jeonghan rolls his eyes. “At ease, Megamind.”

“Metatron,” Mingyu quietly corrects.

Jun snorts. Of course. Of course Hoshi is one of the most powerful archangels in Heaven. Speaker of God, permitted to be in Their presence and at Their side; celestial scribe and guide to humanity—the guy who appears earthside wearing crude t-shirts and stupid hats. Of-fucking-course.

All of this is enough to drive him to lunacy. All the things he didn’t and doesn’t know, all the secrets kept locked up tight, all the jokes he continues to be the butt of. Everyone in this room is on equal footing except him, and he’s the one seemingly on trial. Heaven doesn’t care what you do—your role is to sow chaos and they’re powerless to stop you, just as you’re powerless here. No, the only one that will feel the repercussions of this is Jun, not only because he’s the only one capable of being punished, but because he’s human.

He must sense his distress again, because Joshua mouths a watch this before saying, with all the conviction and tenacity of a seasoned prosecutor, “Allow me to advocate, then: we do not accept these accusations as fact without being presented with irrefutable proof, which I’m sure you have, considering you’ve made such a show of gathering us all here.”

Mingyu and Hoshi share a look.

“I—well, you see—”

“Surely you don’t need irrefutable proof to understand what a conflict of interest this is and why we’re concerned.”

“A conflict of interest which surely has already taken place?” Jeonghan tacks on. Joshua nods with grave sincerity. “Or have you called an impromptu, emergency meeting to discuss hypotheticals?” Mingyu and Hoshi share another look. “Gentlemen, need we remind you of the criteria that must be met before an emergency meeting may be called? I cannot imagine two high-ranking employees such as yourselves disregarded such strict protocols simply because of the parties involved?”

“Haaa, of course not!” Hysterical, frenzied laughter ensues. “No, no, we would never—”

Joshua shakes his head. “It sure is looking like that’s what has taken place here today, but I hate to assume the worst, so if you could just show us the permits I’m sure we can get this all cleared up.”

“Per-permits…?”

Jeonghan has all the patience in the world as he replies, “Section 894, subsection 12 of the accords states that in order for an emergency meeting to be called and granted between the constituents of Heaven and Hell, the proper permits must be filed and signed off on by the governing bodies of each at least 72 hours in advance. Now, it’s possible the paperwork was signed on our side, but as you know our boss is very, very busy and it seems to have been misplaced, so we have no way of confirming this.” You nod, sharing Joshua’s very serious look. “Hence the permits. Show them to us, please.”

There’s hope yet that Jun will get out of this. Be on the receiving end of his own strategy. Jeonghan and Joshua start up a show us the per-mits! show us the per-mits! chant that sends Hoshi and Mingyu into a panic. The latter, now soaked through with sweat, does a fruitless search on his tablet, while Hoshi tries to distract everyone with an interpretive dance none of them can make sense of.

“I believe this is a reflection of his current state of mind,” you say solemnly, playing the part of an esteemed art critic. “It’s histrionic on the surface, but once you dig deeper, it’s uncontrolled and frenetic at its roots. A wonderful metaphor for a fractured, disjointed mind, but severely lacking in execution.”

“Amen,” Jeonghan and Joshua say in unison.

Minutes pass. It’s clear the permits don’t exist, but Mingyu keeps up the charade of searching anyway, much to the delight of the Hell delegation. “Have you tried the top drawer of that thing?” Joshua asks right after Jeonghan suggests checking the trash folder on the desktop in his office. You, of course, stay quiet, content to soak up your victory in silence—albeit while looking extremely smug.

“Well!” you say, clapping your hands together with a wicked smile. “This was fun. Thank you both so much for the invite, but I fear we must be going. Duty calls.”

Hoshi is having none of this. Permits be damned, another snap of his fingers finds you bound to your chair, chains wrapped around each of your forearms. You hiss at the contact. “Whoa,” Jun whispers, and if Jeonghan’s and Joshua’s mouths hadn’t been removed by the same finger-snap, he assumes there’d be a crude joke coming his way.

“The three of you would do well to remember who and where you are.” Hoshi speaks with all the authority bestowed upon him. It’s a stark difference from how Jun usually sees him—aloof and unserious, more like a court jester—and it has him straightening in his chair. “None of us will be leaving this room until the matter is resolved.”

You roll your neck. Press your tongue into the fat of your cheek but otherwise don’t move. Pain flashes across your face each time the chains leave fresh wounds in your skin and Jun wants to tell them to cut it out, call this whole thing off, say it doesn’t mean anything, but he’s still so clueless. Still so far out of his depth. These matters concern him but are so far beyond his pay grade it’s all he can do to keep treading water.

And you know this, because you say, “There is no conflict of interest. Everything is business as usual.”

Hoshi doesn’t even make eye contact as he retorts, “Which is useless, coming from you.”

Mingyu offers up a tight-lipped smile. “I think what my colleague is trying to say is that we simply cannot trust word of mouth in a matter as serious as this. As I’m sure you understand, Wen Junhui is a special case. It’s quite rare They enlist the help of humans in such circumstances, and if he is no longer able to perform his duties in an unbiased manner due to your influence—”

Teeth grit, you repeat, “There is no conflict of interest.”

Mingyu sighs. Sets down his tablet and narrows his gaze. He seems to have shaken off the dregs of doubt and uncertainty, because he looks powerful. Looks intimidating, which is not a word Jun would have used to describe him twenty minutes ago. “Need I remind you of your role in this universe? Chaos and temptation; calamity and destruction. You serve no one. You do not speak in truths, nor are you concerned with them. Your ambition and pride were your downfall, and it seems you have learned nothing in the years since.” He turns his attention to Jun. “And if you doubt what I say, remember I witnessed all of this with my own eyes.”

“Scandalous! And what were you doing at the devil’s sacrament, Kim Mingyu?”

Jun nods, earning him an incredulous look from Hoshi. “Well, she has a point,” he defends. “There is that saying about stones and glass houses or whatever. He wouldn’t have seen all of those things if he hadn’t made a deal with her in the first place.”

Hoshi is quiet. Mingyu looks betrayed. “Are you not going to—”

“He, too, has a point,” the angel concedes. “I mean, did you really have to do all that? You were already hot and tall, I just don’t—”

Even with no mouths, it’s obvious Jeonghan and Joshua are snickering.

The bickering continues before eventually devolving into baseless name-calling. Jun’s head snaps back and forth like he’s watching a tennis match, and it’s not that far off. Mingyu hones in on your lack of character, prompting Hoshi to chime in with something equally cruel or just nonsensical in an attempt to back him up, and you handle both of them with ease, laughing off their taunting just to get under their skin. Which works, of course, so on and on it goes, ad nauseam, until Jun puts everyone out of their misery and puts an end to it.

“Isn’t anyone going to ask me how I feel?” At once the room goes silent, all squabbling ceased, and the sudden quiet has his ears ringing. “I know you don’t need me,” he says to you, amazed he can meet your eye when he feels like that admission is going to make him vomit. He turns to Mingyu and Hoshi. “But you two do, and throughout this whole experience I have been left out, lied to, and talked over. Did either of you ever stop to consider that’s why I refused the assignment and it has nothing to do with her? That she’s telling the truth when she says there’s no conflict of interest?”

At least they have the good sense to look embarrassed.

Mingyu is the first to crack. He bows slightly at the waist and says, “On behalf of Heaven, I would like to offer you our deepest and most sincere apologies.”

Hoshi follows suit. “Right. Exactly what he said.”

Jun studies each of them. Mingyu, he knows, is just doing what any human resources officer worth their salt would do: protect the company at all costs. Fortunately this works out in Jun’s favor. He’s important and necessary and, against all odds, has proven his worth and abilities to boot. Heaven can’t negotiate with Hell without him, and it’s this knowledge that spurs him on, has him crossing one leg over the other and folding his arms across his chest. Total power stance. Hoshi gapes a little.

“I think there’s a compromise to be found here.”

The compromise is this: just as there are souls in Hell that were meant to go to Heaven, the reverse is also true. Jun had stumbled across them during his hours of research: souls that had somehow slipped through the cracks and went north when they were meant to go south; souls stuck in an endless purgatory that a lax Judgment Deliverer let in because they didn’t feel like doing paperwork; judgment numbers in which an integer got input incorrectly. What he proposes is a one-for-one trade. Heaven wants Choi Seungcheol, so they’ll have to give up someone in return.

It evens the playing field—

“Which was the original intention, was it not?”

More importantly, and perhaps more selfishly, Jun will no longer be able to be used as a pawn. He’ll uphold his original agreement while doing the same for you—for Hell. He’ll rewrite the terms and conditions of the contracts after each soul has been judged fairly and impartially by both factions, essentially voiding the concept of sides.

“I would be working for you both,” he concludes. “It’s the only way any of this remains fair.”

(He’s also not trying to invoke your wrath and spend eternity getting dipped in hot oil, but he doesn’t feel it’s the right time to admit that.)

After a lengthy silence that Hoshi spends pressing against his ear, the angel eventually says, “Heaven is amenable to these terms if Hell is.”

You heave a long-suffering sigh that has Jun on the edge of his seat. This proposal was certainly better than the last one he’d pitched you, but you’re giving nothing away. Also of little help are Jeonghan and Joshua who have fallen asleep and are snoring loudly. Mingyu leans over to wipe a spot of drool from the corner of Joshua’s mouth. He doesn’t move.

After what feels like a lifetime, you nod. “Fine. Hell is also amenable to these terms.” A chorus of cheers. Jun does an embarrassing little wiggle out of excitement. Hoshi stands on top of the table and pumps his fist. Mingyu, still in HR mode, starts listing off all the potential new job titles for Jun.

(In the end his new name tag reads: Wen Junhui, Special Counsel to Heaven & Hell, Contracts Division.)

Before you leave, and before the celebrations can get too out of hand, Jun clears his throat. “I have a request,” he says, before adding on, “if the whole payment in forms other than money thing is still on the table.”

“It is,” Mingyu confirms.

“Great.” He sucks in a breath. Lets it go all disjointed and shaky. There’s no going back once he says this and they grant it—which they will, considering the way Mingyu’s nearly tripping over himself to give him whatever he wants. But it’s still a massive ask. It will still change the trajectory of his existence, just like that handjob had done. And even though he’s certain it’s what he wants, he still wonders if he’s making a mistake as he says, “I want to be immortal.”

Jeonghan and Joshua jerk awake. “What the fuck did he just say?”

Hoshi, too, looks stunned. “Uh, are you sure?”

No, Jun wants to say, please talk me out of it, but the words die in his throat when he looks at you. There’s not a hint of bewilderment to be found. No shock or awe. There’s just the smallest nod of your head, meant just for him, that says all he needs to hear—that you see him, that you recognize he’d gone through all of this insanity because he needed to find his own path, and that he’s finally found in it the meaning he’d been searching for.

“I’m sure,” he confirms, completely void of hesitation.

Hoshi scratches at the back of his neck. “Well, I—that’s quite a big request. I’ll have to see what we can do.”

Mingyu, however, spoils the inevitable surprise by giving him a thumbs-up.

After that, there isn’t much left to say. Mingyu formally concludes the meeting and thanks Hell for their attendance and participation, to which Jeonghan gives him the finger before disappearing in a plume of smoke that causes everyone to gag. Joshua takes advantage and slips out the door undetected. Mingyu and Hoshi are none the wiser until some of the employees down the hall start screaming. “Please excuse us,” Mingyu chokes out before he, too, disappears in the direction of the shouting. Hoshi hangs back, tries to swallow his amused smile, but then Mingyu returns to drag him away.

Only you and Jun remain. “What did Joshua do?” he asks, less to break the silence and more because he’s nosy.

“Released roughly three dozen of those terrifying tarantulas that eat birds.”

“Oh.”

Silence creeps in anyway—not awkward, but Jun can tell there’s something you want to say. Should he hover? He doesn’t want you to feel obligated (not that you would), but he can’t deny that he’s curious. You, the literal devil, reluctant to say something to him, just a human? It’s too good an opportunity to pass up.

“You’re not gonna get all clingy and weird now that we’ve had sex, are you?” he jokes.

Shockingly, you do not find this funny. “I may have lied about inventing Jenny McCarthy, but I did invent the guillotine. And the electric chair. And the rack—”

“Noted,” Jun replies, giddy all over. Can’t help it as he shoves his hands in the pockets of his slacks and rocks back on his heels. “Should I walk you to the door?”

“Don’t you dare,” comes your response, but Jun does it anyway. Gets away with it by dropping some quip about his mother raising him to be a gentleman, and it’d just destroy her if she knew Jun wasn’t abiding by her teachings.

Your reluctant smile is akin to pulling teeth, but it still shows up.

Whatever havoc had been wreaked by Joshua seems to have been solved. There’s blissful silence as the two of you reach the door, and Jun knows his escort is pomp and circumstance, that you could disappear in the blink of an eye the way Jeonghan had, but he appreciates you going through the motions for his sake, that you’ve allowed him a moment of normalcy.

“Was it hard coming back here?” he asks, leaning against the door frame to stem his desire to reach out for you.

“Well, it’s certainly never easy, but I’ve got plenty of psychologists down there I can talk it over with if need be.” You check an invisible watch. “Do you think Freud is available for lunch tomorrow?”

“If he’s not, I am.”

A bark of shocked laughter has you covering your mouth. “I did not expect that from you.”

“Did it work?”

“No,” you reply instantly. “Have a great weekend, Wen Junhui. I’m sure our paths will cross again soon.”

Jun nods… which is about all he can do, considering he’s stuck here for the time being. Hoshi sent him here, which means Hoshi’s the only one who can send him back—some stupid security rule Jun wasn’t paying attention to when it’d been explained to him. So he sticks the corner of his thumb in his mouth, thinks about how great your ass looked in those pants as you walked away, and pivots back into the conference room to await the angel with the stupid t-shirts.

Except, as soon as he turns around, there you are. Face to face. Close enough that your scent is paralyzing, but it’s different now—softer, he thinks; something that makes him feel less like he’s been ensnared in your web and more like he’s been invited in. Close enough that when you lean in he can feel the warmth of your breath on his skin, that sensitive spot just below his ear.

“You were wrong,” you say, so quiet he’s not sure he isn’t imagining your words, filling in the blanks of what he wants to hear. “What you said earlier, about me not needing you.”

Then you’re gone.

In the blink of an eye, just like he thought you’d be.

He makes a mental note to be available tomorrow around lunchtime.

If you've made it this far, thank you so much for reading! Sharing and reblogging my work is the best way to say you enjoyed it, but I also accept any and all feedback and screaming in my inbox. <3

[haologram]

⚖️ JURY'S OUT! Read your court report now!

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Title: Unveiling Hearts: The Law of Attraction Pairing: lawyer!Joshua x fem!lawyer!reader Genre: rivals to lovers, coworkers to lovers, lawyer au, romance, smut, fluff, angst Wordcount: 13.4k Rating: 18+

Synopsis: Two former law school rivals are forced to confront their past and present when they end up working together at the same firm. As old tensions resurface, their professional and personal lives become entangled, leading to unexpected challenges. Through rivalry and collaboration, they navigate the complexities of their relationship and careers, discovering that some connections are meant to be re-examined.

Warnings: reader is afab, smut (MDNI), slight dom/sub dynamics, switch!reader, switch!joshua, drunk sex, sex without protection (reader is on birth control), self-doubt, fighting (verbally)

A/N: this is a collab made by @haologram - find the Don't Hate, Litigate! masterlist here!

Disclaimer: The scenarios and depictions in my works are fictional and do not represent real-life situations. They do not aim to reflect the complexities of any culture, city, or individual. All characters are entirely fictional, regardless of names or descriptions.

MDNI: Adults only. Minors are not allowed. Any minors found will be blocked.

Join my taglist // Masterlists

As soon as your eyes flutter open, an unsettling sensation grips you. Despite the blinds being tightly drawn, an unusual brightness floods the room, casting an eerie glow on the walls. The familiar muffled sound of your neighbor’s TV, a constant background noise every morning, is conspicuously absent. This odd silence is jarring. Your heart races as you turn to glance at the clock, its digital display blinking erratically, showing a time far later than your usual wake-up. Panic sets in as you realize your alarm never went off, and you've overslept by a crucial half-hour.

With a string of curses, you stumble out of bed, your feet tangling in the sheets as you lurch toward the closet. Frantically, you grab the first outfit in sight. The button-down shirt you pull on is slightly wrinkled, and you tuck it into your pencil skirt with hurried, sloppy movements. You mutter under your breath, knowing that this disheveled look is a problem for the future you to handle.

Struggling with your pantyhose, you nearly topple over, muttering a string of curses. "Damn you, alarm clock, this is all your fault," you grumble, your voice tinged with frustration. Finally dressed, you sprint into the kitchen, where the unfamiliarity of your new space looms large. "Where are the cups?" you groan, flinging open cabinets and drawers in a frantic search. Each empty cabinet and misplaced item heightens your frustration, making your heart race even faster. After what feels like an eternity, you stumble upon a bowl and, with a resigned sigh, decide it will have to do for your much-needed coffee.

Tofu, your white, fluffy cat, watches you with an air of amused indifference. His emerald eyes follow your every move as you haphazardly brew coffee in the bowl. "Really, Tofu? Just going to sit there and judge me?" you mutter, glancing at him. He meanders over to his food bowl's usual spot, looking at you expectantly. "Great, even the cat knows this place better than I do," you sigh, shaking your head. You scoop out his food and place the bowl on the tray, giving him a quick pet. "Bye, Tofu. Be good," you say, but he merely flicks his tail and turns his back, more interested in his breakfast than your farewell.

Turning to the hallway mirror, you take a moment to compose yourself. You meticulously smooth down each unruly wisp of hair and straighten your blazer with unwavering attention to detail. The reflection staring back at you looks polished and composed, a stark contrast to the chaos of your morning. Satisfied, you grab your bag and dart out the door, mentally steeling yourself for the whirlwind of tasks and challenges that await.

As you arrive at the law firm, you navigate the bustling corridors, your mind already racing with the tasks you need to catch up on. The familiar hum of office chatter and the clatter of keyboards provide a strange sense of comfort amidst the morning's turmoil. You barely settle into your chair, your to-do list unfurling in your mind, when your boss's voice rings out, "We need you in the conference room for an urgent meeting."

You grab your coffee mug, now filled with the hastily brewed beverage, and head to the meeting. "So much for a moment to relax," you think, your shoulders tensing with the anticipation of another demanding day. As your colleagues file into the room, you steel yourself for the challenges ahead. Despite the morning's chaos, you know you have to keep pushing forward.

When you enter the room, you notice a familiar figure standing by the window, reviewing a stack of documents. A tall, handsome man with a dark navy suit and his hair swept back in a haphazard way – the kind of hairstyle that looks effortless, but everyone secretly knows is high maintenance. Your heart skips a beat as you recognize him— Joshua Hong, from law school. The years have been kind to him; he still has the same confident stance and sharp eyes.

You sit down in your usual seat, praying that your old-school rival doesn’t recognize you. Today out of all days – when you look disheveled and tired as all hell – he just had to appear. If you remember correctly, he works for a rival company and you spend several minutes wracking your brain for an answer as to why he is there. Your boss begins discussing the new, urgent case you are assigned to, but your attention is divided between the details of the case and the presence of Joshua. You feel a mix of surprise and irritation at seeing him again, memories of your intense rivalry flooding back.

Once the meeting ends, you’re hurriedly packing your things together to avoid Joshua – you know you wouldn’t be able to avoid him completely, but maybe you could buy yourself enough time to go to the bathroom and put yourself together. However, your plans are disrupted by your supervisor who comes walking over to you.

“Y/L/N, you were unusually quiet today,” he says with a furrowed brow. “Is anything the matter?”

Your supervisor is kind, and you feel truly fortunate to have him. However, his timing leaves much to be desired. As he calls your name, you notice Joshua's head snap in your direction, his eyes narrowing with interest. Maybe he had already seen you, but now he seizes the opportunity to approach. His confident stride carries him across the room, a faint smirk playing on his lips. He joins the two of you, thanking your supervisor for a good first meeting before turning his full attention to you.

“Y/N,” he says, his tone laced with a hint of amusement, his eyes gleaming. “It’s been a while.”

You force a smile, striving to keep your tone neutral. “Joshua. I didn’t expect to see you here,” you reply, noting how his presence seems to fill the room with an almost overbearing energy.

“I just transferred from my old company,” he replies, his voice carrying a familiar, competitive edge. His gaze locks onto yours, unyielding. “Looks like we’ll be working together.”

“Looks like it,” you respond, your heart pounding as you struggle to remain composed. “Welcome to the company, Joshua.” Your words feel stiff, formal, a shield against the flood of emotions his presence invokes.

As you leave the meeting, the cold, distant persona from your university days begins to surface. Memories of who you used to be, shaped by Joshua’s antics, flood back, making you cringe. You recall yourself as the harsh critic, the goody-two-shoes who somehow managed to be a vicious competitor, always driven to outperform everyone else. That fierce competitiveness got you through school, but now, in hindsight, you can’t believe how ruthless you were. The entire situation feels surreal, like a never-ending nightmare.

When you finally reach your office, you glance out the window, only to see Joshua talking to your supervisor again. The sight of him triggers a flood of unwanted memories. He notices you staring and waves playfully, a smug grin on his face. Quickly, you avert your gaze, wishing you could crawl back into bed and escape the reality of work.

The atmosphere in the office feels stifling as you try to focus on your tasks. The bustling environment, usually a source of motivation, now feels oppressive. The fluorescent lights cast a harsh glare, and the incessant hum of conversations around you becomes a dull roar in your ears. Your mind keeps drifting back to Joshua, and the uneasy feeling in your stomach grows.

As the day drags on, you find it increasingly difficult to concentrate. Every little sound seems amplified—the rustle of papers, the click of keyboards, the distant ring of phones. Your thoughts are a jumbled mess, and you can't shake the anxiety gnawing at you. When lunchtime finally arrives, you retreat to a quiet corner of the break room, seeking a moment of solace.

Sitting with your back against the wall, you close your eyes and take a deep breath, trying to center yourself. The familiar scent of coffee and the murmur of your colleagues’ conversations provide a small measure of comfort. You remind yourself that you’ve faced challenges before and emerged stronger. This time will be no different.

When you return to your desk, you catch sight of Joshua once more. He stands at the center of a group of coworkers, his animated gestures and infectious laughter commanding their attention. The sunlight streaming through the office windows catches the gleam of his watch and the crisp lines of his tailored suit, accentuating his charismatic presence. His eyes twinkle with that familiar confidence, and every so often, he glances around the room, as if he owns it.

You take a deep breath, feeling a knot of tension in your stomach. Steeling yourself, you remind yourself that his reappearance will not unsettle you. Squaring your shoulders, you walk with purpose to your desk, the clicking of your heels on the polished floor echoing your determination.

Settling into your chair, you take a moment to ground yourself. The familiar hum of the office envelops you, a steady rhythm that helps you regain your focus. You arrange your papers neatly, your fingers tracing the edges of each document, seeking comfort in the orderliness. The scent of fresh coffee from your mug mingles with the faint aroma of office supplies, creating an oddly soothing atmosphere.

With renewed resolve, you dive into your work, your fingers dancing over the keyboard with practiced efficiency. The tasks before you, once daunting, now seem manageable. You immerse yourself in the flow of productivity, your mind honing in on each detail, each challenge. The turbulent morning fades into the background, replaced by the clarity of purpose.

Just as you settle back into your workflow, you stand to retrieve a document from the printer. As you round the corner, you collide directly with Joshua, who is holding a stack of papers. His documents scatter across the floor, and for a brief moment, you lock eyes.

"Watch where you’re going," you say, trying to keep your voice steady.

Joshua bends down to gather his papers, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. "Looks like some things never change," he retorts. "Still as clumsy as ever, I see."

You kneel to help him, your fingers brushing against his as you both reach for the same document. A jolt of annoyance surges through you, mingled with an unwelcome spark of attraction. "And you're still as irritating as ever," you reply, your tone sharp.

He chuckles, the sound low and infuriatingly charming. "It's good to see you haven't lost your edge."

"Good to see you haven't lost your overconfidence," you snap back, handing him the last of his papers. "Just stay out of my way."

"Can't make any promises," he says, his eyes twinkling with that competitive spark. "But I'll try to be more careful around you."

You stand up, brushing off your skirt, and take a step back. Joshua stands up with you, looking at you expectantly. Some of his, otherwise perfectly slicked back, hair had fallen out of place over his forehead. "You do that," you say, turning on your heel and walking away.

The encounter leaves you simmering, but also oddly invigorated. The rivalry that once pushed you to your limits in university now fuels your determination, and the undercurrent of attraction only adds to the tension.

Returning to your desk, you feel a renewed sense of focus. Despite the lingering presence of Joshua in the back of your mind, you remind yourself that you’re capable and resilient. Each completed task, each problem solved, reinforces your confidence. You glance up occasionally, noting the bustle of the office around you, a testament to the day marching on.

Later that evening, you meet up with your friend Nari at your favorite bar. The warm ambiance and the hum of conversations provide a comforting backdrop as you both settle into a booth with your drinks. It’s just what you need after your chaotic day at work, and you let yourself fully relax – something that your friend seems to be unable to do. Nari sips her cocktail and sighs deeply, clearly exasperated.

“Another bad date?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

“Yeah,” Nari groans. “I don’t know why I even bother with these dating apps anymore. They never seem to work out.”

You nod sympathetically. Nari’s dating woes are a frequent topic of conversation, almost to the point where you have a script of what to say. “Maybe you need to take a break from them.”

“What am I doing wrong, Y/N?” she exclaims with a pout.

“You’re not doing anything wrong,” you correct her. “None of these guys you’re seeing can reach up to your standards, that’s all.”

Nari swirls her drink thoughtfully. “I just can’t get that one guy out of my head. Do you remember the one I met at the bar a few years ago? We had this amazing conversation all night, but I never got his number.”

You scoff playfully, rolling your eyes. “You're such a romantic, Nari. Holding out hope for some guy you met once.”

“You don’t understand! We talked for hours, at some point I thought I'd never go home– and I was fine with it! I think we talked about Billy Elliot for, like, an hour. We both had been crying through it as kids, apparently,” she explains. “It felt like I had met a soulmate... not just because of that, of course, but we were so alike in everything we talked about! I’ve never met anyone like that.”

“This is why I can’t do what you do,” you say. “I can’t do romance, I’d just end up disappointed.”

Nari laughs and leans in closer, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Speaking of romance, what about you and Joshua? Seems like you two have a lot of unresolved tension.”

You nearly choke on your drink. “Joshua? No way. He’s just... ugh, he’s always been a pain. And now I’ll have to deal with him again. I thought I was done with him after uni.”

“Uh-huh,” Nari teases, raising an eyebrow. “A handsome, successful pain who you just can’t stop thinking about.”

You shake your head in an attempt to drown out her claims, but you can’t deny that Joshua has been occupying your thoughts since you saw him earlier. Despite feeling annoyed by his presence, you find yourself strangely intrigued by the possibilities. It’s strange how someone you despised could still ignite a sense of motivation within you.

“Do you know why he transferred?” Nari asks, bringing you out of your thoughts.

“Not at all,” you admit. “I thought he was pretty much in love with his old company– that’s what it sounded like in school, at least.”

“I have a memory of you complaining about that, yeah.” She nods and sips on her drink before she gets an idea that almost makes her jump out of her seat. “If you’re going to start complaining about Joshua now, I think I’m allowed to talk about my almost-soulmate! We should take turns!”

“Why are you so excited about that?” You laugh at her eccentric behavior.

“Because now I finally have something to hold over your head!” she exclaims and the two of you laugh together.

After finishing your drinks, you and Nari leave the bar, bickering lightheartedly about your love lives before you head your separate ways. Walking home, the cool night air does little to clear your head. Your thoughts drift back to Joshua and the memories of your law school days. You remember the heated debates, the competitive spirit, and most vividly, the times you compared test scores after the particularly grueling exams. Everything you did, in the end, you did to beat Joshua. It’s part of the reason you ended up at the top of your class, you’re sure of it.

As you unlock your door and step into your apartment, your cat greets you with a soft meow. You sigh, kicking off your shoes and recounting the day’s events to your furry friend. “Can you believe it, Tofu? Joshua Hong, of all people.”

Your cat blinks at you, unimpressed by your human drama. Shaking your head, you head to the bathroom to get ready for bed. After feeding Tofu, you walk into your bathroom to do your skincare. As you brush your teeth, you catch your reflection in the mirror, thinking about Joshua’s smirk and the way he still knows how to get under your skin. You shiver at the thought, quickly spitting out the toothpaste in your sink before going into your bedroom.

Finally, you crawl into bed, setting your alarm with extra care this time. 

“Not going to be late again,” you mutter to yourself, determined to face whatever challenges tomorrow brings, including Joshua. As you drift off to sleep, your dreams are filled with memories of past rivalries and the confusing mix of emotions that come with seeing Joshua again.

The next day, you walk into the office determined to focus on your work and ignore Joshua. However, that plan quickly falls apart. As soon as you start reviewing the case files, Joshua walks up behind you in the meeting room. He looks over your shoulder, at the notes you have on your computer, and points out a section you had just written.

“Are you sure you want to approach the case like this?” he asks, pointing to your notes. “I think your argument here is a bit weak.”

You glare at him, refusing to back down. “I’m confident in my approach, Joshua. Maybe you should focus on your work instead of nitpicking mine.”

He smirks, raising an eyebrow. “Just trying to help. Wouldn’t want you to get left behind.”

From that moment, the rivalry that had simmered since law school reignites with full force. Every interaction becomes a contest of who can outdo the other, with you both constantly trying to prove your superiority. Meetings turn into battlegrounds of sharp words and pointed comments, neither of you willing to concede any ground.

Weeks pass, and your frustration with Joshua grows. You vent to Nari over lunch, recounting the latest clash with your rival.

“He just gets under my skin,” you fume, stabbing at your salad. “He questions everything I do, and it’s driving me crazy.”

Nari listens patiently, a knowing smile on her face. “You know, all this bickering sounds like something else to me.”

You look at her, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Nari says, leaning in, “as I said before, it sounds like you two have a lot of unresolved tension. To me, all of your stories sound like he’s flirting with you. Maybe you should just ask him out and get it over with.”

You blink in surprise, caught off guard by the suggestion. “Ask him out? Joshua? Are you kidding?”

“Think about it,” Nari insists. “You guys are already close, and there’s clearly something there. It might be worth exploring.”

You shake your head, but Nari’s words linger in your mind. The idea seems absurd, yet the more you think about it, the more you wonder if there might be some truth to what she’s saying. It’s not like your love life can get any worse—it’s practically non-existent. Being with someone you know, someone who’s as passionate about work as you are might be a good thing. Maybe there is something beneath all the rivalry and tension that’s worth exploring.

Over the next few days, Nari’s words echo in your mind. The more you think about it, the more you realize there might be some truth to her suggestion. Joshua is good-looking and undeniably talented, and your interactions, while contentious, are always charged with a certain energy. You start to wonder if, beneath all that rivalry, there might be something more. And even if there wasn’t, maybe there could be something – you had been on your own for a while, it was time to find someone.

Finally, you decide to take Nari’s advice. You can’t deny that Joshua has been occupying your thoughts more than usual, and maybe it’s time to confront this situation head-on. After all, what’s the worst that could happen?

The case your team has been working on finally comes to a close, and you all decide to celebrate with a night out at a nearby bar. As the drinks flow, your usual restraint begins to wane, and you find yourself getting more and more intoxicated.

Encouraged by the alcohol and a sudden surge of confidence, you decide to go for it. You approach Joshua, your heart pounding in your chest. He’s standing by the wall, watching all of your coworkers play a game of mafia loudly. He managed to lose in the first round, and you followed shortly after—on purpose, to be alone with him.

“Joshua,” you slur slightly, trying to steady yourself. “I need to tell you something.”

He looks at you curiously, tilting his head. “What is it, Y/N?”

Taking a deep breath, you muster all your courage. “I’ve been thinking about it, and I think there’s something between us. Do you... want to go out with me?”

For a moment, there’s silence. Then Joshua sighs, a look of regret and guilt crossing his face. “Y/N, I... I have a girlfriend.”

Your heart sinks, the embarrassment hitting you like a sobering wave. “Oh,” you manage to say, your voice small. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“It’s okay,” he says gently. “I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression.”

You nod, forcing a smile. “No, it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have... I’m just gonna go.”

Even when he’s rejecting you, he’s perfect. Without waiting for a response, you turn and make your way outside, your vision blurring with unshed tears.

You find yourself sitting on the curb, the cool night air doing little to calm the storm of emotions swirling inside you. Through blurred vision, you order a cab on your phone. As you wait for your cab, your phone rings. It’s Nari.

“Hey, guess what!” she exclaims, her excitement palpable even through the phone, and she doesn’t even give you time to answer before she continues, “I found him! The guy from the bar all that time ago. We’re going out for fast food right now! His name is Vernon– can you believe how sweet that is?”

You force yourself to sound happy for her, even though your heart feels like it’s breaking. “That’s amazing, Nari. I’m happy for you.”

“Thanks, Y/N. I gotta go, but we’ll talk soon, okay? I’ll give you all the details later,” she whispers out the last part as if she’s scared to get caught.

“Sure,” you say, barely managing to keep your voice steady. “Have fun.”

As the call ends, you finally allow the tears to fall. The cab arrives, and you climb in, trying to hold back the sobs that threaten to escape. The driver doesn’t say anything as you give your address, and you spend the ride home in silence, the events of the night playing over and over in your mind.

When you finally get home, you collapse onto your bed, the weight of your unrequited feelings pressing down on you. Despite your best efforts, you can’t stop the tears that come, and you cry yourself to sleep, the heartbreak feeling all too real.

The next morning, you drag yourself to work, the events of the previous night still weighing heavily on your mind. The thought of facing Joshua again is too much to bear, so you decide to take action. After some deliberation, you gather your courage and head to your boss’s office.

“Come in,” your boss says as you knock on the door. You step inside, closing the door behind you.

“Good morning,” you greet, trying to keep your voice steady. “I wanted to discuss something important.”

Your boss looks up from his paperwork, giving you his full attention. “Of course, Y/N. What’s on your mind?”

Taking a deep breath, you say, “I’d like to request a transfer to a different department.”

Your boss raises an eyebrow. “A transfer? This is sudden. Is everything alright?”

You hesitate, choosing your words carefully. “I just think a change of scenery would be beneficial for me right now. Personal reasons, mostly.”

He studies you for a moment before nodding. “Well, it’s interesting you bring this up. You were due for a promotion. I was planning to discuss it with you later this week. If you’re looking for a change, we can consider promoting you to a different department.”

Surprise and relief wash over you. “Really? That would be... perfect.”

“Great. Let me work out the details, and I’ll get back to you by the end of the week,” he says, offering a reassuring smile.

“Thank you,” you reply, genuinely grateful.

For the rest of the week, you make a conscious effort to avoid Joshua. You adjust your schedule to minimize any potential interactions, keeping your head down and focusing on your work. Whenever you catch a glimpse of him in the hallway or the break room, you quickly divert your path, hoping to remain unnoticed.

The days crawl by, but finally, your boss calls you into his office again. “Y/L/N, I have some good news. We’ve finalized your promotion. Starting next week, you’ll be moving to the Corporate Law Department as a Senior Associate.”

A wave of relief floods over you. “Thank you so much. I appreciate the opportunity.”

“Congratulations, Y/N. I have no doubt you’ll excel in your new role.”

As you leave his office, you can’t help but feel a mix of emotions. Relief at the promotion and the prospect of a fresh start, but also a lingering sadness at how things turned out with Joshua. You throw yourself into your new role, working hard to establish yourself and make the most of the opportunity.

Months go by, and you successfully manage to avoid Joshua. Your new position keeps you busy, and the physical distance between departments helps. Slowly, you begin to find your footing again, the sting of rejection fading with time.

While the rivalry with Joshua may be behind you, the memory of it lingers, a reminder of the complicated dynamics that can exist between two people. But for now, you focus on moving forward, determined to make the most of your career and whatever comes next.

It’s late spring, and Nari is practically glowing with happiness. She and her new boyfriend, Vernon, have been dating for a few months now, and they’ve just decided to take their first trip together. Over one of your weekly lunches, Nari excitedly tells you about the trip.

“Guess what?” Nari exclaims, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

“What’s up?” you ask, smiling at her enthusiasm – it was always nice to see her being so positive, something that’s happened more and more recently.

“Vernon’s friend invited us to stay at his summer house for a few days! It’s going to be amazing – a beautiful lake, lots of relaxation, and just what we need,” she gushes.

“That sounds fantastic,” you reply, genuinely happy for her.

Nari leans in a bit closer. “There’s more. Vernon’s friend said I could invite someone, and I want you to come with us.”

You’re taken aback. “Me? Are you sure? It’s your first vacation together, Nari. I don’t want to intrude.”

Nari shakes her head vigorously. “No, no, it’s not like that. I’ll be honest, I need you there. This is a big step for me and Vernon, and having you there would be a huge support. Plus, Vernon’s friend is single, and you never know…”

You laugh and shake your head. “I’m not going for a romantic setup, Nari. But if you need me there, I’ll come.”

Nari beams at you, relief evident on her face. “Thank you, Y/N. It means a lot to me.”

A week later, you find yourself nestled comfortably in the backseat of Vernon’s car. The gentle hum of the engine and the rhythmic swaying of the vehicle create a soothing backdrop as Nari and Vernon engage in lively conversation up front. The bustling cityscape slowly fades away, giving way to a more serene and picturesque countryside. Verdant fields extend endlessly on either side of the road, their lush green expanse interspersed with vibrant wildflowers that flutter playfully in the breeze. As the car's tires glide smoothly over the pavement, you watch the world outside morph into a stunning pastoral scene, the tranquil rhythm of the journey calming your senses.

When Vernon’s car finally rolls to a stop in front of the lake house, your breath catches. The estate before you is nothing short of magnificent, standing majestically against the backdrop of the glistening lake. The grand architecture of the lake house blends seamlessly with the surrounding nature, its wide verandas and large, inviting windows exuding an air of comfort and elegance. The entire property seems to beckon you inside, promising a retreat from the outside world.

You take a moment to soak in the breathtaking view, feeling an overwhelming sense of peace. The lake stretches out like a pristine mirror, reflecting the clear blue sky and the lush, green trees that frame its edges. The late afternoon sun casts long, golden shadows across the landscape, imbuing the scene with a warm, inviting glow. It feels like a perfect sanctuary where the demands of daily life simply melt away.

“Wow, this place is amazing,” you breathe out, your eyes wide with admiration as you take in the idyllic surroundings.

Vernon’s face lights up with pride. “Yeah, it’s quite something, isn’t it? My friend’s doing very well for himself.”

Your curiosity gets the better of you, and you turn to Vernon. “What does your friend do for a living?”

Vernon chuckles softly, clearly enjoying the moment. “Josh is a lawyer.”

The name hits you like a sudden jolt, and a sense of dread grips you. “Wait, a lawyer? Josh?”

Before Vernon can respond further, you notice a figure approaching the car. A wave of panic washes over you as you recognize the approaching figure.

Joshua Hong.

Desperation surges through you, and you scramble for an excuse. “Nari, can you drop me off at a bus stop or somewhere nearby? I just remembered I have an urgent appointment back home.”

Vernon, oblivious to your distress, steps out of the car to greet Joshua with a friendly wave. Nari, her concern evident, turns to you with a worried expression. “Y/N, are you okay?”

You manage a strained smile, hoping to alleviate her concern. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just a last-minute thing.”

Nari’s concern deepens as she looks around, considering your request. “I’m sorry, but there aren’t any bus stops around here for a while. Is it really that urgent?”

“It’s about to be…” The urgency in your voice is more than noticeable, but you know you have no choice but to face Joshua. With a heavy heart, you brace yourself and step out of the car, greeting him with a curt nod.

“Joshua,” you say, striving to keep your voice steady despite the turmoil roiling within you.

“Y/N,” he replies, his tone polite but his eyes revealing a hint of surprise at seeing you.

Vernon, sensing the tension, steps in to diffuse the situation. “Joshua, Y/N is Nari's friend I mentioned earlier.”

Joshua nods politely, his gaze lingering on you a moment longer than necessary. “Nice to see you again, Y/N.”

You muster a tight-lipped smile, doing your best to conceal the inner storm. “Likewise.”

Nari glances between you and Joshua, her curiosity piqued. “You two know each other? From where?”

“From work,” you and Joshua say in unison, the shared response hanging in the air.

Nari’s eyes widen slightly as she processes this. “Oh… it’s that Joshua…” she murmurs under her breath, and you feel a headache beginning to brew by the front of your head.

As you follow Nari and Vernon inside, you can’t shake the feeling that this trip might not be as relaxing as you hoped – especially with Joshua Hong in such close proximity.

The group settles into the lake house, and you’re shown to your rooms by Joshua. Nari and Vernon are assigned the more spacious guest room, leaving you with the smaller one just down the hall from Joshua’s room. It’s a beautiful place, but the proximity to Joshua adds another layer of discomfort. He shows it to you while the other two unpack their bags. When you’ve walked into the room and put your bag down, Joshua leans against the door frame.

“I heard you got a promotion,” he begins, breaking the silence.

“Yeah, I did,” you reply tersely, not sure where this conversation is headed.

“Congratulations,” he says, his voice sincere.

“Thanks,” you mutter, feeling uneasy under his gaze.

“Listen, if I had known that it was you, I would’ve asked Nari to invite someone else,” Joshua admits his words causing a pang of disappointment in your chest.

“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint,” you retort.

“That’s not what I—” he starts to explain, but you cut him off.

“I’ll leave as soon as I figure out a way to get home,” you declare, already planning your escape. "They insisted on driving me here, so I don't exactly have a way of escaping."

“Y/N, you should stay,” Joshua insists, his tone softer now. “I’ve never seen you take time off before. You should enjoy yourself.”

You scoff bitterly. “You think I can enjoy myself when you’re around?”

“I’ll stay out of your way as much as I can,” Joshua offers, ignoring your bitterness. “As long as Nari and Vernon haven’t planned group activities.”

You pause, considering his words. The prospect of leaving this beautiful retreat because of Joshua doesn’t sit well with you, but neither does the thought of spending more time in such close quarters with him.

“... fine. Let’s hope they haven’t,” you concede reluctantly, closing the door with a finality that hangs heavily in the air.

As Joshua walks away, you close the door and lean against it, taking a deep breath to steady yourself. This vacation suddenly feels more like a test of endurance than a relaxing getaway.

Despite the close quarters of the lake house, you manage to maintain a respectful distance from Joshua. You navigate the space with a careful precision, orchestrating excuses to linger in the background or to partake in activities where he’s less likely to be present. It's a delicate dance of avoidance—sidestepping eye contact and keeping your conversations short and polite whenever your paths intersect.

One afternoon, Nari proposes a boat ride around the lake. You agree reluctantly, hoping the change of scenery will provide a welcome distraction from the uncomfortable tension that lingers between you and Joshua. As you settle into the boat, the engine’s soft rumble vibrates through the seats, and you take a deep breath, attempting to embrace the moment.

Across from you, Vernon occupies his seat with a quiet, unassuming presence. His warm smile and relaxed demeanor are new to you, as you haven’t had much chance to interact with him until now. He seems genuinely at ease, contrasting sharply with the tension you feel.

“I heard about what happened between you two,” Vernon says, his voice gentle but carrying an undercurrent of curiosity.

You glance over at Joshua, who stands by the steering wheel, showing Nari the intricacies of boat operation. Nari, bundled up in one of Vernon’s oversized sweaters, tugs at the sleeves as she watches Joshua’s every move. She studies the way he operates the boat with knitted brows, nodding along to every other word he says.

Joshua, dressed in his annoyingly perfect white t-shirt and black swimming trunks, looks effortlessly handsome, and it stings to see him so relaxed. His hair is messily slicked back, kept in place by the salty water from his swim earlier- which you definitely didn't witness. Some of the water still clings to his slightly sunburnt skin. A pair of sunglasses sit on the tip of his nose, and you can't really see where he's looking but you hope for everyone's sake that he's looking at the water and not you. With him far enough away to allow for candid conversation, you turn back to Vernon with a sigh.

“Did he tell you everything?” you ask, your voice carrying a trace of exasperation.

“Pretty much,” Vernon responds with a thoughtful hum. “Honestly, I’m on your side. He’s a big flirt.”

“You can say that again.” You take a sip of the cocktail Nari had prepared for the group, the fruity flavor providing a momentary distraction. “I think it’s in his nature…”

Vernon chuckles, lifting his own drink to his lips. There’s something surprisingly comforting about his presence, and you begin to feel a sense of camaraderie with him.

“Thank you for everything you’ve done for Nari, by the way,” you say, your tone sincere. “I haven’t seen her this happy in a long time.”

Vernon shrugs modestly, but his small, genuine smile betrays his pleasure. “I just like making her happy... Actually, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

“Go ahead,” you encourage, curiosity piqued.

“I’ve been thinking of asking her to move in with me,” Vernon confesses, his voice laced with both excitement and nervousness. You hum thoughtfully. “Things have been going so well—so I was considering asking her with flowers, lilies.”

“She’ll love that.” You nod approvingly. “She’s quite the romantic—getting her flowers that she's named after will definitely make her swoon.”

You both chuckle at the thought, glancing over at Nari, who waves cheerfully from her spot. The warmth of the moment makes you realize that Vernon’s proposal is heartfelt and genuine. You turn back to him, offering more advice. “Asking her to move in with you is a great idea. I’m sure she’d love it. She’s just a bit shy when it comes to big gestures. It might be better to do it after the trip, when you’re alone. She likes to keep things private.”

“Good to know.” Vernon nods, setting his glass back down with a thoughtful expression.

“I’m not her best friend for nothing,” you say with a hint of pride.

“True,” Vernon agrees with a smile. “... Can I give you some advice too?”

“Shoot,” you reply, looking at him with an intrigued gaze.

“Try again,” he suggests softly, his tone carrying a note of encouragement. “With Joshua, I mean.”

“Doesn’t he have a girlfriend?” you ask, feeling a mix of hope and skepticism.

“Things have changed...” Vernon’s fingers fidget slightly, as if he’s weighing his words carefully. “I won’t speak for him, but just… give it a try.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” you say with a resigned sigh. “Maybe I will.”

As the boat glides smoothly across the lake’s tranquil waters, the gentle lap of waves against the hull offers a brief respite from the storm of emotions swirling within you. The serenity of the lake, combined with Vernon’s unexpected support, provides a welcome escape from the lingering tension at the lake house.

As the vacation nears its end, you find yourself alone with Joshua on the porch one evening – Vernon’s words floating freely in your mind. You’re not sure how you ended up sitting with Joshua, but you were tipsy enough not to care. After the drinks before and during dinner, on top of the beer you’re drinking now, your ability to think of the consequences of your actions has flown out the window. So, sitting next to Joshua on the deckchairs is the least of your worries at the moment.

The sun sets in a blaze of orange and pink hues, casting a warm glow over the lake house porch where the two of you sit. There’s tension in the air, a mix of unresolved rivalry and unspoken attraction that has lingered between you for so long.

Joshua breaks the silence, his voice gentle yet filled with determination. “I heard Vernon’s going to ask Nari to move in with him.”

“He is.” You nod. “It’s sweet.”

“Do you think it’s a good idea?” he questions.

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“It’s only been a few months, they barely know each other… I just think it’s better if they wait.” Joshua takes a sip of his beer.

“I think you’re being pessimistic.” You put down your own bottle of beer. “They’re good for each other. Some people can have all the time in the world and still not work out, why shouldn’t they try it out?”

Joshua pauses, looking over at you with a questioning gaze. You watch the gears turning in his head, and he eventually groans when he comes to a realization. “Vernon told you about my break up, didn’t he?”

“Nothing gets past you, does it?” You sigh. “It’s not like I pried the information out of him, you know?”

“I know, I just… we have a history that makes everything awkward, somehow,” Joshua says. “It just adds to it, I guess– I should’ve told him not to say anything.”

“It’s fine. Why should I care?” You fidget with your nails.

Joshua placed his half-empty bottle of beer down on the wooden table, the condensation leaving a small ring on the surface. As he did so, he shot a quizzical look in your direction, raising one eyebrow in playful curiosity. A rush of excitement bubbled up inside you, but you quickly attributed it to the alcohol. Nevertheless, unable to contain your amusement, a soft giggle escaped your lips as you returned his gaze with a coy grin and raised your eyebrows inquisitively, silently prompting him to explain his unexpected gesture.

“You don’t care?” he asks, “Not at all? Not one bit?”

“Not at all.” You take another sip of your beer. “Not one bit.”

Joshua hums in disapproval, slowly shaking his head – but his smile gave away that he was joking around. The look he gave you, something secret glittering in his eyes, took you back to all those years ago. He looked the same as he did in university. Maybe his smile lines were a bit more pronounced, and maybe you could find gray hairs if you looked closely, but he was pretty much the same. A proper boy next door with an irresistible charm.

“I could’ve sworn that you asked me out a few months ago,” he argued. “To me, that seems like caring– I don’t know about you.”

“Shut up.” You playfully roll your eyes at him and put your beer bottle down next to his. “Let’s forget about it. I should’ve known you weren’t interested, anyway.”

“I don’t want to forget about it,” Joshua confesses. “And who says I’m not interested?”

You cast a furtive glance in Joshua's direction, your eyes widening in surprise, but he responds with a casual shrug. As he sits up, he swings his legs over the deckchair's edge to squarely face you. His tousled hair adds to his disheveled charm, prompting you to sit up a bit and instinctively reach out to straighten it, but you stop yourself just in time. The two of you are seated with your feet pointing toward each other, both of you feeling the weight of anticipation for what might unfold next hanging in the air.

“You’re interested in me?” you ask.

“Why do you think my relationship went to shit?”

You guffaw at his statement as if it was the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever heard. However, Joshua looks back at you with complete seriousness.

“You’re saying you broke up with your ex because of me?” you say.

“I might as well have,” he confesses. “She said I talked too much about you… even went so far as to encourage me to go after you ‘now that I’m single,’ although I don’t think she was being serious with that one.”

Hearing about Joshua’s failing relationship, because of you no less, satisfies the little monster of envy in your chest. You can’t help but laugh at the situation, though you quickly cover your mouth and apologize.

“No, you’re right.” He picks his beer up again and takes a sip. “It is funny.”

“... you talked about me?” you question, and lean forward as if to encourage him to share his secrets. “What did you say?”

“I’m not sure if I should tell,” he mutters and leans forward as well. “Do you really want to know?”

“Desperately,” you say dramatically, making Joshua laugh.

“Most of the time I complained– but apparently my tangents were too flirtatious in nature.”

“That’s just like you.” You nodded. “You flirt with everyone.”

“Of course, you would think that…” he murmurs and glances down at your lips. “The truth is, Y/N… I only flirt with you.”

“That’s not true! I’ve seen you! You chat up every woman I’ve ever seen you work with– not to mention the way you always try to flatter our superiors.”

“Flattery and flirting are different, sweetheart.” He puts down the bottle again and moves a little closer to you. “I thought you, out of all people, would’ve noticed that by now.”

You can only stare at Joshua, your mind completely blank of any retaliation that you would usually come up with. Not even when Joshua reached over to you, and grabbed your hand; not even when he pulled you up to your feet and guided you over to where he was sitting, could you come up with anything to say.

You only stare as he grabs your beer from your hand and puts it on the table, before making you straddle his lap. Everything in your mind is screaming at you to do something – you’re surprised by how easily you give in to him, but you do nothing to stop it.

“Is this okay?” he asks and you can only nod in response. “Not feeling so chatty anymore?”

Who is this man? You don’t recognize the Joshua in front of you – when did he gain the ability to make you weak in the knees? With a gentle touch, Joshua traces the skin of your arms until he reaches your hands – which he puts on his shoulders. His every move is slow, giving you the opportunity to deny him. You don’t. Joshua lets out a chuckle at your wide eyes and slightly parted lips.

“Who even are you?” you manage to whisper.

“Tonight? I’m whoever you want me to be.” 

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m sober enough to know what I want,” he argues. “Do you?”

You swallow and glance down at his lips, at the way the tip of his tongue darts out to wet them ever so slightly — has he always had such perfectly kissable lips? When Joshua’s hands play with the hem of your shirt, you’re brought back to your senses. He raises his eyebrows, silently repeating his question.

“Fuck it,” you mutter under your breath. “Take me to your room.”

Nari and Vernon are already asleep at the other end of the house, deciding to take an early night after the drinking and constant sun exposure tired them out, so Joshua carries you through the house without worry. He’s already kissing you by the time he opens the door to his bedroom – the only room you haven’t seen in the house.

His bed is neatly made, everything put into place, although you hardly notice it as Joshua’s keeping you much too busy. He throws you on the bed, before crawling up to you himself. You find yourself pinned under him, as he drinks in the sight of you looking like the perfect prey.

“Will you let me have my way with you without biting back tonight, sweetheart?” he murmurs before pressing another soft kiss to your lips.

“Depends on if you can shut me up or not,” you tease.

“Oh, you’re just begging to be taught a lesson, aren’t you?”

You shut him up with another kiss, and he smiles against your lips. As your hands find their way under his t-shirt, he pulls away for a second to pull it over his head. Your hands reach out to touch him, admire his toned, sunkissed torso—cursing yourself for saying no when the rest of the group went out to swim earlier today. Joshua’s hands are playing with the hem of your shirt now, and you sit up to take it off. One of his hands cups your still-covered breast, while the other gently caresses your waist.

“Beautiful,” he mutters under his breath before bending down to leave marks along your clavicle.

You turn your head to give him more access, a gasp escaping your lips as his teeth graze against your delicate skin. His hands go behind your back, unclipping the clasp of your bra and pulling the straps down your shoulders.

You cup his cheek, your fingers trembling slightly as you study his flushed face. The intensity in his eyes and the warmth of his skin feel almost surreal, as if this moment is one you’ll never experience again. Your breath comes in shallow, uneven gasps, the air around you charged with an electric tension that makes it almost impossible to think clearly.

“What are you doing to me?” he asks, his voice a mix of confusion and desire. His breath mingles with yours, each exhale heavy with the weight of unspoken emotions.

“Is it me or is it the alcohol?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper, each word laden with uncertainty.

“I don’t know,” he admits, his eyes locked onto yours, his gaze searching for answers that neither of you seem to have.

Before you have a chance to respond, the space between you closes with a sudden intensity. His lips crash against yours, the contact sending a jolt of electricity through your entire body. The world narrows to just the sensation of his kiss, every other thought and concern momentarily forgotten. The tension that had been building between you erupts in this singular, explosive moment, leaving you breathless and utterly consumed.

Joshua pushes one of his knees between your legs, and you moan into his mouth at the contact. The sound ignited something within him, and he began kissing down your body. When he reached the top of your jeans, he expertly undid the button and zipper and pulled the pants off your body. A wet stain is visible on your gray panties, and Joshua presses his thumb against it. An urge to close your legs hits you then, but he’s holding them apart—as if he’s protecting his right to see you like this with his life.

Soon enough, he’s ripping your panties off and diving into your pussy. His tongue is messy, toying with your clit before moving down to your hole. Joshua moans, his eyes rolling into the back of his head, as he tastes you. His arms wrap tightly around your thighs, holding you in place. Even if you wanted to escape his ministrations, you couldn’t.

“Oh god,” you moan, “Don’t stop!”

You should know better than to command Joshua to do something. As soon as the words leave your lips, his grip releases and he sits up on his knees. Your orgasm is dragged away from you, and you glare up at Joshua. He only grins back like a madman, his lower face covered in your juices.

With a huff, you sit up and go to unbutton his jeans—desperate to have him feel the same withdrawal. He halts your movements by softly placing his hands over yours, gently guiding them to a stop. You look up at him. His eyes are filled with lust as he cups your cheek, bending down to capture your lips in a kiss. You whimper when you taste yourself on him.

“Do you want me?” he murmurs against your lips.

“Please,” you whine.

“Tell me,” he hums. “Tell me that you want me.”

He leans his forehead against yours, staring into your soul. You can’t allow yourself to say it—you can’t give in to him this easily… right? But you do want him, that’s no secret by now. You don’t just want him, you need him.

“I want you, Joshua…”

With an animalistic growl, he pushes his lips against yours again. You help him get his pants off, your teeth clashing against each other as you move. There’s no time to savor feeling him up over his underwear, he just rips them off.

His calloused hands push you back onto the bed before he pushes your thighs apart again. He watches you like a man starved, waiting for any sign that you don’t want to continue. You reach out for him, and once he’s in your embrace you lock your legs around his waist.

“I give in,” you murmur in his ear. “Have your way with me.”

At your compliance, he aligns his cock with your core and pushes inside of you. The two of you groan at the feeling—something that you hadn’t felt in so long, to the point where you had forgotten how much better it felt than playing with your toys. You trail kisses down his jaw, to his throat. Joshua starts moving his hips against yours, and you find yourself in ecstasy. 

“You’re unbelievable,” he moans hoarsely.

You smile against the skin of his neck, only humming in approval. His dick was bigger than you could’ve imagined, filling you up to the point where you felt completely full, and when he slams into you like your pussy is the best he’s ever had, you can’t help but nearly scream for him. You can only hope that your friends are sound asleep.

“I should’ve done this sooner.” Joshua pants as he leans his forehead against yours. “You feel so good…”

For a moment, you swear that you heard him whine for you. As his hips stutter, you take the opportunity to maneuver yourself on top of him. Once you’re sitting on him, you grind your hips against his before you start bouncing. Joshua sits up, taking one of your tits in his mouth—his hands traveling from your waist to your upper back to push you further against him.

“Do you want to cum inside me, baby?” you ask.

Joshua peers up at you through his lashes, his eyes hazy with lust. His mouth detaches from your body, and you smile at the sight of his glossy and swollen lips. He nods, laying back down to fuck up into you. Joshua’s hands are back on your hips, keeping you still to let him do all the work.

“Holy fffuck–”

You reach your hand down to rub your clit, and Joshua moans as you clench around him. The two of you are babbling incoherently; begging the other to cum with you, telling each other that you’re so close, and letting out unintelligible moans.

By the time you’re cumming, you’re shaking and your eyes are rolling back into your head. You fall against Joshua as he starts slowing down his thrusts. His arms embrace you again, holding your sweaty body against his chest.

“Are you alright?” he whispers, his voice tender and concerned as it brushes against your ear.

“I’m good,” you slur out, struggling to piece together your fragmented thoughts.

For a brief moment, everything goes dark. When consciousness returns, you find yourself lying beside Joshua. The covers are now draped over both of you, cocooning you in a warm embrace. Joshua’s fingers trace gentle, soothing circles on your skin, his touch both comforting and intimate. As your eyes flutter open, you meet his gaze. His eyes hold a mixture of relief and affection, and a soft, reassuring smile spreads across his face.

“Hi,” he says, his voice low and gentle, as if he’s afraid to startle you.

“Hi,” you respond, your voice still shaky. “Was I out?”

“Only for a bit,” he murmurs, his fingers continuing their soothing motion. “I got us cleaned up and into bed. You didn’t miss much.” His tone is calming, filled with a quiet confidence that eases the lingering haze from your mind.

You chuckle, moving to lay closer to his chest. "I'm on birth control, by the way... you don't have to worry about any surprises."

Joshua hums in response. Your legs are already sore, but you find comfort in the slight sting. Joshua’s fingers don’t stop drawing circles and the action, along with the rhythm of his breathing, has you almost falling back asleep.

“I missed you after graduation,” he admits with a mutter. “I thought I’d find it peaceful, but I didn’t… I did everything to hide it, but maybe switching companies gave it away.”

“You switched companies for me?” You move to get a better look at him.

“Would it be embarrassing if I said yes?”

“Absolutely.” You grin, and he replies with a smile. 

You stifle a yawn, and Joshua coos at you in a way that you would’ve found annoying—but now, your heart swells a little in your chest. He brushes away a few stray hairs from your face.

“Go to sleep,” he murmurs. “We’ll talk more in the morning.”

“Goodnight.” You nuzzle your face back into his chest.

“Goodnight.

Morning brings a bittersweet awakening. Despite Joshua’s confession, despite the night you shared together, you can’t bring yourself to stay with him. You know that it would only end with broken hearts and an even more awkward atmosphere at work. No, you can’t stay like this — Joshua’s arms around you, his soft snores, and his calm heartbeat, all make it too real.

You feel the weight of last night’s decisions as you quietly slip out of his embrace. He doesn’t wake up, he merely scrunches his nose and lazily pats the space on the bed to find you. When he doesn’t, he settles for a pillow that he embraces just as he had embraced you prior. Tears begin to sting your eyes, you can’t watch this any longer, and you leave without hesitation.

After changing and grabbing your purse from your room, you find Nari sitting in the kitchen on one of the barstools. She’s snickering to herself while she’s watching Vernon make breakfast– you’d never seen her let go of control in the kitchen before, and if it wasn’t for the fact that Joshua could wake up any moment you would’ve stayed and watched. She turns to you with a bright smile once you make yourself known by clearing your throat.

“Good morning!” she chirps, but her smile falters when she sees your wrecked expression. “Are you alright, Y/N?”

“I… I need you to drive me to the bus station.” You didn’t mean for your voice to become so shaky, but you couldn’t help it.

“Did something happen?” Vernon asks, but you can’t look at him.

“I just need to go home– I think I’m getting sick,” you lie.

“Oh, well if you just wait a minute, we can pack up and leave all together. I don’t mind leaving early if you’re feeling sick,” Nari says, compassionate as ever.

“No.” You look up at her, trying to silently communicate something with your eyes — what, you’re not really sure. “I need to leave now.”

Nari pauses, thinking it over before eventually nodding. Every second that passes feels like an hour to you, and your friend seems to be able to notice it. She says goodbye to Vernon, telling him to not burn the house down as she plants a kiss on his cheek. You want to throw up.

“I’ll get my jacket.” She grabs the car keys and walks out of the kitchen ahead of you. “Let’s go.” 

The drive is silent, the air thick with unspoken words and the weight of emotions left unsaid. Nari understands your need for solitude, respecting your fragile state. The journey feels longer than it should, each passing mile echoing the uncertainty of what lies ahead.

At last, you arrive at the bus stop. She tells you that she’ll bring your bags for you when she and Vernon get back to the city. Before you can step out of the car, she puts a hand on your shoulder.

“It’s Joshua, isn’t it?” she asks and you nod. “Alright. I understand if you don’t want to talk about it… but know that I’ll back you up no matter what.”

With a soft murmur of thanks, you bid Nari farewell, watching her drive away into the distance. Alone at the bus stop, you wait for the bus that will take you back to the familiar confines of your life.

The sun rises higher in the sky, casting a warm glow that hints at new beginnings. As you board the bus, you carry with you the echoes of a night spent in each other’s arms. You sit down in one of the many empty seats, looking out the window to watch the trees fly by and the lake in the distance grow smaller and smaller.

Back at work, you find yourself actively avoiding Joshua, more so than before. Every morning, you arrive early at your desk, burying yourself in tasks and emails, hoping to avoid any unnecessary encounters that might stir up the unresolved emotions from your time at the lake house. 

The tension between you and Joshua doesn't go unnoticed by your colleagues. They whisper about the shift in dynamics, speculating on the nature of your interactions and the underlying reasons for your distance. Despite their curiosity, no one dares to address the elephant in the room, leaving the unspoken tension to hang heavy in the air.

For you, avoidance isn't just about uncertainty in your feelings for Joshua; it's also about safeguarding your professional reputation and maintaining a sense of control over your emotions. Sleeping around with someone at the office – let alone, someone who’s under you in rank – is enough to stir up headache-inducing drama.

As the weeks pass, you remain resolute in your avoidance, navigating the delicate balance between personal desires and professional boundaries. The workplace becomes a battleground of unspoken words and missed opportunities, with both you and Joshua wondering if there's a way to reconcile the growing attraction with the realities of your professional lives.

Amidst the uncertainty, you and Joshua find yourselves at a crossroads, unsure of whether to pursue what could be or maintain the status quo. The aftermath of your intimate encounter at the lake house lingers.

When you hear the news of Nari moving in with Vernon, you’re ecstatic – and when you see his apartment, you’re in awe. The luxurious condo has two stories and although the loft area is smaller, it’s still impressive. You hadn’t ever thought to ask Vernon what he does for a living, but clearly, it pays well.

As Nari excitedly shows you around the apartment, your heart swells for her. This is all that she had wanted; she had a stable job and a stable relationship, and now one of the most impressive apartments you had ever seen. Once you have seen every crevice of the home, she invites you to a housewarming party that she’s hosting later tonight.

“Isn’t a housewarming party for people who move into a new place?” you ask with a smile.

“Well, yeah– but I’m moving into a new place, so it still counts!”

You laugh with her, congratulating her once again on her new place and promising her that you’ll definitely be there tonight. As you leave through the dining room, you spot a bouquet of lilies sitting pretty in a vase. The memories of yours and Vernon’s conversation bring back memories of the lake house; memories of Joshua. You paint on a smile as you say goodbye, promising to swing by later to help with preparations.

Nari’s excitement is contagious as she organizes a lively housewarming party. The space is adorned with cheerful decorations: vibrant streamers hanging from the ceiling, colorful balloons clustered in the corners, and a beautifully set table brimming with snacks and drinks. Friends gather, their chatter and laughter filling the room, ready to toast to the new chapter in Nari's life.

You arrive, trying to mask the unease lingering beneath the surface. You know that Joshua might be here – or might stop by for a moment, but that’s enough for you to go into full-on fight or flight mode. As you walk in, Nari greets you with a warm hug.

“I'm so glad you could make it!” Nari beams, her eyes sparkling with happiness.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” you reply, forcing a smile. Inside, though, your heart feels heavy.

As the party progresses, the merriment around you contrasts sharply with the turmoil within. You watch Nari and Vernon laughing together, their connection undeniable. Every affectionate glance they share feels like a knife twisting in your chest. Are you really about to lose your best friend to a friend of Joshua’s? Does he have to take everything from you? The unresolved tension with Joshua weighs heavily on your mind, clouding your judgment along with the many drinks you sneak from the kitchen.

You hate yourself for feeling this way, opting to stay in a corner of the living room to take a moment to breathe. However, the good friend that she is, Nari comes to check up on you.

“Are you alright? You’re not bored, right?” she asks.

“No, I’m fine.”

Your eyes are drawn to a sudden rising volume from the hallway, somebody just arrived. Joshua walks into the living room, still in his suit from work – he had probably been working overtime before he got here. He’s lively chatting away with Vernon, and you feel a clump building up in your chest. You swallow looking back at Nari, who looks as worried as ever.

“I’m just worried about you,” you admit.

“Worried about me?” She chuckles. “Why?”

“This thing with Vernon just seems to be moving too fast. Maybe you shouldn’t.” Your words are sharp as knives, and you can see how they cut through Nari’s bubbly personality.

“What are you talking about?” Nari furrows her eyebrows, her lips forming into a small pout as they always did when she was irritated.

“You’ve only known him for a few months–”

“Oh, so now you’re the expert on relationships? Why can’t you just be happy for me?”

“Because you’re not thinking straight!”

In a moment of emotional vulnerability, fueled by your own insecurities and the effects of a few too many drinks, you lash out at Nari. The noise of the party seems to fade as you focus on her, your voice rising.

“Be honest. Do you really think this is a good idea, Nari?” you blurt out, your words slurring slightly. “Moving in with Vernon so soon? You’re rushing into this without thinking!”

“Vernon and I are happy. This is what I want.”

“It’s not about what you want, it’s about what’s smart!” you snap, projecting your frustrations about your non-existent relationship with Joshua onto her newfound happiness. “You’re just setting yourself up for disappointment.”

The room falls silent, the party atmosphere dims as tension fills the space. Nari’s eyes well up with tears.

“I thought you were happy for me,” she says, her voice trembling. “Why are you being like this?”

Unable to contain your emotions, you storm out of the party, leaving behind a bewildered Nari and a gathering of uncomfortable guests. The weight of your actions settles heavily on your shoulders as you retreat into the night, grappling with regret and remorse for hurting your friend.

Alone in the quiet of the night, you reflect on the events that transpired. You realize that your anger towards Nari was misplaced, a manifestation of your own internal struggles rather than a reflection of her actions.

The guilt gnaws at you, urging you to confront the root of your insecurities and face the truths you've been avoiding. You walk as far as you can, which is just a block away before your feet start hurting from your heels. You huff over your uncomfortable shoes as you lean against a pole to try to take them off.

Concern etched on his face, Joshua steps out into the cool night air, searching for you. The city streets are bustling, but he spots you, slightly disoriented and clearly in need of assistance. Without hesitation, he approaches, gently guiding you with a steady hand. He makes you put your foot back down on the ground and bends down to fix the strap you had managed to loosen before he stands back up

“Hey, I’ve been looking for you. Are you okay?” Joshua asks, his voice is soft and concerned.

You’re surprised to see Joshua, a mix of relief and embarrassment washing over you as he helps steady your steps. Your mind races, trying to recall your address, but the fog of alcohol clouds your thoughts.

“I... I don’t know,” you mumble, your voice shaky. “I just yelled at my best friend about her perfect relationship, embarrassed myself in front of all of our friends, I’m cold and- and my fucking feet hurt!”

Tears begin to well up in your eyes, and Joshua reacts quickly by gently slipping off his suit jacket and draping it around your shoulders, providing warmth and comfort. Realizing the urgency of the moment, Joshua signals for a passing taxi and assists you as you climb into the back seat.

“What’s your address?” he asks.

However, over the drunken rambles and ugly sobs, he can’t hear a word that you’re saying. You wrap your arms around his bicep, pressing your forehead against his shoulder. You mumble something about just wanting to sleep. With a sigh, Joshua tells the driver his address and asks him to drive carefully. 

It doesn’t take long for the two of you to arrive at his condo, as it was only a few blocks away. The warmth and familiarity offer a stark contrast to the chaotic night outside. He ensures you’re settled comfortably on the couch as he helps you off with your shoes. Joshua mutters something about getting you a glass of water, and you hum in response. A few seconds later, he’s back with a tall glass of water which he makes you drink in its entirety.

“There you go,” he murmurs. “Okay, let’s get you into something more comfortable.”

Joshua gently guides you deeper into his apartment, his hand steady and reassuring on your back. You stumble slightly, the room spinning around you as you struggle to stay upright. When you reach the bathroom, he helps you sit down on the toilet seat, his touch careful and considerate. The cool porcelain feels surprisingly comforting against your flushed skin, and you lean back, feeling a wave of relief as the spinning sensation subsides a little.

After a minute, Joshua returns, his presence a welcome anchor in the disorienting haze. He places a pile of clothes neatly by the sink, their crisp, clean fabric a stark contrast to the disarray you feel inside. Alongside them, he sets down a box of makeup wipes, their crisp packaging promising a small, fresh start. Without a word, he leaves you alone, allowing you the space to collect yourself.

Once you’re dressed and feeling a bit steadier, you step out of the bathroom. The sight of Joshua waiting for you, his expression a mix of concern and care, brings a pang of guilt. His eyes soften as he takes in your appearance, and he offers a supportive smile as he helps guide you to the bedroom.

The journey to his bed is slow and steady, his hand a constant, reassuring presence on your arm. As you settle into the softness of the bed, the comfort of the sheets and the warmth of the room contrast sharply with the turmoil still churning inside you.

“I’m sorry–” you start, but Joshua quickly hushes you.

“Just rest,” Joshua says gently. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

You nod, grateful for his kindness as you close your eyes, the events of the night replaying in your mind. The weight of your actions and the need to address your inner turmoil hang heavily, but for now, you allow yourself to be enveloped by the warmth and safety of Joshua’s care.

As morning light filters through unfamiliar surroundings, you stir awake, feeling disoriented and unsure of where you are. Panic momentarily sets in as you try to piece together the events of the previous night. Your mind races with fragmented memories, leaving you uncertain about who you spent the night with.

Just then, the door opens quietly, and Joshua steps into the room with a gentle smile. Your heart skips a beat as you see him, cheeks flushing with embarrassment. Did you seriously sleep with Joshua for a second time in your drunken state? What did your drunk self have against your sanity?

“Morning,” Joshua says softly, his smile is warm but his eyes are filled with concern.

You sit up quickly, clutching the blanket to your chest. “Joshua, did we...?” you start, your voice trailing off in embarrassment.

He shakes his head, sensing your unease. “No, you slept in here,” he explains calmly, gesturing to the bed. “I took the couch to make sure you were comfortable.”

Relief floods you as you realize your assumption was wrong. “Oh, thank you,” you reply, nodding awkwardly, trying to collect yourself amidst the morning haze.

Joshua gives you a reassuring smile. “I made some breakfast. Why don't you join me in the kitchen?”

You follow Joshua with a mix of gratitude and lingering embarrassment, the weight of the previous night still heavy on your shoulders. As you enter his elegantly furnished kitchen, you’re struck by the refined simplicity of the space. The morning light filters softly through the windows, casting a warm, golden glow over the polished countertops and tasteful décor.

You sit across from Joshua at a beautifully set breakfast table. The gentle clinking of cutlery and the soft hum of the coffee maker are the only sounds that break the stillness of the calm morning.

As you begin to nibble on your food, your movements are tentative and slow, each bite a small effort to ground yourself. The flavors are comforting, but your mind is still tangled in the events of the night before. The tranquility of the kitchen contrasts sharply with the turmoil you feel inside, and you find yourself grappling with the lingering embarrassment while trying to process the events that led you here.

“How are you feeling?” Joshua asks, his voice gentle.

You sigh, looking down at your plate. “Honestly, a mess… I was so awful to Nari last night. I don’t know what came over me.”

Joshua leans forward, his expression attentive. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Although the situation was strange, you feel yourself fully able to talk to Joshua like this. The vulnerability in your voice is obvious as you begin to share your inner turmoil. “Seeing Nari so happy with Vernon just... it brought out all my insecurities. God– I hate myself for what I said to her.”

Joshua listens attentively, his presence a surprising comforting anchor amidst the storm of emotions. “We all have moments we're not proud of,” he says softly. “But recognizing them is the first step to making things right.”

You glance up, meeting his eyes. “I don't know how to fix this. I’ve hurt her, and I don't know if she’ll forgive me.”

“Give her some time,” Joshua advises. “And when you're ready, talk to her. Be honest about what you're going through. She'll understand.”

In the course of the conversation, there is a sense of relief and lightness as Joshua's empathetic and genuinely concerned responses provide reassurance. Yet, the enduring pain remains. The guilt for the actions towards Nari is now overshadowed by the guilt for the actions directed at Joshua.

“I’m sorry, Joshua,” you say. “I shouldn’t just have left.”

“You had your reasons.” Joshua lifts his coffee cup to his lips. “And I can’t say that I blame you– it was a little too much too fast. I told Vernon after you had left… you should’ve seen his face.”

The two of you break out into soft laughter, the tension between you slowly dissipating. The picture of Vernon’s shocked face is just too clear in your mind, and you end up letting out a snorting laugh. You both pause as you’re struck with embarrassment. When you look up at Joshua, you see a flash of opportunity glimmer in his eyes.

“Don’t,” you warn, but it’s too late.

Joshua struggled to stifle his laughter, but he couldn't help but emit a few chuckles. Under normal circumstances, you would have felt angry at his reaction. However, in the current situation, his amusement was contagious, and you found yourself unable to contain a smile.

“You know,” you say, “I’m actually glad you’re here. You’ve been more supportive than I could have asked for, and definitely more than I deserve.”

Joshua returns the smile, his eyes warm. “I’m just happy I could help.”

As the morning sun filters through the window, you find yourself sitting in the cozy intimacy of Joshua’s kitchen, sharing a heartfelt breakfast and conversation. In that tender moment, you feel a sense of clarity washing over you, marking a pivotal turning point in your relationship.

Realizing the weight of your words and actions from the previous night, you understand the need to mend fences with Nari. With a resolve fueled by introspection, you decide to take the first step toward reconciliation. You leave Joshua’s apartment to go back home, feeding Tofu and freshening up before you sit down on your bed with your phone in your hand.

Gathering your thoughts, you reach out to Nari, your fingers trembling slightly as you type a message on your phone. 

Hey Nari, I really want to apologize for last night. Can we meet up? I’ll be at our usual spot at 3.

After a few moments that feel like an eternity, a reply comes through. It’s a simple “Sure,” but it’s more than enough for you. You breathe a sigh of relief and quickly agree. The hours until the meeting drags by, your mind racing with thoughts of how to articulate your heartfelt apology.

At the café, you arrive early and sit down by your usual table, nervously fiddling with your cup of coffee. You’re not sure if she’ll even show up, and you wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t, but she, nevertheless, walks in through the door. When Nari walks in, you wave her over, standing up to greet her. She offers a tentative smile, but the hurt is still evident in her eyes. The atmosphere between you is thick with tension as she sits down.

“Hi,” you start, your voice trembling slightly. “Thanks for coming.”

Nari nods curtly, her expression guarded. Taking a deep breath, you dive in. “I’m really sorry for what I said last night. I know I hurt you, and that was never my intention. I let my own frustrations and insecurities get the better of me, and I took it out on you. It wasn’t fair, and I deeply regret it.”

Nari’s eyes remain hard, but she listens quietly. The tension is still there, hanging heavily in the air.

“The… incident with Joshua freaked me out a lot– I hadn’t been able to get it off my mind, and the thought of seeing him at your party only made it worse,” you continue, your voice wavering. “I guess, seeing you so happy with Vernon made me scared. I projected my emotions onto your situation. I know it’s no excuse for what I said...”

Nari’s expression softens slightly, but she remains silent, contemplating your words.

“I really am sorry, Nari. You didn’t deserve any of that,” you add, your voice barely above a whisper.

Nari takes a deep breath, her shoulders relaxing a little. “I understand where you’re coming from,” she says finally, her tone gentle. “I should’ve thought about your situation with Joshua... and I appreciate you being honest with me about what you’re going through.”

The tension in the air begins to dissipate, replaced by a sense of tentative understanding. “We all have our moments. What matters is that we’re able to talk about it and move forward,” Nari continues, a small smile forming on her lips.

"So, you'll forgive me?"

Nari pretends to think for a moment, before breaking out into a big smile. "I'll forgive you."

A wave of relief washes over you as you hear her words. “Oh, thank you, Nari. I promise I’ll do better.”

Nari reaches across the table to squeeze your hand. “I know you will… also you owe me a coffee.”

You release a hearty laugh, then briskly make your way to the barista to request another cup of coffee. As you return to your seat, you notice Nari gazing at you with a look of worry etched into her gentle smile.

“Did you get home okay last night?” she asks.

“I… didn’t get home,” you admit.

“What? You didn’t sleep outside, did you?” Her eyes widen as she raises her voice ever so slightly.

“Actually…” You lean forward and lower your voice. “I ended up at Joshua’s place.”

“What?”

You quickly shush her, and she repeats her “What?” in a lower volume. You smile at her, and she raises her eyebrows in a silent question. You shake your head.

“He took me home and let me sleep in his bed– he even slept on the couch,” you say. “I think… I’ll try asking him out again.”

“Really?” Nari gasps but quiets down as her coffee arrives.

She thanks the barista and waits for him to be out of earshot before she lets out an excited “Oh my god!” The two of you quickly fall into your usual banter.

It had been a long, arduous day at work, and you were finally ready to head home. The rain pattered against the office windows, creating a soothing yet melancholic backdrop to your thoughts. You hadn’t spoken to Joshua since that morning in his kitchen, and the awkwardness between you lingered like an unspoken shadow.

As you gathered your things and made your way to the exit, you unexpectedly bumped into Joshua. His eyes widened in surprise, but he quickly composed himself.

“Hey,” he said softly, holding up his umbrella. “Looks like we’re leaving at the same time.”

“Yeah,” you replied, forcing a smile. “Didn’t realize it was raining this hard. I would’ve taken the car this morning if I’d known.”

“Here,” he offered, extending the umbrella. “You can use this. I’ll be fine.”

You hesitate but then nod. “Thanks… How about we share it? We’re both going the same way, right?”

Joshua smiles, a hint of relief in his eyes. “Sure, let’s go.”

The two of you walked in silence under the umbrella, the rain a steady rhythm around you. It felt strange yet comforting to be so close to him after everything that had happened. When you reached the bus stop, the awkwardness slowly began to dissipate.

On the bus, Joshua found seats for both of you and as the vehicle jolted into motion, he broke the silence. “So, how’s everything with Nari?”

You smiled, genuinely happy. “We’re good. We talked it out, and we’re fine again.”

Joshua’s face lit up. “I’m glad to hear that. I hope you two don’t have to go through something like that again.”

You chuckled, teasingly. “Well, that depends on whether you're going to keep messing around with me or not.”

He looked at you with a soft smile, a serious look in his eyes. “I don’t want to mess around anymore.”

The bus pulled to a stop near your apartment. As you both got off, the rain still coming down, Joshua turned to you. “Can I ask you something?”

You nodded, heart pounding in your chest.

“Would you go out with me if I asked?” he asked, sincerity in his eyes.

You smiled, feeling a rush of warmth. “Yes.”

“Good...” He smiled, approaching you and taking your hands in his. “Go out with me?”

“You can do better than that,” you tease and he lets out a chuckle.

“Can you give me the pleasure of taking you out this weekend, sweetheart?” he asks again with a playful smile.

“Sure you can.”

It was still raining and there was no sign of stopping. You knew that if you went separate ways now, he’d give you his umbrella. Not wanting to be the cause of his cold, you invited him to your place. “Why don’t you come to my place and dry off? It’s just around the corner.”

The two of you walk under Joshua’s umbrella together, your shoulders brushing against each other. You speak of whatever comes to mind, mostly work and the cases you’re currently busy with – although the subject matter is something you usually keep at work, you don’t mind the banter.

When you arrive at your apartment, you open the door for Joshua as he shakes off the rain from his umbrella. The two of you get into the elevator, a tension building up that is unlike the ones you had felt before. Excitement is the only word you can use to describe it.

The building is tall, and you live far up, so the elevator takes its time to climb up the floors. Joshua stands next to you, his hand brushing against yours for a while. He takes it in his hand once the elevator doors open and lets you lead the way to your front door. His hand is warm in yours, sending a shiver down your spine. 

You only let go of his hand once the two of you stand in front of your door. Unable to keep his hands off of you for long, Joshua wraps his arms around your waist while you try to unlock your door. You let out a giggle, so unlike the laughs you have let out before that, you barely recognize it as your own, while your shaky hands struggle with the lock. When you finally open the door, you immediately spot a white, furry ball. Tofu meows at you, clearly annoyed with your late arrival.

“A cat.” Joshua’s voice is laced with surprise as he lets go of you.

You walk further into your apartment to pet Tofu, but he quickly sneaks past you and struts over to Joshua. He closes the door behind him quickly, scared that Tofu might walk out. Tofu has no interest in the outside, instead, he walks between Joshua’s legs and purrs.

“I thought I’d end up single for the rest of my life and decided to start early with the cats,” you quip playfully. “Tofu… really likes you.”

“Is that odd?” Joshua squats down and puts out his hand for Tofu to sniff. 

“He doesn’t like strangers…” you say, “Or anyone.”

Joshua grins at you as Tofu practically jumps into his arms. He stands back up with the cat in his embrace before he kicks off his shoes. You glare at your cat for betraying you, but Tofu barely meets your gaze.

“He’s cute,” Joshua says. “... and hairy.”

You look at Joshua’s black suit, completely covered in white fur. Quickly, you apologize and take Tofu from him. The cat lets out an irritated meow but doesn’t fight back. When Tofu has walked away, you take Joshua’s suit jacket and hang it up. You show him around the apartment, sneaking glances at him as he rolls up the sleeves of his button-down and loosens his tie. 

Eventually, the two of you found yourselves on the comfortable couch, indulging in a late-night meal created from the delicious remnants of takeout food in your refrigerator. The ambiance was soothing and unhurried, a welcome change from the earlier palpable strain. Tofu was nestled by Joshua’s side, emitting a robust and consistent purr akin to a well-oiled machine working at full capacity.

Joshua looked around your cozy apartment and then back at you. “This isn’t our first date, is it?”

You laughed softly. “It could be.”

He shook his head, smiling. “I want our first date to be special.”

You looked into his eyes, leaning over to put your hand on his knee. “It could be special if you wanted it to be.”

That’s how the two of you end up in your bedroom, with him on top of you. Joshua’s slowly thrusting into you, savoring every second. His forehead leans against yours, your hands traveling across each other’s bodies. Soft moans and gasps echo throughout the room, the noises mixing with the sounds of the bedsheets and the gentle rain against your windows.

“What are you doing to me?” Joshua sighs deeply, closing his eyes as if trying to steady himself.

“Is it really just me?” you ask playfully, although your voice tinged with uncertainty.

“It’s only you,” he reassures, his gaze meeting yours with a sincerity that cuts through the confusion.

You smile, pressing a chaste kiss on his lips. He surrounds you, embraces you, holds you, consumes you… The build-up is undeniable, and it only becomes more intense as Joshua’s hand travels between your bodies to rub lazy circles on your clit. He captures your lips in another kiss, slow and satisfactory. Whines and whimpers emanate from both of you as you near your high.

“I’m still on birth control,” you remind Joshua with a murmur against his lips.

Joshua groans at the silent promise of getting to cum inside you again. Ever since the last time he got a taste of you, he swears that he’s addicted. His hips stutter, and you clench around him to urge him closer to his release.

“Please,” he whispers hoarsely.

“Cum with me, baby,” you murmur.

Joshua releases inside of you with a moan, and your orgasm follows shortly after. A light encompasses you, flooding your veins with a kind of warmth that you’re not sure you’ve ever experienced. He stays inside of you even when his movements stop, his head finding its place in the crook of your neck. You rake your nails up his back until they find their way to the nape of his neck.

You press a kiss to his temple while you play with his hair. Joshua responds by pressing loving kisses to your neck. The two of you fall asleep just as he pulls out of you and lies down beside you under the covers.

As the gentle, golden glow of the morning sun filters through the delicate lace curtains, you slowly stir, feeling the warmth of his body and the reassuring strength of his embrace. In that soft, hushed moment, you find yourself waking up to a sense of peace and contentment that has been absent for what feels like an eternity.

As you try to get up to make breakfast, Joshua tightens his hold on you. “Don’t go,” he murmurs, his voice still heavy with sleep.

You laugh softly, kissing his forehead. “I need to get ready.”

He pouts playfully. “Stay here a little longer.”

You kiss him again, your heart full. “How about I get up if I promise to make you breakfast?”

Joshua pretends to think it over, then grins. “Deal.”

Your laughter fills the air as you rise from the bed, his warm hand gently holding onto yours just a moment longer. The morning was idyllic, brimming with shared laughter, precious moments, and the assurance of many more beautiful experiences together in the future.

As you and Joshua continue to move forward together, your journey unfolds as a delicate dance, intertwining professional ambitions with the deepening of your personal connection. Each day brings its own set of challenges, which you navigate hand-in-hand, discovering and growing through each other’s strengths and vulnerabilities.

You find solace in the way you support one another through the ebb and flow of your careers. Joshua’s unwavering faith in your potential becomes a beacon, encouraging you to reach beyond your comfort zone. In moments of self-doubt, his reassuring words and confident smile serve as a reminder of your capabilities, helping to reignite your determination.

In turn, you offer Joshua a steady anchor during his more tumultuous times. When he faces the pressure of a particularly grueling project or grapples with a professional setback, you’re there to remind him to pause and believe in his own strength. Your quiet support helps him regain his footing, providing him with the confidence to overcome the hurdles in his path.

With each shared success and challenge, your mutual respect grows deeper. Celebrating each other’s victories becomes a treasured ritual, whether it’s the joy of popping a bottle of champagne for a well-earned promotion or finding solace in each other’s company during quiet nights when things don’t go as planned. Every experience strengthens your bond, seamlessly weaving your lives together.

As you reflect on your journey, it becomes clear that embracing vulnerability and letting go of old insecurities has allowed you to discover not only love but also a profound sense of personal fulfillment. Joshua’s presence in your life has illuminated the truth that true growth often emerges from facing fears and embracing new possibilities.

One evening, curled up on the couch with Tofu nestled comfortably by your feet, you admit with a contented sigh, “I never thought I could be this happy.”

Joshua smiles warmly, his fingers gently brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. With a playful glint in his eye, he teases, “I know a few things that could make you even happier.”

“Shut up,” you reply, playfully swatting his chest.

Joshua’s laughter fills the room as he pulls you closer, enveloping you in his comforting embrace. You sigh contentedly as his familiar scent surrounds you, finding comfort in the perfect harmony of the moment. Even though you still have your moments of bickering and face the occasional rough patch like any other couple, you realize that this shared experience is as perfect as it gets.

feedback is always appreciated!

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[haologram]

⚖️ JURY’S OUT! Read your court report now!

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how to cancel your faustian bargain | wjh

FAUSTIAN BARGAIN 🔥 a pact whereby a person trades something of supreme moral or spiritual importance, such as personal values or the soul, for some worldly or material benefit, such as knowledge, power, or riches. faustian bargains are by their nature tragic or self-defeating for the person who makes them, because what is surrendered is ultimately far more valuable than what is obtained.

pairing: attorney!junhui x devil!reader genre: (very lite) enemies to lovers, lawyer au; crack, fluff, smut summary: as the devil, you’re more than happy to grant favors in exchange for someone’s soul, and you’re known for having the most iron-clad contracts around. which is why wen junhui—the scene’s newest contract attorney hell-bent on returning all those souls you’ve acquired—is really starting to piss you off. rating: explicit. minors do not interact with this or any of my work. warnings: member pov, reader is thee devil so needless to say there is a bunch of religious themes and topics here (as a person whose roman-catholic grandfather temporarily disowned her for stopping ccd classes i am qualified to write this dw), jihan as literal devil's advocates, hoshi as a shit-stirring angel who wears questionable shirts, i am the opposite of jovan and do not know the law (especially hell law), i also blocked out most catholicism so don't take any of this for canon, god is genderless and the devil is a sympathetic character sue me, alcohol use, low self-esteem/self-doubt, open but optimistic ending. smut warnings: kissing, mentions of a handjob (actually a major plot point), an actual handjob, oral sex (both receiving), some scratching/marking and biting, jun kinda likes/yearns for pain but it's not a whole thing, light nipple play, fingering, unprotected penetrative sex, everyone orgasms, jun is down bad. in general it's probably much softer than sex with the devil would usually be? wordcount: 22k credits: jess (@starlightkyeom) and bee (@imnotshua) for reading this along the way, beta'ing, and suggesting stupid hoshi shirts. mj (@kkaetnipjeon) and jade (@eoieopda) for helping me with law stuff. everyone in the c&e server who helped me along the way — i yapped so much about this fic that i cannot remember everyone. i am sorry but i love you. note: this somehow wound up being my longest oneshot to date. i don't know how and i still feel like there are parts not fleshed out enough, but big shoutout to my adderall for getting us here. wen junhui, you are a strange little man; i had a blast writing you. this was written for the don't hate, litigate! collab, hosted by @haologram. thank you so much for letting me participate!

The thing is, Wen Junhui is not really supposed to be here.

Not, like, literally here—sitting across from you, the literal devil, at your desk, ass burning a little because it’s really hot here and he is, admittedly, not used to the heat—but metaphorically. Big picture-ly. This is not how I envisioned my life turning out…ly.

The thing is, Wen Junhui barely made it through law school. Barely passed his licensing exam. Watched his classmates score prestigious internships and receive exclusive offers and network and schmooze and, he thought at the time, all but sell their soul to graduate with jaw-dropping salaries awaiting them and no debt.

And it fucking sucked watching that, because he was about to become a lawyer, sure, but he’d gotten scarlet fever as a kid, swore he was going to die, swore he saw not only the light but Jesus himself (his mother called this a delusion, still insists to this day the prodigal son did not travel all the way to Shenzhen to visit him), and decided if he survived he was going to dedicate his life to the church and become a priest.

(He only decided on law school after he got a little carried away with his high school girlfriend, received an honestly mid handjob that had him crying for three straight days and contemplating confession before he decided to take it to his grave, and he’d announced the next night at dinner, weighed down by an impressive amount of guilt and religious trauma, that he was just going to go to university and major in business or finance instead.)

Anyway. Turns out that whole selling their soul thing wasn’t a joke, and where others would’ve seen a loophole, Wen Junhui had seen an opportunity.

Because he didn’t have the grades. Didn’t have the family name or even the drive, because in another life he’s at least a deacon, so he had to do something. Had to think outside the box, get a little creative, carve out a niche for himself that none of his classmates would also be trying to occupy because he had student loans.

“How did you even get in here?” you ask, doing one of those really cool pen flips Jun has never figured out how to do. “A human hasn’t just strolled into my office in at least a millennia.”

Jun swallows, tries not to let show how nervous he is. “I, uh—I’m not sure? I sort of just… walked in, I guess.”

You blink. Study him for a while, eyes narrowed, before you make a small ah! sound and snap your fingers. What the heck? Jun can’t do that, either. “I know who you are now.”

“You do?”

“Mmhm, sure do. You were pretty famous around here for about thirteen seconds when you got that handjob and changed the trajectory of your own life forever. Some of the lower demons had bet money on you eventually becoming the Pope, so you can imagine their heartbreak… and the amount of coin they lost.” You click your tongue, return your attention to the scroll in front of you. “I kept telling them not to bet on that kind of stuff. Teenagers are wildly unpredictable, especially hormonal teenage boys. One of my finest creations, if I do say so myself.”

Not that he had any expectation of privacy here, but to say he’s mortified would be an understatement.

“Oh. That’s… really embarrassing.”

You nod, distracted as you press a large red button on your desk. “Yeah, I imagine for you it would be.”

Two men immediately materialize on each side of you. One is all cheekbones and sharp, calculating edges. Looks like the personification of mischief or perhaps temptation. After that handjob and the subsequent mourning period, Jun had come to really, really appreciate women, but he’s secure enough in his sexuality to acknowledge that the man in front of him—with his long, dark hair and lithe figure; his nonchalant, blasé attitude—is very attractive.

And the other one is no slouch, either. Has what Jun presumes is meant to be a friendlier disposition, a foil of the other man, good-cop-bad-cop, and they must be quite successful, he figures. Can’t imagine a world in which there’s anything that’d be denied to either of them.

Still, they’re well-acquainted with you, because they barely blink as you say, “Please say hello to our intruder,” with a frightening amount of bite.

The dark-haired one offers up a sleazy grin as he leans back against the wall. “Hello, intruder. Do you have a name?”

It’s a predictable question, and yet Jun still startles. Goes slack-jawed as he fixes his posture, sits straighter in his seat. Has the first syllable of his name sitting on the tip of his tongue when the other man sighs and gestures for Jun to stay quiet. “Don’t tell him your name. Better yet, don’t tell him anything, just pretend he doesn’t exist.”

“That’s rich coming from a person who chose to call themselves Joshua.”

Joshua pouts. “I thought there was something to be said for the irony.” A snort tumbles out of him, and Jun realizes that he is not the foil of the other man: he is, in fact, just as impish and rogue. “God is deliverance.” The dark-haired one does not react. “Aw, c’mon, it’s funny!”

“If you have to convince someone it’s funny, it probably is not so.”

Joshua rolls his eyes. “Alright, Jeonghan. As if you didn’t do the same thing.”

“At least when I strive to be ironic, it actually is humorous—”

With an exasperated sigh, you return your attention to Jun, who has suddenly found a fascinating piece of lint on his trousers. Pointedly does not make eye contact with you, because you had been intimidating and hellacious on your own—and, he’s a little flustered to admit, very attractive—but he’s extremely out of his element sitting across from the literal devil and two demons.

“So, Wen Junhui,” you say, tossing a pair of reading glasses onto your desk, “why are you here?”

(“Wen Junhui?” Joshua whispers to Jeonghan. “As in the Wen Junhui that got the handjob?”

“How the fuck am I supposed to know?” Jeonghan whispers back.)

And now it all feels a bit silly, because Jun had walked straight into Hell thinking he’d be able to… what, exactly? Strike up a friendly conversation? Start making demands? Cut a deal that didn’t include handing over his mortal soul?

Maybe the whole becoming a priest thing hadn’t worked out but he’d still learned a thing or two, and he remembers all the words used to describe you, your original purpose. Meant to reflect God’s glory, anointed, given the highest seat at the table. They’d blamed your downfall on pride, on vanity and violence, and Wen Junhui from Shenzhen, China, who once had scarlet fever and got a bad handjob, was a fool to come here and think he could go toe-to-toe with you.

Overcome with nerves, all he can do is laugh as he toys with the hair at the nape of his neck. Considers saying something like you’re gonna think this is so silly before he decides against it. You’ve been accused of having a sense of humor, but Jun can’t imagine this harebrained scheme of his would make the cut.

Still—he wouldn’t be where he is if the bad ideas sitting on his shoulder had kept quiet, and they’re still whispering to him now, reminding him how he wound up here to begin with: less fortunate than his classmates, less connected, looked over for all those internships and opportunities because he wasn’t born with the proper credentials. Those god-forsaken student loans. Desperation forced him to do this, and it’d be a real shame if he got this far only to give up at the last second, wouldn’t it?

So, he does what he did best all those years of law school: he fakes it.

“Let’s say I’m interested in… a partnership, of sorts.”

Jeonghan and Joshua share a look.

“Ah,” you reply, hands folded in front of you. “And what kind of partnership would that be?”

Let no man (or demon) ever accuse Wen Junhui of doing things half-assed, because he’s doing a concerning amount of oversharing and trauma-dumping before he can talk himself out of it. Spills all the highs and lows of his twenty-odd years, including his infamous handjob, much to Joshua and Jeonghan’s delight. They listen with rapt attention, elbowing one another as they gleefully press him for more details, and to their credit they only interrupt him once with lewd gestures before they’re slapping at and falling over one another with laughter.

He gets to his time in law school. Talks about feeling lapped by his classmates and all the advantages they’d been given, the benefits that weren’t on offer for someone like him: the oldest son of a piano teacher and a seamstress. Someone who showed up to class with a worn leather bag (repaired weekly by his mother) and secondhand books yellowing at the edges. Someone who spent his Friday nights and weekends holed up in his dorm room, not invited to parties and mixers.

“I had to do my first internship in personal injury,” he says, arms gesticulating wildly. “No one wanted those internships, and do you know why?” He pauses for dramatic effect. Jeonghan mimics a sound that sounds like game show countdown music. “Those pictures were gross.”

“Tragic,” you deadpan.

“It was,” Jun insists. He’s starting to feel fidgety. Has no idea how his plight is being received. “It wasn’t paid, either, and I had to take out student loans.”

Joshua beams. “Her second best invention.”

“What?” Jeonghan retorts, brows pinching in the middle. “No way, second-best is definitely cocaine—”

From you comes an exaggerated, long-suffering sigh, and Jeonghan and Joshua immediately cease their bickering. You turn your attention to Jun, and if he’d been able to trick himself into thinking a glimmer of patience or good humor or—god forbid—genuine affection had been visible before, no such delusions are available now. Your face is stern, the pupils of your eyes reflecting flames behind him that don’t exist, and the corners of your mouth are tugged severely downward.

He swallows hard.

“Wen Junhui, get to the point. Your human skin is starting to stink up my office.”

Subtly, he tries to sneak a sniff of his armpit. It’s not mountain fresh, but he’s certainly smelled worse, and he thinks he deserves a little leeway as his body acclimates to such extreme temperatures. He then crosses one leg over the other, ankle on thigh, and leans forward on his elbows. Tries to project some—any—amount of authority and confidence as he says, “I need a niche. Something just for me; something none of my classmates are going after.”

“Because you’re unable to compete with them,” you tack on. Unnecessarily and rudely, in Jun’s opinion, but he nods anyway. Behind you, Jeonghan and Joshua are once again elbowing one another, giddy at Jun’s impending failure while desperately trying to keep their expressions neutral. “Let me guess: you want the same deal?” You begin rifling through a drawer in your desk. “I think I still have all those contracts around here somewhere, so I’m sure I can get you something similar, but if we’re being honest you’re worth a good bit more.”

Jun blinks. “I’m sorry?”

“What part are you having trouble with?” you ask, still sorting through files. Only the top of your head is visible over the ledge of your African blackwood desk.

No horns, Jun notes. He was so sure you were going to have horns.

“Er, both, to be honest. What do you mean I’m ‘worth more’?”

Jeonghan rolls his eyes before slamming his palms onto your desk, causing Jun to startle. Just for fun. “Hey, moron, were you not listening when she told you earlier that you were supposed to be the goddamn Pope?”

“You weren’t even here when she said that,” Jun mumbles, every bit the moron Jeonghan accused him of being, because it’s far easier than acknowledging… well, the entirety of that statement.

Does the Pope get a salary? If he does, surely it’s more than Jun’s making now—

“He doesn’t,” Joshua says. Then clarifies, “Get a salary. Just some coins. A woefully underpaid position, if you ask me, considering how many babies he has to kiss.” He shudders. “Disgusting! When you could just eat them instead!”

Aside from the whole eating babies thing, Jun can’t really disagree. Only a handful of coins for being in charge of all of Catholicism and having to know Latin? And having to live in Italy?

“Also,” Joshua continues, “it’s kind of our job to know everything that goes on down here, so we did, in fact, know she told you that you were supposed to be the Pope.”

Jeonghan rolls his eyes. “And yet he became a lawyer. Imagine if Fibonacci had done the same—the eighth circle would be so boring.”

“Boniface,” Jun corrects him, immediately shutting trap at the look the three of you send his way. “He’s really in the eighth circle? I thought Dante just said that because he was upset about the exile.”

Upset is underselling it, Joshua mumbles. Looks like he wants to say more but has enough sense not to. Beside him, Jeonghan is once again rolling his eyes, growing more perturbed and borderline-homicidal in Jun’s proximity by the second.

Does he really smell that bad? Should he wear cologne next time? Is there a particular note those in the Underworld find appealing? Because Jun doesn’t mind tracking it down. He’s here on your turf asking for a favor, after all, so it’d be basic manners to smell nice and not stink up the place.

He’s about to ask when a booming sound of acknowledgement comes from you. A sly grin sits lopsided on your face as you toss a manila folder onto your desk, so thick a yellowing rubber band struggles to fit around it once. “This is you, Wen Junhui,” you say, pushing it closer to Jun.

All he can do is stare. Feels like his heart is going to pound right out of his chest, and he can’t pinpoint why, doesn’t know what’s got him so uneasy. He doesn’t have to look at it to know his entire life is in that file—perhaps even the before and the after. All the possibilities, all the could-have-beens. The consequences of him going right at the fork in the road instead of taking the left. Endless, and he finally realizes the boulder sitting on his chest is dread: existential variety.

“It’s, uh.” He licks at his lips. “It’s really big,” he finally says, feeling stupid and embarrassed at the way his voice trembles.

“Aish, this fucking kid,” Jeonghan grouses at the same time Joshua snickers and wonders aloud, “Do you think that’s what that girl said when he got the handjob?”

You press the red button again and Jeonghan and Joshua disappear without a word.

“Even in the lowest pits of Hell you must still suffer the displeasure of men,” you say, as if you’re imparting ancient wisdom upon Jun. “I must admit I’ve grown quite familiar with your file.”

“Manila,” Jun replies, also as if he’s being extremely wise. “Didn’t expect to see that around here.”

“Yes, well, the cheap ones are great for papercuts.” You pause and your demeanor grows serious, belying the importance of what you’re about to say. “You’re one of a select few, Wen Junhui. Not many files that come across my desk are this size.”

Pride swells in his chest, booting that existential boulder to the curb. “Oh,” he says, trying desperately to tamper down his excitement. “Yay!”

He does a little wiggle. Mortifying.

“Something you said earlier stuck out to me—something about certain things not being on offer for someone like you.” Your eyes meet Jun’s, and it suddenly feels like he’s been catapulted off the edge of the world. “I don’t think you realize just how much is on offer for someone like you.”

Jun swallows hard. Tries to, anyway—finds that his mouth has gone bone dry. His limbs, too, refuse to work, feel both heavy and weightless, and he’s anxious again, hands and feet saturated with sweat, no wonder he smells, and he knows, he knows, he knows who and what you are, knows this is a trick. Knows he’s offered himself up on a silver platter.

Good god, he came here willingly. No wonder Jeonghan kept calling him names.

“So,” you begin, moving your glasses to the top of your head, “what is it you want? You’re in an elite tier; I could give you almost anything you ask for.”

“Um—”

“You mentioned loans; is it money you want? You’re not quite qualified for billionaire level yet, but I think you’d find both the terms and the offered amount to be quite… agreeable.”

Oh, you’re good. Just as he had with the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice, Jun always thought the story of Adam and Eve was simple: don’t do the thing you’re explicitly told not to do. But now, seated across from Temptation itself, he understands it’s not that simple, that those two never stood a chance. Because the longer he’s silent, the more relaxed he starts to feel. That headache he’s been fighting off for three days finally starts to recede. He feels confident and a bit euphoric, but he supposes everyone would feel that way if they were being offered any and everything they could ever want.

“Actually…”

Wen Junhui isn’t very religious anymore, but he used to be. Used to believe in all the teachings; used to sit at the piano in the living room and hum along as his father played processionals; used to beg his mother to read from the Studium Biblicum at bedtime so he could fall asleep and dream of utopia.

Wen Junhui isn’t religious anymore, but he remembers the basics.

Enough to steel his voice and say, “Actually, I didn’t come here to talk about money.”

Jun doesn’t know what time it is.

It’s late enough that the city has gone mostly quiet. The buses have stopped running, the elevator just outside his door hasn’t dinged in a while, and the light that’s refracted onto his bedroom ceiling is a familiar shade of blue-silver. Not long after two a.m. if he had to guess.

He doesn’t know how he got back to his apartment, either, which would’ve been the more pressing issue at any other time.

But he’s had a long day. Took a little trip to Hell, got laughed at, got offered a lot of money, and got laughed at again. Now he’s got the anxiety shakes. Keeps seeing figures in every shadow. Can’t sleep even though every part of his body is bogged down by exhaustion. All he can do is stare at the swirls in the ceiling plaster and be glad he doesn’t have to work for another two days.

At first, he thinks the knocking is on someone else’s door. Then, once it doesn’t cease, he chalks it up to hallucination. It’s only once it goes from hey, I’m here! to OPEN THE GODDAMN DOOR RIGHT GODDAMN NOW does he stumble out of bed and through the living room.

Through the peephole, all that stares back at him are the dingy fluorescent lights of the hallway.

“You know, judging by the outside, I thought this place was gonna be a real shithole, but it’s not that bad.” Jun shrieks, collapses to the floor with his hand clawing at his chest. “Oops, sorry, dude. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

There is a man in his apartment.

There is a man in his apartment. At two o’clock in the morning.

“Wh-who are you?” he stammers out, eyes squeezed shut as if it’ll protect him. “I do-don’t have any mo-money.”

The man scoffs. If Jun was looking, he assumes it was accompanied by an eye-roll. “Not to be rude, but I was able to ascertain that, yeah.”

Jun peeks one eye open. Before him stands a man of average height, looks to be early to mid 20s. He’s wearing gray sweatpants and a black hoodie that says FEMALE BODY INSPECTOR in large white lettering. His hat, which is so neon pink it seems to glow, simply says SWAG.

He opens his other eye and quirks an eyebrow. “Are you a demon?”

“Ew, no.”

“What are you, then?”

The man pouts. “You can’t tell by my extremely good looks and”—he pauses, clears his throat like he’s trying to remember something—“awesome sauce fashion?”

“I—no, sorry. Also, your what?”

“I’m an angel,” the angel says quickly before he starts digging through his pockets. “Do people not say awesome sauce anymore?” Jun shakes his head. The angel pulls a pen out of nowhere and strikes out something in a notebook. “What year is it?”

“Er, 2024. Almost 2025.”

“What year did people stop saying awesome sauce?”

“I don’t know,” Jun says. “Do you have a name?”

The angel sighs, the pen and notebook both blink out of existence. “Hoshi,” the angel replies. “It means star, which I am. By the way.”

“Okay. May I ask why you’re in my apartment?”

“You ask a lot of questions. You got anything to drink?”

“I don’t remember any angels named Hoshi in the Bible.”

“It’s my Earth name.” Hoshi flutters his eyelashes. “Suits me, right?”

Jun’s eyes narrow. “You also aren’t biblically-accurate.”

Hoshi scoffs, hands immediately finding the waistband of his sweatpants. “I am where it counts.” He starts to pull them down, much to Jun’s horror, and all he can think is, oh my god I’m about to see an angel’s penis, what’s the protocol for this, do I have to look at it, would it be rude not to, this is the weirdest day of my life, I must be in a medically-induced coma—

“I’m getting the impression you don’t really want to see my dick.”

Jun covers his eyes again. “I don’t!”

“Bummer. I’m gonna summon a Baja Blast, do you want one?”

“I—no, no thank you. I think I just—I really need to sleep? But I’m not tired? It’s been a long day and I’m still not one-hundred percent sure I’m not hallucinating all of this.”

Hoshi snaps his fingers and a garishly blue bottle of soda appears in his hand. He beams. “Trade offer: I help you sleep and you take me out for breakfast when you wake up. We have a lot to talk about.”

“You’re just gonna… hang out here? In my apartment?”

“Yes,” Hoshi confirms. “I’m going to look through all your stuff.”

Jun wants to say no. He should say no. Has half a mind to consider Hoshi is lying about being an angel and is instead another demon sent by you from Hell to keep tabs on him, but his aura is different—less… oppressive—so he gives in and nods.

He’s asleep within seconds.

It’s only a few hours later when he stirs awake. Sunlight streams in through the curtains, and the sounds of the city are drowned out by birdsong. Jun feels more rested and weightless than he has in years, and it allows him to wake slowly, recount the events of the past 24 hours and take stock of his body, how he’s feeling. Do some breathing exercises. Briefly contemplate if he has now twice altered the trajectory of his life for the worst.

“Get up!” someone yells from his living room. Right, the angel guy. “I want waffles and the diner stops serving breakfast in thirty minutes!”

Jun stares blankly at the ceiling. There’s no diner anywhere near him that serves American breakfast, but he assumes that isn’t going to stop Hoshi, who has no concept or time or space and no constraints on either.

Thirty minutes later, they’re sitting across from one another in a retro American-style diner.

“Where are we?” Jun asks, peering outside the large window to his right. All the cars are American makes; the walls look like they're made out of silver; all the signs are in English. He doesn’t have to ask why he can understand them. “Besides America. I’m gathering as much.”

Hoshi pours an entire sugar packet in his mouth and grins. “New Jersey. They have more diners than any other state in America, and some are even open 24 hours! It’s my favorite place on Earth.”

“Okay,” Jun acquiesces. What else is he going to do? He’s never been to America before, let alone New Jersey. “What do I order? I don’t know what any of this stuff is.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll order for you.”

Famous last words.

Whatever Hoshi had ordered for him has more sugar in one bite than Jun usually eats in an entire week, but it’s so good he can’t help himself. Half of his meal is devoured before they can get to the heart of the meeting even though Hoshi yaps the whole time—talks animatedly about things Jun doesn’t understand but thinks sound important, like his dog and his favorite music. Hoshi also talks about his love for dancing, and when Jun cocks his head to the side and asks, like Saint Vitus?, all he gets in return is a small smile.

“Okay,” Hoshi says, pushing his plate towards the middle of the table, “now that I’m ready to throw up, it’s time to talk business.” Jun swallows, no longer hungry. “I saw your entire pitch. It was embarrassing.”

Jun groans and face-plants onto the table. “Yeah.” Syrup sticks to his forehead.

“However, it was a convincing story. That’s why They sent me here.”

“They?”

Hoshi waves him off. “Whatever you know Them as: God, the Lord, The Big Boss. They also heard everything.”

Jun slowly picks his head up and studies the angel across from him. Hoshi is weird, no doubt about that, but he’s also endearingly earnest. “And They… what? Want to help me?”

“Precisely,” Hoshi confirms. “And before you ask why, I think that part is quite obvious, but it’s two-fold: yes, it’s partly out of spite, but also—some of those souls were supposed to be ours.”

Jun blinks. Feels like his brain is filled with primordial goo and is about to split at the seams. “Explain this to me like I’m an idiot.”

“That’s what I’m doing,” Hoshi replies, tone measured and slightly confused. “We’re all-knowing up there, as I’m sure you know. We know who’s meant to be ours at the moment of their birth and we keep an eye on them throughout their lives. We’re not allowed to intervene, though, which the Devil knows. Free will and all that.” Hoshi rolls his eyes. “With free will comes temptation, and temptation is a powerful thing. Most people are not immune to it, which is why They took notice of you.”

“Wasn’t I—”

“Supposed to be the Pope? Yeah. They weren’t, like, super thrilled about the outcome of that, but contrary to popular belief, it’s not against Their Word to get a handjob.”

“But I spilled seed.”

The look on Hoshi’s face almost looks like a grimace. “And you’ve spilled a lot more since then. Look, all I’m saying is if the worst thing you do in your life is have sex, you’re not disqualified. We look at the entire itemized receipt, not a single purchase, if you catch my drift.”

“Yeah,” Jun replies, a little dazed. He still could’ve been the Pope. “I became a lawyer for nothing?”

“Not nothing,” Hoshi insists, shaking his head. “You’ve actually put yourself in a very unique position, which is what I’m trying to get to. Some of those souls were meant to be ours, but they fell into temptation and made deals with those fuc—” He coughs. “Those… beings… down there.”

Hoshi reaches across the table and places a warm hand over Jun’s. “They want you to help return their souls to where they belong.”

“And how am I supposed to do that? You saw it: she laughed at me, not to mention she now knows what I’m up to. And how am I meant to advertise? If these souls are already in Hell, it’s not like I can put up a billboard!”

Hoshi’s eyes narrow. “She?” he asks. “That’s how the Devil appeared to you?”

“I—yeah. Is that not how she appears to everyone?”

“What did she look like?”

Jun trudges through the slime in his brain. Tries to remember anything besides—“Pretty,” he answers. “I don’t really—that’s all I can remember. I just remember she was really, really pretty.”

“Like the kind of woman you’d be attracted to on Earth, right?” Jun nods. “You need to be careful. She’ll appear to you again in similar forms, especially now that I’ve been here and told you Their intention.”

“So you’re telling me I have to be suspicious of any beautiful woman that finds me attractive?” Hoshi nods, soliciting a tortured groan from Jun. “This just keeps getting worse and worse.”

“You won’t be able to avoid her, nor are you expected to. It’s to your advantage she entertained you at all, and she certainly wasn’t lying when she said you are of a higher status to her and everyone in Hell. If we want you, it’s only natural they would as well.”

Jun mulls all of this over. Stares into his mostly-empty mug of coffee and tries to make sense of it. “I can’t even remember how I got there. I just had the idea, and then it was like I woke up in Hell. I didn’t mean to—what if I don’t even want to do this anymore? Can’t I just go back to my regular, boring life? This is—this is too much.”

“Unfortunately it’s too late for that. You have been chosen, Wen Junhui, and not just for this.”

Jun scoffs. “You’re making me sound like Harry Potter.”

“Thankfully that lady does not belong to us. Now, would you like to go back to your apartment before we get into specifics? It may take a while.”

“...Can we take another order of these things to go?”

Hoshi grins and flags down the waitress to order another massive stack of sugar-dusted waffles. “I think I’m going to enjoy my time on earth with you, Wen Junhui.”

The specifics are thus:

Hoshi is in charge of what earth-bound lawyers would call advertising. Jun isn’t privy to the specifics; he doesn’t know how Hoshi is even capable of it, if he’s just going to waltz into Hell and hand out business cards or what, but it’s more than he’s able to do so he doesn’t ask. (Well, that’s not entirely true. He did ask, and all Hoshi said in return was, “You know Metatron?” and left it at that.)

Hoshi is also in charge of The List: the souls Heaven wants freed from their contracts and returned upstairs. He allows Jun a brief glimpse of it, who is none too surprised to find a few law school colleagues but still overwhelmed at its length. It’s long—so long it had taken Hoshi quite some time to unfurl the scroll—and it isn’t static. Anyone destined for Heaven that makes a deal with the devil while Jun’s at work will simply be added to the bottom of the list. On and on it’ll go, ad nauseam, until Jun either dies or retires.

Which, speaking of retirement—

In a shocking turn of events, the job comes with benefits. Hoshi had been reluctant to call it a salary. For all intents and purposes Jun will be self-employed: he will be provided with a small office space in a nice area of downtown with no signage, although he’s also welcome to work remotely or wherever he feels most comfortable. Money will appear in his account, though he can opt for other forms of payment if he so wishes. (He’d been offered enough to live off of for a year for even accepting the job but chose to have his student loans paid off instead.)

They will keep him healthy. They will keep his sleep schedule regular and his refrigerator stocked with nutritious food. They will ensure people leave him alone and that no suspicions are cast upon him. They will ensure Jun has every tool at his disposal to be successful.

(It was a lot. Felt like making an inverse deal with the devil—he knew he was playing for the right side, but it was non-negotiable and non-refundable. Wen Junhui had been chosen, and in a moment of self-doubt and self-deprecation, he’d joked, “Can They make me smarter?”

Hoshi’s brows had furrowed. “The list of benefits makes no mention of increased intelligence.” Jun pouted; let out a whiny little oh. Hoshi grabbed another sheet of paper. “Your intelligence stats are nearly maxed, dude.”

“I barely passed law school!” he protested.

“I don’t know what to tell you. If we made you any smarter your brain would explode. Literally.”)

After that, there wasn’t much left to discuss. Hoshi had a lot of planning to do; needed to talk to someone in the marketing department but promised he’d be back as soon as possible. Left a tome in Jun’s possession and told him to study.

Theological Contract Law: A Very Comprehensive Introduction: Cases and Materials - 2326th Edition, it says, and Jun stares down at it full of foreboding. It’s bound in black leather, giltstamped in red. Nothing good comes bound in black leather with shiny red letters.

Still, he does what’s asked of him, lest his student loan pay-off gets reversed. He spends hours hunched over his small dining room table with a legal pad to his right, taking notes on any and everything that may prove important—what he can make sense of, at least, because it doesn’t resemble any legal or governmental structure he’s ever seen.

He groans. Tosses his pen onto the table and leans back in the stiff wooden chair, lets his head loll off the back as the wood digs into his neck. Says, “What the heck am I supposed to do with this?” to the empty space of his apartment, and before he’s even opened his eyes another book appears on the table.

Theological Law For Mortals: An Introduction (Sorry!!!! - Hoshi)

He swears.

The days bleed together. Hoshi pops in briefly to officially assign him his first case: one Kim Mingyu from Anyang-si, South Korea. Apparently sold his soul to be “tall and hot” and Heaven desperately needs him back. “This one’s important to the big boss,” Hoshi says, dropping off a stack of papers with a picture paperclipped to the front with the most attractive, symmetrical man Jun has ever seen. “He was meant to work in recruiting,” Hoshi explains.

Jun whistles low. “Understandable. Look at his face.”

“Exactly, so you get the need for a little urgency.” He tries to stamp it down, but Jun feels the panic start to rise. Has to dig his fingernails into the palm of his hand. “Hey, just do your best. Call me if you need anything.”

Hoshi turns to leave, ugly pair of brand new sneakers squeaking against the linoleum floor of the kitchen, but Jun’s able to stammer out, “What—what if I can’t do it?”

The angel turns, face marred by genuine confusion. “Why would you think you can’t?”

And then he’s gone.

Fueled by Hoshi’s unwavering—and frankly incomprehensible—confidence in him, Jun finds what he needs just after four o’clock Sunday morning. There, on page 4,837 of Theological Contract Law: A Very Comprehensive Introduction: Cases and Materials - 2326th Edition, in subsection 69 of section 567, it clearly states that souls handed over in exchange for vanity-related reasons must adhere to strict guidelines, limited to but not including:

General facial appearance

Eye and/or hair color

Penis, breast, and/or butt size

Height and/or weight

Others TBD

Pushed beyond the threshold of exhaustion, eyes going in and out of focus, he’s not sure the text following the sub-bullet point is real, but there it is: In regards to height, men must be made at least 6’2” or 188 centimeters for the contract to be considered legally binding.

“Hoshi!”

At once, the angel appears across from him. He’s decked out in another stupid t-shirt (Don’t Bully Me, I’ll Cum, this one says) and is drinking a 7-Eleven slushy through a bendy straw. His lips and tongue are stained blue when he smiles and asks, “Good news?”

Jun shakes his head. Tries to erase the scene in front of him. “Maybe,” he answers. “I need you to get an accurate height on Kim Mingyu. And I mean really accurate. Shave him bald if you have to.”

Hoshi’s smile fades as he grows serious. “You really think you’ve got something?”

“I think so.” Jun pushes the book across the table. “Take a look at that part I highlighted. I know his file says he’s 188 centimeters tall, but imagine if whoever measured him just rounded up? If he’s even a millimeter under that, the contract is void.”

Before he can comprehend what’s happening, Hoshi climbs halfway across the table, grabs Jun by the cheeks, and plants a wet, noisy kiss in the middle of Jun’s forehead. “Wen Junhui, you sneaky little minx, I may be a little in love with you.”

Jun’s face flushes hot and red.

“Just—just look into it, okay? I’ve been over the rest of this and I can’t see any other way out of it.” With a sarcastic salute, Hoshi disappears. Feels like he’s only gone a few minutes before he pops back up in the living room wearing a somber expression. “What?” Jun asks, panicked, feeling his stomach drop out of his ass. “What’s wrong?”

“Bad news,” Hoshi replies, heaving a sigh. Won’t look up from the floor. Does an impeccable job at selling it, before he looks up at Jun with a shit-eating grin, barely able to contain his excitement. “For the Devil! Ha ha ha!”

Whiplash. All Jun can feel is whiplash, and he stumbles out of the chair, can barely feel the ache in his bones. Trips over a rogue object on his way to the living room. “What? You mean—”

“You did it! Kim Mingyu officially measured in at a glorious six-foot-one-point-nine repeating.”

Jun grabs onto the back of the couch so he doesn’t pass out. Oxygen is not reaching his brain right now, nor is coherent thought. All those agonizing days in law school during which he resigned himself to being a failure. All those back-breaking nights he had to run to the bus stop to get home from his internship, only a handful of hours before he had to be awake again for class. All the meals he upchucked from anxiety before critical exams. All his classmates that’d ignored and belittled him. And now—

“I did it…” he says, voice colored with pure disbelief.

Hoshi starts doing some kind of concerning, robotic-looking dance. “Yeah, bitch!” A bolt of lightning strikes right in front of him and Hoshi startles. Rubs at the back of his neck and has the good sense to look sheepish. “I forgot I’m not supposed to swear.” He looks up at the ceiling. “Sorry, Boss!”

He turns his attention to Jun. “Go take a shower and get dressed. Wear something nice; we’re going out to celebrate.”

Whatever club Hoshi has brought him to is humid and sticky.

With what, Jun can’t be sure, but every time he presses his fingertips together it takes a concerning amount of time for them to peel apart.

Hoshi leads him to the bar. Hops onto a stool and kicks his feet as he waves over the bartender. She’s cute, Jun thinks; a bright, open smile splits her face as she pulls away from Hoshi, clearly endeared by whatever it was he had said. She moves around the bar with an easy confidence, does a little twirl to avoid her coworker, and Jun doesn’t realize he’s hypnotized until Hoshi digs an elbow into his ribs.

“Take it easy, killer. I ordered us some shots.”

Jun snaps out of his reverie. “Can you even drink?”

“Of course I can, I just can’t get drunk. Not here, anyway. Big Boss made the real good stuff exclusive to you-know-where after a few, uh… mishaps. Down here.” He coughs. “Let’s find somewhere to sit. I’ll come back for the drinks.”

There’s an empty booth tucked away in a corner. Jun takes the side that gives him an eyeline shot of the bar even though it feels a little creepy, and if Hoshi knows what he’s doing he doesn’t mention it. He’s back to yapping about one thing or another, gets distracted by all the commotion in the club—the group playing darts, the packed dance floor, a couple making out near the restrooms. Quite enthusiastically, Jun might add.

True to his word, Hoshi disappears for a second to retrieve the drinks. Jun watches as the bartender hands over a tray of rainbow-colored shots and also as Hoshi pats the pockets of his skin-tight pleather plants. Watches as he panics and frantically waves Jun over. Once he’s in his personal space, Hoshi leans in and whispers, “They say they need a card for the tab. I don’t know what that is so I’m assuming I don’t have one.”

Jun sighs. Explains, “It’s a credit card. How do you survive down here with no money?” Nevertheless, he digs out his wallet and hands his card over. “I can’t believe you invited me out and I’m getting stuck with the bill.”

Hoshi tuts. Hands Jun’s credit card to the bartender without an ounce of remorse. “Relax, I’ll have Matt reimburse you.”

“Who the heck is Matt—” Jun begins to say, but he’s interrupted by the most annoying angel God ever created placing the tray of drinks in Jun’s hands, then asking, “Can you take this back to the table? I’ll be right there.”

Hoshi is not going to be right there. Hoshi is going to hover around the bar because the cute bartender was making eyes at him, and Jun is going to return to their formerly-shared table to drink alone. There aren’t many things more depressing than going out with a friend to celebrate a personal achievement only to end up downing six shots on his own.

…Which are not to Jun’s taste at all.

He’s a habitual Tsingtao drinker. Never bothers to order anything else because he knows what he likes and it has never steered him wrong. Never had his head stuck in a toilet bowl, either, which is territory he’ll rapidly be approaching if he actually goes through with this.

“Is this seat taken?”

Jun knows it’s you without having to look up. Your aura is tangible—something thick and syrupy like molasses and just as dark; something suffocating, something that would drown him—and it follows you like a shadow. Slides into the booth before Jun can answer, just a nanosecond before your physical form does the same, and when you’re at eye level he has to swallow his gasp.

You look completely different.

Still beautiful, he thinks, because it’s hard to think of anything else. Jun knows who and what you are, of course; remembers the warning Hoshi had given him. Knows that this is just another one of your tricks, another layer of temptation, but it’s a beauty like quicksand. It’s a beauty like the misunderstood creatures at the heart of every fairy tale—those haunting kinds of myths meant to both make you wary and suck you in. It’s a beauty accentuated by darkness.

Worst of all, it’s a beauty that’s making his pants a little tight in the dick area.

“What does that imbecile have you drinking?” you ask, reaching for one of the remaining shot glasses. You grimace as you hold it up to the light. “You know, I once watched a man throw back twelve of these things before he stripped down to nothing but a diaper and attempted to rob a convenience store across the street.”

“Oh. What happened?”

You sigh. Place the glass back on the tray. “A comedy of errors, of course. He somehow managed to make it into the store unnoticed, but he had neither a weapon nor something to store the money in. He tried climbing across the counter to get to the cash register, but the clerk hit him in the head with a metal step stool and knocked him unconscious before calling the police.”

“I’m assuming he got arrested?”

“Oh, no.” You laugh, and Jun’s taken aback by how normal it sounds. “He came to before the police got there. I guess the sirens freaked him out because he ran out of the store and got hit by a bus.” Jun must be wearing a particular look, because you follow that up with, “He was always meant to be one of ours, so don’t worry, you won’t have to meet him.”

Right.

Jun had expected this. Not that he’d had a whole lot of time to expect it, considering Kim Mingyu had been freed from his contract for a whopping fifteen minutes before Hoshi was shoving Jun into the bathroom to shower, but it had been a passing thought on at least four separate occasions.

You’re not going to apologize, he tells himself. Wonders if you can hear his thoughts and desperately hopes you can’t, considering he’d thought about getting a semi from how pretty you are. It wasn’t even a semi, really, if he’s being honest. What’s half of a semi? One-fourth of a boner? That’s what he’d gotten, and if you can read his thoughts it’s very important that you know that.

“I’m not Joshua.”

Jun startles. Feels all the normalcy leak out of his body and form a gloopy puddle on the floor. “Um,” he replies stupidly. “Then how did you—”

“I can feel you thinking. Always feels like chickenpox when humans overthink around me.”

He wrings his sweaty hands together. Rubs them on his jeans when that doesn’t work. “Sorry,” he says instinctually. “It’s just—I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say.”

“Why?” you challenge. “Is there something you want to say?”

“I don’t think so. But I can’t imagine you’re very happy with me, and I get this sort of, um. When I know someone’s upset with me it feels like chickenpox, too. And even though I know, logically, that I did a good thing, I still feel like I’m going to throw up?”

Tense silence hangs between the two of you. Jun’s on the verge of word-vomiting another apology when you snap your fingers and turn the remaining shots into something resembling watery honey. You hold one out to him. “Drink this,” you instruct, and Jun makes a point not to let your fingers touch when he takes it.

“Is it poison?”

You heave another sigh. “Wen Junhui, there are some things you need to understand about me. First of all, this is an inherited job. Being The Anointed One comes with a lot of work and responsibility so we get burned out, okay? So there’s only ever been one devil as far as humans are concerned, but in a weird avatar-y kind of way that’s hard to explain and not worth my time to explain to you, specifically, considering you’re the enemy now. Second, I am capable of killing you in ways your human brain cannot even begin to conceive of. I do not need to poison you with ginger tea to take you out.”

Jun looks down at the glass. Raises it to his noise and takes a hesitant sniff.

Oh. Yeah, that’s ginger tea.

That you conjured him… because he said he felt nauseous?

“The last thing you need to understand is that the loophole you found was… unfortunate, to say the least, but Kim Mingyu’s contract was not one of mine. The next contract that idiotic angel is going to ask you to work on was also not my work. If you free him, too, it will be regrettable, but it will pale in comparison to what will happen to you if you even think about touching one of mine.”

You’re gone before the fear can even set in.

Jun blinks, staring at the empty seat across from him. No indication at all that you’d been there, no lingering shadow, just the taste of ginger on his tongue and one of those cartoon scribbles in a thought bubble hovering metaphorically above his head.

He doesn’t—

He can’t—

No, he decides, he is not going to have a mental break in this club. Not while “Friday” by Rebecca Black plays on a loop. Not while he can hear someone to his left vomiting all over the floor. Not while he watches Hoshi skip back to the table and he notices, for the first time all night, what he’s wearing.

“Did you change?”

Because he swears the angel wasn’t wearing that when they left the apartment. The pleather pants, yes, but not the baby pink cropped tank with a decal of a creepy child in the middle that says BOYS ARE STUPID, THROW ROCKS AT THEM.

“What? No,” Hoshi answers, sliding into the seat you’d occupied only moments earlier. “Why does it smell weird over here?”

Jun plays stupid. “One of the dartboard girls puked on the floor.” He’s not very good at it.

Hoshi shakes his head. “Not that.” An exaggerated sniff, not unlike a bloodhound. “It smells like… it definitely smells familiar. I know this smell. It’s like—you know how it feels when it’s about to snow? How the cold and the air burn your nose, but it doesn’t actually smell like anything? As if it used to have a smell, once, a long time ago, and all it is now is just an imprinted memory?”

Jun lies, “No. Nope, no idea.”

Hoshi visibly deflates. “Well, it’s kind of like that. Also a little bit like you used wet moss to put out a wildfire. It fills me with—” Hoshi pauses. Narrows his gaze as he studies Jun intently. Being stared at like this by a guy in that particular shirt is a bit disorienting, he must admit. “She was here, wasn’t she?”

He’ll know he’s lying, but Jun says no again because it’s a lot easier than explaining that being threatened within an inch of his mortal life made him cum in his pants a little.

After the club, Jun gets a few days of reprieve.

He doesn’t hear from Hoshi at all, nor does he materialize unexpectedly in his apartment. No mysterious books show up, either, which is a relief. He’d stored both Theological Contract Law: A Very Comprehensive Introduction: Cases and Materials - 2326th Edition and Theological Law For Mortals: An Introduction on a seldom-used bookshelf in his living room and now the shelf is starting to bow in the middle. One more tome of that size and the whole thing is going to come tumbling down and earn him a noise complaint.

Another one.

Because Hoshi has already racked up three in Jun’s name.

So he tries to go back to life as usual until he’s needed again. Does his grocery shopping in the middle of the week in the middle of the day when it’s not so busy and he can navigate the aisles without crippling anxiety. Goes to a check-up and has to lie about turning over a new leaf and taking his health seriously when his cholesterol levels are back within perfect range. He plays video games, picks a nice willow tree in the park to sit beneath and read (normal books this time), takes some of the Mingyu money to buy a decent watch and a few tailored suits.

For the first time in a while, he’s able to sleep through the night.

But he can’t shake the feeling that it’s all… strange. Ever since you’d shown up at the bar, he swears he sees you everywhere: in line a few registers over at the supermarket, in the waiting room of the hospital, coming out of a fitting room in the mall. It’s that aura again. Stalks him like prey. Has paranoia pricking at his skin, and it’s not healthy, the way it has him looking over his shoulder at every turn, scurrying away from every attractive woman with a frown and mumbled apologies.

Surely this cannot be the rest of his life.

Hoshi swings by on a Tuesday. Just like you said he would, he asks Jun to work on an assignment for one Lee Chan who tried to sell his friend to the devil but accidentally sold himself instead. “Wouldn’t have really mattered,” Hoshi explains. Today, his shirt says BIG DICK IS BACK IN TOWN. “It’s sort of against the rules to try and sell other people.”

Jun spits toothpaste into the sink and prays the towel stays snug around his waist. Hoshi had cornered him in the bathroom. “So why do you want him back, then?” Rifles through the medicine cabinet for his nice hair serum. “Seems pretty open and shut to me.”

“Why do They want him back,” Hoshi corrects, “and I don’t know why They want this one.”

Jun thinks about what you said: how Mingyu and Lee Chan hadn’t been your contracts, were basically freebies; the… avatar-ness; the not-subtle-at-all threats on his life. Says, “Can I ask you something?” as he rolls on antiperspirant.

Hoshi, who’s sitting in the tub making animals out of shaving cream, simply nods.

“She said something interesting to me—”

“Before or after being mean to you made you ejaculate in your pants like a teenager?”

Jun blinks. “Before,” he answers slowly. When Hoshi makes no move to interrupt him again, he continues, “She said the Kim Mingyu and Lee Chan contracts weren’t hers. That the role is… inherited? Something about an avatar? How does that work?”

The angel hums. Adds what appear to be bunny ears to an amorphous blob that does not look rabbit-shaped at all, and Jun tries to tamper down his excitement at the impending explanation. Everything he’s dealt with so far will have been worth it because he’s going to be in the know. The powers that be will reward him with their trust. He’ll finally get some answers to all those questions he fell asleep pondering as a child.

And then Hoshi waves him away dismissively and says, “You know I can’t tell you any of that,” and everything comes collapsing down like a house of cards.

Fair enough, Jun thinks—he’s only successfully completed one assignment. It’s still early days. “But you will eventually,” he says, and whoever’s listening in must think the optimism in his voice is so pathetic, “right?”

Hoshi is not cruel. They haven’t known each other long, but Jun knows that much. He wasn’t created from some Old Testament mold, when cruelty was the point of it all—intended to impress fear and strict adherence to Their Word. So when Hoshi laughs it isn’t meant the way Jun takes it. When Hoshi laughs it isn’t meant to make Jun feel disregarded and unimportant, small and irrelevant, but that’s where it strikes him all the same.

When Hoshi laughs and has no reassurances to offer, Jun is seventeen again, reckoning with his loss of faith. Now he’s a decade older and is constantly confronted by all those old names and characters, and when you’re trapped in the middle of their bidding, where can you go when you need to hide?

Jun has the Lee Chan assignment completed by Thursday night.

A significant amount of money appears in his bank account. He wakes up on Friday to an enthusiastic message from his landlord, thanking him for paying his rental contract through the end of his lease. His parents thank him for the grocery delivery. On the side, away from the proud ears of his father, his mother is especially thankful. She’s choking back tears as she thanks him profusely, says business has been slow, tells him he’s a good son and he’s made them proud, always, even if he traveled a different path than the one he originally planned to take.

None of it takes away the ache in his chest.

None of it makes him feel any less empty. It’s hard to feel fulfilled when you know you’re just a pawn, stuck in the middle of a holy war that existed long before him and will persist long after he’s gone. Wen Junhui will always be on the outskirts, because everyone needs him, but he’s not important enough to trust. He is someone and no one all at once. He is Purgatory.

He needs to feel human—needs to make human mistakes, destroy himself the way humans do. Needs to commit a few cardinal sins and scold himself, wonder what the fuck he’s doing as he rattles ice around his third glass of baijiu. Needs to wake up with a splitting headache and a fractured memory. Needs a hoarse voice beside him to ask what time it is as he stares at their naked back and wonders how to get out of it.

There’s a bar not far from his apartment. A dive, by every definition of the word: broken, flickering neon sign out front, cheap linoleum floors peeling at the corners, 70s paneling on the walls, the stench of cigarette smoke outlasting all the old regulars. It’s the kind of place ghosts gather; the kind of place Jun was always too scared to go, knew the questioning, distrustful stares that’d be there to greet him as soon as he stepped through the door.

Tonight, though, it’ll do just fine.

He sits on a stool at the bar and orders a beer to start. Intends to stay a while. Watches a trio of old men play dou dizhu at a table near the back, empty bottles at their feet, fat cigars stuck between their teeth, insults and accusations shouted around them. To his left, a middle-aged man tries bartering for another drink. Needs it, he says, because he lost his job and his wife in the same week. Fourth job this month, the bartender replies, no pity to be found. It’s only the twenty-second.

Across the bar sits a kid that reminds Jun a lot of his brother. Can’t be much older than eighteen. Might not be old enough to drink legally at all, but that’s none of his business. There’s dirt beneath his fingernails and a large chip taken out of a front tooth. Not a clean break, all jagged edges—the kind that probably hurts to run his tongue over.

Jun feels guilty for a moment, surrounded by all these people with real problems. He’s got money and a respectable career. Has a roof over his head that’s been paid for by someone else. He’s good-looking, has his health and his youth. Has enough to take care of his family.

“Give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you.” You sit beside him with a humored smile that shines through a truly pinched expression.

Jun snorts as he empties his drink. “Thessalonians. Gotta be honest, not one of my favorites.” Spares a glance at you: you’re different again, appearance-wise, but the scent you wear like a signature perfume is the same. Heady, like it was bottled at the center of the earth. “Is this your way of telling me that comparison is the thief of joy or whatever?”

Your turn to laugh. The bartender sets a drink in front of you that Jun hadn’t heard you order. “No,” you reply simply. “I’m not all that concerned with human joy. Just thought it was ironic. Come sit with me.”

“This is starting to sound familiar,” he snarks, but he follows anyway.

A rickety table by the window. Winter air seeps through, frosts the glass; has Jun wishing he’d worn a thicker coat. It was warmer by the bar. The two chairs you occupy are upholstered in peeling vinyl, one ripped with the stuffing peeking through. Jun takes that one, figuring you’ll laugh at his human chivalry, but you take the seat opposite him without a word. That old flickering sign outside reflects on your face.

He didn’t come here for a therapy session—he came to get drunk on questionable liquor surrounded by people who don’t know him. You do, of course, which throws a wrench in his plan. You seem to know everything about him, including that he’d be here brooding. “Why’d you follow me here?”

“Well, it certainly wasn’t for your jubilant demeanor and fantastic conversation.” You put your drink to the side. Fold your hands in front of you. “Congratulations on Lee Chan. The outfit upstairs must be very pleased with the work you’ve done thus far.”

There’s no bite. No sardonic tone.

Jun realizes then how differently you treat him. How honest you are. You don’t lie or stretch the truth; you don’t brush off his questions. Hoshi is truthful at an arm’s length. Makes his stomach feel sour.

“I’m just a pawn, aren’t I? It doesn’t really matter if they’re pleased so long as I get the work done.”

You hum an acknowledgment. “People forget what They used to be like. The atrocities They committed and had others commit in Their name—humans, just like you, who were so desperate to appease their God they would’ve done whatever was asked of them.” Jun’s drink refills. He empties it in one go. “They killed their sons, waged war on their neighbors, have done unspeakable evils in Their name. It’s not only you, Wen Junhui, that has been a pawn to Them.”

He doesn’t react. A glass shatters at the bar. “And you?” he questions. “What are you, then, if those are the things They demand?”

“I’m a foil, of course. Would you still believe in good if there was no evil? Would you believe in the promise of eternal life if there was no threat of eternal damnation? Would you still be moral if there was no corruption?” Rhetorical questions. “Although you’re no stranger to crises of faith, are you?”

He isn’t. The handjob had rattled him, sure, but it hadn’t been the catalyst. Not really. Jun had still gone to church that Sunday. Still kneeled and received Communion and allowed himself to be blessed and prayed over. Still bowed his head before each meal and mouthed along as his mother said grace.

No, his loss of faith had been gradual: a question he couldn’t find an answer to, suffering he could no longer brush off with blind faith, words he used to treat as gospel that began tasting acrid in his mouth as he also lost his conviction. Everything started feeling like bullshit, and once everything started feeling like bullshit, he had to wonder what he’d spent eighteen years of his life chasing. What he spent eighteen years of his life believing in.

Until he found he didn’t believe in all that much anymore.

He has to ask: “Was it your doing?”

You shake your head. “People forget who I am, too. They call me the original liar. They say I am the source of all evil. They attribute every sin and misdeed to me, say it must’ve been my will, and yet it says right there in their holy book, in Isaiah 45:7: I form the light, and create darkness: I make peace, and create evil: I the Lord do all these things.” You focus all your attention on Jun—he feels the weight of it like a millstone. “I was the anointed one until I was overcome by sin and became the tempter, right? That’s what they say; how they wrote my story. And yet, by Their own word, it was They who created evil. It was God who created darkness.” A hefty pause. “Some may look at me and say I, too, was a pawn.”

“Do you feel like you were?”

You don’t respond. Instead, Jun watches as his view of the bar crumbles once you snap your fingers: block by block replaced with the interior of his apartment. His dining table instead of the off-balance one in front of the window. The ambient noise of his building instead of the bar. A mug of coffee in place of the baijiu.

“What the he—”

It’s within the four dull walls of Jun’s apartment building that you answer: “Even if I was, why should I feel like a victim? Did I not get the better end of the deal?” Jun feels like he’s standing atop a trap door. Like any second it’ll swing open and down, down, down he’ll go. “I rule over my kingdom and make no demands of anyone. I am a consequence of free will and not an inhibitor of it. I dole out punishment only for those deserving of it.”

The coffee is strong. Bitter. Just for a second before it melts away into something sweet. “You are temptation, are you not? Do the demons not do your bidding? Sow chaos in your name? Are you not the originator of all these contracts I’ve been tasked with destroying? If They are to be believed, those people were not meant to be yours, and yet you wound up with them anyway.”

“I like you, Wen Junhui,” you say. “You have an insatiable curiosity that is both admirable and ill-advised.”

He feels his face flush. “Sorry. Got carried away, I think.”

“It’s of little consequence to me. I must admit I have smited men for asking questions, but they were of a more crude variety. More coffee?” Jun nods. “I am who I am. It is who I’ve always been—I was created to walk this path and so I know no different.”

“Predestination.”

“Precisely, just as those dreadful fucking Puritans believed. God needed a foil, a betrayer, and so They created me. I know no other role.”

“You were an angel,” Jun argues. “They say you were beautiful, powerful, and intelligent; they say you were full of light. You don’t remember any of that?”

Sorrow etches across your face. Only for a second—blink and you’ll miss it. It is not in the same realm of pain Jun is experiencing. Yours is an ancient grief. It is something palpable and overwhelming, something liable to consume and destroy everything within its reach if left uncontrolled. Jun wonders if it has been; if you’ve let it unfurl before reigning it back in. If those are the plagues they speak of. Catastrophic disasters and genocides and everything on earth he cannot conceive of.

And then your face shutters. That grief is now nowhere to be found, borrowed features rearranged neatly once again. “Of course I remember,” is all you say.

Companionable silence. Jun sips slowly at his coffee and enjoys it. Wonders, briefly, how he wound up here, with the CEO and overseer of Hell sitting at his dining room table, before he lets those thoughts get chased away by a more pressing fact: there is an extremely beautiful and kind of terrifying woman sitting at his dining room table, and she hasn’t murdered him—yet.

He’s not above noticing it. Isn’t going to pretend he hasn’t thought about the night in the club roughly every twenty minutes since it happened; isn’t going to pretend he didn’t get a little hard in the shower that same night and that he didn’t relieve himself. Isn’t going to pretend that this isn’t doing something for him—the different disguises, each one just as enticing as the last, all of them conjured from deep within his psyche, checking off all his boxes.

Jun also isn’t going to pretend he has very much game. He hadn’t left university a virgin (although it’d been close) and nowadays women aren’t really falling over themselves to date a newly-licensed lawyer with little money and thrifted suits that feel like they’re playing at adulthood. However, if nothing else, this… partnership he has going on has served him well in the confidence department. He has disposable income and no debt. His clothes fit. He upgraded his cheap Casio watch to something that doesn’t turn his skin green.

“You didn’t really answer my question earlier.” You roll your head to the side, cock an eyebrow. His bravado falters slightly at the line of your throat. “Are you stalking me?”

What he aims for: cheeky, a little saucy; the kind of question that’s delivered with a shit-eating grin and earns him a coy laugh in response as you tuck your hair behind your ear. Oh, knock it off, you’d say as you playfully swatted at him. Of course I’m not. He’d catch your hand and press his lips to your knuckles before trailing them up your arm. The first kiss to the side of your neck would be gentle, a little hesitant, and then the heat would take over.

How it lands: an accusation completely lacking in charm and sass. Jun’s eyes widen in panic as soon as the question leaves his mouth, has him wondering how he’s still alive if the glare you send him is any indication of how you’re feeling. He should’ve known better. Jun is not the sort of person who can pull off a comment like that. Doesn’t have the charisma or the confidence. Isn’t sleazy enough. Jun is the kind of guy who lurks your social media after a one night stand to figure out your favorite breakfast so he can have it waiting the morning after; the kind who takes note of where you work so he can have flowers delivered to your desk and not for any other nefarious purpose.

Which, now that he’s thinking about it—

Every accusation is a confession, or whatever it is they say.

“That’s not—”

“What you meant,” you finish for him. Thankful for the lifeline, he nods, not trusting himself to not dig a deeper hole. “You want to know why it is I’ve shown up twice now, during both of your nights out.” He nods again. “You wanted to be suave when you said it, maybe even a little seductive, but you forgot your claim to fame is crying for three days over a handjob and how excruciatingly awkward you are.”

He waits for you to continue. When you don’t, he nods again, wishing he’d spent more time as a teenager on the degenerate parts of the internet rather than at Bible study.

“Are you an idiot?”

Not that it’s undeserved, but the question leaves him stunned. Has his mouth gaping open and shut like a goldfish. This is a trap, right? There’s a correct answer here that he’s expected to give. “...No?” he tries, and when your eyes narrow he quickly changes course. “Yes,” he says definitively. “Yes, I am an idiot. Sorry for my… idiocy.”

It looks like it’s being dragged out of you by force, but the clouds part, birds start chirping in perfect harmony, Jun feels the warmth of the sun—you laugh. You laugh, and it’s reluctant but it’s real, and Jun’s smile is so wide his face feels heavy under the weight of it. It’s so wide you say, “Wow, even your mouth is heart-shaped,” and, if Wen Junhui knows nothing else, he knows he’s in real big trouble.

“You know what else is heart-shaped?” You gesture for him to continue, except he’d just been yapping. Didn’t have a plan. There’s no punchline. And he can’t set it up as a dick joke because that doesn’t make sense. My dick is heart-shaped? What does that even mean? Unless it’s in a cute way? My dick is heart-shaped… for you. It could work, he reasons. Worse things have worked for other men. “My di—”

“No.”

He pretends to pout. “You didn’t let me finish.”

“Because you were going to make a dick joke.”

“No I wasn’t.” You roll your eyes. “I was going to say my… digantic heart.”

A pause. Another beat of silence.

“I’m not going to laugh at you twice.”

A shit-eating grin on Jun’s face. “But you would, is what you’re saying? If you didn’t already meet your one-laugh quota?”

“Don’t push your luck.”

I want to kiss you, he wants to say. Feels the words biting at the back of his teeth, begging him to open his mouth so they can escape and be real. I want to kiss you but I don’t know if it’d be real. Because it can’t be, can it? All the ways you’ve been described throughout human history, not once has anyone said you’re capable of love. Which—that’s not what Jun is looking for here, right? That’d be ridiculous. He has a crush.

A crush on a beautiful woman who looks like all of his wet dreams combined. Who’s terrifying and smart and maybe misunderstood in all the same ways he is. Who is halfway responsible for his current employment. Who conjures ginger tea for him when he feels sick and hasn’t snapped her fingers to turn him into dust… yet. It’s natural, especially for a late bloomer such as himself.

But that doesn’t mean anything.

You look like all of his wet dreams combined but it’s still just a costume. The same way Jun was playing at adulthood in his ill-fitting suits, you’re playing at being human. Take it off and you’re still the devil. Still primordial. Still not bound by the constraints and constructs of time. Not bound by mortality, which is probably the second-most pressing issue behind the whole fallen angel, prime ruler of Hell, purveyor of iron-clad contracts that are really, really pissing off Heaven thing.

“Congratulations,” you say, ripping Jun out of his spiral, “your overthinking has bypassed chickenpox completely and went straight to shingles.”

“They have a vaccine for that now.” Wow, he is really not nailing this.

“I know. Pestilence was devastated. Moped around for ages. Imagine all your hard work gone, just like that, because of science? That’s why I created Jenny McCarthy.” You sigh. “Anyway, out with it.”

Jun chews at the inside of his cheek. “I’m trying to figure out how to ask in a non-offensive way.”

You blink. “I am literally the devil.”

“Who can kill me,” he says slowly, trying to buy time. So are you, it seems, because you’re content to stretch the silence. Wait until it settles in Jun’s bones as anxiety. One of those old tricks he learned during law school that’s now being turned on him. He coughs. “Anyway, I—” He deflates. “It’s stupid, I don’t know why I even thought—”

“Out with it,” you repeat.

“Right.” He sucks in a breath. “Does this mean anything to you? Not in, like, an affectionate, I’m in love with you kind of way, but in a… human… way? Is it offensive to phrase it like that?”

“I think you’ll find not much offends me—except for you and your fucking lawyer thing ruining my contracts.” There are those flames behind your eyes again. The temperature in the room increases tenfold. “So no, it’s not offensive to wonder how human I am or am not, but I don’t know if the answer will be to your satisfaction or understanding.”

“Try me.”

You huff a laugh. Mumble something about the hubris of man. “You’ve read Their book, so you know how and why the angels were created. Ministering spirits, I think it says. Spirits without bodies. I have never known what it means to be human because I never was. I appear as one to you out of necessity.”

“Because my brain would melt if I saw your true form?”

“What? No. Because it’s terrifying. Would you rather hand over your mortal soul to someone who looked like an eldritch horror or someone who looked like one of those women you’ve jerked off to in porn magazines?” Jun swallows audibly. “Exactly.”

“But what does it feel like when you’re like this? When you’re here?”

“I don’t know,” you answer honestly. “It feels different, but I can’t say it feels human because I do not know what that feels like. You’ve interacted with me and have been to Hell—if I asked you how it felt to be the devil, how would you answer?”

Jun doesn’t have to think. He says the first word that comes to mind, which is, “Lonely. I think it’s lonely, because They have worshippers, Their followers are devout and love and trust without proof, and you were created to be hated and feared.” You move to interject, but Jun continues. “Maybe you have those things too, but they’re not the same. They gave you everything and then They ripped it away. Their followers heed every word of the Bible, name their children after its characters, but where’s your book? Why wasn’t anyone allowed to tell your story?”

“Maybe you should write it.”

What you aim for: cheeky, a little saucy; the kind of suggestion spoken around a sly smile that’s also a little self-conscious at someone taking you into consideration—at someone seeing you.

How it lands: fractured; words spoken slowly and intentionally so nothing is given away. How ironic that it’s the most human Jun has heard you sound.

But your bravery is inspiring, even if you’re unaware of it. Even if you aren’t making a conscious choice to be so, Jun can watch you be vulnerable and think he can do the same. He can finally say what he’s been dancing around this entire time, which is, “If I kiss you, what will it feel like for you?”

“The same as any other kiss, I imagine.”

“You’ve done this before, then? As a… human?”

Seems your patience with him has run out. You stand, make your way to Jun’s side of the table slowly. Drag a finger along the back of each chair, nails cherry red and sharpened to a point. He wants to feel them. Wants the sting as they dig into his thighs; as they scratch down the length of his back and mark him up. He wants to feel the phantom bite for days, long after you’re gone and he’s come to his senses. When he stands beneath the spray of the shower and his skin feels raw, he wants to know it was you that had done it.

He understands, now, why people make those deals and shake your hand.

As you loom above him, slowly encroaching upon his space—as the heady scent of you overwhelms him and makes him dizzy, has his eyes fluttering closed and rolling back in his head—he thinks he’d give you anything you asked for.

You lean in close. One hand on the arm of the chair, one wrapped around the meat of his thigh, just on the edge of sharp. Closer, closer, until he can feel the warmth of your breath against his cheek, the line of his jaw, the lobe of his ear. “Tell me: does this feel human?”

It does. Drives him a little crazy how he can feel each word punctuated against his skin; how he can feel your body heat seep through the fabric of his pants—heat he didn’t expect to find. And it isn’t like it matters, because he’d want you no matter how you felt, but it helps to ground him. Keep him in the moment. So he says, “Ye-yeah,” and knows you’re smiling at the need in his tone.

Need that starts in his toes and settles in his belly. Need that grows as your hand trails up his thigh and settles over his zipper, over the bulge you find there. Jun’s breath catches in his throat. He knows the mechanics—in, out; in, out; in, out—but can’t convince his lungs to work. Feels lightheaded and a little embarrassed because you’re not even touching him properly and he already feels untethered.

All you do is pull away, back out of his space, and for all he knows his world’s been turned upside down. Doubly so when he cracks one eye open and sees you on your knees, looking up at him with a half-lidded gaze, lashes impossibly dark. He can’t help it. He reaches out, places his thumbs in the contours of your cheek, cups your jaw, and presses his lips to yours.

Immediate searing heat.

Jun is engulfed in it. You taste like a storm—taste like the first deafening crack of thunder and the lightning that follows. And he knows he’s coming across too eager with the way he licks into your mouth, but you don’t seem to mind. You match his pace, groan into his mouth, palm at his cock with more intention. Jun’s hips roll, seeking the friction; wants more of the stinging pleasure. Wants to haul you into his lap and fit his hands in the curve of your waist, leave bruises on your hips with his thumbs. He wants to trace every inch of your skin and commit it to memory.

But you’ve got plans of your own.

You plant your hands against his chest and push. Jun goes willingly, chest heaving, missing your mouth already. There’s a crooked grin sitting on your face that sends a spark of excitement up his spine, has alarms sounding in his head, but he can’t look away. Everything you do mesmerizes him: the way you run your tongue along your bottom lip, the slow drag of his zipper, how your voice is husky and deeper than he’s ever heard it when you ask him, what do you want, and your smile when he answers, whatever you do.

And what you seem to want is to destroy him in record time. Pants at his knees, hard cock straining against his briefs, he feels like he’s back in high school. Has that same sense of adolescent urgency, like everything’s happening both in slow-motion and not fast enough, because he knows what’s coming. Watches with a lip tugged between his teeth as you free his cock. Whimpers when you wrap your hand around him, reminds himself to breathe; grips white-knuckled at the arms of the chair when you begin to move.

Your pace is torturously slow to start. You seem to delight in tormenting him; in hearing all those breathy moans that escape him and spur you on. You lean forward and spit and everything is slick. Jun feels like he’s going to come out of his skin. He grips at the chair tighter. Digs his nails into his thighs when that doesn’t work and lets his head roll back, neck on full display. Maybe it’s to tempt you. Maybe he wants you to sink your teeth into him and mark him up. Maybe he has a million fantasies, and not a single one compares to—

Your mouth. The sound that comes out of him is unholy. It takes every ounce of restraint he has not to roll his hips and fuck his cock deeper into your mouth, down your throat. All he wants to do is chase the bliss of that wet heat and give in to it.

But he needs this to last. If this is the only time he’ll have you like this, he needs to make it worthwhile.

He needs to tell you, needs you to slow it down before he embarrasses himself by coming in your mouth, except he can’t find the words. Doesn’t want to deny himself even a second of pleasure. Five minutes is all it’s taken to make a hedonist out of him. And that’s… well, it’s not a philosophy he ever thought he’d adopt, but who could blame him when you feel like velvet? When he starts babbling nonsense and you hum in response and everything feels electric?

“I’m gonna—” A sharp nip at the inside of his thigh has his declaration dead on arrival. His body shivers, trembles, tries to collapse in on itself. “Shit, don’t do that, I’m gonna—”

He feels your smile against his skin. Whimpers as you mouth at his balls. Wonders if he’s going to die like this; if someone will come to check on him and find his pitiful, half-naked body right here in this chair, and that is not a sight he wants anyone to walk in on, so he reaches for you, finds your hair and tugs at you gently. Seals his lips over yours before you can come up with any more ideas.

He hauls you into his lap, just like he’d wanted, and dips his hands beneath your top. Skims his hands over the warm skin he finds. Digs his nails in when you bite at the column of his throat and groans as his cock—so hard he can barely think straight; can’t think of anything except burying himself inside of you—brushes against the harsh fabric of your pants.

“God, c’mere.” You oblige. Kiss him with such intensity he no longer cares where he dies, so long as this is how he goes out. Watches as stars explode behind his eyelids when he realizes he can taste himself on your tongue, that you taste like him. Moves his hands to your chest, traces lightly over your hard nipples, delights in the way you react, that it’s him making you feel good. That it’s him you let pull your top over your head. That it’s him that presses praise into your skin like scripture.

He mouths at you indiscriminately: your collar bones, the space between your breasts, the swell of skin there. Whines as you grab at his hair and tell him how to please you. Thinks he’s learning a lot about himself when he does as you say, when he sucks and bites at your nipples, and grows impossibly harder.

You sigh, blissed out; tell him you want his mouth elsewhere, fill his mind with thoughts that have him rolling his hips uselessly, thrusting at nothing, but fuck, he wants it all. Wants to taste every part of you. Wants to drag you to the edge and watch as your body writhes in satisfaction. Wants to know how beautiful you look when you come on his tongue, head thrown back, your nails digging into his scalp.

Wants to bury his cock inside of you before you can come down and watch as your eyes roll back and know, with every thrust of his hips, that he’s leaving his mark just the same as you are.

So that’s what he does. He stands, lifting you with ease, tells you to wrap your legs around him as he carries you to his bedroom. Lays you in the middle of the bed and helps strip you bare. Tells you, in every way he can think of, how much he loves seeing you like this, how stunning you are, how lucky he is. Kisses his way down your body until he’s level with your cunt. He breathes in your scent, desperate for all of you, before he circles a thumb over your clit and follows it with his mouth.

Ironic, he thinks, that you taste like heaven.

He gives as good as he got—flattens his tongue and works you over with long licks. Laps and sucks and doesn’t let up when your legs start to shake. Places one over his shoulder and dives back in. Swears fall from your lips in fractured syllables, breathless cries in between commands to keep going. He’s a man possessed. Doesn’t want to waste a second. Doesn’t want the taste of anyone else on his tongue.

You come with a sob, his name the only thing you seem capable of saying. Jun, Jun, Jun, like a chant.

…Like something he’d hear in church.

No reprieve. He stretches you on his fingers, almost delirious as he presses against your g-spot and feels how much wetter you get. Ruts against the mattress at all the crude sounds he’s pulling from you, unable to help himself. Says, “Can I…?” and slicks himself up with what he’s gathered from you when you nod.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck. Kisses the spot just below your ear as he runs his hands up and down your thighs. “How do you want me?” he asks. “Whatever you want, I’ll give it to you.”

He expects you to want it from behind. Maybe on top so you’re in control, turned away. He doesn’t expect you to say, “Just like this,” as you hitch a leg around his hip and pull him as close as possible. He doesn’t expect you to say, “I want you to look at me,” in that tone, like it’s imperative. Like you need it. He doesn’t expect you to grab the back of his neck and kiss the air from his lungs as he pushes inside.

Heat. Everything is white, blinding heat.

Jun whines into your mouth. Rolls his hips slowly as you swallow it. Your hands move to his shoulders and down his spine, settle in the small of his back, press into the dimples there. He pulls back only so he can tell you to mark him up, that he wants to feel you days from now, and you indulge him. Shallow at first—your nails ghost across his skin, more ticklish than painful, before they dig in a little deeper. Jun feels the bite as the welts begin to form and he thinks his smile must look crazed.

He keeps his pace steady. Fucks in as deep as he can and rocks back slowly, trying to hold on to the way your cunt squeezes him, but you need more. You tell him as much and don’t say please, and when Jun tries to be a little cocky, when he thinks he has a modicum of control and says, “You’re okay, baby, you can take it,” you send him such a nasty glare he immediately gives it to you harder and faster.

But he can’t help but laugh. “What, I can’t call you baby?” he jokes. There’s a rebuttal on the tip of your tongue that Jun does away with with a sharp thrust of his hips. He knows he’s playing with fire, that he’ll pay for this one way or another, but the thought thrills him more than anything else.

“I’m the—fuck,” you swear. Jun doesn’t have to ask why. Everything’s starting to feel tighter, wetter. Both of you are hurtling toward the inevitable, and Jun needs to feel you come on his cock, needs to watch you unravel beneath him.

He grabs your hand. Sucks two of your fingers into his mouth. “Touch yourself,” he says. “Make yourself feel good, I wanna see you come.” He moans, loud and unabashed, when you do as he says.

Each pass of your fingers over your clit makes you jerk, has electricity licking at your heels. Jun feels each one. Feels the way you clench and tremble. A bead of sweat runs down the column of your throat and he traces it with his tongue. Keeps fucking harder, deeper; grinds his pelvis against your clit and falls in love with the way you sound in the throes of lust. Wants to bottle it and keep it forever.

“Jun, I’m gonna—”

Another roll of his hips. Deep, deep, deep. “I know.” Two words he’s barely able to choke out. Feels like he’s being suffocated as his vision starts to go hazy at the edges. All he knows in this moment is your pleasure, your satisfaction, you.

Your orgasm hits with a shattering cry. Jun follows right after, unable to put up a fight against the vice grip of your cunt. It feels pathetic, the way his body shakes with the force of it, but when it passes, when he comes back into his body, all he feels is bone-deep euphoria.

He collapses onto your chest. Presses another kiss there. Sighs contentedly when your nails scratch lightly at his scalp. “Okay?” he asks.

“Yes,” comes your easy answer.

Minutes pass in blissful quiet. Neither of you speak, letting your heavy breathing do the talking, and for once Jun enjoys the sounds of the city outside when there’s someone beside him to hear it, too. “I’m gonna pull out,” he tells you, even though it feels a bit silly.

He feels the loss immediately.

Unsure of the protocol for something like this, Jun does what he always does: pretends there’s absolutely nothing out of the ordinary happening at all.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, punctuating his words with a kiss to your temple. He grabs a clean pair of underwear from a drawer, pulls them on, pads down the hall to the bathroom. He pointedly does not look at his reflection as he turns the tap on and waits for the water to warm. Knows his face is blotchy and flushed and his hair’s a mess and that you’re spread out on his bed looking like the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, so he doesn’t want to look at his reflection and feel bad about himself. Doesn’t want to taint this moment by feeling unworthy of it.

But a bit of that self-doubt still manages to creep in, because he returns to his room and is surprised to find you haven’t left. That, above all else, you look content: laying on your front, one of Jun’s pillows tucked beneath your head, sheets barely covering your ass. You smile when Jun puts a knee on the mattress and you feel it dip. Smile wider when he kisses the length of your spine and tells you, in a voice unrecognizable even to his own ears, to roll onto your back so he can clean you up.

If it’s too intimate, you make no mention of it. If there’s no room in this moment for this kind of care and affection, if all of this is for Jun’s sake and you’re just letting him go through the motions, you don’t mention that, either.

He works slowly and with care. Apologizes when you hiss at the first swipe of the washcloth, the water warm but still colder than your skin. Cracks a joke about taking you out for breakfast in the morning even though both of you know you’ll be long gone by then, and he waits for that knowledge to sting but it never does, but he’s relieved when you laugh anyway.

It’s when you stop laughing, when your smile slowly disappears from your face, that it all starts to sink in. Because you ask, “Did it feel real to you?” and he’s not sure how to interpret that. If it’s a masked plea for reassurance or if you want to make sure he got his money’s worth.

Maybe it’s both. Or maybe it’s neither.

“I know it can’t be for you what it is for me,” he answers, “but if you’re asking if I had a good time, then my answer is yes. And I know what this is, so you don’t need to look like that, okay? I’m not about to confess my love for you and start crying.”

(That’s not entirely true. He really might start crying, but he’ll at least have enough sense to wait until you’re gone.)

“Well, it wouldn’t be the first time, so I…” You sigh, avert your gaze, tangle your fingers in the sheets. “It’s just—you’re doing all this nice stuff for me, so I didn’t… I wanted to make sure.”

“‘Nice stuff’? You mean helping you clean up and offering you a glass of water?”

You laugh again, but there’s no humor in it. “You’re treating me like I’m human, Wen Junhui. Like I’m the same as any other woman you’d sleep with.”

He cocks his head. “Why wouldn’t I?” he asks, and that’s the end of that.

Jun doesn’t use his downtown office much, but since his apartment still smells like you, he figures he can use a change of scenery. Hoshi will know where to find him if he’s needed.

He ducks into a recently-opened coffee shop and orders an expensive latte with ingredients he’s never heard of. When he pops the lid, he’s both horrified and intrigued by the purple-blue coffee that greets him. Back outside, he breathes in the musk of the city: the exhaust fumes, cigarette smoke, the sweat from people rushing to work.

A jianbing vendor is set up at the corner, fills him with nostalgia—smells just like the ones he ate nearly every morning during law school. He smiles as he orders and asks for extra lajiao, foolishly ignoring the questioning glance he receives in return, and he’s happy as he walks the remaining two blocks to his office with it warm in his hand. Sticks it in his mouth to hold between his teeth as he digs in his pockets for the key. Jiggles it in the lock as he accidentally bites down, and it takes a second, maybe five, but then—

He should not have asked for the extra chili sauce.

All 182 of his centimeters crash through the door and carelessly toss aside his briefcase. Water. He needs water desperately, even though it’s just going to make it worse, which he knows, but his mouth all the way down to his esophagus feels like it’s been set ablaze. Feels like he’s breathing magma. Feels like if someone stood in front of him right now and caught wind of his breath, they’d turn to ash.

Which explains how he misses the person sitting at his desk, their feet kicked up and face hidden behind a newspaper from six months ago.

He finally notices them some ten minutes later, after he locks himself in the bathroom and douses his face in cold water and can be sure he’s not about to die from excessive heat intake. Not that this is any less embarrassing for him: he shrieks, clearly not expecting anyone to be there, and the stranger shrieks in turn. The shriek-off lasts approximately thirty seconds and is cut off by an elderly woman sticking her head through the door and asking if everything is alright, to which Jun sheepishly nods and bows in apology as he thanks her for her concern.

Once she’s back on the street, he whirls around to face his intruder.

“Good morning,” Hoshi says, seemingly nonplussed by the entire sequence of events that have transpired. “Had a little mishap with the chili sauce, huh?” Jun ignores him. Snatches the newspaper out of his hands and shoos him out of his chair and into one intended for guests. “Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.”

Jun glares. “Why are you—”

“Or should I say the only side of the bed, considering you had erotic entanglements with the devil.”

Annoyance flares within him. Has that lajiao heat rushing back to his skin. Hoshi’s got a lot of nerve—the same guy who refused to tell him much of anything, who just takes and takes and takes, is now criticizing him for exercising his free will. Well, Jun’s not going to accept that, he decides. Adopts a snotty little tone and says, “So you were spying on me? Wow, okay, you pervert.”

Hoshi balks. Trips over his words as he tries to mount a useless defense. “I didn’t—that’s not—no,” is the best he can come up with.

“Did you like the show?”

“Wen Junhui—”

“Very convenient that’s the thing you watched. Missed my whole crisis of faith, huh? Both of them? Didn’t think I’d maybe need some support during those times?” He shakes his head. Tries to hold on to the anger, because it’s less humiliating than crying after acting like a hard-ass. “At least she’s been honest. At least she’s always been upfront about who and what she is. You guys—you guys have all these demands, all these requirements, but at the end of the day none of it matters. We’re all just pawns, and that’s all you’ll ever see us as.”

The angel stays quiet. Can’t quite discern if Jun’s tirade is over. He narrows his gaze, opens his mouth as if he’s going to speak just to see if Jun will interrupt him. (He doesn’t.) He clears his throat and tries to remember the correct pitch for his Comforting Voice: this will prove to be a pivotal moment in Wen Junhui’s partnership with Upstairs, and he’s going to need it.

“Wen Junhui,” he attempts again. No, the tone isn’t right—needs to be a little lower. “Wen Junhui, I am… holding space for everything you’ve just told me.” That’s better. Sounds convincing enough. “Is it fair to say you feel abandoned and unimportant?”

Jun’s cheeks warm to a mortifying shade of red. “I guess,” he mumbles.

“Great!” Hoshi beams. “Thank you so much for trusting me with this sensitive information.” He snaps his fingers and another manila folder appears in front of Jun. “Since you’re feeling better, this is your next assignment! If you open to the first page, you’ll see the contractee’s name is Choi Seungcheol and that he is of the utmost import—”

“No.”

“—ance.” Hoshi, unused to being caught unawares not once but twice in the same conversation, simply blinks, limbs frozen mid-air. “Pardon?”

“I said no.”

“Right, right… See, I heard that, but I’m not following. What do you mean no?”

Jun stands and starts clearing off the desk. Not that there’s much on it besides a framed picture of himself sandwiched between his parents at his graduation and an unused candle. Peach bellini. Hoshi had procured it from who-knows-where, said it was “an important part of Internet history” (that Jun must’ve missed) and called it a “belated graduation gift,” except the smell was so sickly-sweet it immediately gave him a migraine as soon as the lid came off.

All of this is besides the point, which is this: Jun doesn’t need this office. He doesn’t need this weird job where he reports to these weird people.

He says as much.

“Hey!” Hoshi objects, to which Jun responds, “You’re wearing a shirt with a cartoon wolf on it that says Fighting the Gay Allegations Again. I mean come on, dude, where do you even find these things?”

“You don’t like my shirts?”

“No! And I also don’t like that you just pretended to care about my feelings so I’d get back to work like a good little corporate soldier!” He’s able to fit the picture frame in his briefcase, but the candle doesn’t fit. Even if they’re arguing, it seems rude to give it back to Hoshi when he’d gone out of his way to get him a gift to begin with, so he lets out a frustrated screech and decides to carry it back to his apartment. “Find some other would-be Pope to help you.”

Although his face is blotchy and wet, Hoshi seems undeterred. There are, of course, no other would-be Popes available on such short notice—especially not one that’s earned the favor of the devil—so he needs to think up a plan quickly. If he fumbles Wen Junhui, he’ll either never hear the end of it from the lower-ranking angels or he’ll be stoned, and neither sounds very favorable right now.

So he does the only thing he can think to do: he snaps his fingers.

Kim Mingyu looks exactly like his picture.

He’s just as tall and symmetrically good-looking as Jun thought he would be, dressed in an impeccably-fitting white suit that elongates his legs and makes him look far taller than the six-foot-one-point-nine-repeating he’d measured in at. Dark, slightly wavy hair frames a perfect set of cheekbones, and whatever cologne he’s wearing nearly has Jun drooling.

He might actually be doing that, he realizes with horror, because Kim Mingyu also looks supremely uncomfortable. Is fluttering from one thing to the next, never staying more than a few seconds in each spot, tidying and organizing the same items over and over, muttering apologies all the while. And the board room really is not that big, so all that anxiety is starting to wear off on Jun, who was in his own office only a few minutes ago arguing with an angel that is currently nowhere to be found.

“So sorry about the mess!” Mingyu chimes. Jun can tell he’s trying (and failing) for unaffected. “I didn’t know we were having visitors, but no matter! My mother always used to say…” He pauses. Straightens his posture. Grabs a bouquet of white hydrangeas from a stunning pearlescent vase just to drop them right back in. “Er, I suddenly don’t remember anything my mother used to say.”

Jun grimaces and hides it behind his hand. “‘Have a wonderful day at school’?” he offers.

Mingyu smiles, makes a little a-ha! sound as he snaps his fingers; seems thankful for the lifeline he’d been thrown. Says, “Yes, yes, of course!” and starts fussing over the state of the table. He squirts a concerning amount of cleaner and wipes at it so aggressively Jun fears he’s going to wear a hole in the wood. “I’ve been told there was a slight security issue, but please rest assured that the rest of our guests should be arriving very soon! Any second now!”

That last bit comes out more like a demand.

Even though he feels far less intelligent than Hoshi claims he is, Jun is still smart enough to deduce he’d been snap-blasted to Heaven, not only because Mingyu is here and there are vaguely ominous security issues, but also because there’s a placard next to the door:

Board Room 17 Pearly Gates Wing

“It’s weird seeing you in real life after staring at the picture in your file for so long,” Jun says, continuing to look around. Everything is stark white, which he expected, with accents of gold that dazzles so brightly it hurts his eyes and pink freshwater pearl, and the flowers are abundant and fragrant. Jun feels at peace here. If it weren’t for Mingyu and his rapidly-fraying nerves, he might even call it tranquil. “I think I have a crush on you.”

Mingyu flushes. Unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth to stammer out a response that’s interrupted by three more figures materializing by the door.

Hoshi stands in the middle of Jeonghan and Joshua, arms slung around both of their shoulders. The two demons, naturally, do not look pleased. Jeonghan especially looks tortured, which is at odds with his new pink hair, and he’s the first to shrug off the angel. He grabs the chair closest to him and makes sure it scrapes against the floor as noisily as possible before slumping into it, arms crossed, scowl so fierce his frown lines nearly touch his jaw.

Joshua does the same, though he looks far more delighted to have a seat at the table.

From an invisible speaker, Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5 in C Minor comes blaring. Hoshi and Mingyu startle; the latter goes in search of a tablet, completely frazzled, mumbling oh no oh no oh no as he rummages through drawers. Jeonghan and Joshua side-eye one another and come away wearing matching glares. To his credit, Jun sits ramrod straight and doesn’t flinch. When no one’s looking he sticks his fingers in his ears to dampen the noise and smiles politely at Mingyu when they make awkward eye contact.

The music cuts out, Mingyu heaves a sigh of relief, and once the tense silence settles back into the room, he turns to Hoshi and stage whispers, “Should I put it back on, or…?” to which Hoshi frantically nods.

Opening blaring once again, it’s then that you walk through the door, flanked on all sides by an impressive security detail. (Heaven’s, of course. They’re also dressed in all white and wearing mitre hats with SECURITY embroidered across the front in gold beadwork. Jun wonders, briefly, if this is where Hoshi gets his inspiration from.)

You’re escorted to a seat. There are seven chairs on the side of the table opposite Jun; you’re given the one in the middle, and Jeonghan and Joshua immediately move to sit on each side of you. You carry yourself with an easy confidence, not at all rattled by being here in this setting. It’s almost comical how your body language contrasts with Hoshi and Mingyu: how they’re at home, where they’re meant to be, and their unease is so apparent; and you’re where you’ve been exiled from, antithetical to what you’ve been put in charge of, a place that Jun knows picks at all those old wounds like a buzzard, and your composure is faultless.

Something you have to be, he figures.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, what’s with the long faces?” you ask, brows knit in faux-concern. You look the same as the last time Jun saw you—he’s sure it’s a power play, meant to throw him off, and it works. Heat simmers along his skin as the memories come flooding back. He wonders what you look like to everyone else. “It’s so lovely to see you all again.” You turn to Mingyu, who seems to shrink under your undivided attention. “Especially you, handsome. We’ve all been mourning the loss of our favorite eye candy.”

Mingyu squeaks. “Um!” He scrambles to the head of the table. His hands shake as he tries to unlock the tablet. “There’s, uh—an ag-agenda! For this me-meeting. Very important! Just one moment, please, and I’ll—”

“Very fascinating,” Jeonghan interjects. “Do you anticipate this happening at any point today? I have to oversee a workshop this afternoon about new ways to make men insecure about their penises and I simply cannot miss it. It’s my second-favorite event of the year.”

“What’s the first?” Jun can’t help but ask.

“The social media workshops. Next month’s is about online bullying and new ways to avoid getting banned by safeguarding teams so you can continue trolling in peace without fear of repercussions. The one after that is about sending in anonymous gossip to those Spotted In Such-and-such Facebook pages for places no one cares about.”

Joshua nods. “I think the Stevenage one is my favorite. When’s the workshop about the new Lego shapes to step on?”

Mingyu’s mouth snaps closed. In an attempt to nip the derailment in the bud, Hoshi says, “I think what our Head of HR meant to say was—”

“HR? None of you are human.”

“It stands for Heaven Relations, obviously,” Hoshi snaps, “and we’ve called this emergency meeting because we’ve been made aware of a very troubling development.”

You gasp. Lean forward and widen your eyes like you have no idea what he could possibly be referring to. “No! A troubling development, you say?” You fold your hands on the table. “Tell me all about it.”

Jun, however, cannot possibly play it so cool. Feels dread overtake his body as restless anxiety sets in. The mind reader that he is, Joshua sends him a discreet wink that does very little to settle his nerves. Still feels like he’s drank fifteen cups of light roast coffee and is about to sit for a law school exam he forgot to study for.

“It has come to our attention that…” Mingyu looks down at the tablet. Looks up and over at Hoshi. Grimaces. “Do I really have to say this?”

“Yes.”

He huffs and continues. “It has recently come to our attention that one Wen Junhui, would-be Pope and recently-licensed lawyer accepted into a contracted position at Their approval, has engaged in… sexual relations… with the being known colloquially as the Devil.”

Jeonghan looks sideways at you with the most disgustedly disappointed look Jun has ever seen appear on a face. To the contrary, Joshua leans across the table to high-five him and say, “You dirty dog! I bet it was better than that handjob, huh?” He leans back, whistles low. “Goddamn, why is it every time you get some action it’s like some end of days shit? You ever consider becoming celibate?”

“Not involuntarily,” Jun mumbles.

“Shame,” Jeonghan intones. You laugh at this.

Hoshi, once again fed up with his meeting being derailed, says to Jeonghan and Joshua, “Why are you two even here?” to which they reply, “We’re her advocates. We’re advocating.”

“No advocating has ever taken place while the three of you have been in this room.”

Jeonghan rolls his eyes. “At ease, Megamind.”

“Metatron,” Mingyu quietly corrects.

Jun snorts. Of course. Of course Hoshi is one of the most powerful archangels in Heaven. Speaker of God, permitted to be in Their presence and at Their side; celestial scribe and guide to humanity—the guy who appears earthside wearing crude t-shirts and stupid hats. Of-fucking-course.

All of this is enough to drive him to lunacy. All the things he didn’t and doesn’t know, all the secrets kept locked up tight, all the jokes he continues to be the butt of. Everyone in this room is on equal footing except him, and he’s the one seemingly on trial. Heaven doesn’t care what you do—your role is to sow chaos and they’re powerless to stop you, just as you’re powerless here. No, the only one that will feel the repercussions of this is Jun, not only because he’s the only one capable of being punished, but because he’s human.

He must sense his distress again, because Joshua mouths a watch this before saying, with all the conviction and tenacity of a seasoned prosecutor, “Allow me to advocate, then: we do not accept these accusations as fact without being presented with irrefutable proof, which I’m sure you have, considering you’ve made such a show of gathering us all here.”

Mingyu and Hoshi share a look.

“I—well, you see—”

“Surely you don’t need irrefutable proof to understand what a conflict of interest this is and why we’re concerned.”

“A conflict of interest which surely has already taken place?” Jeonghan tacks on. Joshua nods with grave sincerity. “Or have you called an impromptu, emergency meeting to discuss hypotheticals?” Mingyu and Hoshi share another look. “Gentlemen, need we remind you of the criteria that must be met before an emergency meeting may be called? I cannot imagine two high-ranking employees such as yourselves disregarded such strict protocols simply because of the parties involved?”

“Haaa, of course not!” Hysterical, frenzied laughter ensues. “No, no, we would never—”

Joshua shakes his head. “It sure is looking like that’s what has taken place here today, but I hate to assume the worst, so if you could just show us the permits I’m sure we can get this all cleared up.”

“Per-permits…?”

Jeonghan has all the patience in the world as he replies, “Section 894, subsection 12 of the accords states that in order for an emergency meeting to be called and granted between the constituents of Heaven and Hell, the proper permits must be filed and signed off on by the governing bodies of each at least 72 hours in advance. Now, it’s possible the paperwork was signed on our side, but as you know our boss is very, very busy and it seems to have been misplaced, so we have no way of confirming this.” You nod, sharing Joshua’s very serious look. “Hence the permits. Show them to us, please.”

There’s hope yet that Jun will get out of this. Be on the receiving end of his own strategy. Jeonghan and Joshua start up a show us the per-mits! show us the per-mits! chant that sends Hoshi and Mingyu into a panic. The latter, now soaked through with sweat, does a fruitless search on his tablet, while Hoshi tries to distract everyone with an interpretive dance none of them can make sense of.

“I believe this is a reflection of his current state of mind,” you say solemnly, playing the part of an esteemed art critic. “It’s histrionic on the surface, but once you dig deeper, it’s uncontrolled and frenetic at its roots. A wonderful metaphor for a fractured, disjointed mind, but severely lacking in execution.”

“Amen,” Jeonghan and Joshua say in unison.

Minutes pass. It’s clear the permits don’t exist, but Mingyu keeps up the charade of searching anyway, much to the delight of the Hell delegation. “Have you tried the top drawer of that thing?” Joshua asks right after Jeonghan suggests checking the trash folder on the desktop in his office. You, of course, stay quiet, content to soak up your victory in silence—albeit while looking extremely smug.

“Well!” you say, clapping your hands together with a wicked smile. “This was fun. Thank you both so much for the invite, but I fear we must be going. Duty calls.”

Hoshi is having none of this. Permits be damned, another snap of his fingers finds you bound to your chair, chains wrapped around each of your forearms. You hiss at the contact. “Whoa,” Jun whispers, and if Jeonghan’s and Joshua’s mouths hadn’t been removed by the same finger-snap, he assumes there’d be a crude joke coming his way.

“The three of you would do well to remember who and where you are.” Hoshi speaks with all the authority bestowed upon him. It’s a stark difference from how Jun usually sees him—aloof and unserious, more like a court jester—and it has him straightening in his chair. “None of us will be leaving this room until the matter is resolved.”

You roll your neck. Press your tongue into the fat of your cheek but otherwise don’t move. Pain flashes across your face each time the chains leave fresh wounds in your skin and Jun wants to tell them to cut it out, call this whole thing off, say it doesn’t mean anything, but he’s still so clueless. Still so far out of his depth. These matters concern him but are so far beyond his pay grade it’s all he can do to keep treading water.

And you know this, because you say, “There is no conflict of interest. Everything is business as usual.”

Hoshi doesn’t even make eye contact as he retorts, “Which is useless, coming from you.”

Mingyu offers up a tight-lipped smile. “I think what my colleague is trying to say is that we simply cannot trust word of mouth in a matter as serious as this. As I’m sure you understand, Wen Junhui is a special case. It’s quite rare They enlist the help of humans in such circumstances, and if he is no longer able to perform his duties in an unbiased manner due to your influence—”

Teeth grit, you repeat, “There is no conflict of interest.”

Mingyu sighs. Sets down his tablet and narrows his gaze. He seems to have shaken off the dregs of doubt and uncertainty, because he looks powerful. Looks intimidating, which is not a word Jun would have used to describe him twenty minutes ago. “Need I remind you of your role in this universe? Chaos and temptation; calamity and destruction. You serve no one. You do not speak in truths, nor are you concerned with them. Your ambition and pride were your downfall, and it seems you have learned nothing in the years since.” He turns his attention to Jun. “And if you doubt what I say, remember I witnessed all of this with my own eyes.”

“Scandalous! And what were you doing at the devil’s sacrament, Kim Mingyu?”

Jun nods, earning him an incredulous look from Hoshi. “Well, she has a point,” he defends. “There is that saying about stones and glass houses or whatever. He wouldn’t have seen all of those things if he hadn’t made a deal with her in the first place.”

Hoshi is quiet. Mingyu looks betrayed. “Are you not going to—”

“He, too, has a point,” the angel concedes. “I mean, did you really have to do all that? You were already hot and tall, I just don’t—”

Even with no mouths, it’s obvious Jeonghan and Joshua are snickering.

The bickering continues before eventually devolving into baseless name-calling. Jun’s head snaps back and forth like he’s watching a tennis match, and it’s not that far off. Mingyu hones in on your lack of character, prompting Hoshi to chime in with something equally cruel or just nonsensical in an attempt to back him up, and you handle both of them with ease, laughing off their taunting just to get under their skin. Which works, of course, so on and on it goes, ad nauseam, until Jun puts everyone out of their misery and puts an end to it.

“Isn’t anyone going to ask me how I feel?” At once the room goes silent, all squabbling ceased, and the sudden quiet has his ears ringing. “I know you don’t need me,” he says to you, amazed he can meet your eye when he feels like that admission is going to make him vomit. He turns to Mingyu and Hoshi. “But you two do, and throughout this whole experience I have been left out, lied to, and talked over. Did either of you ever stop to consider that’s why I refused the assignment and it has nothing to do with her? That she’s telling the truth when she says there’s no conflict of interest?”

At least they have the good sense to look embarrassed.

Mingyu is the first to crack. He bows slightly at the waist and says, “On behalf of Heaven, I would like to offer you our deepest and most sincere apologies.”

Hoshi follows suit. “Right. Exactly what he said.”

Jun studies each of them. Mingyu, he knows, is just doing what any human resources officer worth their salt would do: protect the company at all costs. Fortunately this works out in Jun’s favor. He’s important and necessary and, against all odds, has proven his worth and abilities to boot. Heaven can’t negotiate with Hell without him, and it’s this knowledge that spurs him on, has him crossing one leg over the other and folding his arms across his chest. Total power stance. Hoshi gapes a little.

“I think there’s a compromise to be found here.”

The compromise is this: just as there are souls in Hell that were meant to go to Heaven, the reverse is also true. Jun had stumbled across them during his hours of research: souls that had somehow slipped through the cracks and went north when they were meant to go south; souls stuck in an endless purgatory that a lax Judgment Deliverer let in because they didn’t feel like doing paperwork; judgment numbers in which an integer got input incorrectly. What he proposes is a one-for-one trade. Heaven wants Choi Seungcheol, so they’ll have to give up someone in return.

It evens the playing field—

“Which was the original intention, was it not?”

More importantly, and perhaps more selfishly, Jun will no longer be able to be used as a pawn. He’ll uphold his original agreement while doing the same for you—for Hell. He’ll rewrite the terms and conditions of the contracts after each soul has been judged fairly and impartially by both factions, essentially voiding the concept of sides.

“I would be working for you both,” he concludes. “It’s the only way any of this remains fair.”

(He’s also not trying to invoke your wrath and spend eternity getting dipped in hot oil, but he doesn’t feel it’s the right time to admit that.)

After a lengthy silence that Hoshi spends pressing against his ear, the angel eventually says, “Heaven is amenable to these terms if Hell is.”

You heave a long-suffering sigh that has Jun on the edge of his seat. This proposal was certainly better than the last one he’d pitched you, but you’re giving nothing away. Also of little help are Jeonghan and Joshua who have fallen asleep and are snoring loudly. Mingyu leans over to wipe a spot of drool from the corner of Joshua’s mouth. He doesn’t move.

After what feels like a lifetime, you nod. “Fine. Hell is also amenable to these terms.” A chorus of cheers. Jun does an embarrassing little wiggle out of excitement. Hoshi stands on top of the table and pumps his fist. Mingyu, still in HR mode, starts listing off all the potential new job titles for Jun.

(In the end his new name tag reads: Wen Junhui, Special Counsel to Heaven & Hell, Contracts Division.)

Before you leave, and before the celebrations can get too out of hand, Jun clears his throat. “I have a request,” he says, before adding on, “if the whole payment in forms other than money thing is still on the table.”

“It is,” Mingyu confirms.

“Great.” He sucks in a breath. Lets it go all disjointed and shaky. There’s no going back once he says this and they grant it—which they will, considering the way Mingyu’s nearly tripping over himself to give him whatever he wants. But it’s still a massive ask. It will still change the trajectory of his existence, just like that handjob had done. And even though he’s certain it’s what he wants, he still wonders if he’s making a mistake as he says, “I want to be immortal.”

Jeonghan and Joshua jerk awake. “What the fuck did he just say?”

Hoshi, too, looks stunned. “Uh, are you sure?”

No, Jun wants to say, please talk me out of it, but the words die in his throat when he looks at you. There’s not a hint of bewilderment to be found. No shock or awe. There’s just the smallest nod of your head, meant just for him, that says all he needs to hear—that you see him, that you recognize he’d gone through all of this insanity because he needed to find his own path, and that he’s finally found in it the meaning he’d been searching for.

“I’m sure,” he confirms, completely void of hesitation.

Hoshi scratches at the back of his neck. “Well, I—that’s quite a big request. I’ll have to see what we can do.”

Mingyu, however, spoils the inevitable surprise by giving him a thumbs-up.

After that, there isn’t much left to say. Mingyu formally concludes the meeting and thanks Hell for their attendance and participation, to which Jeonghan gives him the finger before disappearing in a plume of smoke that causes everyone to gag. Joshua takes advantage and slips out the door undetected. Mingyu and Hoshi are none the wiser until some of the employees down the hall start screaming. “Please excuse us,” Mingyu chokes out before he, too, disappears in the direction of the shouting. Hoshi hangs back, tries to swallow his amused smile, but then Mingyu returns to drag him away.

Only you and Jun remain. “What did Joshua do?” he asks, less to break the silence and more because he’s nosy.

“Released roughly three dozen of those terrifying tarantulas that eat birds.”

“Oh.”

Silence creeps in anyway—not awkward, but Jun can tell there’s something you want to say. Should he hover? He doesn’t want you to feel obligated (not that you would), but he can’t deny that he’s curious. You, the literal devil, reluctant to say something to him, just a human? It’s too good an opportunity to pass up.

“You’re not gonna get all clingy and weird now that we’ve had sex, are you?” he jokes.

Shockingly, you do not find this funny. “I may have lied about inventing Jenny McCarthy, but I did invent the guillotine. And the electric chair. And the rack—”

“Noted,” Jun replies, giddy all over. Can’t help it as he shoves his hands in the pockets of his slacks and rocks back on his heels. “Should I walk you to the door?”

“Don’t you dare,” comes your response, but Jun does it anyway. Gets away with it by dropping some quip about his mother raising him to be a gentleman, and it’d just destroy her if she knew Jun wasn’t abiding by her teachings.

Your reluctant smile is akin to pulling teeth, but it still shows up.

Whatever havoc had been wreaked by Joshua seems to have been solved. There’s blissful silence as the two of you reach the door, and Jun knows his escort is pomp and circumstance, that you could disappear in the blink of an eye the way Jeonghan had, but he appreciates you going through the motions for his sake, that you’ve allowed him a moment of normalcy.

“Was it hard coming back here?” he asks, leaning against the door frame to stem his desire to reach out for you.

“Well, it’s certainly never easy, but I’ve got plenty of psychologists down there I can talk it over with if need be.” You check an invisible watch. “Do you think Freud is available for lunch tomorrow?”

“If he’s not, I am.”

A bark of shocked laughter has you covering your mouth. “I did not expect that from you.”

“Did it work?”

“No,” you reply instantly. “Have a great weekend, Wen Junhui. I’m sure our paths will cross again soon.”

Jun nods… which is about all he can do, considering he’s stuck here for the time being. Hoshi sent him here, which means Hoshi’s the only one who can send him back—some stupid security rule Jun wasn’t paying attention to when it’d been explained to him. So he sticks the corner of his thumb in his mouth, thinks about how great your ass looked in those pants as you walked away, and pivots back into the conference room to await the angel with the stupid t-shirts.

Except, as soon as he turns around, there you are. Face to face. Close enough that your scent is paralyzing, but it’s different now—softer, he thinks; something that makes him feel less like he’s been ensnared in your web and more like he’s been invited in. Close enough that when you lean in he can feel the warmth of your breath on his skin, that sensitive spot just below his ear.

“You were wrong,” you say, so quiet he’s not sure he isn’t imagining your words, filling in the blanks of what he wants to hear. “What you said earlier, about me not needing you.”

Then you’re gone.

In the blink of an eye, just like he thought you’d be.

He makes a mental note to be available tomorrow around lunchtime.

If you've made it this far, thank you so much for reading! Sharing and reblogging my work is the best way to say you enjoyed it, but I also accept any and all feedback and screaming in my inbox. <3

[txtsoobean]

I love the whole don’t hate litigate series! This one was so cute.

how to cancel your faustian bargain | wjh

FAUSTIAN BARGAIN 🔥 a pact whereby a person trades something of supreme moral or spiritual importance, such as personal values or the soul, for some worldly or material benefit, such as knowledge, power, or riches. faustian bargains are by their nature tragic or self-defeating for the person who makes them, because what is surrendered is ultimately far more valuable than what is obtained.

pairing: attorney!junhui x devil!reader genre: (very lite) enemies to lovers, lawyer au; crack, fluff, smut summary: as the devil, you’re more than happy to grant favors in exchange for someone’s soul, and you’re known for having the most iron-clad contracts around. which is why wen junhui—the scene’s newest contract attorney hell-bent on returning all those souls you’ve acquired—is really starting to piss you off. rating: explicit. minors do not interact with this or any of my work. warnings: member pov, reader is thee devil so needless to say there is a bunch of religious themes and topics here (as a person whose roman-catholic grandfather temporarily disowned her for stopping ccd classes i am qualified to write this dw), jihan as literal devil's advocates, hoshi as a shit-stirring angel who wears questionable shirts, i am the opposite of jovan and do not know the law (especially hell law), i also blocked out most catholicism so don't take any of this for canon, god is genderless and the devil is a sympathetic character sue me, alcohol use, low self-esteem/self-doubt, open but optimistic ending. smut warnings: kissing, mentions of a handjob (actually a major plot point), an actual handjob, oral sex (both receiving), some scratching/marking and biting, jun kinda likes/yearns for pain but it's not a whole thing, light nipple play, fingering, unprotected penetrative sex, everyone orgasms, jun is down bad. in general it's probably much softer than sex with the devil would usually be? wordcount: 22k credits: jess (@starlightkyeom) and bee (@imnotshua) for reading this along the way, beta'ing, and suggesting stupid hoshi shirts. mj (@kkaetnipjeon) and jade (@eoieopda) for helping me with law stuff. everyone in the c&e server who helped me along the way — i yapped so much about this fic that i cannot remember everyone. i am sorry but i love you. note: this somehow wound up being my longest oneshot to date. i don't know how and i still feel like there are parts not fleshed out enough, but big shoutout to my adderall for getting us here. wen junhui, you are a strange little man; i had a blast writing you. this was written for the don't hate, litigate! collab, hosted by @haologram. thank you so much for letting me participate!

The thing is, Wen Junhui is not really supposed to be here.

Not, like, literally here—sitting across from you, the literal devil, at your desk, ass burning a little because it’s really hot here and he is, admittedly, not used to the heat—but metaphorically. Big picture-ly. This is not how I envisioned my life turning out…ly.

The thing is, Wen Junhui barely made it through law school. Barely passed his licensing exam. Watched his classmates score prestigious internships and receive exclusive offers and network and schmooze and, he thought at the time, all but sell their soul to graduate with jaw-dropping salaries awaiting them and no debt.

And it fucking sucked watching that, because he was about to become a lawyer, sure, but he’d gotten scarlet fever as a kid, swore he was going to die, swore he saw not only the light but Jesus himself (his mother called this a delusion, still insists to this day the prodigal son did not travel all the way to Shenzhen to visit him), and decided if he survived he was going to dedicate his life to the church and become a priest.

(He only decided on law school after he got a little carried away with his high school girlfriend, received an honestly mid handjob that had him crying for three straight days and contemplating confession before he decided to take it to his grave, and he’d announced the next night at dinner, weighed down by an impressive amount of guilt and religious trauma, that he was just going to go to university and major in business or finance instead.)

Anyway. Turns out that whole selling their soul thing wasn’t a joke, and where others would’ve seen a loophole, Wen Junhui had seen an opportunity.

Because he didn’t have the grades. Didn’t have the family name or even the drive, because in another life he’s at least a deacon, so he had to do something. Had to think outside the box, get a little creative, carve out a niche for himself that none of his classmates would also be trying to occupy because he had student loans.

“How did you even get in here?” you ask, doing one of those really cool pen flips Jun has never figured out how to do. “A human hasn’t just strolled into my office in at least a millennia.”

Jun swallows, tries not to let show how nervous he is. “I, uh—I’m not sure? I sort of just… walked in, I guess.”

You blink. Study him for a while, eyes narrowed, before you make a small ah! sound and snap your fingers. What the heck? Jun can’t do that, either. “I know who you are now.”

“You do?”

“Mmhm, sure do. You were pretty famous around here for about thirteen seconds when you got that handjob and changed the trajectory of your own life forever. Some of the lower demons had bet money on you eventually becoming the Pope, so you can imagine their heartbreak… and the amount of coin they lost.” You click your tongue, return your attention to the scroll in front of you. “I kept telling them not to bet on that kind of stuff. Teenagers are wildly unpredictable, especially hormonal teenage boys. One of my finest creations, if I do say so myself.”

Not that he had any expectation of privacy here, but to say he’s mortified would be an understatement.

“Oh. That’s… really embarrassing.”

You nod, distracted as you press a large red button on your desk. “Yeah, I imagine for you it would be.”

Two men immediately materialize on each side of you. One is all cheekbones and sharp, calculating edges. Looks like the personification of mischief or perhaps temptation. After that handjob and the subsequent mourning period, Jun had come to really, really appreciate women, but he’s secure enough in his sexuality to acknowledge that the man in front of him—with his long, dark hair and lithe figure; his nonchalant, blasé attitude—is very attractive.

And the other one is no slouch, either. Has what Jun presumes is meant to be a friendlier disposition, a foil of the other man, good-cop-bad-cop, and they must be quite successful, he figures. Can’t imagine a world in which there’s anything that’d be denied to either of them.

Still, they’re well-acquainted with you, because they barely blink as you say, “Please say hello to our intruder,” with a frightening amount of bite.

The dark-haired one offers up a sleazy grin as he leans back against the wall. “Hello, intruder. Do you have a name?”

It’s a predictable question, and yet Jun still startles. Goes slack-jawed as he fixes his posture, sits straighter in his seat. Has the first syllable of his name sitting on the tip of his tongue when the other man sighs and gestures for Jun to stay quiet. “Don’t tell him your name. Better yet, don’t tell him anything, just pretend he doesn’t exist.”

“That’s rich coming from a person who chose to call themselves Joshua.”

Joshua pouts. “I thought there was something to be said for the irony.” A snort tumbles out of him, and Jun realizes that he is not the foil of the other man: he is, in fact, just as impish and rogue. “God is deliverance.” The dark-haired one does not react. “Aw, c’mon, it’s funny!”

“If you have to convince someone it’s funny, it probably is not so.”

Joshua rolls his eyes. “Alright, Jeonghan. As if you didn’t do the same thing.”

“At least when I strive to be ironic, it actually is humorous—”

With an exasperated sigh, you return your attention to Jun, who has suddenly found a fascinating piece of lint on his trousers. Pointedly does not make eye contact with you, because you had been intimidating and hellacious on your own—and, he’s a little flustered to admit, very attractive—but he’s extremely out of his element sitting across from the literal devil and two demons.

“So, Wen Junhui,” you say, tossing a pair of reading glasses onto your desk, “why are you here?”

(“Wen Junhui?” Joshua whispers to Jeonghan. “As in the Wen Junhui that got the handjob?”

“How the fuck am I supposed to know?” Jeonghan whispers back.)

And now it all feels a bit silly, because Jun had walked straight into Hell thinking he’d be able to… what, exactly? Strike up a friendly conversation? Start making demands? Cut a deal that didn’t include handing over his mortal soul?

Maybe the whole becoming a priest thing hadn’t worked out but he’d still learned a thing or two, and he remembers all the words used to describe you, your original purpose. Meant to reflect God’s glory, anointed, given the highest seat at the table. They’d blamed your downfall on pride, on vanity and violence, and Wen Junhui from Shenzhen, China, who once had scarlet fever and got a bad handjob, was a fool to come here and think he could go toe-to-toe with you.

Overcome with nerves, all he can do is laugh as he toys with the hair at the nape of his neck. Considers saying something like you’re gonna think this is so silly before he decides against it. You’ve been accused of having a sense of humor, but Jun can’t imagine this harebrained scheme of his would make the cut.

Still—he wouldn’t be where he is if the bad ideas sitting on his shoulder had kept quiet, and they’re still whispering to him now, reminding him how he wound up here to begin with: less fortunate than his classmates, less connected, looked over for all those internships and opportunities because he wasn’t born with the proper credentials. Those god-forsaken student loans. Desperation forced him to do this, and it’d be a real shame if he got this far only to give up at the last second, wouldn’t it?

So, he does what he did best all those years of law school: he fakes it.

“Let’s say I’m interested in… a partnership, of sorts.”

Jeonghan and Joshua share a look.

“Ah,” you reply, hands folded in front of you. “And what kind of partnership would that be?”

Let no man (or demon) ever accuse Wen Junhui of doing things half-assed, because he’s doing a concerning amount of oversharing and trauma-dumping before he can talk himself out of it. Spills all the highs and lows of his twenty-odd years, including his infamous handjob, much to Joshua and Jeonghan’s delight. They listen with rapt attention, elbowing one another as they gleefully press him for more details, and to their credit they only interrupt him once with lewd gestures before they’re slapping at and falling over one another with laughter.

He gets to his time in law school. Talks about feeling lapped by his classmates and all the advantages they’d been given, the benefits that weren’t on offer for someone like him: the oldest son of a piano teacher and a seamstress. Someone who showed up to class with a worn leather bag (repaired weekly by his mother) and secondhand books yellowing at the edges. Someone who spent his Friday nights and weekends holed up in his dorm room, not invited to parties and mixers.

“I had to do my first internship in personal injury,” he says, arms gesticulating wildly. “No one wanted those internships, and do you know why?” He pauses for dramatic effect. Jeonghan mimics a sound that sounds like game show countdown music. “Those pictures were gross.”

“Tragic,” you deadpan.

“It was,” Jun insists. He’s starting to feel fidgety. Has no idea how his plight is being received. “It wasn’t paid, either, and I had to take out student loans.”

Joshua beams. “Her second best invention.”

“What?” Jeonghan retorts, brows pinching in the middle. “No way, second-best is definitely cocaine—”

From you comes an exaggerated, long-suffering sigh, and Jeonghan and Joshua immediately cease their bickering. You turn your attention to Jun, and if he’d been able to trick himself into thinking a glimmer of patience or good humor or—god forbid—genuine affection had been visible before, no such delusions are available now. Your face is stern, the pupils of your eyes reflecting flames behind him that don’t exist, and the corners of your mouth are tugged severely downward.

He swallows hard.

“Wen Junhui, get to the point. Your human skin is starting to stink up my office.”

Subtly, he tries to sneak a sniff of his armpit. It’s not mountain fresh, but he’s certainly smelled worse, and he thinks he deserves a little leeway as his body acclimates to such extreme temperatures. He then crosses one leg over the other, ankle on thigh, and leans forward on his elbows. Tries to project some—any—amount of authority and confidence as he says, “I need a niche. Something just for me; something none of my classmates are going after.”

“Because you’re unable to compete with them,” you tack on. Unnecessarily and rudely, in Jun’s opinion, but he nods anyway. Behind you, Jeonghan and Joshua are once again elbowing one another, giddy at Jun’s impending failure while desperately trying to keep their expressions neutral. “Let me guess: you want the same deal?” You begin rifling through a drawer in your desk. “I think I still have all those contracts around here somewhere, so I’m sure I can get you something similar, but if we’re being honest you’re worth a good bit more.”

Jun blinks. “I’m sorry?”

“What part are you having trouble with?” you ask, still sorting through files. Only the top of your head is visible over the ledge of your African blackwood desk.

No horns, Jun notes. He was so sure you were going to have horns.

“Er, both, to be honest. What do you mean I’m ‘worth more’?”

Jeonghan rolls his eyes before slamming his palms onto your desk, causing Jun to startle. Just for fun. “Hey, moron, were you not listening when she told you earlier that you were supposed to be the goddamn Pope?”

“You weren’t even here when she said that,” Jun mumbles, every bit the moron Jeonghan accused him of being, because it’s far easier than acknowledging… well, the entirety of that statement.

Does the Pope get a salary? If he does, surely it’s more than Jun’s making now—

“He doesn’t,” Joshua says. Then clarifies, “Get a salary. Just some coins. A woefully underpaid position, if you ask me, considering how many babies he has to kiss.” He shudders. “Disgusting! When you could just eat them instead!”

Aside from the whole eating babies thing, Jun can’t really disagree. Only a handful of coins for being in charge of all of Catholicism and having to know Latin? And having to live in Italy?

“Also,” Joshua continues, “it’s kind of our job to know everything that goes on down here, so we did, in fact, know she told you that you were supposed to be the Pope.”

Jeonghan rolls his eyes. “And yet he became a lawyer. Imagine if Fibonacci had done the same—the eighth circle would be so boring.”

“Boniface,” Jun corrects him, immediately shutting trap at the look the three of you send his way. “He’s really in the eighth circle? I thought Dante just said that because he was upset about the exile.”

Upset is underselling it, Joshua mumbles. Looks like he wants to say more but has enough sense not to. Beside him, Jeonghan is once again rolling his eyes, growing more perturbed and borderline-homicidal in Jun’s proximity by the second.

Does he really smell that bad? Should he wear cologne next time? Is there a particular note those in the Underworld find appealing? Because Jun doesn’t mind tracking it down. He’s here on your turf asking for a favor, after all, so it’d be basic manners to smell nice and not stink up the place.

He’s about to ask when a booming sound of acknowledgement comes from you. A sly grin sits lopsided on your face as you toss a manila folder onto your desk, so thick a yellowing rubber band struggles to fit around it once. “This is you, Wen Junhui,” you say, pushing it closer to Jun.

All he can do is stare. Feels like his heart is going to pound right out of his chest, and he can’t pinpoint why, doesn’t know what’s got him so uneasy. He doesn’t have to look at it to know his entire life is in that file—perhaps even the before and the after. All the possibilities, all the could-have-beens. The consequences of him going right at the fork in the road instead of taking the left. Endless, and he finally realizes the boulder sitting on his chest is dread: existential variety.

“It’s, uh.” He licks at his lips. “It’s really big,” he finally says, feeling stupid and embarrassed at the way his voice trembles.

“Aish, this fucking kid,” Jeonghan grouses at the same time Joshua snickers and wonders aloud, “Do you think that’s what that girl said when he got the handjob?”

You press the red button again and Jeonghan and Joshua disappear without a word.

“Even in the lowest pits of Hell you must still suffer the displeasure of men,” you say, as if you’re imparting ancient wisdom upon Jun. “I must admit I’ve grown quite familiar with your file.”

“Manila,” Jun replies, also as if he’s being extremely wise. “Didn’t expect to see that around here.”

“Yes, well, the cheap ones are great for papercuts.” You pause and your demeanor grows serious, belying the importance of what you’re about to say. “You’re one of a select few, Wen Junhui. Not many files that come across my desk are this size.”

Pride swells in his chest, booting that existential boulder to the curb. “Oh,” he says, trying desperately to tamper down his excitement. “Yay!”

He does a little wiggle. Mortifying.

“Something you said earlier stuck out to me—something about certain things not being on offer for someone like you.” Your eyes meet Jun’s, and it suddenly feels like he’s been catapulted off the edge of the world. “I don’t think you realize just how much is on offer for someone like you.”

Jun swallows hard. Tries to, anyway—finds that his mouth has gone bone dry. His limbs, too, refuse to work, feel both heavy and weightless, and he’s anxious again, hands and feet saturated with sweat, no wonder he smells, and he knows, he knows, he knows who and what you are, knows this is a trick. Knows he’s offered himself up on a silver platter.

Good god, he came here willingly. No wonder Jeonghan kept calling him names.

“So,” you begin, moving your glasses to the top of your head, “what is it you want? You’re in an elite tier; I could give you almost anything you ask for.”

“Um—”

“You mentioned loans; is it money you want? You’re not quite qualified for billionaire level yet, but I think you’d find both the terms and the offered amount to be quite… agreeable.”

Oh, you’re good. Just as he had with the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice, Jun always thought the story of Adam and Eve was simple: don’t do the thing you’re explicitly told not to do. But now, seated across from Temptation itself, he understands it’s not that simple, that those two never stood a chance. Because the longer he’s silent, the more relaxed he starts to feel. That headache he’s been fighting off for three days finally starts to recede. He feels confident and a bit euphoric, but he supposes everyone would feel that way if they were being offered any and everything they could ever want.

“Actually…”

Wen Junhui isn’t very religious anymore, but he used to be. Used to believe in all the teachings; used to sit at the piano in the living room and hum along as his father played processionals; used to beg his mother to read from the Studium Biblicum at bedtime so he could fall asleep and dream of utopia.

Wen Junhui isn’t religious anymore, but he remembers the basics.

Enough to steel his voice and say, “Actually, I didn’t come here to talk about money.”

Jun doesn’t know what time it is.

It’s late enough that the city has gone mostly quiet. The buses have stopped running, the elevator just outside his door hasn’t dinged in a while, and the light that’s refracted onto his bedroom ceiling is a familiar shade of blue-silver. Not long after two a.m. if he had to guess.

He doesn’t know how he got back to his apartment, either, which would’ve been the more pressing issue at any other time.

But he’s had a long day. Took a little trip to Hell, got laughed at, got offered a lot of money, and got laughed at again. Now he’s got the anxiety shakes. Keeps seeing figures in every shadow. Can’t sleep even though every part of his body is bogged down by exhaustion. All he can do is stare at the swirls in the ceiling plaster and be glad he doesn’t have to work for another two days.

At first, he thinks the knocking is on someone else’s door. Then, once it doesn’t cease, he chalks it up to hallucination. It’s only once it goes from hey, I’m here! to OPEN THE GODDAMN DOOR RIGHT GODDAMN NOW does he stumble out of bed and through the living room.

Through the peephole, all that stares back at him are the dingy fluorescent lights of the hallway.

“You know, judging by the outside, I thought this place was gonna be a real shithole, but it’s not that bad.” Jun shrieks, collapses to the floor with his hand clawing at his chest. “Oops, sorry, dude. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

There is a man in his apartment.

There is a man in his apartment. At two o’clock in the morning.

“Wh-who are you?” he stammers out, eyes squeezed shut as if it’ll protect him. “I do-don’t have any mo-money.”

The man scoffs. If Jun was looking, he assumes it was accompanied by an eye-roll. “Not to be rude, but I was able to ascertain that, yeah.”

Jun peeks one eye open. Before him stands a man of average height, looks to be early to mid 20s. He’s wearing gray sweatpants and a black hoodie that says FEMALE BODY INSPECTOR in large white lettering. His hat, which is so neon pink it seems to glow, simply says SWAG.

He opens his other eye and quirks an eyebrow. “Are you a demon?”

“Ew, no.”

“What are you, then?”

The man pouts. “You can’t tell by my extremely good looks and”—he pauses, clears his throat like he’s trying to remember something—“awesome sauce fashion?”

“I—no, sorry. Also, your what?”

“I’m an angel,” the angel says quickly before he starts digging through his pockets. “Do people not say awesome sauce anymore?” Jun shakes his head. The angel pulls a pen out of nowhere and strikes out something in a notebook. “What year is it?”

“Er, 2024. Almost 2025.”

“What year did people stop saying awesome sauce?”

“I don’t know,” Jun says. “Do you have a name?”

The angel sighs, the pen and notebook both blink out of existence. “Hoshi,” the angel replies. “It means star, which I am. By the way.”

“Okay. May I ask why you’re in my apartment?”

“You ask a lot of questions. You got anything to drink?”

“I don’t remember any angels named Hoshi in the Bible.”

“It’s my Earth name.” Hoshi flutters his eyelashes. “Suits me, right?”

Jun’s eyes narrow. “You also aren’t biblically-accurate.”

Hoshi scoffs, hands immediately finding the waistband of his sweatpants. “I am where it counts.” He starts to pull them down, much to Jun’s horror, and all he can think is, oh my god I’m about to see an angel’s penis, what’s the protocol for this, do I have to look at it, would it be rude not to, this is the weirdest day of my life, I must be in a medically-induced coma—

“I’m getting the impression you don’t really want to see my dick.”

Jun covers his eyes again. “I don’t!”

“Bummer. I’m gonna summon a Baja Blast, do you want one?”

“I—no, no thank you. I think I just—I really need to sleep? But I’m not tired? It’s been a long day and I’m still not one-hundred percent sure I’m not hallucinating all of this.”

Hoshi snaps his fingers and a garishly blue bottle of soda appears in his hand. He beams. “Trade offer: I help you sleep and you take me out for breakfast when you wake up. We have a lot to talk about.”

“You’re just gonna… hang out here? In my apartment?”

“Yes,” Hoshi confirms. “I’m going to look through all your stuff.”

Jun wants to say no. He should say no. Has half a mind to consider Hoshi is lying about being an angel and is instead another demon sent by you from Hell to keep tabs on him, but his aura is different—less… oppressive—so he gives in and nods.

He’s asleep within seconds.

It’s only a few hours later when he stirs awake. Sunlight streams in through the curtains, and the sounds of the city are drowned out by birdsong. Jun feels more rested and weightless than he has in years, and it allows him to wake slowly, recount the events of the past 24 hours and take stock of his body, how he’s feeling. Do some breathing exercises. Briefly contemplate if he has now twice altered the trajectory of his life for the worst.

“Get up!” someone yells from his living room. Right, the angel guy. “I want waffles and the diner stops serving breakfast in thirty minutes!”

Jun stares blankly at the ceiling. There’s no diner anywhere near him that serves American breakfast, but he assumes that isn’t going to stop Hoshi, who has no concept or time or space and no constraints on either.

Thirty minutes later, they’re sitting across from one another in a retro American-style diner.

“Where are we?” Jun asks, peering outside the large window to his right. All the cars are American makes; the walls look like they're made out of silver; all the signs are in English. He doesn’t have to ask why he can understand them. “Besides America. I’m gathering as much.”

Hoshi pours an entire sugar packet in his mouth and grins. “New Jersey. They have more diners than any other state in America, and some are even open 24 hours! It’s my favorite place on Earth.”

“Okay,” Jun acquiesces. What else is he going to do? He’s never been to America before, let alone New Jersey. “What do I order? I don’t know what any of this stuff is.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll order for you.”

Famous last words.

Whatever Hoshi had ordered for him has more sugar in one bite than Jun usually eats in an entire week, but it’s so good he can’t help himself. Half of his meal is devoured before they can get to the heart of the meeting even though Hoshi yaps the whole time—talks animatedly about things Jun doesn’t understand but thinks sound important, like his dog and his favorite music. Hoshi also talks about his love for dancing, and when Jun cocks his head to the side and asks, like Saint Vitus?, all he gets in return is a small smile.

“Okay,” Hoshi says, pushing his plate towards the middle of the table, “now that I’m ready to throw up, it’s time to talk business.” Jun swallows, no longer hungry. “I saw your entire pitch. It was embarrassing.”

Jun groans and face-plants onto the table. “Yeah.” Syrup sticks to his forehead.

“However, it was a convincing story. That’s why They sent me here.”

“They?”

Hoshi waves him off. “Whatever you know Them as: God, the Lord, The Big Boss. They also heard everything.”

Jun slowly picks his head up and studies the angel across from him. Hoshi is weird, no doubt about that, but he’s also endearingly earnest. “And They… what? Want to help me?”

“Precisely,” Hoshi confirms. “And before you ask why, I think that part is quite obvious, but it’s two-fold: yes, it’s partly out of spite, but also—some of those souls were supposed to be ours.”

Jun blinks. Feels like his brain is filled with primordial goo and is about to split at the seams. “Explain this to me like I’m an idiot.”

“That’s what I’m doing,” Hoshi replies, tone measured and slightly confused. “We’re all-knowing up there, as I’m sure you know. We know who’s meant to be ours at the moment of their birth and we keep an eye on them throughout their lives. We’re not allowed to intervene, though, which the Devil knows. Free will and all that.” Hoshi rolls his eyes. “With free will comes temptation, and temptation is a powerful thing. Most people are not immune to it, which is why They took notice of you.”

“Wasn’t I—”

“Supposed to be the Pope? Yeah. They weren’t, like, super thrilled about the outcome of that, but contrary to popular belief, it’s not against Their Word to get a handjob.”

“But I spilled seed.”

The look on Hoshi’s face almost looks like a grimace. “And you’ve spilled a lot more since then. Look, all I’m saying is if the worst thing you do in your life is have sex, you’re not disqualified. We look at the entire itemized receipt, not a single purchase, if you catch my drift.”

“Yeah,” Jun replies, a little dazed. He still could’ve been the Pope. “I became a lawyer for nothing?”

“Not nothing,” Hoshi insists, shaking his head. “You’ve actually put yourself in a very unique position, which is what I’m trying to get to. Some of those souls were meant to be ours, but they fell into temptation and made deals with those fuc—” He coughs. “Those… beings… down there.”

Hoshi reaches across the table and places a warm hand over Jun’s. “They want you to help return their souls to where they belong.”

“And how am I supposed to do that? You saw it: she laughed at me, not to mention she now knows what I’m up to. And how am I meant to advertise? If these souls are already in Hell, it’s not like I can put up a billboard!”

Hoshi’s eyes narrow. “She?” he asks. “That’s how the Devil appeared to you?”

“I—yeah. Is that not how she appears to everyone?”

“What did she look like?”

Jun trudges through the slime in his brain. Tries to remember anything besides—“Pretty,” he answers. “I don’t really—that’s all I can remember. I just remember she was really, really pretty.”

“Like the kind of woman you’d be attracted to on Earth, right?” Jun nods. “You need to be careful. She’ll appear to you again in similar forms, especially now that I’ve been here and told you Their intention.”

“So you’re telling me I have to be suspicious of any beautiful woman that finds me attractive?” Hoshi nods, soliciting a tortured groan from Jun. “This just keeps getting worse and worse.”

“You won’t be able to avoid her, nor are you expected to. It’s to your advantage she entertained you at all, and she certainly wasn’t lying when she said you are of a higher status to her and everyone in Hell. If we want you, it’s only natural they would as well.”

Jun mulls all of this over. Stares into his mostly-empty mug of coffee and tries to make sense of it. “I can’t even remember how I got there. I just had the idea, and then it was like I woke up in Hell. I didn’t mean to—what if I don’t even want to do this anymore? Can’t I just go back to my regular, boring life? This is—this is too much.”

“Unfortunately it’s too late for that. You have been chosen, Wen Junhui, and not just for this.”

Jun scoffs. “You’re making me sound like Harry Potter.”

“Thankfully that lady does not belong to us. Now, would you like to go back to your apartment before we get into specifics? It may take a while.”

“...Can we take another order of these things to go?”

Hoshi grins and flags down the waitress to order another massive stack of sugar-dusted waffles. “I think I’m going to enjoy my time on earth with you, Wen Junhui.”

The specifics are thus:

Hoshi is in charge of what earth-bound lawyers would call advertising. Jun isn’t privy to the specifics; he doesn’t know how Hoshi is even capable of it, if he’s just going to waltz into Hell and hand out business cards or what, but it’s more than he’s able to do so he doesn’t ask. (Well, that’s not entirely true. He did ask, and all Hoshi said in return was, “You know Metatron?” and left it at that.)

Hoshi is also in charge of The List: the souls Heaven wants freed from their contracts and returned upstairs. He allows Jun a brief glimpse of it, who is none too surprised to find a few law school colleagues but still overwhelmed at its length. It’s long—so long it had taken Hoshi quite some time to unfurl the scroll—and it isn’t static. Anyone destined for Heaven that makes a deal with the devil while Jun’s at work will simply be added to the bottom of the list. On and on it’ll go, ad nauseam, until Jun either dies or retires.

Which, speaking of retirement—

In a shocking turn of events, the job comes with benefits. Hoshi had been reluctant to call it a salary. For all intents and purposes Jun will be self-employed: he will be provided with a small office space in a nice area of downtown with no signage, although he’s also welcome to work remotely or wherever he feels most comfortable. Money will appear in his account, though he can opt for other forms of payment if he so wishes. (He’d been offered enough to live off of for a year for even accepting the job but chose to have his student loans paid off instead.)

They will keep him healthy. They will keep his sleep schedule regular and his refrigerator stocked with nutritious food. They will ensure people leave him alone and that no suspicions are cast upon him. They will ensure Jun has every tool at his disposal to be successful.

(It was a lot. Felt like making an inverse deal with the devil—he knew he was playing for the right side, but it was non-negotiable and non-refundable. Wen Junhui had been chosen, and in a moment of self-doubt and self-deprecation, he’d joked, “Can They make me smarter?”

Hoshi’s brows had furrowed. “The list of benefits makes no mention of increased intelligence.” Jun pouted; let out a whiny little oh. Hoshi grabbed another sheet of paper. “Your intelligence stats are nearly maxed, dude.”

“I barely passed law school!” he protested.

“I don’t know what to tell you. If we made you any smarter your brain would explode. Literally.”)

After that, there wasn’t much left to discuss. Hoshi had a lot of planning to do; needed to talk to someone in the marketing department but promised he’d be back as soon as possible. Left a tome in Jun’s possession and told him to study.

Theological Contract Law: A Very Comprehensive Introduction: Cases and Materials - 2326th Edition, it says, and Jun stares down at it full of foreboding. It’s bound in black leather, giltstamped in red. Nothing good comes bound in black leather with shiny red letters.

Still, he does what’s asked of him, lest his student loan pay-off gets reversed. He spends hours hunched over his small dining room table with a legal pad to his right, taking notes on any and everything that may prove important—what he can make sense of, at least, because it doesn’t resemble any legal or governmental structure he’s ever seen.

He groans. Tosses his pen onto the table and leans back in the stiff wooden chair, lets his head loll off the back as the wood digs into his neck. Says, “What the heck am I supposed to do with this?” to the empty space of his apartment, and before he’s even opened his eyes another book appears on the table.

Theological Law For Mortals: An Introduction (Sorry!!!! - Hoshi)

He swears.

The days bleed together. Hoshi pops in briefly to officially assign him his first case: one Kim Mingyu from Anyang-si, South Korea. Apparently sold his soul to be “tall and hot” and Heaven desperately needs him back. “This one’s important to the big boss,” Hoshi says, dropping off a stack of papers with a picture paperclipped to the front with the most attractive, symmetrical man Jun has ever seen. “He was meant to work in recruiting,” Hoshi explains.

Jun whistles low. “Understandable. Look at his face.”

“Exactly, so you get the need for a little urgency.” He tries to stamp it down, but Jun feels the panic start to rise. Has to dig his fingernails into the palm of his hand. “Hey, just do your best. Call me if you need anything.”

Hoshi turns to leave, ugly pair of brand new sneakers squeaking against the linoleum floor of the kitchen, but Jun’s able to stammer out, “What—what if I can’t do it?”

The angel turns, face marred by genuine confusion. “Why would you think you can’t?”

And then he’s gone.

Fueled by Hoshi’s unwavering—and frankly incomprehensible—confidence in him, Jun finds what he needs just after four o’clock Sunday morning. There, on page 4,837 of Theological Contract Law: A Very Comprehensive Introduction: Cases and Materials - 2326th Edition, in subsection 69 of section 567, it clearly states that souls handed over in exchange for vanity-related reasons must adhere to strict guidelines, limited to but not including:

General facial appearance

Eye and/or hair color

Penis, breast, and/or butt size

Height and/or weight

Others TBD

Pushed beyond the threshold of exhaustion, eyes going in and out of focus, he’s not sure the text following the sub-bullet point is real, but there it is: In regards to height, men must be made at least 6’2” or 188 centimeters for the contract to be considered legally binding.

“Hoshi!”

At once, the angel appears across from him. He’s decked out in another stupid t-shirt (Don’t Bully Me, I’ll Cum, this one says) and is drinking a 7-Eleven slushy through a bendy straw. His lips and tongue are stained blue when he smiles and asks, “Good news?”

Jun shakes his head. Tries to erase the scene in front of him. “Maybe,” he answers. “I need you to get an accurate height on Kim Mingyu. And I mean really accurate. Shave him bald if you have to.”

Hoshi’s smile fades as he grows serious. “You really think you’ve got something?”

“I think so.” Jun pushes the book across the table. “Take a look at that part I highlighted. I know his file says he’s 188 centimeters tall, but imagine if whoever measured him just rounded up? If he’s even a millimeter under that, the contract is void.”

Before he can comprehend what’s happening, Hoshi climbs halfway across the table, grabs Jun by the cheeks, and plants a wet, noisy kiss in the middle of Jun’s forehead. “Wen Junhui, you sneaky little minx, I may be a little in love with you.”

Jun’s face flushes hot and red.

“Just—just look into it, okay? I’ve been over the rest of this and I can’t see any other way out of it.” With a sarcastic salute, Hoshi disappears. Feels like he’s only gone a few minutes before he pops back up in the living room wearing a somber expression. “What?” Jun asks, panicked, feeling his stomach drop out of his ass. “What’s wrong?”

“Bad news,” Hoshi replies, heaving a sigh. Won’t look up from the floor. Does an impeccable job at selling it, before he looks up at Jun with a shit-eating grin, barely able to contain his excitement. “For the Devil! Ha ha ha!”

Whiplash. All Jun can feel is whiplash, and he stumbles out of the chair, can barely feel the ache in his bones. Trips over a rogue object on his way to the living room. “What? You mean—”

“You did it! Kim Mingyu officially measured in at a glorious six-foot-one-point-nine repeating.”

Jun grabs onto the back of the couch so he doesn’t pass out. Oxygen is not reaching his brain right now, nor is coherent thought. All those agonizing days in law school during which he resigned himself to being a failure. All those back-breaking nights he had to run to the bus stop to get home from his internship, only a handful of hours before he had to be awake again for class. All the meals he upchucked from anxiety before critical exams. All his classmates that’d ignored and belittled him. And now—

“I did it…” he says, voice colored with pure disbelief.

Hoshi starts doing some kind of concerning, robotic-looking dance. “Yeah, bitch!” A bolt of lightning strikes right in front of him and Hoshi startles. Rubs at the back of his neck and has the good sense to look sheepish. “I forgot I’m not supposed to swear.” He looks up at the ceiling. “Sorry, Boss!”

He turns his attention to Jun. “Go take a shower and get dressed. Wear something nice; we’re going out to celebrate.”

Whatever club Hoshi has brought him to is humid and sticky.

With what, Jun can’t be sure, but every time he presses his fingertips together it takes a concerning amount of time for them to peel apart.

Hoshi leads him to the bar. Hops onto a stool and kicks his feet as he waves over the bartender. She’s cute, Jun thinks; a bright, open smile splits her face as she pulls away from Hoshi, clearly endeared by whatever it was he had said. She moves around the bar with an easy confidence, does a little twirl to avoid her coworker, and Jun doesn’t realize he’s hypnotized until Hoshi digs an elbow into his ribs.

“Take it easy, killer. I ordered us some shots.”

Jun snaps out of his reverie. “Can you even drink?”

“Of course I can, I just can’t get drunk. Not here, anyway. Big Boss made the real good stuff exclusive to you-know-where after a few, uh… mishaps. Down here.” He coughs. “Let’s find somewhere to sit. I’ll come back for the drinks.”

There’s an empty booth tucked away in a corner. Jun takes the side that gives him an eyeline shot of the bar even though it feels a little creepy, and if Hoshi knows what he’s doing he doesn’t mention it. He’s back to yapping about one thing or another, gets distracted by all the commotion in the club—the group playing darts, the packed dance floor, a couple making out near the restrooms. Quite enthusiastically, Jun might add.

True to his word, Hoshi disappears for a second to retrieve the drinks. Jun watches as the bartender hands over a tray of rainbow-colored shots and also as Hoshi pats the pockets of his skin-tight pleather plants. Watches as he panics and frantically waves Jun over. Once he’s in his personal space, Hoshi leans in and whispers, “They say they need a card for the tab. I don’t know what that is so I’m assuming I don’t have one.”

Jun sighs. Explains, “It’s a credit card. How do you survive down here with no money?” Nevertheless, he digs out his wallet and hands his card over. “I can’t believe you invited me out and I’m getting stuck with the bill.”

Hoshi tuts. Hands Jun’s credit card to the bartender without an ounce of remorse. “Relax, I’ll have Matt reimburse you.”

“Who the heck is Matt—” Jun begins to say, but he’s interrupted by the most annoying angel God ever created placing the tray of drinks in Jun’s hands, then asking, “Can you take this back to the table? I’ll be right there.”

Hoshi is not going to be right there. Hoshi is going to hover around the bar because the cute bartender was making eyes at him, and Jun is going to return to their formerly-shared table to drink alone. There aren’t many things more depressing than going out with a friend to celebrate a personal achievement only to end up downing six shots on his own.

…Which are not to Jun’s taste at all.

He’s a habitual Tsingtao drinker. Never bothers to order anything else because he knows what he likes and it has never steered him wrong. Never had his head stuck in a toilet bowl, either, which is territory he’ll rapidly be approaching if he actually goes through with this.

“Is this seat taken?”

Jun knows it’s you without having to look up. Your aura is tangible—something thick and syrupy like molasses and just as dark; something suffocating, something that would drown him—and it follows you like a shadow. Slides into the booth before Jun can answer, just a nanosecond before your physical form does the same, and when you’re at eye level he has to swallow his gasp.

You look completely different.

Still beautiful, he thinks, because it’s hard to think of anything else. Jun knows who and what you are, of course; remembers the warning Hoshi had given him. Knows that this is just another one of your tricks, another layer of temptation, but it’s a beauty like quicksand. It’s a beauty like the misunderstood creatures at the heart of every fairy tale—those haunting kinds of myths meant to both make you wary and suck you in. It’s a beauty accentuated by darkness.

Worst of all, it’s a beauty that’s making his pants a little tight in the dick area.

“What does that imbecile have you drinking?” you ask, reaching for one of the remaining shot glasses. You grimace as you hold it up to the light. “You know, I once watched a man throw back twelve of these things before he stripped down to nothing but a diaper and attempted to rob a convenience store across the street.”

“Oh. What happened?”

You sigh. Place the glass back on the tray. “A comedy of errors, of course. He somehow managed to make it into the store unnoticed, but he had neither a weapon nor something to store the money in. He tried climbing across the counter to get to the cash register, but the clerk hit him in the head with a metal step stool and knocked him unconscious before calling the police.”

“I’m assuming he got arrested?”

“Oh, no.” You laugh, and Jun’s taken aback by how normal it sounds. “He came to before the police got there. I guess the sirens freaked him out because he ran out of the store and got hit by a bus.” Jun must be wearing a particular look, because you follow that up with, “He was always meant to be one of ours, so don’t worry, you won’t have to meet him.”

Right.

Jun had expected this. Not that he’d had a whole lot of time to expect it, considering Kim Mingyu had been freed from his contract for a whopping fifteen minutes before Hoshi was shoving Jun into the bathroom to shower, but it had been a passing thought on at least four separate occasions.

You’re not going to apologize, he tells himself. Wonders if you can hear his thoughts and desperately hopes you can’t, considering he’d thought about getting a semi from how pretty you are. It wasn’t even a semi, really, if he’s being honest. What’s half of a semi? One-fourth of a boner? That’s what he’d gotten, and if you can read his thoughts it’s very important that you know that.

“I’m not Joshua.”

Jun startles. Feels all the normalcy leak out of his body and form a gloopy puddle on the floor. “Um,” he replies stupidly. “Then how did you—”

“I can feel you thinking. Always feels like chickenpox when humans overthink around me.”

He wrings his sweaty hands together. Rubs them on his jeans when that doesn’t work. “Sorry,” he says instinctually. “It’s just—I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say.”

“Why?” you challenge. “Is there something you want to say?”

“I don’t think so. But I can’t imagine you’re very happy with me, and I get this sort of, um. When I know someone’s upset with me it feels like chickenpox, too. And even though I know, logically, that I did a good thing, I still feel like I’m going to throw up?”

Tense silence hangs between the two of you. Jun’s on the verge of word-vomiting another apology when you snap your fingers and turn the remaining shots into something resembling watery honey. You hold one out to him. “Drink this,” you instruct, and Jun makes a point not to let your fingers touch when he takes it.

“Is it poison?”

You heave another sigh. “Wen Junhui, there are some things you need to understand about me. First of all, this is an inherited job. Being The Anointed One comes with a lot of work and responsibility so we get burned out, okay? So there’s only ever been one devil as far as humans are concerned, but in a weird avatar-y kind of way that’s hard to explain and not worth my time to explain to you, specifically, considering you’re the enemy now. Second, I am capable of killing you in ways your human brain cannot even begin to conceive of. I do not need to poison you with ginger tea to take you out.”

Jun looks down at the glass. Raises it to his noise and takes a hesitant sniff.

Oh. Yeah, that’s ginger tea.

That you conjured him… because he said he felt nauseous?

“The last thing you need to understand is that the loophole you found was… unfortunate, to say the least, but Kim Mingyu’s contract was not one of mine. The next contract that idiotic angel is going to ask you to work on was also not my work. If you free him, too, it will be regrettable, but it will pale in comparison to what will happen to you if you even think about touching one of mine.”

You’re gone before the fear can even set in.

Jun blinks, staring at the empty seat across from him. No indication at all that you’d been there, no lingering shadow, just the taste of ginger on his tongue and one of those cartoon scribbles in a thought bubble hovering metaphorically above his head.

He doesn’t—

He can’t—

No, he decides, he is not going to have a mental break in this club. Not while “Friday” by Rebecca Black plays on a loop. Not while he can hear someone to his left vomiting all over the floor. Not while he watches Hoshi skip back to the table and he notices, for the first time all night, what he’s wearing.

“Did you change?”

Because he swears the angel wasn’t wearing that when they left the apartment. The pleather pants, yes, but not the baby pink cropped tank with a decal of a creepy child in the middle that says BOYS ARE STUPID, THROW ROCKS AT THEM.

“What? No,” Hoshi answers, sliding into the seat you’d occupied only moments earlier. “Why does it smell weird over here?”

Jun plays stupid. “One of the dartboard girls puked on the floor.” He’s not very good at it.

Hoshi shakes his head. “Not that.” An exaggerated sniff, not unlike a bloodhound. “It smells like… it definitely smells familiar. I know this smell. It’s like—you know how it feels when it’s about to snow? How the cold and the air burn your nose, but it doesn’t actually smell like anything? As if it used to have a smell, once, a long time ago, and all it is now is just an imprinted memory?”

Jun lies, “No. Nope, no idea.”

Hoshi visibly deflates. “Well, it’s kind of like that. Also a little bit like you used wet moss to put out a wildfire. It fills me with—” Hoshi pauses. Narrows his gaze as he studies Jun intently. Being stared at like this by a guy in that particular shirt is a bit disorienting, he must admit. “She was here, wasn’t she?”

He’ll know he’s lying, but Jun says no again because it’s a lot easier than explaining that being threatened within an inch of his mortal life made him cum in his pants a little.

After the club, Jun gets a few days of reprieve.

He doesn’t hear from Hoshi at all, nor does he materialize unexpectedly in his apartment. No mysterious books show up, either, which is a relief. He’d stored both Theological Contract Law: A Very Comprehensive Introduction: Cases and Materials - 2326th Edition and Theological Law For Mortals: An Introduction on a seldom-used bookshelf in his living room and now the shelf is starting to bow in the middle. One more tome of that size and the whole thing is going to come tumbling down and earn him a noise complaint.

Another one.

Because Hoshi has already racked up three in Jun’s name.

So he tries to go back to life as usual until he’s needed again. Does his grocery shopping in the middle of the week in the middle of the day when it’s not so busy and he can navigate the aisles without crippling anxiety. Goes to a check-up and has to lie about turning over a new leaf and taking his health seriously when his cholesterol levels are back within perfect range. He plays video games, picks a nice willow tree in the park to sit beneath and read (normal books this time), takes some of the Mingyu money to buy a decent watch and a few tailored suits.

For the first time in a while, he’s able to sleep through the night.

But he can’t shake the feeling that it’s all… strange. Ever since you’d shown up at the bar, he swears he sees you everywhere: in line a few registers over at the supermarket, in the waiting room of the hospital, coming out of a fitting room in the mall. It’s that aura again. Stalks him like prey. Has paranoia pricking at his skin, and it’s not healthy, the way it has him looking over his shoulder at every turn, scurrying away from every attractive woman with a frown and mumbled apologies.

Surely this cannot be the rest of his life.

Hoshi swings by on a Tuesday. Just like you said he would, he asks Jun to work on an assignment for one Lee Chan who tried to sell his friend to the devil but accidentally sold himself instead. “Wouldn’t have really mattered,” Hoshi explains. Today, his shirt says BIG DICK IS BACK IN TOWN. “It’s sort of against the rules to try and sell other people.”

Jun spits toothpaste into the sink and prays the towel stays snug around his waist. Hoshi had cornered him in the bathroom. “So why do you want him back, then?” Rifles through the medicine cabinet for his nice hair serum. “Seems pretty open and shut to me.”

“Why do They want him back,” Hoshi corrects, “and I don’t know why They want this one.”

Jun thinks about what you said: how Mingyu and Lee Chan hadn’t been your contracts, were basically freebies; the… avatar-ness; the not-subtle-at-all threats on his life. Says, “Can I ask you something?” as he rolls on antiperspirant.

Hoshi, who’s sitting in the tub making animals out of shaving cream, simply nods.

“She said something interesting to me—”

“Before or after being mean to you made you ejaculate in your pants like a teenager?”

Jun blinks. “Before,” he answers slowly. When Hoshi makes no move to interrupt him again, he continues, “She said the Kim Mingyu and Lee Chan contracts weren’t hers. That the role is… inherited? Something about an avatar? How does that work?”

The angel hums. Adds what appear to be bunny ears to an amorphous blob that does not look rabbit-shaped at all, and Jun tries to tamper down his excitement at the impending explanation. Everything he’s dealt with so far will have been worth it because he’s going to be in the know. The powers that be will reward him with their trust. He’ll finally get some answers to all those questions he fell asleep pondering as a child.

And then Hoshi waves him away dismissively and says, “You know I can’t tell you any of that,” and everything comes collapsing down like a house of cards.

Fair enough, Jun thinks—he’s only successfully completed one assignment. It’s still early days. “But you will eventually,” he says, and whoever’s listening in must think the optimism in his voice is so pathetic, “right?”

Hoshi is not cruel. They haven’t known each other long, but Jun knows that much. He wasn’t created from some Old Testament mold, when cruelty was the point of it all—intended to impress fear and strict adherence to Their Word. So when Hoshi laughs it isn’t meant the way Jun takes it. When Hoshi laughs it isn’t meant to make Jun feel disregarded and unimportant, small and irrelevant, but that’s where it strikes him all the same.

When Hoshi laughs and has no reassurances to offer, Jun is seventeen again, reckoning with his loss of faith. Now he’s a decade older and is constantly confronted by all those old names and characters, and when you’re trapped in the middle of their bidding, where can you go when you need to hide?

Jun has the Lee Chan assignment completed by Thursday night.

A significant amount of money appears in his bank account. He wakes up on Friday to an enthusiastic message from his landlord, thanking him for paying his rental contract through the end of his lease. His parents thank him for the grocery delivery. On the side, away from the proud ears of his father, his mother is especially thankful. She’s choking back tears as she thanks him profusely, says business has been slow, tells him he’s a good son and he’s made them proud, always, even if he traveled a different path than the one he originally planned to take.

None of it takes away the ache in his chest.

None of it makes him feel any less empty. It’s hard to feel fulfilled when you know you’re just a pawn, stuck in the middle of a holy war that existed long before him and will persist long after he’s gone. Wen Junhui will always be on the outskirts, because everyone needs him, but he’s not important enough to trust. He is someone and no one all at once. He is Purgatory.

He needs to feel human—needs to make human mistakes, destroy himself the way humans do. Needs to commit a few cardinal sins and scold himself, wonder what the fuck he’s doing as he rattles ice around his third glass of baijiu. Needs to wake up with a splitting headache and a fractured memory. Needs a hoarse voice beside him to ask what time it is as he stares at their naked back and wonders how to get out of it.

There’s a bar not far from his apartment. A dive, by every definition of the word: broken, flickering neon sign out front, cheap linoleum floors peeling at the corners, 70s paneling on the walls, the stench of cigarette smoke outlasting all the old regulars. It’s the kind of place ghosts gather; the kind of place Jun was always too scared to go, knew the questioning, distrustful stares that’d be there to greet him as soon as he stepped through the door.

Tonight, though, it’ll do just fine.

He sits on a stool at the bar and orders a beer to start. Intends to stay a while. Watches a trio of old men play dou dizhu at a table near the back, empty bottles at their feet, fat cigars stuck between their teeth, insults and accusations shouted around them. To his left, a middle-aged man tries bartering for another drink. Needs it, he says, because he lost his job and his wife in the same week. Fourth job this month, the bartender replies, no pity to be found. It’s only the twenty-second.

Across the bar sits a kid that reminds Jun a lot of his brother. Can’t be much older than eighteen. Might not be old enough to drink legally at all, but that’s none of his business. There’s dirt beneath his fingernails and a large chip taken out of a front tooth. Not a clean break, all jagged edges—the kind that probably hurts to run his tongue over.

Jun feels guilty for a moment, surrounded by all these people with real problems. He’s got money and a respectable career. Has a roof over his head that’s been paid for by someone else. He’s good-looking, has his health and his youth. Has enough to take care of his family.

“Give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you.” You sit beside him with a humored smile that shines through a truly pinched expression.

Jun snorts as he empties his drink. “Thessalonians. Gotta be honest, not one of my favorites.” Spares a glance at you: you’re different again, appearance-wise, but the scent you wear like a signature perfume is the same. Heady, like it was bottled at the center of the earth. “Is this your way of telling me that comparison is the thief of joy or whatever?”

Your turn to laugh. The bartender sets a drink in front of you that Jun hadn’t heard you order. “No,” you reply simply. “I’m not all that concerned with human joy. Just thought it was ironic. Come sit with me.”

“This is starting to sound familiar,” he snarks, but he follows anyway.

A rickety table by the window. Winter air seeps through, frosts the glass; has Jun wishing he’d worn a thicker coat. It was warmer by the bar. The two chairs you occupy are upholstered in peeling vinyl, one ripped with the stuffing peeking through. Jun takes that one, figuring you’ll laugh at his human chivalry, but you take the seat opposite him without a word. That old flickering sign outside reflects on your face.

He didn’t come here for a therapy session—he came to get drunk on questionable liquor surrounded by people who don’t know him. You do, of course, which throws a wrench in his plan. You seem to know everything about him, including that he’d be here brooding. “Why’d you follow me here?”

“Well, it certainly wasn’t for your jubilant demeanor and fantastic conversation.” You put your drink to the side. Fold your hands in front of you. “Congratulations on Lee Chan. The outfit upstairs must be very pleased with the work you’ve done thus far.”

There’s no bite. No sardonic tone.

Jun realizes then how differently you treat him. How honest you are. You don’t lie or stretch the truth; you don’t brush off his questions. Hoshi is truthful at an arm’s length. Makes his stomach feel sour.

“I’m just a pawn, aren’t I? It doesn’t really matter if they’re pleased so long as I get the work done.”

You hum an acknowledgment. “People forget what They used to be like. The atrocities They committed and had others commit in Their name—humans, just like you, who were so desperate to appease their God they would’ve done whatever was asked of them.” Jun’s drink refills. He empties it in one go. “They killed their sons, waged war on their neighbors, have done unspeakable evils in Their name. It’s not only you, Wen Junhui, that has been a pawn to Them.”

He doesn’t react. A glass shatters at the bar. “And you?” he questions. “What are you, then, if those are the things They demand?”

“I’m a foil, of course. Would you still believe in good if there was no evil? Would you believe in the promise of eternal life if there was no threat of eternal damnation? Would you still be moral if there was no corruption?” Rhetorical questions. “Although you’re no stranger to crises of faith, are you?”

He isn’t. The handjob had rattled him, sure, but it hadn’t been the catalyst. Not really. Jun had still gone to church that Sunday. Still kneeled and received Communion and allowed himself to be blessed and prayed over. Still bowed his head before each meal and mouthed along as his mother said grace.

No, his loss of faith had been gradual: a question he couldn’t find an answer to, suffering he could no longer brush off with blind faith, words he used to treat as gospel that began tasting acrid in his mouth as he also lost his conviction. Everything started feeling like bullshit, and once everything started feeling like bullshit, he had to wonder what he’d spent eighteen years of his life chasing. What he spent eighteen years of his life believing in.

Until he found he didn’t believe in all that much anymore.

He has to ask: “Was it your doing?”

You shake your head. “People forget who I am, too. They call me the original liar. They say I am the source of all evil. They attribute every sin and misdeed to me, say it must’ve been my will, and yet it says right there in their holy book, in Isaiah 45:7: I form the light, and create darkness: I make peace, and create evil: I the Lord do all these things.” You focus all your attention on Jun—he feels the weight of it like a millstone. “I was the anointed one until I was overcome by sin and became the tempter, right? That’s what they say; how they wrote my story. And yet, by Their own word, it was They who created evil. It was God who created darkness.” A hefty pause. “Some may look at me and say I, too, was a pawn.”

“Do you feel like you were?”

You don’t respond. Instead, Jun watches as his view of the bar crumbles once you snap your fingers: block by block replaced with the interior of his apartment. His dining table instead of the off-balance one in front of the window. The ambient noise of his building instead of the bar. A mug of coffee in place of the baijiu.

“What the he—”

It’s within the four dull walls of Jun’s apartment building that you answer: “Even if I was, why should I feel like a victim? Did I not get the better end of the deal?” Jun feels like he’s standing atop a trap door. Like any second it’ll swing open and down, down, down he’ll go. “I rule over my kingdom and make no demands of anyone. I am a consequence of free will and not an inhibitor of it. I dole out punishment only for those deserving of it.”

The coffee is strong. Bitter. Just for a second before it melts away into something sweet. “You are temptation, are you not? Do the demons not do your bidding? Sow chaos in your name? Are you not the originator of all these contracts I’ve been tasked with destroying? If They are to be believed, those people were not meant to be yours, and yet you wound up with them anyway.”

“I like you, Wen Junhui,” you say. “You have an insatiable curiosity that is both admirable and ill-advised.”

He feels his face flush. “Sorry. Got carried away, I think.”

“It’s of little consequence to me. I must admit I have smited men for asking questions, but they were of a more crude variety. More coffee?” Jun nods. “I am who I am. It is who I’ve always been—I was created to walk this path and so I know no different.”

“Predestination.”

“Precisely, just as those dreadful fucking Puritans believed. God needed a foil, a betrayer, and so They created me. I know no other role.”

“You were an angel,” Jun argues. “They say you were beautiful, powerful, and intelligent; they say you were full of light. You don’t remember any of that?”

Sorrow etches across your face. Only for a second—blink and you’ll miss it. It is not in the same realm of pain Jun is experiencing. Yours is an ancient grief. It is something palpable and overwhelming, something liable to consume and destroy everything within its reach if left uncontrolled. Jun wonders if it has been; if you’ve let it unfurl before reigning it back in. If those are the plagues they speak of. Catastrophic disasters and genocides and everything on earth he cannot conceive of.

And then your face shutters. That grief is now nowhere to be found, borrowed features rearranged neatly once again. “Of course I remember,” is all you say.

Companionable silence. Jun sips slowly at his coffee and enjoys it. Wonders, briefly, how he wound up here, with the CEO and overseer of Hell sitting at his dining room table, before he lets those thoughts get chased away by a more pressing fact: there is an extremely beautiful and kind of terrifying woman sitting at his dining room table, and she hasn’t murdered him—yet.

He’s not above noticing it. Isn’t going to pretend he hasn’t thought about the night in the club roughly every twenty minutes since it happened; isn’t going to pretend he didn’t get a little hard in the shower that same night and that he didn’t relieve himself. Isn’t going to pretend that this isn’t doing something for him—the different disguises, each one just as enticing as the last, all of them conjured from deep within his psyche, checking off all his boxes.

Jun also isn’t going to pretend he has very much game. He hadn’t left university a virgin (although it’d been close) and nowadays women aren’t really falling over themselves to date a newly-licensed lawyer with little money and thrifted suits that feel like they’re playing at adulthood. However, if nothing else, this… partnership he has going on has served him well in the confidence department. He has disposable income and no debt. His clothes fit. He upgraded his cheap Casio watch to something that doesn’t turn his skin green.

“You didn’t really answer my question earlier.” You roll your head to the side, cock an eyebrow. His bravado falters slightly at the line of your throat. “Are you stalking me?”

What he aims for: cheeky, a little saucy; the kind of question that’s delivered with a shit-eating grin and earns him a coy laugh in response as you tuck your hair behind your ear. Oh, knock it off, you’d say as you playfully swatted at him. Of course I’m not. He’d catch your hand and press his lips to your knuckles before trailing them up your arm. The first kiss to the side of your neck would be gentle, a little hesitant, and then the heat would take over.

How it lands: an accusation completely lacking in charm and sass. Jun’s eyes widen in panic as soon as the question leaves his mouth, has him wondering how he’s still alive if the glare you send him is any indication of how you’re feeling. He should’ve known better. Jun is not the sort of person who can pull off a comment like that. Doesn’t have the charisma or the confidence. Isn’t sleazy enough. Jun is the kind of guy who lurks your social media after a one night stand to figure out your favorite breakfast so he can have it waiting the morning after; the kind who takes note of where you work so he can have flowers delivered to your desk and not for any other nefarious purpose.

Which, now that he’s thinking about it—

Every accusation is a confession, or whatever it is they say.

“That’s not—”

“What you meant,” you finish for him. Thankful for the lifeline, he nods, not trusting himself to not dig a deeper hole. “You want to know why it is I’ve shown up twice now, during both of your nights out.” He nods again. “You wanted to be suave when you said it, maybe even a little seductive, but you forgot your claim to fame is crying for three days over a handjob and how excruciatingly awkward you are.”

He waits for you to continue. When you don’t, he nods again, wishing he’d spent more time as a teenager on the degenerate parts of the internet rather than at Bible study.

“Are you an idiot?”

Not that it’s undeserved, but the question leaves him stunned. Has his mouth gaping open and shut like a goldfish. This is a trap, right? There’s a correct answer here that he’s expected to give. “...No?” he tries, and when your eyes narrow he quickly changes course. “Yes,” he says definitively. “Yes, I am an idiot. Sorry for my… idiocy.”

It looks like it’s being dragged out of you by force, but the clouds part, birds start chirping in perfect harmony, Jun feels the warmth of the sun—you laugh. You laugh, and it’s reluctant but it’s real, and Jun’s smile is so wide his face feels heavy under the weight of it. It’s so wide you say, “Wow, even your mouth is heart-shaped,” and, if Wen Junhui knows nothing else, he knows he’s in real big trouble.

“You know what else is heart-shaped?” You gesture for him to continue, except he’d just been yapping. Didn’t have a plan. There’s no punchline. And he can’t set it up as a dick joke because that doesn’t make sense. My dick is heart-shaped? What does that even mean? Unless it’s in a cute way? My dick is heart-shaped… for you. It could work, he reasons. Worse things have worked for other men. “My di—”

“No.”

He pretends to pout. “You didn’t let me finish.”

“Because you were going to make a dick joke.”

“No I wasn’t.” You roll your eyes. “I was going to say my… digantic heart.”

A pause. Another beat of silence.

“I’m not going to laugh at you twice.”

A shit-eating grin on Jun’s face. “But you would, is what you’re saying? If you didn’t already meet your one-laugh quota?”

“Don’t push your luck.”

I want to kiss you, he wants to say. Feels the words biting at the back of his teeth, begging him to open his mouth so they can escape and be real. I want to kiss you but I don’t know if it’d be real. Because it can’t be, can it? All the ways you’ve been described throughout human history, not once has anyone said you’re capable of love. Which—that’s not what Jun is looking for here, right? That’d be ridiculous. He has a crush.

A crush on a beautiful woman who looks like all of his wet dreams combined. Who’s terrifying and smart and maybe misunderstood in all the same ways he is. Who is halfway responsible for his current employment. Who conjures ginger tea for him when he feels sick and hasn’t snapped her fingers to turn him into dust… yet. It’s natural, especially for a late bloomer such as himself.

But that doesn’t mean anything.

You look like all of his wet dreams combined but it’s still just a costume. The same way Jun was playing at adulthood in his ill-fitting suits, you’re playing at being human. Take it off and you’re still the devil. Still primordial. Still not bound by the constraints and constructs of time. Not bound by mortality, which is probably the second-most pressing issue behind the whole fallen angel, prime ruler of Hell, purveyor of iron-clad contracts that are really, really pissing off Heaven thing.

“Congratulations,” you say, ripping Jun out of his spiral, “your overthinking has bypassed chickenpox completely and went straight to shingles.”

“They have a vaccine for that now.” Wow, he is really not nailing this.

“I know. Pestilence was devastated. Moped around for ages. Imagine all your hard work gone, just like that, because of science? That’s why I created Jenny McCarthy.” You sigh. “Anyway, out with it.”

Jun chews at the inside of his cheek. “I’m trying to figure out how to ask in a non-offensive way.”

You blink. “I am literally the devil.”

“Who can kill me,” he says slowly, trying to buy time. So are you, it seems, because you’re content to stretch the silence. Wait until it settles in Jun’s bones as anxiety. One of those old tricks he learned during law school that’s now being turned on him. He coughs. “Anyway, I—” He deflates. “It’s stupid, I don’t know why I even thought—”

“Out with it,” you repeat.

“Right.” He sucks in a breath. “Does this mean anything to you? Not in, like, an affectionate, I’m in love with you kind of way, but in a… human… way? Is it offensive to phrase it like that?”

“I think you’ll find not much offends me—except for you and your fucking lawyer thing ruining my contracts.” There are those flames behind your eyes again. The temperature in the room increases tenfold. “So no, it’s not offensive to wonder how human I am or am not, but I don’t know if the answer will be to your satisfaction or understanding.”

“Try me.”

You huff a laugh. Mumble something about the hubris of man. “You’ve read Their book, so you know how and why the angels were created. Ministering spirits, I think it says. Spirits without bodies. I have never known what it means to be human because I never was. I appear as one to you out of necessity.”

“Because my brain would melt if I saw your true form?”

“What? No. Because it’s terrifying. Would you rather hand over your mortal soul to someone who looked like an eldritch horror or someone who looked like one of those women you’ve jerked off to in porn magazines?” Jun swallows audibly. “Exactly.”

“But what does it feel like when you’re like this? When you’re here?”

“I don’t know,” you answer honestly. “It feels different, but I can’t say it feels human because I do not know what that feels like. You’ve interacted with me and have been to Hell—if I asked you how it felt to be the devil, how would you answer?”

Jun doesn’t have to think. He says the first word that comes to mind, which is, “Lonely. I think it’s lonely, because They have worshippers, Their followers are devout and love and trust without proof, and you were created to be hated and feared.” You move to interject, but Jun continues. “Maybe you have those things too, but they’re not the same. They gave you everything and then They ripped it away. Their followers heed every word of the Bible, name their children after its characters, but where’s your book? Why wasn’t anyone allowed to tell your story?”

“Maybe you should write it.”

What you aim for: cheeky, a little saucy; the kind of suggestion spoken around a sly smile that’s also a little self-conscious at someone taking you into consideration—at someone seeing you.

How it lands: fractured; words spoken slowly and intentionally so nothing is given away. How ironic that it’s the most human Jun has heard you sound.

But your bravery is inspiring, even if you’re unaware of it. Even if you aren’t making a conscious choice to be so, Jun can watch you be vulnerable and think he can do the same. He can finally say what he’s been dancing around this entire time, which is, “If I kiss you, what will it feel like for you?”

“The same as any other kiss, I imagine.”

“You’ve done this before, then? As a… human?”

Seems your patience with him has run out. You stand, make your way to Jun’s side of the table slowly. Drag a finger along the back of each chair, nails cherry red and sharpened to a point. He wants to feel them. Wants the sting as they dig into his thighs; as they scratch down the length of his back and mark him up. He wants to feel the phantom bite for days, long after you’re gone and he’s come to his senses. When he stands beneath the spray of the shower and his skin feels raw, he wants to know it was you that had done it.

He understands, now, why people make those deals and shake your hand.

As you loom above him, slowly encroaching upon his space—as the heady scent of you overwhelms him and makes him dizzy, has his eyes fluttering closed and rolling back in his head—he thinks he’d give you anything you asked for.

You lean in close. One hand on the arm of the chair, one wrapped around the meat of his thigh, just on the edge of sharp. Closer, closer, until he can feel the warmth of your breath against his cheek, the line of his jaw, the lobe of his ear. “Tell me: does this feel human?”

It does. Drives him a little crazy how he can feel each word punctuated against his skin; how he can feel your body heat seep through the fabric of his pants—heat he didn’t expect to find. And it isn’t like it matters, because he’d want you no matter how you felt, but it helps to ground him. Keep him in the moment. So he says, “Ye-yeah,” and knows you’re smiling at the need in his tone.

Need that starts in his toes and settles in his belly. Need that grows as your hand trails up his thigh and settles over his zipper, over the bulge you find there. Jun’s breath catches in his throat. He knows the mechanics—in, out; in, out; in, out—but can’t convince his lungs to work. Feels lightheaded and a little embarrassed because you’re not even touching him properly and he already feels untethered.

All you do is pull away, back out of his space, and for all he knows his world’s been turned upside down. Doubly so when he cracks one eye open and sees you on your knees, looking up at him with a half-lidded gaze, lashes impossibly dark. He can’t help it. He reaches out, places his thumbs in the contours of your cheek, cups your jaw, and presses his lips to yours.

Immediate searing heat.

Jun is engulfed in it. You taste like a storm—taste like the first deafening crack of thunder and the lightning that follows. And he knows he’s coming across too eager with the way he licks into your mouth, but you don’t seem to mind. You match his pace, groan into his mouth, palm at his cock with more intention. Jun’s hips roll, seeking the friction; wants more of the stinging pleasure. Wants to haul you into his lap and fit his hands in the curve of your waist, leave bruises on your hips with his thumbs. He wants to trace every inch of your skin and commit it to memory.

But you’ve got plans of your own.

You plant your hands against his chest and push. Jun goes willingly, chest heaving, missing your mouth already. There’s a crooked grin sitting on your face that sends a spark of excitement up his spine, has alarms sounding in his head, but he can’t look away. Everything you do mesmerizes him: the way you run your tongue along your bottom lip, the slow drag of his zipper, how your voice is husky and deeper than he’s ever heard it when you ask him, what do you want, and your smile when he answers, whatever you do.

And what you seem to want is to destroy him in record time. Pants at his knees, hard cock straining against his briefs, he feels like he’s back in high school. Has that same sense of adolescent urgency, like everything’s happening both in slow-motion and not fast enough, because he knows what’s coming. Watches with a lip tugged between his teeth as you free his cock. Whimpers when you wrap your hand around him, reminds himself to breathe; grips white-knuckled at the arms of the chair when you begin to move.

Your pace is torturously slow to start. You seem to delight in tormenting him; in hearing all those breathy moans that escape him and spur you on. You lean forward and spit and everything is slick. Jun feels like he’s going to come out of his skin. He grips at the chair tighter. Digs his nails into his thighs when that doesn’t work and lets his head roll back, neck on full display. Maybe it’s to tempt you. Maybe he wants you to sink your teeth into him and mark him up. Maybe he has a million fantasies, and not a single one compares to—

Your mouth. The sound that comes out of him is unholy. It takes every ounce of restraint he has not to roll his hips and fuck his cock deeper into your mouth, down your throat. All he wants to do is chase the bliss of that wet heat and give in to it.

But he needs this to last. If this is the only time he’ll have you like this, he needs to make it worthwhile.

He needs to tell you, needs you to slow it down before he embarrasses himself by coming in your mouth, except he can’t find the words. Doesn’t want to deny himself even a second of pleasure. Five minutes is all it’s taken to make a hedonist out of him. And that’s… well, it’s not a philosophy he ever thought he’d adopt, but who could blame him when you feel like velvet? When he starts babbling nonsense and you hum in response and everything feels electric?

“I’m gonna—” A sharp nip at the inside of his thigh has his declaration dead on arrival. His body shivers, trembles, tries to collapse in on itself. “Shit, don’t do that, I’m gonna—”

He feels your smile against his skin. Whimpers as you mouth at his balls. Wonders if he’s going to die like this; if someone will come to check on him and find his pitiful, half-naked body right here in this chair, and that is not a sight he wants anyone to walk in on, so he reaches for you, finds your hair and tugs at you gently. Seals his lips over yours before you can come up with any more ideas.

He hauls you into his lap, just like he’d wanted, and dips his hands beneath your top. Skims his hands over the warm skin he finds. Digs his nails in when you bite at the column of his throat and groans as his cock—so hard he can barely think straight; can’t think of anything except burying himself inside of you—brushes against the harsh fabric of your pants.

“God, c’mere.” You oblige. Kiss him with such intensity he no longer cares where he dies, so long as this is how he goes out. Watches as stars explode behind his eyelids when he realizes he can taste himself on your tongue, that you taste like him. Moves his hands to your chest, traces lightly over your hard nipples, delights in the way you react, that it’s him making you feel good. That it’s him you let pull your top over your head. That it’s him that presses praise into your skin like scripture.

He mouths at you indiscriminately: your collar bones, the space between your breasts, the swell of skin there. Whines as you grab at his hair and tell him how to please you. Thinks he’s learning a lot about himself when he does as you say, when he sucks and bites at your nipples, and grows impossibly harder.

You sigh, blissed out; tell him you want his mouth elsewhere, fill his mind with thoughts that have him rolling his hips uselessly, thrusting at nothing, but fuck, he wants it all. Wants to taste every part of you. Wants to drag you to the edge and watch as your body writhes in satisfaction. Wants to know how beautiful you look when you come on his tongue, head thrown back, your nails digging into his scalp.

Wants to bury his cock inside of you before you can come down and watch as your eyes roll back and know, with every thrust of his hips, that he’s leaving his mark just the same as you are.

So that’s what he does. He stands, lifting you with ease, tells you to wrap your legs around him as he carries you to his bedroom. Lays you in the middle of the bed and helps strip you bare. Tells you, in every way he can think of, how much he loves seeing you like this, how stunning you are, how lucky he is. Kisses his way down your body until he’s level with your cunt. He breathes in your scent, desperate for all of you, before he circles a thumb over your clit and follows it with his mouth.

Ironic, he thinks, that you taste like heaven.

He gives as good as he got—flattens his tongue and works you over with long licks. Laps and sucks and doesn’t let up when your legs start to shake. Places one over his shoulder and dives back in. Swears fall from your lips in fractured syllables, breathless cries in between commands to keep going. He’s a man possessed. Doesn’t want to waste a second. Doesn’t want the taste of anyone else on his tongue.

You come with a sob, his name the only thing you seem capable of saying. Jun, Jun, Jun, like a chant.

…Like something he’d hear in church.

No reprieve. He stretches you on his fingers, almost delirious as he presses against your g-spot and feels how much wetter you get. Ruts against the mattress at all the crude sounds he’s pulling from you, unable to help himself. Says, “Can I…?” and slicks himself up with what he’s gathered from you when you nod.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck. Kisses the spot just below your ear as he runs his hands up and down your thighs. “How do you want me?” he asks. “Whatever you want, I’ll give it to you.”

He expects you to want it from behind. Maybe on top so you’re in control, turned away. He doesn’t expect you to say, “Just like this,” as you hitch a leg around his hip and pull him as close as possible. He doesn’t expect you to say, “I want you to look at me,” in that tone, like it’s imperative. Like you need it. He doesn’t expect you to grab the back of his neck and kiss the air from his lungs as he pushes inside.

Heat. Everything is white, blinding heat.

Jun whines into your mouth. Rolls his hips slowly as you swallow it. Your hands move to his shoulders and down his spine, settle in the small of his back, press into the dimples there. He pulls back only so he can tell you to mark him up, that he wants to feel you days from now, and you indulge him. Shallow at first—your nails ghost across his skin, more ticklish than painful, before they dig in a little deeper. Jun feels the bite as the welts begin to form and he thinks his smile must look crazed.

He keeps his pace steady. Fucks in as deep as he can and rocks back slowly, trying to hold on to the way your cunt squeezes him, but you need more. You tell him as much and don’t say please, and when Jun tries to be a little cocky, when he thinks he has a modicum of control and says, “You’re okay, baby, you can take it,” you send him such a nasty glare he immediately gives it to you harder and faster.

But he can’t help but laugh. “What, I can’t call you baby?” he jokes. There’s a rebuttal on the tip of your tongue that Jun does away with with a sharp thrust of his hips. He knows he’s playing with fire, that he’ll pay for this one way or another, but the thought thrills him more than anything else.

“I’m the—fuck,” you swear. Jun doesn’t have to ask why. Everything’s starting to feel tighter, wetter. Both of you are hurtling toward the inevitable, and Jun needs to feel you come on his cock, needs to watch you unravel beneath him.

He grabs your hand. Sucks two of your fingers into his mouth. “Touch yourself,” he says. “Make yourself feel good, I wanna see you come.” He moans, loud and unabashed, when you do as he says.

Each pass of your fingers over your clit makes you jerk, has electricity licking at your heels. Jun feels each one. Feels the way you clench and tremble. A bead of sweat runs down the column of your throat and he traces it with his tongue. Keeps fucking harder, deeper; grinds his pelvis against your clit and falls in love with the way you sound in the throes of lust. Wants to bottle it and keep it forever.

“Jun, I’m gonna—”

Another roll of his hips. Deep, deep, deep. “I know.” Two words he’s barely able to choke out. Feels like he’s being suffocated as his vision starts to go hazy at the edges. All he knows in this moment is your pleasure, your satisfaction, you.

Your orgasm hits with a shattering cry. Jun follows right after, unable to put up a fight against the vice grip of your cunt. It feels pathetic, the way his body shakes with the force of it, but when it passes, when he comes back into his body, all he feels is bone-deep euphoria.

He collapses onto your chest. Presses another kiss there. Sighs contentedly when your nails scratch lightly at his scalp. “Okay?” he asks.

“Yes,” comes your easy answer.

Minutes pass in blissful quiet. Neither of you speak, letting your heavy breathing do the talking, and for once Jun enjoys the sounds of the city outside when there’s someone beside him to hear it, too. “I’m gonna pull out,” he tells you, even though it feels a bit silly.

He feels the loss immediately.

Unsure of the protocol for something like this, Jun does what he always does: pretends there’s absolutely nothing out of the ordinary happening at all.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, punctuating his words with a kiss to your temple. He grabs a clean pair of underwear from a drawer, pulls them on, pads down the hall to the bathroom. He pointedly does not look at his reflection as he turns the tap on and waits for the water to warm. Knows his face is blotchy and flushed and his hair’s a mess and that you’re spread out on his bed looking like the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, so he doesn’t want to look at his reflection and feel bad about himself. Doesn’t want to taint this moment by feeling unworthy of it.

But a bit of that self-doubt still manages to creep in, because he returns to his room and is surprised to find you haven’t left. That, above all else, you look content: laying on your front, one of Jun’s pillows tucked beneath your head, sheets barely covering your ass. You smile when Jun puts a knee on the mattress and you feel it dip. Smile wider when he kisses the length of your spine and tells you, in a voice unrecognizable even to his own ears, to roll onto your back so he can clean you up.

If it’s too intimate, you make no mention of it. If there’s no room in this moment for this kind of care and affection, if all of this is for Jun’s sake and you’re just letting him go through the motions, you don’t mention that, either.

He works slowly and with care. Apologizes when you hiss at the first swipe of the washcloth, the water warm but still colder than your skin. Cracks a joke about taking you out for breakfast in the morning even though both of you know you’ll be long gone by then, and he waits for that knowledge to sting but it never does, but he’s relieved when you laugh anyway.

It’s when you stop laughing, when your smile slowly disappears from your face, that it all starts to sink in. Because you ask, “Did it feel real to you?” and he’s not sure how to interpret that. If it’s a masked plea for reassurance or if you want to make sure he got his money’s worth.

Maybe it’s both. Or maybe it’s neither.

“I know it can’t be for you what it is for me,” he answers, “but if you’re asking if I had a good time, then my answer is yes. And I know what this is, so you don’t need to look like that, okay? I’m not about to confess my love for you and start crying.”

(That’s not entirely true. He really might start crying, but he’ll at least have enough sense to wait until you’re gone.)

“Well, it wouldn’t be the first time, so I…” You sigh, avert your gaze, tangle your fingers in the sheets. “It’s just—you’re doing all this nice stuff for me, so I didn’t… I wanted to make sure.”

“‘Nice stuff’? You mean helping you clean up and offering you a glass of water?”

You laugh again, but there’s no humor in it. “You’re treating me like I’m human, Wen Junhui. Like I’m the same as any other woman you’d sleep with.”

He cocks his head. “Why wouldn’t I?” he asks, and that’s the end of that.

Jun doesn’t use his downtown office much, but since his apartment still smells like you, he figures he can use a change of scenery. Hoshi will know where to find him if he’s needed.

He ducks into a recently-opened coffee shop and orders an expensive latte with ingredients he’s never heard of. When he pops the lid, he’s both horrified and intrigued by the purple-blue coffee that greets him. Back outside, he breathes in the musk of the city: the exhaust fumes, cigarette smoke, the sweat from people rushing to work.

A jianbing vendor is set up at the corner, fills him with nostalgia—smells just like the ones he ate nearly every morning during law school. He smiles as he orders and asks for extra lajiao, foolishly ignoring the questioning glance he receives in return, and he’s happy as he walks the remaining two blocks to his office with it warm in his hand. Sticks it in his mouth to hold between his teeth as he digs in his pockets for the key. Jiggles it in the lock as he accidentally bites down, and it takes a second, maybe five, but then—

He should not have asked for the extra chili sauce.

All 182 of his centimeters crash through the door and carelessly toss aside his briefcase. Water. He needs water desperately, even though it’s just going to make it worse, which he knows, but his mouth all the way down to his esophagus feels like it’s been set ablaze. Feels like he’s breathing magma. Feels like if someone stood in front of him right now and caught wind of his breath, they’d turn to ash.

Which explains how he misses the person sitting at his desk, their feet kicked up and face hidden behind a newspaper from six months ago.

He finally notices them some ten minutes later, after he locks himself in the bathroom and douses his face in cold water and can be sure he’s not about to die from excessive heat intake. Not that this is any less embarrassing for him: he shrieks, clearly not expecting anyone to be there, and the stranger shrieks in turn. The shriek-off lasts approximately thirty seconds and is cut off by an elderly woman sticking her head through the door and asking if everything is alright, to which Jun sheepishly nods and bows in apology as he thanks her for her concern.

Once she’s back on the street, he whirls around to face his intruder.

“Good morning,” Hoshi says, seemingly nonplussed by the entire sequence of events that have transpired. “Had a little mishap with the chili sauce, huh?” Jun ignores him. Snatches the newspaper out of his hands and shoos him out of his chair and into one intended for guests. “Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.”

Jun glares. “Why are you—”

“Or should I say the only side of the bed, considering you had erotic entanglements with the devil.”

Annoyance flares within him. Has that lajiao heat rushing back to his skin. Hoshi’s got a lot of nerve—the same guy who refused to tell him much of anything, who just takes and takes and takes, is now criticizing him for exercising his free will. Well, Jun’s not going to accept that, he decides. Adopts a snotty little tone and says, “So you were spying on me? Wow, okay, you pervert.”

Hoshi balks. Trips over his words as he tries to mount a useless defense. “I didn’t—that’s not—no,” is the best he can come up with.

“Did you like the show?”

“Wen Junhui—”

“Very convenient that’s the thing you watched. Missed my whole crisis of faith, huh? Both of them? Didn’t think I’d maybe need some support during those times?” He shakes his head. Tries to hold on to the anger, because it’s less humiliating than crying after acting like a hard-ass. “At least she’s been honest. At least she’s always been upfront about who and what she is. You guys—you guys have all these demands, all these requirements, but at the end of the day none of it matters. We’re all just pawns, and that’s all you’ll ever see us as.”

The angel stays quiet. Can’t quite discern if Jun’s tirade is over. He narrows his gaze, opens his mouth as if he’s going to speak just to see if Jun will interrupt him. (He doesn’t.) He clears his throat and tries to remember the correct pitch for his Comforting Voice: this will prove to be a pivotal moment in Wen Junhui’s partnership with Upstairs, and he’s going to need it.

“Wen Junhui,” he attempts again. No, the tone isn’t right—needs to be a little lower. “Wen Junhui, I am… holding space for everything you’ve just told me.” That’s better. Sounds convincing enough. “Is it fair to say you feel abandoned and unimportant?”

Jun’s cheeks warm to a mortifying shade of red. “I guess,” he mumbles.

“Great!” Hoshi beams. “Thank you so much for trusting me with this sensitive information.” He snaps his fingers and another manila folder appears in front of Jun. “Since you’re feeling better, this is your next assignment! If you open to the first page, you’ll see the contractee’s name is Choi Seungcheol and that he is of the utmost import—”

“No.”

“—ance.” Hoshi, unused to being caught unawares not once but twice in the same conversation, simply blinks, limbs frozen mid-air. “Pardon?”

“I said no.”

“Right, right… See, I heard that, but I’m not following. What do you mean no?”

Jun stands and starts clearing off the desk. Not that there’s much on it besides a framed picture of himself sandwiched between his parents at his graduation and an unused candle. Peach bellini. Hoshi had procured it from who-knows-where, said it was “an important part of Internet history” (that Jun must’ve missed) and called it a “belated graduation gift,” except the smell was so sickly-sweet it immediately gave him a migraine as soon as the lid came off.

All of this is besides the point, which is this: Jun doesn’t need this office. He doesn’t need this weird job where he reports to these weird people.

He says as much.

“Hey!” Hoshi objects, to which Jun responds, “You’re wearing a shirt with a cartoon wolf on it that says Fighting the Gay Allegations Again. I mean come on, dude, where do you even find these things?”

“You don’t like my shirts?”

“No! And I also don’t like that you just pretended to care about my feelings so I’d get back to work like a good little corporate soldier!” He’s able to fit the picture frame in his briefcase, but the candle doesn’t fit. Even if they’re arguing, it seems rude to give it back to Hoshi when he’d gone out of his way to get him a gift to begin with, so he lets out a frustrated screech and decides to carry it back to his apartment. “Find some other would-be Pope to help you.”

Although his face is blotchy and wet, Hoshi seems undeterred. There are, of course, no other would-be Popes available on such short notice—especially not one that’s earned the favor of the devil—so he needs to think up a plan quickly. If he fumbles Wen Junhui, he’ll either never hear the end of it from the lower-ranking angels or he’ll be stoned, and neither sounds very favorable right now.

So he does the only thing he can think to do: he snaps his fingers.

Kim Mingyu looks exactly like his picture.

He’s just as tall and symmetrically good-looking as Jun thought he would be, dressed in an impeccably-fitting white suit that elongates his legs and makes him look far taller than the six-foot-one-point-nine-repeating he’d measured in at. Dark, slightly wavy hair frames a perfect set of cheekbones, and whatever cologne he’s wearing nearly has Jun drooling.

He might actually be doing that, he realizes with horror, because Kim Mingyu also looks supremely uncomfortable. Is fluttering from one thing to the next, never staying more than a few seconds in each spot, tidying and organizing the same items over and over, muttering apologies all the while. And the board room really is not that big, so all that anxiety is starting to wear off on Jun, who was in his own office only a few minutes ago arguing with an angel that is currently nowhere to be found.

“So sorry about the mess!” Mingyu chimes. Jun can tell he’s trying (and failing) for unaffected. “I didn’t know we were having visitors, but no matter! My mother always used to say…” He pauses. Straightens his posture. Grabs a bouquet of white hydrangeas from a stunning pearlescent vase just to drop them right back in. “Er, I suddenly don’t remember anything my mother used to say.”

Jun grimaces and hides it behind his hand. “‘Have a wonderful day at school’?” he offers.

Mingyu smiles, makes a little a-ha! sound as he snaps his fingers; seems thankful for the lifeline he’d been thrown. Says, “Yes, yes, of course!” and starts fussing over the state of the table. He squirts a concerning amount of cleaner and wipes at it so aggressively Jun fears he’s going to wear a hole in the wood. “I’ve been told there was a slight security issue, but please rest assured that the rest of our guests should be arriving very soon! Any second now!”

That last bit comes out more like a demand.

Even though he feels far less intelligent than Hoshi claims he is, Jun is still smart enough to deduce he’d been snap-blasted to Heaven, not only because Mingyu is here and there are vaguely ominous security issues, but also because there’s a placard next to the door:

Board Room 17 Pearly Gates Wing

“It’s weird seeing you in real life after staring at the picture in your file for so long,” Jun says, continuing to look around. Everything is stark white, which he expected, with accents of gold that dazzles so brightly it hurts his eyes and pink freshwater pearl, and the flowers are abundant and fragrant. Jun feels at peace here. If it weren’t for Mingyu and his rapidly-fraying nerves, he might even call it tranquil. “I think I have a crush on you.”

Mingyu flushes. Unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth to stammer out a response that’s interrupted by three more figures materializing by the door.

Hoshi stands in the middle of Jeonghan and Joshua, arms slung around both of their shoulders. The two demons, naturally, do not look pleased. Jeonghan especially looks tortured, which is at odds with his new pink hair, and he’s the first to shrug off the angel. He grabs the chair closest to him and makes sure it scrapes against the floor as noisily as possible before slumping into it, arms crossed, scowl so fierce his frown lines nearly touch his jaw.

Joshua does the same, though he looks far more delighted to have a seat at the table.

From an invisible speaker, Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5 in C Minor comes blaring. Hoshi and Mingyu startle; the latter goes in search of a tablet, completely frazzled, mumbling oh no oh no oh no as he rummages through drawers. Jeonghan and Joshua side-eye one another and come away wearing matching glares. To his credit, Jun sits ramrod straight and doesn’t flinch. When no one’s looking he sticks his fingers in his ears to dampen the noise and smiles politely at Mingyu when they make awkward eye contact.

The music cuts out, Mingyu heaves a sigh of relief, and once the tense silence settles back into the room, he turns to Hoshi and stage whispers, “Should I put it back on, or…?” to which Hoshi frantically nods.

Opening blaring once again, it’s then that you walk through the door, flanked on all sides by an impressive security detail. (Heaven’s, of course. They’re also dressed in all white and wearing mitre hats with SECURITY embroidered across the front in gold beadwork. Jun wonders, briefly, if this is where Hoshi gets his inspiration from.)

You’re escorted to a seat. There are seven chairs on the side of the table opposite Jun; you’re given the one in the middle, and Jeonghan and Joshua immediately move to sit on each side of you. You carry yourself with an easy confidence, not at all rattled by being here in this setting. It’s almost comical how your body language contrasts with Hoshi and Mingyu: how they’re at home, where they’re meant to be, and their unease is so apparent; and you’re where you’ve been exiled from, antithetical to what you’ve been put in charge of, a place that Jun knows picks at all those old wounds like a buzzard, and your composure is faultless.

Something you have to be, he figures.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, what’s with the long faces?” you ask, brows knit in faux-concern. You look the same as the last time Jun saw you—he’s sure it’s a power play, meant to throw him off, and it works. Heat simmers along his skin as the memories come flooding back. He wonders what you look like to everyone else. “It’s so lovely to see you all again.” You turn to Mingyu, who seems to shrink under your undivided attention. “Especially you, handsome. We’ve all been mourning the loss of our favorite eye candy.”

Mingyu squeaks. “Um!” He scrambles to the head of the table. His hands shake as he tries to unlock the tablet. “There’s, uh—an ag-agenda! For this me-meeting. Very important! Just one moment, please, and I’ll—”

“Very fascinating,” Jeonghan interjects. “Do you anticipate this happening at any point today? I have to oversee a workshop this afternoon about new ways to make men insecure about their penises and I simply cannot miss it. It’s my second-favorite event of the year.”

“What’s the first?” Jun can’t help but ask.

“The social media workshops. Next month’s is about online bullying and new ways to avoid getting banned by safeguarding teams so you can continue trolling in peace without fear of repercussions. The one after that is about sending in anonymous gossip to those Spotted In Such-and-such Facebook pages for places no one cares about.”

Joshua nods. “I think the Stevenage one is my favorite. When’s the workshop about the new Lego shapes to step on?”

Mingyu’s mouth snaps closed. In an attempt to nip the derailment in the bud, Hoshi says, “I think what our Head of HR meant to say was—”

“HR? None of you are human.”

“It stands for Heaven Relations, obviously,” Hoshi snaps, “and we’ve called this emergency meeting because we’ve been made aware of a very troubling development.”

You gasp. Lean forward and widen your eyes like you have no idea what he could possibly be referring to. “No! A troubling development, you say?” You fold your hands on the table. “Tell me all about it.”

Jun, however, cannot possibly play it so cool. Feels dread overtake his body as restless anxiety sets in. The mind reader that he is, Joshua sends him a discreet wink that does very little to settle his nerves. Still feels like he’s drank fifteen cups of light roast coffee and is about to sit for a law school exam he forgot to study for.

“It has come to our attention that…” Mingyu looks down at the tablet. Looks up and over at Hoshi. Grimaces. “Do I really have to say this?”

“Yes.”

He huffs and continues. “It has recently come to our attention that one Wen Junhui, would-be Pope and recently-licensed lawyer accepted into a contracted position at Their approval, has engaged in… sexual relations… with the being known colloquially as the Devil.”

Jeonghan looks sideways at you with the most disgustedly disappointed look Jun has ever seen appear on a face. To the contrary, Joshua leans across the table to high-five him and say, “You dirty dog! I bet it was better than that handjob, huh?” He leans back, whistles low. “Goddamn, why is it every time you get some action it’s like some end of days shit? You ever consider becoming celibate?”

“Not involuntarily,” Jun mumbles.

“Shame,” Jeonghan intones. You laugh at this.

Hoshi, once again fed up with his meeting being derailed, says to Jeonghan and Joshua, “Why are you two even here?” to which they reply, “We’re her advocates. We’re advocating.”

“No advocating has ever taken place while the three of you have been in this room.”

Jeonghan rolls his eyes. “At ease, Megamind.”

“Metatron,” Mingyu quietly corrects.

Jun snorts. Of course. Of course Hoshi is one of the most powerful archangels in Heaven. Speaker of God, permitted to be in Their presence and at Their side; celestial scribe and guide to humanity—the guy who appears earthside wearing crude t-shirts and stupid hats. Of-fucking-course.

All of this is enough to drive him to lunacy. All the things he didn’t and doesn’t know, all the secrets kept locked up tight, all the jokes he continues to be the butt of. Everyone in this room is on equal footing except him, and he’s the one seemingly on trial. Heaven doesn’t care what you do—your role is to sow chaos and they’re powerless to stop you, just as you’re powerless here. No, the only one that will feel the repercussions of this is Jun, not only because he’s the only one capable of being punished, but because he’s human.

He must sense his distress again, because Joshua mouths a watch this before saying, with all the conviction and tenacity of a seasoned prosecutor, “Allow me to advocate, then: we do not accept these accusations as fact without being presented with irrefutable proof, which I’m sure you have, considering you’ve made such a show of gathering us all here.”

Mingyu and Hoshi share a look.

“I—well, you see—”

“Surely you don’t need irrefutable proof to understand what a conflict of interest this is and why we’re concerned.”

“A conflict of interest which surely has already taken place?” Jeonghan tacks on. Joshua nods with grave sincerity. “Or have you called an impromptu, emergency meeting to discuss hypotheticals?” Mingyu and Hoshi share another look. “Gentlemen, need we remind you of the criteria that must be met before an emergency meeting may be called? I cannot imagine two high-ranking employees such as yourselves disregarded such strict protocols simply because of the parties involved?”

“Haaa, of course not!” Hysterical, frenzied laughter ensues. “No, no, we would never—”

Joshua shakes his head. “It sure is looking like that’s what has taken place here today, but I hate to assume the worst, so if you could just show us the permits I’m sure we can get this all cleared up.”

“Per-permits…?”

Jeonghan has all the patience in the world as he replies, “Section 894, subsection 12 of the accords states that in order for an emergency meeting to be called and granted between the constituents of Heaven and Hell, the proper permits must be filed and signed off on by the governing bodies of each at least 72 hours in advance. Now, it’s possible the paperwork was signed on our side, but as you know our boss is very, very busy and it seems to have been misplaced, so we have no way of confirming this.” You nod, sharing Joshua’s very serious look. “Hence the permits. Show them to us, please.”

There’s hope yet that Jun will get out of this. Be on the receiving end of his own strategy. Jeonghan and Joshua start up a show us the per-mits! show us the per-mits! chant that sends Hoshi and Mingyu into a panic. The latter, now soaked through with sweat, does a fruitless search on his tablet, while Hoshi tries to distract everyone with an interpretive dance none of them can make sense of.

“I believe this is a reflection of his current state of mind,” you say solemnly, playing the part of an esteemed art critic. “It’s histrionic on the surface, but once you dig deeper, it’s uncontrolled and frenetic at its roots. A wonderful metaphor for a fractured, disjointed mind, but severely lacking in execution.”

“Amen,” Jeonghan and Joshua say in unison.

Minutes pass. It’s clear the permits don’t exist, but Mingyu keeps up the charade of searching anyway, much to the delight of the Hell delegation. “Have you tried the top drawer of that thing?” Joshua asks right after Jeonghan suggests checking the trash folder on the desktop in his office. You, of course, stay quiet, content to soak up your victory in silence—albeit while looking extremely smug.

“Well!” you say, clapping your hands together with a wicked smile. “This was fun. Thank you both so much for the invite, but I fear we must be going. Duty calls.”

Hoshi is having none of this. Permits be damned, another snap of his fingers finds you bound to your chair, chains wrapped around each of your forearms. You hiss at the contact. “Whoa,” Jun whispers, and if Jeonghan’s and Joshua’s mouths hadn’t been removed by the same finger-snap, he assumes there’d be a crude joke coming his way.

“The three of you would do well to remember who and where you are.” Hoshi speaks with all the authority bestowed upon him. It’s a stark difference from how Jun usually sees him—aloof and unserious, more like a court jester—and it has him straightening in his chair. “None of us will be leaving this room until the matter is resolved.”

You roll your neck. Press your tongue into the fat of your cheek but otherwise don’t move. Pain flashes across your face each time the chains leave fresh wounds in your skin and Jun wants to tell them to cut it out, call this whole thing off, say it doesn’t mean anything, but he’s still so clueless. Still so far out of his depth. These matters concern him but are so far beyond his pay grade it’s all he can do to keep treading water.

And you know this, because you say, “There is no conflict of interest. Everything is business as usual.”

Hoshi doesn’t even make eye contact as he retorts, “Which is useless, coming from you.”

Mingyu offers up a tight-lipped smile. “I think what my colleague is trying to say is that we simply cannot trust word of mouth in a matter as serious as this. As I’m sure you understand, Wen Junhui is a special case. It’s quite rare They enlist the help of humans in such circumstances, and if he is no longer able to perform his duties in an unbiased manner due to your influence—”

Teeth grit, you repeat, “There is no conflict of interest.”

Mingyu sighs. Sets down his tablet and narrows his gaze. He seems to have shaken off the dregs of doubt and uncertainty, because he looks powerful. Looks intimidating, which is not a word Jun would have used to describe him twenty minutes ago. “Need I remind you of your role in this universe? Chaos and temptation; calamity and destruction. You serve no one. You do not speak in truths, nor are you concerned with them. Your ambition and pride were your downfall, and it seems you have learned nothing in the years since.” He turns his attention to Jun. “And if you doubt what I say, remember I witnessed all of this with my own eyes.”

“Scandalous! And what were you doing at the devil’s sacrament, Kim Mingyu?”

Jun nods, earning him an incredulous look from Hoshi. “Well, she has a point,” he defends. “There is that saying about stones and glass houses or whatever. He wouldn’t have seen all of those things if he hadn’t made a deal with her in the first place.”

Hoshi is quiet. Mingyu looks betrayed. “Are you not going to—”

“He, too, has a point,” the angel concedes. “I mean, did you really have to do all that? You were already hot and tall, I just don’t—”

Even with no mouths, it’s obvious Jeonghan and Joshua are snickering.

The bickering continues before eventually devolving into baseless name-calling. Jun’s head snaps back and forth like he’s watching a tennis match, and it’s not that far off. Mingyu hones in on your lack of character, prompting Hoshi to chime in with something equally cruel or just nonsensical in an attempt to back him up, and you handle both of them with ease, laughing off their taunting just to get under their skin. Which works, of course, so on and on it goes, ad nauseam, until Jun puts everyone out of their misery and puts an end to it.

“Isn’t anyone going to ask me how I feel?” At once the room goes silent, all squabbling ceased, and the sudden quiet has his ears ringing. “I know you don’t need me,” he says to you, amazed he can meet your eye when he feels like that admission is going to make him vomit. He turns to Mingyu and Hoshi. “But you two do, and throughout this whole experience I have been left out, lied to, and talked over. Did either of you ever stop to consider that’s why I refused the assignment and it has nothing to do with her? That she’s telling the truth when she says there’s no conflict of interest?”

At least they have the good sense to look embarrassed.

Mingyu is the first to crack. He bows slightly at the waist and says, “On behalf of Heaven, I would like to offer you our deepest and most sincere apologies.”

Hoshi follows suit. “Right. Exactly what he said.”

Jun studies each of them. Mingyu, he knows, is just doing what any human resources officer worth their salt would do: protect the company at all costs. Fortunately this works out in Jun’s favor. He’s important and necessary and, against all odds, has proven his worth and abilities to boot. Heaven can’t negotiate with Hell without him, and it’s this knowledge that spurs him on, has him crossing one leg over the other and folding his arms across his chest. Total power stance. Hoshi gapes a little.

“I think there’s a compromise to be found here.”

The compromise is this: just as there are souls in Hell that were meant to go to Heaven, the reverse is also true. Jun had stumbled across them during his hours of research: souls that had somehow slipped through the cracks and went north when they were meant to go south; souls stuck in an endless purgatory that a lax Judgment Deliverer let in because they didn’t feel like doing paperwork; judgment numbers in which an integer got input incorrectly. What he proposes is a one-for-one trade. Heaven wants Choi Seungcheol, so they’ll have to give up someone in return.

It evens the playing field—

“Which was the original intention, was it not?”

More importantly, and perhaps more selfishly, Jun will no longer be able to be used as a pawn. He’ll uphold his original agreement while doing the same for you—for Hell. He’ll rewrite the terms and conditions of the contracts after each soul has been judged fairly and impartially by both factions, essentially voiding the concept of sides.

“I would be working for you both,” he concludes. “It’s the only way any of this remains fair.”

(He’s also not trying to invoke your wrath and spend eternity getting dipped in hot oil, but he doesn’t feel it’s the right time to admit that.)

After a lengthy silence that Hoshi spends pressing against his ear, the angel eventually says, “Heaven is amenable to these terms if Hell is.”

You heave a long-suffering sigh that has Jun on the edge of his seat. This proposal was certainly better than the last one he’d pitched you, but you’re giving nothing away. Also of little help are Jeonghan and Joshua who have fallen asleep and are snoring loudly. Mingyu leans over to wipe a spot of drool from the corner of Joshua’s mouth. He doesn’t move.

After what feels like a lifetime, you nod. “Fine. Hell is also amenable to these terms.” A chorus of cheers. Jun does an embarrassing little wiggle out of excitement. Hoshi stands on top of the table and pumps his fist. Mingyu, still in HR mode, starts listing off all the potential new job titles for Jun.

(In the end his new name tag reads: Wen Junhui, Special Counsel to Heaven & Hell, Contracts Division.)

Before you leave, and before the celebrations can get too out of hand, Jun clears his throat. “I have a request,” he says, before adding on, “if the whole payment in forms other than money thing is still on the table.”

“It is,” Mingyu confirms.

“Great.” He sucks in a breath. Lets it go all disjointed and shaky. There’s no going back once he says this and they grant it—which they will, considering the way Mingyu’s nearly tripping over himself to give him whatever he wants. But it’s still a massive ask. It will still change the trajectory of his existence, just like that handjob had done. And even though he’s certain it’s what he wants, he still wonders if he’s making a mistake as he says, “I want to be immortal.”

Jeonghan and Joshua jerk awake. “What the fuck did he just say?”

Hoshi, too, looks stunned. “Uh, are you sure?”

No, Jun wants to say, please talk me out of it, but the words die in his throat when he looks at you. There’s not a hint of bewilderment to be found. No shock or awe. There’s just the smallest nod of your head, meant just for him, that says all he needs to hear—that you see him, that you recognize he’d gone through all of this insanity because he needed to find his own path, and that he’s finally found in it the meaning he’d been searching for.

“I’m sure,” he confirms, completely void of hesitation.

Hoshi scratches at the back of his neck. “Well, I—that’s quite a big request. I’ll have to see what we can do.”

Mingyu, however, spoils the inevitable surprise by giving him a thumbs-up.

After that, there isn’t much left to say. Mingyu formally concludes the meeting and thanks Hell for their attendance and participation, to which Jeonghan gives him the finger before disappearing in a plume of smoke that causes everyone to gag. Joshua takes advantage and slips out the door undetected. Mingyu and Hoshi are none the wiser until some of the employees down the hall start screaming. “Please excuse us,” Mingyu chokes out before he, too, disappears in the direction of the shouting. Hoshi hangs back, tries to swallow his amused smile, but then Mingyu returns to drag him away.

Only you and Jun remain. “What did Joshua do?” he asks, less to break the silence and more because he’s nosy.

“Released roughly three dozen of those terrifying tarantulas that eat birds.”

“Oh.”

Silence creeps in anyway—not awkward, but Jun can tell there’s something you want to say. Should he hover? He doesn’t want you to feel obligated (not that you would), but he can’t deny that he’s curious. You, the literal devil, reluctant to say something to him, just a human? It’s too good an opportunity to pass up.

“You’re not gonna get all clingy and weird now that we’ve had sex, are you?” he jokes.

Shockingly, you do not find this funny. “I may have lied about inventing Jenny McCarthy, but I did invent the guillotine. And the electric chair. And the rack—”

“Noted,” Jun replies, giddy all over. Can’t help it as he shoves his hands in the pockets of his slacks and rocks back on his heels. “Should I walk you to the door?”

“Don’t you dare,” comes your response, but Jun does it anyway. Gets away with it by dropping some quip about his mother raising him to be a gentleman, and it’d just destroy her if she knew Jun wasn’t abiding by her teachings.

Your reluctant smile is akin to pulling teeth, but it still shows up.

Whatever havoc had been wreaked by Joshua seems to have been solved. There’s blissful silence as the two of you reach the door, and Jun knows his escort is pomp and circumstance, that you could disappear in the blink of an eye the way Jeonghan had, but he appreciates you going through the motions for his sake, that you’ve allowed him a moment of normalcy.

“Was it hard coming back here?” he asks, leaning against the door frame to stem his desire to reach out for you.

“Well, it’s certainly never easy, but I’ve got plenty of psychologists down there I can talk it over with if need be.” You check an invisible watch. “Do you think Freud is available for lunch tomorrow?”

“If he’s not, I am.”

A bark of shocked laughter has you covering your mouth. “I did not expect that from you.”

“Did it work?”

“No,” you reply instantly. “Have a great weekend, Wen Junhui. I’m sure our paths will cross again soon.”

Jun nods… which is about all he can do, considering he’s stuck here for the time being. Hoshi sent him here, which means Hoshi’s the only one who can send him back—some stupid security rule Jun wasn’t paying attention to when it’d been explained to him. So he sticks the corner of his thumb in his mouth, thinks about how great your ass looked in those pants as you walked away, and pivots back into the conference room to await the angel with the stupid t-shirts.

Except, as soon as he turns around, there you are. Face to face. Close enough that your scent is paralyzing, but it’s different now—softer, he thinks; something that makes him feel less like he’s been ensnared in your web and more like he’s been invited in. Close enough that when you lean in he can feel the warmth of your breath on his skin, that sensitive spot just below his ear.

“You were wrong,” you say, so quiet he’s not sure he isn’t imagining your words, filling in the blanks of what he wants to hear. “What you said earlier, about me not needing you.”

Then you’re gone.

In the blink of an eye, just like he thought you’d be.

He makes a mental note to be available tomorrow around lunchtime.

If you've made it this far, thank you so much for reading! Sharing and reblogging my work is the best way to say you enjoyed it, but I also accept any and all feedback and screaming in my inbox. <3

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⚖️ JURY’S OUT! Read your court report now!

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Killer Courtship (m)

Pairing: divorce lawyer!jihoon x ex fiance!fem!reader Genre: crime, angst, smut Word count: 25.9k rating: R tags: Ft. Seungkwan, brother in law!seungkwan, mentions of crime/murder, mentions of blood, murder suspect!reader, murder suspect!reader, mentions of controlling parents, heiress!reader, divorce lawyer!jihoon, college au, domestic au, unwanted touches, unprotected sex, oral sex Summary: It you were lucky enough in love, you'd end the doomed engagement before it stirs up in inevitable divorce. If you were unlucky, however, you'd end up going to your divorce attorney ex for a different marriage you're trying to get out of. Bonus points if you're a murder suspect. author note: thank you @lovetaroandtaemin for beta reading i always love and appreciate your help. everyone else enjoy and sorry for teh drought 🥲

Tag: @shiningstar-byulxx @misssugarlips @tommolex @hoeforhao @dkakapizzaboy @junhui-recs @svtup @buffhoshi @meowmeowminnie @caratochan @lovebot4han @camisun93 @emmmui @toruro @jeonride @novalpha @nvmrljk @feat-sun @tinkerbell460 @aaniag @tacosandbitch @kyeomiis @wonwooz1-blog @horanghaezone @stagefrjghts @pantumin @aaniag @mochisdayone @gyuguys @idubiluranghae

The happiest you’ve ever been…

“I can’t believe I’m gonna be Mrs. Lee Jihoon.”

Jihoon chuckles at your whimsy before shielding your eyes with his palm, drawing the heat away from the sun. “How long are you gonna look at that thing?”

You let your simple band bestowed on your ring finger gleam in the sunlight, turning your hand over and back with no rest. “Oh, this is gonna be my personality for… the end time.”

“For the end of time?”

“For the end of time.”

He conjures an impressed expression, gently tracing over the curve of your jaw. “That’s a very long time.”

You place your hand over his, beaming up at your now fiancé. “And yet it’s still not enough. I feel like I’m dreaming.”

He shares the same sentiment, but still he asks, “Why?”

Your hand reaches out to touch his face, feeling how tangible he is, how real he is. The man of your dreams, the reason you breathe, the embodiment of everything amazing and wonderful is in your grasp, looking in admiration at you the way you are at him. You gush, his smile making you feel more elated than the giddiest of schoolchildren. Meanwhile, your heart moves in a steadily growing rhythm, and you don’t think you could be more happy until you’re at the aisle walking towards this same man. “I never thought I’d meet someone that could want me so much. Especially you. And now I can’t imagine it being anyone else.”

His eyes soften, gently stroking the side of your head. He bends down to meet your lips that naturally fits his mold, tasting each other as you’ve done a million times, and yet are never sick of. “I love you so much.”

“I love you.” Your eyes bat slowly back at him, swallowing the breath you take as you take in everything for all it is. “I always will.”

Present day…

The clock hands tick away as if taunting the young lawyer’s last moments. He twirls a pen between his fingers, finalizing the last case for the hour before the annoying clock inevitably strikes 6 PM, his quitting hour if he can help it. 

For the last few years, Jihoon has done nothing but work past the last work hour to make ends meet, but today is the day he’ll leave on time for once. No buts, ands, or ifs. No exceptions.

Fifteen minutes and going. He’s gonna make it. He’s so sure, that he even let the office aide head home early so she can tend to her kids and useless husband. She deserves it, much like Jihoon deserves this. A proper end of the day. 

Five Minutes. Everything is looking flawless. He’s looking front and back, left and right, electrically and manually handling everything to avoid errors. He’s going to make it. He’s going to make it.

One minute. Suddenly, there’s a knock on the door, and he’s betting on it being Cheryl, the office aid, so he can scold her for going against his orders but not really. He appreciates her too much and knows she has it rough. 

Despite the guest being unwelcome—“Come in. This better be good,” he shouts from his desk.

The knob turns reluctantly, anxiously even, and Jihoon still has not looked up from his desk to check who it is because there is not a single person he could think of that would be worth overtime. Despite that, he knows he's not looking forward to whatever case is being thrown his way, judging by their inconsiderate choice of timing.

“Hello, my name is Lee Jihoon, Family Law attorney at large. How may I help you today during the very late work hour…?”

When he finally lifts his gaze from the desk, he sees the source of the disruption. All thoughts are suddenly out of the window. His legs move before his mind catches up, pushing him upright as awe anchors his gaze. Slowly, he removes his glasses from the bridge of his nose, narrowing his focus on the figure before him. Is it his eyes deceiving him—or his mind—that conjures this painfully familiar mirage standing just out of reach?

“Hi, Jihoon.” You finally say, a soft smile on your beautifully aged face. “I’m sorry for coming so late. I needed assistance as soon as I could, and I just came out from work.”

“Hey, you.” Great start there, big guy. “How are you here?”

“Well,” you point your thumb over to the obvious, “the door to start.”

“Ha, yeah. I mean what brings you in,” he asks slowly, putting back on his glasses and settling down in his chair before gesturing to you to do the same in one of the seats in front of him.

“Well,” you begin settling in the leather of the chair, “I want a divorce.”

Well. Those are never words he thought to hear from your mouth. And he never thought he’d be on the other end relieved to hear them. Fuck it.  Another late night it is.

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that,” he replies with the utmost sympathy, hiding the hint of interest threatening to slip through his tone. This is his first love after all, god forbid he isn’t still a little in love with them, and happy to hear they’re looking to be back on the market again.

Your hands settle on your thighs, acknowledging his gesture with an incoherent mumble before meeting his eyes, remembering how beautiful they always looked gazing back at you. “Yeah, well it was a long time coming. The marriage lasted a lot longer than it should’ve.”

“I bet.” Jihoon quickly catches himself, “I mean, a lot of clients feel that way, but before any big decisions, I should ask you the standard questions I always ask potential clients before we proceed.”

“Of course,” you amicably agree. “Do what you need to, Hoon.” You’re now the one catching yourself, finding yourself calling the familiar nickname you called your ex-boyfriend/fiancé. “I mean Jihoon. Mr. Lee? Attorney Lee?”

“Please stop. It hurts to watch.” He teases, crinkling his nose with a feigned look of cringe, but smiling like a man who feels otherwise.

You playfully roll your eyes. “Okay, okay. Lay it on me.”

Jihoon asks you the typical questions. Living arrangements? Presence of children? Assets? Reasons for divorce? And any heavier topics that he wouldn’t ask otherwise unless put in the situation. Then again it was you. He’d probably learn all there he needs to know to have you safe.

He’s pleased to learn that no children were involved, and you’ve been living at your summer home away from your husband for a few months now; and it’s a no-fault divorce, but he knows that already. That was a good sign for him already. Assets, however—

“You kind of know the gist, having been there at the beginning. I was inclined to marry him, and if I didn’t, risk future inheritance and be possibly shunned from my family until the end of time. The divorce would bring that all come to fruition with the prenup. Doesn’t help that he has the same deal with his parents, so there’s been a little friction with that, but at this point, it doesn’t matter. I don’t need their money. I just want out.”

He taps his pen against his notes, earnestly analyzing the words from front to back. “Hmm, it’d be useful if you’d bring it the next time you visit. Hopefully during working hours this time? Like lunch or something.” He hints and feels the regret seep in as the guilt washes over your face.

“I really am sorry again.” You make yourself small in your seat, squeezing your thighs tightly together as you bow your head. “God, I’m treating you like a therapist.”

He waves his hand reassuringly. “It’s alright. What’s divorce attorney ex-fiancés good for if not to help out their ex with their divorce and listen to their marital issues?”

You break out in a smile, shaking your head as your cheeks fail to deflate. “It really is so good to see you.”

“You too. You look good.” The weight of his words is damning, dripping with longing poorly masked by his professional disposition. He feels his role as lawyer that he’s worked at for several years slips away in a matter of seconds as his eyes take in every atom of you.

The simple words heat up your cheeks, and his shameless gaze knocks the wind out of your lungs, all the familiar feelings rushing back. “You look good.”

He savors your saccharine tone as it makes his blood rush down in places he wouldn’t dare mention in front of a client, even you. He hides his impatience behind his desk, gripping the edges to support and restrain himself from crossing the lines that take him out of a rational mind. “So, how did you find me?”

“Excuse me.” You cross your arms with a warped smile. “You probably have one of the most common names in existence. ‘Lee Jihoon?’ I’d have to look through hundreds—if not thousands—of them to find you.”

“Well, did you?”

“Well, I would be lying if I said I wasn’t kind of excited seeing your face on the website.”

Jihoon has to remember to thank Wonwoo, who insisted on taking his work profile picture for him, later. “I make you excited? Well, Miss, I may be arranging your divorce, but you are still married. Find some self-control.”

“Shut. Up.” You attempt to feign sternness, but your smile deceives you, almost inviting the banter the lawyer incited. 

“Make me.”

You stare back at him for a moment, watching the flirtatious challenge ooze from his eyes in a familiar way, which stirs something in you that you haven’t felt in a long time. Its lightheartedness starts to burn hotter, turning your stomach and deflating your chest as you expel a faint breath.

“I…should go,” you respond, breathless. You pick up your purse and turn away, a sly grin tugging at your lips as you toss the next words over your shoulder. “Lunch tomorrow it is. I’ll bring the paperwork.”

“And I’ll be here,” he bids with a salute, which he quickly regrets as soon as you leave.

Jihoon feels compelled the following day to dress in his best office attire, well-tailored but not trying too hard, and spritz a cologne he thought he threw away a long time ago along with the relationship that came with it. Its familiar notes fill him with a warm sensation. The kind that tightens his chest and tenses his muscles that cling to the fabric of his clothes. And he knows that when he checks himself every few minutes in the bathroom mirror or the reflection off the glass of his office room window—making sure it emphasizes just how much he’s been building his body to be at peak physique while simultaneously watching the time slowly tick until his appointment.

When you finally arrive, you carry a certain demeanor that makes him feel twenty again, as if you had just stepped out of class to see him waiting for you to walk you to your next one. You're perfect in your perfect blouse and perfectly tight pencil skirt. It makes him take a breath, loosening the grip on his tie to lessen the strain. “Hello, Miss Client.”

“Hello, Mr. Lawyer,” you lightly greet back.

Jihoon chuckles, waving you over. “So, what are you craving while we work on things? Lunch on me.”

You talk shop over gyudon, a meal that immediately comes to mind, and fortunately, a good and quick spot is just nearby. It reminds you both of something you would eat together religiously back then. To this day, Jihoon sometimes can’t pick up a piece of shredded beef topped with caramelized onions without picturing you parallel to him doing the same.

He knows he’d be crazy to admit out loud that it is straight out of a dream to be eating lunch with you again, but it is. Even more surreal that you’ve now become a client in a case that caused your breakup in the first place. 

Before the breakup…

To say Jihoon felt drawn to you instantly the first time you met was the understatement of the century.

But before you, he only knew the law. Having grown up with Criminal Minds and SVU, he knew since his pubescence he was going to be a lawyer. No tragic backstory of a relative dying from a crime. No story of him or someone else being almost convicted. He just simply thought that to be in the hands of someone's fate in the courtroom was not only intriguing but dangerous. A power not to be taken lightly.

It became his whole life and the only thing he’d ever thought about doing ever. So, he did the only rational thing he could do: he studied his ass off every minute of his life if he wanted to pass the bar one day.

That is, until a little distraction like you came along. At the ripe age of twenty years old, Jihoon met someone who would one day change the trajectory of his life. Someone just as important as becoming a lawyer was. He didn’t think that was possible for someone as ambitious and driven as him. Distractions came rare to him. There was never space for a romantic subplot in his story.

He mentally thanked his former roommate, Soonyoung, everyday for taking the last afternoon slot for the required Psychology course. If he hadn’t, he wouldn't have been forced to take the morning classes, the same morning classes that you ended up attending. 

He wouldn’t have gotten to occupy the seat next to yours every day for all of the semester, having the habit of getting to know you and learning things about you that he would’ve otherwise ignored about anyone else. Like how you prefer iced coffee no matter how below freezing temperature it was, or how your fingers curl and crunch up anxiously before giving a presentation—the little things.

And he most certainly wouldn’t have given in to the pressure of asking you out if he hadn’t gotten to know you in the class the way he did. There wasn’t a chance in hell he would’ve had the courage to approach you. A blessing in disguise shaped in the form of a breathtaking human being. And for some crazy reason, you said yes, because you liked him back. Gosh, his heart was soaring that day. He finally understood what butterflies in one's stomach meant.

What had started as a budding infatuation, blossomed into an epic love story for the ages—well, at least he liked to think so. He knew he’d remember and relive this period of his life for as long as he was alive. There was nothing like being in love.

And what was crazy to him was that you liked him as much as he liked you. The way you’d look at him as if he held the universe in the palms of his hands, or how tight you’d hold him when he would pull you towards his chest and lock you in a secure embrace. It’s as if the world faded around you—or maybe, you just became his world.

Before he realized it, you had become just as much a part of his life as his studies were, if not more. It pivoted his life in a path he never planned for, and strangely enough, he looked forward to it. He looked forward to the route you were taking him in. Whatever life had to throw, he’d be ready if you were by his side.

And that’s how it was for the first couple of years. You spent every waking moment together, every meal, every lecture, everything that mattered. With you, everything seemed to matter. And that’s how he ended up proposing too; that day during a picnic with the sunniest of skies under the biggest tree in the park with the cheesiest smile on his face. He was truly the luckiest man he knew.

God, did he love you. And god, did you love him. 

But something changed shortly after the proposal. Drastically.

You had been distant with Jihoon for reasons he couldn’t explain, but he’s never been one to pry, so he'd given you your space, even when you never asked for it. He respected boundaries and would never make you give up yours for the sake of his comfort, so he waited.

Maybe that’s when it started. When he didn't fight for your attention. He wonders if that’s where things started going wrong.

Unlike you, Jihoon isn’t one for confrontation, but if you want him to burn the world, in a heartbeat he would. There isn’t a thing he wouldn’t do for you, he just needs to hear it. It’d be anything.

“I can’t marry you,” you say in a quiet voice.

Almost anything.

You push your engagement ring towards Jihoon, unable to meet his eyes, as dark clouds hover above your head.

Jihoon gulps, choking on a breath he’s been holding since you called him over for this lunch date. He’s thinking things are just turning around, that you’d stop avoiding him like you have been. Then this hurdle–hurricane is thrown in his face.

And he knows exactly why. 

After he proposed, he met your parents for the first time, your parents who lived in a different world than he ever could. They didn’t approve of your choice of a partner given his inferior background. They didn’t approve of this marriage. They didn’t approve of Jihoon. They had other plans in mind for their one and only daughter. Bigger, grander plans than Jihoon could ever fathom.

Since then, hope seemed lost. However, you thought you could convince them. Jihoon put his faith in you, because why wouldn’t he? He’s madly in love with you. He trusts you. He knows that you did the best you could.

“Didn’t budge, huh?” he asks with a bitter smile. 

You sigh, before running your hands over your face in frustration. “You know it’s not your fault. They’re so stubborn about me marrying to preserve the company. Why should it be my responsibility? I didn’t ask for any of this.”

Your eyes flit to meet his, barely staying open. “If I had it my way—“

“But you don’t,” he cuts off.

“Hoon.”

He holds your hand in his, his thumb caressing over your naked knuckles. He swallows back a laugh of disbelief. He knew that happiness couldn’t have been that easy and within reach. Finally, he looks back at you and brings your hands towards his lips, kissing the balls of your palms as a single tear falls from the corner of his eye. “I love you. You make me the happiest person alive. And I want to marry you…but if our worlds are tearing us apart…”

The image of the man you love crying rips you to shreds, the agonizing pain stretching throughout your entire body, and you move towards him and you take him in your arms. Your lips quiver, letting out a shattered breath, feeling his tears now soaking through the cotton of your shirt. You don’t know what else to say at this moment except, “I love you, Jihoon.”

Present day…

“Okay, the prenup settles pretty much most of what we’re looking for, so the process will luckily be pretty straightforward.”

“Okay,” you nod in acknowledgment. “Like I thought. How long of a process is it going to be?”

Jihoon hums, tapping his pen to his chin. “Depends on the talk with his attorney. It'll be a clean and quick process if they're anything like me.”

You can’t help but smile. “No one’s like you, Hoo—Jihoon.”

He grins, catching your slip-up. “Well, one can hope.”

You press your lips in a firm line, your ears growing warm as you gather your files, tapping them on the desk to line them up in a neat stack. “Well, this was really helpful. Thank you for taking time out of your lunch to do this. You really shouldn’t have.”

“Anything for a friend.”

A light dims in your eyes, and your grip on the belongings tighten. “Right. Well, I’ll talk to him about the situation, and we’ll set up an appointment so we can all meet. I’ll let you know.”

“I look forward to it,” he responds earnestly.

Finally, Jihoon would be able to meet the bastard that your parents thrust upon you face to face. 

He wants to assume that now and in the past your husband is just like you, forced upon this marriage for the sake of appearance and business ties. However, the more he spends time, how little you speak of him, the more he notices how you grow stiff when he’s audibly brought up, implying a strained relationship. That guy has already lost Jihoon’s good graces by that alone.

“Thank you. So what can we do in the meantime?”

“You make your plans moving forward as a single woman. Get your things in order, and that includes your personal matters, like your family that I assume are involved.”

You stiffen, nodding at the sad reminder. “Yeah. They are. Thank you for lunch.”

As you begin to leave, Jihoon can’t help but stop you in your tracks. He knows if he doesn’t say what is on his mind now he’ll regret it, unwilling to make the same mistakes he did in the past. “Hey, um. If you’re looking for more advice regarding this matter or what to expect after this whole ordeal, my office is always open during lunch hours. For you anyways.”

You give him a soft frown, shaking your head. “I couldn’t do that to you.”

“No, really,” he insists, not taking no for an answer, a touch of plead in his eyes. “I think with you around it’s the only way I actually eat during lunch.”

The corners of your lips finally turn up, tugging at Jihoon’s heartstrings and eating him up from the inside. “Then, maybe I’ll take you up on it.”

There is a certain comfort in the routine, knowing there’s something to look forward to every weekday at noon between the hours of 11:45AM to 12:55PM. You inevitably have to go back to your office, but Jihoon looks forward to those hours now, watching the hands of the clock tick by until lunchtime. It’s a game he’s started to play by himself, somehow always the loser with a big grin on his face when you’re right at the front of his door and the same loser with a sad smile when you have to leave.

“That’s so you. I can’t believe you still listen to that stuff.” Jihoon chuckles, stabbing at his teriyaki chicken pieces before stuffing them in his mouth.

“Oh, of course I do! These are real! Cut-throat! Blood-thirsty murder-cases! Most of the time involving women. That could be me one day. Can never be too safe,” You playfully warn, pointing your chopsticks at him.

“Maybe, but you come from one of the wealthiest families in the country and married into one of the other wealthiest families in the country. You no doubt have a near impenetrable security system keeping you very locked up and safe in your very nice big home.”

“Which makes me an even bigger target. Ah-ha. Didn’t think about that, did you?”

He rolls his eyes, grinning ear to ear. “Fine. But what does that have to do with crocheting again?”

Your eyes light up, giddily clapping your hands at his reminder. “It’s really nice—well, nice isn’t really the right word—but I listen to it when I'm crocheting. I once made a whole blanket listening to an entire season about a missing person’s case that turned out to be a missing people's case.”

“Of course, you did.”

You get a quick glance at your phone when you grab your drink, seeing a notification pop up to reveal the time. “Oh shoot, I have to head back.”

“Already?” Jihoon tries not to sound too disappointed.

“Yeah. Sorry. It feels like these lunch hours are getting shorter and shorter every day.”

“Maybe it doesn’t have to be just lunch. We can always get dinner—to talk more about the process and what your next steps can be. How about tonight? Unless that’s too soon?”

You blink back at him, unable to suppress the growing smile on your face. “S-sure. I’ll meet you at your office?”

”Actually, I thought of picking you up at yours?”

With a gentle hum, you nod. “It’s a date.”

So he waits, watching the clock's hands tick until it reaches the hour that indicates the end of the day. He has something he’s looking forward to, giving him all the more reason to take advantage of the extra suits in his office wardrobe for emergencies. Something that has only ever used to be for emergencies, not if he feels like the color navy brings out his eyes more today. But tonight, he has the excuse to look his sharpest, unsure if he’ll ever get this opportunity again.

He can’t help the smile on his face as you walk out of your office building, pushing himself off his car to completely take in your presence as if he hadn’t just seen you hours ago. Resembling someone watching their prom date dramatically descend a flight of stairs, Jihoon feels his chest squeeze as you walk closer before standing in front of him, and every date you’ve gone on flashes through his mind, leading up to this very moment.

“Hi.” he softly greets.

“Hey,” you greet back, taking a step closer.

”Ready?” he asks, and a nod is all he needs before you lose yourselves in the night.

You explore deeper in the center of the city, sauntering the streets aimlessly as you look for a spot to situate yourself, somewhere you could talk and enjoy each other‘s presence without interruption. As if someone heard your pleas, a cafe catches your attention off in the distance, its white fluorescent sign flickering its bold cursive back at you, beckoning you towards it. And as you turn to Jihoon, his expression matches yours, knowing you’ve found just the place.

Once the door swings open, Jihoon is immediately hit with the aroma of freshly ground coffee brewed to perfection. Its nutty sweet scent dances in the air as sweet, fruity notes linger nearby. Nostalgia hits him in an instant, and he recalls a younger version of himself with you by his side feeding him a sip of your devilish concoction of a strawberry mocha with two shots of espresso. The disdain on his face was evident, when he kissed your lips, it was a different world. It was tolerable, or maybe everything you had to offer made him infinitely love you more.

“Oh my god,” he quietly whispers to himself.

“Jihoon?”

He jolts back into reality, your beautiful face warped as your eyes scans over him with concern. “Sorry. I think I got lost in a moment there.”

You curiously narrow your eyes, following after him as he entered the cafe. “Really? What happened?”

“Let’s sit first. What’ll you have?”

After retrieving your drink order, Jihoon glances at the drink in your hand, saddened that you opted for a plain americano over your college usual. It was about every other day that you’d order one, and to this day he wonders how you’re alive and kicking with thousands of calories you consumed from that beverage alone. It seems things have changed since, and he’s unsure whether it's for the better, but it gave him all the more reason to order it for himself. Although he hated it in the past, maybe he'd like it now.

“Blech!” Nope. Still awful.

You muse at his disgusted expression. “Oh my god, Jihoon. What did you order?”

“Don’t recognize it?” He lifts up the drink, licking up the whipped cream from the corner of his lips. “Your famous strawberry mocha.”

“You remember that? You hated that drink!”

“Yeah, but,” he holds the drink close to his chest, as if cherishing it. “You liked it. Why don’t you anymore?”

“It’s not that I don't, it's just…so bad for me.” You grip your Americano loosely, gulping at the decadent visuals of the nostalgic drink in his hand. “I can’t have something like that all the time.”

Meanwhile, Jihoon sips the drink as you explain yourself, making faces as he listens in. You narrow your eyes at him, the corner of your lips turning down before you give him a disciplinary tap to the shoulder.

“Stop drinking it!”

“I paid for it. I’ll do what I want.”

You groan, shoving the untouched Americano and stealing the strawberry mocha for yourself. “There. Now everyone’s happy.”

“Who said I wanted an Americano?” He retorts with a smile, happy to see his previous beverage right where it belongs.

“You definitely don’t want the mocha.”

“I do though.”

You roll your eyes, softly scoffing and giving him a wry smile. “You’re so stubborn. It's written all over your face how much you hate it.”

“But you like it,” he retorts, sipping his new Americano, somehow missing the conflicting taste of his previous beverage.

You cover your hot cheeks with the palm of your hand, eyes pointed away from him as the sound of your accelerating heart pounds against your ear drums. You start to wonder to yourself how this man at damn near thirty years is still as cute as he was at twenty years old. 

“You really haven't changed.”

He snorts. “You insulting me?

“Not at all.” Chuckling, you sip your newly acquired drink, the clash of the bitter coffee and sickly sweet fruity syrup battling on your taste buds. It may have been more of your tastes back in college. “So that moment you had. What was that about?”

“Moment?”

“You stopped all of a sudden when we came through the front door. It was like a lightbulb went off in your head or something.”

He softly smiles, taking small sips of his drink, warmth rushing toward his cheeks in contrast to the chilled beverage wrapped with his slender digits. “Something like that?”

You tilt your head, “Hmm?”

He hesitates, avoiding your gaze. “I…just suddenly thought about back then…when we were together honestly. It was nothing.”

You suck in your teeth dubiously, smiling with your eyes. “Sure didn’t seem that way.”

“It made me happy,” he admits earnestly, his voice coated in something reminiscent of honey, so decadent, you feel the strong desire to taste more.

“The memory?”

“Yeah,” he confirms with a faint smile, “A lot of things you did make me happy.”

Your lips part as you drink in his response, whatever words you were about to say next dying on your tongue as you take a long nervous sip of your stolen beverage, cheeks ablaze. You watch as the blood rushes towards his cheeks, flushing them a soft pink as he leisurely sips his newly acquired drink, stealing glances at you.

Jihoon finds it nice to divulge his past once in a while, but he doesn’t have many people to do that with, and the person he wants to do it the most with for the longest time was married and out of his life. But even if he did talk about his past, that meant having to confront the obstacles he jumped, the losses that were out of his control, and the pain that he endured only to end up the loser. Now, he doesn’t have to be scared anymore. You’re back. Back in his life and hopefully for good whether it is as a friend, or employer and employee, he’ll take it.

“This was really nice.”

Jihoon hums in agreement. “Yeah, kinda felt like we were back in college again.”

You chuckle, turning to him as you reach towards the steps of your residence. It was a lot different than the dorms from back then. Yet, you can’t help but understand where he’s coming from. “Yeah. It’s funny. You’d always walk me back to my apartment too, even though yours was in the opposite direction.”

“And it was worth it,” he retorts, stubbornly. “Because I got to see you get inside safely. The distance didn’t matter to me.”

“And you wouldn’t take my gas money.” You pout, tugging on his sleeve.

“No, I didn’t.” He shakes his head, accepting your hand in his and finding them naturally interlock. “Not when I can pay for myself just fine.”

“So I would invite you inside, let you have a drink—or three.”

Jihoon chuckles, reminded of his coke zero habit that you’d always indulge with a splash of rum. “And…” he steps closer towards you, closing the distance. “I’d end up staying over longer than I expected to.”

You lightly grasp the lapel of his coat, eyes glossing over his appearance. “And I didn’t mind it one bit.”

Your gaze drifts off to his lips, softly puckering as they part. Your chest heaving, you feel yourself drawing closer. Jihoon’s warmth is a tempting mistress before he holds you in place, startling you as he puts a halt to your movements. Your eyes shoot back at him, rapid panic in your eyes, disappointment seeping through you.

“That might be a bad idea,” he warns, but not backing away.

Your hands creep up his neck. “When have we ever let that stop us?”

He lightly scoffs, able to name once—the last instance you were together. It emerges, memories that he can’t help but twist up his heart that’s been stretched and pummeled until past recognition. He has to be realistic. “We’re a little older now and…you’re still technically married.”

“We’ve spent the better half of a decade avoiding each other because we were scared of the consequences. We don’t have to be scared anymore. I haven’t seen you in years, and I still feel the way I did all those years ago. Tell me you don’t.”

“You know I…” His words die on his lips. It’s obvious what he wants. He wants you. It’s all he’s ever wanted.

Your hands caress over the nape of his neck, and the hairs of his neck stand stiff as goosebumps pebble his skin. “You what, Jihoon?”

His eyes flutter in disbelief, melting against your touch as he succumbs to your warmth, the world around him fading. The only drinks he had tonight night were of the nonalcoholic variety, but staring back at you, he feels drunk, feening for a taste of something else right in front of him. “Want you more than anything.”

When his lips crash against yours, he can feel your heart leap from your chest, air pushing against his lungs. The heat that radiates off your body envelopes him despite the biting cold winds, flustering his cold cheeks as he feels you kiss him back. He takes a deep breath, reveling in the silken sensation of your lips, searing against his as his hand falls into your hair.

He isn’t sure if he knew how it felt to kiss you again, but it was muscle memory. From the way you drag him by his coat collar, slipping through the thick fabric to find the warm body underneath, he knows nothing is coming back from this. And even if there is, he doesn’t want it if it doesn’t have you.

You both barely make it up the steps of the house after hearing how one of you haphazardly closes the automated locking door, and he follows your footsteps to a room of your choosing, knowing he’ll follow you anywhere. 

The large coat is tugged immediately off of him, hearing it thud on the ground, you make his sweater follow suit. You grapple at the seams of his dress shirt, gingerly unlatching one button at a time, and Jihoon’s lips find your neck, burying himself in the crook, rendering you speechless as he tastes your flustered skin. Meanwhile, his hands roam over your figure through your clothes before the skirt becomes as useful as his coat as he shoves it down your thighs and lets it fall to your ankles to be kicked aside.

Your flesh spills between his fingers, kneading your ass between his knuckles, and he feels your moan vibrate in your throat against his lips. Jihoon sighs, familiarizing with the ache and longing of your voice as he lifts you from the ground to wrap your legs around his torso, nudging his excitement against lower abdomen.

He presses you against a wall, his hand cushioning the impact to your lower back, he reunites with your lips, devouring you endlessly. He feels for your thighs as he holds you still, dragging his hips against them as he rid himself of his shirt and you of yours, the only thing keeping you apart being his trousers and the underwear scantily clad on your body. The body he’s imagined for years after you left.

“Jihoon, don’t stare.” Jihoon lets out a shattered breath before regaining clarity, realizing that he let his eyes linger longer than he intended, broken from his trance at the sound of your whines. 

“A lot has changed since we were last intimate, ” You softly defend, pressing yourself against his body to shield your build, only letting his hunger to swell against the seams of his pants.

“It has.” His lips land on the center of your lips, hugging yours as he slips through and collects the underside of your breast in his palm. With a gentle squeeze, the vibrations of your mewl run a chill path down his spine. “You’ve never looked more beautiful.”

“And you…Fuck,” You cry in anguish, holding his face in your hands, fingers combing through his hair as your chest heaves. “You have no idea how much I wanted to see this gorgeous face again.”

You’ve taken the words right out of his mouth, and hearing them out loud only kindles the fire in his stomach brighter and uncontainable. He can’t take it anymore, he has to have you. In sheer desperation, he maneuvers the unbuckling of his pants, adjusting the waistband of briefs, too frantic to even bother pulling either of them down properly. Instead, his desire springs out from their confines, raging and bold as he grasps himself by the shaft, the elastic hanging by his firm thighs. “God, I missed you. I need to find a condom. Please tell me where one is before I embarrass myself on your floor.”

Chuckling, your hands slide down his cheeks, meeting his eyes that glisten in anticipation as his swollen lips part in an eager quiver. “I don’t want you to use one. After so long I just want to feel you—all of you. Please...”

“You’d let me do that?”

Your fingertips softly dance over his pink cheeks, emitting tingles against his skin. “I’d let you do anything you want.”

“What I want to do…” He lets the tips of your noses meet, and you bite back a premature moan, melting at your flushed skin pressed against each other. “...is make you remember what you sound like screaming my name. Have you feel so much pleasure you’re begging me to stop.”

You take a sharp inhale before your mouth curls in a smug smile, letting your hand the firm touch of chest, pulsing beneath your palm. “How convenient. Our interests align.” You close the gap, tasting the heat and your blended breaths. “I knew I picked a good lawyer.”

“Or I just know the right clients to accept.”

Sliding your panties aside, he feels for your slit, finding your slickness as it satisfyingly coats his fingers. He lets his fingers run over your arousal, gliding across your folds, reacquainting himself with an old favorite pastime, and wedges himself between your folds tauntingly. Your smile drops as you bite your lip to suppress a mewl, stabling yourself on his shoulders, while he invades your arousal and thumbs over your clit agonizingly slow. Your throat tightens at the same time your abdomen tenses, unable to stop yourself from arching your back and leaning into his touch.

Your vision flutters in and out of view, legs tingling as he dips a single digit to penetrate your blossoming walls, the slickness welcoming his thrusts. Your jaw drops slightly, the pads of your fingers pressing dents into his shoulder blades as he curls himself inside you, and you shudder and a whimper exposes your urgency.

“That good?” He gives you a cheeky grin. “Must be if you’re that fucking wet.”

“Shut up,” you lightly retort, only to feel him push it in deeper, holding it inside you before plunging himself into you at a gradually growing pace.

He draws his lips to your ears, his usually gentle voice dropping lower and saying that familiar expression that always made you a little crazy when you heard it. “Make me.”

The finger is joined by another, and he starts playing with your vocal cords as if they were strings of violin, making music that bounces from wall to wall. His toned body pinning you down only taunts you, the lack of mobility only offering you the opportunity to sink your teeth in his shoulder or mark his neck in splotchy love bites. Otherwise, you writhe under his claim, grind your sensitive bud against his palm, and your mind draws a blank, any once coherent thought becoming a jumble of words that doesn’t even come close to belonging in the English dictionary.

Jihoon’s eyes flicker with determination, consumed with unbridled lust, and deep down you revel in it. You weren’t sure if Jihoon had moved on from you since everything happened, and selfishly you hoped that he hadn’t. When your hopes rang true, you jumped at the chance. Perhaps had you done it sooner, you’d see these gates of this heaven earlier, and the angel before wouldn’t any longer just be a wet dream, but a soaking reality.

“I’m gonna cum,” you weakly warn.

“So soon, should I stop?” He teases, only shoving his fingers deeper, reaching past his knuckles. 

“But I want to cum on you.” Your bottom lip swelling up in a subtle pout, gripping his form. “I want to cum on your cock.”

His nose traces over yours, his Cheshire grin gracing your flushed cheek. “And you will, because the first time won’t be the last. So, just cum, hmm? Cum all over my hands for me, Angel.”

You brace for impact against the wall, back arching as the moment hits you like a lightning bolt, striking you in erratic shakes, and you clench your legs against his sides. The heat of your climax travels up to your head as it spills out of your body and bucks your hips into his palm. 

Jihoon strokes your side, soothing you as he carries you through your moment of weakness. He coos at you, peppering kisses on your face as he savors your faltering shudders then pulls out his fingers and watches how your eyes shift when they vanish past his lips. Biting back a soft gasp, you hear the sound of his gentle moan against his knuckles as his tongue runs across his digits, snaking and sucking everywhere that shined, chuckling and seeing a burst of fire reignite in your eyes.

“Now put it inside me,” you command, panting and clenching around nothing, already missing the presence of his company.

He tilts his head, smirking. “Already? So soon.”

You shake your head, “I can handle more. A lot more.”

Jihoon scans over you, watching everything from the rise and fall of your bare chest to the tears that briefly stain our cheeks. He can feel his heart pounding his ears and throat drying up like the desert as he stares at your kiss-swollen lips, holding your gaze as if he has only begun appreciating the visionary you are for the first time in what felt like forever. Looking at you feels like falling in love all over again. And love makes Jihoon do anything you want. 

He fiddles with the hem of your underwear, rubbing the lacy material between the pads of his fingers before pulling them down. He lifts your body slightly off the ground, exerting you against the wall, nudging his knee to hold you in place before aligning himself, licking his lips, seeing your arousal on your thighs as they seep out of you like honey. “You asked for it, okay?” 

Your pupils flicker at the back of your skull before looping your arms around his neck, anchoring your legs around his waist as your pussy swallows him between your folds, stretching your walls and spreading your legs wide as your thighs squeeze tightly around him. “Oh, my–fuck…”

There’s only a fraction of him inside you, yet he already has your brain short-circuiting. “Shit,” Jihoon scoffs, dragging his hips in a tight thrust and slamming you hard enough for the vanity table beside you to have a bottle knocked over. “You still feel like you were made just for me.”

“W-wait. Why do you feel so much bigger than I remember?”

His hands caress the underside of your thighs, bouncing you in his grip, as they stiffened in his grasp. “Well, it’s been a while. Maybe you need to get adjusted to my size again. Would you like me to help with that?”

You timidly nod, holding on to his biceps in a vice grip. “Is it going to hurt?”

“Do you want it to hurt?”

“…Yes.”

Snickering, he plunges into your walls, pulsating as he molds you into his shape down to the veins. Your bodies meld into one, not one without the other, and he honors his word. Every second of him buried inside you stings as skin collides, stretching your strained walls, letting you consume the agonizingly indulgent sensation. You swallow the drool pooling in your mouth as his hips continue to snap. You dig your nails into his flesh, forming white crescents, attempting to retain some of your sanity.

Your heart drops the split second you feel his hands leave your body, and you almost plummet to the ground before he slams you against the wall, catching your thighs just before it’s too late and conveniently pushing in deeper. If he cares at all about the mini heart attack he gives you every time he decides to do that, it doesn’t show. No matter how many times you scold him, although, in his defense, they get drowned in the sound of your hunger. 

“Hoon…” You weakly jab at him. “Asshole…”

“You like it,” he teases, before thrusting deeper as his lips roughly trace your mouth. “I hear it in your voice, try to be better at hiding it if you want to convince me.”

You anchor on him by the shoulders before he does it again, almost dropping you to the ground before catching you at the last second, ripping ungodly moans from the depths of your throat. Jihoon finds them delicious, almost as sweet as the sound of his name on your tongue. He doesn’t want to stop when you sound that enticing.

And you hate to admit it, but here’s a thrill every time he does it, the way he manhandles you as if you are his to play with. As if you are his. You could get used to that. After years of being forced apart, you’re ready to take on the world with him again. 

You rake a hand through his hair, pulling at his bottom lips with teeth before he sharply rams into you, hitting your head against the wall only once before pulling off it to carry you to bed. He drops your bodies on the mattress and revels in your heat as he buries deeper inside you. His hands roam up your arms before they pin down your wrists, lips parting in moans as your legs anchor around him.

“I’m never letting you go,” he softly mumbles. “Nothing—no one will get in my way again.”

“Hoon,” you whisper, eyes looking back at him with awe. “And nothing will.”

Your nostalgia filled pleasure plays like a cinematic movie, and your moans and whimpers are the soundtrack of the night. The way your fingers still curl with every caress transforms the home you use as an escape from the rest of the world into a safe haven, completed with the presence of the man you have loved all your life. Lee Jihoon’s mark on you is something that could never be washed away, and once this whole damned situation is over, you will be eternally his. Just as it is meant to be, as it was always supposed to be.

Your bodies fit together seamlessly, nestled underneath the thickness of the thousand-thread count blanket that trapped you both in its security. Your hand slides perfectly over his, while his firm and strong arms envelop your body as his head knocks against yours. You hear him smile as his heart pounds against your ear, fast and alive even in moments of rest.

“You’re staying the night, right?” you timidly ask, turning your head slightly towards him to meet his eyes. “I want to stay in this moment a little longer. Even if you have to leave.”

He gazes down at you, pressing his lips to your temple, the scent of his sweet breath wafting into your nose as you fight off sleep to be conscious in his presence. “I’m not leaving even if someone tried to pry me off you with a crane. I’m staying with you all night.”

Your heart swells as you tenderly smooth your hands over his backside. “Promise. I’ll wake up and you’ll still be here.”

He grabs your waist tighter, the hum of his voice tingling your cheeks as he speaks. “I promise, Angel.”

You bury your face in his chest, arms looped around his neck, inhaling what you’ve longed for for years. There’s nothing else like his warmth. You’ve passionately love it for years, and being stripped of your 

“I feel like I’m dreaming,” you muffle.

You can feel your heartbeat restless against his. It’s as if they’re both catching up with one another, just as you and Jihoon are intimately doing now. All the time you spent married to someone you didn’t love in the slightest, worried about what your parents wanted for you, worried what they’d do to the people you love, what they’d do to Jihoon. All those years wasted when you could’ve been here, simply his. If you had each other, just as you both promised, perhaps there would be more nights like this.

“Me too,” He admits. “I don’t think I ever stopped loving you.”

You pull away from his chest to face him, tears blurring your vision as you clasp your hands on his face. “I know I never stopped loving you. I thought of you every day when I knew I never had the right to.”

He strokes your sides, bewitched by your sincerity, and he embraces you. “We were twenty, you were listening to your parents—”

“And at twenty years old, I was still wise enough to know a good man and have a heart when I see one. I could never make it up to you, but just know you’re never getting rid of me, Lee Jihoon.”

He wistfully smiles. “Is this a life sentence?”

“And an afterlife one.”

Your lips crash against his, melting into him before losing yourselves in one another, losing yourselves into the heat of your reunion before you’re overtaken by the night and fall deep asleep in his embrace. Unlike you, however, Jihoon can’t sleep, fearing that the moment he closes his eyes, he’ll be the one left alone. He’s dreamt of nights where he’s holding as close as he is now, breathing in your essence, savoring your skin, basking in your warmth. And the dreams are cruel the moment he opens his eyes and realizes you were a figment of his deepest desires. Experiencing it in person is better than anything his consciousness could come up with.

He moves your hair away from your face, letting his fingertips ghost over the curve of your cheek, and tenderly smiles down at you. Holding his breath, he feels you stir, that saccharine tone of voice ebbing in mumbles as you press closer against him, tucking your legs between his.

He feels as if he can stare at you for hours, relearning the rhythm of your breath, the number of strands of your lashes, creases of your lips. He does not want to miss a single thing. If he is going to have you, it’ll be all of you. If not, then he’d let himself be all yours. He hopes at least you can give him that much. Especially when he’s missed several years of your lives together.

Before he knows it, morning arrives as the sun rises higher in the sky, peeking through the small division of the bedroom curtain, and Jihoon realizes he didn’t sleep a wink. Yet, he does not mind it one bit. And when your eyes pry open to see him still holding you, his smile stamped on your forehead, that it had been all worth it to hear you greet him with sweet words and your lips that taste even better than he last had them several hours ago. It truly feels unreal still.

But now it’s morning, and that means he is to take care of you like he promised himself he’d do if you ever reunited, so he jumps out of bed to make breakfast. Your tired expression chuckles as he enthusiastically asks you over his shoulder what ingredients you had in your fridge. He’s never and has never been much of a cook, but for you, he is willing to put in the effort. 

“You never really learned what to put in an omelet, did you?” You tease, seeing him toss sliced cucumbers, diced ham, and cottage cheese in his egg batter.

He shrugs, softly pouting as he tugs you towards to join his side. “I can’t make it as good as you. Sue me.”

“How did you go on living without me?”

The corner of his lips softly jerks up. “I’m wondering the same thing.”

You pull him towards you by his waist, letting your hands glide over his exposed back and settling on his shoulder blades. You inhale the natural aroma of his body, inhaling him and remembering every second of the night you shared. Your memories of intimacy with Jihoon haunted your present day, but images of last night make you feel as if you could finally breathe. “Well, stop wondering. I’ll eat your weird omelets and burnt toast. Just never leave me.”

He strokes the back of your head, fingers threading in your hair. “I should be the one saying that to you, Angel.”

Your smile grazes his skin and your grip on him tightens. “I can’t believe I’m hearing that name again after so long. Now it really doesn’t feel real.”

“Then we can stay in dreamland forever,” He hums, slotting your lips between his with the tilt of your chin.

His arms border either of your sides, pressing you against the counter, parting his mouth wider as his moan vibrates against your lips. Like always, his kisses start sweet before they’re hungry, feverish to taste every inch of you. You feel him lift you from the ground, planting your bare thighs on your cool marble counter as he settles between your legs, hands moving towards the festering, wet heat between them.

“Now I’m feeling like dessert for breakfast first.”

Beneath the shirt that you stole from him to wear is nothing but your vulnerability, coated in the slickness that he remembers was heaven on his tongue, yet sinfully addictive at a mere whiff. He pulls up the hem of the shirt, letting it meet your lips whispering, “Bite it,” before watching you claim it between your teeth.

There, he smooths his hands over your thighs, kissing and tasting the skin before his plush lips aim for your burning core. His eyes shoot up at you before dipping his tongue, letting it run up along your slit before sucking against your folds. You clench your raised hands, shielding the lower half of your face as the sound of his endeavor invades your ears, blood rushing towards you rapidly and fiercely. 

“H-hoon…”

He pulls you closer towards him, his moans vibrating against your skin and his tongue slithering inside you as it massages your walls. Meanwhile, the pads of his finger rubbing against your swollen bud, swirling your arousal in circles, the intoxicating scent wafting into his nose before he delves deeper. “I’ve missed this so badly. You have no idea.”

“You’re gonna make a mess,” you blurt out in a moan.

“Get used to it for the rest of our lives,” he mumbles, hungrily devouring you with no remorse.

You feel closer to reaching the peak so fast, your whole body going up in flames until the very last second, and his name is all either of you hear. He still remembers all the right spots, effortlessly bringing you to the tears streaking your cheeks.

Before the moment can last a second longer, your attention is ripped away by the doorbell. Your head falls on his shoulder, hands clinging to his forearms. You groan, bringing you back to reality. “You have to hide.”

He tilts his head with a straight face, sighing. Standing upright, he cups your face to meet his gaze, the warmth of your cheeks so inviting and sees you clasp your hands over his in response. “Am I now the secret lover that has to hide my passion for the woman I love from the world?” he asks dryly, earning him a soft whine.

“It could be him, or worse, my parents. So, to not complicate things any further,” You drag your hands over his bare chest, letting the ripple of muscles stiffen against your palm, instilling your gaze with mischief. “You’re my dirty little secret until the divorce papers are processed. After that, it's you, me, and the end of time.”

He softly scoffs before pressing a chaste kiss on your lips with a smile. “Please get decent. No matter how good you look in my clothes, it’d be best not to look like you just stepped out of my wet dreams for whoever is at the door.”

You grasp at the cotton, enjoying his lingering scent that you hope never goes away. “So, you still dream about me.”

“Angel.”

“Alright, alright.” You interlock your fingers through his before hopping off the counter and returning to the ground. “Help me pick something out?”

You tug him upstairs to your bedroom, giggling like teenagers and trying to get you ready as efficiently as possible with Jihoon’s lips attached to your neck. From last night up until this morning, it’s been nothing short of thrilling. Had the doorbell not rang, you would’ve returned the favor and continued what he started. You couldn’t see how the rest of the day could go wrong. Even if it were your soon to be ex or your parents, you didn’t think they could take away the smile permanently tattooed on your face. You just couldn’t wait to get back to him.

But for now, this can wait. You have all the time in the world to rekindle the flame that had exploded in your bedroom. For the time being, he has to stay hidden, and the first place you think of is your walk-in closet that’s more than enough space for him to hide. And after choosing something decent to wear, you leave him with a peck on the cheek before descending towards the front door doorbell sounds again, hearing whoever is on the other side evidently impatient. As you swing the door open, you mentally strategize for whoever is on the end, but nothing—no amount of courage or time could have prepared you for this.

“Officers, good morning. How can I help you?” The pads of your fingers are pressed against the door, your bottom lip caught between your teeth, and your breath seizes just at the entrance of your mouth.

They ask for your name and your relationship with that man you’ve been trying to sever ties with for the last several weeks—or admittedly, several years. You blink back at them, heart picking up pace as you clutch your blouse. “Has something happened?”

“Your husband, Boo Hyunkwan, was found murdered in his complex today.”

Your eyes shoot open, skin running cold at the break of the news, and you expel a breath of disbelief. “What…? I don’t understand.”

“I’m sure this is shocking news, however, Miss, we are arresting you for the suspected murder of Boo Hyunkwan. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you.”

“Wait–” You’re trembling as you’re put in handcuffs, feeling the cold metal snap and squeeze around your wrists as your panic sets in. 

Your head oscillates from one officer to the other, pleading in your eyes as you insist that this is a mistake, asking how this was sanctioned. Then, your main concern dawns on you, and now all that you can think about is the man you left hidden in your closet. You suppress the instinct to call for him, letting his name die on your tongue as you tuck away in the police car.

You had just reunited, and now you’re getting taken away again. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. Not now. Not like this.

Jihoon. Help. 

The man in question has always respected your wishes, but his curiosity got the best of him, blaming it on the years spent away from each other. He just had to see that you’re okay, maybe get ready to break out in a sprint if the situation calls for it. Careful to not to get caught, he undercuts through the big windows looking out towards the front lawn, peering just over the windowsill enough from your bedroom window to make out the scene outside when sees flashing red and blue lights.

Standing pin straight, his hands plants against the window, watching the scene before him unfold without a say otherwise. Eyes glued to your restrained posture shoved in the backseat of the cop car, and it reeves its engine before leaving your driveway. The man still in hiding could only grit his teeth as your name burns and swells his throat shut, breathing no longer an option.

Not that he has many options at this point.

After meeting your parents and after the engagement…

“That couldn’t have gone worse.” Jihoon loosens his tie, but he’s unable to rid himself of the tightness around his throat.

You fall on the couch beside him, a soft gaze directed at him as you smooth out his collar. “It wasn’t that bad. You were perfect, my parents—”

“Were looking after their precious only daughter. As would I.” Jihoon holds your face in his palms, feeling the heat fester as he brushes his thumbs over the plane of your cheeks. “I would protect this Angel too.”

You clasp your hands over his, your scowl only deepening as you take them in your hands. “They still shouldn’t have treated you like that. They’re a reflection of me. What does that say about me?”

He presses a soft kiss against the tip of your nose, feeling your grip on him tighten. “You’re a product of nature, not nurture. It’s your nature to be beautiful inside and out, Angel.”

“What did I do in my life to deserve you?” You coo, throwing your arms around his torso and pressing your ear to his chest, his heartbeat resonating louder by the second.

It’s soothing. The purest form of truth that not anyone could deny. You don’t need to hear a single song if it means giving up this sound and the body that contains it. But his kind words, the words to match the rhythm of his restless heartbeat. One is not one without the other. Just like you are not yourself without Jihoon.

“Love me. So don’t stop now.”

You let out soft gasp, clinging tighter as warmth fans throughout your body. It’s clear as day. You couldn’t imagine a world with him, not a world where you aren’t miserable. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Jihoon has already been nervous about meeting your parents, but having met them just confirms his suspicions. You’re the heir to an empire, while Jihoon’s family is nothing remarkable. He had a good family, a decent home life, but almost nothing to his name. He was painfully ordinary with the passion of being a lawyer, but the passion didn’t make him one. After all, he wasn’t on the path of many currently successful lawyers that paid thousands for their education.

Despite it all, Jihoon knows that he has a future with you in it. For the time being, Jihoon is determined to see it through.

“I assume you know why you’re here, young man.”

The sternness in the older woman makes Jihoon’s blood run cold, even with the hot tea that was provided for him. He knows what this is. He’s watched enough television to understand this is the inevitable meeting that he is destined to face. 

“You wanted to discuss your daughter.”

She scoffs, emphasizing her smile lines. She crosses her arms, leaning against her chair before bringing the tea cup to her lips. Now the sudden fear of liquid—or in this case, scorching hot tea—dawns on him. He hopes that this is something you just see in film, and he won’t have to suffer from second degree burns from a soap opera cliche. “I suppose you aren’t daft, perhaps that’s why she likes you so much, but clearly still not smart enough to realize you are not suited for her.”

Jihoon bows his head, the thought of meeting her eyes bringing an irrational amount of fear he never realized he could garner. He tries to swallow it, but it only ends up clogging the words of bravery that he had practiced so many times to win your parents over.

“If you care about her, you’ll walk away. She has a future bigger than this.”

She doesn’t stop for his response and instead throws a thick envelope on the table, the kind you see on multiple cliche dramas with an amount that could change his and his family’s life if he accepts it. An offer he can not dare to refuse. 

“$500,000. Should pay your student loans and all of your tuition. Plenty left over for your family.”

Jihoon clenches his fist, biting his bottom lip until he tastes iron. All for you. All for their one and only daughter. They need him out of your life so badly that this money is nothing to them but a hunk of change they can throw to get exactly that. “I can’t accept this.”

“So much pride with so little to show for it.” She stands from her seat, looming over him coldly. “She is arranged to be married. Someone of equal status. You’d understand, Jihan, is it?”

His thoughts are running amok in his head, bouncing off every corner of mind and rippling waves of ache every passing second. Yet, not one of them revealed themselves in front of the woman before him. Cowardice comes naturally in this circumstance, but Jihoon never thought he’d be a victim of it.

“No matter,” she continues, “Break it off as clean as possible. Or better yet, make it hurt, so that she won’t come running back. This will be good for the both of you.”

Jihoon knows that is the last thing he needs to hear. He knows you don’t think this way. You never gave implications you do, but he can’t help but wonder if your mother is right. Maybe what your parents are offering is better. He couldn’t possibly match up their standards, your standards that you grew up with. What can he offer you that a family with generations of fortune can’t? He has no idea.

Maybe…he shouldn’t hold you back. Maybe this arrangement is what you really need and deserve. If he truly loves you, letting you go would perhaps be the last biggest sacrifice he can make for you. 

So, he coordinates a date, what he assumes would be your final date. He’d take you to somewhere private, in the nicest place he can afford, and buy you your favorite meal with the money he’s saved up from working his part time job. He’ll give you your happiest day before breaking your heart and the news that you can’t be together. He at least has to give you that.

But you beat him to the punch.

“I know what this is.”

He grimaced, looking up from his dinner, feigning innocence. “What do you mean?”

Your eyes stare through him, piercing, ebbing beads of sweat down his forehead even when he tries avoiding your eyes. “I know you met with my mother.”

“Angel–”

“I’m not giving up, Jihoon.” You twist the plain gold ring on your finger, thumbing over the band. “I love you too much.”

He desperately wants to trust you, to believe in the words you speak, just as he always has. But doubt gnaws at him, fueled by mounting evidence and a gut feeling he can't ignore. The stakes are too high, the consequences too dire to rely solely on blind faith. In his most vulnerable moments, when fear and uncertainty cloud his judgment, it feels as though your love alone isn't enough to withstand the inevitable.

Present day…

Jihoon charges into the police station, haphazardly dressed in yesterday’s clothes with his shirt untucked and buttoned up until the first two top buttons. Everyone present in the room looks towards him momentarily before turning their eyes back to their current task as if it’s an ordinary occurrence. Meanwhile, the man fueled by panic staggers over to the front desk, running his hand frantically through his hair as he tries settling his nerves to garner the right words.

“I-I’m looking for someone,” he stammers, eyes bulging out of his head and brimming with tears. “She just detained. Her name—“ 

Before he can complete his inquiry, his phone goes off, only heightening the stress he’s experiencing. Barely mustering the motor skills to retrieve it from his pocket, he glances at the caller ID that immediately grabs his attention. His gaze flickers back at the officer for a moment before he’s fixated on his phone. “I’ll be right back.”

He scurries over to his car, accepts the car, and presses it to his ear. “Hello?”

“J-Jihoon.”

The quiver in your voice brings him to tears. He tries to keep his composure as their warmth streams down his cheeks. “Hey, hey. Are you okay?”

"They said I could call a lawyer.”

He chuckles softly at your flawed reasoning. "I’m a divorce lawyer, my love."

“Even if you weren’t a lawyer, you were the first person I wanted to talk to.”

His heart aches, clutching his phone as he swallows back his trepidation. “What happened?”

“Hyunkwan. H-he’s dead.”

Jihoon tightly shut his eyes, unsure if he heard currently with how disorienting this whole circumstance is. “Hyunkwan…your husband.”

“T-they found him murdered at home, dead for a couple of days according to autopsies.”

Jihoon sighs coming to realization. “The police suspect you have something to do with it.”

“Yes.” You say voice cracking on the other side. He hears the rustling of your clothes, with the undertone of your whimpers barely making it through on the call. “They think I…I’m sorry to be taking business away from you after all the work you’ve done and hours you’ve put in.”

“Never mind that now. Just remember you didn’t do this. You stick to that. Don’t let them bully you into saying anything else but that.”

“But I didn’t do this,” You insist through your sobs. “I really didn’t.”

He frowns, clutching his chest as he leans his forehead against the front passenger door. “I know. I know you didn’t. Just stick to this, okay?”

“Okay…I just got you back. Why is it I have to fight for you all over again?” You softly whine.

His hand presses flat against his car window, steadying himself. “Once I get you alone again, I’ll let you do absolutely everything to make up for lost time.”

“Hoon…”

“Wait for me, I'll get you, Angel.” 

The second the call ends, Jihoon walks back into that building with a newfound confidence and looks straight into the officer he spoke with before. “Pardon me, urgent call. I’m here to represent my client.”

In the interrogation room, Jihoon has never been more concerned than he is at that very moment. Even disheveled, you look as beautiful as you did this morning when you woke up together with your tear streaked cheeks and red swollen eyes. He wants to do nothing but take you in his arms, kissing the stress away from your body and distract you with long languid kisses until you’re breathless and he’s the only thing on your mind.

But against his wishes, Jihoon keeps it together, trying to remember anything helpful he learned in criminology to help you with your situation.

After a long 72 hours of interrogation and containment, due to lack of evidence, Jihoon has you released. Now, he watches you in his peripheral view as you sit stiff in the front passenger seat, staring off in the distance, unsure whether there was nothing or a multitude of things on your mind. 

The car's interior was thick with silence, punctuated only by the soft hum of the engine and the rhythmic thrum of tires against asphalt. Jihoon's gaze flickers repeatedly towards you, his brow furrowed with concern. Your rigid posture and the vacant stare in your eyes boring into the road, painting a picture of inner turmoil that words couldn't quite capture.

He racks his brain, desperately searching for the right words to break the silence, to dissipate the awkward tension that thickened the air. But what can he say? How can he possibly understand the maelstrom of emotions you were undoubtedly experiencing?

It’s been nothing less than a harrowing ordeal of relentless onslaught of accusations, interrogations, and the suffocating confines of a cold, sterile cell. And now, despite the nightmare having come to an end, the dark memory still clings to you, its icy fingers refusing to release their grip.

Jihoon's heart aches in your presence. He longs to reach out, to offer comfort and reassurance, but he fears that any attempt at consolation would only serve to further expose his own helplessness in the face of your trauma. He’s acutely aware that his presence, while a source of safety and security, is no medicine for the bundle of nerves that festers like a million ants in your stomach.

Jihoon's grip on the steering wheel tightens as he struggles to maintain his composure, while the silence stretches on. Each passing second amplifies the palpable tension that strangles his neck, suffocating his being. The once familiar surroundings of the car now felt alien and depressing, the silence a deafening roar that drowned out all rational thought.

“We’re almost home, Angel—”

“He’s gone, Jihoon. He was here, and now he’s gone.”

Jihoon retreats to the silence that once held him hostage, accepting there are no words in the universe that could give you the solace you need right now.

“Sick bastard,” You hiss. Putting your fingers to your lips, you succumb to the habit of biting your nails. The habit that you put a lot of effort into getting rid of, apparently only done in vain. “Even in death, he finds a way to take me down with him.”

“You and Hyunkwan…”

“It was business,” you clear up before taking a beat. “Mostly.”

Mostly.

“I see,” Jihoon responds, keeping a neutral tone, while in his head, he’s running a hundred miles per hour imagining you with a man that isn’t him.

You swallow a lump in your throat, lightly clawing at his leather seats. “We were in the same boat. Two kids forced together by their families because of an agreement made so, so long ago. We got along for a little bit, the only reason why it lasted so long, and then we tried to make it work. At least for the beginning of the second year, but old habits die hard, and he couldn’t give up his playboy lifestyle. Then there was me, who never stopped loving you.”

His chest tightens, each breath a struggle as your confession reverberates through him. Every word, a searing touch against his soul, burns its way into his brain. He feels the weight of your admission pressing down on him. His heart pounds a frantic rhythm against his ribs, its wild beat echoing and taking root in every wrinkle of his brain.

“So he went back to partying, and I spent the following several years alone, surveillanced, controlled, and the person I married couldn’t care any less about me, but that’s fine because the person that really mattered was safe.”

Jihoon readjusts his grip on the wheel, gritting his teeth at the thought of your solitude. He had hoped that you’d find some peace in the unavoidable obligation, but knowing that you suffered in silence is worse than knowing you had attempted to build a romantic relationship with your husband. At least with the latter, you would have some semblance of joy.

“Safe? Angel—”

“Hoon, stay with me for the time being.” You grip an of of his with reach, your eyes glossed in your desperate tears, your cracking voice tearing piece by piece. “I don’t want to live alone in that house.”

“You don’t have to. What about the place you’ve been staying now?”

You shake your head with a deep scowl. “My parents found out about me living there and changed the key code. I’m locked out, but they’ve sent my things to my legal residence. It’s the only place I can stay.”

“How can they still be—after hearing their son-in-law has passed?”

You roll your eyes, obviously used to their aggressive and shameless tactics to get exactly what they want. Just as they always have. “They want to keep the ties to the Boos as long as they can. They can’t do that by being estranged. They’re already furious enough that I’ve been living somewhere else.”

Dilemma becomes a lingering companion, making the lawyer question and challenge every selfish thought and desire to stay by your side when it combats with his logic that dares keep you at a distance. “Wouldn’t it be strange for me to stay there?”

“I need you. I can just tell anyone who asks that my lawyer and I are working closely on this case. I’ll say anything I have to to keep you by my side, Hoon.”

Jihoon's breath hitches as he shifts the car into park, his eyes drinking in the grandeur of your house. It was far larger than anything he had ever imagined, a sprawling testament to a life he felt utterly removed from. A wave of insecurity washes over him, the stark contrast between his own modest upbringing and the opulence before him serving as a harsh reminder of the vast sea that divides your worlds.

He swallows hard, his heart pounding against his ribs as he turns to face you. Despite the trepidation that gnawed at him, his love for you is and has always been unwavering. Reaching out, he pulls you into a tight embrace, his arms wrapping around you like a lifeline. "Then I'll stay by your side," he murmurs in your hair, pressing his lips against the side of your head as he feels you reciprocate.

Amidst the uncertainty and the fear, Jihoon makes a solemn vow to himself. No matter the challenges that might arise, he will remain steadfast. He will not falter, no matter the trials and tribulations that lay ahead. With unwavering determination, he pledges to devote every waking moment to fighting tirelessly for your case, and to ensure that you remain by his side. No matter how many mornings and nights it takes, he’ll keep at it relentlessly until you see the light at the end of the tunnel.

After the break up, before the wedding…

Jihoon had been single for his entire life, a lonely existence that spanned twenty years. That was until he met you, an impossibly enchanting presence who immediately bewitched him at a mere glance. The way you love was generous, addictive. Something that would make a man go mad. His life was irrevocably altered from that moment; he couldn't envision a future without you by his side.

The day your relationship ended was a paradox of emotions, as if his heartbreak and logic were at combat. That day had to have been the worst day of his life. It was as if your absence left a gaping hole that made him feel like only a shell of his former self. He was worse than before he had met you. Then he was antisocial, and now he didn’t want to look at another person for as long as he lived. If it were within his power, he would erase it from his mind entirely, but the pain of losing the love of his life was an indelible scar, a torment he wouldn't wish upon even his most hated enemy.

"Long time no see.”

You stand bashfully beneath the sprawling branches of the grand oak tree that dominated the center of the campus park. The same park where you both make a recurring date spot since you insisted on him getting some vitamin D on the especially sunny days, the sacred ground where Jihoon had professed his undying love and asked for your hand in marriage. The last happy memory you had together before it all went to shit.

His head lifts abruptly, drawn away from the pages of the book he'd been staring at without truly reading. The words had blurred into meaninglessness after you'd walked out of his life. His gaze locks onto yours, and for a moment, time stands still, disbelief warring with a glint of hope in his eyes. You offered him a bittersweet smile, the curve of your lips swelling the organ that put him at ruin countless times before gracefully settling onto the grass beside him, the shade blanketing over your presence like the gray gloomy cloud did him.

"Hi," he breathes, his voice barely above a whisper. "You're...you're talking to me."

"That I am," you confirm, your voice gentle and warm.

His brow furrows, and the hope melts off his face, turning the corners of his lips down. "I don't know if your parents, or your...fiance," he says, emphasizing the word that has his voice thick with distaste, "would like that."

The corners of your mouth turn down in a sad smile. and you draw your knees up to your chest, resting your head against them. "No, they wouldn't, but I don't care."

"Maybe you should.” His voice laced with a chilling indifference as he turns his attention back to the dense textbook that lay open in his lap, his focus appearing unwavering.

The sting of his snide remark makes your heart feel as if it’s being crushed, mangled by a hand until it’s deduced to nothing. Nonetheless, you push the ache down, forcing a casual, eased tone. "Funny. It's only been a month, but it feels like an eternity."

He merely hums in response, feigning disinterest while his every nerve thrums at  the knowledge of your existence that makes concentration feel like combat against a formidable opponent.

"I'm done avoiding you," you declare, your voice firm.

His fingers pause their rhythmic flipping of pages, his lips twisting into a nervous line, his eyes still fixed on the pages. "Really?"

"Really.”

A flicker of something akin to intrigue passed over his features before disappearing in a split second, replaced by a stone face. "...That's nice to hear," he replies, his voice measured, guarded.

Silence hangs in the air for a moment before you break it, hoping to lighten the atmosphere. "So, what are you studying?"

"Forensic science," he bluntly answers, his voice devoid of any inflection. "The scientific methods used to investigate and examine evidence."

Your lips pucker in  feigned curiosity, looking to prolong this encounter no matter how cold he makes himself to be. "How's it going?" 

He lets out a sigh, the sound heavy with frustration. His eyes seemed to blur the images in front of him as if the words on the page were swimming before his eyes. "Like my brain developed a severe intolerance for new information.”

A soft chuckle escapes your lips as your gaze lingers on him, his frustration evident in the way he’s now violently flipping through the pages. You took a moment to etch his features into your memory, wanting to remember every detail of how he looks now, what will  one day be a passing image that you’d never get to see again. "Too bad you're pursuing criminal law, huh? Any chance you might become a divorce lawyer and take my case one day when it comes?"

Jihoon scoffs softly, his gaze falling to his feet as he goes silent for a moment. That thought has crossed his mind countless times since you had reluctantly agreed to your parents' arranged marriage. Though his expression remains stoic, his words reveal the truth you both had tried so hard to ignore. "In a heartbeat," he grips the book tightly, as if the act would get rid of the ache in his chest. "You know I would."

Your heart hammers in your chest, the determination in his eyes almost overwhelming as he glances at you from the corner of his eye. "Don't," you choke out, shaking your head. "I would never want to take that away from you. Your whole life is centered around being a criminal justice lawyer."

"And you," he lifts his gaze from his lap to meet your eyes with tears that threaten to spill. His hand twitches with the urge to wipe them away. "Criminal justice and you. Angel."

You know there's nothing he wouldn't do for you. And that's what terrifies you. The extent of his sacrifices knows no bounds. He's unconditionally devoted to you in a way that’s almost suffocating, but to be smothered in that love is an end you don’t mind meeting. Jihoon has always considered himself a logical man, but from the moment you met, he's become the epitome of a romantic. "I love you more than anything in the world," you remind, "but don't. Please."

He sighs, his attention returning to his book, his fingers flipping the pages. "I won't," he assures you, "if it means that much."

Except, that is what he fully plans to do.

Present day, a week after the release…

“Hoon?”

Jihoon, his glasses slightly askew, glances up from the cluttered desk, a warm smile gracing his lips as he sees you standing in the doorway. His fingers pause their rhythmic dance across the keyboard, the soft click-clack momentarily silenced as he greets you. "You're home.”

You scan over his workspace he’s made for himself in an empty office of your home, unable to ignore the neverending mountain of documents. "You're still here working on my case?" 

A soft smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth as he plucks off his glasses, his eyes holding yours an unwavering confidence. "Of course. My clients always get the best service."

Your brow furrows slightly. "You haven't been going into your office," you point out. "Won't that be a problem?"

"I've transferred any ongoing cases I had to other recommended lawyers in the area," he reassures, fingering through stacks on stacks of paperwork. "They'll be helping them. Don't worry about me."

“How can I? You’re losing work because of me. Plus, you’re a divorce lawyer. Is this even allowed?”

He pauses, his gaze softening at your concern painted over your features. "You and I both know I am well versed in criminal law just as much as I am in family law. I majored in criminal justice, remember?”

Your eyes narrow back at him as you cross your arms. “Yes, and you went against me and became a divorce lawyer.”

He grins a little too hard, like a child with their hand caught in the cookie jar. “It brought you to me, didn’t it? And as for losing work. it's a small price to pay to make sure you get the justice you deserve."

"Isn't this a lot for you to take on? You must have other responsibilities, work, errands..."

His eyes lock onto yours, unwavering and steady. He points at you domineeringly with the pen in his hand as if you’re about to be lectured for being tardy to class. "You're facing a trial for a murder you didn't commit. You shouldn't be wasting your energy worrying about me."

"Hoon—" 

"I won't let them take you away from me a third time.” His preservation only grows stronger with your concern, heart heavy as he replays the image of you put in handcuffs, actively getting taken away from him.

"Still, you can't put yourself through all of this just for me.”

"Why not?" His voice rises slightly, kindling a fiery path down his throat. "You didn't do this, and I'm not going to just stand by and twiddle my fingers. Everything we’ve rebuilt, it’ll all come crashing down. Again."

"It won't.” You shake your head with unwavering resolve before you reach his side and gently tug his arm. "I won't let it."

His expression softens, but it does not deter his persistence. "Then let me double my efforts to help you." 

“But—" He silences you with a look, his eyes pleading desperately as the air around you wraps around your throat and squeezes it shut.

He gently places the pen on the table, his hand moving to cup the side of your face. His gaze holds yours, filled with a longing that betrays the initial confidence his words carried. His lips tremble slightly, a reminder of the fear that’s taken over that past week as he inches closer towards you.

"It may be hard to believe, but," he whispers, his voice husky as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his eyes hover over your parted mouth, his face drawing closer until your breaths mingle in the space between you, "talking to you through a glass partition and dressed in orange is not nearly as fun as it sounds. Please, Angel," he takes you in both his hands, forcing your gaze on him as your hips meet in desperate pleas, "let me help you."

“Jihoon-” His lips capture yours, clutching you against him as your hands settle over his waist, succumbing to an insatiable lip-lock, burying your mixed bag of emotions as he presses you against the edge of his desk.

He parts from you in heavy breaths before you propel over to reclaim him, the hunger overtaking your logic as you fill your mind with Jihoon and him only. Your ferocity drowns out the softness of his tenor voice as your hands fiddle over his button-down, undoing each one in a hurried pattern before his hands clasp over yours in a forced halt, pushing them down. 

Your lips part softly, the air between you heavy with insatiable desire. The intensity in his gaze deepens, a lustful darkness swirling within that reflects your own yearning. You find his presence intoxicating, a high that won’t come down, and he reminds you how easily he can have you succumb to his every whim. It's as if he's peering into your very soul, igniting a fire within you that is not only tempting but threatens to consume you both. He realizes that he needs to be the one in control to prevent that from happening. Especially considering the hunger he fears is already fueling you and threatens his clarity.

“Don’t try distracting me,” he half-jokingly says, his hands tracing the sides of your torso, betraying his conviction. “You know I can’t resist you.”

You snicker, your bottom lip being pulled through your teeth as you throw your arms around his neck, drawing his presence dangerously closer. “Yeah, you can’t.”

“Angel,” he gently warns, breath hitching in his throat as your touch trails down the exposed plane of his chest as it heaves, while the hairs on his neck stand stiff, his lust talking over his reasoning.

“Knock off all the papers off your desk like you want to, Hoon,” your lips ghost over one another, daring another kiss to get lost in. “Don’t you remember? That fantasy of yours where we lose ourselves in each other? You wanna ruin this desk with me?”

“You…” His smug smile grazes your lips as he borders you with his arms, pushing you into a locked cage of his fervent heat that sends your aroused state ablaze. A sweet moan leaves your lips as his thigh parts your legs as it takes residence against your clothed core. “Just don’t know when to quit, don't you?”

Before the moment escalates any further, the familiar sound of the doorbell rings throughout the house, eliciting a frustrated groan from the man in front of you as he clings to your frame. “We need a sign or a scarecrow or something if we keep getting interrupted like this.” He chastely kisses the giggles off your lips. “I’ll get it—but after, no more distracting me.”

Your eyes widen in clear offense before you playfully shove him away. "You kissed me!" you loudly reminded, your head double taking in the incredulity. "And why would you open the door? It's my house."

"Consider it a trauma response," he answers dryly as his fingers gently brush against the back of your head, watching the endearing pout swell your kiss-swollen lips. “I won't take long. Just follow behind me if you're worried."

You huff, crossing your arms and sounding out in a firm and resolute tone, "I was going to do that anyway."

"I knew you would,” he says with a knowing smile.

Jihoon's footsteps trickle down the steps as he follows the incessant ringing of the doorbell, echoing through the house with an urgency that intensifies his irritability. Before he can reach the door, it swings open, revealing a figure who rushes in, nearly colliding with Jihoon in their haste.

"Um, hello?" Jihoon stammers, taken aback by the intrusion.

The individual doesn’t bother acknowledging the man that welcomes him, his eyes frantically scanning the room. "Where is she?" His gaze darts from one corner to another before finally landing on you.

"Seungkwan?" 

Seungkwan's face softens as he sees you. He rushes towards you, pulling you into a tight embrace, his chin resting in the crook of your neck. "Oh my god," he mumbles into your skin, "You have no idea how worried I was."

Jihoon steps back, standing frozen as his fists clenched tightly at his sides, watching the scene unfold before him. Like a knife twisting in his gut, he’s unable to ignore the intimacy of your skinship. The way you lean into the newcomer's touch, how familiar it all is to you. You might as well send a sharp slap to his face.

He prides himself on his self-control, his ability to maintain a stoic facade even in the face of adversity—crucial for a lawyer. But at this moment, he feels powerless, his confidence depleting. He wants nothing more than to stride forward, to pull you away from the stranger's embrace and make it known that only he has the privilege to greet you so warmly. But he can't. He shouldn’t. Instead, he tucks away his jealousy and pride, maintaining a pretense of civility in front of the person who looks at home in your arms.

You gently release yourself from his embrace and place him at your side, his gaze oozing with concern. "It's okay, for now," you reassure him, "but you almost hurt my guest."

Seungkwan's expression shifts to realization as he turns to Jihoon. "My apologies," he extends his hand for a handshake. Jihoon accepts, noting the firmness of his grip which he returns just as boldly. The other man doesn’t waver, only conjuring a polite smile, one Jihoon is all too familiar with in his line of work. "I am her legal guardian."

You roll your eyes. “No, he’s not.”

The young man sulks and childishly pulls at your sleeve with doe eyes, “Yes, I am. After my brother's death, I might as well be.” He clings to you like a fly in a sticky trap. “I booked the earliest flight right after my business meeting and got here as soon as I could. I'm here now.”

You gently push him away again and rest your hands on his shoulders. “I'm an adult. I’m my own guardian.” You glance at the lawyer, hands tied as he witnesses the scene, and you’re suddenly overtaken by a sense of guilt. “Jihoon, this is my brother-in-law, Seungkwan. Seungkwan, this is Jihoon, my…lawyer for the time being. He's staying at the house so we can work closely on the case and get the whole picture.”

Your hesitation to define Jihoon’s presence is clear, but amidst the chaotic rally, it goes unnoticed by the newcomer. He inserts himself between you and Jihoon, acting as a barrier.

"Thank you for taking on her case with such short notice." Seungkwan takes your hand in his, stroking the back with his thumb and staring back at you with an immeasurable warmth as he interlaces your fingers. Meanwhile, Jihoon feels a surge of possessiveness as his gaze lingers on your intertwined fingers, maleficence passing over his eyes as he thinks of the limitless ways he can pry Seungkwan’s fingers off you before snapping every ligament.

"Of course," the lawyer responds calmly, maintaining a stoic composure despite his clenched jaw. "Just doing my job."

“Sweetheart…” Seungkwan's voice drips with a luscious honey as he nuzzles his head against your shoulder, his boyish face etched with a charmingly innocent grin. "Let big brother make all your worries disappear," he coos, gently guiding you towards the staircase, his hand resting possessively on the small of your back. Jihoon, observing the scene from across the room, feels a flicker of irritation twitching at the corner of his eye.

"Kwan, I'm older than you. What 'big brother' are you talking about?" You cast an apologetic glance over your shoulder at the lawyer standing alone in the corner. Seungkwan pouts playfully, his hand descending your lower back, and Jihoon gets closer to resort to violence.

“Well, for the time being, I’m big brother, so anything you need, I can do. Don’t worry your little head over anything.”

Jihoon's body moves mechanically, slowly trailing behind the chattering duo before the door to your bedroom clicks shut. The silence of the room presses down on him, bitterly reminding him of the loneliness he has briefly escaped. The familiar ache of rejection settles deep within him, a long-forgotten companion that he has grown accustomed to evading. There is nothing he can do to change the situation, not without causing more harm than good. 

With a heavy sigh, Jihoon turns his attention back to the office and returns to your case, channeling his restless energy into something productive. But even as he immerses himself, cataloging every detail, your image of you leaving returns. The vision of you disappearing from his sight, guided by another's touch, lingers in the back of his mind, and in turn, reopens the throbbing wound once sewed by you coming back in his life.

For the following month, Seungkwan doesn't leave your side, which gives Jihoon plenty of time to develop your case. However, Jihoon can't shake his unease about your brother-in-law. Seungkwan's constant affectionate gestures toward you—the loving gazes, lingering touches, and overly sweet words of affirmation—make Jihoon want to throw himself off a cliff. Or better yet the other man off one instead.

Seungkwan's presence, equivalent to an annoying pest, has made it nearly impossible for you and Jihoon to have any privacy. Not that you’ve tried anything while he’s in the house, both you and your lawyer/lover have you carefully hiding private messages, considering how close he can get to you at any given time. His unwavering presence feels insurmountable, leaving you and Jihoon with no choice but to roll with the punches.

“Sweetheart, let’s get dinner!”

You roll your eyes, barely looking up from your book. “Kwan, I know I’m not working now, but that doesn’t mean I can go out and goof around with you all the time.”

“Boo…that’s exactly what it means!”

You sigh as you gaze at the cracked door that leads to the private office on the same floor. Peering through, you catch a glimpse of Jihoon diligently shuffling through papers, his glasses perched on his nose in a way that makes you swoon.

“Let’s just order in, we can get something for Attorney Lee too. I’m worried he’s not getting any real meals in with all the time he’s putting into my case.”

Seungkwan nods gingerly, “Sure, what’ll you have?”

“One moment,” you scurry over to the door that stands in your way, pushing it open with a knock and alerting the man in the room. “Anything you’re craving? We’re getting lunch.”

The lawyer glances up at you above his frames, readjusting them to fit over his eyes. “Uh, anything. I’m not all that hungry.”

“You must want something.” You look at him expectantly, pressing your lips in a firm line as you scan his appearance, resisting the urge to tear his haphazardly worn dress shirt off him and devour him like a rabid animal. “It could be anything.”

He rests his arms on the desk, pursing his lips in thought. “If anything…I’d like to try your cooking. You’d seem like you have a colorful palette.”

You grin, narrowing your eyes at him in feigned annoyance as a hint of a smile graces his face. He turns back to his work, his teeth biting back a bigger smile.

“Well, I better get started then.”

Too distracted by the alluring dishevel of the man buried in paperwork, you don’t discern the eyes burning a hole in your back. The smile that would be a constant on Seungkwan’s face is visibly misplaced. When you return your attention to him, he quickly conjures one on the spot, acting as if nothing had changed at all.

“Kwan, how do you feel about kimchi fried rice? I’ve been meaning to make use of the kimchi taking space in the fridge.”

Seungkwan nods. “I’m down.” He stands up from the couch and strides towards you, putting his hands behind his back. “Sounds like you’re in need of a partner…a cooking partner that is.”

“That I am,” you nonchalantly agree, briefly shifting eyes back to Jihoon, “I’ll let you know when it’s ready.”

“I look forward to it.”

You gleefully consume yourself with your culinary ventures, tasting and scavenging for all your ingredients and giddy that Jihoon requested it after being forced to hide your affinity for another. You aren’t used to the stiff wall he’s built; even starting as a client, he acted more familiar than this. But if you can show your love in any way possible, you’ll do it. 

Amidst your joy, Seungkwan busies himself by chopping the vegetables you’ve assigned him, glowering at your back turned toward him while you remain oblivious. You don’t notice how his eyes trail up your body, surveilling you like a hawk. Or him pressing his lips together in restraint when you bend over to pick up something you dropped. He only mutters under his breath, hardly audible with your soft humming that fills the room.

“Hey, Kwan, help me find the sugar. It vanished on me.”

He makes a semblance of a smile. “Sure.” 

As he pretends to scavenge for your targeted ingredient, he continues stalking your moves. He takes a sharp inhale when you brush past him, the comforting scent of your skin bringing him. He chuckles to himself, amused by your mounting frustration, savoring the soft grumbles under your breath. Finally, you’re met with triumph as you spot the elusive ingredient tucked away on a high shelf, hidden behind a bulky cabinet. “Found it!”

“Let me get that for you.”

Before you can make way for him, his body presses flush against your backside, and you can feel every detail on him you’ve made contact with. You let out a sharp gasp when he shifts against you closer. The feeling of his presence lingers long enough for you to process your emotions before his fingers grip the sugar jar and place it on the counter in front of you. “How did that get up there? You should put it within closer reach to avoid hurting yourself trying to get it.”

You hum, acknowledging his advice. As you turn to face him, you lock eyes, catching the hint of something in his eyes before he descends his gaze, cheeks undeniably red. Awkwardly, you force a cough and cast your attention to the lunch in progress. “Right. Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

That moment replays in your mind, leaving a disconcerting tension that hinders your movements. You are unable to stop yourself from fixating on two qualities of that encounter: the unfamiliar glint in his eyes that makes your stomach churn and the firm sensation you felt when he stood behind you. Despite your feelings, you brush the thought aside. Recalling all the past instances, you should be accustomed to his lack of personal space by now. Perhaps you’re misinterpreting what you think you felt, making excuses for him alone in your head. This could all become a big misunderstanding, and it’d be best to ignore all together to avoid trouble.

As you carefully arrange the lovingly prepared meal on the dining table, grinning to yourself with the placement before calling out to Jihoon. You’re surprised when he turns up almost instantly. "That was quick." Your lips turn up in a teasing smirk, raising an eyebrow. Considering the office is located all the way at the end of the first-floor hallway, it shouldn't be humanly possible to get to the dining room this quickly. 

“It…smelled good,” the lawyer bashfully pats his stomach, maintaining his aloof expression. “I got curious, so I couldn't wait. I needed to use the bathroom anyway, and this one was closer than the others.”

“Well, wait no further. Dig in, boys!”

Dinner is seemingly to some, but not others. Seungkwan, emboldened by the seating arrangement, has an idea pop into his head. Laden with unspoken intent, he picks up his own spoon, insisting on feeding you. He makes a thinly veiled excuse of having "too much meat" to eat alone, and every accepted bite makes the corner of his lips turn up higher.

Jihoon, on the other hand, quietly observes. He harnesses a mask of disinterest, but he can feel it crack under the pressure of the underlying tension at the dining table. Inconspicuously, his eyes dart up to survey the air between you and Seungkwan; brief but intense, each glance leaves him with more questions left to be answered. He finds it increasingly challenging to suppress his indignation amidst the seemingly amicable gestures, deflecting his attention to the clinking of utensils and drink glasses as he tries to ignore the incessant hum of their conversation.

He deliberately doesn’t mention the moment in the kitchen—the scene that had you and your brother in law too close for comfort. He doesn’t ask how it rendered you speechless, or confess how it ignited a silent fury within him, causing his hands to ball into fists and his jaw to clench. The tension in that scene stretched on, feeling interminable, until you managed an escape, ducking your head so low that Jihoon fails to catch your reaction, unable to determine your true sentiment. 

The lawyer had the unfortunate opportunity to witness the ‘unintentional’ embrace from behind you, and out of all the new memories he’s made, that is one he’d pay to burn to ash. He hates this feeling, this jealousy. This possessiveness consumes him like a famished beast tearing into its feast. Nothing would please him more than ridding himself of the intrusion, keeping you to himself for none of the world to see. Alas, he bites back the lechery, swallowing the lump along with a spoonful of fried rice.

“Jihoon.”

His attention captured by the sound of your voice, he looks back at you expectantly. "Yes?"

Your grin immediately softens his cold demeanor and loosens the grip he hadn't realized he had on his spoon.

“Are you going to give yourself any grace and momentarily take your eyes off work? I’m grateful for everything you’re doing, but I can’t help but be concerned for your well-being.”

Your formal vernacular twists the knife already sunken in his chest, and he can’t suppress the soft sigh of acceptance that makes past his lips. “I’d appreciate it if you don’t act so familiar with me. As your lawyer, there are boundaries we should breach. Thank you for your concern, but it’s superfluous to prolong it.”

“Hey!” Seungkwan finally addresses Jihoon after seeing the color drain from your face. “She was only being nice. You don’t have to act like an ass with your pretentious vocabulary.”

“Seungkwan!” you scold, turning his angry scrutiny away from the man opposite him with a slap on the back. “Calm down. He’s right,” you glance back at Jihoon, picking through his meal with disinterest, hiding the guilt that swallows up his appetite. “I’m sorry. I just couldn’t help but feel guilty.”

“It’s alright.” He pushes up his frames. “Perhaps, I was harsh. I’m taking this case seriously, for your benefit. I assure you every minute counts.”

“I believe it. Still, you perform best in peak condition right?”

A hint of a smile touches his lips. “I suppose so.”

Seungkwan scoots closer to you, hugging your arm to his side, batting his eyelashes like butterflies fluttering in the wind. His hand falls in your hair, threading his fingers through tangled strands. He draws his lips close to your ear, speaking in a mellow yet effervescent tone that sends even the man opposite of him into shivers. “Let him do his job, sweetheart. It sounds like you’re in good hands. Just focus on laying low with me. I’m sure it’s what Hyunkwan would’ve wanted.”

You don’t have the fight to argue, and the argument ends as quickly as it began, leaving a bitter taste in its wake. It’s the most you and Jihoon had spoken since Seungkwan unexpectedly moved in. The overly affectionate newcomer has effectively blocked all advances either of you make, having this arrangement be a harrowing, sexually frustrating hell to say the least.

Jihoon knows intimacy is impossible under these circumstances, out of the question with the risk of being caught, but he underestimates Seungkwan and his tenacity. His meddlesome demeanor stands like a wall between you and your formerly estranged lover. Seungkwan is a constant, his interference a source of endless aggravation. Every attempt Jihoon made to navigate the situation was thwarted by Seungkwan, who inserted himself in every scenario possible.

And there’s something you are oblivious to that Jihoon isn't: the intent behind your brother-in-law’s eyes. Seungkwan possesses an intense, disturbing gaze that makes the lawyer’s blood run cold. At a mere glimpse, Jihoon could feel the hairs of his body stand on all ends, raising his already made suspicion that he isn’t to be trusted with even a pet rock. The lawyer can recreate from memory that chilling gaze that’s sharp as a blade, as if sketching a portrait of a criminal on the run. 

And if it isn’t obvious enough, Seungkwan holds an apparent animosity towards Jihoon, unwavering. Whether it's through necessary legal interactions or simply sharing a space, Seungkwan's hostility is evident. His dislike for Jihoon is palpable and persistent, an enduring tension that time doesn't seem to diminish. The sentiment, unsurprisingly, is mutual; Jihoon harbors an equal measure of antipathy towards the young heir. 

However, unlike the childish rival, the older man knows how to pick his fights. He doesn’t let the other man intimidate him more than he already does. A few glares and obnoxious scoffs isn’t enough to deter the lawyer’s confidence. Seungkwan acts like a puppy around you, a shameless, lovesick puppy trailing after his master, and that’s all he’ll ever be. Jihoon knows he’s different. Different in the looks you cast at him or the secretive touches you make throughout the day just out of the other man’s view. You actually love him. Undeniably. Rest assured, Seungkwan, at the end of the day, will be a passing thought after the investigation is resolved; at least that’s what Jihoon tells himself.

It’s like any other day when Jihoon's focus shifts from his work, hearing a cheerful voice say, "Knock, knock." Seungkwan, the man who constantly occupies his thoughts, stands confidently in the doorway, leaning against the frame.

“Mr. Boo,” Jihoon greets indifferently, “How can I help you?”

"Please, call me Seungkwan," Seungkwan insists with a disarming smile, "Mr. Boo is my father."

“Well, then, Seungkwan,” He barely managed to keep the documents in his hand from falling off the already towering stack of papers on the corner of his desk as he set them aside. “Is there anything you need from me? Is she asking for me?”

“Oh, no, no, nothing like that.” The young heir closes the door behind him and walks over to the desk with unbridled confidence. “She’s preoccupied with something much more important.”

“I see. Then, what brings you here?”

The plush leather chair behind the imposing mahogany desk creaks ominously under the weight of the man who occupies it. A cold shiver snakes its way down his spine, and the air in the room seems to thicken. The once amiable mask slips out of view before the lawyer’s very eyes, leaving their true dark colors in its wake.

Gone is the casual slouch and the easy smile. The intruder leans forward, his hands gripping the edge of the desk, knuckles whitening with the force of his hold. His shadow falls over the furniture, looming large over the man seated behind it. The once friendly eyes now hold a steely glint, boring into Jihoon, and the lawyer tastes something he’s had before: displeasure with his mere existence, just like your mother years ago, only if she’d had a knife behind her back.

"You need a stern talking to, Mr. Lawyer." Seungkwan leaves no room for misinterpretation as he embodies disdain, spitting the last two words, laden with mockery.

Jihoon’s expression doesn’t falter, his innocuous stoicism is kept strong as he decides to entertain his guest’s obnoxious efforts. “About anything in particular?”

Seungkwan scoffs, narrowing his eyes that look as if they could bulge out of his head. “How about the fact you’re living in this house with a woman you’re not married to? A fresh widow at that.”

“Mr. Boo, I assure you, I’m just doing my job—”

“Then, stay in your lane,” he hisses. “It’s as easy as pushing you into—” Seungkwan cuts off his thoughts as he runs a hand through his hair, expelling the rage building up inside him in deep sighs. “Don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be, Mr. Lee.”

Jihoon feigns ignorance, tilting his head to the side in mock confusion. “I don’t follow.”

“Bullshit!” Seungkwan swings his hands over a neatly stacked pile of papers, startling the once composed lawyer as the pages fan around the room and lie scattered on the ground. The cause of destruction slams his hands against the desk, worn chips of wood falling to their demise. “You don’t think I don’t see the way you look at her? How she looks at you? You’re him, aren’t you? The little ex-boyfriend she gave up to marry my brother and please her family.”

Jihoon gets up from his seat, having heard enough as a scowl threatens an appearance. “You are jumping to conclusions. I am just here to represent her in court.”

“STOP,” Seungkwan shouts from the top of his lungs, face twisted in a grimace, “telling me what I am doing. I know exactly what I’m talking about.”

He backs him into a corner, the lawyer relenting his body to the hostility as he reigns in his own anger, displacing it in his fists before putting an arm between them as a barrier. The corners of Seungkwan’s lips tug up arrogantly, shoving himself against the pathetic excuse of a defense. “I fucking looked you up. You are a measly family lawyer. Now, are you going to stay here and stand in the fate of my destiny, or am I going to have to force my fucking hand?”

“...What do you mean by that, Mr. Boo?” Jihoon treads lightly, his forearm shoving back into his assailant.

“I mean,” he bends his neck forward to peer into the other’s soul, the manic in his eyes gradually intensIfying. “I am not afraid to get dirt under my fingers if you overlook your work lusting after something you can’t covet even in your dreams.”

Now the boy’s gone too far. Jihoon’s pride is suddenly on the line, and he’s quick to defend himself. “Now hold on—”

“Why don’t you,” the menace jabs his index finger into the other man’s chest with every word, “hold on and get a grip of reality, unless you want to find yourself in a ditch becoming worm food.”

The fragments of information started coalescing within the recesses of Jihoons's mind, drawing from the vast expanse of his memories of living in the shared residence. Each piece slots into place, and the picture becomes clear. His eyes flare on as the realization dawns on him.

"Y-you," he stammers, his body going stiff. "It was you. You killed him, didn’t you?"

Seungkwan's lip curls in a sneer, his grip loosening for the briefest moment, a flicker of vulnerability quickly replaced by a surge of aggression. With a forceful shove, he slams the other man, a pained groan escaping his lips as his backside collides with the wall behind him as he feels the bruises etch into his skin. "Congratulations," Seungkwan displays his master class act of sarcasm, "You want a cookie?"

“Why on earth would you tell me this?” Jihoon’s voice booms, proving his strength as he takes the offense, seeing the other’s feet stumble to find the ground beneath them.

“Because you’re not going to fucking say a thing if you want to stay alive. I know people in high places. I can snap you and your lineage in half.”

“She wouldn’t want this—”

Seungkwan palm crashes right by Jihoon’s head, missing him by a hair. “She doesn’t have to know. All you have to worry about, though,” he points at him, “is getting her free. Pin it on anyone, literally. A jealous maid, one of his mistresses, a rival client. My brother has more enemies than you can count with all four hands and feet.”

Jihoon fixes his shirt as the heir pulls away, disgusted as he dusts himself of debris that could’ve deflected on him. “It’s the matter of evidence, Mr. Boo.”

“Make some.” Seungkwan hisses before turning to the exit, satisfied with his threat, and stopping once he’s breached the door and leaving Jihoon with his bidding words. “Do your fucking job. Or I’ll just have to pin it on you.”

Jihoon scans his surroundings; the mess conjured in a fit of anger points right in the direction of the culprit hidden under his nose. A fiery rage burns inside the man as he takes his turn slamming his desk with his fist, raking his hands in his hair as his composure comes crashing down. Never in his life had he met someone of Seungkwan's caliber—rude and demeaning soon-to-be divorcees, sure—but nothing like the monster that marked his territory in that room.

His hands shake erratically as he picks up the fallen documents, crinkling in his hands as he forms fists. A shattered sigh breaks free. His heart hammers rapidly at an unmeasurable pace. Perspiration coats his entire body, seeping through the fabric of his clothes to show stains of his uncontainable rage. All Jihoon sees is red, and it will be a frozen day in hell before he relents you to that psychopath. He just has to be smart, and unfortunately that involves you out of the way. Your case—your freedom is still his top priority, but as Seungkwan so enthusiastically suggested, getting his hands dirty is the only way to do it.

The event goes unnoticed by the owner of the home, cleaning up your own mess upstairs in your bedroom as you shuffle through your things in your closet. You look over all the things you’ve left behind, reacquainting with items that only serve as reminders of everything that’s transpired the last few months.

It should be easy knowing he’s gone now, but it does not take away that he was somewhat present for your early adulthood. Whether you like it or not, Hyunkwan’s death affected you, but more than anything, it worried you about the future to come. And like clockwork, your parents call while you’re in the midst of collecting your thoughts, speaking only of the merger and how it now changes things.

Naturally, as next in line, Seungkwan would take his brother’s place in the executive position, keeping the legacy that was left behind, and it leaves you to maintain close ties. Because as the only living heir left, he holds almost power, it’s only a matter of time before he and his family realizes that your family has no place in the Boo empire. After an appropriate time has passed, and the investigation eliminates you as a suspect, it’d only be right for you to join your brother-in-law as his wife. Only your parents would suggest you plan the possibility of engagement as a future course of action.

Dread washes over you as you speak. You feared this would happen. Your parents, with their incessant need to control every aspect of your life, had taken it upon themselves to arrange your second marriage when the body of your first husband has yet to hit the ground. The fact that they have already booked a wedding venue, without even consulting you, is a testament to how little they care about your happiness.

Despite being a fully grown adult, you feel trapped in a perpetual childhood, your parents' controlling grip as tight as ever. Their actions are a constant reminder that they still see you as a child, incapable of making your own decisions. The suffocating feeling is as strong as ever, reminding you why you are hardly willing to talk to them.

Now, with Seungkwan around your house, your parents must be over the moon at the news. It works very well in their favor. However, you aren’t feeling as keen knowing what that means for your current living arrangement with Jihoon. While you typically enjoy Seungkwan's company, it’s hard to be excited with the weight of possible engagement and lack of opportunity to sate the longing of your reunited lover.

You miss Jihoon desperately, and being forced to be separate only makes you crave him more. You've resorted to unusual comms, using secret signals, and hiding your incriminatingly suggestive messages. The need for discretion and secrecy has become necessary, seeing as carving out any sliver of alone time with Jihoon has been impossible because of Seungkwan's constant presence. This boy is an innocent bystander in all this mess. If anything, you feel bad that Seungkwan got so heavily involved, considering he had just lost his only brother. He must feel so down under that happy facade.

“Are you incompetent or plain fucking stupid?”

The voice, chillingly familiar yet unnerving in its unexpected proximity as you take the route to the stairs, blaring loud enough to be coherent from just behind a tightly shut guest room door. It sends a shiver down your spine, a voice you recognize but can't immediately place.

“What’s it going to take to get some real fucking progress…Yes, I gave him a warning. Are you an idiot?”

Your breath catches in your throat while your feet freeze in place. Every muscle tenses as you strain to decipher the torrent of words erupting from the other side of the door. Their voice is so alive with an intemperate anger, each syllable dripping with bitterness. This is a side of your brother-in-law you have never encountered before, something you’d never associate with the man you thought you knew so well.

You cling to the door, careful to avoid making a sound, and listen as the angry ramblings continue. The words paint a picture of a man who apparently is still a stranger to you, a far cry from the Seungkwan who always was kind and sweet to you as someone who was family only by obligation. You can't help but wonder what you have missed to not know this side of him.

This is the man who always seems to have everything under control and gets everything he wants, now unraveling before you.

Boo Seungkwan, just what is going on inside that head?

Before the proposal…

"The butler did it." 

You playfully throw a popcorn kernel at him. "You don't know that!"

"It's always the butler," Jihoon retorts dryly, his voice deep and resonant.

This is one of your many cherished weekends spent with Jihoon. Whether it is curled up with a good book, enjoying peaceful slumber, or as is the case tonight, debating between mystery movies and true crime documentaries, your time together is always precious. Tonight, you were in the mood for a suspenseful mystery, something to keep you on the edge of your seat.

"This is all so predictable," Jihoon sighs, feigning boredom.

"Oh, stop being such a Negative Nancy and just enjoy the movie, will you?" you playfully chide, snuggling closer to him on the couch, seeking to dispel his discontent. 

You know, despite his critiques, he’s enjoying this more than he lets on because of your company. As he’s told you before, movie night is never boring with you around. You nuzzle your head into his shoulder, and the clean scent of his soap and his radiating warmth puts you at ease. You feel the warmth of his chin resting on your head; it’s comforting weight making you melt deeper in his touch. His chuckle rumbles through his chest, making his body vibrate pleasantly against yours, and you feel a content smile tug at your lips. 

"It's kinda hard to enjoy the movie when the camera keeps zooming in on a naked torso every five minutes," he snorts.

"Sexy suspects make for a sexy murder mystery." you retort, a playful glint in your eyes.

"Whatever they're being paid, it's not enough."

You both continue to exchange witty remarks as the movie progresses, dissecting the plot and playfully mocking the characters' over-the-top reactions. Jihoon's playful commentary and your shared laughter fill the room. The suspenseful twists and turns keep you both engaged, invested even, and you both feel at peace in each other’s presence.

"Huh, so it wasn't the butler." 

You shake your head, overflowing with pride. "Nope, everyone always dismisses my most innocent looking one," you reply with a smug grin. "The brother had all the motive, and he played the victim perfectly." You turn to your boyfriend, a mischievous glint in your eyes. “If you were in the midst of a murder crime scene, how would you prove your innocence? Do you think you could outsmart the detective or shift suspicion onto the others?

He scoffs, confidently answering, "I wouldn't need to.”

You raise a brow. "What do you mean?"

"Once you're in the game long enough, that's when the pressure hits," Jihoon explains, crossing his arms and huffing his chest. "They will start pointing fingers, and the 'culprit' will either reveal themselves or look guilty enough just to be guilty. Innocence doesn't matter as much as perception."

"Wow, you're more cynical than I thought," you note with a hint of intrigue. "Is it weird that I find you hotter for that now?"

Jihoon chuckles, his eyes softening as he leans in to kiss you. "You're such a weirdo," he murmurs against your lips, his voice filled with affection, soon reveling in the moans that fill his mouth.

The movie's final scene flickers on the screen, the volume a soft murmur in the background. Neither of you pays it any attention, your lips meeting each other endlessly as his arm clutches your backside, pressing your bodies together. The heat of his body and the steadily growing rhythm of his heartbeat lulling you into a sense of peace and contentment as the flickering light of the screen casts dancing shadows on the walls, and you bask in its warmth.

"You know," you begin to say in an unserious tone as you pull away slightly, "even if you did kill someone...I wouldn't let you get caught."

Jihoon arches a brow, his eyes twinkling with amusement, and he parts your hair away from your face. "If I kill someone, you run in the other direction. I'm bloodthirsty, remember?"

With playful indignation, you inch away and retort, “Are you saying you’d run from me if I killed someone?"

He pauses, considering your question with mock seriousness. His hands have a mind of their own as he reels you back towards him to hold you in a firm embrace, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Well...you're too sexy to give up to the cops."

You laugh, lightly punching his arm. "Mr. Lawyer! Where is your sense of justice?"

He shrugs, nuzzling his nose against your cheek, "I'm selfish. The culprit can't be that bad if it's you.”

You cup his face, leaning into his touch. "You give me too much credit."

"No," he counters, drags the tip of his nose over the side of his jaw. "I just think I'd be happy to be your accomplice."

You let out a small squeal, feeling his breath tickle the column of your neck. "Oh, you love me so bad."

"Yes," he breathes, his lips finding yours in a kiss that has you explode from the inside, "I do."

The credits roll, and the movie's final notes fade into silence, but the night has just begun. In the dim light of the room, with the taste of his kiss still lingering on your lips, you move even closer to each other, melting into one another until it drowns out the next movie that automatically plays. It isn’t any mystery what other exciting events transpired that night.

Present day…

Jihoon has devised a plan for the impending evening. He just needs to get Seungkwan alone for just a moment to coax him to the point of threats, putting him into a compromising situation that could be documented and subsequently utilized as irrefutable evidence. The absurdity of the situation isn't lost on Jihoon; he’s never felt more like a cable show cliche. All the late night viewings of crime shows from childhood up until now has caught up with him, and finally he’s making use of their unorthodox, bizarre methods.

Ever since that unnerving confrontation with Seungkwan in the confines of the office, Jihoon had been grappling with a rising tide of unease. And he’d had just about enough images of this psycho trying to get cozy with you when he was present. It’s about time Seungkwan gets exposed for the person he really is and keeps your name off the docket.

Seungkwan stands before the lawyer in the secluded area of the house, hardly occupied by anything but dust and untouched furniture. The young man’s usual sunny disposition is replaced by an air of annoyance. His arms are crossed tightly across his chest, and his brow is furrowed. "Okay, I'm here," he says flatly, his voice laced with impatience, "What is it?"

Jihoon moves cautiously towards the other man, feeling his heart in his throat. His eyes stay ahtead, nervously aware of his phone tucked discreetly into his pocket, perfectly positioned to capture the scene in front of him. He clears his throat, "There's something I'm failing to understand," he begins, his tone measured but firm.

Seungkwan's response is sharp, his tone dripping with sarcasm as he lets out an arrogant scoff. "You mean like work ethic?"

His gaze locks onto the other man's face. "I just want to know…why and how?" His tone remains polite, but an undeniable edge that makes the young heir’s intimidating mask reveal an irreparable crack.

“What are you talking about, Lee?”

Seungkwan's face contorts with a crooked smile. His eyes narrow as he glares at Jihoon. The question that hangs in the air, although vague, conveys its meaning and its clear intent of the response it is to receive. Seungkwan's jaw clenched, his body language screaming his contempt. He knows exactly what Jihoon is insinuating, and the mere suggestion is enough to make his blood boil.

The lawyer simply smiles, satisfied to know he’s hit a nerve. “My curiosity is just piqued. It’s not every day I come across a murderer.”

The other man cocks his head to the side, smirking. “Takes some balls for you to say that to me.”

Jihoon shrugs. “Just color me curious.”

“Why? Want to peer into the eyes of a dead man?”

It’s like taking candy from a baby. “You know that well, don’t you? Second hand at least. The same hands you like to get dirty.”

“What are you getting—Wait a minute.” Seungkwan storms over to the other man only to see him take a full step back. 

Suddenly more alert, the younger man's eyes narrow, suspicion etched onto his face as he scrutinizes the other. With a sudden burst of movement, he lunges forward, gripping the man's forearms in a vice-like hold. His breath comes in ragged gasps, and he can practically see beads of sweat forming on his enemy’s forehead. "You're hiding something," he accuses, his voice laced with certainty.

Jihoon strains against the other man's grip, his mind racing. He knows Seungkwan's reputation for pushing boundaries, but this is a blatant disrespect for his personal space. "Mr. Boo—”

However, Seungkwan is relentless. With a deft maneuver, he reaches into Jihoon's pocket and extracts his phone. A triumphant smirk curls his lips as he sees the recording app displayed on the screen. "You must think I’m a moron?"

He throws the phone on the ground before crushing it under his heel. Jihoon stares blankly at his evidence as it gets repeatedly smashed, the deafening sounds of the other man’s stomps rendering him speechless. Seungkwan grabs his collar, eyes wide with an indecipherable fury. “Plan on joining my brother for the case? How passionate. You must really want an early retirement.”

“Is anyone here?” Your voice echoes from the hallway, and the aggressive man is bitterly forced to release the other.

“Just in this room, sweetheart. Wanted to discuss something with Mr. Lee here.”

You appear at the door, swinging it open to peer inside. “I heard a noise and thought to check. No matter how many times I walk through this house, I always find something that takes me by surprise.”

“That’s alright. We were just enthusiastically discussing current events. Nothing to concern you with, just boring man interests,” he eyes the man he just previously attacked, “Isn’t that right?”

“...Yes. All is fine, Miss.”

"Yeah, but I hear something really loud, like stomping? Smashing?" you persist, your brow furrowed with concern. The sounds are so distinct, you couldn't have just imagined it.

Seungkwan pauses, his expression thoughtful. "Hmm, strange," he muses, feigning deep contemplation. "Perhaps it is an animal—"

"Oh my god, someone's phone is destroyed!" You rush over to the scene of the commotion, where an unsalvageable device lies smashed beyond recognition. "Does this belong to either of you?"

Seungkwan's face takes on a look of feigned realization. "Ah, that," he chuckles, "Perhaps we've acted more aggressively with our quips than we realize. That, my dear, belongs to—" 

"It's mine," Jihoon interjects, his voice flat. "Someone probably must've stepped on it repeatedly when we got in the fight."

"Fight?" you repeat, your voice rising an octave.

Seungkwan waves his hand dismissively. “Oh, sweetheart, he’s joking. You are just too gullible—”

"Yeah, we fought." Jihoon shoved past his assailant forcefully, his eyes blazing with defiance as he took his place beside you. "Seungkwan has something he's hiding from you, and before you—"

He takes your hand, grasping it affectionately, leaving you momentarily stunned. Before you could utter a response, another voice cut through the tension.

"Mr. Lee. This game of pretend is going too far. We had only discussed humorously if any of us happened to be the murderer. All in good fun." Seungkwan’s voice is firm, touched with disapproval, as the light started slowly leaving his eyes.

"Kwan? What—"

"Don't believe a word he says, Angel." Jihoon's voice was low and urgent, holding your hand firmer and taking the initiative to step in front of you.

Your eyes widen at your pet name, your heart momentarily stopping to take everything in. "Jihoon—"

Seungkwan's sweet, innocent facade wavers. "Angel," he repeats, feigning ignorance. The word lingers on his lips like a bitter taste before he clenches his jaw. “Does this collaboration go deeper than described, sweetheart?”

You gently wave your hand, gesturing for him to calm down. “Seungkwan, calm down. We—I can explain, but tell me, what is it both of you are talking about? What fight?”

Seungkwan's jaw clenches. "I told you, sweetheart. It's nothing," he repeats, his voice strained.

“No, stop changing the subject! What are you hiding from me?”

Jihoon's arm tightens around your waist, pulling you closer to him as he watches Seungkwan's agitation grow. "He's been lying to you, Angel," Jihoon's voice is low and cautious. "He knows exactly what happened to his brother."

“Hyunkwan? What—” 

Seungkwan’s menacing laughter echoes throughout the vast room. “You’re really pushing my buttons right now. Instead of the theatrics, I suggest you stick to your day job.”

"Seungkwan," you intervene, your voice trembling with disbelief, "you couldn't have possibly..."

"Of course not, sweetheart," he insists desperately, keeping up with his ruse, "As if I had anything to do with my own brother's death. That's preposterous! It's a farce. This lawyer you hired has clearly lost his marbles."

"Jihoon would never lie to me. What aren't you telling me?"

"...Jihoon,” He looks aimlessly in the room with a sardonic smirk. “ You’re on a first-name basis, I see."

"I trust his intuition," you assert firmly, "More than anyone else."

His expression hardens, a wounded note creeping into his voice, "How... how can you say that when... you have me?"

Jihoon had about enough. “He killed him, Angel.”

“Shut. Up.” 

"Seungkwan," you stammer, the truth lodging in your throat like a large pill. It's hard to swallow, but like you said, Jihoon would never lie to you. "You...you killed—"

Seungkwan smoothly cuts you off, "You're really going to believe this stranger over me, darling? And for an accusation so far-fetched? Don't stoop to his level of intelligence, sweetheart."

"Stop patronizing me," you retort loudly. "Did you or did you not kill your brother?"

"I didn't!" Seungkwan's voice booms, intensity burning within his eyes. You can see the sincerity in them, the desperation for you to believe him, but his composure momentarily shatters, and instead you feel a shiver run down your spine at the raw emotion in his voice. You look from Seungkwan's furious face to Jihoon's grim expression, your heart pounding loud enough for everyone to hear loud and clear. At a disadvantage, he uses the moment to take a deep breath, self-sedating. "Of course."

"Boo Seungkwan," You take a deep exhale. "Tell me the truth. Did you or did you not kill Hyunkwan?"

Seungkwan laughs, but it's hollow and devoid of humor. "You're kidding yourself if you believe any of this crap—"

"Don't make me ask again," you warn, your patience wearing thin.

“You might have to, Angel,” Jihoon interjects, muttering in your ear, “Looks like he won't quit.”

"STOP... calling her angel, you insufferable swine."

“Seungkwan!” you exclaim, heart shatteringly so.

Seungkwan's eyes narrow dangerously at the man in front of you. "All you've done is get between me and my darling here. How many times do I have to so kindly remind you?”

Jihoon scoffs in disbelief at how he can keep lying. "Did you give that same kind of mercy to Hyunkwan?"

"You rat ba—"

"Stop it, you two," you fiercely interrupt.

"Fine.” With a defiant glare at Jihoon, the accused grabs your hand and tugs you towards him, leaving Jihoon standing alone, losing his confidence seeing you follow after Seungkwan.

Seungkwan's touch is gentle yet firm, his hands gliding over your shoulders and then up to your head, fingers threading through your hair. His gaze holds a tenderness that sends shivers down your spine, but it also ignites a blind fury in Jihoon's eyes.

"I’ll tell you. All of it," Seungkwan's voice is low and steady, "And maybe then you'll understand where I’m coming from."

Jihoon takes a step forward, "Angel-"

"Enough, Jihoon." You turn to face him, your expression stern, "Seungkwan has something to say. Don't cross the line."

Jihoon's heart sinks. You have never spoken to him that way before. The sting of your words is sharp, the disappointment in your eyes even sharper. A sense of dread settles in his stomach, and he feels as if he can die in a hole.

"Kwan," you gently take his hand, "I'm listening."

"Thank you, sweetheart. You've always been so understanding." His voice is colored with a subtle desperation, a plea for absolution masked by affection.

"You're very important to me," you respond, your voice trembling slightly. "Anything you have to tell me, I'll handle it with the same care I've always shown you."

"You really are the embodiment of love..." His voice cracks, the facade of calm crumbling. "...which makes this all the more difficult to admit." He pulls you into his embrace, your warmth melting the harshness of his prior mood. His forehead rests against yours, his breath hot against your skin. "I did it," he confesses, his voice barely audible.

His eyes, glistening adoration now joined by teary guilt. "I killed him."

Your breath hitches in your throat, your lips parting in a silent gasp. "Kwan..." 

"You know I would treat you so much better than my brother ever could..." He drowns in his twisted conviction. "I love you...enough to kill."

"How could you—”

"It was the only way," he insists, his grip tightening on you. "And now nothing can stop us from being together."

Your silence, born of bewilderment, is unreadable. Yet, a flicker of triumph dances in his eyes, quickly replaced by a softer emotion as he misconstrues lack of protest with immediate acceptance. "Absolutely nothing," he murmurs.

He cups your face, his thumb brushing against your cheek. His breath mingles with yours, his lips hovering tantalizingly close. His surroundings melts all around him, leaving only the intensity of his  delusion that crosses the line with obsession. Just as his lips brush against yours, a single word shatters the spell.

“Except.”

Seungkwan's soft chuckle sends a shiver down your spine. His breath caresses your skin as he tenderly whispers, "Except what, my love?" 

"Me." You meet his gaze with an icy stare, your voice devoid of emotion. "I will never love the way you love me."

"...What?"

Before he can comprehend the full extent of your rejection, the door to the room bursts open. A wave of armed officers floods the space, their weapons trained on Seungkwan. "Put your hands up!" they command, their voices echoing through the room.

Seungkwan's eyes widen in panic as he raises his hands in surrender. You take a step back, putting distance between yourself and the man who has held you captive in his twisted affection. As the officers close in on Seungkwan, you can't help but feel a sense of relief wash over you. Liberated to be free from the clutches of a man that suffocates you with his ‘love.’

“Sweetheart—”

“Stay where you are, Boo Seungkwan. You have the right to remain silent,” the officer continues, unfazed by Seungkwan’s pleas as they run through the whole spiel necessary. The click of the handcuffs echoes in the tense silence, stealing his free reign.

“What the hell is this? Did you do this, Lee?” Seungkwan spits, his gaze burning into Jihoon.

You take control of the conversation before Jihoon can argue. “No, he has nothing to do with this. I did.”

“My love…WHY?!”

"How did you know?" Jihoon asks softly, his gaze gentle as the hardened exterior he puts up to hide his true sentiment dissolves.

"I heard him," A hint of a smile touches your lips as you meet his gaze. "When he didn’t know I was listening, I heard everything. So I set this up. For definite proof."

With swift, deliberate movements, you begin to unbutton your dress shirt. The room is plunged into a shocked silence, the only sound the rushed soft rustle of fabric as your fingers work their way down the buttons. Several eyes, including Jihoon, instinctively avert their gaze, some faces visibly more affected than others. A wave of murmurs ripples through the room, but one voice unexpectedly rises in alarm.

“Sweetheart, stop that right now!” Seungkwan commands in a cracking voice, choking through his tears.

You ignore him, your fingers stilling on the buttons as your attention is turned to the person most shocked from your abrupt actions. "Look at me, Hoon." 

Jihoon's face flushes crimson as he reluctantly relents to your request, staggering with bulging eyes from what he sees. He laughs humorlessly, not believing the extent you took, but of course you did. "You seriously-"

A mischievous grin spreads across your face as you carefully detach the thin wire discreetly taped to the fabric of your camisole, protecting your exposed skin from the cold, hard hardware. "It's not a coincidence the police know exactly when to come in," you declare triumph.

Jihoon's expression shifts from disbelief to begrudging admiration. "I should've known," he mutters, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Expected of a true crime junkie."

"But that's one of the many things you love about me, isn't it?" With a teasing grin, you hand the recording device over to a nearby officer before rushing into Jihoon's open arms and surprise attack him with a slap to his shoulder, eliciting a dramatic wince from him. "That was incredibly stupid of you," you scold, "What if he had actually hurt you?"

"Speak for yourself," Jihoon lightly retorts. Yet, he hesitates, the dejection he felt from your harsh act lingering. However, slowly and surely, he matches your relief and gently pulls you closer by the waist. "You don't know what could've gone wrong getting so close to him like that."

"But nothing did," you counter cheekily, tilting your head up to meet his gaze.

The officers tighten their grip on Seungkwan's arms as he struggles in their clutches, his gaze locks onto your figure, which is turned away from him. "Sweetheart," he chokes out in desperation, "How could you?" Tears well up in his eyes, blurring his vision as the pain in his chest spreads throughout his entire body.

You pause, your footsteps faltering for a moment before you step away from Jihoon, who stands a few feet away, cautiously observing your movements. Your face remains impassive,  masking yourself with indifference, concealing the turmoil if it existed. "You have to pay for your crimes, Mr. Boo Seungkwan.”

Seungkwan's shoulders slump as the reality of the situation sinks in. "Hyunkwan was awful. You despised him just as much as I did. I just gave him what he deserved."

Your eyes recover a glint of something akin to understanding, momentarily softening the harsh twists of your features. Your eyes meet his as you concede with soft sincerity, "I do understand that you care about me, and for that, I am truly grateful."

Your eyebrows dip slightly as you continue, taking a deep breath, and your expression shifts, a shadow falling over the planes of your face. Your mercy is indiscernible, and you are unrecognizable. “But to do that to your own brother..."

"I did it for you!" Seungkwan roars, his voice echoing through the room as he struggles against the officers' restraints. "I did it for us!"

Your gaze hardens. "It got me arrested," you remind him sharply. "There is no us. You were my brother-in-law, whom I found solace in and confided in. I thought you were my friend, Seungkwan."

Seungkwan's eyes widen in disbelief. "We're more than that," he insists, his voice trembling with suppressed anger, "We are meant to be together! We were brought together by fate, don't you see it? I should've been the one set up to marry you, not my brother! I love you."

You shake your head slowly knowingly. "No..." you murmur, "You love coveting what was your brother's: his house, his company, love and attention from your parents. And you used me as a pawn. I don't ever want to see your face ever again."

Seungkwan's patience snaps. "Why are you behaving like this? We are-"

"Alright, Richie Rich," one of the officers interrupts, his voice gruff and impatient, "Time to go." They tighten their grip on Seungkwan and begin to lead him away. His protests fade into the distance as the officers escort him down the hallway, A wave of relief washes over you as Seungkwan's voice disappears. Finally to yourselves with nothing to interrupt you. You turn to Jihoon, your face breaking into a radiant smile as you throw yourself into his arms ."I missed you.”

His breath hitches in his throat, and your confession burns his skin as his arms tighten around you. "Now, I'll never give you the opportunity to feel that way again." 

There amidst the flashing lights blaring from nearby windows and adrenaline finally dying down, you shamelessly melt into each others’ touch, comforted knowing there’s no one that can’t take this away from either of you.

It isn’t long after you’re relinquished from your suspect status, and you hear about the aftermath of the case. Seungkwan’s parents, devastated by the monster they raised and remorseful for the late Hyunkwan, refuse to pay his bail. The weight of their son's crimes presses heavily upon them, their hearts aching for the son they lost and the one they failed. However, despite the turmoil the brothers have caused, you hold no animosity towards the Boos. They had been caught in the web of their youngest son's dark, twisted deceit. With a heavy heart, you choose to leave them be, allowing the couple in misery to retreat from the wreckage of their lives without further retribution.

And the Boos’ continued cooperation derived from the guilt and gratitude, along with their descending reputation, your parents no longer find it necessary to push you into another marriage. You sense a lingering bit of regret as they finally surrender your autonomy, unsure of whether it's because of the horrifying situation they've forced you into or their unwillingness to let you go. You don't dwell on it and instead revel in your time well spent with Jihoon, using every given opportunity to make up for lost time.

Your relationship reaches new heights as he moves in with you. Leaving behind the dark vibes of your previous lodging, the new place feels quaint and cozy in comparison. It’s as grand as anything your parents would have provided, and that’s perfect for you. You envision yourself building a family here, reminiscing in the new memories you make over a warm meal or under the warm glow of the television—just as you dreamt it would be with him. Everything falls right into place. Days are shorter, nights are longer, and every second of it feels as if you've fallen for him all over again. You couldn't ask for anything more. Your heart feels so full.

However, there is one last thing you need to do to truly feel at peace. Something you know will gnaw at you if you delay it any further.

“Hello, Seungkwan.”

You speak sternly into the metal receiver attached to the wall beside you, connecting you with a beloved former relative. Your deposition translates well over the call, but Seungkwan still looks at you with a sense of yearning, visibly battling the betrayal that stands in the way of the joy of your visit.

Seungkwan smiles grimly. "My love, you look well. How disappointing."

Lacking sympathy, you retort with a roll of your eyes and a wry smirk. “I just wanted to bid you a final farewell in jail. Someone has to, not like your parents will.”

His forced smile wavers, the corner of his lips twitching involuntarily with suppressed anger, and any semblance of warmth portrayed by a congenial smile. "How incredibly thoughtful of you," he says through gritted teeth.

"Generous of me, isn't it?" You reply with mock sweetness, your taunting not lost on you. "Well, I've done what I set out to do. I'll take my leave now. Brother."

"Hey!" Seungkwan's voice explodes in the tense silence, his composure shattered. His eyes blaze with indignation. "You think you can waltz in here like it's the zoo? I'm not an animal exhibit."

"Could've fooled me, considering you couldn't control your bloodlust like a filthy animal."

His face contorts with rage, gripping the phone in a vice, and he speaks over you harshly. "You're not innocent in all this, sweetheart. Your boy toy will realize that soon enough."

You scoff, your confidence unwavering. "He won't, because you're the one behind bars. You're the murderer."

His laughter is hollow, mirthless. "Don't play with me. You wanted him gone just as much as I did. You even conspired with me, even if it was in jest... You and I both know it."

You firmly cup your hand over the receiving end of the phone, responding to his threats sharply, with no room to argue. "But he never will." You cross your arms with a defiant tilt to your chin, chuckling disparagingly at his loose temperament. You find it easy to add fuel to the fire. "Orange always was your color."

Desperation seeps into Seungkwan's voice, a plea replacing the earlier malice. "You can't do this to me—"

"Good bye, Kwan. Enjoy your life sentence."

With those words, you cut off communication, slamming the metal phone receiver against its cradle, letting it echo in the small, sterile room as you turn to leave. Seungkwan's enraged screams follow you, muffled by the thick glass and quickly silenced by the guards escorting him away.

Now, there’s your peace.