#JENO IMAGINES | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

luumiinaa · 2 days ago

Text

just when i was rooting for yangyang too 🥹

back to you — ten (two)

pairing - lee jeno x reader

word count - 93k words… (53k words in this post)

genre - smut, fluff, angst, enemies to lovers

synopsis — after taeyong’s death, jeno and those closest to him are each haunted by memories and ghosts, real and imagined, that refuse to let them move on. grief shadows every moment, but when an unexpected night brings everyone all together, the lines between past and present blur, and everything changes in ways no one could have foreseen. in the midst of it, you and jeno find yourselves pulled back into each other’s orbit, unable to escape the unfinished story between you.

chapter warnings — post college au, small town vibes, explicit language, explicit sexual content(18+), explicit themes, one tree hill inspired, early 2000s vibe, power play, dom reader/sub jeno dynamics (both switches tbh), rough sex, explicit language, this chapter contains scenes of emotional abuse, bullying, and targeted harassment that may be distressing to some readers. this chapter is the largest yet, it’s incredibly heavy and loaded, take your time, i’ve uploaded it into two seperate posts, think of it a special two part(er), read the previous part here, i can’t add much here as everything in this chapter will be unexpected and a spoiler, but you’ll see the new york gang having slay moments, you’ll meet baby haeun, many jeno and nahyun moments, you’ll see familiar places :), i wanna preface by saying i haven’t proofread anything and there’s a high likelihood that there’s some small mistakes (i hope not a lot), if it’s something where i’ve accidentally copied and pasted the same section twice then tell me, if it’s correcting anything or being annoying then don’t tell me. the pacing may feel unsteady at times, characters may seem unlike themselves, i tried my best with this chapter lol.

listen to 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 whilst reading <3

𝐅𝐈𝐂 𝐌𝐋

[previous, 40k words]

𝐒𝐄𝐎𝐔𝐋. 𝟑𝟕.𝟓𝟓𝟗𝟖° 𝐍, 𝟏𝟐𝟕.𝟎𝟎𝟏𝟖° 𝐄

The plane touches down as dawn spills across the city, washing Seoul in streaks of pale gold and bruised violet, colors slipping softly through the window like a memory bleeding back into place. Jeno breathes shallowly, his chest tight, pulse flickering quietly under the collar of his hoodie, fingers tapping restlessly against the armrest as the wheels skid along the runway, jolting him gently into a reality he’s been running toward since he boarded. Outside, the airport stretches in sleepy precision, bright lights punctuating the lingering dusk, glass walls shimmering softly like the city itself had stayed awake waiting for him, prepared to hold him, knowing he’d return eventually.

Stepping into the terminal feels like stepping onto a familiar shoreline after years at sea, the air sharper, the signs clearer, every announcement over the intercom slipping through him like music he hasn’t heard in far too long. His sneakers squeak softly against polished floors, luggage rolling past him unnoticed, passengers flowing around him like a current as he moves forward with only one thought, one purpose, one face he’s trying to find among a crowd that blurs and shifts and parts until suddenly, unmistakably, he sees Mark.

His brother stands still in the chaos of reunion, head slightly tilted, gaze steady, a quiet grin starting to break the corners of his mouth open, and then he’s moving fast, arms already widening as they collide. Mark pulls him tight, tighter than Jeno expects, wrapping him into a hug fierce enough to break something loose in his chest, the weight of silence and distance dissolving between them like it never existed at all. Jeno clings back, fingers knotted into Mark’s jacket, eyes closed tight, the scent of his brother’s familiar cologne grounding him instantly, sharply, reassuringly. “You’re home,” Mark says quietly, voice catching slightly. “God, you’re actually home.”

The drive to Mark’s apartment feels surreal, the city streets gliding past the windows in smooth, rhythmic pulses of light and shadow, neon signs blinking lazily awake, the Han River glittering dark and gentle beneath bridges that feel more like memories than structures. Mark drives with one hand loose on the wheel, the other elbow leaning casually out the window, glancing sideways at Jeno with a smile still faintly lingering around his lips.

“How long has it been, man?” Mark finally says, breaking the quiet that had settled comfortably between them. “Feels like forever.”

“Too long,” Jeno replies softly, voice low, eyes fixed out the window, drinking in every building, every street lamp, every faded sign, and feeling each one settle softly in his chest. “You look good, Mark. You look happy, like you’re glowing.”

Mark chuckles, shaking his head slightly like he’s brushing off the weight of something heavier, but the sound doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He glances sideways at Jeno, meaning to tease him again, to keep the moment light, but the joke falters before it can rise. His smile softens, brow drawing faintly, gaze catching on the curve of Jeno’s profile—the set of his jaw sharper than before, the skin beneath his eyes a little darker, like time had pressed too hard and too fast. He’s still Jeno. Still handsome, still cut from the same impossible angles. But there’s no spark behind it. No glow. No light humming in his presence like there used to be.

The weight of it lands in Mark’s chest like a bruise swelling too slow to notice all at once. He remembers the way Jeno used to shine—bright, reckless, golden, the kind of boy who lit up rooms without knowing, who kissed with all his teeth showing and laughed like nothing could break him. He remembers the version of him that only existed around you. The softness in his voice when he said your name. The way his eyes followed you like they already knew the story and just wanted to live inside it. The way he smiled without needing a reason.

He took that for granted. That glow. That light. That boy.

And now, sitting beside him, Mark sees the man that was left behind. Beautiful still, stoic, whole in shape. But dulled, like a blade sheathed too long in grief and silence. The change is quiet, devastating in its subtlety, like realizing you’ve forgotten the sound of something you used to love. His posture is the same, his features sharp and familiar, but there’s a hollowness beneath it, an eerie stillness to the way he sits—like he’s holding his breath through every second. His voice lowers, steady but caught on something raw, something he’s trying to keep from unraveling. “Yeah,” he says again, barely more than a whisper now, eyes dragging across Jeno’s face. “One of us had to start making better choices eventually.”

Jeno laughs, a low, quiet sound that flickers and fades like the last light before blackout, a laugh that doesn’t belong in the moment, too easy, too soft, too far removed to be real. It fills the car like static—brief, warped, gone. And then he speaks over the silence Mark didn’t mean to leave. “Congrats, by the way,” he says, voice smooth, light, practiced. “Saw the post—Areum and you. It’s beautiful, the ring suits her.”

Mark realizes he’s not used to this version of his brother. He’s seen Jeno angry, guarded, and reckless. He’s seen him ruin things just to feel alive. But he’s never seen him like this—so drained, so shut down, like the fire’s been extinguished in his chest and someone locked the door behind it. It’s not numbness, it’s something darker, like whatever was bright in him had been pressed under for so long it forgot how to resurface. Like someone hollowed him out and left just enough to look intact. There’s a coldness in the car now—not between them, but wrapped around Jeno like a second skin. Like he’s already left something behind and the only thing left is a shadow that’s still learning how to walk.

“Thanks,” Mark answers after a while, voice softer, sincere. “Couldn’t have done it without you, though. Still got your texts saved. I reread them right before I proposed, it kept me from totally losing my shit, you really know what to say in moments like that.”

Jeno smiles slightly, leaning his head back against the seat. “Glad I could help.”

The conversation shifts, easy and flowing naturally into Jaemin’s post, the image of his daughter fresh and tender in their minds, the memory of her tiny fingers, her bright eyes. “Jaemin being a dad is the biggest shocker I’ve ever received,” Mark says, almost incredulous, half-laughing. “Can you believe it? Jaemin, of all people, has a little girl.”

“It’s what he needed,” Jeno murmurs, something softening deep in his chest. “He’s so in love with her. She slowed everything down for him. He used to rush through everything. Had a hundred things in his head all the time, couldn’t sit still for five minutes without checking a mirror or cracking a joke. But when he’s with her, all of that just… falls away. He doesn’t even realize it. It’s like the second he held Haeun, the whole world shrank down to her size and he didn’t want it to get bigger again. He watches her sleep like she’s going to tell him something. He hums when he rocks her. Sings, sometimes. Not loud. Just under his breath, like it’s only for her. He said she blinked at him once and he cried for fifteen minutes in the kitchen.” Jeno’s mouth twitches slightly, but it doesn’t become a smile. “She’s got his whole heart already. And she doesn’t even know it. That’s the part that kills me. She doesn’t have to try. She doesn’t have to do anything. He just looks at her like she’s the only thing that ever made sense.”

“Yeah,” Mark agrees softly, a quiet pause stretching between them as the car moves steadily through early-morning streets. “Changes things, doesn’t it? Makes everything else feel smaller.” He taps his fingers lightly against the wheel, gaze drifting forward, voice softening further. “Areum and I talked about it the other night. For the first time, like… seriously. Not just in passing, not in that ‘someday’ kind of way. We were lying in bed and she asked me what I thought our babies' laugh would sound like—our kid’s. I couldn’t stop thinking about it after that.” He lets out a quiet breath, almost a laugh, almost something more. “I keep picturing her holding someone tiny, like a real person, a real part of us. I didn’t know I wanted that but I do. I want to give that to her.”

Inevitably, the topic neither has touched yet rising like mist—Taeyong. Jeno shifts slightly, clears his throat once, eyes lowering. “Remember when he used to pit me against you? It started during our little league days. He’d taunt me, he’d say if I didn’t hit harder than you then I wasn’t working hard enough. If I couldn’t outrun you, I didn’t deserve to lead. We were eight, Jeno.”

Jeno’s head turns slightly, but he doesn’t speak.

“I remember one morning—you missed a catch in the outfield, and he told me if I didn’t outshine you by the end of the week, he’d pull me from the starting lineup, he wasn’t even the Coach but he knew the power he had.” Mark laughs under his breath, but there’s no humor in it. “I was a fucking kid too, but I wasn’t allowed to be your brother, he trained us into becoming enemies.”

Jeno swallows, voice quiet but firm. “He just wanted to push us. He thought we’d make each other stronger.”

“No,” Mark says, eyes sharp now, hands white-knuckled. “He didn’t want us to ‘make each other’ anything. He wanted me to beat you and he wanted you to beat me. He never wanted us to love each other, he just wanted us to measure each other. And we both lived by it for way too fucking long.”

Jeno closes his eyes slowly, lids drawn tight like the darkness behind them might soften the weight of what Mark just said. His jaw flexes once, twice, and his fingers curl into the fabric of his jeans as if grounding himself in something real might keep everything else from caving in. The air in the car thickens. He exhales through his nose, long and quiet, and when he finally speaks, his voice is low and raw, like it’s been scraped out of him. “He’s dead, Mark.” The words fall like stone. “He’s dead. And you’re still talking about him like he’s standing on the fucking sidelines taking notes.”

He turns his face toward the window again, the light catching the edge of his cheekbone, cold and clean. “I get it, he was cruel and made us compete. He broke shit we’re still trying to fix. But I can’t—I can’t keep dragging him behind me like he’s still watching. I already buried him once. I’m not gonna dig him up every time we talk about who we are.” His breath catches slightly, the truth splintering through. “He’s still my father and it’s obvious we both had a very different relationship with him but I still—” He stops. Swallows. His voice falters and turns sharp again. “It doesn’t matter.”

He presses his knuckles to his mouth, blinking hard once. “He’s dead, and it still fucking matters.”

His throat works hard around the weight sitting in it, and when he speaks next, it catches halfway out of him. “I bet you regret giving him your kidney.” The words hit the air like ice cracking over deep water—quiet, sudden, irreversible. Jeno doesn’t look at Mark when he says it, but his voice has already betrayed him, thin and cracking at the edges, like he’s still trying to claw the sentence back as it lands.

“I didn’t do it for him,” Mark says, and his voice is calm, but underneath it there’s something tangled—something bitter and loving and old. “You know that, right? I did it for you,” Mark continues. “I did it so you wouldn’t have to, I knew you weren't a match but even if you were I still would’ve done it. Just so he wouldn’t look at you like you owed him something else. He already took enough from you. I didn’t want him to take your body too.”

His hands drop into his lap, fingers tangled, still trembling faintly. “I kept thinking, when he was dying, when everything started shutting down, I kept thinking you’d wish you hadn’t saved him. That if you knew how it would end, you’d want the kidney back.”

Mark lets out a slow breath, shoulders tightening, then easing. “I still would’ve done it to prove a point. That I would be better. That I could give him something he didn’t deserve and still walk out of that hospital with my head up. It was one final choice that was mine. He made my life hell when he left my Mother so I made sure he got a piece of me, and I walked away knowing he’d have to live with the fact that the son he tried to erase was the one who kept him alive. In all honesty, I didn’t expect him to die, I didn’t expect him to go out like that. I thought he had more time.”

Mark exhales through a laugh, the kind that frays at the edge of something darker. “Or maybe,” he says, flashing Jeno a crooked smile, “I felt guilty about how I treated him at the wedding—thought I killed him with a punch and panicked, figured the least I could do was keep him alive long enough to die on his own terms. You know, poetic symmetry. Violence, then charity.”

“I saw the footage,” Mark finally changes the subject, voice carefully gentle. “From the gala.”

Jeno nods slowly, gaze fixed somewhere far away. “Yeah.”

“You okay?”

Jeno doesn’t answer right away, fingers tightening slightly in his lap. “I don’t know yet,” he admits finally, voice thin but honest. “I don’t know what okay looks like anymore.”

Mark nods slowly, understanding flickering quietly in his eyes. “You will. Eventually.”

The conversation softens again, lighter now, moving onto Nahyun with careful consideration. “And how’s everything else? With your future wife?” Mark asks, cautiously, mockery evident in his tone that he simply can’t mask.

“Not sure about that either,” Jeno admits quietly, gaze shifting out the window again. “Things got complicated. Really complicated.”

Mark doesn’t push, just nods gently, eyes thoughtful. “I’m here. When you want to talk.”

Jeno smiles slightly, forced and strained, turning his face toward his brother again. “I know, I just don’t want to talk about her right now, she’s already blowing up my phone with threats.”

Mark lets out a quiet laugh, but it fades fast, the silence between them tightening again, dragging like a thread pulled too far. Jeno shifts, glances out the window, the tension behind his eyes sharpening into something else, calculation, avoidance, maybe both. He squints at the road ahead, at the turn they just took, at the old buildings lining the side street now giving way to open sky and rusted fencing. The breeze through the half-cracked window suddenly feels colder, heavier. “This isn’t your apartment,” he says, voice flat and immediate, the deflection smooth, deliberate, clean.

Mark doesn’t look at him, just turns the wheel with casual ease, pulling off into the dirt lot like he’s done this a hundred times. “Yeah,” he says, the word too nonchalant to be real. “I forgot to tell you. I’m about to coach the team in a half hour.”

Jeno narrows his eyes, jaw ticking once as he takes in the broken bleachers, the sun-stained court, the torn net swinging in the breeze. He doesn’t answer, but his silence speaks clearly—he knows exactly what this is, and exactly why Mark brought him here. The city gives way slowly, like it’s peeling back its newer skin to reveal something older, something half-buried beneath fresh paint and broken promises. Mark drives like he’s following a path only muscle memory remembers, turning down a narrow side street lined with rusted bike racks and cracked pavement blooming with weeds. Jeno’s jaw tenses without him realizing. The buildings thin, the noise fades, and the sky opens wider as they pull into a dead-end where the curb fades into dirt and the gravel loosens beneath the tires.

Then he sees it.

The river court unfolds before them slowly, like something exhumed from memory rather than mapped on any living street—each detail bleeding into view with the aching precision of a place too deeply etched to ever fade cleanly. The low chain fences sag with the weight of seasons, links rusted to amber where palms once pressed, where laughter once spilled over stolen hours and bruised knuckles. The court lines are nearly gone now, ghost-pale beneath layers of weather and time, but you can still see their shape if you look close enough, scars preserved in the asphalt, lines once chased like lifelines by boys who believed they had something to prove. The backboards rise at either end like monuments, corners worn to splinters, the paint peeled back in flakes like sunburnt skin. Nets hang in shreds, silver loops torn into limp threads that sway in the breeze like forgotten ribbon, catching sunlight with the last of their dignity. The asphalt is cracked, uneven in places where tree roots have tried to reclaim it, but each mark feels sacred, proof that something real happened here, something fast and ferocious and worth remembering.

The river curls along the edge of the court like a silent spectator, glassy and unbothered, reflecting the sky in long, broken ribbons of gold. It glistens like memory does, framed by motion, distorted by light, impossible to hold without changing shape. The wind carries the scent of old sweat, wet bark, and worn leather. Somewhere behind the chain-link gate, a basketball echoes against the ground once, then again, slow, heavy, steady. Not performance. Not warmup. Just rhythm. Just pulse. It’s the kind of sound that fills the lungs before the ears, the low, familiar thump of something that never really stopped, just waited long enough for someone to come home.

“It’s Saturday,” Jeno says finally, deadpan.

Mark sighs, dragging a hand through his hair as he opens the door. “Yeah,” he says, stepping out with theatrical annoyance. “That’s why we’re not at the high school court. The boys have been slacking,” Mark continues, slamming the door shut and walking around the front of the car. “Skipping morning drills, dragging their feet at practice, throwing up half-assed passes like they’re on a vacation. So I started dragging them out here on the weekends. No AC, no polished floors, no fucking excuses. Just the river, the rust, and whatever grit they’ve got left. We have a state championship to win.”

Jeno finally steps out, the gravel crunching beneath his shoes as the wind skims across the court, cool and familiar. He looks around, at the faded free throw line, at the loose ball bouncing once, twice, then rolling to rest at the edge of the paint. His eyes fall on the far end, where the fence was once torn and patched with zip ties, still is. “You bring them here,” he says quietly, not a question, more like an observation soaked in something else.

Mark grins, clapping him once on the shoulder. “Figured it was time they learned where gods are made.”

The ball echoes again—then stops abruptly, followed by a sharp bark of a voice cutting through the still air like a whistle that never needed to be blown. “Yoon Keeho! If you jog that slow again I’m gonna staple your shoelaces together and make you race a pigeon for cardio!”

The chain-link gate swings open with a creak and out strides Chenle, clipboard in one hand, iced Americano in the other, hoodie halfway zipped and sunglasses perched on his head like he thinks he’s the lead in an off-brand sports documentary. His sneakers squeak across the cracked pavement as he stomps dramatically toward a lanky kid slouched by the free-throw line, who visibly flinches before straightening like a soldier about to be court-martialed.

“Look alive, your slouching is contagious!” Chenle snaps, taking a sip of his coffee without breaking stride. “And if you miss another layup with that limp wrist I swear to God, I’m putting your grandma in the game and she’ll outscore you blindfolded—don’t test me!”

Mark chuckles from behind the car, clapping once. “Chenle, relax before you give someone a moral injury.”

“I am the moral injury,” Chenle mutters under his breath, spinning on his heel—and then he freezes, halfway through another insult.

His eyes land on Jeno, who’s still standing at the edge of the court, hood up, hands in his pockets, gaze dragging slowly across the bleachers. Chenle blinks once, then twice, his mouth falling open just slightly. “No fucking way,” he says, loud enough to startle three kids on the bench. “Is that—Jesus Christ. Look what the NBA dragged in.”

Jeno lifts a brow. “You’re still alive?”

“I am,” Chenle says, already grinning like a hyena, arms thrown wide as he strides forward. “You, however—Jesus. Why do you look like you just walked off a GQ cover and straight into a crime scene? Like, stupidly attractive, but also like you haven’t slept since the draft.”

Jeno laughs under his breath, and they meet in the middle of the court, Chenle pulling him into a loose, sideways hug that thumps twice on the back with exaggerated drama. “You better not be here to embarrass me,” Chenle says, pulling away with a mock glare. “These kids already think I peaked in college and cry during rewatching The Last Dance.”

“Don’t you?” Jeno deadpans.

Chenle squints. “That was one time. And it was the Steve Kerr speech.”

Mark walks past them, nodding toward the players gathering on the court. “He’s been terrorizing them for weeks.”

“I motivated them,” Chenle insists. “With threats and caffeine and sarcasm. You know. Coaching.”

Jeno smiles, for the first time fully—quiet but warm. “Same old Chenle.”

Chenle throws an arm around his shoulder as they start walking toward the court together. “Damn right. Welcome home, legend. Try not to ruin my authority in front of these hormonal disasters.”

Jeno lets the banter fade behind him as he takes a few slow steps toward the edge of the court, sneakers crunching against gravel until he reaches the far side—just near the chain-link fence where the asphalt meets the grass and the river stretches long and glassy behind it. He exhales, shoulders loosening, and sinks down onto the faded sideline like his body remembers how without asking. The ground is still warm from the morning sun, cracked in places but familiar in a way that cuts deep, steady and slow. He leans back on his hands, legs stretched out in front of him, and just sits there for a moment, letting it all settle.

The court hums with life around him. Mark is already clapping his hands at half court, barking instructions with that calm-but-deadly tone Jeno recognizes from every practice they ever survived. Chenle’s pacing the perimeter with his iced coffee sloshing dangerously in one hand, swinging a whistle in the other like it’s both accessory and weapon. Their dynamic is chaotic but practiced, a constant back and forth of good-cop-bad-cop energy where neither one ever agrees on who’s who.

The boys, predictably, are a mess of limbs and hormones and unfiltered commentary. One kid’s shirt is half off for no reason. Another is doing half-hearted push-ups while making sound effects from an anime fight scene. There’s a lanky guard with a toothpick in his mouth who keeps yelling “lock in” like it’s a magic spell even as he airballs free throws. A smaller, more serious one in goggles refuses to pass unless it’s a no-look, and gets increasingly offended every time someone doesn’t catch it.

“Mingi, if you pivot like that one more time I’m gonna revoke your birth certificate!” Chenle yells, slamming his clipboard on the bench. “And put the damn toothpick away, what are you, a Western outlaw?”

“I play better when I’m chewing something!” the boy shouts back.

“Chew this playbook, then!”

Another kid whips a pass that ricochets off the backboard with enough force to startle a flock of birds across the river. The ball bounces toward the fence and rolls near Jeno’s foot. He bends forward, picks it up, turns it over in his hands slowly. The leather is worn, soft at the seams. He stares at the faint lines where sweat and sun and time have darkened the grooves, and his chest tightens. One of the boys runs over to retrieve it, slowing when he realizes who has it. His eyes go wide. “You’re Lee Jeno.”

Jeno nods once, passes the ball back. “You should’ve caught that rebound.”

The boy’s mouth opens, then shuts. He takes the ball and stumbles back, whispering something frantic to his friend as he jogs away. Jeno smirks a little, just barely. He glances up at the sky—clear and bright and impossibly blue, the kind of sky that used to mean one thing: game day.

Despite all the noise, the teasing, and the threats of humiliation-by-grandma, it’s obvious, especially to Jeno, that neither Chenle nor Mark are cruel. There’s no sharpness in their discipline, no real venom in the jabs. They’re not here to break the kids down. They’re here because they care too much to let them coast. The boys have been reckless lately, skipping drills, talking back, playing with half the heart and none of the focus. So Chenle’s sarcasm has sharpened, Mark’s drills have gotten longer, and their patience has worn thinner, but beneath it all is nothing but investment. Every raised voice, every pointed joke, every snatched clipboard or extra suicide run is just a louder way of saying: you’re capable of more. And Jeno can see it instantly—in the way the boys still listen, in the way they watch Chenle with wary amusement and Mark with tight-lipped reverence. They don’t fear them. They just know they can’t get away with being average anymore.

He listens, eyes half-lidded, every breath drawn slowly through the weight of memory, the kind that clings to bone. The rhythm of sneakers against pavement echoes like a pulse, not fast but constant, layered with the low hum of teenage voices cracking through banter and breath, the exaggerated groans of boys who pretend to hate drills but never miss a chance to outpace each other. Laughter rings out—too loud, too sudden—the kind that spirals uncontrollably after someone trips over their own feet or makes a half-court shot they swear was on purpose. There are impressions being shouted mid-sprint, mock arguments about anime power levels, a kid singing the wrong lyrics to a hype song under his breath while doing pushups like he’s the star of a training montage. One of them moonwalks during suicides. Two of them are chest-bumping dramatically after a blocked shot that wasn’t even legal. It’s messy, chaotic, undisciplined—and it’s alive.

Beneath all of it, layered beneath the cracked court and the beat-up basketballs and the broken rhythm of drills turned into inside jokes, Jeno hears it again. That steady, quiet thrum that doesn’t belong to competition or performance. It isn’t about legacy or pressure. It’s something older, something purer. The sound of effort for effort’s sake. The sound of love stitched into sweat and laughter and showing up, again and again, when no one tells you to. It hums beneath the sneakers, beneath the noise, beneath the wind pushing off the river. A rhythm that once made him whole. And for one second—maybe less—he lets it break over him like tidewater. The river breeze trails its fingers through his hair, warm sunlight dapples across his shoulders, and the sounds around him—laughter, scolding, impact, breath—swell like a song written only for those who’ve lived this kind of life. The court shimmers with old ghosts and new chances, and Jeno feels something rise up through his chest so quickly it catches in his throat. It feels like being seventeen again, skin sunburned and heart wide open, lungs aching from too much running and too much wanting. It feels like nothing’s changed, like the years never passed, like the game still matters, and so does the place where you learned to play it.

And in that flicker of time—sharp and gold and aching—it all matters again. All of it. Every second. Every sound. Every step that brought him back.

Jeno sighs, barely audible, letting his shoulders drop as he leans further back into the court’s warmth. There’s a comfort in the silence, in pretending no one’s noticed him, in watching from a distance like he’s no longer part of it, just a visitor passing through the ruins of something sacred. But the quiet doesn’t hold for long. He can feel it—eyes on him. The shifting air of boys too restless, too reverent to leave him be. “Coach,” a voice cracks out, too loud to be casual, too dramatic to be real. “How are we meant to concentrate when Lee fucking Jeno is just sitting there like a Greek god in joggers?”

Jeno opens one eye, brow arching. It’s Sohee—tall, wiry, with a mop of hair that hasn’t seen a brush all week and a personality that swings between theatrical and unhinged. He’s mid-drill but frozen now, mouth hanging open like Jeno just descended from heaven instead of a black car.

Another boy snorts. “Bro, focus. He’s not gonna sign your jersey if you keep looking at him like you wanna frame his sweat.”

“Speak for yourself,” Sohee fires back. “I’m about to ask if he’ll adopt me.”

Chenle doesn’t miss a beat. “You want him to adopt you?” he says, raising an eyebrow as he sips his coffee. “Get in line. Half the league’s been trying to get on his good side for years and you think you’re gonna cut through with that crossover?”

The court erupts into laughter, sneakers scraping as the drill falls apart, boys leaning on each other, waving their hands like they’re fanning the moment away. Chenle throws his hands up, mock-frustrated. “Alright, alright, fine! Water break, all of you. Get it together before I replace this whole team with benchwarmers from Daegu.”

The boys scatter toward the edge of the court, grabbing bottles and toweling off. A few of them inch toward Jeno, hesitating like he’s a statue in a museum, too sacred to approach but too legendary to ignore. Jeno blinks up at them, then slowly pushes himself to his feet. “You done?” he asks, dry but not unkind.

Sohee salutes with his water bottle. “Sir, yes, sir.”

Jeno glances at Mark, who just shrugs, then back at the boys now clustered around him, eyes wide and sparkling and waiting. They look like versions of who he used to be—bony, eager, sunburnt, full of noise and want. He lets out a breath, looks down for a second, then back up, gaze steady.

“You know, I used to run these exact same drills right here,” he says, voice low but strong. “Same court, same river, same garbage backboards.” He gestures behind him, and a few of the boys laugh. “I used to come here thinking if I ran harder, jumped higher, shot longer, maybe I’d matter more. Maybe the scouts would notice. Maybe my dad would say I played well. Maybe I’d feel like I earned the jersey I was wearing.” The laughter fades. They’re listening now. Really listening. “But that’s not what got me anywhere,” Jeno continues. “What got me somewhere was never giving myself the option to quit. Not on bad days, not after losses, not when I was playing through injuries or stress or shit I didn’t know how to name yet. You want to win championships?” He scans their faces. “Then show up when no one’s watching, become the best player on the court, believe in the version of yourself that hasn’t arrived, the one that still feels like a dream.”

There’s a long silence. The breeze from the river lifts gently through their jerseys. Jeno runs a hand through his hair, suddenly aware of how quiet they’ve gone. He clears his throat, voice softening. “I don’t say that because I have it all figured out. I say it because I don’t. I’m still trying to believe in things too.” He looks at Sohee, then the others. “So if you can do that now, here, at your age, then you’re already stronger than I was.”

There’s a beat. Then Sohee, with absolute sincerity, says, “I’m gonna get that tattooed on my chest.”

The group dissolves into laughter again, loud and unfiltered, and Jeno can’t help the smile that breaks across his face. It’s small but real. A few of the boys drift closer, shyly asking for photos. Jeno agrees, and suddenly it turns into a lineup. One by one, each kid steps up beside him—some grinning too hard, some trying to look cool but failing, one even doing finger hearts while Jeno just shakes his head.

Mark takes the group photo, holding the phone high while Chenle yells, “Act like winners, not clowns!”

The boys cheer, some jumping, some holding up peace signs, a few whispering under their breath that they can’t believe the Lee Jeno is in their team photo. And as the shutter clicks, Jeno stands in the middle of it all, surrounded by faces full of belief, hearts still unbroken, and for the first time in a long time, he feels something settle in his chest that almost resembles hope.

Mark blows his whistle, Chenle is the first to leave, followed by the last of the Ravens who pile into rideshares and parents’ cars, voices fading into the wind until the river court lies empty except for two figures in the lingering glow of the flood-lights. Jeno and Mark stay behind, rebound after rebound thunking off the backboard, sneakers rasping across worn asphalt. Chill air curls from the river, carrying the faint metallic smell of city water and rusted chain-link. Neither brother speaks; they just pass, dribble, shoot—filling the dark with the lonely percussion of a game that used to mean everything.

Mark finally traps the ball against his hip, breath frosting in the cold. “She’s fine, by the way,” he says, voice low, flattening the words between them. “Doing better.”

Jeno catches the next pass and pivots without looking up. “I didn’t really ask.” He fires the ball; iron rattles, the orange arc misses by a hair. He curses under his breath, snatches the rebound like it insulted him, drives hard to the left.

Mark steps into his path, palms up. “You were never meant to end up with someone like Nahyun. You deserve to be happy, to be in love. You’re not fooling anyone with that relationship.” His tone holds no heat—just grief, worn thin at the edges. “Taeyong couldn’t have left you this trapped.”

Jeno plants, shoulders tightening, but he doesn’t lash back. He simply nods once and shoulders past, tossing the ball at the rim with unnecessary force. Metal rings loud; the ball caroms wide, skids to the baseline. Sweat glistens on his jaw despite the chill.

“I didn’t even know you were capable of cruelty,” Mark continues, retrieving the ball. “Not until I watched you pick Nahyun over someone who would’ve walked into fire for you.”

A muscle in Jeno’s cheek ticks. “Just drop it.”

Mark ignores him, chest heaving. “You broke the one person who never asked you to be more than yourself,” he says, each word sharp as cut glass. “And you did it because you were scared. Because you’re haunted. Because you think you owe it to our twisted father to finish his script instead of living your own.”

Jeno takes the ball, dribbles once—hard—then spins, launching into a savage fade-away. Swish. He lands, breath gusting white. “I couldn’t choose her,” he says at last, voice cracking like brittle wood. “I had no choice.”

“You always have a choice.” Mark’s reply comes fast, furious. “You just couldn’t face what picking her would cost.”

Jeno palms the ball, fingers trembling. “You think I wanted this? You think I look in the mirror and see something to be proud of?” He bounces the ball so hard it ricochets up, catches it, slams it again—each impact a confession. “Every day I wake up inside a life that isn’t mine and try to pretend it fits.”

Mark’s anger thins into something raw. “Then change it. Before you can’t.” Mark scrubs a hand over his face, the breath he drags in sounding heavier than the river’s current. “I keep telling myself not to be angry,” he mutters, voice cracked around the edges. “Because I know how trapped you feel—how Taeyong wired duty into your bloodstream, how every decision you make still echoes his damn voice.” He kicks at a stray pebble, watches it skip before landing in the dirt. “But it fucking sucks how hard she got hit in the crossfire. I’ve never seen Y/N that broken, Jeno—she looked like someone had taken a crowbar to her ribs and stolen all the light.”

Jeno’s grip tightens on the ball until his knuckles blanch. He doesn’t lift his eyes.

Mark’s sigh gusts white in the cold. “You can make it better,” he says, softer now, pleading almost. “End it with Nahyun. Step out of the prison you keep locking from the inside. No more living for ghosts, no more finishing Taeyong’s script. Just—stand up, take one goddamn step toward the life you want, not the one expected of you.” Mark’s voice thins with urgency. “Show up. Beg. Plead. Do whatever it takes. She’s worth every bruise to your pride.”

Jeno’s breath catches; the basketball slips from his hands and rattles off into the dark. He finally meets Mark’s eyes—pupils blown wide, a raw sheen swimming there. “You think I don’t get it?” His voice is low, spent, every word scraped thin. “She’s in my head every damn minute. All I want is her. I want her like oxygen, like I can’t stay alive without it. But wanting doesn’t fix what I did. It doesn’t make me the guy she can trust again. I already proved I’m the one who bailed when it counted.”

Mark steps closer, jaw set. “Then prove something else.”

Jeno’s breath hitches; he shakes his head once, muted, despair turning the edges of his voice ragged. “I can’t.” Shoulders slump, gaze drifting to the river where the lights blur into dark water. “She deserves better than a man who can’t outrun his own chains.”

Mark exhales slowly, the sound heavy, disbelieving, filled with confusion that’s simmered beneath the surface for far too long. He shakes his head, voice lowering to a careful whisper, “I still don’t get it, Jeno. I don’t understand why you had to get engaged to Nahyun, or how it had anything to do with Taeyong dying. It just doesn’t make sense—it can’t be that bad.”

Jeno’s entire body stills, spine rigid like he’s bracing against something unseen, something terrible. When he finally answers, his voice is hollowed out, barely above a whisper, layered with dread. “It’s worse than you think.”

Mark’s gaze sharpens, brows knitting tighter. He steps closer, searching Jeno’s face for something more. “Then tell me. Just—let me help you.”

Jeno shakes his head, quick and harsh, eyes darkening with something haunted, something he can never quite escape. “No,” he breathes, the single syllable edged with a tremor. Shadows gather behind his eyes, secrets bleeding out between the lines of his face—horrors buried so deep he can’t give them a voice. “Trust me, Mark. Some things are better left buried.”

𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐘𝐎𝐑𝐊. 𝟒𝟎.𝟕𝟏𝟒𝟓° 𝐍, 𝟕𝟒.𝟎𝟎𝟔𝟎° 𝐖

New York feels different today.

Not loud, not brash—just bright in a way that makes you squint, like the light itself is searching for something. The city doesn’t rush around you so much as it sways, like it’s letting you breathe for the first time in days. Cabs drift past the terminal windows like yellow brushstrokes, horns muffled by the thick glass. The metal frames of JFK shine faintly beneath the pale afternoon sun, that particular shade of silver only New York manages to wear without effort. It’s cool, not cold, just enough that your coat sits snug on your arms, scarf loose around your neck, the chill brushing your skin like punctuation. Everything feels cinematic, on the verge of something, like the city knows what’s coming before you do.

You shift your weight against the railing near arrivals, watching strangers fold into reunions, mothers reaching for sons, business partners shaking hands, a toddler screaming at the sight of a balloon. There’s something sacred about waiting in a place like this, something almost religious about watching people return from elsewhere. In Seoul, everything moved with speed, with purpose, nothing ever lingered. There, you were always bracing for impact. Here, you’re bracing for warmth.

And you don’t realize how much of it you’ve been needing until the doors open again—and you see him. There’s something cinematic about it, absurdly so—the crowd shifts just enough, and there he is. Duffel bag slung over one shoulder, hoodie hanging loose around his frame, head dipped slightly as he adjusts his earbuds. His hair’s longer than it used to be, grown into soft, careless waves that fall over his forehead and catch the light like they belong in a music video. His jaw is sharper now, shoulders broader, skin flushed golden from weeks under Southeast Asian sun, and something in your stomach folds in on itself. He looks like the kind of man people follow, the kind that should’ve slipped out of your story and never looked back. But he didn’t. He looks like a version of himself that should have moved on from you. But here he is. The world stills, just for a second and then he lifts his head. His eyes find you and his mouth curves. And that grin—soft, warm, shaped with recognition and something quieter than affection—undoes everything in your chest.

He walks right into your space, arms opening as he drops the bag without looking. You fold into the hug with a breath that feels like you’ve been holding it since he left. His coat brushes your knees. His arms come around your waist, gentle but full, and one hand settles at the nape of your neck like it’s supposed to be there, like he hasn’t missed a single beat. He smells like warm cotton, ginger and hotel soaps and the same scent that used to linger on his hoodies when you’d borrow them. He doesn’t let go until you do. When you pull back, your fingers brush the edge of his sleeve without meaning to. He’s already looking at you like he’s memorizing the changes.

“You look good, Yang,” you say, watching the way his skin glows under the airport light, the warm bronze still clinging to his cheeks and collarbone. “Thailand suits you.”

“Don’t flirt,” he murmurs, amused, as his grin spreads.

“Just being observant,” you fire back. You gesture toward the carousel as the belt begins to churn, the mechanical rhythm slicing softly through the terminal’s hum.

“How was it?”

He grabs his suitcase with ease, not once looking away from you, fingers curling around the handle like it’s weightless. “Hot. Busy. I did a digital detox, lived off rice and phone cards, learned how to negotiate in five currencies, helped film a local documentary with a group of kids in the North. Slept on five floors and one rooftop, ate too many things I couldn’t name, got food poisoning in Chiang Mai, swam in a waterfall two days later like I had something to prove. No Wi-Fi, no headlines, no real noise.”

His voice dips slightly, steadier now. “It was good for me. Like, actually good. Every day felt long in a way I hadn’t let myself feel in years, like I was finally stretching time instead of chasing it. The quiet made me honest. The heat made me slow down. I stopped checking the clock before bed, stopped refreshing anything, stopped wondering what came next. I just existed. And it didn’t feel like failing, it felt like healing.” He pauses, letting the suitcase fall back to his side. “I think I needed to get that far away to hear myself think again.”

You nod, lips parted but unsure what to say to that kind of clarity but his words cut your thoughts off. “I’ve missed you, baby,” he sighs, smooth and easy like the last six months didn’t stretch oceans between you. His tone doesn’t ache—it curls, warm and teasing. “Missed you the most.”

You arch a brow, letting your smirk answer before your words do. “Don’t call me that.”

He’s already stepping closer, unbothered. “Only if you call me daddy, I’ll stop.”

You swat his chest, half-laughing, half-exasperated. “You’ve not even been back for a minute and you’re already horny.”

“Mhmm.” He’s pulling you in again, arms sliding around you, hand rising to cradle the back of your neck, forehead pressing lightly into your shoulder. It’s instinctual. Slower this time, more grounding. Less arrival, more homecoming. He kisses your shoulder, then the space beside your ear, then rests his forehead against yours with a quiet sigh. His breath warms your cheek. His presence settles against your chest. He calls you something you’re not ready to hear, and it makes you want to laugh and disappear all at once.

There have been nights where you’ve moaned his name, let your nails scratch down his chest, kissed him like you meant it, thighs wrapped around his waist, your mouth open and breath hot against his neck as he fucked you slowly, deeper each time, whispering things like “you’re mine now, I’ve got you,” and you let him believe it. You let yourself believe it. You needed to. His cock fit like memory, not muscle, like something you’d held before and misplaced, and some nights, that was enough. You kept your eyes closed tighter when he was inside you, arched for him, legs shaking, the sweat between your bodies slick and silent, his name falling out of your mouth just fast enough to keep you from saying another.

Every time Yangyang is inside you, it feels like a reenactment of absence. Not love, not healing—just a borrowed body moving through the shape of someone else’s ghost. There have been nights when you’ve moaned for him, scratched marks into his chest like you were carving proof of your own distraction, kissed him hard enough to fake intention. Your thighs locked around his waist, your mouth hot against his neck, your breath sharp as he fucked you slow, deep, with the kind of rhythm that begs to be believed. He whispered things like ‘you’re mine now,’ and you let him believe it. Worse, you let yourself believe it too. Because memory is slippery, and his cock fits like something you’d lost before—not a new possession, but a returned artifact. Something once yours that had been misplaced and recovered in the wrong era, worn by the wrong hands. Some nights, that lie was enough.

You kept your eyes shut tight, not in bliss but in desperation, arched up into him like maybe movement could erase meaning, legs trembling, sweat gathering in the silence between your bodies. His name fell from your mouth at the exact pace it needed to, just fast enough to stop Jeno’s from escaping. And when morning came, when your cheek was against his chest and your thighs still ached, when his cum cooled between your legs and the sheets clung damp to your skin, you stared at the ceiling, wide-eyed and frozen, replaying the way Jeno used to say your name when he finished. Like he was handing it back to you with both hands. Like he didn’t know what to do with it, but he still didn’t want to keep it.

Yangyang fucks you like he’s trying to make a home out of your body, like if he holds your hips hard enough and presses deep enough, you’ll stay—like you’ll melt into him and never leave. Every thrust is heavy with hope, every kiss a question he’s too afraid to ask. He touches you like he wants to rewrite something, to carve out a future in the wet curve of your throat, in the arch of your spine, in the way your mouth parts when you moan his name and pretend it’s enough. But Jeno used to take you like he already knew how it would end. He never begged. Never held on too long. He buried himself inside you like a secret, slow and certain, like he was memorizing the shape of your goodbye in every inch he claimed. His hands gripped your thighs not to possess you, but to feel what he was about to lose. And somehow, that quiet knowing—the way he fucked like he was bracing for the ruin—hurts more than anything. Because he was right. Because he left. Because even now, your body remembers him not like a lover, but like a wound.

No one else has touched you since. Not really. There have been men, their hands on your waist, their mouths near yours, flirtation folded into expensive drinks and laughter you never felt. But no one else has been inside you. Only Yangyang. Only the boy who stays because you won’t let him leave, because he fits into the broken rhythm you’ve built in Jeno’s absence.

The first time you let Yangyang inside you again, it had been a year after Jeno had left, a year spent untouched, untouched by anything but memory—your own hands, your own guilt, your own grief curling against your spine like smoke that wouldn’t clear. You hadn’t let anyone near you. So when you let Yangyang in—really in—it wasn’t because the pain had passed. It was because it hadn’t. The room had felt as hollow as your chest had become, every breath you took barely filling the empty space left behind. You’d close your eyes, hoping darkness could soften the sharp edges of loss, that Yangyang’s touch might quiet the ache that still burned bright beneath your skin. His fingertips brushed over you like someone tracing careful letters into sand, his mouth pressed to your collarbone, tender but uncertain, as though afraid you might dissolve beneath him. And when he moved inside you, slow and deliberate, he felt like the tide gently carrying you back to shore—except you’d long ago drowned, your heart weighted and sinking beneath the surface of someone else’s memory.

When he finished, you turned your face into the pillow, holding your breath until the tears fell, silent and relentless, sliding over your cheeks and pooling at the edges of fabric. Yangyang’s hand rested softly at your hip, warm and steady as if anchoring something precious, something whole. He didn’t notice the quiet unraveling, or maybe he chose not to, and when he asked if you were okay, your voice trembled out a lie you’d practiced too many times. “I needed this,” you whispered, when every cell in your body was screaming that it was someone else you needed—someone who had taken pieces of you when he left, fragments you’d spent nights trying desperately to forget.

Because when Jeno walked away, he took the color from your mornings and the warmth from your sheets, left your nights endless and cold, your bones aching in ways sleep could never heal. You’d laid awake for hours, wondering how emptiness could feel so heavy, how silence could speak louder than the whispered promises he used to spill into your skin. And now, each careful thrust from Yangyang felt like salt in a wound that refused to close, like retracing scars that never stopped hurting, no matter how gently they were touched.

For weeks afterward, every time Yangyang’s mouth brushed against yours, every time he pressed into you and filled the emptiness, you tightened your jaw to keep the truth locked behind your teeth. You’d close your eyes tighter, your fists twisting sheets that still didn’t smell like home, biting back the one name that always threatened to break free. Not Yangyang’s—never his—but Jeno’s. Always Jeno’s. His name burned at the tip of your tongue, hot and bitter like regret, an ache you returned to like a bruise you couldn’t stop pressing.

Even now, each time Yangyang holds your body close, each time he looks at you like you’re something sacred and fragile, you feel the hollow place inside you growing deeper, a canyon carved out by someone who never meant to stay. And the cruelest part isn’t the way you still hear Jeno’s name echoing through your bones; it’s that every time Yangyang touches you, every time he tries to hold your broken pieces together, you feel the ghost of Jeno’s hands slipping through your fingers again. And again. And again.

Yangyang fucks you in hotel rooms, in the cold quiet of your apartment floor, in sheets that Jeno never touched. And every time, he holds your face like it’s sacred. Every time, he looks at you like he thinks you’re his. But he doesn’t know what he’s holding. He doesn’t know that when your limbs shake, when you can’t speak, it isn’t from being overwhelmed—it’s from grieving. No matter how many times you let him inside you, no matter how many ways you try to twist it into comfort, it never feels like Jeno. It never has. It never will. And the worst part isn’t that you keep trying. It’s that every time Yangyang touches you, it still feels like the moment Jeno let go. Again. And again. And again.

Yangyang wheels his suitcase behind him with one hand, the other tucked into his hoodie pocket, and you match his pace, the distance between your shoulders never more than a breath apart. You click the unlock on your car key and the soft beep echoes in the garage like a greeting. You toss his duffel in the trunk. He gets in the passenger side like muscle memory. The moment you pull out of the lot, he leans back and exhales like he’s been holding something in since the plane.

“So,” he says, side-eyeing you with that crooked smile that always threatens mischief. “How’s your boss era going? You look like someone who yells at interns with a smile.”

You scoff, shifting lanes. “I don’t yell. I just give firm feedback.”

“Firm feedback sounds like you told someone to rot gently,” he says, grinning.

You bite back a smirk. “I got promoted.”

“Yeah?” he perks up. “I saw something about that! There was this article—I think it said you left Apex, though. I was gonna text you but then I dropped my phone in a canal.”

Your mouth twists as you shake your head. “That article is garbage. Clickbait. I never left, I wouldn’t. That place is—” you pause, eyes still on the road but voice softening, “it’s mine. I built too much of it to walk away. I bled into that company. It’s everything to me.”

Yangyang hums, nodding slowly, the mood dipping into something quieter. “Good. You belong there.”

You glance over, just once, and his expression is soft, present, exactly how he used to look at you when you nailed something big—except now, there’s something else in his gaze. Maybe reverence. Maybe ache. “Speaking of wild headlines,” you pivot, turning the heat up a notch as the city blurs past the windshield, “can we talk about Jaemin having a whole daughter?”

Yangyang groans. “I nearly fainted when I found out. I thought someone was pranking me.”

“She’s the cutest baby I’ve ever seen. You have to see this.” Once you park up, you’re already scrolling through your phone, fingers nimble. You find the photo, the one where Haeun’s tucked into your chest, her tiny hand curled in your hair, and turn the screen toward him.

He leans in. “Oh my God. She’s got your eyes.”

“She’s not mine,” you deadpan, flicking your turn signal as you flash the photo.

Yangyang leans closer, squinting. “You sure? Because that’s a ‘my baby just discovered her toes’ smile.”

You snort. “I was literally just holding her, not adopting her. I think I’d remember being pregnant.” The words slip out with a laugh, light and careless, the kind of thing you say without thinking, without knowing the weight they might carry nine months from now, when the world will look different and memory won’t be as reliable as it once felt. Yangyang just hums beside you, the city unfolding past his window, and for a moment, it’s quiet in the car, the kind of quiet that doesn’t feel empty, just patient. And somewhere, fate smiles in the rearview.

He throws his hands up. “Hey, I’ve been gone for a while. Anything could’ve happened. You could’ve had a secret love child and launched a baby clothing line.”

“She drooled on my hair and tried to eat my ring. That’s the extent of our bond.”

Yangyang grins, looking out the window. “Stranger things have happened.”

You laugh, shaking your head as you merge onto the bridge, the skyline stretching out like a future too far to touch. “Yeah, well. If I ever forget nine months of my life, please stage an intervention.”

“Still. You’re glowing.” You laugh, brushing him off but Yangyang doesn’t look away. He’s still staring at the photo like it’s something he needs to memorize, like the image of you with that baby curled against your chest, your cheek tilted, your eyes half-closed, your smile small and unbearably tender, is something he wants burned into memory. There’s something about the way your fingers had hovered protectively over the screen, the way your voice softened without you realizing, the way the light caught your face like it was trying to preserve it. He doesn’t say anything, but the silence stretches, and you feel it before you see it—he’s imprinting the moment like it matters. Like it already does.

You notice it. “What?”

He shakes his head a little too fast. “Nothing. Just… haven’t seen you look like that in a while.”

You blink once, then glance away, your voice a little too even as you murmur, “I like babies.” You shrug, but it’s the kind of shrug that tries to fold emotion into something smaller, neater, something that won’t spill. Your fingers drum once against the steering wheel, too casual, like you’re hoping he didn’t notice the way your mouth softened before the words even formed.

The car ride stretches with low music and soft laughter, hunger blooming quietly between your ribs like a thought you haven’t said aloud yet. You both keep stealing glances at the clock, your stomach curling with the kind of ache that isn’t just about food. The afternoon light cuts sharp across the buildings, slanting into the windshield, and the city smells like hot pavement and coffee somewhere close. When Yangyang spots the corner café—small brick storefront, pale green awning, windows fogged gently from the inside—he points with a nod, casual and eager. “There,” he says. “Best cortado in Brooklyn. Don’t fight me on it.”

You pull into the spot across the street, cutting the engine. The café glows in the winter light like a memory that doesn’t belong to you yet—wood tables, condensation curling on the glass, faint jazz filtering through the slightly cracked door like something whispered just for those who know where to listen. Inside, it smells like roasted beans and caramel, like warm mornings in a city that’s always half-asleep. The walls are lined with mismatched art and the shelves are stacked with local zines and books with cracked spines. It’s the kind of place where secrets could be overheard and kept all at once. Yangyang heads to the counter, already half-charming the barista, his laugh curling easily above the music. You sink into the corner booth, fingers curling around your phone, screen lighting up like a trap. Three headlines stacked in a perfect row like a punch you should’ve seen coming:

Lee Jeno returns to Seoul. Raven boys say: “He never stopped being ours.”

A photo—blurry but devastating—Jeno in a gym, tie loosened, shirt sleeves rolled, one hand gripping the shoulder of a teenage player. He’s mid-laugh, head tipped back, eyes shining. He looks like someone who survived the fire. Like someone who was never burned at all.

The One He Kissed, The One He Didn’t Marry. An op-ed dissecting the Legacy Gala montage. Your image captured mid-kiss, held like a relic. The final frame that launched a thousand speculations. Who really got left behind?

You scroll. You don’t mean to, but your thumb moves anyway, muscle memory from a time when knowing hurt less than imagining. The comments load slow beneath the op-ed, flickering into place like embers too stubborn to die.

“Apex’s golden girl. You can see it—she still owns him. That isn’t just nostalgia, it’s unfinished.”

“I never understood how he moved on. Nahyun’s pretty, sure, but Y/N looks like home.”

“There’s a difference between chemistry and comfort. With Y/N, it was both.”

“You can’t fake the way he looked at her. Go rewatch the clip. That smile? That wasn’t press training. That was personal.”

“She’s not just a ghost. She’s the storm. And he still stands in the rain.”

They’re flattering, poetic even, yet every compliment feels more like a blade sliding between your ribs, tenderly cutting deeper each time you breathe; the more they love you as a memory, the further you drift from the woman they’re holding onto. They talk about you as if you’re suspended in that one perfect moment, bathed in golden light and glittering confetti, forever preserved in the instant Jeno looked at you and made a choice neither of you understood yet, as if you’ve never stepped beyond the borders of that frame. They don’t know you now—they don’t see the late nights when your office becomes a sanctuary, the desk lamp a halo, the cold dinners eaten alone standing in the kitchen with the city murmuring at your back, or how every call from Seoul makes your pulse quicken with dread. They don’t see how hard you’ve fought to become someone whole without his gaze to tell you who you are, don’t feel the weight of the mornings you’ve woken in sheets untouched by anyone else, hands gripping fabric to remind yourself of reality, pulling your own heart back from wherever it wandered in dreams. They don’t realize that while he left, you stayed—stayed building, stayed breathing, stayed alive long after the cameras stopped rolling but all they remember is the footage, the way you smiled, the way your eyes shone as he kissed you, like he was pressing permanence into your skin rather than a goodbye neither of you knew you’d already started.

And beneath it all, one comment sticks sharper than the rest:

“You can see it. With Nahyun, it’s posture. With Y/N, it was gravity.”

You lock your phone, not to protect yourself, not to escape the words, but because every line etched into that screen rings true in a way that makes your chest ache like a bruise pressed too long. Not because you’re hurt but because truth doesn’t arrive gently, it doesn’t cradle or soothe, it lands like a body in water, sudden and heavy and dragging, and all you can do is feel it pull, slow and certain, down through the spine of who you used to be. I

When Yangyang returns, he doesn’t ask what’s wrong. He takes one look at your face and doesn’t flinch, just sets your coffee down like it’s an offering, then slides into the seat across from you with the kind of ease only someone who knows you can carry. His knee nudges yours under the table, gentle, persistent, like a reminder that you’re still here. Then he says something stupid—something about the barista writing Yumyang on his cup instead of Yangyang—and the sound of your laugh comes out before you can stop it, cracked and too light, but real. He grins, proud of himself, and you shake your head, hiding your smile behind the rim of your cup.

He unwraps the sandwich you didn’t order but he knew you’d want, tears a piece off, holds it out to you. You try to protest, but he rolls his eyes and lifts his brows, and you take it because it’s easier than pretending you’re fine. He doesn’t say anything about your silence. He doesn’t have to. He just eats with you, bites and sips and casual conversation, his leg pressed warm against yours the whole time. And later, when your fingers tremble slightly from something you won’t name, he squeezes your wrist once and doesn’t let go.

After the coffee shop, the world narrows to two silhouettes in the pale hush of early morning, city lights melting into the windows as you drive home in silence, bodies aching for sleep that neither of you will claim. You shower side by side, steam ghosting the mirror, trading shirts and soft laughter that never quite climbs above the water’s rush. You change into clothes that smell like comfort, Yangyang’s hoodie swallowing your frame, your hair damp against your cheeks, the hour pressing you closer together, close enough to touch, never close enough to reach.

You collapse onto the sofa, limbs tangled, exhaustion heavy and indulgent, when he says, “I want to take you somewhere.” You glance at the clock—three a.m, it glows blue against the kitchen wall, a signal to most that the night is over. You could say no. You don’t. You let him pull you to your feet, let him drape his jacket over your shoulders, let him tell you that you don’t need to get ready or wear makeup as you’re already beautiful, you let him guide you down the stairs and into the dark city that blinks sleepily around you, street lights flickering in pools of honeyed gold. You walk together through streets emptied of hurry, your footsteps soft, your shadows braided along the concrete like a rumor. The air carries the taste of rain and old cigarettes, taxis yawning past, and the city’s insomnia tugs at your bones. Yangyang’s hand is warm around yours, steady, certain, and for a moment, you let yourself be led—if only because following is easier than choosing, and you crave ease the way some people crave air.

The riverside market reappears in fragments—lanterns strung above like planets scattered from old constellations, the hush of water, the taste of cinnamon and oil lingering in the breeze. You see your reflection everywhere, layered with strangers, with memory, with light. Yangyang buys you a dumpling, splits it with his fingers, and holds it to your lips. You eat because he wants you to, because it’s simpler to give him small victories than to tell him the truth. Yangyang watches you pick at your food, sees how you flatten your palms against the styrofoam cup just for heat, how your eyes never linger too long on anything lit or hopeful. He lets you drift beside him, arm slung loose around your shoulders, sometimes tucking your cold fingers into the kangaroo pouch of his hoodie, thumb sweeping over your knuckles in slow, unconscious circles. He tries to make you laugh—mocking the fried octopus mascot, teasing you for squinting at every price tag like a tourist—but the smile never quite roots, always fading too soon, your mind already chasing shadows that don’t belong to this place or this moment.

You both find a bench near the edge of the old dock, just beneath a tangle of lanterns knotted with red ribbon and dreams people wrote for a few hundred won. The bench creaks as you sit, wood worn smooth by years of lovers and secrets and the low thump of boats nudging the pylons below. Lanterns skim the surface of the water, bobbing gently, their golden bellies mirrored and multiplied until the river looks like it’s caught a thousand tiny suns. You lean into Yangyang’s shoulder, letting your body tip until your weight sinks into his, your thigh pressing hard against his under the cotton of his jeans. He breathes slowly, measured, and the hand that cups your thigh is steady, grounding, as if he could keep you from drifting with nothing but the heat of his palm.

And as you let him kiss you under the gauzy spill of lantern-light, you taste the truth you can’t voice: some people are made for chapters, some are written into endings. Yangyang is every gentle interlude, every midnight lull, every breath you take when the world softens and you almost believe comfort could be enough. But Jeno—Jeno is gravity, the axis, the singularity your life orbits whether you admit it or not. You let yourself linger in this scene, play your part, let his hands steady you for now, even as you know the story’s tide will always pull you back to where it started, where it aches.

Yet the truth cuts through the sweetness, slicing beneath the lantern-lit hush, coiling dark and certain at the base of your spine: just because you are tethered to a star doesn’t mean you’ll survive the orbit. Even gravity devours what can’t outrun it. Jeno is not a promise. He is every shadow you carry, every wound that refuses to scab, the ending that may never be written in light. If you find your way back, it will not be gentle. There are stories that circle forever, destinies that turn on themselves until they burn out. In this darkness, the future is no guarantee—only hunger, only longing, only the hollow certainty that love, when it returns, will arrive as reckoning, not rescue. Some orbits break. Some collide. Not every gravity leads you home.

Night stretches. The city stirs. You stay beside Yangyang, the placeholder and the solace, both of you bathed in borrowed gold. Somewhere, a violin bows a final, trembling note, and you understand: comfort is not destiny, and even the softest arms can’t keep you from the inevitability of your own return. He’s quiet for a while, just breathing with you, letting the cold fold around the two of you like a shared secret. The hush that settles between you feels almost sacred, woven from the gold hush of lanterns and the easy hush of strangers’ voices drifting over the water. Yangyang’s thumb traces slow circles on the back of your hand, his other hand cupping yours gently, and you feel the tremor in his fingers before he speaks—a nervousness he rarely lets show. He glances at you, then looks away, breath fogging faint in the night. His jaw flexes, tongue darting out to wet his lips as he gathers the courage to speak, eyes flickering to the lanterns and back to you, as if searching for permission.

“I want to tell you something,” he says quietly, his voice barely above the hush of the crowd, threading its way through the dark as if it was meant for only you. His fingers tighten around yours, the warmth of his palm grounding you, pulling you into the moment. He swallows, searching your face, and when he speaks again, his words tremble with hope and longing, gentle and unhurried, the syllables falling soft as silk.

“I think I’ve loved you for longer than I even knew,” he says, voice low and careful, as if the truth could slip away if he’s not gentle enough. “Since before I had any right to. Since those days when you still smiled at everything, when you looked at me like I was someone worth knowing. I know I joke a lot, and I know I never say it the right way, but I mean it—truly, I mean it. I’m so in love with you.” He lifts your hands, pressing his lips to your knuckles, holding them there for a beat too long, eyes shining with every word he can’t quite say. The world feels small, the night impossibly tender, and you realize he’s offering you everything he has, quietly, bravely, without asking for anything in return.

Yangyang’s hands find yours, gentle at first, fingers lacing through, thumbs smoothing over your knuckles as if memorizing the shape of your bones could make him braver. He stares at your hands for a long moment before he looks up, eyes reflecting every flicker of lantern-light, jaw set, mouth uncertain. He’s beautiful like this, undone and open, the usual mischief drained away, replaced by something raw and self-aware. When he finally speaks, his voice is soft, careful, heavy with meaning that vibrates in every syllable.

“I know what I am to you,” he begins, the words tender and unflinching, almost an apology whispered against the night. “I know you’ll never look at me the way you look at him. I know—God, I know—there’s a part of you that I’ll never reach. That your heart still beats somewhere else, for someone who left it bruised and bleeding and who you’d let hurt you all over again if he asked. I know you’ll always love Jeno. I see it every time you look away, every time you go quiet and I know your mind is somewhere I can’t follow. I know what it’s like to be the man left standing in the echo of someone else’s story.”

His hands tighten, possessive now, desperate to tether you, even if only for this one moment. He breathes you in, gaze moving from your lips to your eyes, lingering like he wants to memorize the way you look when you’re almost his. “I want to be yours. I want to have you—any way you’ll let me. I’ll live with the ache, with the heartbreak, with being second, if that’s all you have for me. I’ll take the pieces. I’ll take the scraps. I just—” His words falter, heat rising in his cheeks, jaw clenching before he continues, lower, rougher. “I’d rather have you like this, on borrowed time, in the hours you can’t sleep, than never have you at all. I’ll take you when you’re empty, when you’re aching for someone else, when you let me fuck you because it’s easier than feeling nothing. I’ll take the hunger, the loneliness, the nights you cry out for him and let me hold you anyway.”

He lets out a shaky laugh, a tear caught between self-deprecation and hope. “I’m not stupid. I know you’ll never give me all of you. But I’ll take whatever you’ll let me have, and I’ll make it enough, I’ll worship you the only way I can. You want me to be a placeholder? I’ll be the soft hands, the mouth on your neck, the one who holds you together when you’re breaking, the one who lets you pretend it’s love for as long as you need. I want your body, your hurt, your worst, your emptiness—I want the part of you no one else has the patience to survive. Even if every time I touch you, it just makes you remember him more. I want you. That’s it. I want you any way you’ll let me. And if it means burning, if it means starving, if it means never being enough—I’ll do it. I’ll do it every night if that’s what you want.”

He pulls your hands to his lips, pressing kisses to your knuckles, your palms, your wrists—mouth lingering, breath hot, his grip steady even as his heart thrashes beneath the skin. His voice is a shudder, a plea and a promise all at once. “You’re the only thing I’ve ever wanted this much. So please—let me have you. Let me love you, even if it hurts, even if it’s just for tonight.”

Tears prick your eyes before you can stop them, blurring the lanterns until the whole market swims in gold and shadow, softening the lines of Yangyang’s face and turning his confession into something almost mythic, almost too large for this small, trembling world you share on a bench by the water. His hands are still around yours, strong and shaking, and you watch the way his mouth hovers above your knuckles—hungry, afraid, willing to give himself away just to keep a part of you. You swallow, fighting the ache in your throat, your voice thin and cracked. “I always had an idea,” you whisper, every syllable barely holding together, “that you felt something for me. I could feel it in the way you looked at me when you thought I wasn’t watching, the way you’d touch my wrist and hold on a little too long, the way you’d laugh at my stupidest jokes like you wanted to memorize the sound. But I never knew it was like this, Yangyang. I never knew it hurt you. I never knew you’d be willing to burn yourself just to stay close, that you’d cut yourself open and bleed in my hands if I asked.”

You look at him, and something ugly rises, something desperate and raw, the dark kernel of need that’s been festering ever since Jeno left. You want to prove something—to yourself, to the world, to this man who holds your ruin so gently in his palms. You want to prove that you’ve moved on, that you’re not waiting for a ghost, that you are still alive and capable of being chosen, of choosing, even if it means lying to every part of yourself that remembers how it feels to be someone else’s. You want to prove you’re not broken, or maybe you want to prove you’re broken in a way that someone else can touch.

Somewhere in the quiet between your bodies, the memory unspools—how you first heard the news of Jeno’s engagement, the headline blinking on your phone like a curse, Nahyun’s perfect smile lacquered across every feed, her hand heavy with the ring you never wore. You remember the way your legs gave out before you even made it to the couch, how your breath caught sharp and hot in your chest, how the scream ripped from your throat, raw and primal, shattering the hush of your apartment. You’d dropped your phone, pressed your fists to your eyes, sobbed until the floor grew slick with salt and fury, the sound echoing through empty rooms that wouldn’t hold you. You didn’t eat for days, didn’t answer texts, didn’t open your curtains. You watched his face in every story, every pixel a knife, Nahyun’s beauty clinging to your ribs like mold, her name sour in your mouth. And standing here, holding Yangyang, you know what you’re really doing—you’re forcing the scales back into balance, trying to stitch up your own wounds with new promise, trying to prove to the universe and yourself that you can claim something, too. That you can say yes to the world again, even if your heart is still bruised, even if every “mine” is only a shield against what you lost.

Your hands reach for him, greedy now, trembling as you frame his jaw and pull him in. The kiss is brutal, feverish—your lips moving against his like you can erase the past, like you can scrape the memory of another man from your tongue and replace it with the salt and heat of this night. His breath stutters, surprise and relief warping into hunger. You tilt your head, mouth opening, and when he gasps you slip your tongue against his, tasting desperation and something sweeter, something that makes your pulse race for all the wrong reasons. Your hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, needing to feel his body pressed hard to yours.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, searching, terrified, and you don’t let him speak. Your voice comes out hoarse, ragged, but it doesn’t shake. “You can have all of me, Yangyang. I want to give you everything. Not pieces. Not scraps. All of it.” You force yourself to believe it, to live inside the fantasy, just for this moment.

He groans, surging forward, kissing you again, deeper now, like he can taste the promise you’ve offered, like he’s drinking it straight from your mouth. His hands roam your body, desperate, reverent, finding the heat under your jacket, sliding beneath your shirt, tracing the lines of your waist and hips. You let him, you arch into his touch, you let yourself unravel in his arms, and the crowd melts away until there is only the bench, the water, the two of you knotted together in the darkness. You want to be saved. You want to be ruined. You want to be his, if only to prove you’re not still someone else’s.

When you finally break apart, breathless and spent, he’s looking at you with a kind of awe that stings. You run your fingers through his hair, your mouth finding his ear. “Take me home,” you whisper, and when he does, you let him make you his. You walk home beneath a sky bruised with lantern-light, the city’s pulse quieting around you, Yangyang’s hand warm and insistent in yours, his thumb sweeping gentle arcs over your knuckles like a secret he’s been waiting years to tell. The festival fades behind you in a tapestry of voices and distant laughter, the smell of oil and cinnamon clinging to your clothes, the hush between you filled with things neither of you can name yet. Your apartment is only a few blocks away, the streets thinning to silence, storefronts shuttered, taxis ghosting through intersections with their lights winking drowsily.

At your door, you fumble for keys, the weight of what’s just passed settling into your bones—a tenderness stretched thin by longing, a hunger sharpened by the memory of other hands. Inside, the air is cooler, the rooms shadowed and soft. You drop your bag by the door, Yangyang close behind, hovering as if unsure where he fits, as if the threshold between friend and lover is as real as the floor beneath his feet. You turn, standing in the golden spill from your kitchen, the hum of the city curling up against your window. He looks at you—really looks, shoulders tense, lips parted like he’s caught between wanting to laugh and wanting to break. His hands are in his pockets, but you can see them shaking, nervous energy vibrating under his skin.

You step closer, heart tight, and rest your palms against his chest, feeling the wild beat under your touch. “Are you okay?” you ask, voice small, soft, aware that you’re offering something fragile. He nods, then shakes his head, lets out a breathless laugh that’s more fear than joy.

“I just—I don’t know what happens next,” he admits, searching your face for reassurance, for a script you both know you don’t have. “I don’t know what you want me to be. What I can be.”

You study him, eyes tracing the anxious set of his mouth, the worry in his brow, the hope that won’t quite leave his eyes. You remember every gentle thing he’s done, every moment he waited, every time he made space for your grief without asking anything in return. A tenderness wells up, heavy and bittersweet, and you reach for his hand, threading your fingers through his. “Be my boyfriend,” you say it softly, as if you’re saying something secret. “Be mine.”

He freezes, blinking hard. For a split second, you wonder if you’ve said the wrong thing, if the promise was too much, too soon, but then he’s laughing—quiet and stunned, a grin blooming slowly across his face. He tugs you closer, hands cupping your jaw, his thumbs stroking the corners of your mouth as if he can sculpt the shape of your smile, make it last forever. “Say it again,” he whispers, voice shaking.

You lean in, resting your forehead against his, the air between you buzzing with electricity, with longing, with the chance for something real. “Be my boyfriend, Yangyang. I want you to be mine.”

He kisses you, slow and careful at first, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he moves too fast, then deeper, hands sliding to your waist, your back, anchoring you to the moment. He laughs into your mouth, pulls away only to look at you with a smile so bright it startles you. “You don’t know what you’re getting into,” he teases, trying to hide the tremble in his voice. “I’m high maintenance. I demand snacks, I steal blankets.”

You laugh, and it’s the kind that cracks something open in your chest, makes you feel light for the first time in months. “I can handle it,” you promise, thumb tracing his cheek. “I want to.”

He kisses you again, softer now, the kind of kiss that feels like an answer to a question you didn’t know you were asking. When you break apart, he doesn’t let go, arms circling your waist, his breath mingling with yours in the hush of the apartment. “Okay,” he says, barely louder than a whisper. “I’ll be yours. As long as you’ll have me.”

You hold him close, your hands pressed flat against his back, your heart beating wild against his. And for this one quiet moment—beneath the hum of the city, the weight of your history, the ache of the love you’re still learning how to hold—you let yourself believe you could have this. You let yourself believe he could be enough. You let yourself believe in beginnings. Even if, somewhere deep in your bones, you know you’re still haunted by endings.

Yangyang shoves you back into the bedroom, lips crashing to yours with a force that steals the breath from your chest. You gasp, eyes wide, fingers tangling in his hair as he pins you to the wall, his mouth devouring you—tongue deep, hands greedy, rolling your nipple between his fingers so hard it sends a bolt of heat straight between your legs. He doesn’t pause, doesn’t give you a chance to think, just tears your shirt off, fingers scraping over your skin, shoving your bra up until your tits spill into his palms. He groans, drops his head, sucks one nipple into his mouth, biting and pulling, making you arch and whimper and beg without shame.

His hands slide lower, hooking in your waistband, dragging your jeans and underwear down in one rough pull, baring you, shoving your knees apart as he sinks to the floor. He pushes your legs over his shoulders, his breath hot on your cunt, and then he’s licking you with an obscene, filthy hunger—tongue swirling, lips sucking, two fingers pumping into you fast and deep, curling just right. Your hips jerk, your thighs tremble, your hand flies to the back of his head, grinding his face harder against you as his mouth drags you closer and closer. You’re moaning now, voice high and desperate, pleading his name, legs shaking as you ride his tongue, slick and swollen and wet for him.

He doesn’t let up. “That’s it, baby, give it to me,” he growls, mouth shining with you, eyes wild as he pulls your clit between his lips and sucks until you’re cumming with a sob, thighs locked around his head, cunt pulsing, wet and hot on his tongue. He licks you through it, grinning, nipping your thigh as he stands, his cock already out, thick and leaking, slapping it against your cunt, smearing you with his precum. “Turn around,” he orders, voice hoarse, and you scramble onto your hands and knees, breathless, needy, hair a mess, ass up for him.

He doesn’t go slow—he spits in his hand, strokes his cock once, then presses the fat head to your entrance, shoving in all at once, filling you so deep and sudden you cry out, clenching tight, fingers clawing the sheets. He sets a brutal pace, fucking you hard, hips slamming to your ass, his balls smacking your clit, every thrust rough and raw and perfect. He grips your hips, hauls you back to meet him, using you, taking you, making you his. “You wanted me soft? I’m not fucking soft,” he snarls, snapping his hips, sweat dripping down his chest. “I’ve waited too long to be soft. You’re mine, you hear me? Mine.”

You can only nod, moaning, face pressed to the bed, drooling, wrecked for him. He grabs your hair, pulls your head back, bites your neck, spits on your cheek, fucks you even harder, so deep you swear you can feel him in your throat. “You’re so fucking tight,” he groans, “so good for me, so fucking perfect.” His hand snakes around, fingers rubbing your clit, fast and ruthless, making you sob, making your legs shake, making you cum again, hard and helpless and loud.

He flips you over, manhandles your legs apart, lines himself up again and pounds into you, staring down, watching your tits bounce, your face twist, your pussy swallow him over and over. He leans in, kissing you hard, messy, tongue fucking your mouth as his cock slams into you, making you whimper, clawing his back, needing everything, giving him everything. “You love this, don’t you?” he pants, his voice a snarl. “You love being fucked like this, ruined like this, filled up and used.”

You choke out his name, nodding, pleading, begging him not to stop, legs trembling, body shaking as he hammers into you. He holds you down, his hand on your throat, squeezing gently, making your world narrow to his voice, his cock, his hands, his breath hot on your ear. “I’m gonna cum inside you,” he growls, thrusts becoming frantic, brutal, desperate. “Gonna fill you up, make you mine, mark you so you never forget this.”

You cum for him, back arching, cunt gripping him tight, tears in your eyes, mouth open in a silent scream. He groans, shoving in deep, hips jerking as he empties inside you, cock throbbing, filling you so full it leaks out the moment he pulls free. He collapses beside you, pulling you into his arms, both of you sweaty, ruined, breathless—your bodies tangled, hearts racing, marked and claimed and needed.

And for one bright, burning moment, nothing else exists but the ache of his name in your throat and the heat of his body on yours. You fuck through the night, need rising and falling in endless waves, every time you think you’re finished his hands find your hips again, his mouth finds your throat, his cock slides in slick and urgent, wrecking you until your body is a map of his hunger. The hours blur—sheets damp, sweat sticking your skin to his, mouths hot and bruised, his voice rough with praise and want. He takes you from behind, your face buried in the mattress, his teeth pressed to your shoulder, then flips you over, pins your wrists, fucks you slow and deep, your thighs shaking, your cunt raw and greedy, tears on your cheeks from the overwhelm of being filled, emptied, filled again. He eats you until you’re delirious, slick all over his mouth, his hands never gentle, fingers in your hair, your ass, your mouth. He tells you he loves you and you choke on it, the sound of his need mixing with your own, lost in the haze of exhaustion, bliss, confusion.

By dawn, your bodies are tangled and spent, your skin covered in sweat and marks, every muscle aching, every inch of you claimed, sore, owned. He falls asleep with his face pressed between your thighs, his breath a warm fog over your skin, his arms heavy at your waist, anchoring you to the bed, to the illusion of safety. Your hand drifts through his hair, a slow, empty gesture, eyes wide and haunted, staring at the ceiling while the city outside yawns and glows in pale gold stripes.

You slip out from under him, limbs trembling, heart stuttering as you reach for your work laptop. You need something to ground you, to pull you from the echo of sex and need, the world in the other room. The screen glares too bright. You squint, opening your inbox. At the top—an email marked URGENT, the subject line clean and brutal: Seoul Masterworks Exhibition: Lee Taeyong Memorial Presentation Invitation. You click, your fingers shaking, bile rising.

You read:

We are honored to extend an invitation to you as the public face of this year’s Seoul Masterworks Exhibition—an event dedicated to commemorating Lee Taeyong, three years after his passing. Your expertise at Apex Analytics and your visionary approach to narrative sports storytelling have elevated both the industry and our memory of basketball’s greatest moments. We cannot imagine a more compelling voice to present this memorial, especially given your own acclaimed series currently featured at the exhibition. Your work has set new standards. We know you can capture the legacy, the brilliance, and the complexity of Taeyong’s impact. It would mean everything to have you lead this tribute, sharing your story, your insight, and your unmatched eloquence with the world. You are the one who made the stats feel like fate.

You read it again. And again. Each time, the praise feels heavier, more suffocating, as if every word is a stone pressed into your chest. The email is full of flattery, but beneath the gloss, you hear the ghosts—every lie, every threat, every secret Taeyong ever hung over your head. His voice rises in your mind, low and cruel, blackmail thick as oil in your ears, the memory of what he did to you, what you did to survive. The screen pulses. You can’t breathe. Your hands start to shake, first gentle, then wild, your fingers slipping off the keys as your vision tunnels. You double over, clutching your stomach, body wracked by a sudden wave of nausea so sharp you gag. Your skin is cold and clammy, sweat slick on your upper lip, your whole frame quaking, teeth rattling as a seizure of memory and terror rips through you.

Taeyong’s name tastes like metal and rot, every syllable a curse. You see the footage—the old threats, the empty corridors, his eyes in the dark. Your chest tightens, air caught high and tight, and you rock, half-sobbing, unable to stop the panic that claws at your insides. You slam your laptop shut, gulping air, trying to steady your shaking hands, feeling your entire self collapse inward.

The cursor blinks in your inbox. You force yourself upright, wipe your mouth as you type ‘no.’ Your finger hovers, then hammers the send key. The word spits from your throat—final, cold, a weapon. You shut the laptop, let it slide from your lap onto the floor, curl yourself into a knot beside Yangyang’s sleeping warmth, shivering, hollow, every cell in your body buzzing with horror and exhaustion. The morning keeps getting brighter, but you feel no warmth, no comfort. Just the knowledge that you said no. Just the taste of old fear and new resolve on your tongue.

For a while, you do nothing but breathe in the stillness, the old terror still thrumming like static under your skin. The world narrows to the slow rise and fall of Yangyang’s sleeping chest, the sour taste of panic on your tongue, the pale morning sun bleeding through the blinds and painting bruises on your bare arms. You let the fear settle, let it carve you out, let it remind you how small and quiet a woman can feel in a world that’s been unkind. But the silence doesn’t save you. It never did. You know that now.

You close your eyes, and in the dark behind your lids, the memory of Taeyong doesn’t disappear, but he loses his teeth. His voice sounds smaller. You see the man, not the monster—the shadows he left behind, the places you’ve already outlived. You think about every time he used your talent and your pain for his own gain. You remember the old threats, the way he made you feel owned, a pawn, the thing in the room nobody listened to until the numbers matched the headline. You remember the humiliation, the blackmail, the coldness that followed you from locker room to office, from speech to silence. You remember the grief—but you also remember the rage. The injustice. The stubborn, reckless heat that survived every storm.

So you get up, feet raw against cold floorboards, and move through the apartment with your hair unbrushed, your face still streaked with old tears. You rinse your mouth, find your reflection in the mirror, see the ghost of a woman who once hid, and for the first time, you don’t look away. You open the curtains wide and let the light in, let it sting your eyes, let it demand you stay present. You don’t owe the past your shame. You survived him. That has to mean something.

You meet Karina on the rooftop of a café, clouds skimming the edge of sunset, wind tugging stray hair into your eyes. She’s all angles and poise in a belted trench, a paper cup cradled between slender hands, her presence a study in control until she laughs—head tipped back, mouth soft and honest, a sound that makes you remember who she is beneath the magazine gloss. You watch the city move below, nervous energy humming between you, until Karina breaks the silence with a story you never expected to hear.

She tells you about the year her entire brand nearly vanished overnight—a scandal she had no part in, an accusation that clung like oil, spreading in every group chat and backstage whisper. She’d spent weeks answering emails from people who only wanted her apologies, people who saw her beauty as a shield, not armor. “The hardest part wasn’t losing the contracts,” she confesses, voice pitched low, eyes flicking to the skyline, “it was believing that I deserved to be in the room again. I spent months feeling like a ghost, like if I spoke too loudly they’d remember I was still there and take that away, too.”

You listen, not out of politeness but hunger—a need to see yourself reflected in someone who’s learned to survive the glare. Karina’s words move through you, deeper than comfort, a blueprint for how to reclaim space that tries to shrink around you. “I had to tell my own story,” she finishes, thumb smoothing the cup lid, her gaze steady. “Even if they only heard it as noise. Even if it was just for me. Sometimes that’s the only way you get your body back.” For a moment, you let her words settle, breathing in the strange warmth of solidarity, the knowledge that even the women who seem untouchable are holding together at the seams, invisible but strong. She squeezes your hand once, hard, and you squeeze back—promise, pact, an offering passed between survivors.

Later, you find Yangyang sprawled on the living room floor, a half-built Lego set between his legs, his shirt riding up his back, laughter spilling out as he fumbles with tiny bricks. He grins when he sees you, all easy sunshine, and tugs you down into the mess with him, wrapping his arms around your waist until you’re both tangled, face to face on the carpet. He lets you lie in his arms in silence, thumb drawing slow circles on your hip, letting the day unravel from your bones. You close your eyes and listen to the thrum of his heart, his breath, the soft, aimless questions he asks just to keep you close—what you ate for lunch, whether you think ducks have best friends, if you remember the taste of lychees at the night market.

He says, “Whatever you want to do, I’m with you. Even if it scares you. Especially then.” His kiss lands at your temple, light as breath. “No one gets to tell your story but you.” You press your forehead to his, feeling the ache loosen in your chest, feeling the pieces of yourself slot back into place. Between Karina’s steel and Yangyang’s softness, you find something new—space to breathe, to hope, to dare. For the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe it could be enough.

You return to the laptop that night, heart pounding, inbox full of polite urgency. More emails have arrived overnight—subject lines blooming with flattery and hope, your boss at Apex promising support, offering to let you choose your own format, your own script, your own stage. “If you want to reframe the event in your words, we’ll back you,” one reads. Another: “We trust you. You set the standard. No one else can tell this story.” One from an old player on the Ravens team: “I admire your work, I still visit the exhibition and it’s one of the few places that make me feel like I matter. I wish I had that when I was a kid, I needed someone to have that belief and confidence in me.”

You scroll further—messages, memories, reminders of every life you touched in the quiet margins of your own undoing. There’s a new colleague at Apex, a woman from Mumbai with a nose ring and sharp, hopeful eyes, who writes, “I started this job because you made me believe someone like me could belong here.” You remember the intern, trembling in a borrowed blazer, who cried in your cramped office the day you vouched for her, your own hands shaking as you typed the recommendation letter that saved her career. You think of the coach, old and unyielding, who once said, “You’re the only one who ever made my boys feel like more than stats,” the way he hugged you with arms that still smelled of liniment and legacy.

Your mind conjures every letter from parents—mothers, fathers, aunties—who sent lilies, chocolates, a woven red bracelet from Jeonju, because you wrote about their sons’ injuries and recoveries with truth, not pity, and it changed the way the world watched them. You remember standing at city council podiums in Seoul, heart stuttering, speaking out for safe practice spaces when others would have let the courts rot and crumble. You remember the weeks spent lobbying with your voice shot raw, organizing girls’ clinics with activists who wore their bruises like badges, hands sticky from street food and ink-stamped flyers.

You recall running fundraising campaigns for athletes who’d lost everything—auctioning your own signed jersey, hosting open-mic nights where you played your battered old bass, promising sponsors you’d give them better stories, truer stories, until the checks cleared and someone else got one more season on the court. You gave speeches at feminist rallies, hair in a messy knot, your coat wrapped around a crying volunteer because the air was biting and she was still shaking from her father’s anger. You led seminars at embassies, stayed late to tutor athletes on their visas, wrote op-eds about systemic inequity that got you hate mail and late-night threats but also won you the trust of girls who read your words by phone-light after curfew.

You remember all this because it kept you breathing. Even on the worst days, even with your heart in pieces—broken by Jeno’s absence, by the violence of losing, by the rot of secrets and betrayals you carried like splinters—you still opened the door, still answered the calls, still filled the rooms no one had ever built for you. You showed up, body aching, voice rough, smile shaky but real. You found a way to feed every part of yourself that was hungry for justice, for belonging, for something bigger than heartbreak.

You think about the new generation—the girls on the bench, the ones building new legacies in your shadow, the ones who watch the old tape and see possibility instead of fear. You remember what it meant, once, to stand on a court and speak for yourself, to claim a space no one offered you. You remember the sound of your own voice breaking through the silence, loud and bright and impossible to ignore. You think about Taeyong’s memorial, about the way people want to rewrite the past, want to gloss over the cruelty, the cost, the blood price of every win. And you realize: if you walk away now, he wins again. He gets the last word. The narrative closes without you.

Your pulse steadies. You type slowly, hands steady now, the fear still there but shrinking. “I’ll do it,” you write. “But on my terms. I will tell the truth. I will speak for myself. I will own my story and every inch of this stage.” You send it before you can hesitate, and when the confirmation pings back, you feel the weight shift—not gone, never gone, but lighter. Bearable. You don’t do it for him. You don’t do it for the glory or the forgiveness or the legacy. You do it because the world tried to erase you, and you refuse to disappear. You do it because fear has a taste, and you’re done swallowing it. You do it because every time you speak, the room tilts back in your favor. You do it for every girl who comes after you, for every woman who watches and waits for proof that it’s possible to survive, to speak, to be heard.

Steam coils around you as you step into the shower, the hot water washing across your shoulders like liquid forgiveness, peeling away last night’s skin—its shame, its sorrow, its trembling. You let the water pound your back until every trace of old fear drains down the drain. In the mirror, the reflection is sharp—wiser, fiercer, a face that carries every bruise and triumph in its lines. Your phone buzzes on the dresser. You glance over: Yangyang still sleeps, limbs curled around the pillow, his rise and fall a gentle reassurance that you’re not alone. For a moment, you let hope bloom in your chest, fragile and wild.

You press your fingers to the cool glass, steadying yourself. You are not a victim. You are not a ghost haunting someone else’s story. You are the author, the architect of every chapter that follows. This stage, this scar, this microphone waiting in Seoul—it belongs to you. You will step into that light, grip that mic, and call out every shadow by its name—memory, history, consequence, resilience. You breathe in deep, the promise of your own voice thrumming through your veins. You have always been your own rescue. Today, you decide the ending.

𝐒𝐄𝐎𝐔𝐋. 𝟑𝟕.𝟓𝟓𝟗𝟖° 𝐍, 𝟏𝟐𝟕.𝟎𝟎𝟏𝟖° 𝐄 — 𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐇𝐒 𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑

Tonight feels like the night the axis tilts, the moment the city’s constellations shuffle themselves just to bear witness—a cosmic shift you feel bone-deep, every particle of you pulled taut between past and future, the sky above the ‘Seoul Masterwork Exhibitions’ stretch wide and tremble like a planet on the verge of collision. The air crackles with electricity, the hush outside swelling into a gravity that feels too big for your chest, your name threaded through the crowd like a prophecy that can’t be unspoken. Lanterns hover above the entrance like minor moons, casting halos on the marble, every footstep a ripple in the dark, every breath stolen from the mouth of something ancient and unseen. For one impossible heartbeat, the universe narrows to the length of your dress, the sweep of Yangyang’s hand at your back, the ache of anticipation threaded into your every vein. You are the event horizon—impossible to look away from, dangerous to cross, and as the world’s eyes gather at the threshold, you realise you are not just arriving, you are entering orbit, commanding the gravity of the entire room before you even step inside.

Outside the exhibition, the world has the hush of an orchestra holding its breath before the first note, every edge washed in the cool shimmer of evening, the kind that bends every streetlight into a star and makes the stone archway of the archives look otherworldly. The pavement glows underfoot, slick with rain that’s just begun to dry, reflecting neon from passing cabs and the soft gold of lanterns strung above the entrance like an invitation you still can’t believe is meant for you. The crowd is thinner out here but charged—a few journalists loiter near the velvet rope, voices lowered to the kind of hush reserved for confession or conspiracy, camera flashes popping in hesitant bursts, uncertain if they’re ready to capture a storm or a spectacle. Glass doors loom, too reflective, mirroring back a version of yourself you barely recognise: eyes bright with nerves, jaw set, mouth painted with intent.

You cling to the sensation of Yangyang’s hand at your back—a pressure equal parts anchor and dare. He stands so close that you can feel the heat radiate off his chest, his thumb pressing slow circles into your spine with a focus that’s both grounding and possessive. He looks devastating tonight: black mandarin suit flawless, collar sharp against the lines of his throat, hair pushed back to reveal the cut of his jaw, obsidian cufflinks catching every stray glint of light. He presses his body to yours, the lines of his suit brushing silk against your bare skin with every subtle shift, the hard length of his thigh slotting up against yours as you wait in the shadow of the entrance.

You try to steady your breath, but it comes shallow and quick, every exhale ghosting against the edge of anticipation. It’s not fear, not quite—but it’s something as volatile, a cocktail of dread and hunger and pride that has your pulse ringing in your ears, your hands trembling just enough that you keep them buried in the folds of your emerald dress. The fabric clings to you, alive with static, the slit at your leg revealing skin every time you shift, the neckline daring the city to look and Yangyang to touch. He notices. His palm slides lower, fingertips skimming the dip of your waist, squeezing once, twice, as if to reassure you that no one can touch you here unless you let them. His other hand comes up, knuckles brushing your jaw, and you turn your face into the gesture because it’s easier than meeting your own reflection in the glass.

He leans down, mouth hot and slow at the shell of your ear. “If you need a minute, say the word. I’ll make the whole world wait.” His lips graze your earlobe, his voice dark with promise, a little too loud for propriety and a little too intimate for the crowd. Your breath stutters, your body arches closer—not out of want, but because the nerves feel safer when they’re tangled with something physical, something you can feel rather than just dread. There’s nothing soft about the way you let him touch you tonight. It’s strategic, calculated—a way to shield your shaking hands, to focus the room’s energy somewhere other than your chest. He knows it. He likes it. His thumb drags slowly and deliberate across your exposed back as you both stand there, just outside the threshold, the buzz of the city swelling behind you, the exhibition’s glow beckoning ahead.

The doors are only a few steps away. Inside waits your own legacy, your enemies, your ghosts. You haven’t seen Jeno yet—you can feel the anticipation in your marrow, the sense of orbit around an unseen planet, gravity pulling harder with every tick of the second hand. But Yangyang keeps you in the present, holding you upright, keeping you moving, his body a barrier, his mouth a question you’re not ready to answer. You lean into him, for just a moment, letting the world blur and your fear burn off in the heat of his touch, and when you finally lift your chin, it’s with a breath that tastes like war.

He catches your eye, smirking as if he knows exactly what you’re thinking, and with one last squeeze to your waist, he guides you forward, the two of you slipping inside as the doors open—a vision carved from emerald and midnight, poised at the edge of everything you were, everything you are about to become.

The Seoul Masterworks Exhibition doesn’t feel like homecoming. It feels like entering the mausoleum of someone you once loved and barely survived. The air is glossy with anticipation, lanterns bobbing overhead like borrowed stars, the hush of the crowd thick as fog, every flash of a camera ricocheting off stone and skin with electric urgency. What used to be a living, breathing library—pages turned by hopeful hands, laughter echoing through stacks—has been hollowed and rebuilt, intimacy gutted, every surface lacquered in sponsorship and corporate gold. Sponsor logos gleam where the children’s sketches used to hang. Performance lights replace the old table lamps that made the world feel soft and slow. It’s a space staged for spectacle, not memory. Tonight, it’s curated nostalgia: legacy, sanitized and bottled, pain pressed flat beneath a glass pane.

You hover, heels pressed into slick marble, the city’s heartbeat slowing around you. Security guards line the velvet ropes, backs straight, eyes hard, blending into the shadows like warnings. You can hear Taeyong’s voice leaking through hidden speakers, ironed smooth and holy by editors who never heard him rage—now, he’s only wisdom and myth, his words warped, “legacy isn’t about being seen. it’s about being felt.” The irony stings. You inhale: roses, archival paper, champagne, your own nervous sweat, the press of history building behind your breastbone.

Yangyang stands at your side—hand steady on your bare lower back, jaw tight, eyes flicking across every movement. He radiates the kind of possessive pride that looks almost dangerous, thumb tracing the top of your spine, every muscle flexed in anticipation, not just for you but for the tidal wave of eyes waiting eagerly. He leans close, voice hot at your ear, “you’re the headline, baby. walk like it.” His touch lingers, more shielded than claim, every move calibrated to keep you upright. You arch into him, not for reassurance, but for proof: you are not alone, not tonight, not ever again unless you choose it.

You’re wearing emerald, cut like sin—shoulders bare, backless, the slit daring anyone to doubt your arrival. The dress catches the moonlights, shimmering green-gold, every step you take a statement, every fold of fabric a sharpened blade. The neckline is severe, the hem soft, the whole thing engineered for myth-making. You are the apparition they swore would never return and you look untouchable, a vision carved from resentment and renewal. Each step makes your heels sing against the stone. The crowd sees you, registers you, remembers you.

You step into legacy—the click of your shoes on marble a metronome, your breath white and measured. Every wall is backlit with interactive screens. Taeyong’s face rotates in high-resolution, his voice looping, the crowd's eyes reflecting the golden glow from sponsor lights. Security stands silent as statues, eyes flicking between you and Yangyang, the guest list, the press. Your name is everywhere: on the entryway screen, etched into the spine of every brochure, whispered on the lips of coordinators and critics alike. You see yourself in a hundred reflections: blurred, split, repeated, but never erased. The atmosphere feels thick, ceremonial—a hush just before a coronation, or an execution. The scent of fresh flowers and archival dust floats in the air. You’re not here to be welcomed; you’re here to be witnessed.

It feels like reclamation, not forgiveness. Like returning to a place that nearly ate you alive, and carving your initials into its heart anyway. The tremble is there, beneath your ribs, a quiver that isn’t fear but memory. You remember: the years you spent trying to fit your story into someone else’s legacy. The wounds. The silence. The way you almost didn’t make it. Tonight, your name is carved in gold. Not gifted. Earned. The eyes that follow you—panelists, rivals, sponsors, old lovers, new believers—hold something sharper than curiosity: respect. You walk straighter, heels biting, spine tall.

The architecture of the exhibition has changed—because of you. Your title on the brochure reads narrative curator. The script is yours. The legends wing is yours, too: stories of those erased by Taeyong’s shadow—coaches, assistant managers, women who rebuilt rosters from nothing, burnt-out seniors, single parents. You wrote them in, not as footnotes, but as pillars. On a glass panel, a quote reads: “We build rooms for voices that never had one. The legacy is not who you see—it’s everyone you forgot to look for.” Every guest pauses there, some with tears, some with pride, some with rage.

Ambient jazz hums, low and ghostly, distorting around the snippets of Taeyong’s voice that bleed through the room. Spotlights sweep the gallery, catching the green flare of your dress, the flash of your earrings. Every few steps you see yourself in the glass, fractured, multiplied—proof you survived. You are the voice at the centre now. The panel can’t start without you. The stories can’t be told without your curation. Every sponsor, every press outlet, every rival analyst whispers your name. Your voice is the one that opens the event, the one everyone came to hear. Even Jeno, somewhere in the crowd, whether he looks or not—you feel the shift. The weight is yours.

Yangyang leans close as you cross the last threshold. “You’re the moment,” he says. You feel the power in that, the promise and the warning.

Inside, the crowd falls into a new kind of hush. Not a vacuum, not the absence of noise—but a charged stillness, like the room is bracing itself for a story it was never meant to contain. The whispers start in waves—“APEX’s golden girl”—“that’s the girl who Jeno used to love”—“Nahyun’s gonna combust”—“she curated this herself”—“she shouldn’t have come.” Your name is already trending, the air thick with anticipation, respect, and old ghosts. Tonight, you will show them what it means to build something with your own hands, to walk through the ruins and call them home, to reclaim the story from the dead and live in the centre of your own legacy.

The stage is yours, every spotlight trembling with anticipation, but for one suspended moment, you hover on its edge, gaze sweeping the gallery with a searching ache. The breath in your lungs comes jagged, heavy with pressure, until you find the faces that anchor you and everything softens, your pulse unspooling from its frantic drum into something calm, measured, almost reverent. Mark and Areum stand first in your periphery, Mark stationed by the far wing, posture loose in his slate gray suit, shirt unbuttoned at the throat, the fatigue of old heartbreak gentled by a new light in his eyes. Areum glows in midnight purple, her dress shimmering with drama, hair slicked back so she looks almost mythic, their hands joined, post-engagement bliss visible in the little glances and the way they orbit each other’s space. When she meets your eyes, she smiles—hesitant, genuine, bridging that long rift between you—and the relief inside you is so fierce it almost knocks the breath from your chest. Mark’s smile, softer still, is the oldest comfort you’ve ever known: fierce and loyal, a promise of forever support no matter the season, no matter the mess. He mouths something you can’t hear, but you know what it means. You exhale, shoulders lowering, heart grateful for the quiet foundation he’s never let you lose.

Karina sits in the reserved front, radiance in a pale dress threaded with pearls, one hand balancing her phone as she juggles the baby in her lap. Haeun—nearly two, cheeks plump and bright, a tiny lavender bow in her hair, shoes shiny and white—kicks her feet and babbles at you the second she spots your face. You can’t help but wave, the sight of her making your heart twist and bloom; she recognizes you instantly, reaching out with that sticky-fingered joy that belongs only to the most loved children. Each time you see her she’s taller, braver, more herself, and you coo under your breath, promising to visit soon. Jaemin sprawls beside them, black shirt rumpled, letting his daughter tug at his ear, his eyes flickering with exhaustion and humor—he catches your glance and salutes with two fingers, grinning crooked, the picture of a man who’s lost sleep but found meaning.

Coach Suh’s entrance breaks through the murmur like a thunderclap. He storms in fashionably late, navy blazer crisp, hair still dusted with chalk from some morning drill. He doesn’t pause for press, just barrels forward, announcing loud enough for the whole row to hear: “They said it was a tribute but forgot to mention half the people who built his legacy.” Laughter ripples, heads turn. He finds his seat in the second row, spine stiff, eyes blazing with a promise of mischief and loyalty. Just seeing him makes your chest fill with something old and safe—he’s always been your advocate, the storm that stands between you and any disaster, the grown-up who never lets the truth get lost in translation.

Irene and Doyoung stand together, center-left, elegant and timeless—her dress black as midnight, his touch always gentle at her elbow, eyes gentle and luminous beneath the soft lighting. Earlier, when your nerves were shaking you backstage, Irene had taken your hand, her grip unflinching, whispering with the wisdom of a woman who’s survived everything: “Breathe through it. You’ve done harder things.” The memory of her reassurance steadies you now, quiets the frantic stutter in your chest, lets you fill your lungs with courage you’d forgotten was yours. And at the very back, nearly hidden in the crowd, a face you haven’t seen in so long it aches—Jihyo, eyes already red-rimmed, holding herself together with the fragile dignity of someone who’s lost and forgiven in the same breath. You meet her gaze, surprise and apology knotting inside you, wave softly and promise yourself you’ll find her after. Guilt prickles at your ribs—she was there, she needed you, and you vanished from the bar without a single trace. You need to make it right.

Your eyes flicker toward the entrance every few breaths, heart bracing and unsteady, and for a fleeting second—just a trick of the light, a slant of dark hair, a set of shoulders in a navy suit—you think you see him, instinct sweeping through your chest with the force of old ache. Everything softens on reflex, your jaw loosening, your gaze caught between hope and dread, but then the angle shifts and the man is a stranger, just another face swallowed by the press of bodies and the flash of cameras. Jeno isn’t here yet. Nor is Nahyun. But the flashes pop faster outside, the crowd on edge, and you feel the static in the air—he must be close, must be threading through the press with that haunted calm, must be about to step into your world for the first time since the wedding, since the night everything broke so cleanly there was nothing left to salvage. You feel the weight of it gathering beneath your ribs: the knowledge that in minutes you’ll be breathing the same air, visible to each other, trapped together by memory and duty and a thousand invisible hands. The last time you saw him, he looked at you with the end of the world in his eyes. You remember the sharp finality, the wound he left behind, and the knowledge that no apology or time apart could erase the shape of what you’d been to each other. You wonder if he feels it too—the inevitability, the dread, the way tonight is already bruised by things neither of you will ever say aloud.

Your body betrays you, shoulders loosening as if on command, some old survival mechanism pulling you open before you can even stop it, as if you’re primed for him, always, as if every cell still remembers how it felt to be claimed by his hands, his mouth, the singular, savage way he made you his. Even knowing what he did to you, even with the scars of his leaving fresh as split skin, some fractured devotion still thrums through your veins—he’s the only one who’s ever mapped your insides, the only one who’s ever ruined you so exquisitely you can’t help but want him to do it all over again. The ache is its own pulse, deep and desperate, buried under the calm you wear for everyone else, flaring at the thought of his eyes finding you in a room full of strangers. It’s devotion, hunger, fury, loss—every flavor of love that outlives itself, every shade of need you swore you’d outgrow but never have.

For a moment you hate yourself for it, the instinct that softens you, the way your whole body folds toward the possibility of him. But it’s also the truest thing left in you—this gravitational ache, this reflexive surrender, the knowledge that it’s never been safe to let him close and still, if he called your name in this crowd, you’d go. Even now, standing in the light of your own triumph, you catch yourself wanting to disappear into him, craving the sharpness of his touch, the wound and the worship tangled together, the only proof you’ve ever needed that you were alive, loved and seen, even if it destroyed you.

You shake your head, forcing your eyes to find Yangyang. a fixed point in the constellation, a safe shore when you’ve spent years adrift and you try to let him steady you, try to focus on the gentle way he stands, the affection that fills his every glance, the fierce, uncomplicated loyalty that’s never once faltered or strayed. He’s here, present, willing to hold your burdens and shield you from the ghosts that prowl these halls, and you want—desperately—to let that be enough. But the gratitude you feel for him is brittle, sweet but distant, always laced with the ache of something missing. His devotion warms you, but the heat is borrowed, never searing, never reaching the hollowed-out ache that Jeno once filled with a single look, a single word, the kind of intimacy that made you burn from the inside out.

You try to erase the taste of Jeno from your memory, try to replace the gravity of his betrayal with Yangyang’s careful hands, his soft laugh, the quiet way he’s always known when to hold you and when to let you breathe. But the longing is stubborn—it claws up through every attempt at healing, every whispered promise to move on, every night you’ve spent tracing the outlines of someone who would never carve himself into you the way Jeno did. You want to believe you can anchor yourself in someone safe, someone who never taught you how to bleed. But love, real love, is a wound that never closes, a hunger that refuses to starve.

Still, you square your shoulders, chin high, refusing to let the ache devour you whole. Tonight is about survival—about reclaiming every piece of yourself that Jeno ever took, about reminding yourself that the story you’re telling is yours now, fierce and unsparing, rooted in the constellation of people who shaped, scarred and resurrected you. As the lights sharpen and the crowd settles, you let gratitude harden into pride, grounding yourself in the present, in this crowd, in this moment. You let the love—complicated, incandescent, cracked but luminous—steady your voice. You stand ready, heart thrumming with old ache and new hope, refusing to look back, refusing to let anyone else define your ending.

You step forward into the spotlight, emerald silk glimmering beneath the chandeliers, heels clicking like a signal flare on polished marble, every head turning with the sharp, charged hush of a city before thunder. Light strikes your collarbones, haloing the tension in your jaw, and you draw a breath so deep it feels like reclaiming air from the deepest vault of memory. Your hands steady on the podium—warm, unshaking, carved with intent.

The room holds its breath, drawn to the edge of your voice. You look out, gaze slow and unwavering, shoulders set with the certainty of someone who has built herself back from splinters and now stands, not as a footnote, but as the architect of the narrative. You begin, your voice sure and ringing: “Welcome. Thank you for standing witness to this evening—an evening built from legacy, yes, but also from the voices that once trembled at its edges. Tonight, I do not offer a sanitized history. I bring you the bruises, the triumphs, the echoes that still rattle the ribs of this city. Because greatness is not a myth sculpted in marble, it’s a living thing, a breath shared between those who built, those who endured, those who survived.”

Your words thread through the room, strong, each sentence deliberate and steady. You speak without apology, giving form to memory and weight to the hands that carried it. “When I was first invited to narrate this exhibition, they sent me a speech filled with words like ‘uncomplicated greatness,’ and ‘perfect legacy.’ I erased them all. I replaced them with the truth—the truth spoken to me by a coach who shaped a generation: ‘Truth, like victory, leaves bruises.’ And every voice here tonight, every pair of hands that ever laced a shoe or broke a sweat for the love of this game, has carried those marks.”

You let your eyes find Mark in the crowd, then Coach Suh, then the faces of colleagues and friends who once stood in the shadows, who now step forward into this reclaimed light. “This night belongs to all of you. To the legends crowned in gold, and to the architects whose names were never written on trophies. To the coaches who turned boys into believers, the women who kept records and hopes alive, the players who bled for teams that never made the news. Tonight, I honor every truth that survived, every lesson taught in bruises and sweat and the memory of being seen, even if only by each other.”

Your voice rises with the kind of conviction that sharpens memory into something sacred: “We gather not only to honor one name, but to ignite a hundred others. We gather not for comfort, but for clarity—for the understanding that every legacy is built by many hands, and every victory is the sum of countless unseen battles. This archive is not a mausoleum. It is a living, breathing testament to struggle, courage, and the quiet ferocity of survival.” You pause, letting the words settle. Lanterns flicker overhead. The room leans closer, drawn in by the gravity of what you’ve become. “I am honored—honored beyond measure—to share these stories, to carve new space for the voices that shaped this city, this sport, this room. And if truth feels sharp tonight, if it glimmers with pain as much as pride, that is proof we are still alive. That we remember. That we choose to build forward, not from illusion, but from the deepest honesty we owe each other.”

“My role tonight is simple but immense. I will guide you through these halls—as presenter, as narrator, as the voice behind the stories you’ll hear and the faces you’ll meet. Throughout the evening, I’ll host conversations with legends of the game: the coaches whose hands shaped destinies, the players whose names echo in every gym, and the silent architects who held their teams together off the court. You’ll find panels throughout the archive, and every hour on the main stage, we’ll sit down for interviews—live, unfiltered, and unscripted—so you can witness the truth behind the highlight reels. We want you to see every bruise and every breakthrough, every boundary broken and every legacy left unfinished.”

“We designed this experience to be interactive, immersive, and—above all—personal. At the entrance, you’ll find maps and programs to guide you, but more than that, you’ll find headset stations—just slip them on, and you’ll hear the narration, the interviews, the oral histories we fought to preserve. You’ll hear my voice guiding you room by room, but you’ll also hear the voices of those who stood beside Taeyong, who carried the banners, who dreamed without permission. You’ll see timeline projections, memory walls, and interactive displays where you can record your own stories—because this night is for every voice that ever echoed off a gym floor.”

You gesture gently, inviting them into the story. “If you look to your left, you’ll find the new Legends Wing—a space dedicated to those who held teams together in ways the scoreboards never measured. Every voice you hear in your headsets, every story you find on your phone as you scan the QR codes along the wall, was preserved because someone in this room fought for it. There are memory jars at the far end of the gallery, where you can write the name of someone who shaped you. There are candles waiting to be lit in the legacy alcove, every flame a witness to someone who mattered. The interactive screens along the south corridor will let you hear archival audio—raw, unscripted, sometimes painful, always real.”

“APEX’s goal, and mine, is not just to glorify the game. It is to illuminate the cost: the weight of pressure, the fractures under success, the need for boundaries and support for every person who ever puts on a jersey. We hope tonight is a reminder that greatness is not born in isolation. It’s built together, and it’s not always gentle. We want to shine a light on the overlooked, to build systems that offer support—mental, physical, emotional—to athletes and staff who have never been given the chance to rest, to heal, or to be seen. This is a new chapter—one where every player, every coach, every child in the stands is told: ‘there is space for you here.’”

“Practical details—if you need anything, our team is everywhere. Maps, headsets, translation guides are at the welcome desk. The main interviews begin at nine sharp in the auditorium, with guided tours every thirty minutes led by former Ravens and Apex mentors. There are interactive panels throughout the night, and you can leave your own memory—write a note, record a message, light a candle in the legacy corner.”

“I hope tonight, you take away something real—something heavier than nostalgia. I hope you remember what it feels like to belong, to build, to bear witness to greatness and also to the struggle beneath it. I hope you leave knowing that legacy is not a finish line, it’s an invitation—to do more, to see more, to make room for the next story that deserves to be told.” Your gaze sweeps the crowd one final time. You close strong, resonant, with the promise of your own authorship echoing through the marble hall: “Thank you for trusting me to carry this story. Thank you for stepping into the light with me. Let us honor the bruises, the brilliance, the broken and the beautiful—together, as witnesses, as survivors, as makers of history. Welcome to the archive. Welcome to the truth. The night is yours now. Let’s make it unforgettable.”

You steady your breath, the words still thrumming in your chest as the crowd’s applause washes over you, more wave than sound, more acknowledgment than adoration. You gather your composure, offering a gentle, assured nod to the sea of faces, then slip your hand around the mic, voice smooth but final: “I’ll join you all again after a short break. Please, enjoy the first gallery and tonight’s opening showcase.” The house lights shift, murmurs swell, and you step away from the podium, the click of your heels sharp and clean, the spotlight shrinking in your wake.

As soon as you round the velvet barrier, you make for your circle—Yangyang, Shotaro, Donghyuck, Chenle, Ryujin, and Ningning, all orbiting in a messy knot by the side bar, energy charged, laughter bright and easy. The moment you reach them, Yangyang’s hands find your waist, spinning you gently into his chest, lips pressing a proud, lingering kiss to your cheek. “You killed it,” he breathes against your ear, voice all honey and relief, his grip just shy of possessive, thumb tracing the bare line of your back. He pulls you in, arms circling tighter, as if to anchor you to this moment, to the reality of their presence and the safety of their eyes.

Chenle whoops, raising a glass. “I’d vote for you for president,” he declares, and Shotaro grins, eyes crinkling as he tucks you in for a brief, joyful hug.

Donghyuck, always the comic, slips a cocktail into your hand and whispers, “I’d have stormed the stage if you’d cried.” Ryujin drapes an arm over your shoulders, squeezing you closer, while Ningning surveys the room like a bodyguard in couture, smirking at anyone who looks too long. They surround you, laughter tumbling in soft crescendos, their warmth folding around your nerves until the adrenaline shakes from your bones and you finally let yourself exhale, grounded in the only truth that matters for a moment: here, you belong.

You’re mid-laugh, voice curled around some half-hearted joke Donghyuck is slinging about the past, your friends in a circle of warmth and bright edges, every nerve in your body tuned to the safety of the moment, when outside, the first shouts of press ripple through the marble foyer. You hear the snap of heels on stone, the jagged stutter of photographers backpedaling, and then the doors burst open, floodlights of flashbulbs swallowing the entryway in a white blaze that feels almost radioactive—like someone’s rewinding time, burning a hole straight through the narrative you built to survive.

Jeno enters first, black suit sculpted to his frame, no tie, throat bare, skin golden in the camera fire. He moves like an answer you never wanted, shoulders squared, posture a dare, every line of him carved clean and relentless, hair falling across his brow in an artful chaos that should have been outlawed. His jaw is set, mouth unsmiling, gaze slicing through the noise until it lands on you. Nahyun is on his arm, the silk of her dress bright as a threat, hand tight, smile bladed and brittle, a performance for every shutter click. The press eats them alive, a galaxy of lenses drinking in their perfection, the pair of them looking like a rumor made flesh—too glossy, too intent, the edges too sharp to be real.

For one molten, shattering instant, everything tilts—the room contracts, the ceiling blurs, and your friends melt into shadow, all color and sound drained to a thrum beneath your skin. The light catches on glass, on emerald silk, on the line of your jaw as you turn, and your pulse knocks so loud in your throat it’s almost music. No gasp, no slip, just a sudden hush that razors through your body, every atom strung out on that impossible, electric thread between you. You meet his eyes across the crowded hall, eyes that find you like gravity snapping bone, and the air splits, incandescent, sacrilegious, like a comet crashing through stained glass. It’s ruin and hunger and history knotted up in a single glance, the kind that folds time, that holds a thousand confessions behind it. You taste the disaster in your mouth but keep it caged behind your teeth, spine braced, hands steady, as if you could contain the collision, as if anyone could, as if the whole world isn’t teetering on the edge of what you both refuse to say.

Yangyang’s arm slides tighter around your waist, anchoring you to the ground, his jaw clenched, eyes tracing every detail, every glance Jeno throws your way. He’s closer than a secret, thumb moving in steady circles on your back, every muscle screaming that you are not for the taking. He turns, low-voiced, words meant only for you: “You okay?” You can’t answer, not now. The room has shifted orbit and the axis is burning.

Donghyuck snorts, tilting his empty glass toward the door with drunken bravado. “Oh, Christ, look who’s here. The prodigal son and his wax figure. I didn’t know they still made mannequins with that kind of warranty.” The whole group laughs, too loud, too grateful for the distraction, but it’s a shield, a way to keep the panic at bay.

Chenle winks, “If I trip her, do you think she’d melt?” Ryujin cocks her head, giving Nahyun a long, speculative once-over. “That’s not her hair color. Was it ever?”

Ningning leans in, all cool malice. “I swear she’s morphing. Like some prestige-level cosplay.”

Shotaro, face bright with the mischief of teenage memory, leans back against the bar. “This feels like when you rewatch a series and the new lead looks exactly like the old one. Kinda freaky.”

For a breath, you refuse to glance over, determined to keep your spine straight and your gaze fixed anywhere but the orbit of her shadow, fighting the cold crawl that ripples up your back, but Ryujin’s voice cuts close—soft, wicked, impossible to tune out—“Tell me I’m wrong, look at the slit, the way her hair falls, even the earrings.” Ningning hisses, “You could stand side by side and people would ask who wore it best.” Amusement flickers through the group but collapses fast, heads turning one by one, jaws slackening as the imitation reveals itself, no longer just a hint, but total, relentless duplication. Nahyun’s hair is the same obsidian fall you wore last winter, her mouth painted with the shade that used to be your signature, dress tailored to echo every sharp line and deep green sheen of your own, right down to the flash of emerald at her ears, identical to the ones Yangyang hooked through your lobes this morning, the kind he said made you look like vengeance and spring at once. She walks like you, poses like you, every flick of her wrist and curve of her shoulder a studied echo, a desperate theatre of your narrative worn so close it’s suffocating, her smile stretched thin, her posture sharpened to fit the outline you left behind, a living replica trying to bleed herself into the myth of you, still fumbling the script, lost in a costume that was never hers to claim.

You breathe in through your nose, try to steel yourself, the sound of your heartbeat echoing in your ears. Your friends close around you with jokes, arms, laughter, but the tremor is in your veins now. You won’t let them break you, no matter how precise the mimicry, no matter how bright the cameras burn. You raise your chin, turn toward the next question, the next handshake, every muscle taut with discipline. You remember why you’re here. You remember the speech you rewrote, the stories you brought into the room. You become the center of your own gravity, every word, every smile, every carefully placed hand a new claim.

The war moves in fragments from there, your gaze and Jeno’s finding each other in the gaps between sentences, the silence between panels. His hands clench at his sides, jaw flexed, attention nailed to you in a way that would feel like worship if it didn’t hurt so much. Nahyun tries to lean in, whispering something, her fingers tightening on his arm, but he flinches, pulls away without words, eyes never leaving you. You don’t look away. Not now. You speak of fractured legacies and bruised honor, your voice never trembling, the line cutting through the air between you like a blade. Yangyang feels the change—he’s watching Jeno the way a fireman watches the first lick of flame, hand glued to the small of your back, thumb pressing promises into your skin. The weight is almost too much, the air thick with memory and what-ifs, but you keep breathing, keep moving, keep claiming your space. You speak as if nothing has changed, and in the spaces between each sentence, you tell yourself that nothing has.

But you know better. You always have.

It’s time to begin, the opening act unfurling beneath the press of expectation and camera glare, and you step forward, not just a narrator, not just a curator, but a force remaking the narrative in every room you cross. Yangyang’s hand is warm at your back, steady and grounding, but as the crowd parts and the exhibition stretches before you, something inside you twists, a current of gratitude knotted with hollowness. You’re admired, envied, adored by every lens and eye in the space, yet there’s a subtle ache in your chest, a knowing that nothing here fits as seamlessly as it should, not even the arm that holds you steady or the gaze that scans for threats. Every word you rehearsed now hangs like breathless possibility in the air, yet none of it tastes like relief.

You walk through the halls, your halls, your name a pulse in the marble, your stories thrumming through the speakers, while Yangyang lingers at your side, proud, attentive, fingers tracing invisible patterns on your waist, as if he can ward off ghosts by touch alone. You lean in, allow his affection, draw on his presence as armor, but inside you feel the fracture widen, a quiet dissonance between what you’re supposed to feel and what won’t rise to meet you. His devotion is real, unwavering, yet it settles on your skin like borrowed light, never sinking deep enough to warm you from within.

The room swells around you, friends, mentors, rivals, every old pain and bright victory bottled into this moment, and as the lights dim and the first guests drift toward their places, you inhale slowly, heart pounding in your throat, knowing you are both celebrated and unfinished. The night is yours to conduct, the narrative yours to reclaim, but as you move forward, Yangyang close, the world watching, you can’t help but mourn what even triumph leaves unsaid, the secret chambers in your heart still echoing with a name you can’t afford to speak.

Your name blazes from every brochure, every panel intro, every whispered conversation between curators. You fought for this: to tear out the hero-worship, to build something living in its place, to write in every overlooked name. The opening walk-in is yours entirely, guests thread past walls pulsing with voice memos from players, coaches, friends, lovers. They laugh, they weep, they tell the truth. none of it polished, all of it true. You shaped the ‘Legends Wing’ yourself, cutting Taeyong’s exhibit down to size, building room for others to breathe. Coach Suh’s plaque glows under the softest light: “Basketball doesn’t build character—it reveals it.” You picked the candid shot: him mid-yell, sleeves rolled, conviction in every muscle, a timeline etched in sweat and tape. Next to it, you chose a voice note, “he never made us feel like tools. He made us feel like we were real.” When Coach Suh reads it, he halts, silent, a flash of something unguarded softens his face. The polished brass catches your reflection, just a tremor of green silk and iron poise, and in that glint he recognizes the architect of his reckoning. The match he’s carried for years suddenly feels lighter, its spark already searching for your silhouette on the horizon.

Mark’s tribute sits close by, quiet but strong, “head Coach, High School Seoul Ravens. 2025 finalist. A new generation’s guide.” Under glass, a game ball signed by the entire team; beside it, a photo of Mark crouched beside a sobbing player, the caption reading, “It wasn’t about winning. It was about keeping them from giving up.” You see him pause, jaw set, eyes finding yours for a split second—a silent thank you, a promise to keep going.

You even give Doyoung his due, tracing the roots of a legacy back to a single risk, multiple late-night meetings with Coach Suh, a fierce argument with the old board, a decision that let Mark wear a jersey with his own name stitched across the shoulders. “For standing up when silence would have been easier,” the plaque reads, tucked under archival footage of Mark’s first game as a Raven. Doyoung lingers in front of it, one hand pressed to his chest, pride swelling in the small, quiet space you’ve made for him in history.

A few steps away, Chenle’s corner is quiet, illuminated in silver light, ‘assistant coach’ title sharp beneath his name. The display isn’t loud or sentimental, but honest, photos from his earliest days, the cracked concrete of the river court under his sneakers, the sweat and long nights that shaped him. You chose a quote from an old interview, his voice more serious than most people remember: “We never expected a miracle. We worked for every second. Every loss was ours, every win belonged to them.” The room hushes around it. He stands there, hands folded, reading it again, the set of his jaw saying everything about the weight he’s carried and the pride he feels being remembered for more than just what happened on the court.

You pull the night’s center of gravity toward the ones the record books barely notice, letting their names flicker across projectors in grainy footage, letting their voices echo above the low hum of polite conversation and polished applause. The data girl’s story plays first. Her voice is soft but steady as she recalls nights hunched over spreadsheets in the campus library, shivering in a borrowed sweatshirt, missing the last train home to make sure every stat was perfect for a coach who never remembered her name. People watch her, eyes stinging, some brushing away tears they pretend are just a trick of the light. You linger at her story, narrating what her numbers built: championship banners, scholarships, futures for boys who never even knew her face.

Then comes the Daegu coach—old school, suit threadbare, voice quivering with pride and exhaustion as he recounts dragging a team of outcasts to nationals on borrowed gym shoes and donated meals. In his eyes there is hunger, not for medals, but for the rare moment a kid who was always benched gets called ‘starter’ and finds his name in the paper for the first and only time. You pause there, letting the moment hang, giving space for people to feel the ache and the triumph, the injustice of all the quiet victories never shouted from rooftops. A ripple of emotion cuts through the room, swelling until even the steadiest voices crack, shoulders trembling with the weight of empathy.

The last reel loops quietly: the ex-Raven who walked away from trophies to become a social worker in Busan, whose hands now steady the trembling of kids who remind him too much of his old teammates. His words are quiet, matter-of-fact—“Sometimes you win by leaving the game.” By the end, there’s a hush over the Unsung Court. The room swells with the truth of what you’ve built: every guest who lingers at this wall walks away altered, eyes red-rimmed and searching, hearts bruised with gratitude and guilt, because for once the invisible have been seen. You watch it unfold, the crowd in silent communion with stories too easily forgotten. You feel it in your own bones: this is your legacy, the echo of every unheralded name stitched into the fabric of a game that never loved them back. This is the moment the archive weeps, and in their tears, something holy and true takes root.

APEX’s mark is everywhere, but not as a brand—as an act of restoration. You install interactive maps, headphones at every entrance, letting people hear real voices: parents, partners, old teammates narrating the scars behind every statistic. Young women from the analytics team huddle around the new “resource wall,” interns post their own stories, strangers find space to connect. You’re quietly handed flowers, cards, hugs by those you’ve mentored, proof that your legacy is built in the people, not just the plaques. Visual cues deepen the effect: lanterns dangle overhead like constellations, some lit, some dim, each representing a story still unfinished. Bronze statues stand too smooth, and you catch yourself in the glass, always shifting, always in motion, a reminder that you are both witness and author here.

You’re watched, everywhere, by everyone. Not as a woman, but as a phenomenon, a force in a dress cut from envy and memory. Nahyun’s gaze lands on you with challenge, Yangyang’s with devotion, Jeno’s, when it finally collides with yours, is haunted, bruised, and searching for something he can’t reclaim. You move through it all as if this is your coronation. You don’t thank the room for letting you reclaim your voice, you make it clear it was yours all along. Every tribute, every name spoken, every hand you shake is a promise to never let the true story rot in the dark. You keep your voice steady, your head high, your purpose burning. This is not a memorial. This is reclamation. This is legacy done right. Tonight, history stands corrected, and it’s your hand that writes the record.

From the shadowed hush of the Unsung Court, you guide the room’s gaze further, deeper, toward the stories that press beneath the surface of the sport, the ones that can’t be lacquered over with nostalgia or gold medals. A projector flickers, drawing every eye as a black-and-white reel begins: a tribute to Seungmin, a young player lost three seasons ago to an undiagnosed heart condition that no coach, doctor, or news outlet cared to question until it was too late. You choose your words with the care of a surgeon and the ferocity of someone who’s been haunted, not every legacy is written by victory, not every loss ends with a eulogy broadcast at halftime. The room holds its breath. You show the family’s heartbreak, the empty jersey hung high in the rafters, the teammates who still can’t lace up without thinking of him, the silence that followed when headlines moved on but grief remained, heavy and raw, in the locker rooms and midnight phone calls. A mother’s voice—wavering but clear—plays above the crowd: “All I wanted was for his name to last longer than the final whistle.”

People break. You see it—men who once played with him, parents who held their sons closer that year, strangers who never learned to mourn until now. The story reverberates, echoing in the seams of the archive, and the air grows thicker with every unshed tear, every soft gasp swallowed in the dark. But the heartbreak doesn’t stand alone. All over the exhibition, gratitude glows. You’ve woven acknowledgement into every corner—recognition not just for those who stood under the lights but for the army of hands that built this night. You let the crowd see every staff badge glinting on a jacket, every tired coordinator tucking clipboards under arms, every intern shepherding guests from hallway to hall. You mention the architects who restored the archive, the sound engineers who stayed after midnight tuning microphones to your cadence, the artists and curators who lent their eyes to the gallery walls, the cleaners who polished the marble before sunrise, the writers and translators who made sure every quote was honored in every language spoken here tonight. There’s a moment where you single out the press coordinator, a woman who’s stood quietly by the velvet rope, never claiming the spotlight but managing every crisis with grace. You make eye contact, mouthing a silent ‘thank you,’ her face crumbling into a smile she can’t hide.

You gesture to your Apex team, colleagues who turned data into narrative, analysts who stayed late to proof every line, friends who handed you coffee and stubbornness on the nights you almost walked away. You even thank your rivals, competitors whose own push for excellence forced you to sharpen your vision. Every tribute, every acknowledgment, is a clear declaration: None of this was built alone. You let it be known that the truth of any great work—of any healing—is always collective. The archive is not just marble and memory, not just the echo of footsteps or the glint of a name on polished glass, it’s a cathedral built by every hand that ever reached out, every voice that ever called you back from the edge. You spent so many years refusing help, convinced that survival meant solitude, that the sharpest way to heal was to hold yourself apart and refuse every lifeline offered. You wore your independence like armor, let it harden into pride, convinced yourself that being alone made you braver, stronger, proof that you could carry the world without anyone’s hands but your own. For so long, you believed the only way forward was alone, that accepting help was weakness, that letting someone steady you would cost you the story you’d bled so hard to author.

Tonight, you finally admit it: no legacy worth keeping is carried alone. There is courage in letting yourself lean, in letting others hold your weight when your knees buckle, in sharing the burden with people who want to see you stand, not because you are invincible, but because you are so loved, because you belong here, because no one survives on their own. As you move through the hall, calling out every ally, every ghost, every friend whose hands are still warm from lifting you, you speak the hardest truth you’ve ever had to say: you could never have done this alone, and you never will. “There is bravery in the breaking, there is salvation in the chorus.” You let yourself belong, at last, and as you do, the whole world softens, not because you finally let go, but because you finally let yourself be held.

You inhale, slow and deep, feeling the weight of old names pressing in on your ribs, the way memory fills a room with both breath and ache. The truth is, no matter how much you rewrote, no matter how many stories you reclaimed tonight, there was always the inescapable shadow of Taeyong, the reason for this exhibition, the name stitched across every invitation, the myth and the monster at the center of the court. From the start, the brief was simple: honor his legacy. That’s what Apex wanted, what the sponsors demanded, what the city remembers when they hear “Lee.” You crafted your narrative to oblige them, gathering his history with careful hands, even as your spine tensed at every word.

You present Taeyong’s rise as cleanly as the record allows: a prodigy on the hardwood, a name on every roster that mattered, a point guard who moved like he could see the future, before a doctor’s diagnosis, hypertrophic cardiomyopathy, ripped the game from his chest and left him chasing glory in new forms. He became a benefactor, a founder, a father to a dynasty, a mentor to young men who’d shape the future. You show the trophies, the cuttings, the gleaming highlight reels, the magazine covers, the charity events. The city eats it up. Cameras flash at every image of his rookie year. For a few moments, the room forgets what he did to those closest to him.

But you never allow the story to become worship. You curate his legacy with the same honesty you gave the unsung, a kind of respectful distance, a neutrality that tastes more like resolve than praise. You speak of his victories but mention the bruises that followed. You reference the men and women who carried the weight he left, who fought to turn pain into progress, who rose because they had to because surviving him became its own kind of championship. In every plaque, every soundbite, every shadow behind the spotlight, you bury the truth beneath the glass: greatness is complicated. Legacy is a house built on what we refuse to see.

It strips you to do this. stand before the crowd, poised and unflinching, speaking a legacy you once wished you could burn out of existence. Yet you steady your voice, shape the narrative with the same careful hands he once tried to break, and you do it not for him, not for applause, but because refusing to let him claim your ending is its own quiet reparation. There is a promise here, silent and veiled, that one day, something gentler will arrive to take root where the pain once nested, a softness the world will mistake for luck, a newness you’ll recognize by the hint of blues in the dawn light, subtle and miraculous, hidden in plain sight. You shape the story with patience, knowing the universe owes you something beautiful for every bruise you turned into music, and the truest repayment is already humming beneath your skin, waiting to bloom when the night finally breaks.

The universe owes you, and you know it. For every wound you’ve stitched shut with speeches and every ounce of grace you’ve poured into rooms that tried to swallow you whole, there is a debt racking up in the margins—cosmic, overdue, and definitely not paid in applause. Sometimes you think you’ll wake up and find your reward pressed into the morning, soft and blue at the edges, a kindness so quiet it feels like an inside joke only fate understands. But tonight, beneath the applause and reverence, there’s something colder pulsing through your veins, an unease that wriggles under your skin, and you try to laugh it off, but even that feels brittle. You’re surrounded by love, Mark stationed at your shoulder, Areum radiating sly reassurance, Donghyuck and Chenle weaving a perimeter of humor and bravado, Yangyang never more than an arm’s reach away. But it’s Nahyun you keep tracking in your periphery. The mimicry is blatant, so bald it nearly feels like a dare, it’s as if she practiced your smile in the hotel mirror. At one point, Mark leans in, voice low but unmissable, “If she blinks twice in that shade of lipstick, I’m calling for an exorcist.” Areum snorts, linking her arm through yours, “She’s one TikTok away from trying your coffee order.” You can’t help it, you laugh, sharp, startled, the sound carrying more relief than humor, and in that flash, you see the worry behind Mark’s grin, the way his gaze never leaves Nahyun for long, the way Areum’s hand tightens on your wrist.

The guys don’t say it, but they close ranks, shoulders squaring whenever Jeno or Nahyun draws too close, the air between you charged with something like wariness and something like defiance. There’s an unspoken promise circling tonight: you are protected, you are seen, and no one gets to bleed you out quietly, not this time. Even so, you can’t help dissecting every twitch in Nahyun’s posture, the subtle desperation when she mirrors your stance, the frantic edge in her laugh, the way she lingers too long near your exhibits, fingers trailing over captions as if searching for a secret only you could have written. You know what happens to those who build themselves from borrowed pieces, they crash, eventually, and when they do, it’s never quiet.

When you finally slip outside for air, the sky layered with velvet clouds and a thousand city lights, you find Seulgi perched on the steps, cigarette in hand, the tip glowing like an ember warding off every ghost. She sees Nahyun floating by the doors, catches your eye, and mutters under her breath, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. I’ve seen less desperate cosplay at a fan convention.” You laugh, deeper this time, real enough to warm your ribs. She flicks her ash, then beckons you over, pulling you into a quick, bracing hug, her arms strong and unyielding. “Don’t let her near your drink,” she says, eyes twinkling, and you both crack up, laughter dissolving the tension in your spine.

Seulgi’s voice softens, her edges rounding with something old and fiercely maternal, warmth stitched into every word. She sits a little closer, pressing her knee against yours, and you remember how, even after everything, even after Jeno left you bruised and hollow, she never let the distance grow. She was the first to call when you landed a new office, the one who sent flowers when you published your first piece, the only one who never made you choose sides. She fills the silence between you with a steady, grounding presence, thumb smoothing over the back of your hand, like she’s trying to iron the ache out of your skin.

“You know I’m proud of you, right?” she says, her voice quiet enough to keep the moment small and private, a cocoon in the city dark. “That hasn’t changed, nothing with him changes that. You’re family to me. You always were.” Her gaze is clear, gentle, and when she tucks a stray hair behind your ear, it’s as if she’s amending a thousand hurts, overcompensating for what her son could not give you—tenderness, apology, belonging. “You deserve better than what he gave. You always have. Don’t let anyone—him, her, or even the archive—try to rewrite that for you.” She smiles then, small and crooked, and presses a spare key into your palm, her hand warm and unwavering. “If you ever need to disappear, even for just a night, you come to me. I’ll be waiting. My door never closed on you, sweetheart.”

And you know it’s true—every gentle touch, every fiercely protective word, every effort to stay in your life is her way of healing what he broke, her love a quiet shelter that holds steady long after the storm. The air feels lighter, the ground firmer beneath you, and for the first time in hours, you let yourself believe that you are safe, anchored, still seen for who you are, and always—no matter the shadows—deeply loved.

Seulgi leans back, flicking her cigarette with a practiced snap, the night curling around you both. She’s been scanning the room all night, keeping tabs like a seasoned general, and now she lets out a huff. “That girl, Nahyun,” she mutters, rolling her eyes so theatrically you almost laugh, “she couldn’t find an original bone if she tripped over a skeleton. Did you see the way she keeps circling the mirrored walls? If she gets any closer, we’ll have to peel her off your reflection.”

You stifle a snort, glancing at the doorway where Nahyun lingers, posed and perfect, emerald dress glittering a little too familiarly under the lights. “You don’t like your new daughter-in-law?” you ask, voice sly.

Seulgi waves her hand like she’s batting a fly. “Daughter-in-law, my ass. I told Jeno if he wanted a mannequin, he could just go to the nearest department store and save us all the drama.” Her laugh is low and wicked, then she glances at you sideways, voice suddenly wistful. “Wish things were different, that’s all. Wish that boy of mine still had some sense, had a choice—wish he was standing next to the right woman tonight.”

You blink, eyebrows rising. “What was that?”

She freezes for a heartbeat, eyes wide, caught between confession and denial. Then she shakes her head, suddenly flustered, cheeks pink. “Oh, nothing—just old lady nonsense. I’m getting sentimental in my old age, you know how it is.” She’s already changing the subject, pulling you into a hug so tight you feel your ribs protest, whispering, “Don’t mind me. Just promise me you’ll eat something before the night’s out, or I’ll drag you into the caffe myself.”

You laugh, heart lighter, and let her fuss, letting the easy affection cover the jagged edge beneath. For a moment, all the pain and shadow recedes, the two of you a quiet axis of love and mischief at the edge of a world that never quite learned how to love you right. She holds you just a beat longer, and for the first time all night, you feel the weight ease, the universe tipping just a little more in your favor, a reminder that even in the ruins, you are still surrounded by those who would set the world alight for you.

The night folds in around you, a little softer after Seulgi’s warmth, but as you slip back through the press of the hall, you find Yangyang waiting, his hand reaching for yours with a reassurance that steadies you, his smile gentle as he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. You squeeze his hand—thankful, but your mind already drifting when you catch sight of Jihyo weaving through the crowd, her eyes shining, more vulnerable than you’ve ever seen them, like she’s carried years of unsaid words to this exact moment.

You murmur, “Give me a second?” into Yangyang’s ear, brushing your lips across his jaw, feeling the safety of his touch even as you slip away. He nods, pride glowing in his gaze, stepping back so Jihyo can step in, and the space between you fills with everything that’s been left unsaid for four long years.

Jihyo’s arms close around you, tight and trembling, and for the first time all night your bravado cracks, tears pressing hot behind your eyes. She rocks you a little, the way old friends do, the way you forgot you ever needed, and you let your breath hitch against her shoulder, your voice faltering as the words finally tumble free. You draw back, wiping your eyes, voice shaking as you whisper, “I’m sorry. I should have come back—I know. I just—couldn’t. I was so scared, Jihyo. That night, when everyone showed up to hear me sing, when they filled the bar, when they made it feel like a spotlight I never asked for, I thought I could handle it, I thought I could make something beautiful out of the mess, but it felt like drowning. After that, after Jeno, I couldn’t come back. Every inch of that place felt haunted. I’d cross the street to avoid it, I’d turn off every song that reminded me. I shut out everyone, even you, and I’ve hated myself for it ever since.”

Jihyo’s eyes brim, her lips pressed together in understanding and hurt and fierce loyalty. “You were never supposed to carry it alone,” she murmurs, thumb brushing the tear from your cheek. “I watched you, you know, I find myself very protective over you, even from a distance, I never stopped wanting to protect you. Every article, every panel, every clip, they never told the whole story. I wanted to drag you back by the hair, but I knew you’d come home when you were ready. I missed you, you idiot.”

You both laugh, broken but alive, holding hands as if you might fall if you let go. Jihyo sighs, fierce all over again, her voice growing sharper. “He broke something in you, and I’ll never forgive him for that. I see you, how strong you are, how you put yourself back together and made something bigger than what he took. And when you’re ready, when you want it, the bar’s waiting for you. It’ll always be yours to reclaim. Don’t let his ghost stop you from walking through your own door.”

You swallow hard, blinking through the emotion. “What about you? What’s your life look like now? You still ruling the bar with an iron fist?” You manage a watery laugh, reaching for something bright.

She grins, but there’s something secret in her smile as she rolls up her sleeve, revealing a tiny, delicate tattoo. a sleeping rabbit, inked just above her wrist, its ears curled close, its body tucked in safe. “I had a little boy,” she says, and the words crack open your world, the ache of longing blooming fierce and sharp in your chest. She pulls out her phone, finds a photo: a chubby-cheeked baby, fists curled, eyes closed in blissful sleep. “His name is Minjun.”

You gasp, the sound bright and raw. “He’s beautiful, Jihyo—God, he’s perfect.” You coo at the image, your eyes welling up all over again, a tidal rush of tenderness and want so fierce it leaves you breathless. “I didn’t even know you had a partner. When did this happen?”

Jihyo’s eyes meet yours, steady, open, unflinching. “I don’t,” she says simply. “It’s just me and him. And I won’t pretend it’s not hard, but loving him? That’s the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”

The words settle in the space between you, humming with an ache you barely understand, a pulse that moves beneath your skin in a place you never let anyone see. There’s a softness in your chest that feels new and old all at once, a kind of ache that flickers every time Jihyo’s thumb brushes the tiny rabbit on her wrist. You laugh through the longing, but your palm lingers low against your stomach, a gesture so small and instinctive you almost don’t notice you’re doing it—like muscle memory, or a wish you’ve never spoken aloud. Something in you stirs, a question without a name, delicate as hope, heavy as history.

Jihyo notices, smiles knowingly, but lets the moment drift, her advice falling soft and sure. “Don’t wait for the perfect timing, or the perfect person, or the perfect way to start over. You build the world you want, even if it’s just you and a baby and the ghosts you learn to live with. You deserve every kind of happiness, every kind of love, even if you have to build it from the ground up.”

You press your lips together, eyes full, heart wrecked and hopeful in equal measure. “You always do give the best advice,” you say, squeezing her hand, letting yourself lean in one last time before the night sweeps you back into its current. For a moment, everything feels soft and possible, a new kind of story humming beneath your skin, as Jihyo’s little rabbit tattoo—her badge of courage, her secret hope—glimmers under the exhibition lights, and you tuck her words away, letting them root in the part of you that’s still learning how to begin again.

But hope doesn’t linger long. Your pulse drums in your throat as you turn away, feet moving on instinct through the marbled corridors, every step a rehearsal for the confrontation you can’t escape. You brace yourself quietly, each heartbeat a careful negotiation with the dread in your chest, knowing what’s coming next will likely be the hardest moment of a night already strung tight with tension. Your next interview—with Jeno—is a cruel inevitability, something fixed into the timeline by forces beyond your control. You’d tried everything to escape it, every polite refusal, every quiet plea to the board, but they’d insisted. A conversation between the legacy’s face and its voice was the centerpiece they needed, a spectacle too significant to dismantle. You’d cursed the universe silently, bargaining for a repayment worthy of this suffering, something grand enough to soothe the ache.

Yet here you are, spine straightening as you let the fear settle somewhere below your collarbone, trying to remember how it feels to own the room, not just survive it. The lights feel harsher now, the crowd’s hum sharper—every detail rendered in high definition as you approach the edge of the gallery where your future is waiting, or unraveling, or both. You inhale slowly, grounding yourself in the memory of all the voices that told you to keep going, the warmth of old friendships, the echo of Jihyo’s quiet encouragement lingering against your skin. For a heartbeat, you let yourself believe you might actually be ready for whatever comes next. Still, as you round the corner and catch the first glimpse of Jeno standing in profile—shadowed, beautiful, every line of him etched with anticipation and regret—the only certainty you possess is that there are some reckonings no one can prepare for. Some reunions are born to change the shape of your life, no matter how steady your heart tries to be.

Before facing him, you seek refuge. Your feet carry you instinctively to Jaemin and Haeun, where softness blooms in the chaos, a sanctuary tucked away from the sharp edges of your anxiety. Jaemin brightens instantly when you approach, though his expression melts quickly into exaggerated despair as he sighs, dramatically placing a hand over his heart. “Honestly, ever since I became a dad, nobody pays attention to me anymore,” he jokes, eyes sparkling despite his mock wounded tone. You laugh softly, pulling him into a warm hug, whispering teasingly, “Sorry, Jaem, she’s just a lot cuter than you.”

You shift your attention fully to Haeun, gently lifting her into your arms. She’s grown so much in these months, her tiny frame sturdier, eyes wide and curious, peering at you as she babbles softly—syllables stumbling, adorable and innocent. You grin, stroking a finger delicately over her soft cheek, marveling at how far she’s come, heart swelling at each precious sound she makes. “She started talking a little,” Jaemin says softly, pride unmistakable as he watches his daughter nestled comfortably in your embrace. “It’s mostly ‘dada’ and random noises, but—”

“It’s perfect,” you interrupt gently, voice thick with genuine awe, your finger caught gently in her tiny grasp. “She’s perfect.” And she is—her dress a delicate cotton sundress dotted with tiny embroidered daisies, her dark hair pulled into two tiny pigtails tied with pale pink ribbons. Each detail melts your heart further, drawing coos and quiet gasps from your mouth, a soothing balm against the pressure looming overhead.

“How has she been?” you ask softly, rocking her gently against you, unable to pull your gaze from her warm, innocent eyes.

“Better,” Jaemin answers sincerely, relief coloring his voice, chasing away the shadows of past fear. “She’s stronger, more active—she’s finally able to do cute baby things, you know? Grabbing everything, babbling at random things, giggling. It’s like she’s finally living, not just surviving.” His words fill you with a tender ache, your own longing surging quietly beneath your ribs. You lean down, pressing a gentle kiss atop her tiny head, breathing in the soft scent of baby powder and innocence, your eyes stinging with a sweetness so acute it hurts.

It’s only then—midway through this gentle moment—that you feel the unmistakable sensation of eyes on you, the prickling awareness crawling up your spine, alerting you to a presence you’ve tried so hard to ignore. Slowly, inevitably, your gaze lifts and finds him, Jeno standing at the edge of the gallery, dark eyes anchored on you. The air seems to thin around you, breath catching painfully in your chest, because there, in his stare, is something searing, deep, unguarded. something he hasn’t let you see in years.

The room doesn’t turn, but your whole body does, as if some time-turner inside you has spun the years back, folding the present into those bright, impossible college days. He hasn’t looked this boyish—this breakable, this young—since college, since the last time he let himself be seen without armor, and for a second, you can almost pretend nothing’s changed, that the world hasn’t spun you both into strangers. But it’s all there in his stare: the searing ache, the years of unspoken longing, the grief and guilt and hope braided so tightly it hurts to breathe. The air goes thin, the ground uncertain, and you realize that every step, every speech, every thread of the night has led you right back to this moment, the two of you facing each other in a hall of ghosts, both changed, neither free.

He looks undone, caught in a moment he never expected. His carefully controlled expression fractures softly, raw yearning filtering through the cracks. His eyes, dark as polished obsidian, burn softly, tracing the tenderness of your touch, how naturally you cradle Haeun, how easily your body settles into an instinctive, maternal curve. The intimacy of it seems to strike him like lightning, a revelation that draws his mouth into a quiet, devastating line.

You can’t look away, he won’t let you, gaze holding you captive, unblinking, demanding you see the truth he refuses to voice. You feel it like a touch against your ribs, an ache resonating quietly between you: longing, regret, and something deeper, something primitive and possessive he never learned to hide completely. He watches your gentle affection toward Haeun, your whispered words, your delicate hands, and you know he imagines, just for a breath, what could have been, what still could be if only fate had been kinder.

Yangyang clocks it from across the room, how the gallery’s hush sharpens around you, how Jeno’s gaze doesn’t waver, not even as the distance between you bristles with unfinished stories. He weaves through the crowd, his steps deliberate, posture broadening as he closes in, the tension in his jaw more pronounced than usual. He draws up beside you, looping his arm around your waist, thumb grazing a slow, grounding circle against your dress. His presence is steady, gentle, anchoring you, but it’s also a declaration, one that doesn’t need words, only proximity.

You feel the world contract to this frame: his hand at your hip, your arms full with the weight and warmth of a baby nestled close against your chest, soft as a secret and steady as a heartbeat. There’s a gentleness in how you hold the child, the rhythm of your palm soothing across their back, the kind of intimacy that says home in any language. Yangyang leans in, lips brushing the edge of your cheek, and you turn toward him with the practiced grace of habit, brushing your mouth against his jaw, smiling just enough for the flash of cameras to catch.

Jeno doesn’t move, his expression a study in contradictions—devastation polished into composure, the ache in his eyes dark and thunderous as he watches the tableau. For a breathless instant, the room itself seems to shift: every whisper, every sideways glance, every flicker of recognition in the crowd believes what they see, a family, untouched by loss, written in the soft lines of your embrace. You cradle the baby, crooning softly, fingers trailing through delicate hair, laughter bubbling up light and silvery, the sound so convincing it almost fools even you. You don’t look back, but you feel the heat of Jeno’s longing like a brand pressed between your shoulder blades, the memory of another life pulsing beneath your skin.

You see it in the rigid set of his shoulders, in the way his jaw locks, in the barely-restrained violence in his stare as Yangyang bends to press a gentle kiss to your temple. You let your head fall lightly to Yangyang’s shoulder, let your laughter ring soft and sure, let your body show comfort, partnership, belonging—all the things Jeno once believed would always be his. You let the baby clutch at your necklace, small hand fisted in gold, and you don’t look back.

The gallery becomes a stage: you, Yangyang, and the baby at its center, a portrait of happiness so convincing the air itself thickens with envy. Jeno’s eyes never leave you, never stray from the sight of what was promised, what he surrendered, what he would kill to have back. You lean into Yangyang’s embrace, press your lips to the baby’s brow, and in that moment you let the world believe this is your ending. In that moment, you make sure he sees what it means to lose everything that once belonged to him.

It’s in that moment you recognize the truth, crystal-clear, searing and irrefutable: Jeno might have hurt you, might have shattered the trust you once had, but in this moment, watching you cradle the fragile, miraculous weight of someone else’s child, he’s the one left wounded, stripped raw, his heart laid bare and bleeding quietly between you. You see his throat bob once, twice, swallowing the ache you’ve planted there without meaning to, his breathing subtly uneven, fighting to steady.

You break the stare first, turning back to Haeun, holding her a little tighter, breathing deeply through the overwhelming rush of emotions swirling inside your chest. Because no matter how deeply Jeno still affects you, no matter how intensely he looks at you tonight, you know with fierce clarity that you deserve better than the heartbreak he carries. You cradle the baby gently, grounding yourself in her quiet innocence, in Jaemin’s soft smile, and in the strength of knowing that you’ve survived worse—and you’ll survive this, too.

Jaemin finally reaches for his daughter, smiling with the familiar exhaustion of new fatherhood. “You know, she misses her godmother. I never see you anymore,” he teases, voice light, but his eyes search yours with real concern.

You force a smile, shifting Haeun gently into his arms, lingering for a second to brush her hair back from her forehead. “Jaemin, you’re going to be sick of me soon,” you reply, nudging his arm, “I’ll be spending a whole month at your hospital. There’s a new APEX project—they’re piloting a recovery analytics program that merges post-op surgical data with athlete rehab protocols. Your hospital is one of the few we’re working with for the initial rollout. I’ll be setting up lab works, running case studies, you name it. So get ready. You’re about to see way too much of me.”

His eyebrows shoot up, surprise giving way to a little burst of excitement. “Wait, you’re serious? When?”

“Next month,” you confirm, grinning as Haeun catches your finger in her tiny hand. “And I get to see my favourite girl for a whole month straight. I hope you’re ready for me to spoil her rotten.”

Haeun, as if on cue, gurgles happily, the word tumbling out clear as day: “Ya!” You and Jaemin both laugh—something eases in your chest, a weight lightened for just a moment. You kiss the top of Haeun’s head, letting yourself believe in ordinary joys, even if just for a heartbeat.

Under the winking, unnatural lights of the archive, the gallery is electric—a current that catches beneath your ribs, crawls up your throat, and thrums in your teeth. The hall is nothing but voltage, a river of hush broken by the tremor of names whispered like spells. You sit at one end of a marble bench, posture sculpted into armor, silk dress dark as myth, the fabric catching in the glow and making your whole body look like it was painted here by a vengeful hand. At the far edge, Jeno: cut from the same impossible gravity, all dark suit and coiled restraint, a man so stunning and unyielding he alters the oxygen in the room. Between you, an expanse heavy as a battlefield, crowded with everything you never said, years of ghosts pressing in so thick it’s a miracle either of you can breathe. Between you, a chasm: not space, not emptiness, but a living wound, alive with the static of old battles and unfinished sentences.

You study the seam between the tiles, heartbeat wrung tight as piano wire. Every move is choreography—fingers smoothing invisible creases, throat clearing, lashes low as you inventory every ache that has ever held your name. Jeno’s presence doesn’t fill the air so much as fracture it. His hands are thunder clenched into bone; every tendon in his neck stands out like the string on a guillotine. The gold of his championship ring glints on his finger—a monarch’s relic, worn by a man built to self-immolate. Above you, the projected footage flickers—a highlight reel of Jeno’s ascension, every impossible record a nail in the coffin of what you once were together. The crowd watches, rapt, but all you hear is the water in your ears, a slow roar that drowns out applause and memory alike. Your name is stitched across the program in ink, his across glass and myth, but it feels as if you’re both graffiti on a monument built to erase you.

You keep your eyes down, focused on the script you spent nights refining—each question more precise than a blade, more necessary than oxygen. You hear the crowd on the other side of the room: the murmur, the hush, the anticipation pressed like static against the glass. The display cases behind you are filled with relics—his jerseys, gleaming trophies, photographs of dunks so wild they seem conjured from fever, not sweat. Jeno’s presence is like thunder distilled to muscle, a force that bends the light toward him. Yet, in this moment, he doesn’t own it; he waits for you to set the rules, for your voice to shape the night’s reality. Nahyun sits in the front row, as meticulously composed as a wax figure, eyes darting between you and Jeno as if she can conjure possession from posture alone. Nahyun, lacquered and brittle as a porcelain mimic, sits in the audience with a smile sharp enough to draw blood, her knuckles pressed white against her clutch. She stares at the side of Jeno’s face, desperate for a glance, a kingdom, a claim. Her dress mirrors the curve of yours, her lips painted your red, her entire presence a distorted echo—yet every eye is on the gravity that hums between you and the man across from you, a universe of history stitched invisible in the air.

You don’t look at him at first. The space between you seethes, packed with years and wounds and a thousand borrowed versions of his face—the man you loved, the man who left, the stranger staring back from magazine covers. Every instinct says don’t, but the moment claws at you, demanding witness, and so, finally, you let your eyes climb the dark line of his suit, the column of his throat, the unyielding set of his jaw. What you find there is not the memory you’ve kept alive all this time; it’s something sharper, older, ravaged and rebuilt, a face that’s outlived a hundred endings and refuses to surrender. His jaw is a cut of obsidian, cheekbones painted with fatigue and defiance, his mouth drawn tight—a wound that’s never learned how to close. Every line of his body radiates tension and pride and old pain, a geometry of ache, but he is so beautiful you feel the violence of it in your ribs. He’s not just a man, he’s the aftermath of a disaster, magnetic and catastrophic, the kind of presence that makes you believe in ruin as a kind of religion.

When your eyes finally meet, it isn’t gentle. It’s the shock of water after a drought, an old scar split open by the tremor of recognition. Jeno’s gaze slams into you with the same precision he once brought to every game, every impossible shot, and for a second you are both twenty two again, unbroken and doomed, the world tilting on the axis of this one look. There’s longing in his eyes—undiluted, unwelcome, raw as a bruise. It sits beneath the surface, stubborn and wild, the sort of grief that doesn’t beg for relief, only acknowledgment. His irises are dark, shining under the exhibition lights, the color of storm-wet earth, rimmed in something close to hunger. When he blinks, his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks and it almost undoes you. There’s a shiver in the air, as if everyone in the room can feel the history vibrating between you, the truth that nothing has ever mattered so much as this collision.

You take inventory with the cold precision of someone cataloguing damage: the fine lines at the corners of his eyes that weren’t there before, the subtle tension in his throat when he swallows, the way his shoulders hold themselves too straight, too proud, as if bracing for another blow. He’s filled out, all muscle and purpose, but his beauty is still edged in the same dangerous charm that once undid you in empty corridors and half-lit gyms. His mouth, for a moment, flickers—just a ghost of the smirk you remember, the one that could make you reckless, and then it’s gone, shuttered by duty, by grief, by everything that’s come between you. You remember what it felt like to see him like this—untouchable and half-mad with ambition, a star about to burn itself out—and you wonder if he can see the same change in you, if he recognizes the girl he left behind in the armor you wear now.

You don’t blink. You don’t let him see the wreckage. The crowd leans in, transfixed by the spectacle of two architects of legend—twin calamities, separated only by a breath, a benediction, a blade. And the interview begins, not as a conversation, but as an exorcism, a reckoning disguised as ceremony.

You’ve spent weeks preparing for tonight, locked in your office until late, nights spent buried beneath archived footage, watching Jeno move, studying every angle, every tactic, every strategic shift from his earlier days at college until now. It’s unsettlingly familiar, reminiscent of those late nights from your shared past, when you analyzed his plays for the college project, memorizing the rhythm of his steps, the way his eyes scanned the court. Yet now, there’s a startling difference. The boy from your college days has been replaced by a man with harder edges, sharper instincts, eyes that have seen too much and seem to hold more secrets. His game, now clinical and ruthless, holds none of the reckless joy you once admired. Records now line his legacy, including being the youngest player in NBA history to reach ten thousand points. It’s a triumph, a legacy made solid, yet the victories feel hollow to you. You’ve watched his interviews, noticed how his smile never quite reaches his eyes, the boyish charm burned away by years in the spotlight. It leaves you both proud and strangely sad—like witnessing something beautiful slowly calcify.

The floor manager signals you with two raised fingers, and the cameras flicker red. You straighten your spine, emerald dress catching the light perfectly, posture flawless, eyes cool. Your voice is silk-smooth when you begin speaking, measured and calm. Your gaze finally settles fully on him—steady, analytical, as though he were just another player under your microscope. But you both know better. Up close, beneath the unforgiving lights, you see the evidence of time carved clearly into his features. Jeno has changed—beautiful still, devastatingly handsome, but undeniably older. His jawline, sharper now, is etched with shadows you don’t recognize. His cheekbones seem higher, defined by the faintest flush of tension, his eyes darker and deeper set. There’s a fine sheen of sweat along his temples, silver under the lights, his hair slightly mussed as though he’s fought a private battle to arrive here. His lips, pressed into a careful line, seem unbearably familiar yet somehow distant, as though they hold unspoken regrets.

Your pulse quickens slightly, breath hitching quietly at the intimacy of this first prolonged look at him since the wedding. It’s a silent reckoning, one you’ve spent years avoiding. He looks worn yet powerful, a carefully composed paradox of strength and vulnerability. His suit, tailored and perfect, emphasizes the breadth of his shoulders, the solidity of his chest beneath the fabric, reminding you vividly of nights spent pressed against him, memories you fiercely shove away. But the boyish innocence, the reckless laughter that once danced easily in his eyes—that’s gone now, replaced by something raw and deeply guarded. Yet, even in this coldness, he still exudes a quiet, magnetic sexuality, the kind that feels dangerously alluring, impossible to ignore, even now. Your stomach twists painfully, your chest constricting with something dark and aching—recognition, yearning, and old grief.

The countdown begins: three, two, one—each second scraping across your nerves, peeling away the armor you’ve layered since the last time you stood this close. A sharp inhale steadies you, and with the final tick, you morph, not into the woman he left, small and open and half-destroyed, but into the one who rebuilt herself in the aftermath, brick by brick, breath by breath, swallowing ruin and spitting back something unbreakable. Your posture straightens, shoulders squared to the world, chin lifted so the gallery lights gild your skin. You embody the storm now, not the shelter.

Your fingers tighten around the microphone as you introduce him, voice liquid and exact, each syllable a scalpel. “Tonight, I have the honor of welcoming one of the most influential athletes of our era, a champion who has redefined the sport, a legacy not born, but built. Lee Jeno, fastest to ten thousand, breaker of records, son of the man whose shadow built this archive. Thank you for joining us.” There is no tremor, no apology, just steel, yet your words taste foreign, pressed into your mouth after weeks spent inhaling every statistic, every late-night article, every shaky phone clip. You remember college, nights curled in front of a glowing laptop, the thrill of gathering highlight reels just to watch him move, his skill, his joy, the reckless promise of youth. Now it’s different. Now it’s work. Now it’s the hollow echo of devotion retooled into duty.

Jeno’s gaze drops, and for a split second, the world collapses into the cold shimmer of that bracelet circling your wrist, every charm a secret scar, each one a relic of touch, devotion, and aftermath—the silver basketball he bought you after a study session for the project, the tiny book for all those nights you read aloud until you both fell asleep, the broken heart you snapped together and never mended. His eyes linger, dark and hungry, sweeping over metal that’s warmed to your skin, as if he can still feel the way it used to burn against his palm when he’d drag your hands above your head and fuck you slow enough to hear the charms rattle, a sound so intimate it’s etched into his blood. His voice comes out quieter than breath, a blade smothered in velvet, so careful it hurts, but you hear the ache beneath every syllable, the gratitude and regret braided together. “Thank you.” It falls between you heavy and bruised, a purple mark beneath the skin, a memory pressed deep, the echo of everything he gave you and everything he’s still trying to take back.

You allow yourself a single, measured breath, searching for the coldest part of your heart. Your gaze slides to his left hand, gold band mocking you from across the space, an artifact of all the things you lost. For a moment, you see your life cleaved in two: before this ring, before this heartbreak, before everything became so irrevocably distant. Your voice doesn’t falter. “And congratulations on your engagement.” Each word falls with the precision of a scalpel, slicing clean and deep. The pain is sharp, metallic, something you swallow until it settles in the hollows of your bones.

Jeno’s jaw flexes, eyes shuttered. “Thank you,” he answers, voice stripped raw—just the edge of a plea he would never let you hear. He won’t look at you. He can’t.

A ripple goes through the room, the soundless gasp of a hundred people bracing for the snap, laughter catching in the throat of some and dissolving into nervous coughs and shuffles, as if the very air might burst into flame. Somewhere near the front, Donghyuck’s jaw drops wide enough for the cameras to catch, Karina’s nails dig into Jaemin’s arm while he mutters, “Oh, she’s going for the jugular,” half-proud, half-terrified. Yangyang, off to the side, sees the glint in your eyes—something volcanic, a heat he’s never managed to draw out, and suddenly he’s hollow, acutely aware of the absence he’s already begun to inhabit, the way he’s just another spectator to a history he’ll never rewrite. In the rows behind, press members grip their pens tighter, whispering gleefully into their recorders; you can almost see the headlines birthing themselves—‘Scandal at the Seoul Exhibition: Ex-Lovers Face Off on Live Broadcast’—as the silence thickens, shivering with possibility.

Even the crowd’s laughter, when it comes, feels off-kilter, brittle and edged, some people elbowing each other as if they’re in on a private joke, others frozen in awe at the carnage. Nahyun sits rigid in her seat, mouth twitching as if she might spasm, smile brittle as spun sugar, blinking too hard, eyes flitting to the cameras and then to you, watching her legacy fissure in real time. The moment stretches, every breath drawn out and held, the tension so physical you could carve it and serve it for dinner. You cross your legs, deliberate and poised, every inch of you untouchable, voice smooth as glass. “It must feel surreal,” you murmur, each word silk-strung and sharpened, “to have your name up in lights, to become the legend everyone expected you to be.” The crowd inhales, the world leans closer, and for one suspended heartbeat, every secret between you hums just beneath the skin, history burning, futures unraveling, the kind of moment people will tell their children about, if only for the way it nearly undid you both.

He gives a half-shrug, sly and sharp, eyes darting across the crowd like he’s scanning for a lifeline, but when he finds none, he locks right back onto you, always, as if gravity won’t let him stray. “You tell me. You’re the one writing the story.” There’s a taunt curled into his tone, barbs and bravado. “Aren’t you the analyst? The expert at spinning stats into legend?”

You let out a little scoff, one brow arched high, mouth twisting into a smirk that’s all teeth and challenge. “Oh, I’m just following the data, Jeno. But you and I both know numbers lie—maybe as much as you do.” There’s a ripple of laughter in the room, nervous and hungry, the kind that says everyone is already drafting tomorrow’s headlines. Karina coughs to cover a gasp, Donghyuck snorts, and the director, backstage, tries to wave you back to the script, wide-eyed and mouthing ‘move on’—but you don’t even blink.

Jeno leans in, just enough for the cameras to ache for a close-up, his voice dropping to a private dare. “Sometimes the story gets told before the truth can catch up. Have you ever thought about that? Or are you too busy fact-checking your own feelings?” He smiles, razor-sharp, the kind of smile that promises scars, and suddenly you feel the weight of every friend, every rival, every pair of eyes in the room waiting to see who will draw blood first. The hush is charged, history dangling between you, the crowd sensing they’re witnessing the kind of moment that will live in rumor and headline long after the lights go down.

You and Jeno eye each other, caught in the invisible thread that always winds you back together, the world narrowing until it’s just the two of you, circling. It’s instinct—this need to challenge, to push, to try and one up the other, because it’s easier to spar in public than strip yourselves raw. This back-and-forth, this clever cruelty, feels safer than honesty, even as both of you know it’s only armor, only performance, only the familiar dance that keeps the world from seeing what’s really at stake. The audience senses it too, every laugh a little too sharp, every silence drawn out, and somewhere backstage, the director finally drops his script, head sinking into his hands as he mutters, “Let them eat each other alive.” No one moves to stop you. For a moment, it’s chaos wrapped in ritual—an audience hungry for blood, two survivors clinging to the only language they have left.

“Your father’s name is everywhere tonight,” you say, voice so even it cuts. “Does it ever get old, living in someone else’s shadow? Or have you managed to find the light?” Your words are silk and steel, each one poised to wound or worship.

Jeno’s jaw flexes, eyes never leaving yours. “You can spend your life trying to outrun ghosts, or you can turn around and chase them. I guess I just figured out how to build something worth haunting.” He gives you that infuriating half-grin, the one that always means trouble. “Maybe that’s why you and I never worked, too busy sprinting, not enough finish lines.”

You tilt your head, lips curling. “Funny, I always figured you liked the chase because you never could catch up.” There’s a ripple of laughter from somewhere in the crowd—Jaemin’s cackle unmistakable—and the press scribbles furiously, senses sharpened for every jab. Nahyun shifts beside him, charm bracelet jangling, her stare sharp and unblinking. All the while, you hold his gaze, tossing your next retort like it’s nothing: “But hey, someone’s gotta keep the story interesting. You break the records, I’ll keep breaking headlines.” The tension pulses, electric and relentless, both of you refusing to blink first.

“Are you happy?” Your question lands like a struck bell, bright and resonant, a dare masquerading as curiosity.

Jeno doesn’t flinch, but his lips part, tongue slicking slowly over his teeth, buying time. He lets the silence stretch, eyes holding yours until the room goes tight around you both. Then, softly, “Why don’t you answer that, too?” His voice is low, rough, almost teasing. “Are you happy?”

You let the corners of your mouth curve, all cool control. “I’m the one asking the questions tonight.” Your tone is light, but your stare lingers, making it clear you’re not dodging—you’re just refusing to let him have the last word.

Jeno drags his tongue over his lower lip, a slow, deliberate glide that glints under the lights. “Happiness tallies in banners, parades, rings,” he replies, voice pitched low and rough. “Run the numbers—tell me what they total.” His gaze locks on your mouth, as if he can already feel the reply forming there.

You tip your chin, breath steady, heat prickling along your skin. “I prefer red ink,” you answer. “Errors reveal truth faster than trophies.” You lean fractionally forward, emerald silk whispering. “I can draft a new ending faster than you can tally a box score. Ready for a rewrite?”

His jaw flexes. He lets a thumb circle the edge of his wedding band, gold catching the overhead glow. “Show me the revision,” he murmurs, words shaped like invitation and warning together. He shifts, knees angling toward you, suit pulling tight across his chest—controlled power wrapped in midnight fabric.

“First line,” you say, tilting the microphone closer, allowing your voice to slip into a register meant only for him. “A legend chooses love once, then chooses fear, and the record books turn to ash.”

He breathes out, a short rush that carries a hint of a laugh and the scorch of something darker. “Second line,” he counters, leaning in until your perfume settles between you, warm as a memory. “A strategist builds empires from ruins, but her heartbeat still maps to the rhythm of the first name she ever whispered in the dark.”

Your pulse answers that rhythm. You swallow it down, steady as a sniper. “Third line,” you continue, eyes gleaming. “Crowds cheer, sponsors celebrate, yet legacy still lodges in the throat—waiting for a song it never earned.” Your fingers brush the bracelet at your wrist, silver winking beneath the lights.

Jeno’s gaze drops to the charm, lingering, lips parting just enough to reveal the catch of his breath. Heat licks up your spine. “Fourth line,” he says, voice husky, every vowel an aftershock. “Two prodigies meet in a hall of ghosts, and the air remembers every secret their bodies ever kept.”

Silence hums, intimate and volatile. The gallery lights pulse, glass cases reflecting twin silhouettes leaning toward collision. The audience fades to a distant rustle, the cameras to blinking red eyes at the edge of vision. Only the charge remains—your breaths interlocking, your questions hanging unfinished, his answers trembling on the verge of confession.

You wet your lips, let your next words hover a fraction above a whisper. “Fifth line—”

He cuts in, voice velvet and iron. “Fifth line writes itself.” His palm lifts, hovering inches from your knee, halted only by the invisible wall of decorum. His eyes promise the touch. Your skin burns with the phantom imprint of it.

The director clears a throat somewhere offstage—signal to steer back to safe territory. Neither of you moves. Every heartbeat feels like glass cracking under too much heat, a soft, inevitable fissure.

You inhale, straighten a page you no longer need, and break the spell with the clinical precision you trained for. “We pivot to statistics now,” you announce, tone crystalline. Yet your pulse still thrums with the threat of proximity, with the memory of his breath, with the question that lingers unsatisfied between your bodies: happiness measured or stolen, rewritten or relieved.

Jeno shifts back, but his smile—sharp, private—tells you the interview’s boundary already shattered, words merely waiting for the next pulse to drag them under.

You shuffle your notes, the microphone poised delicately between your fingers, but it’s the glint in your eyes that draws his attention more than anything on the page. “People call you a machine on court. Ten thousand points, seven records shattered. So—what’s actually running in your head when you’ve got the whole stadium watching? Or do you just like showing off?”

Jeno’s mouth tips in a half-smirk, his gaze dropping to your lips before meeting your eyes again. “If I wanted to show off, I’d let you see my game-day routine.” The implication simmers between you, his voice smooth as glass. “Honestly? I don’t think. Not when it counts. That’s when it gets good. It’s like muscle memory—or maybe just muscle.” He lets the pause hang, then arches a brow. “Doesn’t mean I don’t have an audience in mind.”

You laugh, all low velvet, but your words have an edge. “So the Lee Jeno highlight reel is for the fans, not just for the stats?”

He shrugs, but his eyes don’t leave your face, hunger and amusement flickering in equal measure. “Some fans watch closer than others.” His thumb skims the edge of his jaw, as if recalling the brush of a hand that used to linger there.

You lean in, voice softening to something more intimate, the question landing heavy between you. “What do you think about when the game is on the line? Not the play, not the scoreboard—the risk, the want. Does the pressure make it better for you?”

He mirrors your lean, his knee nearly grazing yours beneath the table. “Pressure makes you sharper. Makes you honest. Only the real thing survives it. Same with love, right?” His gaze rakes over you, hot and searching.

You laugh, a little too breathless. “You’re saying you’ve never faked it?”

He grins, sharp and devastating. “I don’t need to. With the right partner, the game plays itself.”

You cock your head, eyes daring. “And when you lose?”

He looks at your mouth, then your eyes, something dark flickering in his stare. “Losing is only temporary. But the right loss? That one stays with you.”

A beat passes—electric, dangerous, thick with memory and what you’ll never say on camera. The room falls away, all sound pressed to the glass between you. You straighten, breaking the tension with a practiced smile, but your next question is barely more than a whisper. “Last one: who do you play for, Jeno? The name on your back, or the one you can’t forget?”

His answer is a look—devouring, helpless, almost loving. He doesn’t say a word, but his silence is the most honest thing between you all night. You pretend to scan your notes, but your gaze is fixed on him, sharp as a blade. “You broke your own records three times this year. Did you do it for yourself, or just to prove you could?”

Jeno leans back, stretching long legs beneath the table, his eyes sliding over you. “Sometimes it’s about proving you’re still alive. Sometimes it’s about proving you’re not.”

You smile, cool and incisive. “You’ve played injured. You’ve played exhausted. Where do you actually go when it gets that dark—who do you call when the crowd goes quiet?”

He smirks, licking his lips as if tasting a confession. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” Then, softer, “Not everyone can handle the truth. Most people want the highlight, not the aftermath.”

You cock your head, refusing to blink. “You’ve had your pick of cities, teams, lovers. Was there ever one you actually regretted leaving?”

His tongue traces his bottom lip again, jaw tensing. “Only the ones I lost for the wrong reasons. The rest? You learn to live with the ache.”

You let that answer burn. “Do you believe in loyalty, or just convenience?”

His smile twists, dangerous. “I believe in loyalty. Even when it hurts.”

You lean closer, lowering your voice. “What’s the thing you’ve never told the press? The truth no one’s ever asked for?”

He holds your gaze, the air humming between you. “That I’d trade every win for one more night with the right person.”

Your breath catches, cheeks flushed with something unspoken. “If you could rewrite any moment, would you?”

Jeno’s eyes lock on yours, a storm brewing there. “Every day.”

You tilt your chin, daring him. “And what about now?”

He laughs, low and raw. “Now? I’d risk it all, if I thought it would mean anything.”

A hush falls. The interview dissolves into a current of want and regret—every question a veiled plea, every answer a dare. You break the silence with a practiced, professional smile, heart pounding, fingers trembling. “That’s all we have time for tonight. Thank you, Jeno, for your honesty.”

He leans in, voice pitched only for you. “Anytime. You know where to find me if you ever want to finish the conversation.”

The air backstage is thick with the buzz of stagehands and the metallic ring of voices in the hall beyond, the thrum of applause from the last panel dying behind the wall. The dressing room is cooler, sharper—white bulbs spitting light across vanity mirrors, shadows pooling beneath chairs, silence pricking at your skin as you and Jeno are left alone, stranded in the aftermath of a public collision neither of you are ready to survive. You’ve barely spoken since the interview, but now, with the door closed and the chaos of the exhibition muffled to a hum, there’s no one left to play to, no audience but each other.

He’s standing at the far side of the room, arms folded, head lowered as if bracing for impact, suit jacket unbuttoned, posture rigid with unshed words. You pace near the table, notes for the follow-up scattered—questions about Taeyong, about Jeno’s early days, little league’s, his days as a Raven. It’s supposed to be about memory. About legacy. Instead, what lingers is the aftertaste of unfinished sentences and wounds reopened.

You’re both already at each other’s throats—tension brittle, voices low and tight, bodies angled toward collision, arguing about something so inane you can hardly believe it’s coming out of your mouth. “It’s forest green, not teal,” you snap, pointing at the program booklet on the table, half a laugh spilling out because the argument is absurd, the stakes are nothing, but your nerves are shredded and this is all you have left to grip.

Jeno scoffs, rolling his eyes, the old exasperation cutting through his polished calm. “You seriously don’t know the difference? This is teal. It’s always been teal.” He flips the booklet, fingers brushing too close to yours, and the contact sparks like static, neither of you willing to let go, neither of you letting it drop.

“Forest green has depth. That’s why I picked it,” you insist, stubborn and quiet, daring him to keep going, because it’s easier to bicker about colours than admit what’s really bleeding beneath your skin.

He shakes his head, a half-smirk curving his mouth, all arrogance and old affection, and you know he’s stalling just as much as you are. “If you wanted to win this, you should’ve picked something bolder,” he murmurs, and for a heartbeat, you almost forget why you’re both here, what’s at stake, how much still aches. It’s the kind of argument you used to have on late nights in college, voices echoing down deserted hallways, laughter covering wounds you weren’t ready to name. The tension is all surface, the old rhythm still there—deflect, distract, deny. Anything but the truth. And then, just as you’re about to retort, the knock comes, slicing through whatever threadbare comfort you’d found in the fight, and the world tilts back toward chaos.

The door groans open and in slips one of the interns, Jisung, he’s boyish, awkward, his lanyard twisted and badge flashing the wrong way up, clutching a battered manila folder like it’s a bomb he’s not trained to defuse. “Uh, Jeno, this came through for you,” he stammers, eyes darting everywhere but your face. “Coach Suh told me to tell you it’s urgent. It’s—uh—actually something about Y/N, but Coach told me to hand it to Jeno first, so…” His hands hover, indecisive, and he glances between the two of you, utterly oblivious to the tension in the room, the electricity crackling between where you and Jeno stand, not touching but close enough to bruise.

Jeno’s head lifts, eyes dark and unreadable. “Give it here.” The intern shrugs, hands it over, and lingers in the doorway as if expecting a medal for the errand.

You shoot him a look—impatient, raw. “What is it?”

He shrugs again, sheepish. “I don’t know. Said it was about you though. Some old stuff Coach Suh wanted passed along, he told me not to open it.”

You barely pause, your patience hanging by a thread, as you snatch the folder out of Jeno’s hands, knuckles white and jaw clenched, muttering, “You never read things properly anyway.”

He shoots back, “Give it here. It’s for me, not you,” grabbing at the other edge, both of you tugging the folder back and forth, petty and childish, forgetting for a split second that you’re nearly thirty, that the world’s watching, that you’re meant to be civil adults. Pages rattle between your hands, that old tug-of-war resurfacing—louder now, more desperate, more familiar than you want to admit.

Your voice is sharp: “If it’s about me, I should know.”

Jeno’s glare flashes, “Coach Suh said it’s for me—let go, Y/N,” and you refuse, stubborn as ever, neither of you ready to surrender, not even for a heartbeat. You both huff, rolling your eyes, your bodies closer than they should be, the friction almost funny if it weren’t so raw.

You lose your grip for half a second and he yanks it free, just as you reach again, knocking your hand against his, both of you snatching at the papers with that old urgency, too tangled in the ridiculousness of it all to care how ridiculous you look. This is what you do—what you’ve always done. Still, you flip open the flap as Jeno’s fingers anchor the bottom, both of you peering in, expectation sharp in the space between your shoulders.

Then your breath catches, because it’s not logistics, not press, not anything safe. And for a split second, neither of you move, the world narrowing to ink and memory and the shiver running between your palms. The first page is stamped with your name, bold, black, in letters that feel like a warning. Evidence—emails, witness statements, copies of messages, even an audio transcript. Your handwriting, your codes. Your fingerprints all over the exposé that saved him in college, the one that sent Eric and Sunwoo to jail. For years, the truth lay dormant, tangled in rumor and misdirection, everyone believing it was Donghyuck who pulled the trigger. But here it is: all the proof that it was you.

A long, excruciating beat stretches out, sharp as the thrum of blood in your ears. Jeno’s whole body stiffens, jaw flexing, nostrils flaring, eyes narrowing as if the world has split beneath his feet. The anger doesn’t rise all at once; it coils, slow and poisonous, threading disbelief and insult into every line of his face. There’s a flash of horror, a wounded animal’s recognition, but it’s anger that catches and holds—hot, magnetic, terrifying. His hand clamps around the folder so tightly the paper warps, knuckles white against cheap Manila, veins standing out along his wrist. The air goes tight, electric, charged with a violence that never quite tips into action.

He stares down at the evidence, lips parted in a soundless curse, every muscle alive with fight. His gaze snaps to you, searching, burning, betrayal and something else written in a language you used to know. The intern, eyes wide and skin blanching, finally registers the threat simmering in the room and backs out in a hurry, door clicking shut and leaving you both sealed in the aftermath. For a moment, no one breathes. The heat in Jeno’s eyes is the kind that makes you want to run and want to stay—punishing, gorgeous, ruinous.

You yank the folder from Jeno’s hands with a sharp, desperate pull, the friction of his grip dragging a deep red crease through the paper as you tear it free. Your heart stutters violently as you flip through the first page, eyes snagging on names, timestamps, digital evidence—emails, recordings, every careful thread you’d tied in secret, the entire story laid out in black and white. The blood drains from your face, cold and raw as the truth crystallizes. You don’t even feel your own breath.

Jeno’s voice cuts through the hush, rough and razor-edged, pitched low enough to tremble the air between you. “You were the one behind this?” He doesn’t move, but the accusation hangs suspended, thick and dangerous. His hands hover near yours, wanting to seize the pages back, wanting to seize you. His eyes are wide, wild with disbelief, mouth set in a line that promises violence or devotion, you can’t tell which. “You did this? You risked everything—you put yourself on the line and didn’t tell me?” He shakes his head, a thousand unsaid words sparking in the distance between you.

You clutch the folder to your chest, pulse hammering, the weight of his shock almost unbearable. His voice shakes, fury laced with fear, and something wounded and desperate in his eyes. “How could you be so fucking stupid?” It isn’t contempt. It’s terror, the kind that wants to smash something just to keep it safe. He looks at you, seeing you all over again—seeing every choice you made, every secret you buried just to keep him standing. And for the first time, the consequences of loving him this way are laid bare, brutal and unmistakable in the silence.

You let out a ragged laugh, sharp at the edges, disbelief tangled with grief, every sound raw enough to sting. “You think I did this for me?” The words slip out trembling, half a cry, half an accusation. “You think I wanted any of it—lying, hiding, living every day with a target on my back just so you could keep breathing, keep playing, keep believing you weren’t alone?” Your eyes search for him, desperate for him to understand, to see all the nights you spent watching him crack under the weight of his father, all the ways you tried to save him without ever letting him see you fall apart.

Jeno shakes his head, fierce, something like anguish blooming in the lines of his face, his hand tightening so hard on the paper you think it might tear. “You could’ve ruined your name,” he bites out, stepping closer, voice low and shaking. “You could’ve lost everything, do you understand that? You could’ve been exposed, blacklisted, destroyed—why didn’t you tell me? Why the hell would you risk yourself like that for me? I should have stopped you. I should’ve—” He falters, jaw clenching, and for a second you see him as he was all those years ago, all fire and loyalty, willing to burn down the world to keep you safe, but powerless in the face of your choices.

You take a breath that shakes with memory. “I did it for you, Jeno.” The words are quieter this time, aching with everything you never said. “I did it because I saw you suffocating and no one cared, because I couldn’t watch you get eaten alive by your father’s world. Because nobody else would. Because loving you meant doing the impossible, the reckless, the unforgivable—over and over, even if it destroyed me. I did it for you because there was never any other choice.” Your voice breaks, but your eyes stay steady, holding his gaze as if your truth alone might be enough to save you both.

He looks stricken, voice low, urgent. “You could’ve gotten hurt. You have no idea—something could’ve happened and if it did, I—” He cuts off, swallowing hard, jaw working as he tries to keep control. “If it did, I’d never forgive myself. You’re—your safety was all that ever mattered to me. You should’ve let me protect you.”

Your glare wavers under the salt-bright flood of tears, jaw trembling with the weight of everything breaking loose inside you. “And what would you have done, Jeno?” you gasp, the words hitching on a sob you can’t bite back, breath stuttering as the pain rips through your chest. “What—just watched it all collapse? Would you have stood there on the edge and let them tear me apart while you played the hero, while you hid behind your fucking legacy?”

You shake your head, voice splintering, fierce in the way only someone utterly destroyed can be. “I did what you wouldn’t, what you couldn’t. I did what had to be done.” Your breath hitches, a sob scraping up your throat, and you can’t stop the ache from bleeding into every word. “But after your dad died, you left. You shut me out. You didn’t even give me a chance to fight for you, or with you. You just disappeared, like everything we had didn’t matter. Like I didn’t matter. I begged you—God, I would have burned for you, I would have gone through hell for you, but you wouldn’t let me. You wouldn’t let anyone near you. You just ran.”

You look at him then, searching his eyes for any flicker of the boy who used to love you more than his own breath. “And I get it. I know there are things I don’t know. I know your father, I know Nahyun, I know there’s more to this than what I see but I don’t give a fuck. Your love for me—everything we survived—it should have been stronger than that. It should have been enough. You were supposed to be enough.” The air between you turns electric, almost violent, with everything you can’t say, everything you still want, every dream he crushed when he left you behind. “You chose her. You chose that life. You let me fight alone. And now you stand here and act like I’m the reckless one, like I’m the one who ruined things. I would have fought for us until my last breath, Jeno. I did fight for us. But you—you left.”

Jeno’s mouth opens, but at first, no sound comes out, only the tremor of a breath held too long. His eyes, always so guarded, fill with tears that spill silently, tracing the angles of his face with an honesty he’s never let you see. For a moment, he’s younger—desperate, lost, haunted by everything he can’t say. He tries to steady his voice, but it’s rough and breaking. “I know,” he rasps, a whisper meant only for you. “No one’s ever fought for me like you have. No one’s ever loved me that way, not once, not ever. I know you would’ve burned for me, I know you would’ve gone to war for us. You always have.”

He shakes his head, choking back the rest, reaching out as if to catch your wrist, then pulling back, hands shaking. “I didn’t want to leave you. I didn’t want any of this. You think I haven’t replayed every second? You think I haven’t tried to figure out how I could have chosen you, how I could have fought harder, done something—anything—different?” His voice breaks, tears slipping down his jaw, his whole body curling in on itself with the weight of his confession.

His lips curve, sorrow softening into something close to awe, his tears still bright but now edged with a raw, reluctant admiration. He shakes his head, a wet laugh tumbling out as he swipes at his cheeks, failing to disguise the wonder in his voice. “You’re a genius, you know that? No one else could’ve pulled that off. No one but you. Of course it was you, I always had a feeling but I never wanted to believe it. You always saw what I missed, always had the guts to do what no one else would even dare. I should’ve known from the start, I should’ve given you more credit. You’re… fucking terrifying sometimes, Y/N.”

He lets out a trembling breath, shoulders finally sinking. “I mean it. No one else could have done what you did. I don’t think there’s anyone alive who would risk their whole future just to drag someone else out of hell. You didn’t even hesitate. That’s what gets me, you never do. I used to think you were reckless, or stubborn, but now I get it. You’re just braver than the rest of us. Braver than me.” His eyes search your face, earnest and wide, and for a split second the bitterness falls away, leaving only the naked truth between you. “I’m not shocked it was you. Surprised, yeah, but only because I didn’t want to see it. But I should’ve. I should’ve known it wasn’t Donghyuck, he isn’t smart enough. You always save everyone else, even when it breaks you. Even when I don’t deserve it.”

The room has gone strange with adrenaline, your own history looping around you, your emails, your plans, the truth told to Jeno at last. It’s suffocating, a kind of pressure you haven’t felt since college, so raw that even your pulse is unsteady. Jeno’s hands shake as he puts the folder aside, the enormity of everything—love, ruin, rescue—humming between you. For a suspended second you’re both drawn into it, faces close, the air electric with the tension of everything unspoken. Your foreheads nearly brush, mouths parted, breath mingling, the old ache and new wounds circling, unfinished sentences trembling in the charged silence.

The edge dissolves in an instant, shattered by the intrusion, reality crashing in. You snap back—shoulders tensing, heart thudding, the ache that had pulsed between you retreating into something raw and unnameable. There’s no line crossed, no heat traded, only two broken people suddenly reminded of everything standing between them. For a breathless beat, you both look away, as if remembering who you’ve become, what’s been lost, the gravity of all that’s happened. There’s no betrayal in this moment, you’re not cheaters and you’d never cross that threshold. There’s only the echo of what could have been, buried beneath too much pain, too many ghosts.

That’s when the door bursts open, slamming into the wall with a violence that breaks the spell. Nahyun storms in, heels clattering, fury carved into every line of her face—a mask of rage barely holding, hair falling loose, lipstick smudged, hands clenched at her sides.

Nahyun’s heels strike the floor with the violence of accusation, her silhouette framed in the door, all sharp edges and trembling fury. Her voice spits venom, loud enough to silence the corridor outside, each word vibrating with jealousy and something more dangerous—need. “Are you fucking serious?” she shrieks, the sound ricocheting around you, brittle and shattering. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this. For everyone to finally see me. But you—” She jabs a finger at your chest, so close you catch the sweet rot of her perfume, her breath gone sour. “You couldn’t stand it. Had to claw your way back to center stage, even now. You’re a parasite, clinging to what isn’t yours, crawling after everyone else’s spotlight, begging for scraps because you’ve never had the guts to build anything real.”

Her face warps with rage and wounded pride, voice cracking under the weight of her own delusion. “You’ve always wanted to be me, don’t fucking lie about it. Always at the edge, always watching, always waiting to snatch what’s mine. God, it must burn, seeing someone actually loved for once, instead of pitied.” She laughs, sharp, deranged, wild, shoulders shaking, lips curled in a vicious imitation of a smile. “You think you’re better than me? All those years pretending to be above it, but you’re nothing. You’re just a shadow. My shadow.”

The words splinter in the air, and for a moment, you see it, the truth she’ll never admit, the emptiness clawing at her insides, the frantic desperation behind every insult. She isn’t just angry. She’s unstable, volatile, barely holding it together, her claws out because she’s terrified you’ll take what she’s spent her whole life pretending to own. And as she stands there, trembling, practically spitting in your face, the line isn’t just crossed—it’s obliterated. She rips into you, words sharp and spit flying. “God, you make me sick—always lurking in the background, a rat in designer shoes, acting like you’re some kind of savior. You’ve always wanted to be me, always. That’s why you’re obsessed with every fucking thing I do—copying, watching, waiting for your chance. Well, it’s pathetic. Everyone knows it. You’re nothing but a—”

The irony twists painfully inside you as she spits every word, her hair dyed your old shade, her mouth painted your signature color, her dress a nearly perfect replica of the one you’re wearing right now. She stands in front of you, trembling, a clone built from envy and desperation, unable to see how fully she’s lost herself trying to inhabit your skin.

Jeno moves faster than thought, his body slotting between you and Nahyun with a force that startles the air out of the room, one arm outstretched, palm up, a silent command for distance. His other hand hovers near Nahyun’s elbow, his grip the only thing preventing her from crossing that final threshold. “Nahyun, that’s enough.” His tone cuts through the hysteria, steel layered over exhaustion, eyes fixed on her but his stance angled to protect you, as if he’d take the blow if she tried to land it. “You need to stop now. Don’t touch her.” His jaw is locked, shoulders squared, the lines of his back radiating tension that vibrates through the air between you. He never looks away from Nahyun, but there’s a current running through him—every muscle set, every breath calculated—a wall between you and the chaos she brings. He’s not holding her. He’s holding her back, making it clear with every inch of space he claims: his body is here to keep you safe, and that’s the only thing that matters.

She whirls on him, shrill and splintering. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare take her side. After everything—after all I’ve done for you—you still look at her first. You always have. You always will!” Her voice cracks, wild with desperation, and for a second the whole world is just this: you, Jeno, Nahyun, three points in a broken triangle, everything unravelling in the fluorescent glare.

Nahyun’s shrek shreds the air before you even process her movement, her arm lashing out with a violence that feels almost feral. She shoves Jeno aside, hard, his feet sliding on the polished floor, and he staggers, momentarily thrown off-balance. In the blink it takes him to recover, Nahyun’s fist is already crashing into your jaw, a brutal, wild swing that splits your lip, the taste of metal bursting on your tongue. You reel, the pain shocking, her nails clawing at your wrist as she rips your charm bracelet clean off, silver links snapping, charms skittering across marble like tiny, frantic heartbeats.

You don’t get a chance to breathe. She lunges again, hands curling toward your throat, eyes wide and unseeing, rabid with fury. Her spit lands hot against your cheek as she spits curses, “You’re nothing—nothing, you hear me? You think you can take everything from me, you think you can have him, my life, my name—” Her fingers tighten, nails digging crescents into your skin, and in that second, you know she’d choke you if Jeno didn’t surge forward, grabbing her waist and dragging her bodily away from you.

He hauls her off with a force he’s never used before, his voice breaking as he grits out, “Enough—enough!” She thrashes, kicks, sobs, but he doesn’t let go until he’s wrestled her to the sofa, forcing her down, her limbs flailing as she crashes into the cushions. She collapses there, keening, arms thrown over her head, mascara streaking down her face, the beginnings of a full collapse wracking her body. Her rage mutates into broken sobs, the fight leaking out of her in ugly, guttural waves.

Jeno stands there, breath rattling, eyes wide as he stares at Nahyun curled and shuddering on the sofa, her chest heaving, tears streaking black down her cheeks. Shock freezes him—this is not the woman he got engaged to, not the polished, poised partner who smiled for the cameras and clung to his arm at every gala. In all their years together, she’s never unraveled like this, never let the mask slip so completely, never once shown the kind of feral violence now spilling out in shards. Something cold creeps through him, a dawning horror—he realizes, with a jolt, that if he’d ever seen this side of her before, he would have run. He would have ended it, long before rings and public promises, long before his name and hers were tangled up in press and legacy. He can barely process the scene—the screaming, the blood, the wild, manic eyes. In this moment, he knows with a finality that leaves him hollow: this is not just a mistake, this is something broken. Nahyun isn’t just hurt or angry. She’s unwell, untethered, truly in need of help that he cannot offer. Whatever pity or obligation he might have felt is eclipsed by fear, by the stark knowledge that her instability is dangerous, and he can never, ever justify looking her way again.

You’re left swaying, blood running warm down your chin, your hand shaking as you scramble after the bracelet, desperate fingers closing around scattered charms. They’re slick, some bent, one cracked in half. You’re crying, silent at first, then harder as it sinks in, the years you’ve worn it, the safety it promised, now shattered. Your shoulders hitch, a sob tearing loose as you cradle the ruined chain in your palm, eyes blurred with tears and pain.

Jeno stands frozen, torn between you and the wreckage on the sofa. He looks at you—uncertain, aching, his hands trembling as he grabs a tissue from a nearby table. He crosses the space slowly, voice rough, “Let me see—please.” When you flinch, he waits, patient, holding out the tissue. But you can’t stop shaking, can’t manage the wound yourself, so you let him close the distance. His hand cups your chin with reverence, heartbreak plain in his touch, and he presses the tissue gently to your bleeding lip, his thumb brushing tears from your cheek. The moment is raw, electric, an old ache rekindled in the hush after chaos—his hands steady, your heart splintered, the silver chain gleaming, broken, between your trembling fingers.

Nahyun slumps on the sofa, mascara smudged in wild, desperate streaks, her breaths ragged and eyes glassy with fury and exhaustion. She watches Jeno press the tissue gently to your bleeding lip, his hands trembling, his entire body a shield between you and her. For a split second, the room goes utterly silent—then Nahyun breaks it with a bitter, guttural laugh, voice wobbling on the edge of hysteria.

“You think I’m the villain?” she spits, lips curling, body curling in on itself and then snapping upright as she shoves hair from her face. “You want to know what I did? You want to know how long I’ve waited to ruin you? All these years, I’ve watched you haunt every man you touch, watched you walk through rooms like the world should just part for you. You want the truth? You want to know how long I’ve been waiting to watch you bleed?” She laughs, breathless, a noise too close to crying. “Every poster, every flyer—me. I spent days printing them. The night before your performance? I stayed up until dawn, cutting, taping, posting your face over every single noticeboard at the university, every campus gate, every bus shelter. I put them up in the men’s toilets, in the women’s, in the library, outside the gym, in the dining hall, even on the doors of the coach’s office. I wanted you to walk in and feel the world stare, I wanted you to choke on the attention, on the mic. I stood in the crowd that night and watched you realize what I’d done. I wanted you to feel hunted. That was the best day of my life.”

She wipes her nose, face twisting with a vindictive glee, tears and snot streaking her cheeks. “And the videos—I filmed you fucking Jeno, you know. You always thought you were safe. You never even looked for the camera, did you? That’s what makes you weak. You never see it coming. I sent the whole thing to Taeyong. I made sure he saw what you really were, what you were doing to his son. I wanted you both to burn for it. You have no idea how much I wanted to destroy you.”

Nahyun’s voice trembles, but the venom doesn’t fade. She hurls the next words like curses, spitting them into the open wound she’s made in the room. “And you know what? I wish I’d gone further. I wish I’d sent the tapes to your Father, to every professor, to the newspapers. I wish I’d ruined you on every continent. I wish I’d called the police and had you dragged out of there in handcuffs, I wish I’d told every man you ever dated, every boss you ever worked for. I wish I’d ruined every friend you had, poisoned every relationship, made you so untouchable nobody would ever want you again. I wish you’d been the one to drop out of college, to leave Seoul with nothing but a suitcase and your shame.”

Her chest heaves, her voice breaking, but the bile keeps coming, raw and rabid, hate curdled by her own unraveling. “And still, here you are. You survived everything I threw at you. You’re still standing here, head high, like none of it ever mattered. You have the job, the friends, the fucking exhibition. You have everyone in this building fooled. But I see you. You’re nothing but a leech, living off other people’s glory. You always wanted what was mine. Even him.” She jerks her chin at Jeno, eyes wild. “You never deserved him. You never did.”

The silence that follows is almost holy—so thick, so absolute it vibrates in your bones. You can’t speak, can’t do anything but clutch your broken charm bracelet, blood dripping down your chin, sobbing in short, silent waves. Jeno stands frozen beside you, his eyes stretched wide, devastation and disbelief playing out in real time, every last ounce of pity or loyalty for Nahyun shattering as she spits her truth. His hand, meant to comfort, hovers awkwardly at your lip, trembling with the effort to keep it together.

Nahyun is still shaking, shoulders wracked by the force of her confession. “You’re never getting him back,” she whispers, half to herself, half to you, a desperate benediction that falls flat. “I’d do it all again. I’d do worse. I wish I’d ruined every last piece of you. I wish I’d made you disappear.” But you’re still here, wounded but breathing, eyes streaming as you stare at the remains of the life she tried to destroy, holding on to the only piece of yourself she could never take. Jeno, silent, crumples the tissue in his fist, his face pale with shock and horror, unable to reconcile the woman he thought he knew with the monster unraveling before him. In this moment, the entire room feels suspended—on the edge of collapse, truth finally too heavy to keep hidden.

It takes a moment for the full weight of Nahyun’s confession to settle, time dilating, every syllable echoing off the marble and glass, shattering the illusion of civility and sanity she’s clung to for years. Jeno’s face, for a heartbeat, is carved out of disbelief and horror, something ancient and feral clawing through the surface of his composure. His mouth works around nothing, his hands flex at his sides, and you see the effort it takes not to let fury explode outward. His eyes flick from Nahyun, who’s panting and wild-eyed, back to you—where you’re slumped against the wall, breath snagging, fingers clutching the ruined bracelet and your own bleeding lip, body trembling in a storm of grief and panic that strips you raw. He shields you with his body, makes himself a wall, all that rage banked behind the tenderness in his gaze when it lands on you. You can’t catch your breath, your whole body wracked and shuddering, a panic so dense you’re not sure you’ll survive it, and it’s only his voice, low and shaking, that threads through the chaos—“You’re okay. I’ve got you. I promise, I’ve got you”—that tethers you, soft as a prayer, fierce as a shield.

Then he turns—slow, deliberate, every muscle taut with held violence—and faces Nahyun. She’s still talking, wild and fractured, a glimmer of mania sparking through her smile, but now her voice wobbles with desperation. “Okay, Jeno, baby, let’s just get out of here, alright? She’s lying, she’s always lied, you know she’s obsessed with you, let’s go home, let’s just,” her words come out brittle and staccato, crumbling under the weight of her exposure.

Jeno barely blinks. His eyes, cold and razor-bright, cut her down to size with a single look. “Shut the fuck up,” he says, not yelling but commanding, every word a bullet, sharp and final. “You’re done. You’re fucking done.” Jeno’s patience snaps—every trace of composure wiped clean from his face, voice dropping to a jagged snarl. “Don’t you fucking touch her. Don’t look at her. Don’t even fucking say her name, Nahyun. If you come near her again, I swear to god I’ll ruin you. I’ll make sure you never see the outside of a courtroom, never work another day, never so much as breathe in the same city. Try me.”

He steps closer, eyes blazing, teeth bared, practically daring her to move. “You want to know what it feels like to lose everything? Keep running your fucking mouth and I’ll show you. You’re finished. You hear me? Finished. If you ever threaten her again, I won’t just end you professionally—I’ll fucking end you. You don’t get another warning.”

When she whimpers, cursing and clutching at her broken pride, Jeno’s jaw ticks with disgust. “Don’t make me repeat myself,” he adds, quieter, voice even more dangerous in its softness, “because I don’t think you’ll like what happens if you push me one more time.” The promise hangs, electric and deadly, as final as the lock sliding home on a cell door.

She stares at him, lips trembling, and takes a step forward as if she might close the gap, but Jeno blocks her with an outstretched arm, never looking away, never flinching. He turns back to you, checks your eyes, his hand gentle as it finds your shoulder, wipes the blood from your mouth with the edge of his thumb, and every bit of that anger melts into something else, something broken and gentle and haunted, meant only for you. “You’re safe,” he murmurs, just for you, “she won’t touch you again.”

But Nahyun won’t let go, her laugh jagged, desperate, shrill. “You’re going to throw all this away? For her? After everything I’ve done for you, Jeno, you’re going to—” She surges forward again, but Jeno’s hand flashes, the gold ring yanked off his finger, clattering across the marble in a metallic finality that leaves the whole room vibrating. “You don’t come near her. You don’t come near me. We’re finished. You’re a fucking bitch, Nahyun. You’re sick, and you need help, the last and only thing I’m ever gonna do for you is get you admitted into a hospital. But after that you’re not my problem anymore. You will never bother Y/N again. You don’t get to ruin another day of her life. Not one more second.”

Nahyun blinks at him, stunned, then tries to spit another insult, but Jeno’s already turned away, all of his focus, every trembling, exhausted ounce, poured into steadying you. His hand covers yours, his chest a barricade, and when your panic boils over, when the sobs wrack through you, he just holds on tighter. He tells you, voice thick and certain, “You’re here. You’re here with me. She can’t hurt you. Not anymore. I swear it.” His fingers stroke your hair back, his breath grounding you, every bit of his anger pressed into protection now, a promise he will never break.

You’ve always had fight in you, spite in your veins, a will that’s outlasted every storm, every night you thought you wouldn’t make it through. You’ve clawed your way out of worse, out of exile and betrayal and the kind of heartbreak that calcifies around the ribs and never quite lets go. But right now, slumped against the wall, clutching the shredded string of charms and bleeding from your mouth, you’re emptied out. The world spins, too bright, too sharp, every sound drowned out by the roar of what Nahyun’s just confessed. It hasn’t even begun to sink in, not truly. The pieces are still falling—flyers, bar lights, the humiliation, the invasion, the way she stripped you of your safety and named you a villain for no tangible reason. Nothing has ever made you feel this flayed, this undone, as if the marrow’s been scraped out of your bones and you’re left brittle and hollow, a monument to someone else’s cruelty.

You gasp for air, the sobs coming ragged and uneven, every breath scraped raw. And for the first time in years, you don’t try to patch yourself up. You don’t try to smile through the ruin or spit venom back at the world. The fight in you flickers, barely a spark, and it’s all you can do to focus on the present—on the weight of Jeno’s hand on your shoulder, the gentleness in his voice as he tells you, again and again, that you’re safe, you’re here, he’s got you. You can’t even look at Nahyun, collapsed and howling behind him; she’s a shadow, a cautionary tale, a storm that’s finally burned itself out. The devastation sits heavy on your chest, grief pooling in your lungs, and all you can do is lean into the touch that steadies you, the voice that promises you’re not alone, not this time.

And this—this is where Jeno’s fire begins. You’ve carried the weight for so long, survived every blow, rebuilt yourself from ashes and glass. Now, as your fight sputters out, as you sit there ravaged and spent, he kneels at your side with a new kind of resolve blazing in his eyes. This is his turn. You’ve fought for him so now it’s his turn. He’s not here for legacy, apology or atonement. He’s here to carry you when you’re too tired to stand, to battle every demon in the room—yours, his, and every one Nahyun ever summoned—until the story ends on your terms. He presses the tissue to your lip, voice hoarse but unwavering, “You don’t have to fight, not tonight. Let me. I’m not even started.” And in that moment, you know you’re not just being protected. You’re being chosen. Finally, without condition, without question, with the kind of devotion that doesn’t ask you to be strong, it simply lets you rest.

You fought for him for years—against his father, against the lies, against the world that told you both to settle for less. You threw yourself between Jeno and every storm, cut your hands trying to stitch him back together, lost sleep and sanity to keep him standing when he was too burdened to breathe. You lost count of the secrets you kept, the blows you took in silence, the ways you tried to protect his name even as your own was dragged through the mud. And now, in this blood-streaked aftershock, the gravity has shifted. You feel it in the way his body angles around you, in the rough tremor of his voice, in the steel of his promise—he’s done hiding behind excuses, done letting you take the fall alone. It’s his turn to raise hell, to shield you from every ghost that ever haunted these halls. The war you thought you’d lost is not over; you’ve fought long enough for him, and now, for the first time, he’s ready to fight for you. But it’s more than that—there’s no more lopsided sacrifice, no more one-sided war. This time, it’s both of you, side by side, battered and bruised and finally, finally choosing each other above every shadow that ever tried to break you.

The silence hangs jagged and electric, still throbbing with the wreckage of everything Nahyun unleashed, when the door swings open and Coach Suh storms in, his voice cutting through the aftermath like a lightning bolt. “Are you two ready for part two?” he calls, half triumphant, half exasperated, waving a thick sheaf of papers in one hand. “You will not believe what I have to share—” He stops dead in the doorway, taking in the sight: Jeno crouched beside you, blood on your lip and your charm bracelet clutched in trembling fingers, Nahyun collapsed and ruined on the sofa, Jeno’s engagement ring glittering and broken somewhere on the floor. His brows shoot up, and he gives you both a quick once-over, mouth twitching with something between disbelief and hard-won satisfaction. “What the hell happened?”

Coach Suh stands in the doorway, takes one look at the wreckage and lets out a long, world-weary sigh. He signals quietly over his shoulder, a subtle jerk of his hand, and mutters, “Alright, come on in.” The hallway erupts with the stomp of boots and the static buzz of radios, suddenly, police officers are everywhere, their uniforms a wall of navy filling the entryway, their movements efficient, practiced, unmistakable in their authority.

Nahyun doesn’t move, she’s frozen in place, mascara streaked down her face, mouth parted in disbelief. Coach Suh keeps his gaze on you, offering a reassuring nod, before stepping aside to let the officers pass. One reads from a folded slip of paper, voice echoing sharp and clear. “Kim Nahyun, you are under arrest for assault, harassment, conspiracy to commit fraud, and distribution of illicit materials. You have the right to remain silent—” The charges roll out, relentless as a drumbeat, filling the glass-and-marble room with every dark secret finally brought to light. Nahyun’s hands tremble as the cuffs close around her wrists. She jerks wildly, spitting threats, her voice rising in pitch until it’s almost inhuman, swearing revenge, screaming at you, at Jeno, at anyone who’ll listen, her body buckling as two officers pull her upright.

You stand rooted, torn between relief and horror, your chest heaving, your lip throbbing, as you watch them lead her out. For a moment you think it’s over, just about the assault, but then you catch the words—“additional charges pending”—and it cuts deeper, dredging up every bruise, every secret, every year she hunted you from the shadows.

Coach Suh lingers, his presence a rare comfort, steadying you through the aftershock, the chaos still ringing in the air. He squeezes your shoulder with a gentleness that catches you off guard, his gaze fierce and unflinching. “You should be proud of tonight,” he murmurs, voice roughened by years of too many battles and too much loss. “You could have disappeared. Could have let them write you out. But you didn’t. You stood here and made space for every kid who was ever overlooked, every story they tried to erase. Don’t let any of this ugliness steal what you did—you were the light in this room, even if the shadows tried to swallow it.”

He glances at Jeno, something almost fatherly flickering in his eyes—pride, regret, and an old, stubborn hope. “Don’t think I regret a single thing,” he says, shaking his head softly. “Not sending you to that bar all those years ago, not spending night after night digging into Nahyun’s past, hunting for the truth no one else wanted to see. Every hour, every risk—it was worth it for this. For you two.”

Then, his hand slips into his pocket, retrieving a small hard drive, its surface worn from being carried and hidden. He turns to Jeno, meeting his gaze dead-on. “There’s more, son. More than you’ll ever know. It’s all on here. You need to see it, but… do it with caution.” He hesitates, his thumb brushing the edge of the device, searching Jeno’s face for readiness. “I’d almost say have someone else watch it first. Some truths don’t get easier, even after all this time.” He sets the drive in Jeno’s palm, firm and final, a passing of the torch, a hand on his shoulder to seal it. Then, with a last nod, at you, at him, Coach Suh slips from the room, leaving behind the silence of what’s been revealed and the weight of what’s still waiting to come.

You can barely breathe, your vision blurring with tears and pain, blood still warm on your lip and the memory of Nahyun’s hand seared into your skin. Jeno reaches for you, his touch gentle, voice breaking, but the moment his fingers graze yours, you jerk away, shuddering, panic clawing up your throat. You choke on a sob, pressing the back of your hand to your mouth as you gasp for air, every inch of you trembling.

“Please—” Your voice cracks, raw and desperate. “Get Mark and Karina. Please. I need them. I just—” The words tumble out, wrecked and pleading, as if the only lifeline you trust right now is the familiar safety of old friends, the ones who’ve never left you behind. You press yourself back against the wall, hugging your arms tight around your ribs, shoulders shaking, the room spinning with the aftershock. Jeno freezes, pain flooding his eyes, but he listens, nodding once before rushing from the room to find them, leaving you sobbing—broken open, held together only by the names you’ve always called home.

𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐇𝐒 𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑

The invitation came as a single line on your phone, come keep me company tonight, so you slipped through the city dusk and pushed open the warped oak door, letting Jihyo’s bar swallow the street behind you. Inside, everything feels compressed by history, wood paneling holding the echo of years yet pushing you forward, violet and navy bulbs casting diffused halos that soften every edge. Shadows cling to the walls like velvet drapes, folding around the empty stools, and the jukebox breathes out a gentle Motown track that once floated through summer midnights, its brass notes tender as fingertips. Two glasses already stand on the polished counter, beads of condensation catching pinpricks of colored light, ginger ale for you, lavender lemonade for her, each chosen with quiet precision so your nerves land on something sweet instead of something sharp.

Jihyo appears from the storeroom carrying a basket of clean napkins, her movements deliberate, her smile a doorway you walk through without hesitation. She slides your drink closer, thumb brushing the rim, then leans in, resting forearms on cool mahogany while her presence settles over you like an embrace. The bar remains empty by design, closed to passers-by until closing time, and she makes a small gesture toward the dimmer switch, lowering the glow until it matches the hush in your chest. Music shifts to a low-slung soul ballad, bass curling along the floorboards, and you feel your shoulders loosen, heat unfurling behind your sternum. Every fragile piece of you begins to breathe in rhythm with the bar’s slow pulse, guided by her understanding of how atmosphere can stitch a person back together.

For the first hour conversation wanders through gentle territory: a new seasonal cocktail she is perfecting, a gossip column about a rock band that once played here, a memory of you balancing on a barstool after closing and belting out a chorus you barely recall. She apologizes again for the night paparazzi shoved their lenses into your grief, sorrow flickering across her features, yet you wave it aside because comfort matters more than revision. Silence follows, comfortable rather than punishing, broken only by clinks of glass as she refreshes ice so the fizz stays bright against your tongue. The hush is absolute except for music that ripples like silk, the whole space curated to keep anxiety outside the door.

Eventually she pulls a tabloid from beneath the bar, headline screaming about Nahyun’s trial, your name circled in red ink. She sets it down without drama, allowing you full control over whether to read or ignore. Fingers on the heavy paper, you skim the crimes: blackmail, harassment, illicit recordings, conspiracy. Your throat tightens yet Jihyo keeps her voice level, describing the labyrinth you will navigate when you testify, reminding you a transcript cannot erase your resilience. She places a bowl of sugared citrus peels beside your glass, bright sweetness to chase the bitterness of printed panic, and waits until you exhale before guiding the paper away again.

Conversation shifts when she lifts her hair to reveal a fine-lined rabbit tucked behind her ear, ink still sharp against skin. The rabbit carries her son’s initials, she explains, then unlocks her phone to show a photo: pudgy cheeks, wide trusting eyes, a smile so open it turns your chest molten. You stare longer than expected, drinking in that innocence, and your friend catches the hunger there. “Come by next Sunday,” she suggests, voice warm, “we’ll close early, let him crawl behind the bar, teach him how to stack coasters. He already loves the sound of ice in a shaker.” You laugh, promise you will bring picture-books and maybe cookies shaped like tiny microphones, because children deserve stage lights that never blind.

Hours slip by, measured in fresh ginger ale and half-remembered stories about university antics, until the violet bulbs feel like dawn rather than dusk. Jihyo keeps the room anchored in that gentle twilight, adjusting music whenever a lyric cuts too close to old pain, raising volume when laughter rises so echoes fill every corner. She tidies napkins, folds bar towels into perfect thirds, then checks that the back door remains bolted, shielding you from any uninvited echoes of the past. Each gesture confirms you were called here to heal, not to reopen wounds.

When closing time finally edges near she pops the cash drawer, counts tips with rhythmic taps, and describes a picnic she plans for the riverbank, complete with sand buckets for her son and blankets big enough for friends who feel like family. You accept the invitation, scribble the date across a coaster, and slip it into your pocket like a vow. The jukebox falls silent, humming electricity taking its place, and Jihyo circles the bar to walk you to the door. Streetlights burn outside, amber and unwavering, yet the warmth inside lingers on your skin, reassurance that soft spaces exist even amid trials and headlines. Before you step into the night she presses a spare key into your palm, for whenever home feels too far, and you hold it tight, feeling the smooth metal promise of a refuge you never have to earn again.

The door swings open on a tide of cold night air and before your gaze even lifts you feel the unmistakable pull at the center of your chest, the bar shrinking to a single point of gravity where Jeno stands framed by sodium streetlight, black shirt clinging to a leaner frame, hair swept back, eyes rimmed in sleepless regret, while Jihyo shoots you a look that blends guilt with a fragile hope, then steps aside so destiny can find its mark.

He crosses the floor as if every board remembers the weight of his victories and mistakes, stops at your elbow, breath catching on words that hang between you like splinters, then his voice cracks through the hushed music, “Please, five minutes,” a petition so raw it pries you open, so you give the slightest nod, granting an audience neither of you is sure you deserve.

“I’m sorry for disappearing after the funeral, for shutting every door between us when you were the only person who ever stayed,” he says, eyes fixed on the ring of water beneath your glass like it holds a map back to before. “I’m sorry I let my Father’s debts decide our future, that I turned grief into a cage and dragged you into it.” His hands spread on the counter, knuckles pale. “I thought if I could carry all the damage myself you’d be spared, but all I did was multiply it.”

He draws a breath that quivers, then lays the worst of it bare. “The engagement… I never loved Nahyun, you know that. My father made a deal with her father months before he died. Vantae was drowning in lawsuits over his offshore accounts, and Nahyun’s family held the evidence that could bury him posthumously, bury me by default. The arrangement was simple—marry her, merge the companies, everything stays sealed. He asked me in the hospital with tubes in his throat, and said it was the last thing he’d ever beg of me. I was twenty-five, terrified, and I said yes because I thought saying no meant losing him twice.”

Jeno rubs a hand over his face, voice breaking against his own confession. “I told myself it was a contract, not a life, that I’d get through a year then find some quiet way out. But every week the leash tightened—press releases, joint charity galas, marketing shoots where Nahyun called me ‘fiancé’ so often I started answering to it. And every time I saw your name on my phone I felt like the cheapest kind of liar, so I stopped picking up, convinced silence would hurt you less than the truth.”

He glances at you then, eyes glassy. “I’m sorry for that too—for treating you like a memory I could file away. It never worked. You were in every room, every sleepless night. I played the best basketball of my career just to outrun the thought of how badly I’d failed us.” A humorless laugh slips out. “Turns out medals don’t muffle guilt.”

He slides a folded document across the bar. “Three months ago I resigned as CEO. No press release, no grandstanding—just walked into the boardroom and said I’m done. I turned over every offshore file, every shell company ledger, and I named myself responsible. The prosecutors will use my testimony to sink Nahyun’s leverage and keep Taeyong’s victims on payroll until the company restructures. I didn’t come here to brag about it—I need you to know action came first, apology second.”

A tremor grips his next words. “What I didn’t know,” he forces out, breath shivering, “is that Taeyong blackmailed you. I never knew he’d shown you those videos, never knew he dangled them over your head to make you stay away from me, I never knew that was the reason you broke up with me during college. If I’d seen him do it I swear I would’ve put him in the ground myself.” Anger burns the apology raw, yet he steels it into remorse. “Finding that out broke whatever was left of the son he wanted me to be.”

His eyes glisten yet he keeps talking, voice hoarse. “I spent the last three months hunting every trace of those videos. I hired forensic techs to trawl the darknet, subpoenaed ex-employees who helped him store backups, bought old drives off auction sites, paid servers to run deletion audits line by line. Every video of you at the bar, every second of footage, every screenshot is wiped, overwritten, and the servers are gone. There’s nothing left that the internet can spit back at you.”

From his coat he pulls a matte black flash drive and a thin stack of notarized affidavits sealed in plastic. “These are the chain-of-custody logs,” he says, sliding them forward. “Independent firms signed off on the erasures, and the flash drive holds the final verification reports. If any copy resurfaces the bounty clause inside triggers six-figure penalties straight to you. I didn’t want to hand you cash to soothe guilt. I wanted to end the leverage that kept you awake at night.”

Jeno stops at your elbow, breath ragged from a sprint that must have started the moment guilt caught up to him, shoulders shaking as though only confession can hold him upright, and his first words spill fast and unfiltered. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice scraping through the hush, each syllable heavy with months of silence, “I’m sorry for disappearing, sorry for letting grief turn love into collateral, sorry for trusting a dying promise more than the living person who believed in me when no one else did.” His chest heaves and he drags a hand through his hair, but the apology keeps pouring, a river that refuses to dam. “I’m sorry I made you doubt every memory, sorry I let a stranger slide a ring onto headlines that should have been about your brilliance, not my cowardice. I’m sorry you cried alone while I smiled for cameras. I will be sorry for that every dawn I wake up and your name is the first thing my heartbeat remembers.”

“I’m sorry for every time your call lit my phone and I let it ring out because I didn’t know how to say ‘I chose a contract over us.’ I’m sorry that my silence made you question your worth, sorry my press conferences turned your achievements into footnotes, sorry I pretended winning games could drown the sound of you leaving my life.” His hands open in surrender. “Love shouldn’t taste like apology, yet that’s all I have left to give, and if it means anything at all, know that I will carry the word sorry like a second heartbeat until the day it stops.”

He sucks in a trembling breath, voice softening but steady. “I love you,” he says, no flourish, no expectation, just truth laid bare, “not the way headlines frame it or the way boardrooms negotiate it, but the way storms remember the first drop of rain, the way songs remember the first note. I love you in present tense even if the future writes us on separate pages. I’m not asking you to forgive me tonight, not asking you to leave anyone or anything behind. I’m not asking you to drop your life, not asking you to betray anyone who’s holding you steady. I’m just begging for one more chance. I know it’s selfish and I know I don’t deserve it, but I’d be the happiest man on the earth if you could give me one chance to show you that love can survive the wreck I made.”

His voice sinks to a whisper that still manages to quake through the room. “I can live without a career, without the family name, without the spotlight, without fucking basketball, turns out I’m already doing that, but I can’t live without loving you. Let me earn back a single inch of the space beside you. If you say no, I’ll stay gone and keep protecting you from afar. If you say maybe, I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure ‘sorry’ is the quietest part of our story.”

Jeno’s breath is ragged, the kind that shakes his frame and pulls the old bar’s shadows tighter around him. He stands by for too long, eyes torn between the dim bottles and you, that familiar ache swimming just below the surface. His voice, when it finally breaks free, is gravel and confession, each word circling the space before it lands. “I’ve been everywhere but here,” he says, voice uneven, almost raw. “I thought if I stayed gone long enough it would stick, that you’d stop haunting every fucking thing I do. But every city, every bed, every win, I kept coming back to this room in my head. I had to see you. I had to tell you.”

You can’t look at him for long. His apology is jagged, tumbling out without elegance, sentences crashing over each other as he tries to cross the distance in one breath. “I spent months thinking I was doing you a favor, keeping my mouth shut. The interviews, the games—I’d say what people wanted and it was all bullshit. None of it mattered. I missed you. All I did was miss you.”

He fumbles with the pouch, fingers stiff and clumsy, not from nerves but from the weight of everything he’s ruined, grief etched into the shake of his hands. When he finally loosens the drawstring, the bracelet spills into his palm, silver glinting in the bar’s violet haze like it’s caught every memory he’s tried and failed to forget. He turns it over once, twice, voice dropping lower, edged with a vulnerability you’ve never heard from him before. “You always said the old one made you feel safe,” he murmurs, thumb brushing the links as if trying to transfer something unspoken through the metal. “When it broke, I thought about every promise I failed to keep. I couldn’t stand knowing it was in pieces, not after everything we survived. So I tried to build you a new one. Maybe it’s selfish, but I just wanted you to have something whole again, even if I can’t be.”

He lays the bracelet on the bar with both hands, as if the weight of it is enough to steady him, silver links catching the low light, every charm glinting with the ghosts of older nights. He doesn’t rush—his thumb moves slowly, naming each piece not as a collection, but as the closest thing he has left to a second chance. “They’re all replicas,” he says, his voice rough but careful, as if speaking any louder might crack something fragile between you. “I remember every one I gave you. I remember why, and when, and what I thought they’d mean—then and now.”

He nudges the basketball charm, its small surface inscribed with his new team number, his voice growing softer with the memory. “This one’s for the court. The first one I ever got you, remember? After you snuck into that away game and wore my jacket the whole way home. I thought a new number would feel like a clean slate, but all it does is remind me of the old one—of you in the stands, yelling at the ref like it mattered more to you than anyone else. There’s no point in winning when you’re not there.”

He moves to the next, a book with cobalt enamel, tracing the edge as if your laughter still lives inside it. “This was for that night in the library. You bullied me into reading that novel with you—said it’d change how I see everything. I hated it, but now, sometimes, I remember lines at random. You always said the story lives in the middle, not the end. That’s all I’ve had since you left—the middle, stuck and unfinished, chapters I keep rereading because I can’t let go.”

His finger lingers on the wave, a curl of silver and pale blue glass, smile tugging at his lips, tired but warm. “The wave—after our second date at the beach. You dragged me out into freezing water, made fun of me for shivering, then kissed me so hard I forgot the cold. I thought I’d never get that night out of my head. I never did.”

The microphone follows, its rose gold shining beneath his palm, a tether to every story you gave him, and every silence he regrets. “For your voice. Because you could quiet a room or tear it wide open. When you performed at the wedding it made me feel proud in a way I can’t even describe. You were fearless, you were radiant. I wanted to mark that. I wanted to give you something that said I saw it—how strong you’ve become since the night at the bar, how you can fill a whole room and make people listen. That’s a gift. You have no idea how much I admire you for it.”

The little shield comes last, engraved with a constellation. His expression falters, heavy with apology. “You never needed protection, but I should’ve tried. I should’ve put myself in front of all the things that hurt you, instead of hiding or making excuses. This is a promise that I will never let my mistakes touch you again.” He leaves the air vibrating with the weight of a love that finally understands its own destruction, a love trying to rebuild itself one unending apology at a time.

He pauses at the last charm—a ring, white gold with a single sapphire, his hand lingering as if he can’t quite let it go. When he finally speaks, his voice is raw, every word cut from somewhere deeper than regret. “This isn’t a proposal. I just—I remember the sky the night you first let me love you. It was that exact color. I wanted to give you something that meant I was still holding on, even if it’s just to a memory. You don’t have to wear it. I just wanted you to know you were always more than a chapter or a charm. You were the whole story, and I’m still reading the ending, even if you’re not in it.”

The bracelet lies between you, heavy with memory and hope, the chain coiled like some fragile proof that the past can still reach across time and touch you. You stare at it for a moment, your voice stuck behind the ache in your throat, but finally the silence unravels and you find the strength to speak, your hands curling around the edge of the bar. “What do you want to happen now?” you ask, your voice trembling but steady. “Jeno, you can’t keep doing this. You can’t keep showing up with pieces of the past and expect them to fit where they don’t belong. So much has happened. How are we supposed to move on from this? I had to learn to survive without you, to build something real, something that doesn’t crack just because you show up again. I’m with someone now. I have a life I can hold together.” You swallow, trying to catch your breath, but the question sits there between you, final and raw. “Tell me—what do you actually want from me?”

He looks down, fingers brushing over the charms as if he can rearrange the past itself, and when he finally lifts his gaze it’s with a hollow resolve that shakes you to your core. “There’s one more thing,” he says quietly.

Before he can say more you interrupt, desperation surfacing in your voice as you try to cut the hope short. “Jeno, just stop. I can’t do this anymore. I have a boyfriend.”

He doesn’t flinch, not even for a heartbeat. Your words hang in the air, but he absorbs them with a quiet, unyielding force, the pain in his eyes eclipsed by something fierce and unshakeable. There’s a new steadiness to him, a razor-sharp certainty that feels magnetic, he straightens, gaze locked on you with a confidence that makes it suddenly impossible to look away. “Yeah, I know,” he says, his voice low and deliberate, a challenge and a promise in every syllable. He lets the words settle, lets you feel the pull of them, then leans in just enough for you to taste the gravity of what’s coming next. “I’m saying you could have a husband.”

The air leaves your lungs in a sharp, involuntary gasp—you feel your own pulse jump, shock and anger and longing twisting together until you want to scream at him for making this harder than it already is. He’s already reaching for the last charm, a ring of white gold, cool and luminous beneath the bar’s glow, sapphire winking in the dim light. He holds it out, his hand steady now in the way that comes with finality, not hope. “This isn’t a proposal,” he says, voice stripped down to the bone, eyes locked on yours so nothing can slip by unspoken. “I know I have nothing to offer you right now—nothing but a mess of apologies and a ruined name. I know you don’t owe me anything. I remember the sky the night you first let me love you, how blue it was, how certain I felt for once in my life. That’s why I picked this. It’s not for now, not for tonight. I’m not asking you to forgive me, not yet. I know I have a lot to prove before I’m allowed to mean any of this. I just wanted you to have something real—a marker, a reminder that you were always more than a chapter or a charm or a regret. You were everything. You are. And if there’s ever a day when you’re ready, when I’ve earned it—then I want to be the man you choose. I want to be your husband. I want you in every way there is.”

He drops his hand, the ring charm swinging between you, heavy with every confession that’s come before. The pain in his eyes is cutting—raw, naked, the kind of love that’s turned itself inside out so many times it’s become almost unrecognizable.

You stare at the bracelet, hands shaking, vision swimming as tears well and spill no matter how hard you try to swallow them down. Every instinct screams to hold on, to let yourself fall, but you force your hands to move, pushing the pouch back toward him with finality, refusing to let your voice waver. “Take the bracelet and go,” you say, every syllable heavy with sorrow, your eyes locked on his, daring him to challenge you, begging him not to. “I don’t need it anymore and you need to go too.” The words cut through the hush, brittle and irrevocable, but you’re not finished, not yet. Your voice breaks, raw and desperate, each tear carving a line down your cheek. “Some things aren’t meant to be fixed and maybe we’re one of them. I don’t need the charms anymore, I realised that I’m still strong without them. You need to leave, Jeno. Please.”

He stands there, taking in every shattered word, the tremor in your voice, the tears brimming in your eyes, and you watch him swallow the pain whole rather than spill any more of it onto your shoulders. His jaw clenches, shoulders rigid, and for a moment you see the war inside him—every muscle straining against the need to turn back, to beg for another chance, to let pride die for one last taste of you. Yet he doesn’t make you bear the weight of his longing, not now, not when you’ve asked him to let go. Instead, with a careful, almost reverent touch, he pockets the bracelet, a silent vow etched in the way his fingers linger just a moment too long. He starts toward the door with a heaviness that makes every step ache, not the resignation of a man defeated, but the stubborn ache of someone who loves you enough to wait—someone who leaves only because you need him to, not because his hope has died.

At the threshold, he pauses, hand pressed to the frame as if steadying himself against the future he’s not yet ready to face. He turns back, meeting your gaze with something that’s all promise, raw and undimmed. There’s no more pleading in his eyes, only a certainty carved out of heartbreak, a devotion that says he will carry the memory of your plea for peace, that he will not fight you now, but he will fight for you always. The silence stretches, thick as history, and in it you hear everything he cannot say: that he will wait for you, days or decades, that he will hold your absence like a sacred bruise, that he owes you the same fight you once gave him.

He leaves because you need him to, but he leaves loving you, loving you enough to stay gone, loving you enough to hope. When the door closes, the cold air that rushes in feels almost merciful, because it’s the only thing that cuts through the ache left in his wake. The quiet that settles is total, bruising, but somewhere beneath it all is the smallest thread of hope, something unfinished, something that might still come home to you, if you ever call for it.

𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐇𝐒 𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑

The hospital hums with a restless stillness that seeps beneath your skin, all cool linoleum and too-white walls washed in winter morning light. You’re here for work—Apex’s first hospital focused performance project, a pilot you fought to launch, hoping proof of real impact would finally be enough to drown out everything that came before. You’ve been moving through the ward since seven in the morning, discussing integration with nurses, fielding questions from doctors, translating analytics into outcomes, all while clutching your clipboard like it’s armor.

Jaemin is beside you, his hand resting gently on his daughter’s shoulder, guiding her down the corridor as you talk through the rollout plan for post-op recovery tracking. Haeun trails between you, hair in soft pigtails, hugging a plush rabbit to her chest. Jaemin’s exhaustion shows only in the way he sometimes blinks too long at your charts, the way his hand never leaves her even as he explains, quietly, “She’s not a morning person, but she likes coming to work with me. Hospital breakfast is her favourite excuse.”

You round the corner together and see Jeno waiting near the play area, hands in his pockets, sneakers tapping nervously against the floor. He looks up—and when his eyes catch yours, the world shifts on its axis. Everything else falls away: the bright artificial lights, the scuffed linoleum, the cheerful pastel murals. There’s only the static in your chest and the way you both go utterly still, locked in a gaze so thick with history you can taste the ache of it. The sight hits you like a jolt, all your composure falling away as your eyes lock. He looks up, just as startled, but you piece it together quickly, the way Jaemin’s hand rests on Haeun’s shoulder, Jeno’s awkward anticipation, the subtle exchange you’re suddenly intruding on. He’s here for her, you realize, here to take Haeun while Jaemin works another late shift. The logic of it lands, but it doesn’t lessen the ache or the surprise, not when it’s him, not after all this time.

Jaemin catches the way your breath stutters, the way Jeno’s jaw tenses as if he’s fighting the urge to speak. Jaemin’s hand tightens on Haeun’s back, gently steering her toward the lounge. “Baby, let’s go, okay?” he says, his tone soft, protective, pulling her with him a few steps down the hall as if he’s shielding her from something too old for children to name.

Jeno shifts, eyes flicking from Jaemin to you and back, trying to steady himself. “Oh—I thought I was meant to take her,” he says, voice lower than usual, careful and measured. He looks down, then up at Jaemin, searching for permission or reprieve.

Jaemin glances at his watch, then brushes Haeun’s hair off her forehead with a tired fondness. “She can go in fifteen,” he says, managing a half-smile as he crouches to straighten her coat. “She’s got ten more minutes of my cuddles, right?” Haeun grins, melting into his arms, and Jaemin lets his head rest on her crown, mumbling something about how he’ll need extra hugs to get through another all-nighter on call.

You stand there, the clipboard pressed too hard to your chest, heart thumping so loudly it drowns out every other sound. The urge to speak is heavy on your tongue, a weight you’ve carried for months. Jeno’s gaze finally finds yours again, and this time neither of you look away. You clear your throat, letting the words settle between the three of you, shaky but honest. “I could talk to you, Jeno.” For a moment, time hangs suspended—Jaemin gently rocking Haeun, Jeno’s hand flexing at his side, your pulse hammering as all the old gravity draws you back into the orbit you tried so hard to escape. The air is thick with everything unsaid, hope and grief woven together, waiting for what might finally come next.

You guide him down a silent, half-lit corridor, every step echoing with nerves you can’t name. The hospital after-hours is nothing like the day, a hush drapes the halls, broken only by distant beeps, the low hum of air conditioning, and the faint scent of antiseptic clinging to the walls. You reach the on-call room, swipe your card, slip inside, and turn the lock with trembling fingers. The lights inside are dim, a muted glow spilling over a battered cot, two metal chairs, a tangle of scrubs folded carelessly on a shelf. It’s cramped, the air heavy with sleep and secrets, but all you feel is the pulse of his presence filling the space behind you.

You turn, and he’s already watching, shoulders squared in that familiar way, jaw sharp, hair a little tousled, every inch of him too much and not enough at once. His eyes find yours and in the silence, every memory of that night—every promise, every ache—floods you with heat. There’s a rawness to him, something softer than when you left him as he walked out of that bar, but the way he stands there, hands in his pockets like he’s afraid to move, makes him more devastating than ever.

He speaks first, his voice low, tender, full of something that splits you open. “Are you okay?”

The words scrape straight through you, and before you can answer, you gasp—can’t help it, can’t hold back—and all at once you close the distance, your hand curling into his shirt, your lips finding his, hungry, reckless, desperate for the taste of him after all those months spent pretending you could live without it. He kisses you back instantly, mouth warm and open, tongue searching yours, one hand cupping your jaw, his breath coming ragged against your cheek. He moans, the sound dark and needy, but just as your hands slide beneath his shirt, he gasps and breaks the kiss, pressing you gently but firmly against the wall, searching your eyes, voice thick.

“What about Yangyang?” he breathes, his words trembling against your skin.

You shake your head, barely able to form the words, your lips still brushing his. “I broke up with him. The week after the day at the bar. It’s over, Jeno. It’s only you.”

The air is thick with anticipation, sharper and more electric than anything you remember, every second heavy, charged, and you can feel the trembling hunger in the way Jeno looks at you, eyes almost feral, pupils blown wide with disbelief and want. You barely manage a breath before he’s moving, closing the distance with a desperate need, both of you drawn together as if your bodies knew this choreography long before your minds ever caught up. Your hands tangle in his hair, yanking him closer, and your mouth finds his—lips crashing, teeth grazing, tongues sliding wet and frantic, tasting years of ache and resentment and the kind of love that never left, only grew sharper.

The first kiss is messier than you could have imagined—neither of you careful, both of you greedy, gasping and breaking apart just to drag in a ragged breath before meeting again, harder, deeper. His hands roam everywhere, cupping your jaw, sliding down your neck, tracing your spine as if mapping you from memory. His tongue pushes between your lips, hot and impatient, coaxing a needy moan from your throat, the sound swallowed into his mouth. You press yourself against him, hips grinding up, your body arching with every greedy swipe of his tongue, every desperate drag of his teeth. It’s as if he’s trying to relearn you, trying to taste every version of you he’s missed.

You barely notice your back meeting the thin, creaky cot until the frame rattles beneath you, Jeno’s weight pressing you down, mouth never leaving yours. He’s clumsy in his hunger, breath stuttering against your cheek as he kisses you again and again, tongue slick and insistent, exploring the wet heat of your mouth like he’s starving for it. You claw at his shirt, nails scraping over his skin, needing him naked, needing to feel him everywhere at once. His fingers fumble with the zipper at your waist, dragging your clothes down with reverent urgency, pausing only when you press a palm to his chest, panting.

“Go slow, baby,” you whisper, voice fraying on the edge of a plea, your gaze locked on his. He nods, something gentle flickering in his eyes, softening all that wildness.

“I will,” he breathes, kissing you once, slow and deep, before trailing his lips down your neck, mapping the places that make you shudder and gasp. His hands move slowly now, sliding your panties down your thighs, exposing you to the cool air and the warmth of his breath. He kisses his way down your body, dragging his tongue along your hip, then sinking to his knees on the floor beside the cot, dragging your legs open with a gentleness that leaves you aching.

Jeno’s mouth hovers just above your cunt, his breath hot and shaky, lips parted as he looks up at you from between your thighs, reverence and hunger warring in his gaze. He presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh, sucking a bruise there, teeth grazing your skin, tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your sweat. He moves closer, burying his face in the heat of you, tongue flattening against your slit, licking a long, deliberate stripe from your entrance up to your clit. The sound that leaves you is helpless—an unguarded moan, loud and trembling, echoing in the tiny room. His hands slide under your ass, anchoring you as he settles in, devouring you with slow, worshipful strokes, his tongue tracing every slick, sensitive line, lips wrapping around your clit and sucking gently until your hips lift off the mattress.

He works you open with his mouth, tongue swirling over your clit, then dipping lower, fucking into you with slow, insistent strokes, savoring every reaction, every gasp and quiver. He moans into you, the vibrations rumbling through your core, his hands gripping your thighs so tight you’re sure he’ll leave marks. His mouth is everywhere—sloppy, greedy, never rushing, just savouring, eating you like he’s making up for every lost year. He flicks his tongue faster, then slower, learning what makes you whine, what makes you beg, and when you tug his hair he only groans, pressing his face deeper, nose nudging your clit as he works you over and over.

You can barely keep quiet, every sound spilling out of you raw, desperate, uncontrollable. Your thighs tremble around his head, hips rolling into his mouth, seeking more friction, more pressure, chasing the high that’s already burning through your veins. Jeno pulls you closer, mouth unrelenting, tongue fucking you, lips closing over your clit to suck harder, then gentle again, teasing, edging you closer and closer. His hands never stop roaming, squeezing your hips, kneading your ass, grounding you even as your body threatens to come apart. The room smells like sex and longing and the sweat beading down your chest, every breath sharp and shuddering.

He murmurs your name against your cunt, voice rough and adoring, praising how perfect you taste, how much he missed this, how he could die here and never want for anything more. Each word is punctuated by his tongue—slick, skilled, relentless—drawing you right to the brink. Your body shakes, head thrown back, hands tangled in his hair, thighs squeezing his head as you arch and whimper and fall apart for him, coming hard, everything tightening and breaking open with the force of it. Jeno doesn’t stop—he licks you through it, swallowing every pulse, eyes flicking up to watch you shatter, his own hunger insatiable, his devotion absolute.

His mouth never fully leaves your skin, but the desperation softens into something deeper, every kiss and touch a careful reacquaintance with the body he’s craved for years. Jeno’s hands cradle your hips as he rises above you, face close, eyes shining with adoration and nerves. You watch his lips part, breath unsteady, and reach up to cup his jaw, stroking your thumb along his cheek as he presses his forehead to yours. “God, I missed you,” he murmurs, voice trembling, and the confession makes your heart flutter. He kisses you, slow and loving, tongue gliding gently with yours as he lets his fingers explore—drawing circles at your waist, dragging up to lace your fingers together, holding your hand as if it anchors him to the moment.

You arch beneath him, feeling his weight settle between your thighs, his cock brushing over your slit with each teasing, careful roll of his hips. He’s tentative at first, rocking forward only enough to feel your wetness coat his length, breath catching at the warmth and slick heat of you. You can sense his hesitation—four years is a long time, and your bodies remember each other’s hunger but not the ease. He tries to push in, but you both gasp as the fit is too tight, your walls fluttering around his tip. He stills, forehead furrowing, hand returning to yours, and he kisses your temple with a soft, apologetic sigh. “Are you okay?” he whispers, voice velvet, and you nod, pressing your lips to his jaw, urging him closer.

“It’s just—slow, baby, please,” you whisper, your words shaky but sure, fingers squeezing his. Jeno nods, gaze softening, and presses tiny kisses across your cheeks, your mouth, your chin. He lines himself up again, this time guiding himself in with even more patience, letting you feel every inch as he rocks forward—pausing every time you tense, waiting for your breathy “okay” before easing deeper. It takes a few tries, both of you laughing softly through the struggle, eyes glistening with relief and nervous excitement. His thumb rubs soothing circles against your palm, and finally, finally, he slides fully inside, sheathing himself in your warmth, groaning low and broken into your shoulder.

You both stay like that, clinging together, your legs wrapped around his waist and his hand tangled with yours, neither willing to move for fear of shattering the fragile peace. His lips find yours again, kissing you softly, his other hand brushing sweaty hair from your brow. “You feel so fucking good, sweetheart,” he coos, voice shaky and breathless, hips barely moving as he lets you adjust, lets the ache turn sweet. You moan, squeezing around him, your bodies falling into a rhythm as gentle as breathing, each thrust unhurried, every slide deeper wringing out a new gasp from your lips.

Jeno’s eyes stay locked on yours, his mouth falling open with every slow, tender push. He keeps whispering praise, voice thick with emotion—“Missed you, missed this, missed how you feel, how you sound, fuck, you’re perfect”—words falling between your kisses, your moans, the soft slap of skin against skin. You lift your hips, meeting him with every movement, your hands roaming up his arms, clutching at his back, then sliding down to lace your fingers with his, holding tight. He intertwines your hands above your head, pressing them into the mattress as he rocks into you, eyes wide and hungry, drinking in every sound, every stuttered breath, every shiver.

The lovemaking is almost worshipful, your bodies reacquainting with careful, loving strokes, his lips never far from yours. He kisses your eyelids, your collarbone, your chest, breathes your name like a prayer, and you reply with quiet whimpers and shaky pleas—“don’t stop, Jeno, just like that, please—” Your thighs tremble around his hips, your toes curl, and he groans into your neck, thrusts turning deeper but never losing their gentleness. He nuzzles your cheek, bites your lower lip, your hands clasped tight, hearts pounding in unison. Every movement is slow and melting, nothing rushed, every second soaked in longing.

His pace stutters, hips rolling deeper, the friction building but never harsh. “You feel so fucking good,” he chokes, forehead pressed to yours, eyes glossy with adoration. You reach up, cupping his face, kissing him long and deep, your tongues dancing in slow, sweet circles, sharing every moan, every sigh, every unspoken promise. He holds you as if you’re breakable, thrusts lazy and unhurried, drawing out every pulse of pleasure, savoring the reunion as much as the release.

You feel yourself cresting, the pleasure bright and unrelenting, every stroke of his cock inside you winding you tighter, every brush of his lips sending sparks across your skin. He’s trembling too, holding back, wanting this to last, but you feel the way he loses control every time you moan his name, every time your hips buck against his, every time your fingers squeeze his so tight your knuckles ache. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” he breathes, “never want to stop, never want to let go—” and you cry out, meeting every thrust, loving him with every part of you.

Your legs are trembling, thighs slick and parted wide, Jeno’s body pressed to yours, all sweat and desperation, the mattress beneath you groaning with every slow, relentless thrust. His lips drag across your neck, mouth hot and open, tongue tracing the pulse pounding beneath your skin as he murmurs, “Fuck, you feel so good, I can’t—” His hand laces with yours, holding you tight above your head, and every movement is thick with longing, years of denial crashing down in the way his hips roll, how his cock splits you open, how he never looks away, eyes searching yours for every stuttered gasp, every shiver. You squeeze around him, needy, your own hips arching to meet him, and he groans, deep and broken, “Tell me you missed this, baby—tell me you missed me.”

You nod, voice barely a whisper, overwhelmed by the feeling of him inside, by the softness and the ache, by the way he fills you, slow and deep, so thick you swear you’ll never get used to it again. “I missed you so much,” you moan, voice shaking with truth, your nails digging into his back, scraping down his spine. “God, I thought about you every night. I touched myself thinking about this, about your cock—about you filling me up, fucking me like this. I need you, Jeno.” His eyes flutter shut at the confession, lips parting, and he leans in to kiss you again, tongue wet and greedy, swallowing your moans, your confessions, his hips stuttering as your words hit him.

He pulls back only far enough to see your face, cheeks flushed, eyes glazed with tears and lust. “You want me to cum inside you, baby?” he asks, voice rough, low and teasing, but there’s an edge of awe in it—like he can barely believe this is real, that you’re begging for him like you never left. “You want me to make you mine again? You want me to fill you up, fuck a baby into you?” He says it like a promise, filthy and reverent, rolling his hips slowly so you feel every inch, every twitch of his cock inside your soaked, fluttering heat. You whimper, hips grinding up, your whole body arching, shameless, “Yes, Jeno, fuck, I want it—I want your cum, I want you to ruin me, I want everything, please—”

The words break something in him. His hand tightens on your thigh, pushing you wider, holding you open as his pace picks up, thrusts deepening, each stroke deliberate, grinding into your sweet spot. “You want to be all mine?” he pants, forehead pressed to yours, breath mingling as his voice drops to a possessive growl. “You want me to fuck you so full you can’t think of anyone else? Want me to watch you swell with me—my baby inside you?” His words are a dark caress, each syllable sending heat spiraling through your body, making your cunt clamp down on him, making you gasp and cry out.

“Yes, yes, please, please—” Your voice is wrecked, trembling, each sound lost in his mouth, his kisses desperate, hands everywhere—your waist, your breast, your jaw, claiming every inch of you.

His rhythm turns ragged, hips jerking, his voice a raw, needy plea. “Are you sure, baby? I’m close, I can’t hold back—fuck, say it again, tell me what you want.”

You pull him down, legs wrapping tighter, holding him in, moaning into his neck, “Don’t pull out, don’t you dare, I want to feel you, want to feel your cum leaking out of me, want to be full, want it so fucking bad, please, Jeno—” He whimpers, that sound you only ever heard when he was truly lost, truly yours, and he buries himself as deep as he can go, hips grinding, cock twitching, his whole body trembling with restraint.

You don’t even know why you’re begging him to cum inside you. The words spill out with every gasp and roll of your hips, the baby talk tumbling between kisses, dizzy and reckless—‘want you to fill me up, want your baby, want everything’—but you’re as startled by the rawness as he is. In truth, you don’t know what’s happening inside you, why your body and mouth crave that surrender, only that you’re on the pill and somewhere deep down you believe this can’t possibly become real. Logic dissolves under his hands; all you feel is the press of his body, the slick friction of skin on skin, the way his eyes lock to yours when you whisper, “Don’t pull out.” Everything else fades, the world narrowing to the fevered ache between you, to the need that makes you forget everything but him, to the wild, inexplicable want that pulses through you every time he thrusts deeper and you lose yourself in the promise of him.

The pressure builds, your body shaking, pleasure cresting and snapping all at once as he pounds you through it, his hand in yours, his voice in your ear, “That’s it, baby, come for me—let me feel you—fuck, you’re perfect, you’re perfect—” You break for him, crying out, cunt spasming around his cock, milking him for everything he’s worth, your whole world narrowing to the heat of his skin, the taste of his kiss, the way he moans your name like a prayer. He loses it then, hips jerking erratic, cock swelling and spilling deep inside you, his seed hot, pulse after pulse flooding your cunt, dripping down your thighs as you cling to each other, bodies shuddering, tears streaking your cheeks as he pants your name, broken and worshipful.

Jeno is still inside you, body trembling with the aftershocks, breathless confessions spilling against your neck. His lips graze your skin as if he’s trying to memorize the taste of goodbye, every kiss softer, more desperate, as if saying I love you enough could sew the seams of this moment closed. “I love you,” he gasps, voice cracked, eyes glossy with hope and something much darker. “I love you, I love you—God, you’re everything. You’re my whole fucking world, you know that?”

The words break you open. You feel his cum leaking from you, his hands tracing hearts on your damp skin, his forehead pressed to yours, eyes searching for a promise you’ll never give. Tears slip down your cheeks, salt mingling with sweat, and you can’t even pretend to hide them. He keeps whispering, “You’re mine. I’m never letting you go. I’ll spend every day proving it—every day, baby, for the rest of my life.”

You want to believe him. You want to live in this feverish hope, tangled in his arms, all need and forever. But something inside you splinters, a cold certainty settling in your bones—this is the last time. Fate is circling, hungry and jealous, and you know even as he spills his soul into you, you’re already a memory. You choke on a sob, clinging to his body like it’s the only thing holding you together, the pain sharp enough to feel holy.

He doesn’t notice the way your hands shake, the way your lips tremble beneath his. He just keeps loving you, frantic and sincere, pressing kiss after kiss to your cheeks, your mouth, your eyelids—like maybe if he worships hard enough you’ll stay. “Don’t leave me,” he breathes, raw and pleading. “Whatever it is, we’ll fix it, I swear. I can’t lose you again. I’d die if I lost you again.”

You can’t answer. You can only hold him tighter, sobs slipping free as you ride the last waves of pleasure and grief together, knowing you’ll never tell him the truth—never tell him that destiny is cruel, that this is your last tangle, your last collapse, your last time letting him make you his. He kisses your tears, not realizing he’s drowning in the storm he can’t see coming, a prophecy sealed by every desperate, ruined gasp between your bodies.

You’re shaking when he finally stills, his arms wrapped around you, his love still echoing in your ear. But you know, deep in your marrow, that this is it. The end has already chosen you both. And as the afterglow fades, a cold shadow creeps in, winding tight as a curse around your heart—because the universe doesn’t care how much you love him, or how much he loves you back. You gave him everything. But tonight, love isn’t enough to keep you.

This is the last time he’ll ever have you like this, and you know it even as you arch into his arms, clutching him closer, your bodies still joined and trembling. You needed this—needed to be ruined by him, to let him mark you with everything you could never say, to have your goodbye etched not in words but in sweat, in moans, in the way your nails dig crescents into his skin. There was never going to be a conversation, never a promise to try again, only this one night where you could let go of every burden and be nothing but his—hungry, reckless, weeping into his mouth, giving yourself over for the last time so you could finally walk away. You take it all, let him love you, let yourself fall apart in his hands, because tomorrow you’ll be gone and he’ll wake to an ache that never leaves, and you’ll be nothing but the ghost of the best thing he ever lost.

It’s been eight weeks since that night, and you feel it in your bones, fatigue chasing you into every morning, nausea blooming at odd hours, a fog clinging to your brain that coffee won’t clear. You’re always warm, sometimes flushed and prickling with sweat for no reason, and hunger hits you in strange, sudden ways, sometimes replaced by aversion so strong you have to step outside just to breathe. There are moments when you almost forget, buried in the noise of daily life and deadlines, but then the dizziness returns, or you catch your reflection—paler, softer, eyes a little glassy, with a new ache behind your smile.

Today you’re in the hospital’s break lounge with Jaemin, both of you hunched over laptops and scattered binders, discussing Apex’s next phase of data rollout. Your notebook is open to patient compliance rates, your pen tapping against the page, but your focus keeps drifting. Jaemin watches you, eyes narrowed in that quiet, observant way that makes you uneasy.

He scrolls through a few charts, then glances at you, casual but pointed. “Hey, quick one—if you had to recommend prenatal vitamins for a new pregnancy, would you go with the high-folate blend or the one with added DHA? The pharmacy’s updating their stock and I’m meant to suggest one, but honestly, I trust your judgment more with this stuff.”

You barely look up from your laptop, mind still swimming in spreadsheets and exhaustion. “Honestly? The high-folate blend is best for early pregnancies—especially first trimester. DHA’s good for brain development, but you really need folate to lower neural tube risk, so if they have to pick just one, I’d say—” You pause, the words stalling on your tongue as you glance at Jaemin’s face, at the slow, knowing smile spreading across his lips. It takes you a second to put it together, but suddenly your heart is pounding, and your mouth goes dry. You blink at him, the realization finally sparking in your brain. “Wait—how did you…?”

He smiles softly, knowing, setting his tablet aside. “I work in peds, Y/N. I spend half my life around pregnant mothers. You think I wouldn’t notice? You’ve been sick every morning, yawning through meetings, always a little sweaty, and you only ever eat the salt crackers now. You think I haven’t seen this a hundred times?”

Your whole body goes cold, your breath stalling, a flush of panic prickling across your chest. “How did you know?” you whisper, the words torn from you, your hand pressed to your stomach as if you can hide the truth there. “No one knows,” you manage, voice splintering, and suddenly it’s too much—weeks of holding it in, the dread and the ache and the wild, unmoored hope you never let yourself voice. The tears come hot and fast, your shoulders shaking as you gasp for breath, and Jaemin is up in an instant, wrapping his arms around you. You cling to him, sobbing, unable to hold it back any longer. “I only found out a month ago,” you stammer, “I haven’t told anyone. I haven’t—fuck, Jaemin, how the fuck did this even happen? It wasn’t supposed to—when I told him to cum inside, it was because I was on the pill, I—I thought I was safe, I—”

He holds you tighter, hand rubbing slow circles into your back, voice gentle but honest. “The pill doesn’t always work, Y/N. Sometimes life doesn’t care what we plan.” He rocks you slightly, anchoring you, steady as a heartbeat. “I found out about Haeun in the worst possible way, you know. I was younger than you, more scared, handled it all wrong. But she’s the best thing that ever happened to me, I knew the second I held her for the first time.”

Your tears don’t slow, your breath coming sharp and shallow, panic still flickering in your chest. “I don’t even know what I’m going to do,” you choke out. “I don’t know if I’m keeping it, I don’t know how to tell him, I just, I don’t know. I really don’t know.”

Jaemin’s hands pause on your back, his brows furrowing in gentle concern. “Well, what did you tell Yangyang?”

You pull back, blinking at him, searching his face for the hint of a joke but he’s dead serious, just waiting. Exasperation sparks through your tears and you smack his arm, half laughing, half crying. “It’s not Yangyang’s, are you serious? I haven’t had sex with him since last year. It’s Jeno’s, you idiot.”

His eyes widen, mouth falling open as the truth sinks in—he’s genuinely shocked, almost comically so. “What?” he stammers, blinking hard like he needs to replay your words in his head. “Wait, what?”

You wipe at your eyes, still trembling, and shoot him a tired, pointed look. “Why are you so shocked? Don’t you and Jeno share everything? You act like you’re not joined at the hip.”

Jaemin just shakes his head, still processing. “Well, Jeno doesn’t exactly have much to share about you right now because you keep avoiding him. He keeps trying to talk to you, but you keep slipping away. God, Y/N, you’re going to be a mother and you’re this immature? What’s happened to you?”

You look away, jaw tight, shame prickling hot under your skin, crawling up your neck until you can’t meet Jaemin’s eyes at all. He studies you for a moment longer, his patience finally worn thin by your silence. When he speaks again, his voice is sharper than you’ve ever heard, an edge of disbelief threading through every word. “You haven’t told Jeno?” he repeats, slower this time, like he’s hoping you’ll deny it if he just gives you the chance. “Y/N, you seriously need to tell him. You can’t just pretend this isn’t happening, or hope it’ll go away if you stay quiet. You’re not the only one this will change. He deserves the truth—the chance to step up, to decide what kind of man he’s going to be, for you and for your baby. You both deserve that, even if it scares the shit out of you.” He exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw, frustration warring with concern in his eyes. “I know it’s hard. I know you’re scared. But this isn’t the kind of thing you run from, Y/N. It’ll follow you everywhere. It already is. You owe it to yourself—to the life you’re carrying—to face it head-on.”

His words settle over you like thunderclouds, heavy and absolute, the truth ringing so clear it almost hurts. The room feels smaller now, the air charged and trembling, as if something in the universe is holding its breath, waiting for you to choose which world you want to live in. And for a moment—just a moment—you feel the earth tilt beneath your feet, every possible future branching out, dazzling and terrifying. You could tell Jeno and watch your life split open, raw and real and honest, step into the storm of love, longing and hope and see if you both can survive it. Or you could keep running, hold this secret close, disappear into a quieter world where it’s only you and the heartbeat inside you, building a new life from scratch, never looking back.

Outside the window, the city spins, indifferent. Fate circles above you, silent, patient, as if waiting for your voice to rise up and claim a destiny only you can name. In this moment, you stand at the edge of everything, motherhood, heartbreak, rebirth, caught between prophecy and possibility, knowing that nothing will ever be the same. The next breath you take, the next step you choose, will change everything.

taglist — @clblnz @flaminghotyourmom @haesluvr @revlada @kukkurookkoo @euphormiia @cookydream @hyuckshinee @hyuckieismine @fancypeacepersona @minkyuncutie @kiwiiess @outoforbit @lovetaroandtaemin @ungodlyjnz @remgeolli @sof1asdream7 @xuyiyang @tunafishyfishylike @lavnderluv @cheot-salang @second-floors @hyuckkklee @rbf-aceu @pradajaehyun

authors note —

if you've made it this far, thank you so much for reading! it truly means the world to me. i poured so much effort into this, so if you could take just a moment to send an ask or leave a message sharing your thoughts, it would mean everything. your interactions-whether it's sending an ask, your feedback, a comment, or just saying hi gives me so much motivation to keep writing. i'm always so happy to respond to messages, asks and comments so don't be shy! thank you from the bottom of my heart! <3

#series: the love & games universe.ᐟ‧₊˚🏀#jeno x reader #nct jeno #nct scenarios #nct x reader #nct imagines #jeno nct #jeno imagines

119 notes · View notes

ssweetreveries · 29 days ago

Text

Falling asleep on Jeno by accident

pairing : jeno x reader

word count : 504

an: since i disappeared for a while, here’s some silly fluff 🥹

You could hear the gentle tap of raindrops against the window as you typed away at your computer. The only other noise was the rhythmic clicking of the keyboard next to you and the occasional sound of Jeno clearing his throat. You checked the time—it was a bit past 7. Just finish this section of the project and then head home, you told yourself.

Jeno was your classmate and project partner. The teacher had assigned partners, not giving anyone the liberty to choose. Not that you were going to complain—Jeno was cute, and this gave you an excuse to talk to him. And now, here you were, over at his place, working on the project. But hey—a win is a win.

You’d been working for a few hours, occasionally exchanging a few words with Jeno as you both focused on different parts of the assignment. Your elbow was propped on the coffee table, cheek resting in your palm. Finish this and you can go home, you reminded yourself.

But it seemed you were more tired than you realized. Your head began to feel heavy in your hand, eyes fluttering closed as you fought to keep them open. Jeno glanced over from the corner of his eye, a small amused smile tugging at his lips.

Soon, your tired arm gave out under the weight, and your head fell softly against Jeno’s shoulder. He tensed for a moment, looking down at you—but then he relaxed, lips twitching into a gentle smile.

His hand reached up to your hair, fingers threading through your locks with quiet affection as he admired your sleeping form. He wouldn’t tell you just yet, but Jeno had always had a crush on you. And this—having you asleep against him—was something he’d only ever imagined before.

—

An hour or two later, you woke up to the unfamiliar weight resting atop your head and a large hand splayed gently over your shoulder. You blinked the sleep away, trying to reorient yourself. As your eyes adjusted, they landed on Jeno’s sleeping face.

You took a moment to admire him up close, careful not to wake him. His plump lips, thick eyebrows, and that small mole by his eye—god, he was perfect.

You hadn’t meant to fall asleep. You definitely hadn’t meant to do it on him. But now, with the soft rise and fall of his chest beneath your head, and the way his hand was still resting protectively on your shoulder, it was hard to feel anything other than...warm.

You shifted slightly, trying not to disturb him while trying to free yourself to actually go home this time, but his arm instinctively tightened around you, holding you just a little closer.

Your heart skipped a beat at that. And you think—maybe—just maybe, you could stay just a little longer..

Just until the rain stops.

asks are always open for anything! ♡

#ssweetreveries #nct oneshot #nct jeno #nct dream x you #nct dream x reader #nct dream fluff #nct dream fic #nct dream drabbles #nct dream imagines #jeno fic #jeno x you #jeno x reader #jeno imagines #lee jeno #jeno fluff #jeno smau #nct soft hours #nct dream soft hours

465 notes · View notes

sungbites · 2 months ago

Text

MISCONCEPTIONS ━ lee jeno

pairing : jeno x fem!reader genre : angst, fluff, est. relationship (sort of relationship), suggestive elements warnings : drinking/being drunk, profanity, inaccurate representation of art students, kissing, they're both toxic #sozz synopsis : your relationship with jeno was always complicated, never knowing where you stand with him. but what happens when things are left unsaid between the both of you and words are left to become mere misconceptions. wc : 10k a/n : god i've been working on this for over a month and finally its completed 🥹, i wanna thank @yutarot my beloved for helping me finish this and giving me the motivation, ily my nayu 🫶

Words were futile devices, there was no point in conveying them as you wanted because actions spoke louder. In words there were misconceptions tied in them, causing a whirlwind of miscommunication between two people.

Lee Jeno did not pride himself on not knowing you, but rather the opposite. He hates himself for not knowing you enough. Past just every curve of your body and into every curve of your soul, when you pushed or pulled towards him, when you wanted him and when you didn’t. Like now.

He was so jealous. He had been watching you, like a creep, all night. You knew, his friends knew, your friends knew, hell even the guy shamelessly flirting with you probably knew. It didn't matter because Jeno was annoyed, who did he think he was coming to his friends party and flirting with you. It was eating him alive, and you knew that as well. But you didn’t pay any mind to it because you knew at the end of the day he wasn’t gonna do anything, or was he?

You shifted your gaze back to the man who stood in front of you, Mark Lee was his name. From what he had blabbed to you within five minutes you knew that was from Canada, his best friend's name was Donghyuck, and he had a really cool sledding story. “So like I said he literally rammed into our sled!” Mark continued, animating the sled crash with his empty cup and hands. You gasped, trying to seem like you were paying attention the whole time. “Yeah so, we were like, what’s your deal man? But he told us he lost control of the sled so I guess it’s all chill” He finished, making you laugh softly. “I mean I’m glad! That sounds like a good time though.” you said, smiling up at him.

You knew he was just telling you stories about himself to keep talking to you, but you didn't mind at all. He was a cutie and besides you needed to distract yourself from Jeno who was all over you one second, and the next he couldn’t care less about you. You knew you deserved better and maybe that was Mark. Or maybe it wasn’t, sometimes you couldn’t tell what was good for you and what wasn’t, Jeno being a clear example. Mark smiled down at you, taking a sip of his drink, “You know, you could come with. We’re going next month” you smiled, raising your eyebrow slightly at his offer.

“That’s a kind gesture but I don’t know how to sled” you said, taking a sip of your own drink but scrunching your nose as the taste. It was some sort of weird combination that Chenle made, always something with him. Mark nodded, thinking to himself for a couple seconds. “Doesn’t matter” He said, making you furrow your brows, “and why’s that Mark? Do tell” you replied, smiling softly as he smiled back at you. The vibe between you two was flirty, you knew he was flirting the second he approached you because in all honesty, he wasn’t very good at hiding it. “I can just teach you, babe,” he finally said, a smile on his face. Your cheeks flushed softly, feeling your smile grow, “You’re too kind Mark seriously you don’t need to” you finally said making Mark smile more.

Just before he spoke, a voice spoke up from behind you. “No man, really you are” in an instant you knew the voice, and his tone, always so icy. Jeno didn’t often talk to people like that, he was pretty reserved, but when he was angry he got livid, which he was right now. You turned to see him, standing right next to you and across from Mark, smiling smugly at him. “You know thanks for keeping my girl company while I was getting us drinks, appreciate it.” He smiled at Mark a little bit too fakely, the whole interaction causing the boy across from you to stutter out apologies. “God sorry man- I uh- didn’t know she was your girlfriend.” He smiled awkwardly at Jeno then you, making you frown softly. He had no reason to apologize, Jeno only wanted to acknowledge you when it was convenient for him. “Sorry again, I’ll leave you two alone” He said rather quickly, stumbling on his words as he scurried off to his friends.

“What the fuck Jeno?” You turned to him, now even more angry at him than you were before. Before this party, Jeno had told you to keep your distance, something about the fact his friends could never know what was going on between you two, like he was ashamed of you. The two of you have had this argument multiple times since starting your ‘arrangement’ Jeno claims it would be a big deal but you knew that it didn’t matter to any of his stupid friends. Yet despite all of the shit he gave you, here he was, acting like he was your boyfriend because he got a little bit insecure. “C’mon babe,” He said in the same tone Mark did, mocking him. “Don't cause a scene” He muttered, smiling down at you, making you roll your eyes in response.

“Fuck off.” you mumbled, not sure if it was the alcohol speaking but nonetheless you grabbed the drink from his hand and walked past him, leading the way to the backyard where you could be alone and in peace. Jeno watched you leave then scoffed and shook his head, following you outside. “Yn! C’mon don’t be like this!” He yelled out as you walked further and further away from the house, and him. He followed you until you were at the back fence of the backyard and had no choice but to face him. You clenched your fists and turned around to face him.

As always, he had that puppy dog look on his face. The one where he seemed apologetic and that he loved you but you could see right through his facade. After all, the two of you had this fling going on for three months now, so you weren't going to fall for his manipulative tricks this time, “Why’d you do that Jeno” you knew the answer, you just wanted to hear him come up with a bullshit excuse, he was always good at that.

He sighed out, running his hand through his hair, to anyone else it would look like you fucked up and he was just a bystander. “Just looking out for you baby, like I always do.” He smiled softly, walking closer to you to try and break the gap, instead you backed away. He noticed this and stopped, furrowing his brows, “Yn I care about you, don’t do that” he mumbled, his lips in a soft frown now. You looked in his eyes, trying to break through and see if he was lying or not but he had always shut himself out to you, always.

You pressed your lips together in a thin line, then sighed, you could feel yourself giving into him. He always had a way of speaking to you, it was weird. He never said what he meant, especially with his feelings, and you could never tell how much of that was true. He lied to you, about how he felt, about missing ‘dates’, and everything in between. It was hard staying with Jeno because you knew it wasn't good for you, yet you couldn’t find it in yourself to just leave.

“Yeah I know, I just don't know, you have a weird way of showing it Jen” you breathed out, looking down at the grass, unable to hold eye contact with him. Jeno sighed softly and walked closer to you slowly, as if testing the waters. Once he noticed you weren’t backing away he walked close enough so you and him were just an arms length apart. He reached out, holding your chin softly, forcing you to look up at him. He locked eyes with you and only smiled softly.

“I know baby, but it's always you for me.” His words made you smile, but they meant nothing. You knew that, so why did your heart skip a beat when he said that? Why did you suddenly feel a chance for hope, for you and Jeno? Jeno could read you like a book because he must've sensed that your mind was racing. He shook his head, “Quit doing that, drifting off in thought. Just focus on me” he said, halting your thoughts for just a moment.

Now, he was close enough to where you could feel his cool breath against your nose, lips just centimeters apart. You could see him locking down at your lips and before he could lean in to kiss you, you put your hand on his chest. “What is it?” he said, this time sounding a bit more passive aggressive rather than the gentle tone he was using earlier. “You’re not my boyfriend Jen” you mumbled, making him look at your lips. “And you're not my girlfriend,” he said without missing a beat, “has that ever stopped us?” he looked into your eyes, eyebrow slightly raised.

He was right, that didn't ever stop the both of you. Neither of you stopped to think about the fact that you weren't in a relationship. Maybe you even preferred it that way, you knew Jeno sure as hell did. He loved having you without all the unnecessary hassles that he would have to deal with because he was your boyfriend.

You shook your head, making him smile softly. He leaned in again to kiss you, this time you let him. You let the familiar taste of his lips take over your own. It was intoxicating how much he drew you in, pulling you away from your own consciousness. He tilted his head slightly, kissing you at a different angle now. He pulled back, Jeno was always the first to pull back.

He smiled down at you and backed away, “come over tonight?” He mumbled, you nodded in response. You felt him lean down to kiss your cheek before he headed back inside the house. You watched as he started talking to his friends like normal, not even caring that you were still outside, cold. Weirdly enough none of Jenos kisses made you feel warm, but maybe that’s just how things were meant to be.

You sat on the couch, refreshing your text conversation with Jeno, your purse in your other hand. The two of you were supposed to go out tonight, as promised. You were stupid to believe Jenos empty promises after all this time. “Let me guess, he stood you up again?” Yerim said, shutting her bedroom door behind her. You looked to her and sighed, shutting your phone and putting it face down.

You and Yerim had been roommates for around a year, the two of you started getting closer around the time you and Jeno started your ‘arrangement’ and since then you’ve confided in her since you can’t tell anyone else, sworn to secrecy thanks to Jeno. “I don’t even know why I believed him,” you watched as Yerim sat next to you on the couch, sinking into it. “You say this everytime,” she sighed.

She glanced at you, almost feeling sorry for you. Of course she felt sorry for you, it was hard being with someone who gave you everything yet nothing at the very same time. Yet she could never figure out what made you stay, was it the sex? Or was it the idea of someone loving you? Was it even love? You looked her way, already sensing what she was going to say. Instead of saying her thoughts, Yerim held your head and rested it on her shoulder, patting your head gently. Her hand pushed some of your hair out of your way, still patting you gently. The two of you sat like that for a good half hour before the two of you started getting up to go to your own respective rooms.

As you got up Yerim looked at you, “Yn?” she mumbled, making you turn around to face her. She hesitated before speaking, “you deserve better than that” Yerim said, smiling softly at you. You smiled back and nodded, letting her pat your shoulder as she departed to her room. You stood in the living room for a couple minutes, staring at the wall.

You deserve way better.

But you weren’t going to let yourself have that. Why did you love Jeno so deeply and desperately when he couldn't care less? All you were to him was his toy to play with when he wanted and dispose of you when he was bored. Yet you always ran back, why? Was it his soft kisses? Or was it the way he held you in his arms? Maybe it was the way he looks at you when you’re both alone? Or is that just you looking at him? Has he ever spared you a glance? Will he ever spare you a glance?

Your phone buzzed on the couch. You looked down, groaning as you realize you’re still wearing the same clothes you were supposed to go out in. You picked up your phone, seeing a text you had seen several times before.

jen [11:57 p.m.] : outside your place babe :)

The next thing you knew you were outside, walking with Jeno side by side in a park near your apartment. According to him, he was busy with something and as per usual you didn’t question it. Maybe you were scared that if you asked him too many questions he would leave you because you were too much work. Maybe he was just with you for the convenience of it all, intertwining friend groups, same school, not too far apart.

Your hands were intertwined as you walked, Jeno broke the silence first. “Saw your sculpture in the workshop, it looks good,” he said, looking ahead at the path in front of you two. So that meant he was actually busy, you thought. “Thanks, I didn’t think you noticed,” you replied, looking down at the ground the two of you walked on together, your feet in perfect sync. Jeno shifted his gaze to look at you, smiling. “I notice everything,” making you look up at him, smiling as well.

This was why things were so confusing. Jeno would act like he cared about you and cherished you but he never wanted to date you, and he certainly never did this infront of others. It seemed as though your relationship was covered in a fog of mystery even to you, ironic isn't it? Not even knowing what kind of relationship you were in.

“It’s getting late Jen,” you finally said, making his smile raise a little. “We could head back to mine? Get some sleep?” He looked at you, still smiling. Of course, what else would you do other than agree?

You stared at the sculpture sitting right in front of you, the look it was giving you seemed judgemental. As if it was judging you for being at the workshop at lunchtime while everyone else was taking their well deserved breaks. You sighed, carving away at the sculpture. You didn’t even know what you were trying to make but you knew you wanted it to be good for your final presentation.

It determined whether or not you can go to an art school and you weren’t going to let any distractions get in your way, not even Jeno. You didn’t believe in yourself though, in terms of the sculpture and the distractions.

You heard the door to the workshop open and close, soft footsteps grew closer to where you were sitting, then suddenly they stopped. This caused you to look up from your sculpture to see Mark, standing 6 feet away from you. “Oh I.. did you tell me you went here?” He stuttered, trying to get his words out. You smiled softly and nodded, making him frown softly. “Sorry, I got pretty wasted that night,” he said, walking over to sit on the table right in front of you.

“It’s alright,” you replied, still smiling softly. Mark watched you as you went back to sculpting diligently, he smiled at you. “So does your boyfriend go here?” he broke the silence, not stuttering anymore. You looked at him and furrowed your brows, then it hit you. “Me and Jeno aren’t dating he just.. does that for some reason,” you shook your head slightly and now Mark's interest was piqued.

“So you’re single?” he asked once more, making you smile now. “Yes Mark, I am,” you said again, looking at him. He jumped off the table and leaned over your table. “So are you single enough to go for coffee? Maybe this weekend?” he seemed more confident than before, it was working because you were swayed to say yes.

“I’ll get back to you on that,” you said, making him smile now. “How will you get back to me if you don’t have my number?” he pulled out his phone all too confidently and slid it your way. “You’re smooth you know that?” you said, picking it up and putting in your number, giving it back to him.

He smiled down at his phone then looked at you. “We could get lunch now if you want,” just before you could respond, a bag was placed on the table catching both yours and Mark's attention. “Hi, am I interrupting something?” Jeno said, looking between you and Mark. Mark leaned back and looked at Jeno. “Nah, just dropped by to say hi to Yn,” he said, picking up his bag then looking at you. “I’ll text you?” making you nod, waving goodbye as he left.

You saw Mark shut the door then looked to Jeno who sat down next to you at the table, silently opening the bag of food. “What are you doing here Jen,” you sighed, putting down the sculpting tool. “I think a question that’s more important is why are you skipping lunch,” he said, taking out a takeout box of food then placing it in front of you. You looked at the box then at him, he had already begun eating from his box of food. You sighed, reaching in the bag to grab utensils and began eating. The two of you ate in silence, just the sound of the wind blowing from outside could be heard.

You weren’t sure why Jeno did things like this, acting sweet. It left the impression that he really did care for you and he wasn’t just lying, that made things so much more confusing than they already were. For some reason, even after seeing Jeno for so long, you couldn’t tell the difference between if he actually meant it or if he was just toying with you and as per usual, this time wasn't any different.

You put down your fork, pushing the food away slightly and going back to your carving, not sparing Jeno a glance. But that didn’t go unnoticed, Jeno set his fork down as well and looked at you with furrowed brows. “Just eat baby,” he said, still watching you. You wanted to roll your eyes but chose not to. “I can always eat when I get home, so if this is all you came to do then you can leave,” you replied, focusing on the shape you were making with the clay, but your focus was wavering.

Jeno scoffed, clearly annoyed now. “Are you mad at me? What’d I even do,” you ignored him, continuing to mold the clay into the shape you wanted, which you weren’t even sure what you wanted. Jeno watched as you continued to sculpt, not saying anything to him. He nodded and sucked his teeth, continuing to eat his food. You glanced at him a couple times but he was too busy on his phone to even notice you looking his way.

You weren’t even sure why you were upset. No you knew, you just didn’t want to acknowledge it. Jeno wasn’t normally a protective person but for some reason when it came to Mark he couldn’t help himself. Maybe he knew that Mark was a good guy, nothing like him. That Mark would treat you better than he ever could or maybe they’re just one in the same you’re doomed no matter what.

“Can you pass me the tool to the right of you?” you said, breaking the silence. Jeno glanced at you and handed you the tool you wanted. “So now you're speaking to me?” he crossed his arms, looking at you fully. “Stop being like that Jen,” you muttered, trying to fix the lines with your thumb, smoothing out the base of the heart. “You’re the one who kept ignoring me,” he scoffed, watching as you carved away. He always liked you when you concentrated on something, told you you looked pretty.

He reached over, his hand pushing away some stray hairs from your face, hairs that were covering your eyesight. You looked at him and for some reason your heart softened, why’d it always do that with him. “I was just looking out for you pretty,” he said, still looking in your eyes, You nodded, sighing softly. “Yeah, I guess I’m just stressed,” you cleared your throat, looking back at the base of the heart. The idea you had wasn’t executing perfectly but that wasn’t why you were annoyed with Jeno.

You were annoyed with the hold he had over you. That even if he acted sweet now and pushed you away later you would still run back to him like a lovesick puppy. Weirdly enough there wasn’t any love there and if there was you would never admit it for your own sake.

“Tell me what you’re making,” Jeno looked at you, propping his head up with his hand that was on the table. “It’s supposed to be a heart, and I don’t know where to go from there,” you turned fully to him, sighing. He smiled softly, admiring you. “You’ll figure it out baby, everything you make is pretty,” he said, smiling as he spoke.

You smiled softly and shook your head, turning your body back around to clean up your area. “Yeah okay,” you scoffed softly, putting away the tools and packaging the leftover clay. “It’s true,” Jeno furrowed his brows, helping you clean up by picking up your empty food containers and throwing them out. “Sweet talking me won’t do much Jen,” You laughed softly, walking over to the fridge to put the clay in.

Jeno leaned against the table, watching as you walked back over to it. Just before you could walk past him, he held your wrist, pulling you into him. “Jeno c’mon,” you scoffed, trying to tug your wrist out of his hold but he only smiled. “Sweet talking won’t work so what if I kiss you, will you still be mad pretty?” he mumbled, pushing some stray hairs away. “No, I won’t,” you breathed out, making him smile again.

He leaned in, kissing your lips ever so gently. His hand moved to your waist, holding you tight and close to him. This time, your kiss was soft and gentle, unlike your usual kisses which we almost rushed. You felt him smile against your lips, making you smile as well. You could feel why he was doing this, to keep you. You knew deep down the way his hands moved up and down your waist that he was almost holding you so close so he didn’t lose you, specifically to Mark. This made you feel validated in some weird way, that he could regret losing you. Maybe you’re more important to him than you thought.

You pulled back, opening your eyes to see him smiling at you. “Still mad?” he muttered, you shaking your head and stepping back. His eyes followed your body as you went to grab your bag, walking back over to him to grab his hand. “So? What now?” you said, the two of you walking hand in hand out of the workshop.

Jeno thought for a couple minutes, gripping your hand softly as you two walked out of the building. The sun was setting now which meant that the only people left on campus would be the ones who were in different buildings. Which was good for Jeno because you were away from anyone who could possibly know either of you. “We could grab dinner, haven’t been out with you in so long baby,” he looked at you and you raised your eyebrow. “Well whose fault is that?” you questioned, tilting your head, making him laugh and roll his eyes playfully. “Lead the way,” you said, making him smile and grip your hand tighter as you two made your way to his car.

There was a side to Jeno not many people knew, this was one of them. The soft light from his bedside lamp lit up the room with a soft yellow glow. You laid in his bed, in his shirt, watching him as he sat on the floor, cutting glass. From what he had told you, which as per usual was very little, he was making a glass stained piece for a project and right now he had to cut the glass into the shapes he wanted so he could weld them later.

This side of Jeno was soft and domestic, but this side never left the very four walls of his apartment. It almost felt as if it was reserved only to you, that made you feel good. Good that something about him was a secret only for you to know, that only you got the privilege to see him like this. You moved over to where he was leaning against the bed and began playing with his hair, scratching his scalp softly with his nails.

“What are you doing pretty? Told you not to get out of bed in case there’s shards,” he mumbled, a soft smile could be heard in his voice. “Not going anywhere, just wanted to check on you,” you said, playing with his hair. He smiled, looking up at you. “Getting bored?” he said, looking in your eyes and you shook your head, Jeno set down the glass and turned around so he could face you properly.

He looked in your eyes, taking in your facial features. For some reason it felt like he was seeing you for the first time, you smiled softly under his gaze. “Why are you looking at me like that,” you mumbled, making Jeno smile some more. “Just admiring my pretty baby,” he muttered, making you smile softly. You brushed some strays out of his way and kissed his cheek, then leaned back to lay in bed. He gave you one last look before turning around and going back to cutting the glass, you turned over in his bed. There’s this saying, that once you’re in someone's bedroom there's a chance you can take a glance in their mind. For some reason that wasn’t the case with Jeno’s room.

You had been here a million times but yet you were as close to him as you would be to an acquaintance. The two of you knew each other but sometimes it felt like you were just two distant strangers. Maybe that was why you felt so okay to let him in in some way, he didn’t know you. All you knew about each other at first was the two of you didn’t need something committed and that was it.

At first your relationship was just sex, the two of you just wanted a casual hookup. But within the past month it’s turned into something more, maybe that was what you just made up yourself to think. Instead of Jeno calling you up for a quick fuck, the two of you would sit in his apartment with takeout watching some movie, or just spent your weekends with one another. Maybe the reason why you had grown so comfortable with Jeno is because he in fact didn’t know you, that is until you let him in.

You break out of your thoughts and focus again on Jenos room, a place you had seen countless times. Everything in his room was mostly dull, the color scheme of it all. It looks like a normal guys room but at the same time it doesn't. Your eyes fall on his desk, where his monitor is set up as well as a small section of polaroids. They were of him and his friends, Jaemin and Renjun.

You had met Jaemin and Renjun on separate occasions, not attached with Jeno. Jaemin was this guy that your friend, Chenle, knew and Renjun worked at the school's information desk with Yerim. They were both sweet and reserved, their personalities aligning with Jenos. Jeno had met some of your friends as well, of course not attached to you. Even if your and Jenos relationship had changed, one thing remained clear. No one knew about the two of you.

It was something Jeno established the first night, it bothered you. Even when you weren’t close with him, something about it rubbed you the wrong way. What was so wrong with his friends knowing he was with you? Was he ashamed of you? Were you too embarrassing to even be seen with him? DId he not value you?

“What’s going on in your head baby?” you jumped, feeling Jenos arm snake around your waist. You turned to face him, not even realizing the whole time you were thinking he had already cleaned up. “Nothing,” you mumbled, making him smile. “Liar.” He breathed out, still smiling.

He leaned in to pepper soft kisses on your collarbone, you giggled softly, pushing him away by putting your hand on his chest. “Oh?” he teased, looking at you. “You wanna push me away hm?” he smiled, hands reaching up your waist. “C’mon Jen don’t- stop!” you burst out in giggles as he started tickling you.

After being with you for so long, Jeno began to uncover parts of you he wouldn’t have before. Like the spots where you were the most ticklish. You started laughing louder, tears welling in your eyes. Jeno began to giggle with you, your leg was over his hip so you did the most rational thing and grabbed his wrists, flipping the two of you over so you were straddling him now.

Your faces were flushed and the two of you were out of breath. Jeno smiled up at you, “c’mon let my wrists go babe,“ Jeno mumbled, making your cheeks turn pink as you let his wrists go, unsure where to put your hands now. Jeno shifted to sit up against the headboard, his hands resting at the curve of your hips. He kept eye contact with you, still straddling him. “Quit looking at me,” you muttered, covering your face with your hands. Your hands felt cold against your face which was now red and burning up from embarrassment.

You didn’t even know what you could’ve been nervous about, it was Jeno, the same guy who's seen you naked on multiple occasions. Jeno only smiled, reaching to take your hands off your face. “You’re so shy now, what about earlier?” he smiled, making your cheeks turn pink as you groaned and hid your face in the crook of his neck. Jeno laughed softly, holding your waist.

The two of you sat like that for a couple minutes, Jenos thumb drawing small circles on your back. You picked your head up to look at him once more, he smiled, reaching to push some hair away from your face. There was this look Jeno always had before kissing you. It was hard to pinpoint if it was love or lust but either way he gave you a look, then looked at your lips, then back at your eyes. Jeno leaned in, locking your lips with his. As the two of you kissed, you felt his hands moving up and down your waist, one of them reaching up to get lost in your hair.

He tilted his head slightly, your hands going up from his chest to his neck, playing with the hair that prickled your fingers. He laid you down on the bed, moving down to your neck. He continued to pepper soft kisses on your neck, making you smile. He moved back up to your face and kissed your face all over, making you giggle as the two of you entangled your limbs in sheets that smelled of him.

You sketched away in your notebook, trying to create a good basis for your final project. If you weren’t stressed out about it before you sure as hell were now because your instructor told everyone the deadline now had no exceptions, it was to be presented in the school art show in two weeks. That meant you had two weeks to create a masterpiece from just a block of clay in order to get into a graduate art program.

“Give me the lighter, c’mon!” Hyunjin shrieked, jumping up to grab the lighter from Chenle who kept reaching his hand up so she couldn’t grab it. You looked up from your sketchbook to see them jumping around on the rooftop, next to you Heejin sat, scrolling through some dating app. “Ugh fine!” Chenle groaned, passing the lighter to Hyunjin who only smiled and lit her cigarette.

This was the norm for you, sitting on the rooftop of the art building with your friends. You had met Heejin and Hyunjin during your freshman year, Hyunjin was friends with Chenle and he became the group's single male friend. You had begun getting closer to Yerim because she was your roommate freshman year and that made up your small circle of friends. You had talked to other mutual friends here and there but never like you did with these four.

Heejin put her phone down, sighing loudly so someone could hear her. You glanced at her and smiled softly. “Spit it out,” you said, still not looking up from your sketchbook. “Someone set me up with a guy!” she groaned, making Chenle burst out laughing. “Who would even date you?” he laughed even more, making Hyunjin kick his leg. “I thought you were talking to that one dude?” you furrowed your brows, now looking up to look at her.

“Him?” she questioned, a certain disgust could be heard in her voice. You nodded and she shook her head profusely. “He was so annoying god, no I need a pretty boy,” she said, as if trying to convince you guys to find someone for her. “What about that one guy, Jaemin? He hangs around Yerims friend,” Hyunjin said, blowing the smoke into the air and taking another puff of her cigarette.

Chenle furrowed his brows, “I mean.. Ugh can’t believe I’m saying this but I could try and get you an in,” he groaned out, regretting even thinking the words that came out of his mouth. You smiled softly, then glanced back at Heejin who beamed. “Really? Oh my god I knew it was worth keeping you around, thank you,” she smiled, blowing a kiss in his direction and he gagged. You shook your head and laughed, looking down at your sketchbook once more.

“We all need to get coupled up, I mean it’s too much to be single as seniors you know!” Hyunjin groaned and Chenle furrowed his brows once more. He looked at you and a small smile grew on his face. “I think Yn here has got herself a little fling,” he said, making you pick up your head once more. “No I-” “Oh my god and you didn’t tell us? Sly sly girl!” Heejin laughed, slapping your forearm. “I don’t!” you replied, feeling antsy about what Chenle had said.

Did he know? You knew he hung out around Jeno and some of his friends sometimes so was it possible you slipped up? Maybe he saw the two of you at that party from a month ago, or maybe he was just good with his intuition. It made you nervous, scared actually. You were worried that if Chenle knew and Jeno also happened to know then he’d just leave you, with no hesitation.

“Oh come on, you’re always sneaking off and texting someone. Maybe you have a pretty boy of your own!” He teased, laughing as he ended his sentence. You gave him a look which then made Hyunjin join in on the teasing. “You know he has a point, who’s the lucky guy Yn!” she teased, now all of them were just making fun of you. You sucked on your teeth as you stood up, picking up your bag and shoving your sketchbook in it.

“You know I’m not seeing anyone but please go ahead and make fun of me for all I care!” you replied, trying to level yourself by breathing in and out. “Yn it was a joke c’mon,” Chenle said, laughing nervously. “Yeah well I didn’t laugh!” your tone harsher now as you turned around to give them one last look then headed for the door.

The door slammed behind you as you rushed down the stairs, face flushed. You weren’t sure why you were so mad, they were just joking you knew that and they knew that. So why were you pissed? Was it because you had to keep such a big secret from your friends, the ones you told everything? That you couldn’t even tell them how this part of your love life was eating you alive every second. Was it even a love life if there was only lust?

At first when you and Jeno were just having casual sex it didn’t matter because it never went past that. But then he started getting into your head and now you were here, running away from your best friends. You reached the end of the stairs, exiting the art building to find Jeno, Renjun, and Yerim walking in.

“Yn! Me and Renjun just got off work, I was gonna come get you,” you glanced at Jeno then looked at Yerim. “Yeah uh.. Can we go? Sorry I’m just tired,” you breathed out and Yerim furrowed her brows. “Yeah of course,” she said, then glanced at Renjun and Jeno. “Thanks for walking us back Jeno and I’ll see you tomorrow Jun,” she smiled at both of them and you only looked down, feeling Jenos eyes on you.

“Yeah of course, you guys get home safe!” Renjun said, then waving bye as they both entered the building, leaving you and Yerim on the steps to the entrance. She glanced at you as the two of you began walking. She knew something was wrong and you knew that she knew as well, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care.

Yerim didn’t take pride in it but she knew you like the back of her hand, more than you might know yourself. After living with someone for 4 years you begin to uncover their ins and outs. She knew you didn’t want to talk about it so instead the two of you walked home in a comforting silence, exactly how you liked it.

Pottery was like relationships. It was difficult to build a good stable base on a piece, an unstable base would throw the entire piece off and eventually lead to the end. A small crack could turn into everything falling apart as the crack got bigger and bigger. As the crack gets bigger, the base begins to break leaving the entire thing a whole mess. That’s how Jeno perceived relationships.

There were past mistakes at play with these thoughts as well, he felt as though no one really knew him no matter how much they tried to. This thought led to his own demise as he continued to date around and waste his time on girls he knew only wanted him for his looks, not who he was. But who was he? Lee Jeno didn’t know that himself. He knew that the person he was now was not the person he wanted to be.

This is what he found himself thinking as he watched you from across the crowded house, led lights flashing all kinds of colors in the dark room. He took a sip of his beer to get rid of the familiar lump in his throat, what was he doing? With you, here at this party, with his life? Jaemin glanced at him then where you were standing talking to Chenle. “You got a crush, or you jealous?” Jaemins voice broke him out of his own thoughts as he glanced over at him, clearing his throat. “No no I think I just zoned out in that direction.” Jeno mumbled, swishing his beer around.

“I mean, Chenle said something about Yn being with someone, think that one is off limits for you man” jaemin snickered, taking a sip of his own drink. Jeno looked up to look at him then glanced in your direction, “yeah, you’re right” Jeno mumbled back, looking down at the floor now. You were off limits, in every way possible. There were lines that Jeno wouldn’t allow himself to cross with you, certain feelings he couldn’t let himself feel. All because he was scared of that all too familiar crack.

“Donghyuck’s setting up a game of pool with him and his friend, you down to join?” Jaemin spoke once more, leaning off against the wall and throwing his empty cup in the trash. Jeno glanced at him then you, pushing himself off the wall. “Lead the way” he mumbled, following Jaemin through the overly crowded house. Both of them made their way up the stairs, Jeno glancing around over the railing.

He didn’t even like parties. Nothing about him actually liked being around a large group of drunk 20 year olds every night. Yet he still found himself going as an escape, from his own mind. The more he let his thoughts consume him the more he found himself back at that same place. The cracks. He couldn’t find it in himself to ever commit to something, especially not relationships. Because of those previous cracks Jeno doesn’t find himself worthy anymore, which is why he chooses to live the life he does.

Amidst all these thoughts clouding his brain, he found himself standing across Donghyuck and his friend, mark. “Oh hey man, didn’t know you were joining us,” Mark said, an awkward tone could be heard in his voice. Jeno gave him a tight lipped smile, “yeah. Good seeing you too.” the words came out a little harsh, but he didn’t regret that. Truth be told he wasn’t very fond of Mark but not for the reasons one would assume. Mark was pretentious, always thinking he was better than others. Sometimes he was, maybe that’s why Jeno felt so threatened by him.

Jaemin and Mark began setting up the game, Jeno watching them as he cleaned his cue, Donghyuck glanced at Jeno then mark. “A bit weird since you guys are both going for the same girl” he said, making Mark freeze up. Jaemin glanced at Jeno who only rolled his eyes. “No idea what you’re talking about man” Jeno mumbled, trying to act unphased. Why did he have to let his jealousy get the best of him? “Really? I mean Mark here told me you were dating yn?” Jaemin furrowed his brows and kept his gaze on Jeno. Jeno looked up to see everyone else looking at him. “Dude.. c’mon” Mark muttered next to Donghyuck, who only smiled smugly.

Jeno shifted his gaze at Mark who looked at something behind Jeno, looking insanely nervous. He looked at Jaemin then sighed. “Me and yn are not dating, I would never see her like that” Jeno finally said, making Donghyuck nod and smile softly as he looked behind Jeno. “Hey yn!” he said, waving his hand. Jeno felt this pit in his stomach, like everything was going to go wrong now. He breathed out, trying to keep his composure. He turned around to see you, standing next to Heejin and Chenle. “Didn’t hear you coming” he mumbled, making the anger bubble in your chest more than it was. “Yeah?” you breathed out, glaring at him.

Crack.

He finally looked at you to hold your gaze, there was something behind your eyes that he hadn’t ever seen before. Hurt? Anger? Sadness? No it wasn’t any of those but rather regret.

You regretted meeting the man in front of you.

You cleared your throat and walked past Jeno, sitting down on the couch not too far from the pool table. Chenle followed, sitting down next to you. You had your arms crossed, looking down at your feet. He glanced at you then Jeno. “You know you can tell me anything right?” Chenle said, making you look up to look at him. You knew you could, that wasn’t far from the truth but you didn’t want to. Suddenly the severity of yours and Jenos relationship was more than clear, as it was clouded in rose colored lenses before.

You yearned for the chase of Jeno and the idea of being his to keep but he didn’t want you in the same way, no, he wouldn’t want you in the same way as far as you knew it. Not when he would say explicitly to people you knew that he wouldn’t ever want you in that way. How could you have let your own delusions take you this far?

“Yeah i know” you finally breathed out, shifting your gaze at Jeno, then back to Chenle. Chenle pursed his lips, then sighed, deciding not to ask you anything further. You were glad because it was embarrassing, telling someone you wasted so much time on someone who didn’t want you in the first place. You did deserve better and it took Jeno talking about you like you were worthless for you to realize that.

Before you knew it the game of pool had ended and you watched as all four of them talked amongst themselves. The same thoughts kept flooding your head, why? Why would you let yourself get dragged into this mess with him? Why would you let yourself get treated like this? Why would you fall for him? Amongst all these thoughts there was one that was calling out to you, why were you still here? You had no reason to be, Heejin was clinged to Jaemin and Chenle was now talking to Mark and Donghyuck.

You got up from the couch, walking past the group they had formed to leave. Although you wanted to think no one noticed, one person did. Out of the corner of his eye Jeno saw you walk away and rush downstairs, he glanced back at Jaemin who was too busy talking to Heejin. “Gonna go use the bathroom” Jeno muttered, walking away from the conversation and rushing downstairs to find you. Fortunately he knew you and he knew you would be going outside, unfortunately he knew that the last person you wanted to see was him.

He worked his way through the crowd, walking past drunk people and people who were high out of their minds. Finally he found himself at the entrance to the backyard which was open, in the distance he could see you standing in the field of grass. He walked out and shut the door behind him, making his way over to you. For some reason you always knew when he was around because you immediately turned around.

You two stared at each other for a couple minutes, both of you unsure what to say until you finally broke the shared silence. “I thought you would never want to be seen with me,” you breathed out, your words cutting through Jeno like a knife. He pursed his lips and sighed, “Yn I never said that” he mumbled and you furrowed your brows, almost in amusement. “You basically could’ve,” you replied back, making him sigh out once more, but this time in frustration.

“I had to say that, it would’ve gotten too weird,” he said, making you roll your eyes in response, “no one would’ve cared if we were together Jeno.” were. You said were. What did this mean for you and him now, he thought. “You don’t get it yn,” you furrowed your brows once more, squinting your eyes to make sure you were seeing him properly. But you weren’t. You didn’t recognize this side of Jeno because all you had seen was the side of him that you thought wanted you, and now you can’t tell the real from the fake.

“Is it really that impossible to want me? Seriously Jeno?” your words hit him hard but you weren’t upset, rather angry, at yourself. Jeno wanted to reach out for your hand but he stopped himself, clenching his fist instead. “Baby-” “Don’t.” you cut him off, breathing out and closing your eyes, what was the point of this argument? Were you here to knock some sense into him because it wouldn't work and you knew that deep down. Instead you knew that you should just walk away, but your feet were stuck in that same place as you stared back at him.

For once his eyes weren’t filled with lust but rather longing and need, was this just another one of his tactics to get you to stay? Was it working, is that why you couldn’t find it in yourself to leave? He continued to stare at you until he broke eye contact looking down at the grass instead. What was he doing, why would he say that, how could he say that, all these questions ran through his head as he stood in front of you. You looked at him once more and sighed, starting to walk away until he grabbed your hand to stop you.

You looked at him with almost hopeful eyes until he said something you never expected. “I love you.” he breathed out, staring back at you. You looked between his eyes back and forth, for an answer. He was hoping for something back, but you stood there in silence as you looked in his eyes. Finally you did something, retracting your hand away from his hold.

Crack.

“Are you serious?” you finally spoke, rather calmly and Jeno could only stare back at you. Your chest heaved up and down as you breathed in and out, trying to calm yourself. You looked up at the sky, closing your eyes. You looked back at himself feeling the anger bubble up even more. “Can you say something?” you said and Jeno only pursed his lips, your anger rubbing off on him. “What else do you want me to say? I already said I love you yn” those three words again, hitting you like a blow to the face.

“Anything but that Jeno please.” You mumbled and Jeno only furrowed his brows in confusion, “I thought this is what you wanted? You wanted to know if I want you and here's your answer” Jeno said back making you feel even angrier. "You don’t love me Jeno so stop saying it” you said now it being Jenos turn to be amused. “Seriously what more do you want from me yn?” he replied rather annoyed and you only glared at him.

“Nothing! I want nothing from you because you don’t love me. You loved the idea of having me to yourself.” you shouted now, feeling the anger boil over in your body. Jeno scoffed, “Don't do that, you and I both know that this love of yours means nothing in the long run Jeno” you continued on, making Jeno silent.

Crack.

“You’ll say this to me now and by next week we’ll be back here, you publicly denying any ties to me and me having to be embarrassed with myself for doing this in the first place!” You shouted some more, feeling tears brimming in your eyes, he watched you with a cold gaze, so unreadable. “Embarrassed? Really Yn?” and you stood there baffled, that that was all he got from what you said. You laughed, in disbelief and hurt. “Jeno you can’t love anyone because you don’t even value yourself. Face it you’re insecure and it rubs off on the person you’re with,” Your voice was calmer now, more confrontational. He sighed out in frustration at your words. “I told you I loved you Yn” he said and you scoffed right in his face, “Those words don’t mean anything without actions Jeno. You and I both know that,” You finally sighed out and the words were hitting him harder now more than ever.

You were right, it didn’t mean anything without his actions. And what were his actions? Manipulating you, claiming he loved you when he didn’t? Maybe there was an ounce of love for you in him but you were right once more. He couldn’t love anyone because he didn’t value himself. At all really, he didn’t hold himself to any value. He watched as you breathed in and out deeply, wiping away a few stray tears that fell, shaking your head. “Jeno I don’t want to see you again, luckily you don’t either so this’ll be easy,” you finally said, Jeno still stuck frozen. He watched you walk away and let himself stay out there, to reflect on what he could’ve had.

Breakups weren’t easy, especially when no titles were actually established in a relationship. Jeno laid on his bed, staring at the ceiling in the dark, his hand over the spot that you used to sleep in when you were here. But that side on his bed was now cold from your loss, you weren’t there, and you weren’t going to be. For the past week Jeno had been wallowing in his own self pity, locking himself in his apartment. If it weren’t for Renjun and Jaemin breaking in with their spare keys he wouldn’t have eaten anything either.

Jeno flipped over to his side, still clutching his pillow as he laid in bed. He was sure both Renjun and Jaemin knew by now, it was painfully obvious, but he didn’t care anymore. All he could care about was how right you were, how you, who he thought didn't know him, actually knew him inside and out. He sighed out, shutting his eyes to fall back into his deep sleep once more, his dreams and thoughts being clouded with only you.

When he woke up he found that his bedroom door was open and there was food placed on his bedside counter. He sat up in his bed, staring at the wall across from the bed as he heard a set of footsteps get closer and closer to his room. He glanced at the doorway to see Renjun standing there. The two of them held eye contact with one another until Renjun fully walked into his room, sitting at the edge of the bed across from him. “You didn’t eat your breakfast,” Renjun finally said, making Jeno look up from his blanket. “Wasn’t hungry,” he mumbled in response and Renjun nodded, looking down at the floor.

“If you’re here to lecture me then just go Renjun, I know I’m a dick,” Jeno breathed out, crossing his arms as Renjun lifted his head, tilting his head. “I’m not.” Renjun said, making Jeno sigh, almost in relief. He didn’t want to talk about it with Renjun or even Jaemin because it was too embarrassing, that he was too in his own head that he didn’t even stop to think how it was affecting you. “But, why’d you hide it?” Renjun continued, making Jeno purse his lips in thought.

Why did he? From the moment Jeno met you he knew you were a good reliable person, you also just clicked with him immediately, so much that it scared him. So that was why he suggested hiding it from your friends in the first place, that if people didn’t know then it would be easier for him to leave you like he did with everyone else. Yet the more time he spent with you the more he kept growing closer to you, unknowingly. One thing led to another and you two had been seeing each other for 4 months, from then it was too late for him to leave so he kept giving you reasons to leave him.

From telling you not to act close around him at parties to getting jealous over Mark, everything was calculated in Jenos eyes. You just couldn’t see that he was trying to get rid of you. Why did you stay after all he was putting you through. Why did you want him so much that it started to hurt him? Even Jeno didn’t know the answer to that.

“I just.. thought it was for the best.”

“But did she think that? Do you think she liked being hidden Jen?”

Renjuns' words cleared the clouds away in Jenos vision. You didn’t want to be hidden. Of course you didn’t want to be hidden, what made him think you did? “No.. I just said that on my own, she didn’t suggest it,” Jeno finally said, making Renjun sigh out in response. “Look, I’m not entirely sure what happened between the two of you but what I do know is that you both need to communicate, she didn’t deserve to be hidden like some dirty secret and there clearly are some things left unsaid between the both of you.” Renjun said what he had been meaning to tell Jeno, he was right. You didn’t deserve any of this. You deserved love and appreciation, he had been treating you terribly this whole time and you didn’t deserve to endure that.

“How do I even talk to her, Jun she hates me” Jeno spoke once more, “if she hated you, she wouldn’t have extended an invitation to the art show.” Renjun said without missing a beat, making Jeno furrow his brows. Renjun reached into his pocket, taking out a ticket to the art show and putting it in Jenos lap. Jeno stared back at the ticket, it was mocking him.

There was no way he could muster up the courage to go and face you after embarrassing you like he did. But his heart got the better of him. Jeno stood up from the bed, making Renjun look up at him with a confused stare. He stood like that for a bit and then cleared his throat, “So? Are you going to help me pick something to wear,” Jeno finally said, making Renjun nod and smile. “You know you need to shower,” he said, standing up from the bed making Jeno playfully shove his shoulder, giggling as he did so.

You stared at the finished piece behind the glass casing of the exhibit. Staring back at you was a heart, with scars and almost battle wounds that were covered by something that resembled a bandaid. Behind it were two small angel-esque wings coming out of it. The piece in itself was up to interpretation as you had told your professor but you knew what the meaning was. It was meant to resemble a heart after a long well lived life, although there were scars and wounds the heart was still put together constantly, signifying that even if things were dull you would get back up.

That was how you saw yourself after everything with Jeno, you were damaged and bruised sure, but that didn’t mean your life would just stop. The first couple days went in blurs, going home just to sleep and spending the rest of your time in the workshop, but after a long talk with Yerim, you started to feel better. You didn’t have to think about all the what ifs but rather move on from the fact that it had happened and it’s over now.

The exhibit was now empty and speaking of Jeno, you had passed an invitation to him via Renjun, no one else had seen him since the party. You didn’t expect him to come but you were hoping he would, he always liked seeing your pieces. You sighed, glancing around and seeing no sight of Jeno or anyone else for that matter. You turned around to find yourself face to face with Jeno, but he wasn’t looking at you. You followed where his gaze went and he was looking at the piece, admiring it with glistening eyes.

He looked like he just showered, his skin always got a little red after a shower. You wondered what he had been up to this past week. He shifted his gaze from the piece, over to you. That was when everything fell silent in your head. “It’s good.. Like really good,” Jeno finally said, smiling softly. “Thanks, I worked really hard on it,” you replied, cursing yourself mentally because what did you mean you worked really hard on it? Of course you did.

He smiled and looked down at his feet, clearly thinking about something. He wanted to say something, you could tell by the way he stood, anxiously fiddling with the rings on his fingers. A part of you wanted to say what he was thinking before he got the chance to but you held yourself back, this was one of those things he had to do on his own.

You hoped it was what you were thinking about. Truth be told, even if you were happy this was over, you would be lying if you said you didn’t want him. In some weird fucked up away, you would always want him even if it led to you being hurt. For some reason you let it slide but you told yourself, if you were to try again with him, it would be different.

“I'm sorry, for everything” He finally said, lifting his head up. You took a deep breath and nodded, signaling for him to continue. “I’ve been terrible and there's no excuse, when we first started seeing each other I thought it would be one of those flings where we move on from each other after a week, but it’s not. I care about you Yn and it may not seem like it but I do want to be with you. I know you don't feel the same but I love you Yn.” He breathed out, his voice going soft at the last sentence. You furrowed your brows and spoke up before he could. ‘Who said I didn’t love you Jen?”

He stared back at you and you sighed, “I do love you, I just thought you were saying it just so I wouldn’t get upset,” you breathed out, Jeno shaking his head. “It’s okay Jen, I forgive you. But if we want to give this another shot we have to talk to one another.”

There was a pause between the both of you, Jeno only smiled softly. “So.. what does this mean?” He said, a sense of hope in his voice. You needed to be the bearer of bad news. You sighed and ran your hand through your hair, “I got accepted to the graduate program” You breathed out, making Jeno smile even more. “That’s amazing Yn, I knew you would get in,” he said, making you nod and smile in response. “The reason why I’m bringing it up is because it’s in a different city, about 3 hours away,” you finally said, inserting the metaphorical knife.

Jeno fell silent, he thought about the weight of your words. “I can do long distance Yn.” He spoke up, surprising you and himself that he was thinking with his heart. You fell silent, in shock. He wore the same frown he did earlier and nodded. “Okay so you don’t want to” he sighed out and you widened your eyes. “No I do!” you said, rather loudly and quickly. He stared back at you, a small smile on his face. “But let’s take it slow, you know.. I mean most of our relationship is gonna be through texts and calls,” you said, making him smile even more. “Anything you want.” He muttered, breaking the gap between you two to reach out and hold his hand.

You two began walking, hearts dancing as your footsteps aligned with one another. “You know if we’re going slow, should we start over?” Jeno said, making you nod as you let go of his hand, making him stop walking. You stood in front of him and held out your hand for him to shake. “Hi, I’m Yn,” you said, a big smile on your face as he looked down at your hand and smiled. Jeno shook your hand. “I’m Jeno, and I love you,” he blurted out, making both of you laugh out loud in the now empty exhibit. Your laughs echoed off the walls and Jeno pulled you into his chest, a tight embrace. “I love you too” you mumbled in his ear, tip toeing so he could hear you.

Nothing was ever meant to be perfect, relationships nor sculpting but it didn’t hurt anyone to give it a shot.

taglist : @ronniee-26 @aerifim @17ericas @polarisjisung @sunghoonsgfreal @ayukas @snwydoie @remtrack @honeyfever @chenlezip @hyuckluvr-com @cosmicwintr @ykvdani (bold cannot be tagged) nct taglist

258 notes · View notes

revehae · 6 months ago

Text

see a cheerleader, breed a cheerleader

pairing ↠ """nerd!"""jeno x (f) cheerleader!reader

genre .. warnings ↠ smut, noncon, dubcon, oral (m receiving), male face sitting, face fucking, unprotected sex, blackmail, choking, hitting, virgin!reader

summary ↠ ever since forever, you have always gotten your way with people by whatever means necessary. a wink and a smile is all it takes to make a boy drop to your feet and worship you. no one told you to think that lee jeno would be any different. as it turns out, actions do have consequences.

wc ↠ 14.9k

a/n ↠ lowkey i think i subconsciously drew inspo from the fact that finals week made me consider both suicide and homicide. no jungwoo’s were hurt in the making of this fic. merry christmas! as always, feedback is appreciated!

don’t like it, don’t read.

▸ short, sweet, sometimes sticky

it was supposed to be like everybody else.

short, sweet, maybe sticky if you considered that one time you’d shaken that jisung boy’s sweat-coated hands and watched the pale of his face burn the same fierce rose as the lens he saw you through.

you’d laughed lightheartedly to spare him the embarrassment, telling him that everybody got a little sweaty every now and then, especially you. after all, cheerleading was more than skipping around and twirling. and at those words, you’d watched his eyes haze with the image of you damp with sweat, drenched head to toe.

hook, line, and sinker.

far too easy, exactly how you liked them. smart, easy, and utterly unable to resist you.

no one told you to expect something different from lee jeno. and why would you? he knew all the right answers, had some of the best marks, and practically lived in the library. he perfectly fit the bill of your standard victim.

which was why you had no qualms about approaching him in the library while he was typing away at his laptop, occasionally sipping from some kind of coffee.

as if he could sense he was in imminent danger and needed to evacuate immediately, jeno turned around before you could even make it completely to the table and saw you advancing on him with a pretty, practiced smile. “hi,” you greeted, waving at him. falling, your hands gripped the rear of the chair beside him. “is someone sitting here?”

jeno raised a brow at you, but shook his head. “no, no one’s sitting there.”

“perfect,” you replied, pulling out the chair and taking a seat. you turned so that you were facing him. “jeno, right?”

jeno nodded slowly, wondering where this was going. he got plenty girls, sure, but none ever approached him in the library. “that’s me,” he said, curious. “do i know you?”

“well, probably not,” you replied, giggling as if something was funny. “but, you know… i’m a cheerleader.”

jeno hummed. “are you now?”

you bobbed your head expectantly. “yeah, and i’ve heard about how smart you are. i’m impressed, to be honest. i mean, every time i’m in the library, i see you sitting here. i could never spend so much time here. you must have a lot of resolve to do something like that.”

“you think so?” jeno asked, pretending to be flattered just to see where you were leading him.

“i do. like, really do,” you replied, brushing your fingers against his forearm. “i just have so many other,” better, “things to do, you know. with cheer, i’m either practicing or resting so that i’ll have energy for practice. it’s really hard on me, you know?”

jeno stifled a chuckle and glanced back at his laptop screen. “you poor thing.”

your brows stitched. he wasn’t paying nearly enough attention to you. it was almost like he was uninterested. “and that’s why i was wondering if you could help me. i mean, you’re such a genius. you could probably do it in half the time it would take me,” you continued, lowering your hand onto his denim-clad thigh, and becoming surprised by how sturdy it felt.

jeno spared a fleeting glance at your hand on his left thigh before his eyes flitted to your face, watching you wink at him and throw him a smile. “let me get this straight,” he started, slowly caressing the back of your hand with his thumb as it sat on his thigh. “you want me to… do your work for you?”

“hey, your hard work wouldn’t go unrewarded,” you insisted, ignoring the unexpected motions of his thumb. “you’d have my attention. i mean, like i said, i don’t have a lot of time to give away. but i’m willing to spend some of it on you.”

jeno snickered, unable to help himself anymore. “are you this patronizing to everyone you meet?” he asked.

your eyes flickered. “p-patronizing?”

jeno smiled, patting your hand before setting it on your own thigh. “sorry, was that a big word for you? you know, when you think you’re too good for something, but you don’t want to say it, so you play sweet and act like you’re helping me, when really, it’s the other way around.”

switching on a dime, you narrowed your eyes at him. for such a pretty boy, he had quite the attitude. “i know what patronizing means. and right now, i think you’re the one being patronizing.”

“am i?” jeno asked, feigning obliviousness. “how’s it taste, cheerleader? doesn’t feel good, does it?”

your face was set in a scowl. sometimes it hurt you to play nice with people, and now was one of those times. “are you gonna help me or not?” you snapped.

“there it is,” jeno sang, chuckling to himself. he put his hand on your thigh now, squeezing the flesh gently. for now. “there’s the real you.”

you swallowed, glaring over at him with a hint of defiance despite the disgusting, foreign feeling rotting in your chest. it had never gone like this before. every situation predating this one had been somewhat predictable, to the point where you’d come to expect certain reactions. this was not that.

“i’ll help you,” jeno said after a pause.

you forced a smile. “great, so…”

jeno interjected, “on one condition.”

smile faltering, you trailed off, processing his words. now he was making some kind of deal with you? who in the hell did this man think he was?

“on one condition?” you echoed, as if you’d somehow misheard him. your brows scrunched in suspicion. “what condition?”

jeno grinned, the look on his face sly as hell and a stark contrast from the disgruntled glower on yours. “give me something in return,” was all he said, the tightening hold on your thigh giving away more than his words had.

you gawked, as if you were offended, and quickly swat at his hand. “i’m not having sex with you, you pervert!”

“sure, you’re not,” jeno answered with a chuckle, eyes twinkling with amusement. everything about you was alluring to him for mostly all the reasons unintended. “but you said i’d have your attention. i guess you think it’s not often a poor, busy nerd like myself gets anyone’s attention, yeah? but nerds get tired too, don’t they? they need to de-stress…”

“that’s not my problem,” you spat.

“you getting an F isn’t my problem, either,” jeno retorted, shrugging his shoulders. “so what it’s gonna be, cheerleader?”

something about this situation isn’t right to you. maybe it’s the lack of power you currently wielded over him, despite the fact that you had gotten used to having your way with academically competent boys like himself. if he weren’t taller than you and stronger than you, you’d resort to other, more familiar methods.

but jeno had changed the entire trajectory of this interaction for the worse, and now you had to determine whether or not it was beneath you to let him treat you as if you were some kind of object. you sulkily mulled it over, arms folded, trying to think of a way to maintain some semblance of power. “fine,” you finally replied, relenting. “but i’m not doing anything that requires me taking my clothes off.”

“you never seen a good porno, cheerleader?” jeno asked, a stupid, taunting smile blemishing his lips. “that cute little uniform of yours is the whole appeal to some people.”

“my name is…,” you huffed irritably, tired of being referred to by your title.

“frankly, cheerleader, i don’t care what your name is,” jeno told you with brutal honesty. “you’re the one that introduced yourself as a cheerleader, like that’s your whole personality or something. thinking it would make me fold. you can’t be stupid and demanding.”

you gaped, affronted by the sheer audacity of him to even utter those words to you, like you were some dumb bimbo. “i’m not stupid! i’m just too busy.”

“right. too busy,” jeno echoed, obviously none too convinced. “sorry for assuming.”

with a roll of your eyes, you stood up from the table chair, feeling utterly disrespected. “yeah, you should be,” you said, despite knowing his apology was completely inauthentic. “where’s your phone?”

jeno arched a brow and glanced over to his phone, sitting face down against the table on the other side of him. before he could even respond, you reached over him to grab it and pointed it at his face, unlocking it as if you’d done it a million times before.

then, you started typing away, all the while jeno watched you with an amused expression on his face. he had to admit, you were surely something. and though he found you entertaining, he couldn’t shake the thought that you desperately needed someone to put you in your place.

“reach me here,” you said after a moment, handing him his phone back. the screen was on his messages, a fresh contact with you. “pleasure doing business with you.”

with that, you walked away.

jeno shook his head, scoffing. who the hell did you think you were?

over the next few days or so, you met with jeno to better construct exactly what your expectations were pertaining to your work. or at least, those were the words he’d used. most of those limited encounters had ended with his hands sealing around your breasts.

you let it slide, deciding that a little over-the-clothes stuff was relatively harmless. after all, this was the busiest you’d been all year long, and you were far too exhausted when you got home to be burdened with stupid assignments and pesky discussion posts. the next two months, if not the next two weeks, were going to kill you if you didn’t have someone to carry at least half the workload on your behalf.

it was okay. jeno’s inability to keep his hands to himself was fine. it wasn’t like anybody was going to know, or that this arrangement would last long enough for them to find out. you would get to keep your dignity and your grades, without saving one at the expense of the other.

short, sweet, and sticky, remember? maybe the latter was simply manifesting in the way jeno’s hands were stuck to you. not that anything about him was sweet.

more like sacrifice.

▸ gilded age

“guess who just made the list of this week’s top ten trending sluts,” jennie said as she walked up beside you and roseanne.

roseanne perked up that, though she couldn’t help but mischievously quip, “you?”

jennie narrowed her eyes. “hoe, as if,” she spat. “i know how to keep my legs closed.”

you snickered. “god, what happened now?”

“a sex tape got leaked. hyeri, and apparently johnny.”

your nose scrunched, as if disgusted. “always knew she was a slut. i mean, you should have been there to see the way she acted around the jocks in high school. her eyes were practically screaming, ‘pick me, choose me, fuck me,’” you mocked.

roseanne burst into giggles, downing the rest of what was left in her red cup. “i don’t think that’s how that goes,” she chimed. “but johnny? is she crazy? i hope they didn’t do it raw. i heard rumors that he’s got the clap.”

“he sure clapped something, alright,” jennie retorted, much to your amusement. “it was definitely raw. hope it was worth the itch. you guys wanna see?”

“absolutely not,” you said, shaking your head vigorously. “i bet her parents would love to see it, though. on second thought, send me it.”

roseanne gawked. “are you serious?”

you bobbed your head, grinning deviously. “yeah. you guys have no idea what that bitch was like in high school. i tried teaching her a lesson, but she just never learned. it’s like the bitch is addicted to pain or something.”

jennie shook her head, pretending to disapprove, though she was intrigued to see how far you would your obvious loathing. “just sent it.”

your phone vibrated in your hand a few seconds later. you opened your instagram burner account, scrolling through your main’s following to find hyeri’s mother’s page, and dropped the video in her inbox. your sly giggle alerted your friends to your success and you dropped your phone in your pocket, satisfied.

“oh, you’re sick,” jennie insulted playfully, nudging your arm. “i wonder if she’ll say anything.”

you shrugged your shoulders, feigning nonchalance as if you weren’t excited to see how her mother would respond. “don’t know, but i’m more curious about if she’ll talk to hyeri about it. i’d love to be a fly on the myung’s wall when that happens.”

roseanne tapped your shoulder. “hey, don’t look now, but that jeno guy is staring you.”

your head whirled around, spotting jeno in his own corner of the party, indeed watching your every move as if he wanted to consume you and was waiting for the perfect moment to attack. which, if he was, would not be surprising.

roseanne sighed in annoyance. “i literally just said don’t look now.”

you turned back to face them, shaking your head. “don’t worry about that creep,” you replied, brushing it off. “he’s just begging to get in my pants. didn’t even know he went to parties.”

for whatever reason, jennie laughed. something about what you said tickled her, apparently. “um, yeah. that’s jeno for you, alright. he’s either partying with his friends or grinding in the library, no in between. perfectly balanced lifestyle, i have to admit it.”

your brows furrowed. that was news to you. and probably an important piece of information that you’d conveniently missed when narrowing down your targets. maybe you should have asked around about him more. you just didn’t think that someone who studied as hard as he did could also be the life of the party.

what was he doing here, anyway? shouldn’t he have been off doing your homework? useless fucking nerdy-not.

“do you guys know each other or something?” roseanne pressed, noticing the strange tension in the air despite the fact that you and jeno were feet apart. which was honestly admirable. “do you think you could get him to put me on with jungwoo?”

jennie’s laughter rang out again, only this time, it was much louder, and much more mocking. “please. jungwoo isn’t gonna touch any of us after how she broke his heart. you’d have better luck with jaehyun,” she sneered.

roseanne glared, a snarl on her face. “fuck jaehyun.”

“yeah, i bet you want to. i bet you’re still dreaming of that big, thick, meaty dick you wouldn’t shut up about, like, two months ago.”

“a lot can change in two months.”

“oh, it sure can,” jennie replied, humming. “it sure can.”

▸ takes two to tango

jeno: come over

you: no

jeno: that wasn’t a request

you: no where in our agreement does it say you get to boss me around

jeno: not even for an A?

you: that’s what your grabby hands are for

jeno: i don’t have to do this, you know. i can let you be a grown up and fiend for yourself like the rest of us

you: i’m otw, chill. jesus

the knock of your fist against jeno’s door was incessant, more than likely enough to exasperate his neighbors, given that it was particularly late at night and a good number of them had to have been sleeping.

jeno threw the door open with a scowl, obviously irritated. “you are so fucking annoying,” he hissed, dragging you inside and shutting the door behind you.

“ow!” you cried out, snatching your arm away. “stop that, i’m sore.”

jeno shook his head, his discontent frown disappearing in favor of an entertained, idiotic smile. “sore, huh? from doing what?”

you rolled your eyes. “if it isn’t obvious, i’m a cheerleader,” you reminded, gesturing down to your uniform. “meaning, i cheer.”

ignoring your snarky attitude, jeno glanced you up in down, taking in the sight of you in that tight, short cheer uniform that clung to you rather snugly. sweat still beaded at your damp legs and likely gathered between your breasts and down your back, as jeno was imagining. “yeah, you cheer. you won’t let me forget,” he said, amused.

“well, i’m busy,” you said, crossing your arms.

busy, my fucking ass, jeno thought to himself. “yeah, you won’t let me forget that, either. and yet, i saw you giggling with your friends at a party two weeks ago, looking completely fine. your poor, exhausted legs seemed to be working perfectly.”

“what, so i can’t have hobbies now?”

“sure, you can,” jeno replied, shrugging his shoulders. “i just have to ask, do you ever do anything productive with your time?”

“of course, i do,” you hissed, before quickly deflecting, “but we both know that’s not why you made me come all the way over here. so, what do you want?”

“your attention,” jeno said without missing a beat. his hands plopped against your bare shoulders and began wandering down your arms, rubbing them back and forth. “i’m in desperate need of a cheerleader’s sweet, precious attention.”

the disgruntled grimace on your face was the most effort you made to express your discomfort, not that he was looking there anyway. to him, at the moment, the sight of your body was much more appetizing. you watched with a repugnant burn simmering in your gaze as his eyes met your long, slender legs.

without warning, jeno grabbed you by your waist and hoisted you into the air, making you cry out in surprise. arms dangling around his neck, you held on for dear life, not an inch of your body feeling safe in his arms. you had been hauled further away from the ground by your cheermates, but this was different; no one wanted to fail, meaning no one would drop you. you had no reason to assume that jeno would handle you delicately.

but his burly arms, however, were not lost on you. though you hadn’t yet seen them in full power, your interactions mostly taking form of him forcing your back flush against the chiseled muscle of his chest as he kneaded yours, you could only imagine what the hands that groped you were capable of.

in a matter of seconds, you landed on your back against his sheets, another shrill screech escaping your throat. “jeno, what the hell?” you exclaimed.

“i’m not getting on my knees for you,” jeno said, the slyest of smiles tugging at his lips. “not unless it’s to fuck you. and you’re just too good to give it up, aren’t you?”

for him, definitely. and you would have said so, but your lips parted in a gasp, surprised and startled. something wet pushed along your sore legs, which were abruptly yanked to pillars far above your head so that they’d be more conveniently within reach of jeno’s tongue as he licked long, hot lines at them.

your eyes were rooted on him, fixed in a shape unlike their natural narrowed, black blaze and it would instead be more apt likening them to the fear and fret of a deer in crossed paths. wide, waiting, almost innocent. too used to circumstance to understand its fabric and too unfamiliar to chance to understand its fate.

unsatisfied, jeno bent your knee and pushed your leg further as he stood over the edge of his bed, and, in turn, over you, a grip on your ankles that you could feel in your bones. “jeno, that hurts,” you whined.

jeno didn’t understand why you were bitching. “but you’re a cheerleader,” he echoed. “aren’t you flexible?”

you writhed uncomfortably as he continued shamelessly, tongue even daring to twist against the bone underneath the bend of your knee, a sensation that itched more than you expected. his lips sealed around your skin, sucking and nibbling.

needless to say, it was unlike anything you had experienced before. “stop, that’s weird!”

“stop complaining,” jeno groaned, pushing your leg even harder. “it’s like all you ever do is complain about how hard your life is.”

your eyes stung now not only with loathing, but the threat of hot tears. it was stupid; it sounded dramatic, but you felt it was warranted when he was the one actively making your life harder. “you’re a fucking weirdo,” you snapped.

jeno heard it. the slight tremble in your voice despite the courage you’d been feigning. that was the sole reason he even bothered to look up at your face, the tears in them stealing his attention away in a heartbeat. he didn’t know whether to be amused or annoyed, or maybe even both. “god, now you’re crying,” he pointed out. “i haven’t even done anything to you. do you need me to give you a reason to cry?”

you shook your head. all you needed was to go home and recharge. you were beginning to doubt whether or not he was worth the trouble he carried with him in exchange for a grade that would keep your parents off your back, especially if he was going to make pulling stunts like this a regular habit.

the last thing you expected jeno to do was tug the bottom of your top past the shadow of your breasts, slackening the taut grip on your ankles in favor of your wrists as if he knew you would dare resist him, and burying his face between your chest. you exhaled shakily, mortified by the hot, wet feel of his tongue licking a stripe between your breasts, gathering leftover sweat on its tip.

and you did thrash. but you were getting a taste of that power now; a power that wasn’t your own, a power that you couldn’t reap. a power that grabbed you with its calloused fist with a might so strong you couldn’t move. and it was for the first time that you felt utterly weak. there had to be a word for something as unfathomable as that, but it was so foreign to you that you couldn’t think of it.

to make matters worse, jeno was taking his time, sucking bruises onto the skin of your chest in between his licking, as if he wanted to ensure there was no spot left untouched, no drop of sweat left behind. your face strained with discomfort, wanting more than anything to get away from him and this awful feeling rotting inside of your heart.

maybe your cries for mercy were heard, because no sooner had you hoped for an end than it came. “you can go now,” jeno said, pulling away. he pulled your shirt back down and smoothed out any wrinkles, which was almost kind of him.

even though you were more than eager to be rid of him, you lay there, dumbfounded. it was one thing to be violated, and it was another to be dismissed, but to happen in rapid succession of each other quickly bred some ugly emotion that was only festering.

jeno had expected you to scurry out of his bed, and out of his apartment, so the fact that you were still there bemused him. “what, do you want more?” he teased.

you shook your head, sitting up a little too quickly. your head started to feel lightheaded. you barked, “that isn’t what i agreed to!”

jeno had the audacity to laugh. like you had told a joke of some kind. “isn’t it? your clothes are still technically on. that was what you agreed to. remember?”

you dropped to your feet, pushing past him. “you’re disgusting,” was all you said, making a beeline for the door.

“takes two to tango, baby,” jeno called after you, simpering.

you didn’t look back. you couldn’t. there was an unpleasant stir in your gut - not as easily distinguishable as the loathing - unlike anything you had ever felt and you desperately wanted it to go away, to rid of yourself of anything that even remotely resembled lee jeno.

▸ chess, not checkers

deep, low grunts smacked against the walls and bounced back with almost the same amount of vigor of jeno’s quick, unrelenting hips, the sound nearly as hard and heavy as he was. the only thing rivaling the tightness of the hole he was using was the wince of his closed eyes and the grip of his strong hands.

jeno didn’t want to see. it would be too blatantly obvious that she wasn’t you, and that it wasn’t your blemished hips he was holding. though she sounded nothing like you. he knew that you would have been so much whinier, and despite finding them painfully obnoxious, he found himself longing to hear all your worthless, melodramatic complaints.

instead, he heard soft moans mingling with his own labored sounds as his hips moved with a mind of their own, imagining it was you underneath him where you truly belonged.

the image stained the back of his eyelids, burned behind them every time he closed his eyes; the shortness of your pleated skirt scrunched around your hips, weak legs on his broad shoulders with nicks and bruises scattered here and there, arms swinging aimlessly.

and if he got tired of hearing you, he could simply press his palm squarely against your mouth, muting the sound of your incessant fussing. if he really wanted to put you in your place, he could clasp his hands around your throat and clamp down onto your windpipe till all that escaped you was a pitiful, featherlight squeak.

jeno could tell no one had ever properly put you in your place before, no one had ever stood up to you and reminded you of your level. you were in desperate need of a humbling and didn’t even know it yourself. no one better than jeno for the role, he figured. a little cheerleader parading around in a uniform to feel different from everybody else she met didn’t scare him whatsoever.

the only thing saving you was essentially the fact that you were undeniably pretty and not necessarily to blame for the school’s superficial culture, which elevated girls like you in terms of status despite it having no real meaning or manifestations outside of campus, and put you on top when you were within the bubble.

but outside the bubble, away from the boys who thought of you as this beautiful, unattainable poison and the girls who enabled you with a faux sense of togetherness, you had no real identity, no real power, and no real worth.

and yet, maybe jeno was contributing to the problem. maybe he had inadvertently become one of the people elevating you. because choking in the heat of the moment, he uttered your name, forgetting who he was with and where he was.

hands shoved at him, hard. at least, hard enough for him to be jolted out of his reverie, finally gazing into the eyes that seethed because of him. “did you just call me that evil witch’s name?” seoa barked.

jeno winced. that was a fair reaction, all things considered. he wouldn’t have wanted to have been called your name out of everyone’s, either. he rubbed his nape. “well…”

“unbelievable,” seoa replied, scoffing. she got out of the bed and hurriedly began picking her clothes up from the floor, redressing herself.

jeno exhaled a breath, mostly annoyed that his orgasm had been ruined, but still feeling a hint of sympathy. “seoa, wait,” he said, touching her shoulder.

seoa recoiled, pulling away. jeno had never seen anyone be so ready to put on their pants after being with him, not even with a hell of a schedule after. “never touch me again,” she spat, walking out with her shoes in tow. “fuck you.”

jeno ran a hand through his hair, watching her leave, and murmured under his breath, “god dammit.”

a few days later, while they were attending a festival, jaemin marched over to jeno, draping an arm over his shoulder, and asked, “wanna tell me why seoa blocked all of us and she’s been glaring at me and mark since she got here?”

jeno snickered, shaking his head in slight disbelief. he was over it by now, he figured she would be too. “i let a certain cheerleader’s name slip while i was balls deep inside her,” he confessed. which he wasn’t necessarily proud of, considering the only reason he even knew your name was because you’d saved your own contact on his phone.

jaemin’s brows furrowed, glancing around as if he was trying to spot you in the crowd like a heat-seeking missle. “who?”

rolling his eyes, jeno grabbed the back of jaemin’s head with one hand and turned it in your general direction, hoping it would help. and jeno knew it had when jaemin’s confusion melted into disgust.

“oh, that bitch?” he asked, nose wrinkled.

jeno chuckled, releasing his friend’s head. “she’s a bitch, but she’s pretty.”

jaemin couldn’t argue with that fact even if he’d wanted to. “yeah, i’ll give her that. cute in the face. she’s fake as hell, though. played jungwoo like a fiddle. he did six months worth of her homework because she promised they’d get together.”

that was news to jeno. he knew you were cruel, having had stories from jisung and the like, but he never knew of your history with jungwoo. if it could be called that. “did they fuck?” he couldn’t help but ask.

jaemin shook his head, taking a sip from the bottle in his hand before he answered, “he said she always turned him down. told him she was waiting for ‘the perfect moment.’”

now that was funny as hell. jeno had only known you for a few weeks and yet even he quickly pieced together that you weren’t the romantic type. “well, that’s fucked up,” he said, happily accepting yet another reason to dislike you. “but he’s dumb as fuck if he did her homework for six months without getting a crumb of pussy in return.”

jaemin made a face, nodding. “yeah,” he exhaled, giving the impression that he’d wanted to defend jungwoo. “but man, what possessed you to say her name while fucking the seoa? i need a good excuse. you just blew my shot with her.”

jeno shrugged. “don’t have one. she approached me maybe three weeks ago asking me to do her homework, and i agreed.”

jaemin gawked. that didn’t sound like jeno. like at all. “man, what? is she paying you?”

“oh, dividends,” jeno quipped.

“oh, and in what? pussy?”

“nope.”

jaemin looked horrified. he was so damn dramatic. “then, why the hell are you doing her bidding? that doesn’t sound like you.”

it didn’t, not immediately, but jeno had his reasons. “entertainment purposes,” he replied curtly.

jaemin shook his head, taking another swig of his drink. certainly, he was drinking, not smoking. “you’re becoming her pawn for entertainment purposes? unbelievable, bro.”

“chess, not checkers, jaem.” jeno smirked, putting a hand on jaemin’s shoulder. “you’ll see.”

▸ things good guys do

“you’re lucky i was already out,” jeno told you when you let him into your apartment. “it’s the middle of the night for fuck’s sake. what do you want?”

“oh, please,” you spat, damn near rolling your eyes. your arms were folded. “you get to call me over at the ungodly hour, but when i do it, it’s a problem?”

jeno exhaled through his nose and ran a hand through his hair, wondering why he bothered to come here when he had no obligation to do your bidding, as jaemin had put it. but something told him that he wouldn’t have any regrets. “yeah, it is. now, what do you want?”

you were silent for a few moments, somewhat ashamed of the request you would ultimately make. you sighed, surrendering. “i need help with calculus,” you finally said.

jeno’s shoulders drooped, eyes shrinking in a contemptuous disbelief. “seriously?”

“seriously,” you repeated, sitting down on your couch as your laptop screen glared back at you from the coffee table.

jeno groaned, “i seriously don’t know how you even got into this school. can’t you do anything by yourself?”

you gawked, affronted. he made you sound like some incompetent, immature dickhead. “contrary to a weirdly popular belief, i’m actually really smart,” you insisted, having the transcripts to prove it. “but my professor sucks and i need an eighty-nine on my final to keep my A. and it’s not like you can walk in and take it for me because it’s proctored.”

jeno shook his head and reminded, “you know this little agreement we have doesn’t include me tutoring you, right?”

“it didn’t include you assaulting me, either,” you retorted.

“you think that was assault?” jeno asked, scoffing. he dropped beside you on your couch, the proximity instinctively making you suck in a breath. “if i wasn’t a good guy, i’d show you assault.”

scooting over to ensure maximum distance between your bodies, you argued, “good guys don’t call themselves good guys.”

“good guys have self-control,” jeno replied matter-of-factly, resisting a chuckle. he didn’t make a move to touch you, but he noticed how tense you looked now that he was sitting beside you. “i’ll tutor you, but we’ll have to up the terms of our agreement.”

you swallowed sharply, throat bobbing. you had a feeling you weren’t going to enjoy these new terms. “what do you want?”

“a blowjob.”

“that’s disgusting,” you spat without a second thought, features contorting with repugnance.

jeno quipped, “and so is your inability to do your school work without using and depending on every intelligent boy you meet, but hey, i’m sure you can’t help that.”

you sighed, exasperated, and cradled your face in your hands. was this seriously what your life had come to? giving a boy a blowjob in exchange for a pretty transcript?

jeno grinned, appreciating the sight of you in distress. it was a sign, a good sign, and he intended to bring it out of you more and more, bleeding you absolutely dry. lowering a hand onto your thigh, he urged, “come on, bruise those little knees for me. don’t you bruise ‘em for cheer?”

“that’s not the same!” you whined.

“of course, it’s not,” jeno said, squeezing your thigh as his shoulders trembled with laughter. “cheer isn’t helping you graduate with flying colors.”

you desperately wanted him to be wrong, you were begging for him to be wrong, but you both knew that if he was, he wouldn’t have been here with you at the moment. not now, not three weeks ago, not ever. so you sucked it up, slamming down your laptop lid, and grumbled, “fine.”

maybe he didn’t come here for nothing, after all. grateful he’d trusted his gut, jeno stood up and clutched your arm to pull you along with him. “come on, let’s go to your room. i like my blowjobs a little messy and i’m sure you don’t want to mess up your nice carpet.”

you snatched your arm away from him, hating his insistence on touching you for every little reason whenever he possibly could, even if it was insignificant. your mouth was taut as you begrudgingly headed for your bedroom.

it was obvious that you were sour. walking behind you, jeno couldn’t help but chime, “glad to see that you can at least walk by yourself!”

you bristled in annoyance, wishing you could just get rid of him, but you knew it wouldn’t be wise to discard him so quickly. at least for now, he still held some kind of value.

jeno walked in behind you, looking particularly radiant, and you hated that you knew why. hell, you hated the reason itself. “get on your knees,” he commanded.

normally, you would complain about him giving you orders as if you were his lap dog or something, but you just wanted to get this over with. you were already so over this entire week. you slowly dropped to your knees, trying to ignore how demeaning it felt.

“good girl,” jeno praised at your compliance. “now, look up at me with those pretty eyes and ask me to help you with calc. ask me nicely.”

you met his eyes, noticing the expectant glimmer in his gaze that you so badly wanted to knock off. but you weren’t dumb enough to incite violence against a grown man that walked around with his bulging muscles on display for all the world to see, and you didn’t doubt that he would hit you back. “jeno, please help me with calculus,” you pleaded, choosing your battles.

jeno hummed, satisfied. “you sound so pretty and sweet when you ask nicely, instead of demanding things. didn’t know you were capable of that,” he told you, running his fingers through your hair. “take it out. get me hard.”

your hands moved to his sweatpants, tugging at them enough to bring them down just shy of his knees, and doing the same with his underwear. he wasn’t hard yet, but that would be an easy fix; witnessing your state of pure anguish, watching you speak and move as if you were totally dejected, always excited him.

not to mention that the sight of you on your knees for him, the more he took it in, was arousing him even more than he thought it would. he had pictured it in his mind before, you serving him, pleasuring him, existing solely for him, but nothing could compare to the sight he beheld now.

at least, nothing other than you actually doing something rather than sitting there like an idiot. he liked taking control, but he figured you would take matters into your own hands, literally, when he gave the order. “do you need me to tell you what to do or something?” he asked, huffing irritably. “put your tongue on it. tease the head.”

your face and ears burned in ways they rarely did, but you nodded wordlessly and did as told, bracing your hands on his thighs and reluctantly pressing your tongue onto his tip, looking anywhere but his eyes as the muscle swirled around.

that amused jeno to no end. at least for now, he would let it slide, not feeling the need to maintain eye contact with you at the moment. if he needed to, he would simply just grab a nice, thick fistful of your hair and yank it back to jolt your head up at him. he could still see your pretty, bare face, hair arranged messily at the top of your head with a few needless strands jutting out here and there.

he liked that. of course, he would have been more than enthusiastic to have you suck him off if you’d been all dolled up, making you ruin your makeup and undo at least an hour of careful, clean work, but he also just took pleasure in seeing this natural, undone part of you. he wanted to see you for what you really were.

it didn’t take long for him to get hard. with all his thoughts revolving around you and the feel of your tongue on the head of his dick, that was a no-brainer. “good, now put it in your mouth. take as much as you can and not an inch less,” jeno instructed.

widening your mouth, you accepted his stout, heavy cock into your mouth, lips forming a tight suction around the head and steadily advancing down his shaft. bit by bit, inch by nightmarishly thick inch. you had made it maybe halfway down his shaft when you quickly discovered your limit.

jeno was surprisingly content, despite the fact that you definitely still had a few more inches to go. “there you go,” he said, giving your head a soft pat of approval. “suck. go slow. and don’t you dare let me feel any teeth.”

your heart was thumping out of something you could only understand as fear, even though jeno hadn’t done anything to warrant it yet. inhaling through your nose, you tried to level your breathing, taking your time to draw in his cock lest you made a mistake. the hint of warning in jeno’s voice, in spite of the calmness, was clear.

jeno, on the other hand, was reaching elysian heights. faint grunts of, “fuck,” escaped his pink lips, large hands at his sides reflexively tensing into tightly clenched fists in need of something to grab, hips just barely stuttering. your mouth was hot and wet, with the added benefit of your torturous tongue pressed against his size.

there was a pinch of desperacy in your actions that overcame the resistance; a desperacy not necessarily to please him, but to appease him. accidents were the last thing you could afford and eliciting his frustration was the last thing you wanted.

“lick,” jeno said, chest undulating. “up and down.”

with a hum, you started drawing long, wet lines back and forth on his veiny shaft, almost as if you were tracing the bold veins with your tongue. jeno’s reaction was instantaneous, deep groans the only thing you could hear other than the wet sound of your mouth on his cock, sucking and licking.

jeno’s eyes fluttered closed. “fuck. yeah, like that.”

you pressed your tongue against the underside of his dick, lingering in each spot for a moment before you continued, mostly because he seemed to like it when you did. which was your north star in an empty, dead night, because you had not a clue what the hell you were doing and you were afraid of making it obvious somehow.

if jeno could tell, he didn’t make it known. he was in a world of his own, all too happily reaping the pleasure from your mouth as if it was a dream come true for him. “kiss my balls. lick it.”

you stifled the sigh you were half tempted to let loose, pulling off his cock with a wet sound and a string of saliva connecting from the sticky tip to your glossy lips. moving your head, you took a moment to steel yourself before peppering tiny, soft kisses along his balls, down to his scrotum.

it wasn’t the most dignifying thing you had ever done, it may have even been the least, but your aching, sore jaw appreciated the break from sucking. you dragged your tongue over his testicles, tasting nothing but rubbery flesh. you were too busy avoiding his eyes to notice, but his face was tensing with pleasure, lips parting in low murmurs.

compared to when you first started, jeno was drastically harder now, massive, monstrous cock nearly bursting at the veins with precum leaking out from the thick tip. had your goal been to take all of him entirely, the sheer size of him would have immediately overwhelmed you.

“switch to your hand and go back to sucking me off,” jeno said, firm yet quiet. it sounded like he was trying to restrain himself, barely holding it together.

at least you were a fast learner. teasing the head of his cock, you gave it a few slow, tentative licks before you began to take him into your mouth again, all the while gently fondling his balls with your fingers. jeno groaned, arching into your touch. he couldn’t help himself.

you could taste the vicious amount of precum staining your tongue and you didn’t know how to describe it, other than slightly tart. the flavor blended with that of your own saliva, lingering on the roof of your mouth and the warm flesh underneath the flap of your tongue, mild as could be.

at least it wasn’t downright awful. you had heard stories before, not that you’d ever known what to make of them, or even pictured yourself being inside of them. if a month ago, someone had told you that you’d be on your knees for a man - for anyone - you would have said they were delusional.

jeno’s patience had worn thin and when you least expected it, he hauled you into the air, making you cry out in surprise just as you had the first time he’d lifted you into his buff, meaty arms. he tossed you onto the bed, just shy of the headboard, and suddenly straddled your chest. you gasped out a breath.

“open up,” jeno said, cock positioned right in front of your mouth.

not that he gave you the time to obey him, because he pressed himself against your slightly parted lips and forced them wider, entering your mouth on his own. your face strained, perfectly threaded brows tugging down into a discontented arch.

when you tried to pull away, jeno grabbed the sides of your face and pushed you onto his shaft with trembling hands, making you take him and leaving no room for escape, not until he decided he was done with you. there was only one concern present in his mind and that was getting himself off.

tears stung your eyes, that same implacable feeling you had when he’d dragged his tongue over the expanse of your soft, shaved legs and bare, sweaty chest finding you again in the most of unwanted company. jeno scoffed, spitefully tugging at your hair. “you know what’s funny? you’re such a fucking crybaby. you can’t take even half of what you give to others.”

chin flush against his scrotum and your nose not even an inch away from his bush, you almost gagged. the slurping sounds were humiliating, loud, wet squelching with every other big gulp making you want to shrink. however, jeno loved it, obsessing over the idea of making a mess out of you. the sound went straight to his dick.

jeno held your face in that low position, deeper than you’d ever taken him so far. “i’m really not that bad of a guy, you know,” jeno said, sounding like he truly believed it. you could have scoffed, if not for obvious reasons. “you just bring it out of me. i’m really just treating you like how you treat everybody else.”

he made you sound like something straight out of hell and you couldn’t help but think it was an unfair justification for something that felt too close to punishment. he obviously thought he knew you better than he did and it made you aggravated. that, or he somehow thought he was better than you.

there was a fleeting second of relief when jeno unmounted your chest and let you breathe, only to be crushed again when he dragged you by your wrists to the edge of your mattress, leaving you in the deep end. your eyes struggled to grasp with the flipped image of him nearing you, cock back down your throat before you could even blink.

though his hips thankfully had been moving at a calmer, steady pace before, despite forcing himself deeper than you could handle, he began to thrust more urgently into your mouth with the new change, embedding himself even further into your throat than you knew was possible.

you cried harder, hating every second of it. the salty, bitter tang of your tears mingled with the tainted taste of spit and sharp bite of precum that had come to stain your chin and cupid’s bow. the vigor of his movements was overwhelming, overpowering.

“that’s it, cheerleader. cry harder,” jeno taunted, tracing his thumb over your face to swipe at the trail of tears. all the while his hips were moving faster, harder.

it felt like such a mockery, him doing that. a feigned act of sympathy while perpetuating the torment that was reducing you to tears as a selfish means of achieving pleasure of his own.

then, his hands wandered down to your breasts, slipping inside your night shirt and mauling your chest. running his hands in a circle, his thumb brushed the erect, colored nipples and he clasped his hands around your chest, squeezing your breasts. “fuck, i’m close,” he grunted, grip tightening, pace hastening, force increasing.

with how close he was, your nose was squarely against his the flesh of his balls, effectively cutting off your exhale. your heart thudded, racing and pounding. tensing with panic, your hands frantically moved, striking at his navel and thighs. even your legs were in alarm, unstill towards the other end of the bed.

jeno groaned, smacking your cheek. another slap followed the sizzle, straight against your chest. “calm the fuck down,” he hissed, raising his arm in preparation to hit you again. “i’ll let you breathe as soon as i come, so you better not get in the way, if you know what’s good for you.”

even if you wanted to, you couldn’t stay calm. your body physically couldn’t handle it, responding the only way it knew how, trying to protect you. somebody had to. you closed your eyes, face warm with tears and panic, and you tried to brace your hands on the sheets, anything to comfort and stabilize yourself.

it got to a point where jeno couldn’t hold back anymore and he climaxed with a prolonged, guttural groan, hips still brutally smacking into your mouth as he painted your tongue and the back of your throat with his cum. he went as far as to grab your head again, forcing himself onto you as deep as he could go, and demanding, “swallow it.”

like hell you would. you pushed him away, coughing and choking as soon as you did, drops of cum pooling from your mouth and some of it flying here and there in the midst of your coughing fit.

irritated, jeno pressed his tongue against the roof his mouth. “you’re so fucking useless,” he groaned, grabbing his phone from the pocket of his sweatpants and quickly turning on the camera. “look at you. sitting here choking on my cum. you want it again, don’t you?”

you sat up, nearly tumbling over the edge of your bed from the intense convulsing, and turned to face the other way as you hunched over, tightly clasping your sheets. “fuck off, you got what you wanted!” you rasped.

jeno laughed. you sounded so gravelly. “you’re right. i did,” he replied, putting back on his pants and pocketing his phone. “so, tutoring. i’ll see you tomorrow. nighty night, cheerleader.”

he gave you a pat on the head and turned, heading straight for the door.

▸ hard feelings

something about today was different than usual.

when you woke up, you had felt a shift in the air, but you’d chalked it up to being nervous about the final you had in three hours.

but when you finally went to go take it, however, you quickly realized that the unsettling feeling you had was not simply pre-exam jitters. it was something much more sinister than that. with the status you held on campus, you were used to being watched and gawked at, but this was different.

it felt like everybody and their mother was looking at you.

you were confused. you had been the subject of this much attention before, but only once; it was a couple years back when someone had spread a dirty, foul rumor about you. there was a social media page for your school called top ten, mostly used to shame women for their sexual exploits, but some men made their way on it too. that was how you heard about johnny’s clap rumor.

long story short, a rumor about you had originated there and it had taken you weeks to clear your name. but by that time, there was already another slut of the week. you were lucky to have your situation not only be false and debunked, but word of mouth. only the most unlucky of people, like hyeri, got images or videos of themselves posted.

and you were a community favorite. you would understand if you were new, but you had built a reputation around here. why would anybody believe floating rumors about you now?

but the abundance of stares didn’t end there. even in the cafe, you had caught someone watching you a little too hard to be a casual leer of admiration. and you were determined to find out why.

fortunately, you were able to find jennie and roseanne walking and talking in the courtyard, and you called out their names to stop them.

jennie turned first, and you watched her smile drop in real time. she glanced around, frantic, as if she was worried about someone watching her too.

roseanne smiled thinly, halfheartedly lifting her hand to wave. “hey,” she greeted quietly, matching jennie’s nerves.

they knew something you didn’t and it was glaringly obvious. “what’s going on?” you asked. “everyone’s looking at me and i know i’m not going crazy yet.”

jennie and roseanne glanced between each other, as if they both had bad news but neither of them wanted to be the one to tell you. after a few seconds, jennie groaned and said, “you might want to check top ten.”

your brows furrowed. you, on top ten? again? god, people could be so infuriating. “ugh, what rumor did they spread about me this time?”

jennie winced, which only made you more anxious. “it’s not just a rumor,” she whispered. “…it’s a video.”

“video?” you echoed in disbelief. that didn’t make sense. you hadn’t been with anyone except…except jeno. you tensed with anger.

roseanne opened her phone to show you the video that had been posted. it was an anonymous submission that claimed to be a recording of you. unfortunately, it was you, bits of your chest exposed from jeno reaching into your shirt and drops of cum landing there as you fought for breath. your face wasn’t visible, but there were some other distinguishing signs, like your hair and skin and sheets.

your heart thudded and your shoulders went cold, but your eyes were scalding. you were well aware that jeno didn’t like you, you didn’t exactly love him either, but you never thought he would stoop low enough to hurt you like this.

“i’m sorry,” roseanne apologized, dropping her phone in her purse when you were done. the video was only a few seconds long, but the damage was forever. “but don’t worry. it’s not like it’s top three worthy. everyone will move on next week.”

jennie nodded in agreement and briefly patted your back. “yeah. we’ll hang out again when this all blows over, i promise.”

then, they walked away. leaving you reeling with ache and betrayal. your friends didn’t want to be seen with you anymore. you were an embarrassment.

you swallowed the bitter feeling scorching up your throat and tapped your pockets for your phone, knowing there was one person you needed to see.

you: you and i need to talk. right now.

jeno: about what?

you: don’t play dumb, i know you sent that video in!

jeno: maybe u should have swallowed

you: you know what, i don’t need you. i never have. and i don’t want your help anymore. just leave me alone

jeno: [one attachment]

jeno: you sure about that? because i’m sure there’s plenty of people that would love to see the version with your face in it

you gawked, hiding your phone screen against your chest while glancing around to make sure no one could see.

adjusting your brightness, you unlocked your phone again and texted him back hurriedly.

you: why are you doing this?! i’ve never done anything to you

jeno: this is bigger than just you and me

jeno: now if you don’t want everyone to see that pretty face, come put those lips around me again and we can work something out

and that was how it started. though you hadn’t had the upper hand in weeks, this was the moment you completely lost it. what was once an arrangement for him to help you in exchange for your attention became a hole of misery that you couldn’t dig yourself out of.

one blowjob became two, and two became three until you started to immediately recognize what it meant when you saw his name appear on your screen, knowing what it was before he even asked. not that he ever technically asked. it was always a command, a claim to your body wherever and whenever he wanted.

if you tried to be strong, if you tried to break free of him, he always threatened to make sure that recordings of you on your knees for him went up for all the world to see and no one would ever think of you the same way again. he was more than willing to taint the pretty, perfect image of yourself that you presented to the world.

you felt stuck, trapped. isolated with nowhere to go, no way out. you tried to conjure up a way to escape this situation, but you couldn’t think of anything feasible. if you wanted to protect what was left of your social life and dignity, if you wanted to go outside without being ashamed, your only option was to be compliant.

no matter how many late nights and sore throats you had to go through.

you were in the middle of dozing off, your head leaning off to the side, when the sound of your phone ringing suddenly jolted you awake. you were tempted to ignore it until you saw the contact and begrudgingly pressed the phone to your ear. “hello?” you grumbled.

“i’ve been texting you,” jeno said, sounding miffed.

you sighed, glancing over at the clock on your nightstand. “it’s literally two in the morning,” you complained. “i just got home from cheer practice and i’m trying to study for my last final. i haven’t even showered yet.”

“aw, poor thing,” jeno crooned, pretending to care. “come over.”

you heartless, selfish bastard, you snapped in your head. of course, you were in no place to say that out loud, so you settled for a calm, “okay,” and hung up.

stifling a yawn, you grabbed your keys and lazily stepped into a nearby pair of shoes, stretching your arms above your head before willing yourself to get up from your desk chair. then, you accidentally scraped your leg against the bottom drawer of your desk, which you’d accidentally left open.

“ow!” you cried out, bending down a little. “god, why does this world hate me? what did i do wrong?”

it was a wonder you managed to make it to jeno’s apartment without getting into a wreck, although at this point, you wouldn’t care if you had as long as it killed you. or put you into an indefinite coma.

on the other hand, jeno seemed strangely enthusiastic to see you and looked full of life and energy. “there you are, cheerleader,” he said, pulling you in to hug you from behind. he led you over to his couch, much like he always did.

you covered your mouth with your elbow as you yawned. “can we get this over with? i’m sleepy.”

jeno chuckled. “i don’t want you to suck me off. not right now.”

your brows furrowed, wondering if you had heard him right. if not for that, then why were the hell were you here?

“i’m sad,” jeno said, not even attempting to keep the smug smile off his face. “i need you to cheer me up.”

you blinked at him like he was stupid. “cheer… you up?”

jeno nodded his head, glancing you over with a grin. you looked like hell. partly because you were so obviously exhausted, but he knew he’d been having an effect on you too. “yeah, cheer me up. you’re a cheerleader,” he reminded, sounding proud of himself. “i want you to do your routine for me.”

you gawked in disbelief and whined, “i’m not even in my uniform.”

“so?” jeno asked. “those bones might be tired, but they still work. matter of fact, take everything off.”

you were quick to exclaim, “what the hell? jeno, can i please just do it later? everything hurts.”

“take everything off,” jeno repeated, his voice more stern this time. “and move your ass.”

defeated, you reluctantly began to peel off your clothes, ignoring the way jeno shamelessly ogled you for the sake of your own comfort and tugging your shirt from above your head. you couldn’t even look at him as you abashedly stepped out of your shorts and panties.

what was even more mortifying was having to perform every stupid little routine for him with your entire body on display and your chest bouncing with every motion. putting on the sweet, forced smile and calling out the chants you’d memorized, all the while ignoring how your bones ached.

when you were done, he made you sit in his lap so he could touch you as he pleased, paying no mind to the way you squirmed uncomfortably.

you cried enough tears to occupy a sixth ocean the next day. you weren’t exactly sure why. you just remembered miraculously waking up in your bed, sitting up and staring into empty space, and the water crashing down after a few minutes. it took you even longer to notice you were sobbing.

after a couple of meaningless hours, you got the random urge to call your moan, yearning to hear her voice. “mommy?” you said when she picked up.

“she calls,” your mother chirped, pleasantly surprised. “hi, baby. i was starting to wonder if you’d forgotten about little ole’ me. you know, you never come see me anymore.”

you forced yourself to laugh, trying to strip your voice of the agony so that she wouldn’t notice. “i know. i’m sorry,” you apologized quietly. “i’ll come see you soon.”

“you better,” your mother snapped playfully, no real malice in her voice. “now, what’d you call me for? and don’t say just to check up on me, because that’s a damn lie.”

“i miss you,” you confessed.

“a lie don’t care who tell it.”

“ma,” you groaned, knowing she was just messing around. “i swear i do.”

“mm-hm,” your mother hummed. you could already picture her in your head, eyeing you with suspicion, arms folded over her chest. “let me guess why you really called. you’re having boy trouble.”

your eyes flickered in surprise. how did she know? you doubted it was exactly what she was thinking, but she was close enough. “yeah, something like that.”

there was no doubt that your mother sounded excited. you had always seem thoroughly uninterested in boys and dating, and while she was thankful when you were a teenager, it was a little worrying now. “it’s about time,” she said, clasping her hands together. “tell me all about it.”

you sighed, wondering how you could tell her about jeno without making her fret. she had gotten all pumped, you didn’t want to tear her down and ruin everything. “well, there’s this guy i met almost two months ago. at first, i didn’t feel anything for him. he was just another boy, you know. someone i could keep around for a good time, not a long one.”

your mother hummed again. you could hear metal pans clacking against her counter and assumed she was cooking. she always did that.

taking a deep breath, you continued, “but everything changed. he’s different from every other guy i’ve dealt with. he doesn’t just do what i say because i say so. and as the weeks passed, he’s started listening to me less and less than he already was.”

your mother chuckled. “and you didn’t like that, huh? got your mother’s stubborn heart and indomitable spirit.”

in truth, you didn’t think you had half of your mother’s strength, but you would never tell her that. as far as she knew, everything was going perfectly in the life you’d created here on campus. and it probably was the last time you’d spoken to her. “yeah,” you replied, wishing that were true. “i don’t like it. he makes me feel something i’ve never felt before.”

“he makes you feel powerless,” your mother told you. “he’s got you feeling weak because he’s the first man you’ve ever met willing to stand up to you. trust me, i was surprised the first time too. that’s how you got here.”

“ma,” you groaned with a wince.

she laughed. the sound made you happy, something you hadn’t been so certain you were capable of feeling anymore. “i’m just keeping it real.”

you thought about her words. she may have been way off in her perception of what this relationship between you and jeno really was, but she wasn’t wrong about how he made you feel. weak, powerless. suddenly, this consuming feeling you’d been having for weeks finally had a name, and yet that made it even harder to come to terms with.

because you didn’t want to be powerless. you wanted to be in charge, in control. you hated when things didn’t go your way, and more importantly, you hated when there was nothing you could do about it. it was supposed to be you wielding power over people’s head, not being crushed beneath the weight of tyranny.

and it was then you fully realized the scope of your feelings; you absolutely hated lee jeno.

▸ cheerleader? breed her!

standing there in a skimpy dress, face done and your feet clamped in heels that made you four inches taller, you didn’t feel like yourself.

you thought that you would. in truth, you hadn’t feel like yourself in months. today marked a little over two months since you made the mistake of beginning that agreement with jeno and you regretted it more than anything. he had completely ruined you, your life, and everything that made you feel whole.

there were pieces of yourself that you would never get back, thanks to him. it was true that everyone had forgotten about the ordeal regarding the recording of you, but not without cost. it was a price you were still paying everyday; even when you weren’t on your knees or otherwise commiting demeaning acts for the sake of jeno’s entertainment, you were hurting and mourning yourself.

you were starting to wonder if it was worth it. obviously, you liked being respected amongst your fellow students, but you were no longer certain if their respect was worth the price of your sanity. it was hard for you to even have basic interactions without giving away how incredibly lonely and isolated you felt, how trapped and doomed you were. helpless and powerless.

jeno came up behind you, startling you. he was like a wolf and you were a little lamb masquerading as a wolf. “there you are, baby,” he said, snaking his hands around your waist. he seemed to love doing that. “did you know our anniversary was a few days ago?”

you scoffed. the two-month anniversary of the worst decision of your life to date. there was nothing you would’ve give to undo it. doing your homework yourself would have spared you so much unnecessary pain. “stop doing that,” you whined, scanning the party. “someone will see.”

jeno chuckled, clearly not giving a damn. “unlike someone, i don’t really care what people think about me.”

you wished you didn’t care. there would always be a part of you that cared, that was so afraid of what people could say about her that she would do anything to tailor her image perfectly. matter of fact, it was all you had cared about in high school, and every year after that was spent maintaining the brand.

jeno’s hand went from your waist to your ass, making you tense in his grasp. “you know, i think i deserve some kind of compensation for putting up with you for two months.”

you deserved that too. freedom. being unshackled from his cruel, unrelenting orders was the one thing you wanted most and the one thing he refused to give you. “don’t you have your compensation almost every day?” you asked irritably.

“that’s not nearly enough,” jeno insisted, squeezing your ass.

god, how greedy could someone be? it was like he wanted to bleed you dry until there was nothing left.

“you know what i want?” jeno asked huskily, leaning into your ear. “i wanna fuck you.”

your eyes widened a little. you had hoped this day would never come, even though you weren’t oblivious to the fact that jeno had steadily gotten bolder in his interactions with you, the things he made you do for his satisfaction becoming entirely more erotic.

grabbing your arm, jeno started to lead you away. “come on, let’s go.”

you rooted in place, nearly stumbling. you didn’t want to go anywhere with him, especially if it meant putting up with his insatiable urges. “jeno, i don’t want to,” you said, trying to push at him.

jeno scoffed, wondering when you would realize that he didn’t care what you wanted and you had no way of winning. “if you want to make a scene in front of all these lovely people, be my guest,” he hissed in your ear.

panicked, you glanced around the crowd in search of someone that could save you. it was like everybody was looking at you until you actually needed them to.

then, you locked eyes with jungwoo. matter of fact, it seemed like he’d been looking at you much before you’d even glanced in his general direction. he saw you, saw the way jeno was holding you roughly, saw the obvious stiffness on your face, saw the pleading look in your eyes; but ultimately, jungwoo saw the image of you letting him down after bleeding him dry for half a year, and he turned away.

your shoulders slumped in defeat.

jeno started dragging you toward the stairs, pushing past a bunch of drunk people dancing on each other. your heart was thumping, and your whole body was rigid with nerves as you tried to think of a way out of this even though you knew there was no option without consequences.

just your luck, the bathroom jeno hauled you too was empty. he pushed you in and locked the door, pressing you against the counter. you gasped and glanced at your reflection in the mirror, hardly recognizing yourself. “jeno, please,” you whispered, trying to plead with him. “please, don’t do this.”

jeno didn’t seem moved by your begging, but he did, however, appear amused. “why are you acting so sensitive about this after all we’ve done together? it’s like you’ve never gotten fucked or something.”

you swallowed, not saying a word.

the silence was very loud, very telling. jeno arched a brow, a realization dawning on him. “you really have never been fucked,” he said, surprised. “damn, i should have figured that out when you were acting like you never sucked dick before.”

your face flushed with heat. it wasn’t like you were necessarily embarrassed about it, not until now. you had always taken it as something to pride yourself on, being fuckable but untouchable. “you say that like it’s a bad thing,” you replied, glancing down at the sink to avoid eye contact.

jeno chuckled. it wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, but he had been convinced that you were completely pretending to be a goody two-shoes. to know there was at least one percent of you that was still pure amazed him. he lifted the skirt of your dress with his hand and brought it between your legs, asking, “what, you just never find anyone worthy enough for your perfect, sacred pussy?”

you gasped out when he touched you there. his fingers circled your clothed cunt, thumb digging into your inner thigh. feeling scandalized, you grumbled, “maybe i’m just not interested.”

jeno shook his head, astonished by the amount of attitude you still had after all these months and determined to break it out of you. “and maybe i just don’t care if you’re interested or not.”

it went without saying that jeno always made you feel like some kind of object, but this was next level. “this is dehumanizing!” you exclaimed.

hearing you, of all people, talk about dehumanizing made for an interesting conversation. big, calloused hand pressing harder into you, he asked tauntingly, “doesn’t feel good, does it?”

your glossy, painted lips were parted, unable to breathe through your nose. your eyes burned with the threat of tears and it was becoming second nature for them to shed whenever jeno was nearby. “i don’t understand,” you whimpered, trying to free yourself, but to no avail. “why are you doing this to me? what have i ever done to deserve this?”

jeno could feel you struggling, trying to push him off you, but all it did was move your hips against his rapidly hardening cock. he groaned, grabbing hold of your ass and pushing you further back against him. “fuck, just like that,” he growled. “haven’t i told you this already? this is bigger than you and me.”

it wasn’t lost on you that jeno obviously had heard stories about you from other people, stories of happenings you probably couldn’t deny, but it had nothing to do with him. “look, if you’re doing all this to get back at me because i hurt one of your friends or something, i’m sorry, i really am. but i can’t do this anymore, jeno. i want to stop, please. please let me go on with my life.”

“what a privileged response,” jeno hissed without concealing his vitriol. at the same time, he kept palming you over your panties, noticing them beginning to cling to your cunt, and tore your underwear to the side to insert a pair of fingers inside. “what about all those girls whose lives you ruined? i’m sure they wanted you to stop. and you didn’t until they were too humiliated to show their faces around here again and you had no choice.”

you swallowed the lump in your throat. he knew about the girls? “jeno, i haven’t done that since freshman year,” you told him, desperately trying to reason with him.

two loud, harsh smacks echoed in the tiny, crowded space of the bathroom, followed by a gasp consequently. your pussy stung, your head jerking around to look at jeno. “do you really think that matters?” he asked, grabbing your hair to turn you back around just as quickly, as if you didn’t deserve to look at him. “you think that matters when the pain you’ve done to them is permanent? they don’t forget. and they damn sure don’t forgive you.”

you tensed, hating the way your walls were gripping and gushing around his fingers. “so what? you think you’re god or something? is this you punishing me for my sins? you’re not exactly what i would call a saint, either.”

“me and you, we’re not the same,” jeno remarked, a nip to his tone as if you needed the reminder of how much he disliked you. “you only pick on people that you think are below you somehow. people you think won’t fight back.”

“i know i’m not a good person,” you admitted in between gasps, thighs straining as his fingers pumped into your pussy harder, faster, reaching places you’d never touched on your own. “ i know i don’t deserve to be happy. maybe i don’t even deserve to be treated with respect, but please leave me this one thing. spare me just this once.”

jeno laughed cruelly, pulling his fingers out of your drenched hole and smearing your juices all over your folds and thighs. his finger unintentionally swiped over your sensitive clit, making your legs quiver and your stomach tighten, sucking in itself.

“damn, baby. you really know how to hurt my feelings,” jeno said, voice dripping with sarcasm. he withdrew his fingers, bringing them into his mouth for a taste. “you don’t want me to fuck you that bad?”

your heart was spiking with dread, thumping belligerently in your chest, your ears, and between your legs. no one had ever made you feel so vanquished.

“take my dick out,” jeno said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “hurry up.”

you sighed anguishedly, turning around to undo his pants and slip his aching dick out of its confinements. for months, jeno had been suppressing the urge to fuck you, wanting to wait for the moment where it would be most pivotal.

getting a hold of your throat, jeno roughly yanked you flush against him the second you whirled back around to face the tiny bathroom counter, making you stand tall against his chest. his voice was almost as rough as the hands that held you. “put it in.”

you gawked, shaking your head.

his fingers tightened dangerously around your windpipe, making your damp eyes widen and your jaw slack against his whitening knuckles, maybe half a wheeze making its way out your throat before he warned, “if i have to fucking tell you again, i’m gonna crush every bone in your goddamn neck.”

with no other option, you meekly reached behind you to grasp him in your quivering hand, aimlessly steering him to your hole and sinking your teeth into your bottom lip as the tip brushed past your dripping folds. jeno released a shaky breath, slapping your hand away and rutting his hips into you from behind, sheathing himself inside in one go.

he slackened his unforgiving grip on your throat, shoving you back against the counter none too gently, but you still felt like you couldn’t breathe when he entered you, a mangled whimper echoing out. your fingers desperately braced the edges of the counter for purchase as you tried to will yourself to inhale, but it was like you were choking.

jeno had a death grip on your thighs, forcibly pushing them apart a little more as he coated himself with the creamy, hot wetness of your unwanted arousal. “mm, hard to believe you don’t secretly want me when you’re sucking me in like this, baby,” he said, proud.

you shook your head in denial, face flushing with a heat that spread to your ears and neck. it didn’t help that there were beads of salty, hot tears pouring down your face and reducing your vision to one big, hazy blur. you didn’t want him, not even a little bit. but you couldn’t control the way your body was responding.

the lewd, wet smack of his cock thrusting deeply into your tight cunt rang out so loudly that you wanted nothing more than to hide into oblivion and never be seen again, mortified. it made things seem so much different than they were. his long, thick cock was stretching you beyond the cusp your limits and making you gape.

“i’m so nice to you,” jeno said, tipping his head back. you could see his chest rising and falling through his clothes, his body taut with pleasure and excitement. “i’ve been holding back for so long, trying not to fuck you. won’t keep me out this pussy now. i’m gonna fuck you till your legs give out. have you at practice limping.”

your knees, wobbly as they already were, began knocking into the cabinets at the bottom of the sink. you winced your eyes closed as your fingers curled around the edge of the counter roughly enough to change the color around your knuckles, hoping to think of something, anything, to take you out of the moment.

but it was too hard. you couldn’t ignore the throb of your gushing walls as they kneaded his cock, making him grunt in your ear as he leaned over your backside. you couldn’t ignore the faint sting of his nails stabbing your hips and his heavy palm slapping repeatedly against your ass. and you definitely couldn’t ignore the dirtiness staining you from head to toe.

sure, it felt good, his body rocking against yours steadily, but it didn’t feel right. many nights you had pictured what losing your virginity would be like, both the way that it was supposed to look and the way that you were more inclined to, but this was neither; it was heartless, it was punishing, and it was brutal.

jeno grabbed you by your hair and forced you to look into the mirror, yanking your head up. “there it is,” he spat, words sounding painfully familiar. “there’s the real you.”

your hair was messy from him tugging it every which way, treating you like a doll to mishandle. your makeup was ruined from your sobbing, the path of your tears harsh against everything else. your eyes were red and your right lash looked like it was barely holding on, the effect of rubbing at your face.

jeno watched you take in the destroyed sight of yourself, practically hearing the critical thoughts hopping in your mind. “this is what you really are. this is what you’re sucking my dick to keep hidden from the world. is it worth it, baby? or do you just like the way i taste on your tongue?”

no, it wasn’t worth it. you were beginning to understand that now. he was taking too much from you, too much of your peace and too much of your sanity. maybe it would be better to be judged and lonely but free than to be loved by people whose opinion of you could change on a dime anyway at the expense of your soul.

your pride had been buried a long time ago, brutally murdered in her sleep. “jeno, please stop. i’m uncomfortable,” you complained, tearing your eyes away from your reflection in shame.

jeno smacked your ass again, making you cry out sharply. “you just love being the victim when it’s convenient for you, huh?”

“i’m sorry!” you whimpered. “i don’t know what you want me to do. what do you want? just tell me.”

jeno snickered, running his hands over your hips and waist to knead the flesh. then, he brushed your hair out of your face, nibbling at the skin behind your ear before growling, “you know what i want, cheerleader? i want to assassinate all there is that you love about yourself and leave everything else untouched, so that you understand not why everybody hates you, but why nobody loves you.”

those words hit you straight in the gut. for the first time, you had no retort, no comeback.

hips beginning to move faster, jeno continued, “the boys don’t love you, they just want to fuck you. they would kill to be as deep inside you as i am. the girls sure as hell don’t love you. they either want to be you, or they resent you for beating their asses. and don’t get me started on those girls you call friends.”

“jeno, stop,” you whispered, an agony vicious enough to rip through flesh tearing you straight in half.

but jeno didn’t listen. he wasn’t done, not until he made his point. “don’t think i didn’t notice how lonely you were for the whole week everybody was talking shit about you. they didn’t want to touch you with a six foot pole, did they? they don’t want to be seen with you unless it gives them a good rep.”

there was a pang in your chest. you didn’t want to admit it, but that cut deep. you had heard people say mean things about you before, it was to expected when you were an emblem of popularity on campus, but few things had reached you where it hurt.

jeno stroked your messy cheek, almost with affection. “but it’s okay. because you want to know something, baby? it was hard for me to admit it to myself, but you truly fascinate me. i can’t get you out of my head sometimes. you piss me off every time without fail, but i keep coming back to you. i like you, baby. if no one else does. you grew on me.”

you weren’t sure if that was supposed to make you feel better, but it didn’t. if anything, you only felt more heartbroken and wounded not only by his words, but by your inability to counter them. it truly dawned on you, right then, just how alone you were.

jeno threw his head back, grunting. his hips were moving with a mind of their own, eager to finish. “fuck, i’m gonna come.”

your eyes went wide in panic, remembering that he had gone in bareback.

“jeno, don’t…”

before you could even finish your statement, jeno clamped a hand over your mouth, muffling your protests into his pale palm. “you know what guys at my school used to say about cheerleaders?” he asked, obviously not expecting a response. “‘see a cheerleader, breed a cheerleader.’ ‘cheerleader? breed her.’”

you thrashed, but it was pointless. those thick, burly biceps of jeno’s were one of the first things you noticed about him and they weren’t just for display. he held you in place as he quickened his pace again, his thrusts unrelenting.

with a couple more quick yet shockingly rhythmic thrusts, jeno emptied his load deep, deep inside you. he moaned, moving his hands from your mouth to your hips to keep himself steady as he reeled from the pleasure of a mind-numbing orgasm. “goddamn,” he cursed, panting for breath.

you stifled a small noise as you felt his warmth flooding into you, unsure how to feel at this point.

to your surprise, jeno started fucking you again, never once daring to pull out as if he was determined to fuck every drop of his sticky cum as deep inside you as it could reach. his stringy, thick load gathered on his dick and inside your pussy, leaking down your thighs as he kept going.

you gasped out, moans involuntarily leaving you as you were stuffed full of him over and over. you didn’t mean to, but it was impossible to control.

then, jeno stuck a hand between your legs and rolled his thumb over your clit, which didn’t help. you cried out, tensing. “jeno, stop! it’s sensitive.”

“that’s the point, dummy,” jeno replied, stimulating your clit with his hand while simultaneously pumping himself into you from behind.

your core tightened, heat wafting over you as your chest heaved wildly. “what are you doing?” you stammered.

jeno smiled, watching in the mirror how your face tensed with a blend of confusion and ecstasy that you couldn’t rein. “you really think i’m an asshole, huh? i’m trying to make you come. relax and let me.”

you shook your head. you didn’t want to come, not for him, and most definitely not on his cock for him to feel every unintentional shudder of your pussy as it gushed and pulsed with hot, sweet release; that would be embarrassing.

that made jeno chuckle. “no? you don’t wanna come for me, baby?” he asked, furrowing his brows playfully as he tilted your face back up to the mirror with a push of your jaw. “come on, let go. you keep saying i’m not a good guy, but you shoot me down when i try to be nice.”

you moaned again, against your own reason and better judgment. “please,” you rasped with half a breath.

“please, what?” jeno asked, rubbing you with just a pinch more force. “do you even know?”

god, you hated him; you absolutely despised him. but damn, if it didn’t feel good to have someone touch you after you’d spent so long avoiding sex like it was something to be ashamed of.

and this? this was definitely something you were ashamed of.

and yet the most shameful moment, perhaps, was when you finally couldn’t resist the pleasure of his big, long fingers twirling around your sensitive nub and his brutal hips smacking into you with a vengeance, clamping around him as you orgasmed with a loud cry and the heat shot through every corner of your body.

“shit,” jeno hissed, the feel of you finishing around him draining the cum from his balls for a second time.

your jaw slacked, overwhelmed by how you felt completely and utterly stuffed, ropes of his cum filling you to the hilt. jeno thrusted into you a little more, sending a flare through your back and shoulders, until he stilled for good. you could hear him panting behind you.

after a moment or two, jeno pulled out. hand between your thighs, he gathered some of his stringy release on his finger and brought it up to your lips. “open up. don’t make me say it again.”

you opened your mouth wide enough for him to insert two of his cum-coated fingers inside. then, you sucked at them and swallowed it down, knowing those would be the next words to leave his mouth.

jeno raised a brow, pleasantly surprised. he took his time to withdraw his fingers, enjoying the sensation of you licking them clean. “see, i knew you loved eating my cum.”

your face burned, but you didn’t have the energy to deny it. not after that. it felt like there was a gaping hole in your chest, a void that would never be filled.

“you’re learning,” jeno commented, humming in satisfaction. “good girl. you know, maybe one day we can get along. don’t you think?”

“yeah,” you murmured weakly. at this point, you would just go along with whatever he said. and maybe that was why he figured you could experience some peace together now.

keeping your dress bunched up, jeno grabbed some tissues from his left and started to wipe at you. “let’s get you cleaned up before we leave, cheerleader. don’t want the entire student body to see you like this, right?”

you whipped your head around, eyes widening in surprise. leaving to go where? certainly you weren’t going home with him after tonight.

“did you think i was kidding?” jeno asked with a sly smile, slipping your panties backing in place and giving your shoulder a fleeting kiss. “i told you, i’m gonna fuck you till your legs give out.”

#lee jeno smut #jeno smut #nct dream smut #nct smut #nct #nct x reader #jeno scenarios #nct jeno #jeno x reader #jeno x you #jeno imagines #nct fanfic #nct dream x reader #revehae fics

3K notes · View notes

nebularsung · 2 months ago

Text

⭑ you're jeno's favourite gift ﹙+18﹚

all that could be heard from that bedroom was soft, breathless whines, muffled moans, the sharp rhythm of skin meeting skin, and the sound of jeno’s voice—low, sweet, and full of reverent praise.

it was jeno’s birthday, and—true to the quiet, homebody heart he had—he wanted nothing more than to stay where he felt most at peace: at home, wrapped in your arms, spoiled by your attention, and fed by your hands. you had made his favorite dishes, laughed with him over wine, curled up in his lap while the candles burned low… but as night fell, his desire shifted.

he wanted his favorite gift of all.

you.

and how could you possibly deny him?

“fuck, baby…” he groaned, voice dropping deeper as he watched the way your body gave in to him. his fingers pressed tighter into the curve of your hips, guiding you back to meet his every thrust, relentless and hungry. “so fuckin’ good to me… always ready for me… mine.”

your face was buried in the pillows, your ass arched high in the air—just how he liked it. the angle let him hit that perfect spot over and over again, and your moans were so high and sweet they came out broken and muffled into the sheets. he’d be smug about it if he weren’t so utterly ruined by the way your body gripped him like a vice, so warm and wet and perfect just for him.

you were going for the fourth round already, but jeno didn’t seem any near to finish what he had started.

he leaned over you, his chest flush against your back for a moment as he kissed your shoulder, then your spine. “can’t believe i get to have you like this…” he whispered, almost to himself. “you make me feel like the luckiest man alive.”

you let out a choked sob of pleasure, and jeno only chuckled softly, hand sliding along your waist, gripping you tighter. “that feel good, baby? you’re doing so well… taking me so good, just like i knew you would. such a good girl for me, even on my birthday…”

you nodded desperately into the pillow, fingers clutching at the sheets as he kept rocking into you with deep, measured strokes now—less frantic, more intense, like he wanted to feel every second of it, draw it out. worship you.

“wanna hear you,” he muttered. “just a little. let me hear my pretty girl.”

you turned your head, gasping, your voice breathy and wrecked. “jeno—feels so good—i love you, love you so much—”

“yeah?” he breathed, hips stuttering slightly at the sound of your voice. “love you too, angel. gonna make you cum so hard. gonna have you creaming all over my cock, just the way i like it.”

and you did.

with a loud, trembling moan of his name, your body tensed beneath him, walls clenching, thighs shaking as the orgasm tore through you. jeno cursed under his breath, hips losing rhythm as he chased his own release, groaning into your back when he finally buried himself deep and filled you up, both of you panting and trembling, tangled in each other’s warmth.

he stayed inside you for a moment longer, letting your bodies breathe in sync, your skin slick and flushed, your heartbeats loud in your ears. then, with a soft kiss between your shoulder blades, he slowly pulled out—watching his seed leaking from you from the previous orgasms—grabbing a warm towel from the nearby dresser to clean you up with the same tender care he always showed.

you whimpered softly, still sensitive, and he murmured a quiet, “sorry, baby,” as he wiped your thighs gently. his hands lingered longer than necessary, though—you could feel how much he loved touching you, even in the smallest ways.

you weren’t sure how long you laid there in jeno’s arms, your limbs tangled, hearts still fluttering from everything you’d just shared. his warmth surrounded you, grounding and intoxicating all at once. you could’ve fallen asleep like that—completely satisfied, safe.

but then you felt it.

a subtle shift in his breathing. the way his hand, which had been resting innocently on your waist, slowly trailed downward, fingers stroking lazy patterns across your hip. his lips were brushing against your shoulder again, softer this time, more tender—like he was savoring every inch of your skin.

you stirred gently, turning in his arms to face him. the look in his eyes made your breath hitch.

“still hungry, birthday boy?” you teased, voice barely above a whisper.

he chuckled, low and warm, but there was heat behind his smile now. “i can’t help it,” he murmured, brushing your hair behind your ear. “you make it impossible to get enough of you…”

before you could respond, his lips were on yours again—slow and unhurried, like he wanted to memorize your taste. he kissed you with reverence, taking his time, tongues barely brushing, the heat building all over again with every slow pull of your lips.

his hand found your thigh, slipping beneath the covers, tracing up until his fingers were skimming the sensitive skin between your legs. you were still warm, still wet, and his breath caught at the feel of you.

“so ready for me,” he whispered, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. “even after all that…”

you nodded, heart thudding. “only for you, jen.”

that’s all he needed to hear.

he guided you onto your back, kissing down your collarbone, then your chest—worshipping every part of you with gentle bites and licks, his name whispered from your lips like a prayer. his hand stayed between your thighs, slowly working you open again, fingers curling just enough to make you gasp.

“you’re perfect,” he breathed against your breast, flicking his tongue over your nipple. “i could do this forever. just touch you, taste you… make you feel good.”

you whimpered softly, arching into his touch, hips rolling instinctively into his hand. “please… want you again.”

he looked up at you from between your breasts, hair slightly messy, lips kiss-swollen. “then take me, baby,” he said, voice thick with affection. “i’m all yours.”

and he meant it.

he slid into you with a deep, slow stroke—your legs wrapped around his waist instantly, pulling him as close as he could possibly get. this wasn’t like the last round. this time, he moved slow, savoring the way your body clenched around him. every roll of his hips was steady, deep, his forehead pressed to yours as he whispered praise between kisses.

“so beautiful… god, you feel so good around me…”

“you’re doing so good for me… fuck, i love being inside you…”

“you were made for me, weren’t you?”

each thrust drew soft moans from your lips, your fingers tangled in his hair, nails grazing down his back. the tension built gradually—less explosive, more consuming. it spread like fire under your skin, until you were trembling beneath him, whispering his name like a promise.

jeno’s hands gripped yours, fingers laced tight as he stared down at you, flushed and breathless. “cum for me again,” he murmured. “just one more, baby. wanna feel you around me one more time.”

you couldn’t even respond. you were already there.

your body locked up beneath him, waves of pleasure crashing through your core as you cried out his name, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming emotion of it all. jeno kissed them away, hips stuttering, then slowing as he came with a deep, ragged moan, burying himself inside you completely, like he needed to mark every inch of you as his.

he didn’t pull away immediately.

instead, he stayed nestled against you, his body heavy and warm, his breath evening out against your neck. your fingers traced along his spine, feeling his heart still racing.

“that,” he mumbled, voice hoarse but full of affection, “was the best birthday gift i’ve ever gotten.”

you smiled, pressing a kiss to his temple. “i’m happy i’m the one who can give you the best gift ever.” he let out a soft laugh, nuzzling his face onto your neck. “happy birthday, baby. i love you.”

he pulled away, looking up at you, soft and glowing, like you’d hung the stars for him.

“i love you too,” he whispered. “so much.”

｜ 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗌 𖹭 have i ever said how much i love jen and how much i fucking wanna sit on his nose??? like, respectfully, but how is this man built like that?? his body proportions are insane and his face fuckk his face man..........

★ @lyvhie @spacejip @zhapire

#jeno.jpg ★#divider by cafekitsune #nct fanfic #nct imagines #nct dream imagines #nct smut #nct dream fanfic #nct dream smut #jeno fanfic #jeno smut #jeno imagines

1K notes · View notes

rhaeverie · 23 days ago

Text

No Pain, No Gain — ljn

pairing. gym-rat!jeno x aider!reader genre. fluff, (kinda)friends-to-lovers, a dash of hurt/comfort, slice-of-life wc. 4.3k summary. Jeno’s well aware that he looks like an idiot in front of you, but what else could he do when just the sight of you makes him feel like a kid with a schoolboy crush?; or in which, Jeno’s been coming to your office with the tiniest of scratches just so he has an excuse to see you warnings. mentions of minor injuries (fake & real) and some bleeding (nothing super detailed but it’s still there), I sorta wrote this as if it were like a sitcom, cliche scenario an. clearing my wips! yet another fic set in the most random place u can possibly think of and it’s bc I (unhealthily) romanticize everything (×-×)—I started writing this during my gym rat (mouse?) era in 2023 but never finished it til now oops dk if its any good,,, enjoy!!

“I can’t move my thumb.”

You use your finger to smooth down the sports tape over its first layer, gently grabbing the younger boy’s wrist to inspect your work, “That’s the point, Chenle.”

“How am I supposed to play basketball with this,” Chenle pouts, bringing his taped thumb and wrist to show you as if you weren’t the one who just did it. His posture grows worse at the realization of his small injury and now he’s slumped on the bed.

You sigh and repeat yourself, “That’s the point. You need to rest it or else you can get an injury worse than this. I recommend maybe a week? But I’m not a doctor.”

You start cleaning your station up, fully expecting Chenle to understand and leave. But instead, he remains seated on the medical table, pouting. You know he’s trying to get you to change your mind, but seeing that he reported his wrist feeling tight and stiff, you know that it’s sprained and playing with it could make things worse.

“Chenle, I’m being serious,” you groan, “You need to rest it or you can’t play basketball for the rest of your life.” You were obviously exaggerating, raising your brows for even more emphasis. If he won’t listen to you by simply telling him, you might as well scare him into listening to you.

“Rest of my life?” He frowns, looking down at wrist, “I… I guess a week doesn’t seem too long… Thanks Y/N.”

You smile, relieved that he’s choosing to listen to your advice, “I’ll see you next week then?”

He nods and gathers his duffel bag and his sweater, dragging himself out the door of the first aid room.

You turn away from the door, ready to busy yourself with some housekeeping items when you hear a knock at the door. It’s quiet, and you almost think that you were imagining the sound, but when you turn to face the door, you’re met with the vibrant gaze of Lee Jeno, accompanied by a sheepish smile.

Ah… Lee Jeno—of course.

“Almost thought you weren’t going to show up today,” you joke, “What happened now?”

To anyone unfamiliar with the two of you, it might come across as if you weren't exactly doing your job well, seemingly rushing through treatments even when faced with potentially serious injuries. However, the guy standing in the doorway right now has been delivering the most poorest excuses for injuries you've ever heard.

Sure, perhaps a couple of questionable 'injuries' wouldn't bother you much, because maybe the person was just overly cautious about their well-being. But when Jeno strolled into your office recently with the tiniest scratch on his left calf, you couldn't help but suspect that something was definitely up.

“I need ice,” Jeno side-steps into your office and pulls the corners of his lips higher on his cheeks, “Please?”

“Next time, just jog over to the nearby McDonald’s and get ice there,” you say jokingly. This was his nth time in the past month asking for ice. You wonder if he’s just been using it to put into his water or if this dude just has some kink involving ice.

You only question Jeno’s recent tendency to visit your office because, ever since you started working at the gym, he's been a regular. Hell, his physique alone is proof to his long-standing commitment to the gym. It just doesn't add up that Jeno, with his apparent gym ‘seniority’, would be falling victim to injuries so frequently.

“Here you go,” you hand him a small, transparent bag that was partially filled with ice, “Anything else?”

Jeno’s irises fall to the right corners of his eyes in brief thought, “More… ice?”

You groan to conceal your amusement and move closer to Jeno, “Goodbye, Jeno. See you again another day!” You gently place your hands to his elbows, spinning him around and out your door.

“No, wait I—“

“See you!” You wave, leaving Jeno no choice but to actually take his leave.

Your coworker Jaemin sees the interaction from the front counter, and seeing that there weren’t any gym goers coming into the facility, he waves you over.

"Everything alright?" he asks, his gaze flicking briefly from the computer screen to you.

You glance at his screen and notice a game of minesweeper unfolding. Suppressing a snicker, you retort, "Yeah, same reason as last week." Swiftly, you click on an empty tile on his minesweeper grid, revealing the mine locations.

“I’m trying to help you and you do this,” Jaemin clicks his tongue against his teeth and diverts back to the situation, “It’s not in a creepy way, is it?”

You give yourself a moment to think everything through, “I’m not sensing anything weird or creepy with it, if I’m being honest. He’s going about it… in a cute way?”

Jaemin lets out a hysteric laugh and it echoes throughout the gym, “A cute way?”

"There's no other way to put it," you casually shrug. Leaning against the desk, you absentmindedly flip through the management binders laid out before you.

Jaemin's brows knit, his curiosity piqued. "Cute, how?"

“I don’t know.” You’re lying. You know damn well what you meant.

Every time Jeno decides to pull one of his ‘stunts’, he’s at your door, eyes all glossy and resembling a hopeful puppy. And when you choose to pretend not to notice him, he doesn't hesitate to clear his throat (rather obnoxiously) or hum out a soft, "anyone home?" even though you're clearly rummaging in your cupboards for more supplies.

Jaemin reads right through your feigned innocence, eyes narrowing, “Sure you don’t.”

“Well, it’s not something I can explain,” you groan, “Just take my word for it.”

“Okay… cute… does that mean you’re enjoying all this?” Jaemin’s eyes wiggle your way and you’re glad that no one’s around to see or hear this.

You scoff, “Enjoying what?”

"Come on, Y/N. Let's not play naive," Jaemin smirks, "Jeno is practically inventing reasons to see you.” Jaemin pats your head like you would a child, which you dodge almost immediately, “Which is honestly disappointing. A guy like Jeno could probably think of something way better but he resorted to something so basic.”

You glare at Jaemin, your annoyance evident, “I hate that you’re probably right.” Because what else could the reason be? Jeno couldn’t be that concerned for his well-being. And you distinctly recall questioning your other coworker, Xiaojun, about whether Jeno tends to show up frequently on your days off. His response? A shocking no.

“I always am,” Jaemin brushes non-existent dust off of his shoulder, “But you didn’t answer my question.”

“What question?” At times like these, you have the memory of a goldfish.

“If you were enjoying it,” Jaemin clarifies, "You did call it cute, and cute usually equals enjoyment."

There were a couple ways you could go about Jaemin’s question. Was he asking if you were reciprocating this attraction Jeno seemingly had for you? Or maybe he wanted to know if you found amusement in the ongoing situation?

Regardless, your cheeks betray you by warming at the question and the thought of your answer sliding off the tip of your tongue.

“I’d be lying if I said no.”

—

It’s no surprise when Jeno shows up to your office two days later with the same smile plastered on his face.

He’s standing right outside of your office, waiting for you to welcome him in. When you do, he enters the room slowly, greeting you as he moves toward the medical bed situated at the far corner and away from the entrance.

Jeno watches as you rake through a pile of disorganized supplies, “How are you?” You weren’t in search of anything specific, but you were trying to busy yourself now that Jeno was in the room with no clear purpose.

“I'm all right," you reply casually, your voice calm. "You?” You quickly glance up at him and almost crumble to your knees. Today, Jeno is sporting a black muscle tee and grey sweatshorts, and though you've never really taken notice of his outfits before, you secretly (and shamefully) remind yourself to start doing so.

“I’m okay,” Jeno hums, “I was wondering if I could get a heat pack?”

You take a good look at him and narrow your eyes, “It doesn’t look like you need one.” But regardless, you make your way toward the heat packs sitting in a cupboard by the fridge. You simply wanted to hear what his reason was this time.

“My quads are really stiff today,” Jeno replies, subtly gesturing to his legs, “I could barely get through leg day with them.”

“Well, this should work,” you say. You pop the pack and wrap a towel around it, “There you go. See you!”

“Can I stay here for a bit?” You don’t see the way Jeno pouts. You’re too busy making your way to your box full of miscellaneous things. He presses the pack against the upper side of his thigh, remaining seated on the bed, “I’ll leave when the heat pack is finished.”

Jaemin’s voice echoes in your head, "Jeno is practically inventing reasons to see you.” And you can now see that it was painfully obvious.

“Of course,” you say, “Take as long as you need.”

You move on to organizing the supplies, trying your best not to mind the pair of eyes that were burning holes into the side of your head.

“So…” Jeno starts, “How was your weekend?”

“You don’t need to make small talk you know,” you say, pulling out three pairs of medical scissors, “You could take a nap or something.” With your back turned to him, you go to put the tools away, “I don’t mind.”

Jeno swings his legs in the air and slumps, “Yeah, but I—uh—do want to make small talk.” He’s half-assedly holding the heat pack to the side of his thigh, growing annoyed that it wasn’t staying in a specific place. He resorts to pinning it under his thigh.

“Which I also don’t mind,” you say, biting back a smile, “My weekend was okay… stayed home and relaxed. Nothing super special. You?”

You stop and turn to look at him, keeping your eyes trained on the man who was now leaning back against the wall. The position looks uncomfortable, yet Jeno appears to be content.

“Similar to yours,” he replies, “Except Hyuck forced me to play a few games online with him. It was fun, actually! But don’t tell him that.”

You let out a snort. You’re familiar with Donghyuck, recalling how he and Jeno had made a deal that if Jeno managed to bring him to the gym for a few workouts, then he had to play some of his PC games in return.

“How’s he doing anyways?” You question, “I haven’t seen him in a while.”

Jeno’s brows furrow for a sliver of a second before they sit back to where they had originally been, “Last leg day killed him, so he’s given up until he recovers.”

“Ah,” you giggle, “Can’t keep up with you, I’m guessing?”

Jeno shakes his head, bangs creating a blanket over his eyes. He sweeps them aside, “Not really. I don’t really go hard on leg days. I’m more of a back and biceps type of person.”

Your eyes defy you as they scan Jeno’s arms. You blame him. His statement was practically an invitation to look at his upper limbs as if you needed some kind of evidence, “I believe you.” It comes out a lot more flirty than you intended and you want to sprint out of the room before you make one more wrong move.

“O-oh,” Jeno stammers. It was a sight seeing Jeno grow shy, using his hands to hide arms. And although he was hoping to conceal them, the man forgets that doing so only means he had to flex his arms, “Thanks?”

You’re not sure how to reply, resorting to rummaging through the same box. You find some empty rolls of tape and you toss them in the trash. How do you even go about this conversation? Say ‘you’re welcome’? Weird. Ask him about his routine? No, it wasn’t like you were looking into building your arms. Ask if you could feel his arms?

Shut up, brain, be fucking for real right now.

“Y/N?”

“Hm?” You look up and Jeno’s looking back at you expectedly.

“Sorry, I zoned out a little there,” you sheepishly confess, playing with one of the box’s flaps, “Did you say something?”

“I… uh, nevermind, it doesn’t matter,” Jeno clears his throat, “It was just about—um—something. But it can wait another day.” He smiles and it just about reaches his eyes.

“Wait, no, tell me,” you frown.

“It’s…” Jeno’s eyes flicker back and forth, contemplating if he really should go through with his question. He wants to—he really does—but his words fail him, teeth biting at his bottom lip.

“It’s really nothing, ha-ha!” You watch as his gaze drops to the heat pack suffocating underneath his thigh. He uses the back of his hand to feel it. It’s still very warm, but regardless, he uses it as an excuse. “I’ll just take my leave… Um, I guess I’ll see you around?” Jeno slips off the bed, tossing the pack into the trash before he moves past you.

“Wait, Jeno…” You make another attempt to stop him, guilt slowly creeping up on you, curiosity accompanying it because you should’ve been listening.

For once, you wished he stayed just a bit longer.

—

It’s been almost a week and a half since Jeno last visited your office.

But who’s counting?

You check once, twice, thrice over your shoulder for Jaemin’s presence, nodding to yourself when you’re sure that your coworker wasn’t there to see the down-bad bullshit you were about to pull.

Pulling up the gym’s database, you quickly type Jeno’s name into the search bar. While it loads, which feels so so painfully long, your fingers tap against the edge of the desk. You can’t believe you’re doing this.

“Hm.”

Once Jeno’s profile finally appears on the screen, you follow his row to the Date Last Active column, seeing that he was at the gym this morning, two hours before your shift.

A low whistle knocks you out of your trance and you jump, almost knocking the keyboard off the desktop.

“Fucking hell, Jaemin!” You swing at his shoulder at a strength you knew damn well he wouldn’t even feel, “You think you’re funny sneaking up on me like that?”

“Yes,” Jaemin shrugs, “Misusing the database I see…” His eyes narrow at you, brow raising. Then, he smirks and pokes at your rib, “Stalking your boyfriend.”

“Shut up,” you quickly exit the application and pull up Jaemin’s minesweeper game, “He’s not my boyfriend… Acting like you don’t do the same shit with other gym goers…”

“I don’t see why you can’t just walk up to him and talk to him,” Jaemin sighs, “He’s still here, you know.”

“He is?”

“Awww your eyes lit up!” Jaemin teases, diabolically sticking a finger in your face.

You threaten him again, which Jaemin completely disregards out of spite.

“But tell me why he’s been coming to the gym more often when you’re not here,” Jaemin, like you, was quite familiar with Jeno’s routines, “Did you do something that would force the poor guy to change his routine all of a sudden? Sometimes he wakes up at ass o’clock to get his workout done.”

Your mind reels back to your last interaction. Playing back each and every second and overanalyzing each and every word that left your mouth that afternoon. Yeah, you probably did but you don’t want to think that you’ve scared Jeno away.

“I don’t think so?”

“‘I don’t think so?’” Jaemin mocks, “Writing ‘liar’ on your forehead would be more subtle than whatever the hell that was.” He pauses his game and decides to fix all his attention onto you, “Now spill.”

“I really don’t know, okay?” you groan, “Last time I spoke to him, I zoned out and I missed what he was saying and then he left and he didn’t even choose to repeat it or anything.”

Jaemin narrows his eyes at you, almost as if he’s lost all hope in his very good friend and coworker, “Y/N, did you not just graduate with a master’s?”

Your brows meet, “Huh? What do you mean?”

He mutters a dumbass under his breath, which completely flies past your head. “Nothing.” Jaemin smirks subtly, turning away to leave in hopes that you don’t ask any further questions.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Jaemin gets flashbacks to his mom, “Uhhhhhhh, there?” The man points to nowhere in particular before taking off.

“Na Jaemin!” You call out. Your voice echoes through the gym and you groan, slumping against the desk before accepting defeat—because what did Jaemin mean? Was he calling you stupid or something?

Not even five minutes pass when you hear Jaemin’s voice boom over the speakers, “Y/N, you’re needed in your office. Y/N, you’re needed in your office.”

You look over to Jaemin’s office and shoot him a look that could kill. And again, Jaemin ignores your threat, grinning menacingly before he waves cause he knows he’s pissing you off. You’ve never grown used to this man’s attitude, but it doesn’t mean you don’t adore it.

Logging off the computer, you let out a huff and pad your way past the exercise machines and into your office. And from all that you were expecting, you sure as hell weren’t expecting to find a very worn out Jeno, the hem of his tank sprinkled in faint drops of blood.

“Jeno?” You don’t even try to mask your worry, fast-walking straight to him before you guide (practically tugging) him to the medical bed, “What happened? Are you okay?”

An annoying and almost spiteful grin shyly appears on Jeno’s lips before he turns his palms up for you to see. His hands were covered in blisters, some popped and others brand new. They looked extremely painful to even look at.

“Fuck,” you mutter, “Didn’t I say not to overwork yourself that one time?” You turn your back to Jeno and begin gathering all the supplies you need to treat his blisters. You’re rambling under your breath, words unrecognizable from where you’ve sat Jeno down.

Your heart’s beating out of your chest, mostly because this is the first time you’ve seen Jeno in a while. But to add his injuries on top of that? You’re certainly not sure how you’re keeping composure.

Meanwhile, Jeno really can’t do much but watch you move from one corner of the room to the other. He wants to get up and help, but by the way an eleven forms in between your brows, he’s reluctant to even say anything.

It’s funny because despite how aggressive you’re handling all the supplies, the second you make contact with his wrist, your demeanor changes, suddenly shifting to be more gentler. You hold his hands as if you were holding a newborn, delicately rotating them to understand what had to be treated.

“If it hurts, tell me,” you say quietly, “Actually don’t. I’m mad at you right now.”

Jeno’s head tilts to the side like a confused puppy. Then he finally says, “Mad at me?”

“Yes,” you grab a sheet of gauze and begin wiping away at Jeno’s palm, dabbing carefully when it comes to the blisters, “I’m mad at you.”

“Why?”

“This is why you need a break.” You ignore his question, grab new gauze and continue wiping away the new and old blood that’s accumulated in his palms. “Jeno, I know you like it here, but your body needs rest, too.”

A response sits at the tip of Jeno’s tongue and he’s not sure whether or not he should tell you. The last time he decided to take a step out of his comfort zone, you didn’t even hear him.

Does he want to try that again?

You spray his palms with disinfectant before applying some ointment to help them heal faster. At this point, you hadn’t done as much as looked up to make eye contact with the man.

“But..” Big step. “But this is the only place that I get to see you.”

What the fuck?

You hope Jeno doesn’t notice the way you freeze for a burning second before you try to play it off by grabbing long bandages. It’s a good thing he can’t see the way your heart is beating erratically—and you’re hoping he doesn’t hear it, too.

“You can literally see me wherever you want if you just asked,” you say nonchalantly, voice quiet, “But instead you resort to…” You stop yourself from speaking any further, unsure if you would even want Jeno knowing that you had suspicions of him pulling fake injuries out of his ass to make excuses to see you.

“I’m not even sure if you’d even agree to it,” Jeno confesses, “I like… I really like talking to you but—“

“But what?” You slowly begin wrapping the bandage around his wrist, making your way up to his palm.

Jeno can’t help but whisper, “You don’t seem to like me as much as I wished.”

You hold back a giggle. Jeno’s always so accidentally cute and he doesn’t even know it. It’s literally pissing you off that a man you’re fake-mad at is doing absolutely nothing to earn your affection, yet here he was, doing just that. “You don’t know that.”

“I do know that,” Jeno counters.

“No, you don’t,” you ping-pong back. The bandage crosses between his fingers and you manage to finish wrapping the bandage around his palm.

“I do.”

“Did you ask me?” You gulp, because at this point you’re afraid where this conversation was going.

“Well, do you like me?”

You move onto his other hand, grabbing another roll of the long bandage. You could feel the atmosphere in the room begin to shift and now you’re beginning to sweat in your light sweater.

“I do.”

Jeno clears his throat, “In the way I like you?” You groan. Of course he’d say that. It was a valid follow up question, simply because your answer could very much cover that broad spectrum of like.

You ask, “How do you like me?”

Jeno takes a moment to think about his answer, watching as you start replicating your work from his other hand, “I honestly… think it’s obvious how I like you.” “Mmm,” you hum. At this point you’re teasing him on purpose, “How so?”

“I make myself look like a fool when it comes to you,” Jeno huffs, “Ice? Heat packs? Who am I kidding…” Jeno scoots back in his seat and you follow, practically falling between his knees from the way he’s sitting. “Every time I come here looking for you, that’s when I gain the confidence to finally ask you out… well not always out but maybe for your number or just simply talk to you or something. I wanted to be friends and then more if it went well…”

Your movements slow, attention failing to even do a decent job at bandaging.

“But, when I finally reach this room and see you? It’s like I lose all that confidence and it’s stuffed in the bag with the ice you give me,” Jeno explains. “I’m even lucky enough that I can finish my sentences around you…”

You blink at his injured palm and the realization dawns on you. So this was what Jaemin was hinting at, “And that last time… you asked me out and—”

“And you didn’t hear me,” Jeno finishes, “And I couldn’t for the life of me repeat what I asked because my confidence plummeted and then the fear of rejection kicked in.”

Your hands have since halted, cradling Jeno’s hand as you try to calculate your next move. It’s now clear as day that Jeno has feelings for you, and you’ve slowly been coming to terms with yourself that you care a little too much about Jeno than a normal person should.

“Ask me now.”

“What?” Jeno practically jumps, startled and confused.

You drop the bandage roll and lightly tighten your grip around his hand. Looking up, you find that Jeno’s gaze has already been sitting and waiting for your own to meet his. You clarify, “Ask me what you asked then, now. This time, I’m listening.”

The reassurance from you lifts some weight off of Jeno’s shoulders, ones he didn’t know even existed. Then, he fixes his composure, moistens his lips and finally says, “Would you–um–like to go out for dinner with me?”

“My answer then and now are the same,” you smile down at your feet, suddenly feeling shy under his gaze, “I would really love to.”

Eyebrows reaching for his hairline, Jeno’s eyes widened, “Wait, really?”

“Really,” You nod. And although you try to look anywhere else in the room, Jeno’s eyes capture your eyes once again, holding them there for a few skips of your heartbeat.

You clear your throat and let out a breathy laugh, “Haha so um… let me just—“ You hastily pick up the bandage roll and return to your work.

It doesn’t take much longer before you finish, concealing and protecting his injuries under the bandages. “Now that you’ve got me, promise me you won’t overwork yourself like this?”

“I’ve… got you?” Jeno’s cheeks heat up at your choice of words, the shift between the both of you being so evident now that he’s experiencing a weird case of whiplash.

“Shut up,” you mumble, “Just promise me. I don’t wanna have to keep worrying about you getting hurt.”

Jeno laughs, completely enamoured at your own flustered state.

“Yeah, yeah… I promise.”

802 notes · View notes

106alibi · 7 months ago

Text

good graces ; lee jeno

pairing: boxer!jeno x magazine-editor!reader

synopsis: y/n knows she's petty. so when she found out her (secret) celebrity boyfriend of a year had been cheating on her, through a news article to make things worse, she decided to cook up an action plan to get back at him, and what better way to take revenge than to get together with his all-time favourite athlete?

or, in which y/n involves an unsuspecting lee jeno into her little revenge scheme on her now ex-boyfriend.

ib: good graces, sabrina carpenter

featuring: haewon of nmixx, kazuha of lesserafim, ningning of aespa, 00z of nct dream, (side chars.) natty of kiss of life, jake of enhypen

genre: humour, fluff, angst (maybe)

disclaimers: fem pronouns for y/n, will give disclaimers for individual chapters if I see fit!, mentions of cheating, profanities, kms/kys jokes, inappropriate themes and jokes

notes: need to preface and say I love jake i love jake i love jake i love natty i love natty i love natty

status: ongoing (061124)

updates: every wednesday

taglist: open~ drop a reply or ask to be added!

a/n: letting this marinate before i start it from mid to end november! i have high hopes for this one and i hope you give jeno lots of love because there is a serious jeno smau drought on this app 💔💔 if you want me to tag you when the profiles/prologue drops just send a reply or an ask too! love you all 💜💜

profiles 24/7 on the bowl | protected by jeno squad

chapters

chapter 00. prologue

chapter 01. LIKE P IN THE V??

chapter 02. umm uhh O.K!

chapter 03. clout chaser

chapter 04. rookie mistake

chapter 05. I think she's flirting (written)

chapter 06. a girl can't smile in 2024 without flirting?

chapter 07. Awkward!

chapter 08. soft launch

chapter 09. bad luck (written)

chapter 10. atrociously negative rizz

chapter 11. nonchalant kween

chapter 12. taemin sunbaenim

chapter 13. sweet talk

chapter 14. cucumber shreds

chapter 15. pretty

chapter 16. just a friend

chapter 17. use me

chapter 18. guilty?

chapter 19. not before I do

2K notes · View notes

handlemehyuck · 5 months ago

Text

take what you need from me . lee jeno

・❥・ cockwarming (reader falls asleep during) + light fingering 18+ mdni fluff, stress relief, jeno x female reader 1.2k

thinking about cockwarming with boyfriend jeno, and its presence in your nighttime routine—the hints he receives in texts throughout the day, and that’s how this all started: your stress.

one evening, the energy that joined your arrival back home weighed down your shoulders, clouded your gaze, and kept your lips in a tight line when you approached your boyfriend after kicking off your shoes. so he took your hand, led you to your bedroom, and started undressing. every article of clothing shed enhanced the light in your eyes, straightening your posture with intrigue. when he was naked and perched on the edge of your bed, his fingertips flicked the buttons of your blouse, “may i?” the permission was easy—immediate, and he began undressing you slowly, taking his time, each movement made with care; there was no need to rush. once you were naked too, he leaned forward to kiss the stripe of skin beneath your breasts, squeezing your waist as the gentle ministration started the heavy task of clearing your head.

“i want to try something.” you watched with curiosity and awe as jeno pushed himself back until he was leaning against the headboard, muscles flexing, slivers of sunshine brushing his skin in a perfect glow. your lips parted at the sight, instinctually moving forward and taking his outstretched hand. you knew what this was. you had mentioned it before, when you were on his lap in the living room. it was a sunday night, serenity in the air and you half-dressed after a shower. he didn’t bat an eye, said you should try it while tracing your delicate lines of ink, wondered aloud if you already had. only a couple of times. with the wrong person, but a seed of something was still planted: closeness—a complete union.

your knees sink into the mattress, distance closing as you approach his waist, cock hard against his taut stomach, but his eyes are gentle and soft. jeno smiles at you, something reassuring as your legs widen to accommodate the width of his thighs. a guiding hand placed on your hips as you sink down.

the stretch is familiar. his hands on your thighs are warm. your locked gazes send a chill down your spine. for a moment, all you do is watch each other, feeling his length exactly where you want it, loving the warm buzz of need but knowing you won’t give in. you tilt your head, eyes closing as the waves of sweet euphoria lap at the edges of your mind, begging for a total flood. jeno draws you closer. your chests collide. your head dips, lips meeting his skin, grazing his neck, and sucking your favorite spot behind his ear—the place that always pulls a delicious sound from his lips. his strong arms hold you in a soft possession, fingertips kneading over your shoulders and down your back, searching for the spot that wakes you up in the middle of the night.

the feeling of your body going slack in his arms is electrifying because jeno knows what it means—how significant it is to be trusted completely, reminded of a moment so early on it feels like a lifetime ago when he told you: take what you need from me. he remembers the surprise that shifted your features. it widened your eyes, parted your lips, and warmed your cheeks. in that moment, his words meant a million things. neither one of you could know exactly where they’d begin and where they’d end, if anywhere at all. in the moments you feel like you’re taking too much, all jeno experiences is satisfaction and safety in your heart as the man you decided was worth letting in, letting yourself be known by, letting yourself connect with, and fall and tumble into something so intertwined you don’t doubt it’s cosmic.

jeno knows you’ve fallen asleep and readjusts himself ever so slightly, propping up another pillow behind him before closing his own eyes to focus on the rise and fall of your chest. the beat he feels against his own is recognized by his heart, and his breath matches yours.

you wake up to the sound of your name mumbled against your skin, an apologetic tone. “baby, i’m so sorry. i’ve got to piss.”

you hum, amused and start to lift yourself, but jeno stops you, catching you in a blissful kiss. his thumb teases the side of your breast, hardening your nipples. no fair. when he pulls away, you kiss his nose and finally disconnect with a sigh. one that melts into his own.

he’s still taking his time, and you lay propped up on your side to admire all of his solid lines, finding the soft and round places with ease. “are you sure you have to pee?”

“my leg’s asleep.” his smile is lazy, eyes shrinking to crescents. a light laughter follows, spilling a similar glow to the sun’s throughout your bedroom, its light gone until morning.

“should i stab it with a pen?” his expression sends you into giggles, and you settle for gentle squeezes along his quad muscle. “not my jen, i could never.” you fall onto your stomach and pepper kisses just above his knee. “better?” jeno hums, encouraging you to keep going.

you kiss his body until jeno stops you, groaning about the damn bathroom again, knowing his hard on will create an unfortunate struggle. “don’t go anywhere.” like you ever would.

you coo loudly, embarrassing him as he waddles through your closet and into the attached bath. “shut up!”

you turn to lay flat on your back, drawing a fingertip up your abdomen and through the valley between your breasts, completely immersed in euphoria. “don’t you dare come back in here without washing your hands.”

“who do you think i am?” the faucet turns on for a full 30 seconds - yes, you count them - before your boyfriend is back and standing over your body. he admires you: the curves he’d recognize with his eyes closed, your blissful expression, the swell of your chest, faint bruises from the weekend decorating your hip. “should we make love, baby?”

“please,” his thumb traces your lips, and you watch his face with wide eyes, eager not to miss a thing.

“you always ask so nicely, doll.”

“jen,” you moan as he pops his thumb into your mouth. your tongue circles it on instinct, satisfied, he draws it out. “please don’t make me wait.”

“i wasn’t going to,” he kisses your nose and then your forehead. sinking into the mattress, his knees entrap you this time. his thumb is coated in your saliva, not that he needs the help—your folds are already soaked. “mmm, always ready for me too.”

“you make it easy, jen.” you squirm beneath him, close to steering his thumb exactly where you need it.

he’s being playful, knowing there’s hours ahead of this, and you’ll be orgasmic until the sun rises. it’s one of the reasons why he has a thing about middle of the night lovemaking. he can only see so much of you in the moonlight. the shadows are exciting, lines of light find you in the lewdest places. but, his favorite part is watching you clarify—his love all over you as the sun stretches and yawns before you’re completely coated in light. light that sticks to your swollen lips, messy hair, bruised skin, the place where your bodies intertwine, his hand around your neck, your eyelids fluttering when his name is the only thing left to say because you know it makes him cum.

#jeno smut #jeno blurbs #jeno imagines #jeno fluff #jeno scenarios #jeno reactions #jeno drabbles #jeno x reader #jeno x you #nct smut #nct imagines #nct fluff

1K notes · View notes

hyuckiestarz · 2 months ago

Text

falling for your classmate nerd!jeno

an; im not feeling this but i spent way too much time on it not to post :-)

masterlist

#nct dream x reader #nct dream texts #nct dream fake texts #nct dream imagines #nct texts #lee jeno texts #jeno imagines #jeno x reader #nerd jeno #lee jeno x reader #jeno x you #nct dream reactions

986 notes · View notes

nerdlvr · 9 months ago

Text

nerd!jeno was dead set on staying a virgin. school first and then girls. he saw what pussy did to his friends, their grades plummeting immediately after losing their virginities. pussy could wait, school couldn't.

that's why he was more than confused as to how he ended up in this position. you were hovering over his bare lap, his flannel shirt unbuttoned revealing his toned chest, your clothes somewhere on the floor. you reached in between your legs to hold his length slowly sliding his flushed tip along your folds. jeno gulped,

"you said just the tip, right?"

you leaned forward to peck his lips, reassuring him with your sweet smile,

"yes jen, just the tip, promise, we can stop if you want."

he shook his head quickly, how could he pass up this opportunity? it's not like he was losing his virginity anyways, it doesn't count if it's just the tip. after this he could go back to his studies, and you would go back to- well, wherever you came from, out of sight out of mind.

your free hand held onto his shoulder, keeping yourself steading as you slowly sunk down, making sure to not go too far. a hiss from jeno made you look up, his brows were scrunched together, lip trapped in between his teeth as his eyes focused in on where you two connected. his hands came up to your hips, helping you slightly bounce.

"shitttt, y/n, you're so wet, oh my- is that normal?"

he was referring to the squelching noise coming from in between your legs, your juices running down jeno's length. your cheeks flushed at his question, hiding your face in his neck.

"yeah, it's um, i'm just, i'm really turned on, sorry."

you slowed your bouncing, suddenly aware of the wetness in between your legs, not wanting to make too much noise. he let out a groan at the loss of friction, his grip on your hips tightened as he held you in place, his hips jutting up to fuck you instead.

"no, no it's hot, you're hot, don't hide, let me see you pretty."

you removed your face from his neck to look at him. his cheeks were flushed, sweat building on his hairline, his glasses slightly fogged up from the heat between you two. why was this virgin nerd getting you so worked up just with his tip?

"jen, can we, can we maybe go a bit further? it'll feel a lot better."

he didn't even process your question before he was bottoming out, pulling your hips flush against his, head kissing your cervix. you clenched around him moaning at the sudden fullness,

"jen, oh my-fuck, feel s' full, how are you so big?"

he groaned at the question, feeling how your pussy squeezed around him, you were so warm, so wet, and so tight.

jeno now understood that grades could wait, pussy couldn't.

just the tip trope makes me feral.

request and image inspo from my cutie moot here !!

pt.2

#jji lee #nct #nct dream #nct imagines #jeno smut #jeno imagines #lee jeno #nct jeno #🐶#nct smut #nct dream smut #nerd!jeno #request

4K notes · View notes

luumiinaa · 2 days ago

Text

WHAT A RIDE IT’S BEEN WITH THIS SERIES 😭🫶🏼 the end is here, and they’ve all come such a long way !

back to you — eleven (two)

pairing - lee jeno x reader

word count - 117k words… split between two posts

genre - smut, fluff, angst, enemies to lovers

synopsis — you and jeno have gone through the world and back—torn apart by grief, rebuilt through love, shattered by circumstance, stitched together by choice. from false promises to wedding vows, betrayal to forgiveness, you’ve weathered heartbreak, distance, desire, and the brutal unraveling of who you thought you were, burning through every version of yourselves just to find your way back to you. but with a baby blooming beneath your ribs and everything you once only dreamed of now resting in your hands, the question remains, can the future you built from ashes survive the gravity of the past? or will the path that always led you home begin to blur now that you’ve finally arrived?

listen to 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 whilst reading <3

𝐅𝐈𝐂 𝐌𝐋

previous, 58k words

Light pools against the pale tile, brushing gold up the walls and over your bare knees, as if morning itself wants to bless this hush. A curtain flutters, the breeze pulling salt and jasmine from the world outside, the frangipani petals scattered in a winding trail that Ryujin insisted would keep away bad luck and bad dreams. The bedroom is charged with quiet, with something deeper than anticipation, an almost sacred expectancy, like the minutes before a storm or the space between the inhale and the prayer. Jeno’s hoodie is a weight on your shoulders, the sleeves too long and smelling of cedar and him, a soft anchor against the tremble in your hands. Last night stretched and folded over itself, all shallow sleep and half-dreams, the ache of absence sharp each time you rolled over to find only the echo of him. Tradition, you’d both agreed, no glimpses before vows, no breaking the line between now and forever. You count the hours by his hoodie, by the ache in your ribs, by the number of times you turned your face into the pillow, whispering promises only the moon heard.

The dress waits in the corner, a slip of white and ivory on its form, catching light like a secret too precious to name. Each time you glance at it, your chest tightens; it isn’t just fabric, but memory woven with hope, years and arguments and forgiveness threaded through silk and lace. Everything feels impossibly close to the surface. In the mirror, your own reflection looks back, barefaced, eyes rimmed with sleepless anticipation, every line and scar familiar. You trace the edge of your jaw, remember the way Jeno once did, thumb brushing away a tear you didn’t let fall. The silence of the room is a balm and a razor, letting memories flicker: his hand on your door, the low burn of his gaze, the mornings you woke without him, the night he finally came home. Every bruise and every blessing alive beneath your skin.

You find yourself tucked away in a hidden nook of the villa’s gardens, the world hushed and new. Sunlight filters through a lattice of palm leaves, dappling the rough-hewn table where breakfast has been laid out. fresh fruit still dewy, slices of dragon fruit arranged into tiny pink petals, honey pooling beside torn hunks of warm bread, white china catching the glimmer of the day. The air smells of sweet grass and strong coffee; everything else is held at bay, at least for a while.

You’re ringed by softness, every seat filled with a woman who’s carried you here in some way: Karina in cloud-blue linen, her knees tucked up, dark hair twisted loose, grinning at some memory only she could conjure. Areum, already in laughter, camera beside her plate, cheeks smudged with the kind of easy blush that only comes from being exactly where you belong. Ryujin, half awake, sharp-eyed and gentle, refilling everyone’s cup before you notice yours is empty. Ningning, slippers on, hair wild, feet curled under her, launching into a story so outlandish it makes everyone’s shoulders shake with quiet giggles.

There’s a bright, honeyed intimacy to it, your knees brushing under the table, hands reaching to butter each other’s bread, fingers plucking fruit and offering bites. They talk around you, letting you drift, weaving you into the fabric of the morning with every nudge and glance. “You look like a dream,” Areum says, squeezing your hand; Karina teases her for getting sentimental, flicking a grape into her mouth and missing by inches. Ningning demands a preview of the vows, Ryujin insists on a group selfie, and you just smile, half here, half swept up in the enormity of what’s waiting just beyond the garden wall.

You barely eat—nerves fluttering in your stomach, appetite lost to the rise and swell of feeling—but they don’t let you drift too far. Karina presses her shoulder to yours, warmth a quiet shield. Ryujin braids your hair as you sit, her fingers nimble, voice low, whispering, “Don’t worry, your crown’s already waiting.” Areum snaps a photo and holds it up for you to see: four women, sunlight tangled in their lashes, love so visible you almost look away. For a moment, nothing else exists. just you and these women, in a sun-drenched corner of the world, holding the morning close, letting it soften every sharp thing that ever threatened to break you. You don’t say much, just smile and watch and breathe, soaking in the hush before the world tips forward. It’s enough. Here, at this table, you remember what it is to be held.

When you return to your room, you realise it’s already time. The air is already soft and electric with anticipation, the air perfumed with gardenia and the faintest tang of hot curling irons, your skin tingling with nerves and hope. There’s a hum of voices, the gentle clatter of hair pins against crystal trays, laughter spilling low and bright across the room. Yet beneath it all, something sacred vibrates: the sensation that today, you will be entirely, unforgettably seen.

The makeup artist, world-renowned, flown in from Paris for this one morning, stands in the window’s golden halo, palettes and pots arranged in a painter’s careful order, hands moving with the grace of ritual. Her touch is featherlight, her words few and soft; she studies your face as if searching for the spirit beneath your skin, mapping the lines and hollows that belong to you alone. She dusts the faintest shimmer across your lids, luminous but never gaudy, coaxing out the hidden gold in your eyes. The brush tip traces over your cheekbones, sculpting with a tenderness that makes you want to close your eyes and just surrender, let her see you, make you beautiful, reveal the best of yourself.

She asks if you want to wear your signature reddish brown lipstick or something softer. You picture Jeno’s mouth, the way it curves when he teases you, the way his thumb always finds your lower lip in every kiss. You choose a shade a breath deeper than rose, romantic, a little daring, quietly defiant. When she leans back, she hums, pleased with the result: flushed, glowing, ethereal, every color a secret code meant only for the one who loves you best.

Your hair stylist is renowned for transforming simple beauty into spectacle, but this morning, in the hush of your villa suite, her genius feels almost invisible, as if she’s conjuring magic from air. She gathers your hair with careful, reverent hands, smoothing each strand until it glows with a light all its own. There’s no rush, only ritual: a soft cream massaged through the ends, her touch so gentle it feels like a benediction, and then she lifts and parts, weaving the length of your hair into a delicate, half-up style that leaves the rest to tumble in loose, glossy waves down your back.

Pearl pins, small and opaline, are tucked with surgical precision through the crown and along the length, catching the light every time you move. A few wispy strands are left out at your temples and jaw, curling softly to frame your face in that angelic, artless way—nothing forced, everything luminous, as if the Bali sun itself is blessing you. She tucks in a pair of silk butterflies at the back, almost hidden among the dark ripples, each one a nod to Haeun’s favorite hair detail, an intimate touch only the two of you will recognize in photos. Your neck and shoulders are bare, every angle clean, ethereal, designed for the veil that she settles into place last of all, sheer and pale as sea-foam, flowing in a single perfect line from your crown to the small of your back. It’s a style made for metamorphosis: later tonight, she’ll let it all down in gentle, sweeping waves, a transformation for the after party, but for now, every lock is sculpted to cradle your veil, your posture, and the secret gleam in your eyes as you prepare to walk toward the rest of your life.

As your hair settles into its final shape, Karina appears—no longer just your best friend but a legend in her own right, celebrated in every fashion capital for her impossible eye and fearless hands. She glides into the room, swathed in silk and confidence, a small velvet box in her palm. She opens it and you see earrings, real antique diamonds and pearls, no two quite the same, dangling from hooks as delicate as a spider’s web. “These are yours now,” she says quietly, fastening them in your ears herself. “Just for you.”

The dress waits behind a lacquered screen, its silhouette haloed by the morning sun, a vision of grandeur and seduction. When you step out of your robe, the air shifts; even your friends hush as you approach. Three pairs of hands guide you in, the silk and lace folding around your body in a slow embrace, every seam tailored to your form. The bodice is snug, sculpting your waist, every panel pressing perfectly along your ribs, your curves celebrated and defined beneath the intricate embroidery. The dress is luminous, silk overlaid with the most delicate French lace, the color just off-white, kissed by moonlight, each motif glinting as you move. The neckline is a soft sweep, bare at the collarbones, shoulders revealed, the sleeves just a wisp of illusion, enough to make the entire look feel enchanted. The skirt fans out from your hips in gossamer waves, swirling around you as you breathe, the hem rippling in the light, every step promising drama, luxury, and spectacle. There’s nothing simple or shy here, the dress claims you, marks you as the star, every eye destined to follow the curve of your back and the shimmer at your waist. It’s a masterwork, expensive, eccentric, impossible to look away from, and when the last button is fastened, the room falls silent, as if even time must pause to watch you transform.

Areum brings a glass of water to your lips and you take small sips, acutely aware of every moment, every sound, the tick of the clock, the hush that falls as you turn to the mirror for the first time. You see not just a bride, but every version of yourself layered under the silk: the girl who ached, the woman who chose, the lover who came back. Karina stands at your shoulder, one hand gentle on your spine, her eyes shining with pride and something older, deeper, a knowledge of all the battles you’ve fought to stand here, beautiful and beloved.

As the last pins are set and the final touches given, you think of Jeno. You picture him pacing in some distant room, hands restless, jaw tight, heart already running to meet you at the altar. You imagine the way his eyes will widen, the slow, shattered smile when he finally sees you, the way his whole body will tilt toward yours like gravity. You imagine his hands, careful with the lace, reverent with the work of your friend, of your world, the two of you made new together under a sky full of vows.

Someone opens the door and a warm, sweet breeze stirs the hem of your dress. You stand, heart hammering, sunlight woven through every thread, hair gleaming, lips trembling. The women who love you gather close, pressing kisses to your cheeks, blessing every inch of you before you step out of the room and into forever. The day stretches before you, bright and soft and spun from the hands of women who know you, remade for a love that will carry you home.

Jaemin’s knuckles rap softly at the bridal suite, his voice a mix of exhaustion and affection. “Take her—please,” he begs, eyes crinkling with the sleeplessness only a parent can know. “She’s been babbling since dawn. I swear she’s recited your entire guest list by heart. I haven’t slept.” Haeun, still bouncing in his arms, hears the chorus of women and wriggles free, tumbling into the room like a sunbeam let loose. The air itself seems to change when she enters, every woman drawn toward her, a constellation tilting on its axis.

Haeun steps into the room clutching her little hat, eyes wide as moons and cheeks still rosy from sleep. For a heartbeat, she just stands there, frozen, lips parted, the world narrowing to the sight of you in your dress. Her fingers flutter to her mouth, soft and hesitant, as if she can hardly believe what she’s seeing. Those velvet-brown eyes, so round and bright, sweep up and down your dress, taking in every shimmer and detail. You kneel to her level, and for a moment she doesn’t speak, only blinks in wonder, her chest rising with a held breath.

Then, all at once, her voice spills out, high and awestruck: “So pwetty! You a real pwincess!” The words tumble over each other in a squeak, her hands pressing her cheeks as if she might burst from the sheer joy. Her face is alive with pure love, eyes glassy, lashes damp, her mouth trembling with a smile too big for her tiny face. She stumbles forward on tiptoes, arms open, landing in your lap with a breathless sigh, still staring at you like she’s seen something magical.

You can feel her awe in every beat, the heavy, golden weight of being someone’s fairytale come true. The room hushes for a moment, every woman’s heart swelling at the sight, and it’s Areum who sniffles first, voice watery as she whispers, “I can’t, she’s too much.” Karina blinks back tears, Ryujin and Ningning clutching each other as Haeun buries her little face in your neck and whispers, “Love you, you da most pwetty ever.”

You press your lips to her hair, the scent of her all warm milk and sweet sleep, fighting desperately not to cry and ruin Karina’s masterpiece. Your throat aches with it—all that love, all that history, so you squeeze Haeun tighter and manage to whisper, “I love you even more, princess. More than all the stars.” Your voice wobbles with unshed tears, but you hold on, blinking fast, determined to keep every shimmer of mascara in place for the aisle. Haeun, still beaming, cups your cheeks with both hands, utterly convinced, and peppers your face with sticky, balm-scented kisses until you’re both giggling, one heart beating across two generations, woven together by awe, laughter, and the softest, most golden kind of love.

Haeun becomes the epicenter of the morning, a tiny sun orbited by women who have spent their lives learning to be strong and now melt, helpless, at every one of her giggles. The minute Jaemin nudges her into the suite, all sleep-mussed and bright-eyed, a chorus of delighted gasps and coos rises up; Karina abandons a last-minute seam, Areum nearly drops her camera, Ryujin claps her hands, and Ningning actually scoops Haeun up and twirls her, crowning her “the real princess of Bali.” For a moment, it’s impossible to tell who’s more devoted, their laughter spills over each other, every woman desperate to be the first to brush her hair, buckle her shoes, adjust the satin ribbon at her waist.

Ningning, meticulous and gentle, orchestrates the “princess prep” with the gravity of a state event, kneeling in the pool of morning sunlight as she smooths Haeun’s dress over her shoulders and closes each pearl button with reverence. Ryujin gently taps her nose, coaxing a shy, sleepy giggle as she fastens the sandals, daisies shining at each tiny buckle, before letting Haeun twirl for the mirror, ribbons flying. Areum hovers, camera poised, breath held for the moment the dress catches the light.

Haeun pads over to you, her dress swirling around her ankles, cheeks pink and eyes wide with awe. She stands before you, tilting her head up, then raises a chubby hand to point at your hair. “Your butterfwies so pwetty,” she murmurs, the ‘r’ melting away into the purest baby softness. You catch her meaning at once, her wonder, her hope, and smile, scooping her into your lap so she can see herself beside you in the mirror. “Do you want butterflies too, beautiful?” you ask, and she nods so fiercely her hair ribbons wobble.

You rummage in the bridal box, fingers closing over the delicate, pearly butterfly clips you’d saved for just this kind of magic. One by one, you slide them into her glossy curls, careful and slow, arranging each with reverence. Haeun sits as still as a storybook doll, breath held, lips pursed in concentration as you fasten the last wing. When you’re done, she twists around, the butterflies gleaming like tiny stars in her hair, soft waves tumbling down her back, the light catching every detail. She squeals, giddy and proud, turning this way and that, and for a moment, it feels as if all the joy in the world has been distilled into the gentle glow of her reflection and the warmth of your arms around her.

Haeun’s cheeks are already flushed with happiness, her mouth sticky with breakfast jam. Haeun squints up with wide, solemn eyes, as if the world has gone very still. Then she grins, a gap-toothed, sunbeam smile, tilts her chin, and turns to all of you, hands clutching the dress at her chest. “I pwetty?” she breathes, barely above a whisper, shy pride trembling in her voice.

It’s pandemonium, Areum lunges in to snap a hundred photos, Ryujin claps, Ningning squeals and swings her in a circle, all while you struggle not to cry, every instinct wanting to gather her into your lap and promise her she’s magic itself. Haeun, delighted and overwhelmed, hides her face in her hands, peeking through her fingers before dashing into your arms, all warm baby weight and giddy laughter. In your embrace, you kiss her hair, holding back tears, and murmur, “I love you more than anything, princess. More than all the stars.”

She babbles about her “pwitty dwess,” smearing your cheek with lip balm she’s pilfered from your vanity, until you both collapse in a fit of giggles—her innocence and joy a blessing, a bright, pure thread weaving the morning together, tying every heart in the room to hers. Haeun insists on her own “makeup.” She grabs your lip balm, twisting the tube with determined little fingers, and with Ningning’s guidance, smears it across her lips and mostly her chin, proud as a queen. “Like Auntie,” she announces. The girls break into delighted laughter, snapping photos as Haeun beams, chin glistening, eyes shining with accomplishment.

Jaemin reappears just as Haeun, butterflies fluttering in her hair, leans in close to the mirror, pursing her lips and pressing soft kisses onto her own reflection. Her tiny palms squeak against the glass, her face pure adoration, lost in her own world of wonder. The instant Jaemin steps over the threshold, his eyes skip over every grown-up in the room, finding his daughter as if the rest of the world never existed. His whole face changes; something fragile and sunlit cracks open in his expression.

He crouches low, arms outstretched, and calls softly, “There’s my beautiful, pretty princess—look at you, baby, did you grow wings while I was gone?” Haeun’s eyes light up, round as moons, and she spins with a delighted gasp, butterflies bobbing in her hair. She stumbles right into his waiting arms, giggling as he lifts her off the ground and peppers kisses across both her cheeks, his voice melting into the curve of her neck. “How did you get so pwetty, huh?” he whispers, and Haeun, hands bracing each side of his face, presses their noses together.

“I like my butterfwies,” she tells him, lips soft and earnest, “Auntie made me pwetty like her!” Jaemin smiles so wide it’s almost a laugh, closing his eyes to feel her tiny hands cupping his jaw, the two of them tangled together in a slow, private orbit.

He kisses her nose, once, twice, making her squeal, and murmurs, “You’re my most special girl. Daddy’s lucky charm. You know that?”

She nods, solemn as a saint, then breaks into giggles and kisses his cheeks right back, leaving a sticky little patch of lip balm on his skin. “Love you, Daddy!” she crows, looping her arms around his neck as if she’ll never let go. Areum catches it all, lens raised in reverence, capturing a frame that glows with the hush of a father’s pride and a little girl’s dream—their world pressed close, radiant and untouched, sealed into memory by the miracle of the morning.

Later, as the hush of morning thickens and you’re still drying Haeun’s giggles from your collar, Ryujin appears at the edge of the bridal suite doorway, holding a slip of creamy stationery pinched between her fingers as if it’s some ancient talisman. Her eyes are solemn, lips pursed with the weight of the mission. “Special delivery,” she whispers, pressing the letter into your palm, the envelope is soft, the tiniest gold ribbon tied in a bow, the wax seal bearing the imprint of Jeno’s initial, still faintly warm. Inside, the world narrows to the curve of his handwriting: memories poured out in ink, the script uneven in places where he pressed too hard, each word an invocation of your past—the rain-soaked confessions, the late-night arguments, the way your laugh once cracked his armor, every ordinary day that became holy just because it was shared. He writes about fear, about all the ways he failed and every promise he’s bent himself to keep, lines like, ‘I’ll learn you new every morning. I’ll build a thousand tomorrows and hand you every one.’ It ends with a single vow, written small and sure: See you at the end of the aisle. You always were the finish line.

Your hands shake as you read, tears stinging the corners of your vision, and you press the page to your lips, breathing in the scent of his cologne that lingers there. And while Haeun twirls in her new dress, you scribble your own letter, smaller, a few lines fierce with hope and forgiveness, a little heart where your signature would be. You tuck it inside the collar of Jeno’s suit, where Mark, steady and silent, finds it while fixing Jeno’s tie and simply smiles, understanding the language of second chances without needing a single word more.

There’s a hush at the door, a little knock, hesitant and sweet. Haeun appears, her curls still glinting with stray butterflies, holding a tiny glass bottle balanced in both careful hands. Her brow is pinched with pure concentration, lips pursed in a mimic of Jaemin’s warning: “Daddy say don’t drop,” she announces, so solemn she almost looks stern. Haeun is the kind of child who only needs to be told a rule once; she guards the bottle like a relic, her arms stiff and determined as she crosses the suite, all the women melting around her, every eye fixed on her tiny, important mission.

She pauses at your knees, lifts her chin, and proclaims, “Uncle Nono say he make this for you, Auntie. Make you smell pwetty for Uncle Nono!” She thrusts the bottle up, pride shining in her eyes, and you reach down to take it, catching the glint of pale gold liquid within. You uncap it, draw in a cautious breath, and gasp, notes of white gardenia, soft musk, sun-warmed bergamot, and something rare and blue-lavender, the scent you wore when Jeno first fell in love with you, the one discontinued the year you left Seoul, gone from every shelf in the world.

It’s impossible, but as you glance up, you see Jaemin at the door, grinning at your wonder. “He tracked down every last bottle, made calls to the perfumer, even sent a sample to a lab in Paris to have it recreated. I think he bought the rights. It’s been in his suitcase for months, waiting.” Haeun watches you breathe it in, her face filled with awe and devotion, and you crush her to your heart, whispering gratitude into her hair. The scent lingers on your wrists, your collarbones, spun around you like armor and prayer, and you know, when you walk down the aisle, every step will trail the story of a love that refused to vanish, even when the world tried to erase it.

Down in the breezy kitchen nook, Shotaro has claimed a whole marble counter for what he solemnly calls his “wedding day spa.” Bottles of polish gleam beside him, pearls, golds, subtle shimmer, one tiny pot labeled “fairy dust” in a looping black marker. Shotaro is still dabbing at his eyes with the hem of his T-shirt, sniffling between every coat of paint, but he soldiers on. Anyone who wanders past gets the full treatment, whether they planned for it or not, Karina gets an iridescent crescent moon on her pinky, Ningning giggles as he paints a pale blue butterfly near her cuticle, and Areum’s thumb is dusted with glitter so fine it catches every beam of Bali light. Even Chenle, smirking and rolling his eyes, gets cornered for one gold-tipped thumb before Jaemin rescues him, muttering about “upholding family dignity.”

It’s Coach Suh, of all people, who garners the most attention. Shotaro snags him during breakfast, brandishing a nail file and a bottle of clear polish with unflinching authority. “Coach, it’s good luck,” Shotaro insists, already buffing his thumbnail, tears streaming all the while. Suh only grunts, but when the first hand is done, he lifts it to the light, nodding with a gravity that says he’s coaching destiny itself. In between applications, Shotaro wipes his nose, sighs, and declares, “I have never seen this many beautiful hands in my life,” and the kitchen fills with laughter, every glint of gold and every glossy nail a memory in the making.

Beneath a sky bruised gold and indigo, the world sharpens—every sense vivid, almost too alive. The altar rises out of the lawn like a memory you might have dreamt: driftwood arches twined with orchids and wild jasmine, woven so thickly with flowers it looks as if the island itself has bent close to listen. Each chair glows in the late sunlight, upholstered in the softest cornflower silk, set in crescent-shaped rows, a tide drawing everyone closer to the heart of what’s about to unfold.

There’s a hush you can taste, electric and heavy, as though the air is threaded with gold wire. Frangipani petals gather in small, deliberate drifts along the path, scattered with the care of an old blessing. You catch the faint glint of bowls set on low tables, water reflecting sky, each one cupping a floating candle, each flame a promise, each reflecting a door into something old, something sacred. The altar table is veiled in ivory silk, the breeze turning its edge into a pale river, while garlands of jasmine and trembling eucalyptus spill from the corners in wild, fragrant abundance.

Your father stands at your side, his hand trembling just once before settling into strength. Haeun waits ahead, flower basket held in both fists, hair shining under a crown of real daisies, every inch of her quivering with the secret energy of children on the verge of magic. The string quartet’s first notes drift through the hush, low and liminal, the melody curling up from the garden’s edge as if the song has always lived in the soil, waiting for this moment. Even the birds seem to hush their wings, the world pausing just long enough for you to feel the axis tilt, every guest’s face turned to the path, every breath drawn in, every heart counting the beat before wonder.

Hidden in the jasmine garlands, small paper butterflies, each hand-cut and dipped in gold leaf by Karina and Haeun the night before, cling to the branches and flutter in the soft wind, so lifelike they blur the boundary between real and make-believe. Beyond the altar, a trio of Balinese musicians waits in silence, their shadowy instruments glinting in the blue-gold dusk, and somewhere a wind chime sings from the villa’s eaves, the notes strange and sweet and oddly hopeful.

The aisle itself is not a simple path, but a living ribbon of petals, white, soft blue, pale yellow, even a few violet blooms hidden in the mix, a spectrum of every morning you and Jeno ever woke up longing for each other. Lanterns, heavy with cutwork patterns, hang from low boughs and cast delicate constellations onto every guest’s skin. Between the seats, small vases cradle stems of frangipani and wild grass, as if someone plucked the sunrise and left it there for luck.

You glimpse Ryujin adjusting the edge of your veil just beyond the hedge, her voice soft as she reassures Haeun, who bounces on tiptoe, cheeks full of nervous anticipation. Shotaro wipes at his eyes already, pressed flower in his jacket pocket. Irene, behind a row of orchids, leans close to Doyoung, their fingers tangled under the seat. Somewhere further off, Jaemin and baby Haeun’s intern snap photos of everything, capturing this kaleidoscope of fleeting light and trembling beauty.

A butterfly, impossibly white, lands on the edge of your bouquet just as your father squeezes your hand; you can almost believe it’s a sign from every ancestor who ever hoped you’d find joy. The villa windows glitter in the distance, wreathed in vines, and you catch the faintest scent of rain on the wind, promise and benediction in equal measure. Jeno stands at the altar now—hidden, held out of sight by a curve in the path and the lush drift of wisteria, the air trembling between you with the ache of two compass needles about to find true north. You can’t see him, he can’t see you, but you both know: this is the last breath before the world begins again. It’s not reality, not quite. More a fever dream, a crossing from one life into another, the whole island bright with the kind of impossible clarity that only happens once, a threshold suspended in salt air, flower-laced light, and the tremor of your heart just before the beginning.

Haeun doesn’t wait for the cue—she feels it, something in the hush, the subtle tremble of everyone’s hope pressing in around her. She’s luminous at the edge of the aisle, cheeks glistening like halved peaches, eyes so bright they might outshine the gold-flecked petals quivering in her basket. When the music breathes, she inhales with it, then steps out, small and solemn, her shadow stitched perfectly into the ribbons Jeno and Jaemin laid for her the night before, each one a secret handshake, a silent promise that she is seen.

Butterflies spiral in lazy loops above her head, real and not, sunlight painted onto wings and threads, gold, lemon-yellow and cream, dipping low enough for her to reach and wave, a little queen blessing her subjects. Along her path, Jeno’s handiwork gleams: glass jars with dandelion wishes, paper daisies, tiny wind-chimes that barely murmur when she passes. Haeun moves slow, but not hesitant, each step is a ceremony, a careful planting of joy, her lips parted, her nose wrinkling in concentration as she pinches each petal, flicks it into the air, watches it spin down like a secret only she can translate. She grins at every small miracle: a ladybug landing on her sleeve, a butterfly that hovers as if to listen, the delighted gasp from Ryujin who is already half in tears.

Her dress flutters, a cloud around her knees, pale and impossible, her hair glinting in the sunlight, ribbons trembling with each step. But there is no falter in Haeun, not today. She walks as if she’s been practicing for this her whole life, chin lifted, shoulders back, the surety of a tiny queen who knows her power. Each petal she throws is a gift, pinched between careful fingers, scattered with a baby’s precision, her lips parted in a breathless, delighted grin. Every few paces, she remembers to pause and beam at the crowd, dimples carved deep as she soaks in her moment, all eyes drinking her in like the first day of spring.

She doesn’t rush, doesn’t hide, each step is as steady as a promise kept, and when her eyes land on Jaemin at the altar, tears already shining in his lashes, she throws a petal extra high, as if to reach him, then blows him a kiss with both hands. He melts right there, his hand over his heart, pride and awe cracking his composure. Haeun giggles, cheeks round and pink, and with every swing of her basket, you see the memory of her practice, the confidence of a little girl who knows she is loved and shining in her own right. She makes her way forward, confidence and innocence braided together, and when she finally reaches the end of her golden path, she spins once—just for the joy of it—and plants her basket, bowing her head with all the ceremony of a storybook princess on parade, and the garden blooms with applause.

She pauses only once, right at the end, turns in her sandals to wave at you, her voice bubbling out—soft, certain, “I’m doing it, Auntie!”—and the spell she weaves in that moment settles like silk over every heart in the garden. The whole world narrows to her, the smallest star in a constellation spun just for today, walking her own golden road into legend.

Haeun pauses at the front, the garden a hush of sunlight and eyes, her cheeks dimpling with pride. Jeno crouches, arms open, and as she tumbles into him he catches her up with a whisper, his voice pitched so low only she hears it, words soft as spun sugar. “You made the whole world prettier, princess. I’ve never been prouder.” She giggles, eyes sparkling, and he presses a lingering kiss to her forehead, smoothing a stray ribbon back from her brow. With gentle hands, he takes the empty petal basket from her, her little fingers reluctant to let go until he promises to keep it safe. Then, with a tilt of his head, Jeno murmurs, “Go on, baby. Uncle Shotaro needs a cuddle more than anyone,” and she beams, skipping down the aisle, hair flying, straight into Shotaro’s lap. He’s already sobbing behind his sunglasses, arms wide, scooping her up as she snuggles close, her laughter and kisses turning the whole front row into a little haven of joy before the vows even begin.

Your father’s palm is weather-worn, sure, thumb mapping slow infinities over your knuckles as if he might press this moment into the grooves of his skin. Heat collects in the soft dip of your collarbones; the silk lining of the dress sluices over your ribs with every shallow breath, whispering its own private litany. Somewhere behind you, sandals scuff the volcanic flagstones, old rock gritting under new shoes, blending with the ghost of his aftershave: cedar, salt wind, and the plumeria that keeps falling from the trees like quiet applause.

The stones underfoot are ancient, volcanic, slick and dark, veined with molten threads that snare and scatter the sunlight in trembling arcs. Haeun’s careful footsteps have left a constellation behind: rose petals and wildflowers scattered thick atop a delicate film of water, every bloom bright as a wish. As you follow, the petals swirl and tremble, floating in glassy ripples, doubling the garden and sky in the mirrored surface, so each step sends color blooming across the liquid light. Plumeria tumble down in slow spirals, their perfume curling over water and skin, collecting in the crook of your arm and catching in your hair, heavy as a blessing.

Above, a tumble of butterflies. some real, some so delicate they could be silk. rides the soft current, their wings flickering in and out of sunlight, trailing after Haeun’s small parade, weaving her innocence into your every stride. The hush of the crowd is absolute, a garden holding its breath; music swells low and distant, almost a memory, as petals and water combine beneath your feet to create the illusion you’re walking on a living river of color, every flower a promise, every reflection a dream. Light threads itself through the veil, turns lace to spun sugar, flickers off your skin and glances down the aisle, making you the bright, impossible answer at the end of a child’s fairytale path, a woman walking, radiant, into forever. Two white butterflies wobble ahead, sketching invisible runes in the air, escorting you as if they know the geography of beginnings.

Your veil tugs lightly at your crown, sheer and endless, a waterfall of tulle and memory, catching the wind and shimmering with each careful movement. The world narrows and expands all at once. Faces flicker on either side, blurred watercolors: Nari’s sunlit grin, Sohee swallowing laughter and tears, your mother radiant and shining, a moon in full. Mark and Areum, their hands woven tight. Karina’s mouth shapes the word “yours”—silent, sure. Farther off, Haeun’s laughter skips along the marble, a golden thread weaving childhood straight into the fabric of this day.

Your father stands solid at your side, his arm a quiet anchor, warm and steady as you both linger at the threshold. His breath stirs the fine hairs near your temple; he doesn’t say a word, but the promise of his love hums in every heartbeat between you. When you step forward together, the hush that falls is total, a held breath, an altar’s hush, every eye in the world fixed on the slip of white lace and devotion unfurling down the aisle. Sunlight pools at your feet, scattering glints along the path as your dress shivers and skims the ancient stone, and the hush grows heavy, textured with awe and the sharp, sweet gasp of a dozen hearts all breaking open at once. You catch fragments, your mother’s trembling hands pressed to her mouth, a stifled sob, the gentle tilt of Mark’s chin as he blinks too fast. The silence is so thick you can hear the smallest things: your father’s thumb tracing comfort against your knuckles, the soft rasp of your gown, the tremble in your own breath. Each step is a note in a song only you and your father remember, your presence moving through the air like a benediction, every eye drawn forward, every whisper stilled, as you move toward everything you ever wanted—waiting, breathless, at the end of the aisle.

Your eyes find Jeno, and the world dissolves, everything blurs at the edges, colors smudged by sunlight and the shimmer of your veil, until there is nothing but the burn of his gaze. He stands at the altar, spine straight but every muscle thrumming with need, his shoulders filling out a bespoke ivory jacket spun with barely-there threads of silver, Karina’s secret nod to the lace at your wrists. The lapels are satin, shaped clean and sharp, accentuating the width of his chest, the dark navy of his shirt open at the throat, just enough to show the delicate chain you once fastened there yourself.

The suit hugs every line of him: trousers tailored to perfection, the fabric catching at his hips, draping over strong thighs. Cufflinks glint at his wrists, small and discreet, carved in the shape of your initials entwined, a secret only you both know. His hands are folded, knuckles pale, the veins on the backs visible, betraying a tension so naked it makes your heart race. His hair is swept back, glossy in the sun, a single strand escaping to brush his forehead, just messy enough to remind you that he is yours, formality slipping beneath the surface of want.

His jaw flexes as you approach, lips parted, chest rising fast. There’s a flush high on his cheeks, eyes locked to you and only you, every breath a silent prayer. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and you see the way his gaze drops, hungry, desperate, already undressing you with every slow step you take. His eyes are molten, worshipful, tracking every sway of your body, the way your dress molds to your waist, the rise and fall of your breath beneath the delicate lace.

You watch his pupils dilate, his hands twitch. he wants to touch, to claim, to pull you in and never let you go. When you reach the halfway mark, a shudder travels through his frame, so naked in its devotion that you feel your whole body spark in response. You are his gravity and he is your storm, your souls colliding across a field of light and witness. The music swells, but you don’t hear it. All you hear is the silence between heartbeats, the words he will whisper later in the dark, the promise in the way he looks at you now, like he’s starving, like you’re holy, like there is nothing else left in the world but this aisle and the hunger written across his face.

Your father lets you go slowly, his thumb lingering at your knuckles for a final heartbeat before he steps back, eyes shimmering, mouth gentle with pride and bittersweet love. There’s a shimmer to his smile, equal parts pride, grief, and hope, a look only a father can give a daughter on the day he hands her heart to someone else. The moment your fingers slip free, Jeno’s hand is there, closing over yours with a quiet urgency that says mine, always. You feel it in the soft heat of his palm, the steadiness of his grip, the vow that hums under his skin. Your father meets Jeno’s eyes, giving a small, quiet nod, an unspoken promise passed from one protector to another. Jeno answers with a subtle bow of his head, jaw set with all the devotion he’s carried for you, silent but clear: I’ll keep her safe, I’ll love her for every day to come. Tears slip down your father’s cheeks, glinting in the sunlight, and Jeno holds your gaze, drinking you in as if he’s waited his whole life for this exact moment. You feel seen, claimed, beloved, his thumb stroking softly at your wrist, grounding you, every nerve alight with something sacred. The garden hushes around you, petals stirring in a gentle breeze, and in this quiet, the world feels remade for just the two of you, the future sealed between your joined hands, steady, bright, and unbreakable.

The world melts away, narrowed to the warmth of his palm against yours and the hush of breath between you. Jeno’s thumb skims slow circles over your knuckles, his gaze locked on yours, heavy with disbelief and want. When he says your name it’s more exhale than word, as if he needs to taste it just to ground himself. You lean in, close enough to see the wonder trembling in his eyes, to feel the tremor of nerves and devotion shivering in both your chests.

“Hi,” you breathe, your smile small and wild, the sound spinning out between laughter and tears.

He’s wordless for a moment, caught, lips parting as he just looks at you, hungry, grateful, so soft you feel your knees wobble. “God, you’re beautiful,” he manages at last, voice barely a whisper. “I—there’s no word. I’ve never seen anything like you.”

You laugh, breath shivering, and press your forehead to his for half a heartbeat, letting your eyes close, feeling his lips graze your temple. “You make it so easy to love you,” you murmur, your thumb brushing his jaw. His fingers tighten on yours, reverent, eyes shimmering with that reckless, full-bodied love that only he has for you.

He draws your hand up, slow, eyes never leaving yours as he kisses the inside of your wrist, soft, savoring, a secret promise just for you. You both laugh, nerves colliding with giddiness, and for that suspended moment, there’s no audience, no script, only the echo of his heart racing against your own.

The hush deepens, thick as honey, as you and Jeno stand together in the quiet center of the world. The soft music that swelled when you began your walk now ebbs into the background, its melody a pulse beneath the silence, nothing but the hush of leaves, the faint trickle of water, and the slow, reverent sweep of your breath meeting him. Somewhere between your feet and the altar, butterflies—real ones, their wings pale and flickering as if they were made of light—drift through the sunbeams, spiraling between petals and trailing a trail of quiet awe behind them.

Every seat fades to shadow, all eyes wet or wide, but none as bright as the man before you. For a suspended second, it’s just your heartbeat and his thumb tracing slow circles on your skin, and you both feel the magnitude of now, the years that led to this inhale, the sheer gravity of being seen and chosen. There’s a tremor in the air, gratitude and disbelief, ancient longing finally made real. The officiator’s voice enters gently, careful not to break the spell. He welcomes everyone, his words a soft thread weaving through the hush: “We are gathered here, on this luminous day, to witness not only a wedding, but the return of two souls who have wandered every road back to each other. Today, we celebrate a promise, one written into every heartbeat, every ordinary morning and extraordinary storm that led us here. Let us hold this moment with the reverence it deserves.”

Every seat blurs to watercolor, faces awash with tears, pride, a trembling hush that settles like dust over the crowd, but none of it matters, not when you’re held so completely by the man before you, your hands joined, your breath caught between memory and promise. Jeno’s thumb draws circles into your pulse, a silent vow, and the world condenses to the heat of his gaze, the hope lining his mouth, the hush that blooms between your joined hearts. And then, the officiant’s voice threads through the stillness, gentle but firm: “If there is anyone present who knows a reason why these two should not be joined in marriage, speak now or forever hold your peace.” The words drift, weighty, almost ceremonial, and for a heartbeat time lurches.

You feel it before you see it. the shift in the crowd, the way the breeze catches on the nape of your neck, the subtle drawing of breath to your left. Yangyang’s eyes meet yours for the first time since his arrival, and there is something unreadable in them: old ache, devotion, a storm of feeling that belongs to another life. For a moment, his body tenses, the faintest suggestion that he might stand. a phantom movement, a ripple at the edge of now. Your heart hammers as the garden stills, the moment stretched thin as silk. But then, Yangyang’s lips curve, slow, sad and sweet, and he shakes his head with a softness only you can read. He stays seated, hands folded in his lap, and instead of objection, he gives you a look of unwavering support, a silent blessing, the kind only an old friend could offer. The spell breaks; you exhale, the knot in your chest loosening. Jeno squeezes your hand, sensing the shift, his eyes never leaving yours.

The officiant waits a beat, lets the silence settle, and then, gracefully, moves on, his voice like a current: “Then let us continue, and let this union be sealed by love and witnessed by all.” And just like that, the day carries forward, no shadow left behind, the path clear for every vow and every beginning still to come. The officiant nods, the wind settles, and suddenly it’s only you and him in the hush, standing on the bright seam between everything you have survived and everything you we have yet to claim.

“Jeno, the truth is, I found you insufferable at first. You were the last person I wanted to be around. We spent a lifetime growing up together, mostly ignoring each other, sometimes outright disliking each other. You were loud, cocky, too certain of yourself. Every time you walked into a room, it felt like the whole world had to rearrange itself around you, and I hated that, how easily you belonged, how you made me feel like an outsider in my own story.”

I had every excuse to watch you, I told myself it was just the project, the analysis, the endless hours cataloguing your stats, your routines, your stubborn refusal to lose even when the world stacked itself against you. I convinced myself I was being methodical, objective, nothing more than a scholar’s eye tracing patterns on a screen. But there is a thin, perilous line between observant and obsessed, a line I crossed so quietly I didn’t notice until it was far behind me. Somewhere in the sleepless middle of the term, you became the pulse behind every number, the heat in every page of notes. I started waking with your habits braided into mine, your voice echoing between my ribs, your laugh threading through the days like a secret only I could keep. You slipped into my bloodstream, easy as oxygen, and suddenly I was living for the next fleeting glimpse of you, your hand at the small of my back as we left a lecture hall, the arch of your brow when you made me smile despite myself, the promise in the hush between every word. Wanting you wasn’t a choice; it was a gravity, an ache, a wild, feverish certainty. You became the research and the answer, the constant and the variable, the question I was never meant to solve but could never, ever put down.

It wasn’t one moment, it was a thousand. I fell for you every time you let the world believe you were made of steel, but tucked my cold hands into your jacket pockets when you thought no one was watching. I loved you for your stubbornness, your ridiculous optimism in the face of everything we lost, for the way you held the weight of your own mistakes and never flinched from mine. You listened to my worst fears like they were prayers, you made me laugh when my heart was threadbare and tight. You taught me forgiveness by earning it. You let me unravel in front of you, not just once, but over and over, every fight, every silent night, every goodbye we swore would be the last. And you came back. Always, always, you came back. And even in the years we lost, those long, lonely seasons when our names were only echoes and every sunrise felt further from you, I kept your memory folded in the quietest part of me. Four years apart could have been an ending, but somehow, every day without you became a lesson in waiting, a proof that love can hold its breath and survive, only to come home softer, braver, more certain than before.

There’s a kind of love that’s easy, but that’s not us. I love you because we’ve been broken together, because you made the pieces fit again, different, new and shining in ways I never could have imagined. I love you for the fire, for the quiet, for every time you held me when I was unlovable, for every promise you whispered into my hair, for every silent morning you woke up and still chose me, even when I couldn’t choose myself.

So I stand here, in front of everyone who ever mattered, and promise you this: I will love you in all the ways that count and most of the ones that don’t. I promise to meet you in the hallway with a kiss every morning, to cheer louder than anyone in the stands, to make our home a place where you can lay every burden down. I vow to forgive you quickly, to fight fair, to listen when you’re tired and hold you closer when you’re quiet. I promise to trace every scar, every line, every new chapter you grow into, and to keep choosing you, even when life unravels, even when love feels more like work than wonder. I will raise our child beside you, eyes open and hands steady, and I’ll carry your heart in every secret pocket of mine, faithful, fierce, and unashamed. Whatever storms come, I’ll be your shelter. Whatever years pass, I’ll be your home.

You are every soft landing I never thought I’d get. You’re the reason my future feels like possibility, not punishment. When I look at you, I see home, messy, loud, real, unfinished, but fiercely ours. I love you for the man you are now, for the boy I once couldn’t stand, for the husband you’re about to become. I love you because you taught me that a life can break and heal and still be worth everything. I promise I’ll never run from us. I promise I’ll fight for every day, every quiet hour, every sunrise and argument and child’s laugh we get. I’ll love you through all of it, because there’s no version of this world where I don’t choose you, again and again, until I have no voice left to say it. And you know my heart by now, but you should hear it once more: I choose you. Today, tomorrow, and every impossible, ordinary, perfect day that waits for us after this.”

The vows settle over the garden like a spell, time slows, every face in the crowd flickering with tears, wonder, laughter, disbelief at just how much can be carried in a single promise. Mark’s hand finds Areum’s, knuckles bone-white, both of them grinning wetly, his chest rising on a sigh of pride that only a brother could know. Areum presses her camera to her heart, breathless, lens fogged with emotion. Irene dabs her eyes, mouth trembling at the softness she once wished for her own daughter; Seulgi’s arm is a fortress around her waist, both of them sharing a glance that says: they found it, after all. Doyoung’s jaw is tight, blinking fast, the eternal skeptic undone by the way forgiveness can sound like prayer.

Shotaro, shoulders shaking, holds Haeun in his lap, unable to hide the river of tears that just keep coming. Haeun’s head rests against his shoulder, but her eyes never leave you, she blows a clumsy kiss with both hands, whispering, “I wuv you!” at the top of her lungs, and Jaemin, beside Jeno, laughs through his tears, holding the rings tight. Even Chenle and Ningning are uncharacteristically silent, palms pressed together, as if memorizing a moment they’ll talk about for years.

And then, at the very center, Jeno, chest heaving, eyes glistening, lips parted in disbelief at the magnitude of being loved like this. The crowd dissolves for him; it’s just you, the echo of your voice still buzzing in his ribs, his own vows swelling to meet yours, and the sense that the rest of his life has already begun. In every direction, the world is bright with witness, but for one breathless moment, it’s only the two of you, anchored, undivided, awake.

Jeno’s hands shake faintly as he draws in a breath, the card with his vows trembling between his fingers. He glances out at the crowd, at Mark’s barely disguised sniffling, at his mother’s proud, shining eyes, at the sunlight caught in the petals drifting all the way to his shoes. But when he looks back at you, all that noise goes silent. He presses a palm over his heart as if anchoring himself, lips parted around a breathless smile, gaze fixed on yours with a longing so raw it nearly unravels you both. The world recedes to a hush, a heartbeat, a promise on the verge of being spoken. He closes his eyes for a moment, steadying himself, and when he opens them again, there is nothing but you, every vow gathered on his tongue, every hope shining in his eyes as he begins and then—his voice finds you.

“You’re standing right here in front of me, but for a second, I can’t believe it’s real. I’ve tried a hundred times to imagine this, to picture your face in this light, wearing my ring, saying my name with that look in your eyes, but nothing ever felt this true—this terrifying, this good. It’s funny—if you’d told me when we were kids that we’d end up here, I would have called you crazy. We were always opposites, you and I. You were impossible, too smart for your own good, and just stubborn enough to make sure I never forgot it. Back then, you made everything a competition. Every quiz, every lap around the block, every pick-up game in the street. You drove me insane. All I remember is how much you hated losing to me, how your eyes would narrow across the court, how you’d chase me just to outrun me, how you made it your mission to show me that no trophy, no championship, no stupid victory would matter unless I’d earned your respect first. You never let me coast. You made me better, just by standing on the other side and refusing to be easy.

Somewhere along the line, something shifted. I can’t name the day, only the feeling. It was watching you drag your suitcase down the hallway after a fight, jaw set, eyes red, still refusing to let anyone help you. It was the way you could freeze me out for weeks but never once let me forget you were the only person whose opinion actually mattered. I started waiting for your voice in every room, waiting for your laughter, your love, the way you made even the quiet moments feel like winning. You got under my skin. You became my reason for getting better, every single day. I would have done anything to make you proud, and I still would.

You keep your guard up, but I see the way you carry everyone, how your love turns ordinary rooms into places where people actually want to stay. You remember the smallest things, birthdays, allergies, the dreams no one else would take seriously. You move through life with a kind of warmth that makes other people braver, and you fix things quietly, so the world works a little better wherever you are. No one tries like you, no one forgives like you, no one else gives away pieces of themselves just to make someone else whole. I spent so many years just wanting you to look my way, not realizing how lucky I was to live in a world you colored in. Even when you kept your distance, you made everything brighter, your laughter, your stubbornness, even the way you challenged me made my life fuller. I’m still in awe that I get to love you, that out of everyone, you chose me. There’s never been a day I haven’t known just how lucky I am.

I’ve spent the last few years learning the difference between wanting you and needing you. Wanting you was easy. Needing you scared the hell out of me. I had to lose you to learn what it meant to fight for you, to stand in the wreckage of my own mistakes and choose you, every time, even when I didn’t deserve to. There were days I thought I’d never get the chance. Nights I stared at the ceiling and replayed every word I wished I’d said. Four years of empty trophies, of standing in the spotlight and feeling the echo where you should’ve been. I used to believe love was something I had to win, one more point, one more fight, something earned with effort and grit. But you showed me it’s not about the scoreboard, it’s what happens after, when the stands are empty and it’s just us, sitting in the quiet. You taught me that real love is you in my arms at midnight, both of us exhausted, forgiving the rough edges, holding each other through the losses as much as the wins. With you, love is coming back to the same place every day, messy, unguarded, sometimes hurting, but always together, always choosing to stay. It’s in the soft mornings and the bad nights, in the laughter that fills every empty space, in every time you reach for my hand after I thought I’d lost you for good. You’re the reason I know what forever feels like, because no matter how hard the world gets, you are where I come home.

So here’s what I promise you. I promise to fight for you, even when the world feels too big or too loud or too hard. I promise to come home, always, even if it’s just to hold you through the storm. I swear to choose you, especially on the days when choosing is the hardest thing in the world. I promise to keep learning you: every version, every season, every heartbreak and every joy. I’ll be there when you want to run and when you’re brave enough to stay. I will always cheer you on, whether you’re winning or losing, because you’re my favourite story, my greatest achievement. I’ll be the man our child can look up to, the father who makes you feel safe, the partner who never lets you forget how rare and wanted you are. I’ll spend the rest of my life earning the right to be yours. You taught me what love looks like after the dust settles, what it sounds like in the quiet, what it feels like when it grows back stronger.

So yes, I choose you. In front of everyone who’s ever watched us break, everyone who’s held their breath waiting for us to find our way back to you. I choose you in every summer storm and sleepless night, in the hard silences and the quiet forgiveness, in the hope and the home we are making together, brick by stubborn brick. I choose you in this life and the next, in every universe, in every blink where reaching for your hand feels like coming up for air. Thank you for giving me a second chance to love you right. Thank you for being the finish line, and the reason I’ll keep running, every single day, no matter how far the road bends. You are my turning point, my gravity, the truth I keep circling back to no matter what the world throws at us. I love you more than words could ever carry. I’ll never stop trying to prove it, not with promises but with every day, every small, ordinary act. I am yours, in every way I know how to be, and in all the ways I’m still learning. This is my vow: whatever comes, whatever we face, I will always, always find my way back to you.”

The vows hang in the warm Bali air, bright as windchimes. There’s a hush, then the room ripples, breath drawn in, eyes glassy, hands pressed to lips. Mark is dabbing his face with Areum’s veil, Sohee’s already blotchy with tears, and Shotaro’s openly sobbing, clutching Haeun so tight she wriggles and plants a sleepy kiss on his jaw. Karina squeezes your shoulder, her knuckles white, while even Coach Suh looks away, overcome. But it’s you who feels the world slip, your throat closing around a rush of awe and disbelief, how does love survive like this, so bruised and bright, so new every time you speak it out loud? The words settle into your bones, twine through your ribs, and your hands tremble as you squeeze his, gazing up at Jeno as if you might never let go.

The officiant’s voice is gentle, reverent, soft as a closing prayer. “May we have the rings?” The world sharpens, all color and breath and the slow, holy movement of time. Rings appear, Jaemin presses Jeno’s into his palm with a grin so full of memories it nearly buckles you, while Karina slips yours into your hand, her own shaking, her eyes shining. The world closes in around the two of you: sunlight, water, the scent of sea-salt and gardenia, all threaded together with the silent hope of everyone who ever loved you. “These rings,” the officiant continues, “are circles with no end, just like the promise you make today.”

When the officiant’s words drift into silence, the whole world seems to contract around you, the heat of Bali thick on your skin, every sound sharpened, every color bright. The hush is total; you can feel the eyes of your loved ones, but you only see Jeno as he turns fully to you, holding your left hand in both of his, reverent, steady, like you’re made of glass and gold. He lifts your hand, thumb tracing the inside of your wrist, and you realize you are trembling, not from nerves, but from the certainty that every version of you—every scar, every mistake—is loved at this moment.

Jeno’s hands are gentle but sure as he slides the ring onto your finger, his breath a hush over your knuckles. He looks at you with so much awe and devotion you feel the world tilt, time stretching, every old ache dissolving under the light of now. His vows are whispered, but they reach all the way to your soul. “With this ring, I promise to meet every part of you with open hands and an open heart. I vow to hold space for your dreams, your doubts, your wildest wishes and quietest fears. I will make every day a reason to stay, every night a reason to thank the universe I get to love you. No matter how the years change us, no matter how far we go, I am yours, your champion, your shelter, your home. You are my finish line and my starting point, the reason I’ll never stop running back to you.”

He holds up his own hand for you, but before you slide the ring onto him, he lets his thumb rest in your palm, anchoring himself to this reality. Your voice comes out soft, but sure, each word falling like a petal: “With this ring, I give you my yes, my past, my future, every scar and every hope. I promise to grow alongside you, to let the years make us better, not bitter. I vow to be your home when the world is cold, your laughter when days are thin, your partner in every storm and every sunrise. You are my miracle, my constant, the story I never want to finish writing. I choose you, Jeno—no matter where life takes us, no matter what we face, I will always find my way back to you.”

You slide the ring onto his finger with slow, trembling care, your palm lingering over his, fingers threading between his knuckles until your hands tangle and anchor each other, skin to skin. His hand is warm, steady, callused in all the places you’ve come to know, but it feels suddenly brand new as your thumb strokes the strong line of his. For a moment, you just hold him, breaths mingling, heartbeats doubled, memorizing the shape of his hand in yours, how it fits, how it means belonging. Jeno’s thumb moves in gentle, endless circles at your pulse point, grounding you to the moment, his grip both protective and yielding. You squeeze his hand, feel the press of your rings side by side, a constellation mapped in gold. All around you, petals tumble through shafts of sun, catching in your hair and dusting his shoulders, but the world seems to blur into hush and warmth, all the noise dimming down to just this, your hands joined, vows sealed, the rest of your life held tight in his palm.

Sunlight fractures through the palms overhead, every shaft gilded and warm, weaving golden ribbons along the ancient volcanic stone. Each petal scattered beneath your feet glows with color, blue, ivory, hints of yellow, like blessings tossed by gentle hands, a trail spun from every yesterday that led you here. Your footsteps write new scripture on the path, silk brushing stone, your breath catching in the honeyed air. The world gathers close, time tightening into a single, crystalline instant, as if even the birdsong hushes to bear witness. Jeno’s hand finds yours, his palm cradling, anchoring, as if you are the only truth left in the world. There is a subtle tremor where your fingers meet, anticipation so sweet it vibrates in your bones, steady and reverent, the kind of touch that promises ‘always.’ The officiant’s words float on the morning breeze, threading through the hush that holds the crowd, every syllable softened by the hush of leaves and the shimmering expectancy in the air. There’s no question of readiness; the answer has lived for years in every glance and every reaching moment between you, blooming at last beneath these boughs, where love finds its voice and its vow.

The officiant’s voice glides through the warm hush, each syllable carried like incense on the sun-dappled air. “Do you, Y/N, choose Jeno to be your husband, your shelter, the hand you reach for at daybreak and in darkness, promising to stand with him through every wild season, every gentle morning, to meet him always with the fiercest courage you possess?”

The question floats into you, weaving through your ribs and unspooling in the hollow behind your heart, ancient and new at once. You turn—really turn—to face him, the world narrowing to the breath you share, to the charged devotion blazing out of his eyes. In that space between heartbeats, you see the map of everything you lost and found: all the aches, the nights you learned to hope again, every secret memory that lives only in your joining. Your answer is not just a word but an invocation, a blessing you pour back into his waiting hands, a truth threaded through your marrow. “I do,” you murmur, voice a silk thread spun from the deepest part of you, resonant and quiet as sunrise. The words settle on your tongue like honey, heavy with the gravity of all you’ve endured, sealing themselves into the living architecture of your bones, echoing: always, always, I choose you.

Jeno’s thumb circles your pulse, anchoring you both in the fever-bright hush of now, his hand steady where yours trembles. The officiant’s words bloom in the heavy air. “Jeno, do you take Y/N to be your wife, your home, your anchor and your wildest joy, vowing to love her with everything you have and all you are still learning to be?”

Jeno doesn’t pause or breathe. His gaze burns straight through you, fierce, infinite, soft as thunder. “I do.” The vow pours out of him, no room for doubt, a promise spoken from some place below language. His hand tightens around yours, as if anchoring both your souls to this single, irrevocable moment, his ‘yes’ so sure, it reverberates through the petals underfoot, through your bones, through every future you have yet to claim.

Time flattens into a hush so complete it feels like the garden itself is holding its breath, petals hovering mid-descent, sunlight suspended in molten ribbons across the aisle. Every face blurs into watercolor, every sound folds inward, until there is nothing but the raw, golden silence between you, your hands joined, your lifelines braided together, vows sealed not just in words but in the trembling certainty that this is forever, unrepeatable, entirely yours. The officiant’s voice becomes the pulse of the moment, resonant and gentle, woven with awe. “With every soul bearing witness, and all the threads of fate that brought you to this day, I pronounce you husband and wife. Jeno, you may lift the veil and claim your forever.”

Jeno’s fingers are steady as he reaches for your veil, and the hush of the crowd becomes a heartbeat, a living, trembling thing. He lifts the silk with a slow, trembling care, as if afraid the very air might bruise you. your faces close, breath mingling, and in that instant, it’s as if all the old years, the silence, the hunger and heartbreak, compress to a single point of gravity. Your eyes find each other, and the universe tilts, every color blooming between your lashes. Jeno’s gaze is unguarded and infinite, devotion rippling through him as his thumb sweeps your cheek. For a moment the garden dissolves, the aisle melts, and there is only this: the gravity of being seen, of being chosen, of being held open and holy in the eyes of the one who always finds his way back to you. The veil falls away, and so does the rest of the world.

The world seems to ignite, a flare of gold through leaves and water, the light scattering diamonds in your hair, painting your skin with an impossible glow. His eyes are the only anchor you have, wide and brimming with awe, so much love that you forget how to breathe. You gasp, not out of surprise but the sheer electricity of him seeing you, truly seeing you, no more secrets, nothing between you but promise and history and a thousand silent declarations. You watch his pupils flare, watch him drink you in like he’s waited lifetimes for this unveiling, and something reverent crackles between you, bigger than applause, bigger than all the years you spent getting here.

As Jeno’s hands sweep your veil away, the world blooms into riotous color and sound, fireworks ignite just beyond the treeline, showering the sky with gold and blush and indigo sparks that rain down like wishes. A hundred butterflies, released from their waiting cages, erupt in a living cloud, dancing through shafts of sunlight, their wings brushing your hair and shoulders, lighting the aisle in trembling, iridescent mosaics. The pool flashes with light, petals and confetti spinning on the breeze, catching on water and skin, ribbons unspooling from the arbor in a rush of silk and promise. Every guest rises, the hush breaking in a swell of applause and laughter and tears; Haeun squeals, her tiny hands flinging petals higher, while Mark and Areum cling to each other, overcome. Even the old volcanic stones seem to vibrate with blessing, the villa ringing with music as strings pick up the first notes of your song.

Jeno wastes not a second. His hands cradle your face, big and warm, thumbs stroking your jaw as if to memorize you all over again. He draws you forward, your bodies fitting together in a way that feels fated, inevitable, the silk of your dress bunching beneath his grip as he claims your mouth in a kiss that is nothing like a fairytale, hungry, desperate, unashamed. His lips part yours with a groan, his palm sliding to the nape of your neck, holding you right where he wants you, and you melt into him, fingers threading through his hair, wedding bouquet tumbling forgotten to the stones. He tilts your chin, deepening the kiss until time splinters, every lesson in longing and denial shattering into heat and wonder. You taste salt and sunlight, the rawness of his joy, the vow in every tangled breath. His hold is possessive, anchoring you to this moment, this altar, the fact of now. The guests disappear. There is only Jeno—his mouth and his hands and the wild, breathless certainty that this, at last, is home. When you finally pull apart, the world crashes back in, dizzy and bright, and you see the tremble in his mouth, the pure devotion in his eyes, as if he’s kissed you into forever.

And then, as if the first kiss simply unlocked something inevitable, you find yourself drawn together again—laughter shaking through your lips as Jeno dips you lower, kisses deepening, his hands greedy at your waist, the world blurring out and rushing back with every new brush of your mouth. Each time you surface for air, the crowd roars louder: Mark howling encouragement, Areum shrieking, Karina and Nari clapping, Ryujin and Ningning all but leaping from their seats. Your mother sobs behind her hands, your father finally letting go of his stoic restraint. The music swells, and even the officiant is grinning, dabbing his eyes as he gestures you onward.

But it’s Haeun’s joy that cracks the sky, she claps her hands so hard her flower crown slips sideways, squealing, “Kiss again! Kiss again, Auntie! More, Unca Nono!” Her voice ripples through the garden, and Jaemin scoops her up, twirling her in a ring of confetti and butterflies. Shotaro, already a waterfall, wipes his cheeks with the sleeve of his suit jacket and tries (and fails) to blink back fresh tears. The adults gather into their own little huddles, hands clasped, hearts pounding, every single soul tied to this miracle unfolding at the altar.

Still, at the center of it all, there is only you and Jeno. Loving him, kissing him, here in the wild, golden hush of forever, feels easier than breathing, simpler than memory, more necessary than the heartbeat drumming in your chest. He leans in, whispers something only for you, and you both laugh into each other’s mouths, the rest of your lives crackling at your fingertips. You hold him, and you know it down to your marrow, every journey, every wrong turn, every impossible day, every aching night: it all leads, always, back to you.

You move through the golden hush with Jeno’s hand fastened in yours, each step feathered with applause and laughter and the falling hush of petals that spin in the wake of your bodies. Your dress and veil catch sunlight in wild ripples, trailing promises behind you. The aisle is transformedc no longer just a corridor of stone and bloom, but a living river of joy, memory, and fresh hope, carrying you both forward through a thousand faces that built this day, through the breathless, cascading future. Your lungs ache from smiling; you lean into Jeno’s arm, both of you radiant, fever-bright, unable to stop touching, hearts galloping, skin fizzing with the madness of what you’ve just done.

And Haeun, at the heart of the aisle, waiting, unable to keep still, jumps up and down, sandals clapping, flower crown tumbling sideways, the bows in her braids bouncing as she shouts, “My turn! I wanna get married too! Auntie, Unca Nono, wait for me!” Her baby voice is clear as a bell and twice as contagious, rippling laughter through the crowd. Jaemin, swept up in the blur of it, scoops her in his arms and presses her tight to his chest, the glisten in his eyes betraying every hope and fear he’s ever harbored for this tiny, radiant girl. To everyone watching, he’s just a young father in love with his daughter, but inside, his heart seizes with dread, an old, private fear never fully banished by sun or laughter. He remembers every midnight she coughed so hard she turned blue, every long hour in white hospital corridors, the way doctors whispered around corners and called her strong for surviving, but never promised tomorrow.

As Haeun giggles, insisting she’ll marry Daddy one day, Jaemin presses a trembling kiss to her crown, panic hollowing him even in the middle of so much beauty. He prays—wordlessly, desperately—that she will outgrow her weakness, that this day will not be a memory he clings to in the face of loss. His arms tighten, fierce and soft, as if to keep her soul stitched to the world a little longer. If he’s honest, he knows, one day, he’ll have to let her go too, if she makes it that far. The darkness presses, a pulse of fear that colors every joy with ache. He closes his eyes, memorizing her heartbeat against him, whispering a promise into her hair: “Not for a long, long time, my angel. Stay, stay, stay, Daddy needs you.” Around them, the world surges with happiness, but that shadow never fully leaves, the knife’s edge that makes every new beginning so precious, so unbearably fragile, because love is always threatened by what might one day be taken away. And so Jaemin holds Haeun tighter, breathes her in, letting hope and dread mingle in his throat, trying—like all parents—to love fiercely enough to keep the darkness at bay, even if it’s only for today.

You glance to the left, where Mark, usually irreverent, always the stronghold. stands unguarded for once, mouth open, eyes overflowing, wiping away tears with the heel of his hand, his other arm slung around Areum’s waist for ballast. He isn’t embarrassed, not even when Karina teases him in a whisper, “Cry harder, Lee,” because he’s too full—too grateful—to care. Areum beams, capturing every second on her camera, framing the moment as if it could ever be contained.

Further back, Chenle leaps into Donghyuck’s arms in an exaggerated parody of romance, both of them nearly tumbling into a decorative urn, shouting, “We’re next!” and “You wish!” Their banter floats over the music, a much-needed flash of mischief that sends Nari and Sohee into fits of laughter, Sohee elbowing Nari with, “Can you believe we’re here?” Nari wipes her cheeks, “You mean the tears or the spectacle?” They cling to each other, childhood echoing in the way their fingers braid together.

Even Yangyang stands near the fringe, hands tucked in his pockets, the smile on his face unwavering but bittersweet, eyes following you with a glimmer of pride and sorrow and something resolute, a silent blessing that hurts in its gentleness. He nods at Jeno, and in that moment, all old rivalry softens into shared history. The sun warms your cheeks; the air tastes of salt, champagne, and coming storms. As you reach the end of the aisle, Jeno squeezes your hand, anchoring you in the din and the silence, and the crowd bends toward you as if pulled by gravity, each face a brushstroke in the painting of your happiness. Somewhere behind you, Haeun, still clutching Jaemin, yells, “Kiss again! When I’m big I marry you, Daddy!” and the garden bursts into fresh laughter, everyone drawn tighter together, love rippling outward, dizzy, endless, unstoppable. The day blooms, overripe and golden, carrying you, carrying all of them, ever forward, always, always back to you.

As the aisle spills into sunlight and the garden erupts in laughter and applause, you and Jeno pause, caught in the golden hush, the hush that follows miracles. He turns, cupping your face with both hands, his eyes glimmering, lashes wet, and presses his forehead to yours, breath mingling, a smile trembling between awe and disbelief. “One more,” he whispers, and then he kisses you, softer than the first, lips reverent and smiling, slow enough to feel the shape of every vow still echoing between your teeth.

Haeun bursts out of Jaemin’s arms before anyone can stop her, his cry caught between a laugh and a sob, he just wants to hold his baby close, the last shred of innocence he can keep in this riotous world, but he lets her go, pride and longing shining through his tears. She scrambles down the aisle, cheeks glowing, hair ribbons askew, gathering the last fistfuls of petals she forgot to scatter earlier, and tosses them in a jubilant arc at your feet. “Again! Again!” she demands, clapping her hands, hopping from foot to foot, a wildflower spirit blessing your way forward.

You and Jeno break apart, grinning, and without hesitation you both turn back in for another kiss. quick, giggly, helpless with joy, letting the crowd’s cheers and Haeun’s applause spin the moment into forever. Every kiss is a promise, a seal, a homecoming; every kiss is the beginning and the return. Your lips part at last, faces radiant and breathless, as you wrap an arm around Jeno’s waist and look up to the sky, your heart thundering with gratitude, because this is the love you get to choose, again and again, for all the days that follow.

She gazes up at you and Jeno, eyes huge with delight, and then looks squarely at Jeno. “My turn!” she pipes, earnest and commanding, so sweet you can’t help but laugh through your tears. Jeno bends, scooping her up in his arms, and she presses her lips to his cheek in a sticky, enthusiastic kiss. He plants a gentle kiss on her forehead, his hand cupping the back of her head, whispering, “Thank you, princess, we couldn’t have done it without you.”

You and Jeno share another kiss, quick, smiling, impossibly full, while Haeun giggles in the crook of his neck, the crowd’s joy swelling, Jaemin pressing a trembling hand to his heart as he watches his whole world glowing in the sun. Every kiss is a promise, a seal, a homecoming; every kiss is the beginning and the return. Your lips part at last, faces radiant and breathless, as you wrap an arm around Jeno’s waist and look up to the sky, your heart thundering with gratitude, because this is the love you get to choose, again and again, for all the days that follow.

This is what it feels like when the future begins.

You slip away to change while the garden blooms with music and laughter, and when you return, the world stops. Your second dress is bolder, skin-bared and shimmering, silk cut on the bias so it clings to every new curve, intricate beadwork scattered like constellations along the low neckline and slit that kisses your thigh. The back plunges to your waist, criss-crossed with delicate silver threads, catching the light with every step, while your hair falls in glossy, tousled waves, brushed loose from its earlier knot, pinned only with a single pearl comb. Your makeup is deeper now, smoky, glossy, the kind that turns every glance from Jeno molten. He’s changed, too, a few buttons undone on his crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled, tie abandoned, his throat bare and sun-bronzed, eyes tracing the line of your body with open worship. A single necklace gleams at your collarbone, Karina’s earrings catching candlelight, and as you join him on the floor, laughter rippling around you, you feel every inch like the bravest, most beautiful version of yourself, chosen and choosing, daring him to look away—even for a second.

The tables are set beneath strings of golden lanterns, each one casting little halos across glass and silverware, the scene stitched together by candlelight and the distant song of the surf. You and Jeno sit in the middle, your hands laced beneath the tablecloth, his thumb soothing lazy circles into your palm, steadying you both through the evening’s dazzle. To your right, Mark and Areum claim the closest seats, Mark’s arm flung over the back of her chair, laughter brimming even as his eyes stay damp with emotion. Karina, luminous in powder blue, sits with Ningning and Ryujin, her hands folded, always watching, always planning, her smile flickering like a secret. Jaemin is a few seats down, sharing a plate with Haeun, who’s nestled in his lap, her cheeks sticky with mango and the remnants of wedding cake, a little crown of daisies woven into her hair by Areum earlier.

Shotaro hovers between tables, offering bites of food to anyone too busy talking to eat, while Chenle, Donghyuck, and Seulgi are locked in a spirited debate about which dessert is best. Irene drifts from guest to guest, refilling glasses, eyes soft as she takes in the scene she helped create, her hands clasping Doyoung’s beneath the table when she thinks no one is watching. Your sisters, Nari and Sohee, are mid-laughter, teasing each other over the flower arrangements, while Coach Suh sits at the end, stoic and quiet, but with a rare smile, content to simply witness.

The feast is a riot of color and scent, platters of grilled seafood, tender roast duck, bowls of coconut rice and spiced vegetables, tropical fruits heaped in abundance, sweet rolls glossy with honey. Jeno’s fork nudges at your untouched plate and he leans in, voice low and teasing against the shell of your ear. “Baby’s probably hungry, eat,” he murmurs, the words rolling through you like silk.

You giggle, half-embarrassed, and Mark’s eyes narrow from beside you, his fork pausing mid-air. “Don’t tell me you two are already having secrets,” he jokes, but there’s a thread of tenderness beneath it.

Mark rises slowly, glass trembling between his fingers, the room falling into a hush that always seems to honor him, not for his presence but for the weight of everything he’s witnessed. He clears his throat, eyes flicking first to you, then to Jeno, and for a long, silent beat, you can see every year, the wild ones, the bruised ones, the ones that nearly broke you, etched in the lines around his smile. “You know,” he starts, voice already rough at the edges, “it took me a long time to figure out the two of you. My brother and my best friend, both holding two ends of my heart and, honestly, neither of you ever let me forget it.” His laugh is watery, vulnerable. “At first, I didn’t get it. I didn’t understand what kept you circling back to each other, why you’d always end up back in the same place, no matter how far you’d run. I thought maybe it was just habit—old history, shared memories, the kind of mess that’s hard to untangle. But it was more than that.”

He pauses, breath trembling as his gaze drifts down the table, eyes shining. “I think the moment I understood was one of those quiet nights, after a game, when nobody else was around. I looked over and there you were, Y/N, asleep with your head on Jeno’s shoulder, his hand covering yours like a vow. That was when I knew: it wasn’t about who you were then, but who you’d let each other become. You taught me that love isn’t a victory lap. It’s surviving four years of longing and silence, of ache and near-misses, and still choosing each other every time. I watched you both carry that weight, what you lost, what you nearly let go, and never stop hoping it might come back to you, different but true.”

His voice falters now, the ache surfacing, his smile breaking as he blinks hard. “You don’t get many moments like this in life, where you can honestly say you’ve never seen happiness this clear, this earned. I’ve never known a love like yours. It’s made me better, made all of us believe in something a little wilder, a little braver. I’m grateful, every day, to hold this much of your story. I love you, both of you. More than I can ever say.” He sets his glass down, and bends to kiss your cheek, his whisper barely audible: “Thank you for finding your way back. Thank you for loving him, and letting me love you both.” He straightens, eyes brimmed with tears, and for a moment the world is nothing but his brother, your best friend, your history, his blessing sealing the evening, his heart echoing every longing, every homecoming, every fragile, unbreakable thread that binds you to each other.

Karina stands, a little unsteady from champagne but radiant, the kind of confidence that comes from years of friendship and a hundred shared secrets. She lifts her glass, gaze bouncing between you and Jeno with a pride that feels like sunlight. “Let me just start by saying, Y/N, you’re the best person I know, and Jeno, you’re the other one. Seriously. The rest of us are just lucky to orbit your weird little planet.” She pauses, eyes misty, her voice catching as she leans into memory. “You know, people always say they hope their friends marry someone who deserves them. I don’t think that’s ever been a question with you two. You’re both reckless, brilliant and impossible, and you’ve carried each other through things most people would never survive, let alone forgive.” Her words wobble, and she dabs at her eyes with a linen napkin. “I’ve watched you two become the bravest, softest versions of yourselves, not because you had to, but because you chose to.”

She starts to laugh, shaking her head as if she can’t quite believe what she’s about to say. “I could tell a hundred stories, but oh god, remember that one night? It was just the three of us, a bottle of something very expensive, and,” You catch her eye and shake your head, a silent plea as you see exactly where this is headed, Karina’s cheeks are flushed, the champagne catching up to her, and she’s just tipsy enough for the word “threesome” to hover dangerously on her tongue. She catches your warning and bursts out laughing instead, the whole table following suit as you hide your face in your hands, mortified and delighted all at once. “Anyway, we had a lot of fun. I’ll leave the rest to your imaginations, before someone divorces before the honeymoon.”

Everyone laughs, the room a little lighter, your heart tighter with love. Karina regains herself, lowering her glass a little. “What I really want to say is, you two are proof that real love is wild, raw and messy. It’s friendship, and forgiveness, and making art out of the ordinary. I wish you years and years of it, a lifetime of love that surprises you, forgives you, and keeps coming back, no matter what.” She blows you a kiss, sinking back into her chair as you mouth thank you, cheeks hot, laughter trembling at the edges of your happiness.

Jaemin rises next, his usual composure softened by the golden glow of the evening and the gentle weight of Haeun cradled in his lap. He clears his throat, and you see the shimmer in his eyes before he even speaks. “I never thought I’d be standing here for this. You know, most of my life, I watched you both from a distance, sometimes as the third wheel, sometimes as the only one who could see just how much you two were orbiting each other. I remember every late-night phone call, every secret you made me keep, every fight I had to referee or heal from the sidelines. I’ve watched you lose each other and find each other, and all the while, you taught me, without ever meaning to, how to love bravely, how to forgive, how to wait for a miracle and build one from the pieces of your own broken hearts.”

He pauses, smile growing softer as Haeun shifts in his arms, restless, her little fingers tugging at his sleeve. “You're proof, both of you, that some things are worth all the mess and madness. Y/N, you’re the sister I never had, and Jeno, you’re the brother I chose. Thank you for making me part of your story, for letting my little girl be your flower girl, for giving all of us a place in your home and your future. I hope you find a thousand new ways to love each other, and that no matter what comes, you never stop choosing the ordinary, miraculous life you’ve built.”

He grins as Haeun squirms and bounces in his lap, impossibly eager, her little feet drumming against his thigh. “Such a restless girl tonight, aren’t you, baby?” Jaemin murmurs, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Go on, sweetheart, your turn.” Haeun beams at you both, fingers curled in his shirt for courage, and then she stands, clutching his shoulder for balance. Her eyes go wide and earnest. “Congwatulations, Unca Nono and Auntie,” she announces, voice piping clear over the laughter. “You so, so pwetty. I love you lots!” You blow her a kiss across the table, heart swelling, and she claps her hands with glee, her daddy pressing a kiss to the top of her head, pride and joy written all over his face.

Plates clatter and laughter swells as everyone finally dives into the feast, silver cutlery flashing, sauces glistening, the air thick with the scent of lemongrass and toasted coconut and bright, sweet fruit. Chenle, mouth already full, leans over to Donghyuck and declares, “If this is what love tastes like, I’m getting married tomorrow.”

Donghyuck shoots back, “Bro, you wouldn’t last a day, you can barely commit to breakfast.”

The table bursts into laughter. Ningning snatches a roll right off Chenle’s plate, and he yelps, “I’m telling your mother!” Areum giggles into her wine, Karina snaps a photo of you feeding Jeno a forkful of cake, and Mark just shakes his head, grinning, eyes wet with happiness.

Meanwhile, Haeun, rosy-cheeked and sleepy, curls deeper against Jaemin’s chest, her eyelashes fluttering as her energy finally runs out. Jaemin strokes her hair, eyes soft, and teases, “My little comet’s burning out. She needs energy for her big dance tonight, she’s been practicing all week.” He presses his lips to her forehead and whispers, “Sweet dreams, starlight,” rocking her gently as the party swirls on around them. You glance at the scene, your family, your friends, every heart that matters, while Jeno’s hand finds yours beneath the table, your fingers tangled, and for a moment, you feel the world tip perfectly into place, as if every joy you ever prayed for is gathered, glowing, right here.

The after-party spills into a hidden pavilion at the edge of the villa grounds, tucked beneath a canopy of banyan branches and glass lanterns, secretive as a wish whispered into midnight. The walls are all open air, no barriers between you and the velvet blue of the Bali night, framed by lush monstera leaves, gold-tipped palms, and bursts of bougainvillea climbing every arch. The floor is hand-polished teak, warm under bare feet, scattered with silken pillows and low tables loaded with platters of honeyed fruit, tiny cakes, chilled wine, and whole coconuts split open for sipping. The ceiling glitters with thousands of suspended fairy lights, each one reflected in a series of mirrored panels arranged to look like a shattered star, turning every movement into a constellation.

On one side, Karina has staged a corner for photographs, gauzy curtains, a nest of wildflowers, and a single vintage loveseat where friends and lovers tumble together, faces flush with happiness. Areum’s camera snaps in a rhythm like a heartbeat, preserving laughter and kisses for a future you can’t imagine yet. There’s a band in the far corner, barefoot and golden, saxophone and bass curling together, and the air is thick with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and something sweet roasting on a distant fire. In the heart of the room, the dance floor glows, dappled with light, scattered petals, a patchwork of shadows where the two of you disappear and find each other again, over and over, until the sky goes pink and the last song fades. The room isn’t just a room, it’s a memory made manifest, wild and inviting, threaded with intimacy, freedom, and the giddy promise that this night is yours, unrepeatable, stitched together by the hands and hearts that brought you home.

Along the eastern wall, the food is a festival unto itself, a sprawling, candlelit spread that could only exist because Irene and Seulgi spent the night before with their sleeves rolled up and laughter spilling into flour, each dish a love letter to both of your childhoods and every city you’ve ever called home. There are platters of glistening grilled fish and shell-on prawns caught at dawn, spiced rice folded with mango and coriander, thinly sliced wagyu glistening under curls of fried garlic, stacks of lotus-leaf dumplings, bowls of chilled soba tangled with sesame, and bamboo trays of vibrant fruits, dragonfruit, lychee, pineapple, slices of cold watermelon arranged like jewels.

In the center, Irene has assembled a “midnight feast” bar with mini bao buns, edible flowers, fresh spring rolls, and single-serve tiramisu, each served on mismatched blue porcelain, a nod to the first mismatched meal you ever ate together as students. Seulgi’s signature touch: the delicate sugar butterflies scattered across every plate, and a tower of gold-flecked panna cotta glimmering in the candlelight. An entire corner glows with homemade breads and butter, an old family recipe, while next to it, a pyramid of spun sugar domes and mooncakes sparkles like treasure. The space is alive with sound, forks against china, glasses raised, the fizz of prosecco and laughter, the low hum of a song someone’s grandmother always played at weddings. There are handwritten menus tucked under every plate, each one stamped with your initials and a gold wax seal, another Irene detail, and every surface is scattered with wild jasmine, handpicked by Seulgi at dawn.

You catch both of their eyes across the crowd, and your smile is pure gratitude, silent, heavy, joyful. You mouth thank you, hands pressed to your heart, and they grin back, tired and glowing, and for a moment you realize this room isn’t just a party: it’s a tapestry of all the women who love you, every little miracle gathered here, every midnight favor repaid in a language that will outlast even the best music, even this night.

The lights dim, the room pooling with soft gold and slow shadows, every voice lowering to a hush as Shotaro cues the music, a melody woven with longing and promise, delicate as silk thread pulled through memory. Jeno’s hand finds yours, steady and sure, guiding you to the center where the floor gleams with reflections, a shallow pool of starlight and candle flame. The room falls away as you step into him, his palm splayed wide and possessive at your lower back, the heat of him unmistakable even through layers of silk and lace.

He draws you close, your bodies almost flush, and you slip your arms around his neck, fingertips brushing the fine hair at his nape. He leans in, breath warm at your temple, and murmurs, “I’ve been dreaming about this since I first watched you walk to me.” The confession winds through you, hot and electric, sinking low in your belly. He sways you with a quiet authority, hips aligning with yours in a rhythm that is both innocent and laced with private hunger. The dance is barely a dance, more an embrace that drifts, slow and shameless, your chest pressed to his, his lips brushing your ear as you laugh into his collar. The world narrows to the glide of his thumb at your waist, his hand firm on the curve of your ass, bold under the guise of choreography.

Every movement is laden with secret promises, each spin and step a memory of every night you traced your names into each other’s skin. You arch into him, the friction a private game, and he growls so low only you can hear, “You look so fucking good like this, Mrs. Lee.” You bite your lip, eyes glossy, and for a moment your bodies stall, foreheads pressed together, breath mingling in the hush. He presses a kiss beneath your jaw, his hand possessive at your side, and you shiver, laughing, the dance dissolving into something only the two of you know. Around you, friends and family fade into watercolor; there’s only the music, his hand on your skin, the soft gasp he swallows as he dips you gently, lips ghosting along your throat, every inch of him aching with love and want and the greedy relief of forever. By the time the music slows, you’re clinging to each other, swaying in a world spun just for you—every heartbeat, every step, a vow that you will never, ever let go.

You glance at Jeno, who squeezes your hand and gently lets go, stepping back as your father appears at your side, proud and hesitant, the weight of years in his smile. He offers you his arm. “May I?” he whispers, his voice a blend of strength and surrender. You nod, tears biting the backs of your eyes as you slide into his embrace. The world shrinks, just you and your father, the soft scrape of his shoes against polished stone, his palm wide and sure at your back. The scent of his aftershave, sharp, old-fashioned, settles around you as he leans down, pressing his cheek to your temple. “My girl,” he breathes, and for a moment you’re small again, spinning in circles under kitchen lights, safe and unafraid. He doesn’t say much but his thumb sketches silent I love you’s into your shoulder, the words soaking deeper than any vow.

You let him lead, every step slow and gentle, your head tucked close. When the song changes, you pull back, cheeks damp, and your father wipes at his eyes, laughter breaking through the tears. “Don’t let him take you too far, alright?” he jokes, voice cracking with pride.

The crowd applauds as you step back. Jeno’s mother finds him in the pool of light, eyes shining, arms open. He bows, grinning, and pulls her close, spinning her once for old time’s sake. She laughs, dabbing at her mascara, teasing him about his wild hair, the old jersey she kept folded under her pillow for luck. He lets her lead, just this once, their silhouettes golden against the windows. “Thank you,” she whispers, “for coming home. For making all of this real.” Jeno kisses her cheek, a promise to keep her close even as he builds a new family.

Mark is next. The DJ drops something playful, a thread of jazz, and he pounces, bowing with a flourish, stealing you from your father’s arms. “About time you upgraded,” he says, dramatic as ever. You spin, both of you laughing, the years of rivalry dissolving into old comfort, childhood memories mapped in the way he twirls you. Mark drops his voice, suddenly raw: “You have no idea how happy I am for you. Four years, I watched both of you chase ghosts. Now you finally caught each other.” His hug is fierce, arms wound tight around your shoulders, his cheek pressed to your hair. “You deserve every bit of this joy. Don’t let go, okay?”

Somewhere between toasts and music, Haeun reemerges in her second dress of the day, a miniature masterpiece in sunflower yellow, crafted by Karina from the softest silk and tulle. The bodice is scattered with hand-embroidered blooms, petals so delicately stitched they look like they might flutter off in the breeze, each one kissed by a single glass bead that catches the light when she twirls. The skirt is fuller, a little pouf of layered organza that bounces around her knees with every step, making her look like a sunbeam you could scoop up in your arms. Karina has twisted her hair into two perfect plaits, each woven with ribbons to match the flowers at her waist, and at the crown of her head sits a tiny golden clip shaped like a butterfly, a wink to the aisle she conquered just hours before.

She finds Jaemin by the edge of the dance floor, her little fist reaching for him. “Daddy, dance now?” she asks, hope shining in every syllable, cheeks dimpled and eyes huge beneath the soft ballroom lights. Jaemin kneels, scooping her into his arms. “Always, flower,” he answers, and as the music softens, something lilting, the kind of melody spun for fathers and daughters, they sway together, his hands steady around her tiny waist, her small palms pressed to his cheeks as if she’s holding his whole world together. “You look so pwetty,” she whispers, lips pursed in concentration, and he laughs, soft and teary, “Not as pretty as you, sunshine. Never as pretty as you.”

The DJ clears his throat, announcing, “And now, our youngest star, Haeun, has a very special dance for everyone!” The crowd hushes, curiosity flickering in every eye as Jaemin gently sets her down in the center of the floor. The first notes of “I See the Light” from Tangled float through the air, a song Haeun has clung to since her longest days in the hospital, one she once played on loop from her pillow, dreaming of lanterns and happy endings.

Haeun stands as tall as a two-year-old can dream, hands pressed over her heart, eyes squeezed shut in a moment of pure, quivering concentration. The first notes of “I See the Light” from Tangled shimmer through the speakers, and her lashes flutter open, soaking in every golden lantern and upturned smile around her. Once, Haeun’s lifeless little body lay curled in Jaemin’s lap, her breath shallow, eyelids heavy with sleep she couldn’t quite wake from. The hospital room was washed in silence and dim machine glow, and every night Jaemin would prop up his phone, playing “I See the Light” from Tangled, letting the gentle music fill the air, for her, and eventually for him. Even when she was too weak to open her eyes, he would sit by her side, murmuring every lyric, watching the flicker of lanterns on the screen and believing, somehow, that she could still hear it in the dark. It became their ritual, a stubborn act of hope in a world that had run out of answers.

It’s become their tradition, every week, no matter where they are, Jaemin settles Haeun into his lap and queues up Tangled, the opening chords now stitched into the fabric of their life together. He knows every lyric, every lantern, every silly line by heart, but he never once complains. Even when she’s watched it a hundred times, even when he’s tired and the world feels heavy, he does it for his girl. She climbs into his arms with a squeal, shoves her blanket against his side, and insists on holding his hand as the movie starts, her eyes wide with anticipation, always looking to him at her favorite parts. It’s the price of fatherhood and the purest kind of devotion, a promise he’ll never break, not even on the happiest day of her life. Tonight, as she twirls in her sunflower dress, lanterns drifting above and the crowd holding its breath, it’s clear to everyone that this is what hope looks like when it finally, impossibly, finds its way home.

Now, those same notes bloom across the reception. Her lips move with the music, counting herself in, and then she begins, small feet padding, toes pointed, yellow skirt fluttering like sunlight on water, her whole body lit from within by hope and courage. Her lips move in a soundless count—“one, two, free”—then she opens her eyes wide, soaking up every face, every glimmering lantern, every whisper of excitement in the room. She begins, not with grace, but with faith: the smallest feet padding carefully, her toes pointed in new ballet shoes, the golden skirt a cloud around her knees. With every step, her ribbons dance and her yellow dress flares, bright as hope.

She spins, a little too eagerly, her feet tangle and she topples, landing on the floor with a soft, surprised thud. “Oopsy!” she chirps, voice high and clear, cheeks blooming with a sheepish, unstoppable grin. The whole room gasps, then bursts into laughter and applause, cooing encouragement, “go on, Haeun!” “You’re doing amazing!”—and Haeun beams back, undeterred, scrambling up and dusting off her skirt with all the dignity of a princess. She throws her arms wide, lets out a squeal of laughter, and picks up right where she left off, dancing bigger, braver, sending love back to the room in sunbeams and giggles.

Her joy is contagious, Mark’s tears turn into laughter, Ryujin covers her mouth to keep from shouting, Jaemin is on his knees at the edge of the dance floor, mouthing every lyric right along with her.

Jeno’s hand finds your waist first, then slips over your stomach, gentle, reverent, his thumb brushing tiny, secret circles through the silk of your dress. You lean into his side, cheek pressed to his shoulder, both of you spellbound by the sight of Haeun spinning in her yellow dress, laughter bubbling up like spring water. He bends to your ear, his breath warm, voice pitched so only you can hear over the hush and music. “We’re going to give our baby everything, every hope, every safe place, every morning like this. I promise, nothing in this world gets to touch you unless it’s joy. I’ll love you both every day I’m alive, every day after, in every lifetime they give me.”

You can barely breathe for the sweetness of it, the certainty. His palm settles just a little more firmly, protective and awed, and you blink away tears as the room dissolves into lantern-light, as your future grows quietly beneath his touch. All around you, love pours itself into every empty space, dancing, laughing, crying, promising. And then, as Haeun spins in her sunflower-yellow dress, ribbons flying and cheeks flushed pink, a single lantern slips loose from the tangled fairy lights above, drifting down like it’s been conjured by her delight, glowing the soft gold of a wish whispered to the stars. She gasps, tiny mouth forming a perfect ‘O,’ and her eyes go so wide it’s as if she’s trying to drink in the whole world at once. Arms stretched high, she toddles forward with that wobbling, determined baby gait, every step sparkling with innocence, hope, and giddy pride, the little daisies on her shoes flashing with each bounce. Her curls gleam under the lantern’s glow, and when she reaches for it, hands open and trembling, everyone holds their breath, because in that instant, she’s not just a child at a wedding, she is the dream you all survived for, the living light at the center of the universe. The music quiets, and every heart in the room feels it: the fragile, dazzling miracle of a little girl catching her own piece of magic, joy blooming so bright it hurts to look at her.

There is something about the way Haeun receives love, open-palmed, bottomless, instinctive, that turns giving it back into her art. She claps at the end, hands smacking together, pink with effort and happiness. Then she runs into Jaemin’s arms, throwing herself at him, cheeks flushed, shrieking, “Daddy, I did it! I did dancing! Look, look!” She turns, waving to you and Jeno, showering the room with the same bright, boundless affection that made every heart in the villa hers from the first step. And in that sun-gold, wild little moment, it’s clear: Haeun’s love is the kind that multiplies with every person she touches. She is laughter, promise, a thousand fireflies in a bottle. The room cannot help but love her back, over and over, again and again.

Applause erupts, as infectious as her smile. Mark stands, whistling. Areum is filming, crying into her hands. Even the waitstaff pause to watch, grins stretched wide. Haeun runs straight to you and Jeno, launching herself into your lap with a squeal, arms out for hugs, cheeks pink from joy. Jaemin wipes his eyes, bending to kiss the crown of her head, whispering, “You did it, moonbeam. You made it real.”

She tugs your sleeve, beaming. “I did dancing! Like princess! You see me?” And there, in that sun-bright, impossibly soft moment, the whole room feels suspended—her yellow dress a promise, her laughter the most beautiful blessing you could ever hope for on this day of all days.

The room glows in low, golden light, couples whirling on polished stone—Mark and Areum lost in each other’s laughter, Karina and Ryujin spinning, hair undone, Donghyuck dipping Ningning too dramatically and nearly dropping her to a chorus of wild cheers. Chenle’s taking shots with Doyoung and Irene, voices raised in drunken song, while Seulgi’s already cradling her heels under the table, her laugh curling above the music. Beyond them, your parents slow-dance, your mother’s head pressed to your father’s chest, and in the center of it all, Haeun’s yellow dress is a beam of sunshine weaving between grown-up legs, trailing sparkles and blessings everywhere she goes.

Jeno’s chin rests at your shoulder, his breath warm on your neck. You turn to him, catching the way his eyes never really left you, something private and shining locked inside them, a thousand promises spoken and unspoken in the hush that falls between heartbeats. And in that moment, with the music swelling and your hearts threaded together, you know: this night, this love, this ordinary miracle, is yours forever. The world is color and movement and laughter, but his gaze tethers you, always, unerringly, back to you.

The moment the bedroom door snaps shut, the world blurs to heat and muscle and wicked intent—honeymoon white rumpled into shadow, the headboard shuddering with every frantic bounce of your hips. You straddle Jeno, knees caging his thighs, the silk of your new dress bunched at your waist, every inch of you wild with need, skin flushed, nipples aching, sweat pooling in the hollow of your spine. The air is thick with your perfume, sex and salt, your scent painting every gasp he lets out beneath you. His hands are rough, knuckles bone-white where he grips your ass, guiding you down on his cock until he’s buried so deep you can feel him everywhere, spine, stomach, brain, a perfect, filthy ache that makes you arch and whimper, greedy and unashamed.

Your cunt clenches around him, slick and soaked, milking every inch, and you ride him like you want to break him—fucking down hard enough that the slap of your ass on his thighs echoes off marble, his cock kicking inside you, desperate and swollen, throbbing under the relentless press of your cunt. You drag your nails down his chest, scratching lines into muscle, branding him, making him grunt and buck, but you only laugh—wild, hungry, the sound catching in your throat as you pin his wrists overhead and grind your clit against his pelvis, chasing your own orgasm, uncaring who hears. “That’s all you’ve got, husband?” you taunt, voice shredded, rolling your hips in brutal circles, sweat-slick and feverish, your tits bouncing inches from his open mouth. “After all that waiting, you’re gonna let me use you up? Gonna let me ride you until you’re begging?”

You press his wrists above his head, grip iron-tight, your nails dimpling the backs of his hands. The bed frame rattles, the headboard bruising the wall, but you barely notice, your whole world shrinks to the thick heat of his cock inside you, to the whimpers he lets spill out when you grind your hips just right, slow, mean, making him feel every slick inch, every clench and release. “Keep those hands there,” you growl, spitting into his open mouth when he tries to plead, letting the mess drip down his chin. “Take it. Be good for me.”

Jeno’s pupils are blown, his jaw slack, hips stuttering as he begs, voice frayed to ribbons, desperate. “Please, more, fuck, need you to choke me, baby, I can’t, please—” The command is a shiver through you. Your fingers wrap around his throat, pressing just enough to make his eyes roll, to cut off every sound except the choked gasp of your name. You bounce harder, sweat flying, your tits dragging over his lips, and he tries to chase, to thrust up, but you slap his cheek, hard, sharp, a red bloom where your hand lands.

“Pathetic,” you sneer, tightening your grip on his throat, your other hand pinching his nipple, “so fucking needy—look at you, drooling for it, all fucked out and I’m just getting started.” He whimpers, cock twitching, leaking so much pre-come it smears your thighs, and you slap him again, watching the way his whole body bows up, desperate for more. “Say it,” you spit, grinding down harder, smearing your slick all over him, “tell me who you belong to, tell me what you are.”

“Yours,” he gasps, hips trembling, voice gone. “Yours, yours, yours—please, I need it, I can’t—baby, please—”

You lean in, spit pooling on your tongue, and let it drip into his waiting mouth, watching him swallow greedily, lips shining. “Good boy,” you whisper, biting at his ear, “that’s right. You’re my husband, my little fuck toy, my filthy slut, let everyone hear how much you love getting ruined by your wife.” You squeeze his throat tighter, making his cock jerk, his hands clenching into useless fists above his head.

He’s a wreck, tears in his eyes, mouth open, shuddering beneath you as you ride him mercilessly, your clit grinding down, hips snapping in cruel, relentless rhythm. “Can’t believe you waited this long,” you mock, voice wicked, rolling your hips with purpose, “married me just to get fucked dumb—such a good little husband. You gonna come for me again? Let me see it, Jeno. Give it to me—fill me up, now, right now—”

He shudders, babbling broken pleas, hands still pinned, as you slap his cheek again and milk every drop out of him, your cunt clenching so tight it’s obscene. Your dominance has grown, fed by every night he’s spent worshipping you, begging for your touch, learning every filthy thing you love, and now you’re right where you belong—on top, in control, every orgasm wrung out of him by your body and your words. He’s ruined, wild, worshipful, his skin a patchwork of your teeth and hands, his cock aching and red, and you don’t stop, don’t soften, not until your thighs shake and your breath breaks and your orgasm hits you like a tidal wave, drowning you both in sweat and noise.

You collapse on his chest, body slick and trembling, his arms coming loose around you, still gasping, still begging for more, but you hush him with a finger to his lips. “You’ll get it again,” you promise, voice thick, hungry. “Every night, every day. You’re mine, my husband, and I’ll never let you forget it.”

You can read forever in the way he looks up at you now, lips parted, lashes wet, sweat shining on his cheeks, the glazed worship in his eyes cracked open by hunger and surrender. His hands tremble where they clutch your thighs, raw from your nails, your ring biting into his skin as you pin his wrists down, your palm pressing his pulse into the mattress. There’s nothing polite left between you, no trace of hesitation or shyness, just need, raw and relentless, stitched through with trust so deep it’s almost violent. You spit in his mouth and he takes it eagerly, eyes fluttering shut, a low sob caught in his throat when you slap his cheek and call him yours, your good boy, your ruined, precious thing. Every time you take him like this, every time he lets you, it’s a homecoming, a ritual, a riot, a silent plea: never stop. Never tame this. Never let the fire go out.

You know why it never dims, because he aches for every unruly part of you, because you’ve both spent years starving and surviving, and now you’re insatiable. Your marriage is riot and sanctuary both, the sheets always wrecked, your voices echoing off the walls, every new bruise a love letter, every broken gasp a prayer. Every time you grind him into the bed, drag a cry from his throat, choke him until his eyes roll and he sobs for permission, it’s another promise: this is forever, this is us, this is how I come back to you—every night, every season, no matter what the world tries to take.

And he never stops looking at you like that, like you’re the only religion he’s ever believed, the only finish line he’ll ever chase. Even when his body’s shaking, even when you ride him raw and ruin him for anyone else, you see him come undone, gasping your name, swearing his soul belongs to you, every muscle taut, every vein singing. It’s in the way you break together, your thighs shaking, his cock swelling inside you, sweat and spit and tears, the room spinning with the memory of every fight, every goodbye, every time you clawed your way back to each other. It never dims, because every single time is the only time, the last time, the first time, a thousand lifetimes folded into one. You ride him until he’s sobbing, choking on your praise, your promises, his own filthy need, and in the haze of climax you watch his eyes—glassy, wild, hungry for everything you are—and you know you’ll spend the rest of your life coming back to him, and he, desperate, aching, already begging, will always come back to you.

Jeno shifts you onto your stomach, one palm splaying low over your back, the other roaming, worshipful, down the length of your spine. You feel his breath hitch as his thumb catches on the curve just above your hip, a patch of ink, the delicate ‘23’ etched forever into your skin. His mouth finds it in the half-light, lips brushing the tattoo with a softness that borders on devotion. He traces the numbers with his tongue, slow and sinuous, as if tasting a memory written just for him, mouthing the digits like a secret, his secret, your surrender.

“Mine,” he murmurs, the word pressed against your flesh, mouth lingering, reverent, and just a little wild. He kisses it again, lips plush and greedy, tongue swirling over the fine lines of ink until the skin tingles and heat pools low in your belly. He licks up the side of the tattoo, sealing the claim with a last, deep kiss, as if imprinting himself there, ink on ink.

You barely have time to gasp before he’s spreading you wider, holding you open with practiced, possessive hands. His mouth is hot and wet as he buries his face between your cheeks, tongue tracing filthy, worshipful circles, licking you open with slow, deliberate strokes. You tremble, clutching the sheets, your body arching, every nerve set alight as he devours you, moaning low as if nothing else in the world could ever satisfy him. Jeno’s fingers dig into your thighs, keeping you spread, making sure you feel every lick, every graze of his teeth, every desperate, hungry kiss. You sob his name into the pillow, hips rolling helplessly as he eats you out, tongue plunging and swirling, pulling helpless, broken moans from your lips, every sound another proof of how he loves you, how he’ll always come back to you, on his knees, hungry and humbled, worshipping every inch until your legs shake and your mind blanks, nothing left but his name and the ache for more.

As his tongue lingers, worshipping the tattoo and your ass alike, he pulls away only to reach for the glass of champagne left sweating on the bedside table. He dips two fingers inside, fishing out a sliver of ice, and flashes you a devilish, feral grin. “Don’t move,” he warns, voice rough as gravel and honey. The ice traces your spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake, first a slow, glacial drag down the vertebrae, then a tap at your lower back, the cold a lightning shock against your flushed skin. You shudder, gasping his name, but he only laughs, low, greedy, delighted by your helplessness. The cube melts in his palm, water slicking your back, and he catches the last drop with his tongue, warm mouth closing over the shivering cold, drawing heat from your skin.

Then he moves lower, ice in his mouth now, pressing it to your clit, letting the shock and chill drive you half-mad, then replacing it with the scorching heat of his tongue, back and forth, sweet torment, until you’re trembling, pleading, writhing for more. “So sensitive,” he praises, voice thick with awe and adoration, “Look at you, can’t decide if you want to melt for me or burn alive.”

He flips you over, kneeling between your thighs, mouth hovering over your chest as he paints melting kisses over your nipples, hardening them further with ice, then soothing with slow, open-mouthed worship. Every moan you make is devoured, every twitch and gasp praised, Jeno muttering, “You’re perfect, you’re everything, I want to see you break for me.” He keeps you on the edge, ice and heat, rough and soft, his mouth never far from your skin, your body his favorite landscape, a map of every pleasure he’ll spend the rest of his life memorizing. The champagne, the sweat, the cool air, the warmth of his tongue, it’s all layered, decadent, dizzying, a night that will linger in your blood like a brand.

You’re spread wide on silk sheets, the soft hush of Bali air curling over your skin, every nerve alive and trembling beneath the shock of melting ice and the furnace of his tongue. Jeno’s hands hold you open, reverent and greedy, as he worships you in slow, aching circles. tongue lapping up the cool water trailing down your thighs, breath warm and eager, drinking every gasp you give him like it’s salvation. His mouth moves with purpose, savoring, teasing, never in a rush, his eyes locked on yours as if daring you to look away, to deny what you’re feeling. Every slow lick, every press of his tongue against your slick heat, turns the world into light and fever. Your body arches, chasing him, desperate and wild, and he groans at the taste of you, at the way you writhe and shudder for him, every edge of pleasure smoothed and sharpened by the ice and his mouth.

Your hands fist in his hair, pulling him closer, needing him impossibly deeper, and when he moans against you. hungry, almost worshipful, you feel the answer in your bones. The world could end outside this room and you would only know the bliss of his devotion, the way his tongue writes worship into your body, the way his hands say mine with every squeeze and every coaxing pull. As the pleasure builds, shattering, swelling, all you know is that you are home, no fear, no ache, just the fierce, overwhelming rightness of being loved, eaten out, adored by the only man who has ever set every star in your sky ablaze. You come undone for him, wave after wave, laughter and tears tangled in your breath, your body luminous with satisfaction. This, this is happiness, this is everything falling into place, this is what it means to want and to be wanted, to give in completely to joy, to love, to the man whose mouth makes you feel infinite.

You step through the apartment door with salt still tangled in your hair and sunburn fading from your shoulders, the world outside suddenly quieter now that it’s just the two of you again. The golden thread of honeymoon days still lingers, every inch of your skin marked by Jeno’s devotion, every muscle in your body remembering what it is to laugh until you cry, to come undone under his hands, to fall asleep tangled and safe. There’s a new gravity inside you now, a tiny universe spinning, and it changes everything: you walk slower, let yourself be gathered into Jeno’s arms more often, find yourself waking up ravenous or crying at a song on the radio. Jeno, who once wore his ease like a jersey, is hyper-attentive, hand drifting to your belly so often it feels like a ritual. Even now, with only the faintest curve beneath your dress, his palm settles there without thinking, tracing lazy circles as if he’s mapping out the rest of your life.

He hovers in the doorway, watching you kick off your shoes, his gaze hungry and soft all at once, every edge of him tuned to the smallest changes in your breath, your smile, the way you press your hand to your abdomen as if checking to make sure this is all still real. You catch him more often these days, standing in the hallway, eyes tracking the curve of your body with something close to awe, or dropping kisses along your bare stomach before you’re even fully awake. He’s become impossibly tender: fixing you midnight snacks, reading ingredient lists on every label, catching you when the world tilts and your balance falters. There’s a new protectiveness in him that never quite leaves, he will cross the street to shield you from a cyclist, insist on holding your bag, cut your food smaller just to tease, but you see it most in the way he talks to the baby when he thinks you’re not listening, his voice low and serious, promising everything from world peace to nightly lullabies.

The wedding rings on your hand catch the sun in the kitchen, throwing flecks of light across the table where your new routines have begun to settle, prenatal vitamins lined up like little promises, fruit washed and sliced, your calendar filled with doctor’s appointments. Even with all the change, there is ease here: Jeno kisses the back of your neck while you pour orange juice, murmurs soft plans for telling your friends and family. The day before, it was just you and him, now, every breath, every heartbeat, every future dinner and shared dawn feels like it belongs to three. You press your palm over the gentle swell of your belly, looking up at Jeno and grinning, there’s so much to say, so many beginnings left, but for now, it’s enough that you have each other, golden and glowing, a secret between your bodies and the world, almost ready to be shared.

Next week comes by like a breeze. The air in your new apartment is thick with anticipation and the faint scent of lemon candles, your way of masking nerves and new paint. The windows are thrown wide, sun pouring in across every surface, catching on stacks of glossy shopping bags and boxes gathered at the edge of the living room rug. Jeno moves around with an easy swagger, arms full of beautifully wrapped parcels, laughter already rising from the kitchen where Mark and Donghyuck argue about who gets the first taste of whatever’s bubbling on the stove. You called everyone here under the guise of a “honeymoon thank you”—the chance to share a slice of paradise with the people who carried you through everything that came before.

You and Jeno hand out the gifts one by one, each box carefully chosen, the sort of attention only new parents and grateful friends can manage. For Mark, there’s a first-edition book, leather-bound, the spine embossed with a city skyline, and a note inside: For every night you stayed up and waited for the text that meant I was safe, and every morning you convinced me to get out of bed anyway. Areum receives a delicate bracelet, tiny charms clinking: a miniature paint palette, a single gold star, a seashell from the honeymoon beach. “You needed more luck, and more reminders to paint outside the lines,” you tell her, squeezing her hand.

Karina’s box is heavier: inside, a silk scarf hand-dyed in your honeymoon colors, and a packet of rare, imported sewing needles—“for your next obsession, and because no one stitches the world together like you.” She beams, eyes shimmering, already looping the fabric around her neck as if it’s armor and wings at once. Jaemin’s gift is tucked into a velvet pouch: a set of glass marbles from a tiny seaside shop, each one swirling with blue and gold. “So you never lose your magic, or your sense of mischief.” He just grins, mouthing ‘I know what’s coming,’ eyes darting to Jeno, who can barely hide his excitement.

You crouch beside Haeun, handing her a plush bunny in a yellow dress, “just like you, my sunshine.” The bunny’s ears are soft as a blessing, and you tuck a tiny seashell into its pocket, whispering, “For your treasure box.” Haeun claps and presses a sticky kiss to your cheek, already dragging Jaemin down to the carpet to play. Shotaro gets a journal bound in handmade paper, embossed with constellations, and a set of colored pens. “To write down your dreams,” you say, “and keep the stars close when you miss home.” He presses it to his heart, eyes suspiciously bright.

For Chenle, there’s a silver keychain, a vintage camera charm, and a stack of postcards you collected from every city, each one with a ridiculous note and a dare scribbled on the back. Ningning receives a tiny glass music box, painted in wildflowers, and Ryujin gets a pair of bold sunglasses and a handwritten playlist. “You both need more brightness, more noise, and a reason to make mischief together,” you tease, watching them exchange a knowing look. Donghyuck’s parcel is the loudest, inside, a silk shirt in garish colors and a bar of imported chocolate, “for the man who needs to outshine every sunset and stay sweet even when he’s raising hell.”

The living room hums with laughter, gifts unwrapped and examined, stories already spinning. Jeno claps his hands, gathering everyone’s attention. “Alright,” he grins, “one last thing.” You pass out the envelopes, dividing them into two neat stacks, one for the girls, one for the boys. “It’s a little something we couldn’t bring home, but wanted to share with you anyway.” Mark’s brow furrows, Karina narrows her eyes, only Jaemin’s face gives him away, biting back a knowing smirk as he watches everyone else.

Inside each envelope lies a glossy, whisper-thin print, your ultrasound, all shadows and impossible geometry, a little constellation curled tight in the dark. Beneath the pale swirl of spine and fist, you’ve written each card by hand, looping the words in a script only family would recognize: For the bravest sisters—promotion is inevitable: Auntie, Class of 2026.

And for the boys: To the brothers who survived us, who laughed with us, who waited with us: time to become Uncles. Prepare accordingly.

Karina is the first to gasp, her hand flying to her mouth, eyes flooding with tears. “No. No way—Y/N, are you—” You nod, already grinning through your own tears, and suddenly she’s across the room, crushing you in a hug, breathless and sobbing and laughing all at once. Areum shrieks and starts to cry too, flinging her arms around both of you, the bracelet clinking, the scarf catching in her hair.

Ryujin’s eyes scan the grainy silhouette on the photo, her lips quivering in a way you’ve never seen. Before the first word even forms, she grabs your hand, hard, fierce, as if she might anchor you both in the surge of this moment. “I knew it,” she breathes, a grin breaking open through tears, her fingers trembling against yours. “You think I don’t notice? You change your order at every dinner, you keep touching your stomach when you think no one’s looking, God, I’ve been waiting for this.” Her voice is thick, but she squeezes your hand again, the pride in her eyes bright and liquid.

Ningning lets out a strangled squeal and launches herself at Jeno, arms around his waist, bouncing up and down until he’s laughing too, his cheeks pink. Donghyuck, never missing a beat, leaps onto the coffee table and starts chanting, “Uncle! Uncle! Uncle!”—his voice echoing down the hall until Chenle whips a pillow at him, missing by a mile and setting off a riot of shrieks and cushions flying, the whole room dissolving into laughter, pure chaos, baby Haeun shrieking gleefully in Jaemin’s arms as the storm unfolds.

Then, over the din, Mark’s voice rises, his tone bright but a little wobbly. “I knew it too, you know!” He holds up his card, shaking his head in mock disbelief. “Y/N, you kept handing off your champagne at the wedding, thinking no one noticed but I did. And Jeno, your hands have been glued to her stomach all month. You two aren’t nearly as sneaky as you think.” The tease falls away, though, as he steps forward, eyes suddenly glassy, holding the scan like it’s spun from gold. “I’m really going to be an uncle?” His voice cracks, and he crosses the room, arms wrapping tight around Jeno, then you, pulling you both in. “Thank you,” he whispers, his forehead pressing to yours. “I’ve never wanted anything more.” The embrace lingers, laughter softening into the kind of silence only family can hold, a hush that promises this baby, already, will never know a moment without love.

Haeun doesn’t quite understand the flurry, the laughter, or the reason all the grown-ups are crying and hugging so much, but she knows magic when she feels it. She wriggles free from Jaemin’s lap, her little hands patting across the carpet, curls bouncing with each determined step. She finds you on the sofa, tucked against a mound of pillows, and clambers up with a quiet, “Auntie?” Her eyes are wide and shining, big as lanterns. “Baby?” she asks, voice a shy, dreamy whisper, every syllable wrapped in awe.

You can’t help but laugh, nodding as you lift the hem of your shirt, baring the softest curve of your belly. Haeun’s mouth makes a perfect O of wonder; her fingers flutter in midair before she lets her palms rest, gentle as a prayer, over your skin. She stays still, breath held, then presses her cheek to your stomach, giggling, her happiness feather-light and pure. “Hi, baby!” she whispers, as if she’s afraid to speak too loud and scare away the secret inside you. She leans forward, lips pursed in a sticky, open-mouthed kiss right in the center of your bump, and then hugs you, her arms barely encircling your waist. “I your best fwend, ‘kay?” she promises, cheeks flushed and voice syrup-sweet, as if she’s pledging her heart to this new life before the rest of the world can even understand what’s begun.

The room softens around you; even the adults grow quiet, the moment suspended as Haeun babbles soft encouragements, “love you, baby! See you soon!” before turning her bright, expectant face to yours. She beams, dimples deep, her voice trembling with secret joy: “When baby come out, we share teddy. Pink one, promise!” You laugh, blinking back tears, kissing the top of her head and thinking that, in this quiet hush, the whole future just got a little brighter, threaded through with the innocent, steadfast love only a child can give.

Shotaro wipes his eyes and mutters, “I need to start working out. I’m gonna have to carry two babies soon.”

Jeno’s arm slides around your waist as you’re passed from one embrace to another, cheeks kissed, hair ruffled, everyone talking at once. Areum wipes her tears and beams, “I knew it, you have such a glow glow.”

Karina fans herself, “You’d better let me design everything for this baby, I swear.”

Ryujin starts listing baby names, Donghyuck volunteers to DJ the first birthday party, and Mark just shakes his head, still shell-shocked, then stands and hugs you again, longer, softer, his own eyes suspiciously bright.

In the corner, Haeun tries to “read” the scan, frowning at the black-and-white shape, and declares, “It’s a bean!” Jaemin laughs and promises her, “You’ll be the best big cousin in the world, my princess.” The moment stretches, golden and wild, everyone crowding around you and Jeno, love and shock and joy threading through every word, every laugh, every new beginning. This family, you realize, was built one miracle at a time, and today, you just added another.

Telling your families is a storm of joy that nobody bothers to hide, your mother’s hands fly to her mouth the moment she sees the scan, tears spilling over as she hugs you and won’t let go, her laughter a tangled braid of disbelief and happiness. Jeno’s mum sways, pressing a hand to her chest, eyes wild with delight and shock, she nearly sinks into the nearest chair, fanning herself with a wedding invitation before leaping up to cradle your face, kissing your cheeks over and over. Your father pulls Jeno into a bone-crushing embrace, back-slapping and wordless, holding on a fraction too long before shaking his hand and giving him a rough nod, the silent, unspoken blessing only fathers can give. Seulgi and Irene descend on you the next day with a parade of baby relics: boxes of bottles, every beloved crib and swaddle they’d ever hidden in attic corners, their arms full of knitted bonnets and tiny shoes that still smell faintly of old talc. Jeno’s childhood room is ransacked, trophies and broken action figures set aside for a new shelf, baby photos pulled from albums, his old blankets unearthed from cedar chests, threads worn and soft as memory. The house turns chaotic with keepsakes, laughter, and shared stories, everyone tripping over memories, nostalgia pooling in every corner, the air thick with old love spun new. It’s overwhelming, almost too much, but beneath the pile of soft muslin and tangled voices, you feel the weight of all those years, your baby is already cherished, already home.

Areum takes the lead on the next surprise, pulling every string she has to make your gender reveal a tableau of beauty and intimacy, nothing for the internet, everything for you. She chooses a park ringed by silver maples and wild jasmine, dappled in late-afternoon sun, grass soft as silk under bare feet. The whole scene is a quiet dream: a blanket embroidered in cream and gold, low lanterns swaying from the trees, a scattering of wildflowers and little strings of paper butterflies, each one cut by hand, each a different shade of blue or yellow, tucked gently into the grass. She’s thought of everything, right down to the playlist, soft guitar, gentle wind, laughter in the background. It’s only the closest circle: Mark, quiet and shining behind the lens as Areum steadies her camera, her hands trembling with anticipation and happiness. Even her nails are painted a secret code, blue glitter sparkling in the sun.

The cake sits in the center of it all, a masterpiece in itself, Areum’s idea, but Irene’s execution, layers upon layers of pillowy white sponge and vanilla buttercream, the outside dusted with delicate pressed flowers. A crown of violets and yellow rosebuds ring the top, but it’s the icing, rippling in intricate peaks, that makes it look almost too beautiful to touch. At the base, piped in looping script, is a line you once scribbled in Areum’s notebook, the best stories are the ones that surprise you. The cake is nestled among soft linen napkins, crystal plates, blue and gold cups, and a pair of silver cake forks borrowed from Seulgi’s wedding chest. Areum’s made the whole afternoon feel sacred, a tiny festival strung with laughter and sunlight, privacy drawn close as a velvet curtain.

Mark can’t sit still, he’s pacing the edge of the blanket, almost vibrating out of his shoes, one hand raking constantly through his hair, the other fidgeting with the frayed tag on his shirt. There’s a giddy restlessness in him, the kind of joy that’s stitched from years of what-ifs and late-night prayers, his eyes shining with a wonder that refuses to dull. Every few seconds, he circles behind Areum, pausing only to rest his hands on her shoulders, steadying her, steadying himself, leaning down to murmur something that makes her laugh, though her hands shake where she holds the camera ready to record. It’s like he can’t decide whether to cheer, to weep, to run laps around the trees, or just to bottle this second forever. The way he keeps glancing from the cake to you, to Jeno, to the slice of sky overhead, it’s as if he’s waiting for someone to call “action,” for the world to finally hand you the joy he’s always believed you deserved. And beneath the bright anticipation, there’s gratitude, the kind that runs bone-deep, Mark watching the family he’s always rooted for finally gather on a sunlit patch of grass, suspended in the hush just before forever changes shape.

Even Jaemin, irrepressible as ever, quiets in this golden hush, his arms curled protectively around Haeun as she perches in his lap, a daydream in daffodil-yellow, soft ribbons trailing from her dress, her tiny toes curling against another picnic blanket. She’s all wonder and anticipation, the delicate arch of her brows drawn high, lashes fluttering against her cheeks every time her wide, doe-like eyes dart from the cake to you, to Jeno, then back again. Her lips purse, then part in a silent gasp, breath held as if the world’s secret is hidden beneath that icing. Her little fingers twist in the fabric of her skirt, and every so often she leans up to murmur a question into Jaemin’s ear, voice hushed and high, as if afraid to break the magic. She looks at you like you’re made of sunlight, chin tipped and cheeks flushed, her joy so tender and fragile you want to fold her close and never let her go. In this moment, the whole universe is a single breath, a girl in a yellow dress dreaming herself into the story of your family, her own hope and innocence the brightest thing in the garden.

You’re dressed in a billowing white summer dress, crisp and soft as morning clouds, the fabric skimming your sun-warmed skin, falling in quiet, graceful folds. It catches the breeze and floats around your legs as you sit, luminous against the green. Jeno matches you perfectly, linen shirt undone at the throat, sleeves rolled, black trousers that brush the grass, sunshot hair falling over his brow, his whole presence wrapped in a clean, radiant calm. There’s a kind of private language to the way you both chose white, pure, unguarded, a canvas for everything that comes next, a promise of beginning again. When you glance at each other, something electric passes between you: the secret you carry, the love threaded through every fiber, the impossible luck of sharing this day.

You and Jeno sit close on the blanket, knees brushing, hands threaded so tight your rings press little half-moons into each other’s skin. He’s trying to look calm, but you can feel the way his thumb trembles against your palm. Sunlight scatters through the maple leaves overhead, dappling your skin in gold. The air is thick with promise, your bodies still humming from the night before, your hearts full to bursting, every glance a silent litany: we made this. Every so often, you turn and press your mouth to his, stealing a soft, nervous kiss, the kind that lingers, more comfort than show, lips trembling just slightly with the weight of everything about to change. You smile against his mouth, feeling his exhale, the soft, shaky sound he makes when he’s trying to be brave for you and can’t help but show he’s just as overwhelmed.

Every touch feels new and perilous, a thread drawn tight between the fear and the hope. The world outside your little circle disappears. You pull back, noses brushing, and he cups your jaw in his big hand, thumb stroking your cheek as if to anchor you both, like he needs to memorize this, how you look in this light, how it feels to be so close and so scared and so alive. You whisper, “Are you ready?”

He grins, wild and boyish, his voice rough in your ear: “Only if you’re with me.” You kiss him again, a little deeper, a little hungrier, as if that will keep you safe, as if all the nerves in your body might still be soothed by his warmth.

Areum’s voice shakes as she cues you, “okay, close your eyes. Hands on the cups, both of you.” Her eyes glisten, but she grins, determined to make this memory luminous. “Don’t peek! Mark, you better make sure they don’t look!” Mark salutes, eyes glinting, and even the trees seem to hush. You can hear the wind, the laughter of friends, the distant thump of a football somewhere on the other side of the park. Haeun squeals, clapping her hands, her excitement a bright, endless river.

Your hands tremble in your lap, the ceramic cup almost weightless, cool against your palms. Areum’s voice quivers with laughter and nerves as she reminds everyone to hush, just in case it flies away, she jokes, and the circle of friends draws in closer, all chatter stilled, the hush rippling outward through the grass and over the pond, even the birds pausing in the canopy above. Jeno catches your eye, his smile tight, electric, the gold band on his hand pressed hard against yours, steadying, anchoring. Blue has been haunting you for days—not just a wish, but a gentle obsession, a superstition that won’t loosen its grip. You’ve caught it in the afterimage of your dreams, in the oddest places: the shadow of Jeno’s t-shirt draped over a chair, the blue hydrangea blooming wild along the path to your apartment, the way your own eyes look washed with stormlight in every mirror. Even now, as you sit in the sun-washed park surrounded by the people you love, the sky itself seems to press down in a color that feels loaded, inevitable.

You close your eyes together, foreheads brushing, and the world narrows to the scrape of the cup along porcelain, the subtle, spongy resistance as you both press in at the center, then, impossibly slow, you dip into the soft belly of the cake. For a split-second, nothing but the scrape of ceramic, the delicate shiver of cake breaking, the entire world holding its breath with you. The anticipation throbs, blue alive in the blood behind your eyelids, swelling until you can hardly bear it, this single, suspended heartbeat, all your futures folded into a secret color.

You open your eyes, and in the stillness that follows, every sound falls away, no laughter, no wind, only the heady rush of your own pulse. The cup lifts, trembling, and the cake parts: a sudden, dazzling burst of blue, bright and sure, ribboning through the white in wild, impossible spirals. The color is everywhere—pooling, blooming, electric as a summer sky after rain—it’s blue, your brain chants, stunned and giddy, the word echoing in every rib. Laughter explodes, cheers scatter, but it’s in this exact instant that a blue butterfly, real, wild, trembling on translucent wings, descends from the bough above, floating in a lazy orbit before coming to rest right on the rim of your cup. Its wings quiver, impossibly delicate, blue as a secret kept safe, blue as the very promise you made in the dark, and all the air in the park feels heavy with joy, with fate, with the wild magic of things turning out just as you dreamed.

Jeno’s jaw goes slack, and for a single, infinite heartbeat, you both just stare at the color blooming in your hands, unable to speak. Blue. It’s real, it’s here, it’s your secret finally given shape, your baby boy, your son, your world changing with the simplest, most extraordinary magic. Areum, with trembling hands and shining eyes, pulls the cord that she’s rigged around the cake stand, and the whole scene erupts in bursts of blue confetti, delicate and electric, swirling through the sunlight like a dream let loose. The air is suddenly wild with it, everyone laughing, clapping, and shouting as blue spirals above your heads, and you’re dizzy with joy, reeling as Jeno turns to you with a look so wide and reverent it almost hurts.

You don’t remember who leans in first; your hands are in his hair, his mouth is on yours, the kiss fierce and breathless and giddy, blue sugar on your lips, Jeno’s grin so big you can barely get air. He pulls you close, hands sliding over your stomach as if to shield the tiny secret growing inside, his touch anchoring you to this moment, this miracle. You both laugh, eyes wet, cheeks aching from smiling, lost in a daze of disbelief and love.

Jeno’s hand clamps tight around yours, his other splayed possessively, protectively across your belly, and the world seems to narrow to the span of that touch, the cradle of his palm, the soft certainty of your future unfolding inside you. His lips part, wonder still breaking across his face, and your laughter spills out as a half-sob, a gasp, a wild, grateful prayer that vibrates through your bones. Blue means boy—your boy, your son, your new world. For a moment, nothing exists but the hush between you, the glow of afternoon, and the wild, bright certainty that from now on, every dream, every hope, every heartbeat will begin and end with this: your family, fierce and whole, built on every miracle you ever dared to want.

Areum is screaming before the confetti even lands, spinning in a circle, her phone pointed wildly between you and the sky. “It was the hardest secret I’ve ever kept!” she cries, grinning through tears, voice sharp with relief and pride. “I planned every detail, the blue confetti, the napkins, the ribbons! Even Irene knew, she made the cake!” Her words spill out, breathless and triumphant, as blue bursts spiral down from every corner of the park: ribbons tucked under the table, petals scattered across the blanket, hidden blue lanterns fluttering open as if your secret had been waiting all along to be set free.

Behind the lens, Mark can’t stop laughing, joy leaking into his every movement as he sweeps Areum into his arms. He kisses her hard, dizzy, as if the secret is a living thing pressing between their mouths, and as you watch, lost in your own daze, you notice his palm slide low and protective over Areum’s belly, possessive, gentle, a silent promise, a secret you barely register but somehow feel is the start of something new.

Haeun is a sunbeam let loose on the grass, her daffodil-yellow dress swirling as she jumps and twirls between grown-up knees, arms thrown wide as if she could catch the confetti before it settles. “Bwoo! Bwoo! My favrit colour!” she squeals, baby voice bubbling up, the word “blue” spun sugar-sweet and thick in her mouth. Her eyes are huge with wonder, cheeks flushed pink, hair flying wild beneath her crooked sun hat as she skips in dizzy circles, blue ribbons streaming from her fists. She chases the bursts, laughter sparkling like bells, spinning so fast she topples into Jaemin’s arms, breathless and giggling. Jaemin scoops her up with practiced ease, twirling her high so her dress flares and her feet kick at the sky, and she beams down at you and Jeno, little hands clapping for the best friend she’s eager to play with, her family, her miracle. “Baby bwoo! I knew it!” she crows, hugging Jaemin’s neck, legs locked tight around his waist.

Jaemin holds her close, a teasing smile pulling at his lips as he brushes the flyaways from her cheeks. “Oh? Since when, little bean? You never let me put anything on you that’s not yellow. Are you sure blue’s your favourite now?” His tone is playful, gentle, and everyone nearby leans in, enchanted by the exchange.

Haeun looks at him, seriously considering, lips pursed in concentration. Her hands splayed across his shoulders as she leans in, eyelashes trembling with earnestness. “I like bwoo ‘cause baby is bwoo,” she says, nodding with the gravity of a child making a life-altering confession. “Lellow for me. Bwoo for baby.” She beams at him, then looks back to you and Jeno, the approval in her eyes soft and proud, as if she’s made the most important choice in the world and now everyone gets to share it. Jaemin presses a kiss to her soft hair, pride and emotion tangled in his eyes, and for one suspended moment the world feels impossibly gentle, love rising, multiplying, a family built out of secrets, hope, and the laughter of a girl who only knows how to give her heart away, again and again.

Blue becomes the softest weight on your chest at night, settling there as you lie awake, feeling the pulse of new life under your hand. It curls into the folds of your bedsheets, the scent of clean linen, cool and familiar, wound around your body as Jeno’s arm loops across your waist, anchoring you to this moment, to him, to the unspoken promise of tomorrow. Blue is the first light that creeps through your curtains each dawn, catching on the glass of your bedside water, shimmering in halos on the ceiling, reminding you that every day begins with hope. It glints from the wedding ring you twist absently, metal warming to your skin, a secret gleam caught beneath a layer of gold, like the undercurrent of joy beneath your fear.

You find blue in the chipped enamel of your favorite coffee mug, the one Jeno insists on bringing you every morning even when you pretend not to need it, and in the pair of baby socks draped across your dresser, already too small for the world he’ll inherit. It pulses in the faint, sticky fingerprints Haeun leaves on your white silk dress after she hugs you with frosting-stained hands, and in the way Jaemin braids a blue ribbon through her hair, a playful echo of her chant, “Blue! My favowite!” Blue is the laugh you share with Mark when he surprises you with a bouquet of wild cornflowers, and the way Areum’s eyes glisten as she presses the blue-sugar butterfly into your palm for safekeeping, the wings beating in your fist like a tiny, reckless heart.

Blue is the breath you catch when the first ultrasound flickers to life on the screen, gray shadow, black void, but there, a shimmer of cobalt, as if the universe itself is painting your child into being. It’s the color of the night sky you both stand under on the balcony, Jeno’s lips in your hair, murmuring dreams and promises you can almost taste, salt and electric, a future spun in navy, sapphire, indigo, midnight. It is the echo of ocean you both hear in the hush after laughter, and the shade of the secret journal you keep in the bottom drawer, scrawling hopes for a boy you’ve never met but already know by heart.

Blue becomes every silk flower pressed into the nursery walls, every rainstorm that lulls you into sleep, every band-aid Jeno gently peels from your ankle when you catch your foot on the stairs, whispering, “Easy, baby. I’ve got you.” It is the hush of the sonogram room, the flutter of his heart echoing inside yours. It’s the woven blanket your mother brings from her own childhood, worn to a softness that smells of clean water and sky. Blue is the taste of blueberries and cream, the first craving you share late at night, feet tangled with Jeno’s, laughter spilling out between spoonfuls as the baby kicks, as if already in on the secret.

Blue is protection and revelation, lullaby and thunderclap, a tether and a horizon line. It is the strength in Jeno’s hand when he slides it across your stomach, fingers splayed like a shield, his breath warming the place where future and present meet. Blue is the shape of every new beginning, the echo of every old promise, and the silent, shining answer to every wish you’ve ever whispered. It fills the room, it follows you everywhere—it lives in every physical thing you love and hold, and in all the invisible places you’re still learning to trust.

Blue isn’t just a color. It’s the way the world loves you back.

The world shifts the night the secret tries to break you, shadows press in, but inside your walls, you choose to turn the story toward light. It happens the night you taste blue on your tongue for the first time. The park is still warm with laughter and scattered streamers when Jeno’s phone buzzes, once, twice, relentlessly. You don’t think much of it at first, too blissed and spun out on sugar, sunlight, and the secret thrill of your growing boy. But Jeno’s jaw is clenched, eyes dark as stormglass, and you feel the change before you hear his voice, low, deadly, nothing left of the man who spent the afternoon kissing blue frosting from your lips.

He storms into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him, and shoves the phone across the quilt. Photos. Names. A leak from the clinic itself. The screen is full of your private world made public, grainy ultrasound images, your legal name, a whisper of your due date, a headline drafted and waiting to destroy the tenderness you built one heartbeat at a time. Jeno’s hands flex at his sides, knuckles white. He looks like he did in college, the heat and rage and cold calculation in his gaze. “They think they can do this, they think they can take this from us.” His voice is flat, almost shaking. “We’re not letting them.”

You reach for him, brushing your thumb over the hard line of his jaw, tilting his face to yours until his glare softens, just a breath. “Then let’s give it to the world our way.” Your kiss lands soft and steady—a promise, a dare, the first move in your own war for joy.

The next morning, the world wakes up to your terms: a gallery that is all gold and shadow, silk and skin. The maternity shoot is nothing short of audacious, an answer to every stolen secret, every hungry eye. You wear black silk that clings to every curve, belly round and luminous, your hands splayed low, proud and protective. Behind you, Jeno, bare-chested, tattooed, wedding ring gleaming, presses close, his palm splayed wide over your bump, his other hand gentle beneath your breast, as if holding the weight of your future together. In one frame, you turn, bare back arched, the 23 inked on your spine clear and defiant, Jeno’s mouth at your neck, his hand at your hip, wedding ring bold against the soft curve. It’s intimate, unashamed, desire and legacy, both of you spun into the picture like silk thread through black velvet. Another frame is softer: his head bowed into the hollow of your shoulder, your eyes closed, your hands over his. Love, sex, devotion, all laid bare.

The follow-up is light, breathless, giddy: photos from the park, blue everywhere, your white sundress hitched up, cake smeared on your lips, Jeno laughing into your neck as Haeun twirls just out of frame, yellow skirt bright as butter. The caption is yours: Our son, our joy, our story. You don’t get to steal this. We choose how love begins. And just like that, the power is yours again, the world left awash in your light, your story told in every fierce, loving detail, your son claimed before a single headline ever had the chance.

Behind every post, though, there’s an unshakeable shield. Before the birth, Jeno pours every ounce of his NBA-season ferocity into locking down a fortress around your family, teams of lawyers, privacy experts, NDA’s so ironclad the ink might as well be steel. The contracts are air-tight: no tabloid, no staff, no so-called “source” will ever show your child’s face, share his name, or profit off a single moment unless you or Jeno place it there yourselves. Jeno makes sure the world knows: your baby will never be a headline, never be a clickbait reveal. Only love, never leverage. Only joy, never spectacle. It’s a new chapter, but the boundaries are unmistakable. Your son will be known by the light in your eyes, the strength in Jeno’s arms, and the warmth of chosen family. He’ll grow up safe, hidden from the glare, nurtured and protected and absolutely, unconditionally loved.

By the time your third trimester begins, everything in your world feels heavier, your body, your steps, even your dreams. The bump is no longer a secret, or even a curiosity; it’s the center of your universe, round and high and monumental. Your belly leads every entrance, every turn, every shared look across a crowded room. You wake each morning with the unfamiliar ache of swollen ankles, the hot pulse of nerves pinched and limbs gone numb. Your ribs ache, your pelvis aches, your back spasms and you can’t remember the last time you slept for more than two hours in a row. Sometimes the skin across your stomach itches so much you nearly cry, and other times you swear the baby is stretching his entire body sideways, just to test your patience and the limits of your skin.

Your symptoms multiply in strange, almost comical ways—one night it’s heartburn so fiery you’d believe you swallowed a star; another morning your hands swell and you can’t get your rings on, so Jeno threads them onto a chain and fastens it around your neck, promising that he likes the look even better. Your cravings are mercurial: bowls of shaved ice at midnight, ice-cold peaches, sometimes just the taste of toothpaste. Your feet cramp, your legs twitch, your belly is so tight and sensitive that even the brush of cotton makes you wince. Your mood careens, wild laughter one moment, tears in the cereal aisle the next, sudden storms of fear and longing and dizzy, bone-deep love for a boy you haven’t met. There are times, late at night, when you lie in bed staring at the ceiling, feeling more animal than human, overwhelmed by the ancient, primal thing growing inside you. Your breathing grows shallow, your lungs crowded by the new architecture of your body. Sometimes you talk to your son, hands splayed on your belly, promising him the world, promising him you’ll survive this, even when it feels impossible.

And Jeno, he is everywhere. He’s never more than a breath away, half-laughing, half-worried, always watching. He has turned into the softest shadow at your side, a sentinel in the night. When you wake crying from leg cramps, he’s already there, rubbing warm oil into your calves, whispering, Shhh, baby, just breathe, I’ve got you. He ties your shoes, carries every bag, learns the art of compression socks and weird pregnancy teas. He kisses your stretch marks, traces them with his fingers, calls them love notes left by your son. He times your contractions when they come false and furious in the small hours, holding your hand, never letting his worry become yours. Every day he reads the baby a book, sometimes picture books, sometimes passages from the news, sometimes little notes he writes just for the three of you, his voice low, steady, a home for the boy who already knows him by sound. At night, when you can’t sleep, he sits behind you, arms around your belly, hands pressed to your skin, whispering, “He’s strong, you know. He’s so much like you. He kicks because he’s impatient to meet you.”

When you weep from frustration or fatigue, Jeno just folds you into him, tucking your head under his chin, rocking you with the patience of a water smoothing stone. He learns how to rub your lower back, how to wrap a belly band just so, and how to make a bath that doesn’t feel too hot or too cold. When your body aches, he draws you close, lips on your temple, Let me do it, love. Let me carry you for a while. On days you’re afraid, afraid of labor, afraid of pain, afraid of the storm that waits for you, he kneels in front of you, kisses your hands, looks up with eyes so full of devotion you almost drown in them, and tells you he’s never loved you more than right now, right here, in all your trembling, powerful, messily beautiful newness.

It hits in the blue-lit hush of midnight, your whole body seizes, a tight, twisting pain that wrings a sob from your throat. Braxton Hicks, you hope, but it feels like a storm, every muscle clenched, your hands knotted in the sheets. Jeno is at your side in an instant, panic blazing in his eyes, but he steadies himself for you, ice water, cool cloth, rubbing circles into your lower back, whispering every soothing thing he can remember. When nothing helps, he drops down and presses his cheek to your bare, trembling belly, palms spread wide, anchoring you. “Hey, little man,” he murmurs, voice low and thick with love, “you gotta be gentle with Mommy, okay? You hear me in there? I know you want to come meet us, but you wait just a little longer. We’re right here, always.”

You thread your fingers into his hair, carding through the dark waves as his lashes flutter shut, his breath going soft and even against your skin. He starts to hum, old love songs and lullabies, and somehow, miracle or magic, the kicks slow, your body softens, the pain ebbs into warmth. For a few long, weightless minutes, his whole world is curved over your stomach, murmuring secrets to his son, thumb tracing gentle lines over the bump. “We love you, baby. Daddy’s here, always. I can’t wait to see your face. You’re already so strong, just like your mom.” You feel your baby roll beneath his hands, as if settling in to listen, and your heart thuds with the fierce, tender certainty that your boy already knows his father’s voice, already knows the sound of home.

Your world shifts again when you move into your new dream apartment, more than an apartment, really, a home with wide windows and morning light, ceilings tall enough for your dreams to echo. The front door is massive, heavy oak and iron, the kind you picture slamming in winter storms and opening for a parade of birthday parties, lost shoes, new friends, and—someday—a line of siblings trailing behind your son, every footstep claimed and cherished. There are still boxes everywhere, laundry baskets of baby clothes, the scent of fresh paint lingering in the air, but it feels sacred, full of promise and story. Your shared bedroom is a sanctuary, all linen and pale blue, every detail designed by Jeno’s loving hand, a nest for new beginnings. Sometimes, in the mirror, you catch sight of your reflection, barefoot, belly monumental, Jeno’s arms looped around you from behind, both of you luminous with exhaustion and hope, and you want to remember that image forever.

The nursery is Jeno’s masterpiece. He spends two weeks building it, hardly sleeping, barely eating, his hands splattered with paint and glue and the soft sawdust of small dreams. He sketches out a mural on one wall: an endless blue sky streaked with clouds and swallows, a landscape of hills and rivers that look suspiciously like memories of your childhood summers. The crib is placed exactly where the sunrise will catch your son’s first smiles; the rocking chair, a family heirloom Jeno restored himself, sits beside the window draped in gauzy curtains that glow every afternoon. There are baskets full of toys, a shelf of baby books, a line of tiny onesies snapped and hung like prayer flags. Every detail is touched by Jeno’s devotion, a mobile that spins softly overhead, painted with stars and planets; a handmade night light shaped like a moon. When it’s done, the two of you stand in the doorway, your arms around his waist, the quiet music of your son’s future thrumming in the air. You feel it settle inside you, that soft, almost unbearable certainty: this is home, this is family, this is everything you’ve ever wanted, built one aching, hopeful, glorious day at a time.

And in the hush of that finished nursery, your fingers tangled with Jeno’s, your feet swollen and your heart so full it aches, you lean into him, his lips in your hair, his hands splayed over your belly and the world you’ve built together. You know that whatever pain comes next, whatever fear or chaos or miracle, you’ll meet it with him, shoulder to shoulder, promise to promise, heartbeat to heartbeat. This is what love looks like now: huge and unwieldy, gentle and relentless, a life cracked wide open, ready for every blue morning still to come.

𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐒𝐎𝐍, 𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐁𝐄𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆.

You remember standing in that bone-white exhibition hall all those months ago, the air cold and sharp, everything gleaming and pitiless. You asked the universe for a sign, something, anything, as you watched yourself displayed behind glass, every vulnerability exposed for their satisfaction. Nahyun’s envy and Taeyong’s ambition closed in around you like a noose, their cruelty almost theatrical under the spotlights of that silent, merciless exhibition. You had to present for a dead man who still pulled your strings, a father-in-law who blackmailed you with the most precious pieces of your life, his threats hanging over your every move like the blade of a guillotine. He demanded your brilliance and your suffering both, daring you to flinch, daring you to bleed for his legacy.

And then there was Nahyun, a woman so lost inside her own delusion, so obsessed with wearing your skin, she would have killed you for the chance. She mimicked every word, every gesture, studied the shape of your happiness and tried to split it open. She punched you so hard you tasted blood, she ripped the charms from your wrist as if she could tear your history away by force. She would have grabbed the knife, would have ended you if Jeno hadn’t stood between you and her madness, the air thick with the threat of violence and the wild certainty that love and luck are never promised. You survived the ordeal of a woman engaged to the love of your life, a woman who thought your heart belonged to her, who would have gutted you to prove it. In the end, you stood in the center of all that hunger, all that darkness, performing for their applause, stripped of everything but your will to survive.

For one shattered instant, you believe the universe’s answer is Jeno, his gaze locking with yours across the crowd, all old fire and new hunger, the kind of possession that claims you with a single look. He comes back to you like a fever dream, rough hands at your hips, his mouth staking territory down your neck, every word a silent vow: You’re mine. I’ll ruin every man who tries to take you from me. I’ll build you a home inside my body, if that’s what it takes to keep you safe. He’s not just returned, he’s ravenous, your lips, your scars, your trembling, every part of you worshipped until you’re left boneless in his arms, marked and adored. For one wild heartbeat, you think maybe that’s the miracle, maybe that’s all the universe ever meant to give back.

But in the hush after, the quiet that follows the ache, you discover the universe was gentler, braver than that. It slips you something secret and holy, softer than even Jeno’s love, something you almost missed. Your true calling arrives disguised as a lullaby, as baby blues that look up at you with galaxies inside, as baby powder sweet on the air, as a hush that coats your world in dawn-light. The universe gifts you chubby knuckles and silken lashes, a yawn so wide it swallows every old ache, the scent of milk and new beginnings tangled in your hair. You find tiny fists pressed against your fingers like bouquets of promises, velvet whimpers that sound like forgiveness, and a pulse so new and steady you know you’ll never be lonely again. Your baby is the melody you didn’t know you’d been humming for years, a dream in soft cotton, toes curled around your heart, eyes blinking slow as the moon. In the pale light, you hold him and understand: this is the answer. This is the real return, the reason you were spared, the hush after every storm. The universe gave you back Jeno, wild and wanting, but it gave you your son to save you. In that lull, as you cradle him close, you know your heart’s true work at last: to hold, to shelter, to sing him home.

In that hush, as you cradle him close, his lashes fluttering against your collarbone, his breath a gentle tide rising and falling with yours, you understand with a clarity that makes your bones ache: you were destined to be his mother. Every hurt, every hollow, every brutal miracle that carved you out was only ever preparing you for this tiny, extraordinary life. It was always meant to end like this, your heart, remade in miniature, resting in your arms. All the ways the world tried to break you, every loss, every storm, only cleared the path for this beginning. He is your purpose, your answer, the proof that sometimes love’s truest home is in the quiet after the thunder, in the soft, perfect weight of your son asleep against your skin.

You see it in Jeno’s eyes too: the way he looks at his son, awe and reverence tangled with relief, as if this child has saved him just as surely. Your baby is the silent answer to all the questions you and Jeno never dared ask; he is the balm that closes every rift between you, the living proof that love survives, even when you feared it couldn’t. It is your son who stitches you and Jeno back together, laughter echoing in the rooms that once rang with silence, gentle hands bridging the distance, forgiveness blooming where only grief had grown. All the ways the world tried to break you, every loss, every thunderstorm, have only cleared the way for this: the beginning that saves you both, the love that remakes itself in your son’s eyes. His heartbeat is the thread that sews your family whole, a promise that, even in the quiet after everything, you will always find your way back home.

The world rearranged itself the instant your son crossed the threshold of you, the universe folding into the space between your open palms and the crown of his damp head. He entered as starlight splits the black, a quiet eruption, silence blooming with the force of a thousand lifetimes choosing this exact hour to converge. Every breath around you thickened, oxygen becoming silk, the ceiling curving like the inside of a shell, as if the laws of physics bent for him alone. He arrived, not as a storm, but as a phenomenon: an event horizon you crossed together, no way back, only forward into a new orbit that belonged to the two of you.

Heat gathers in the crook of your arms, seven pounds of gravity—his gravity—spooling the map of your body into new lines, new meaning. His skin, still honeyed and raw from the journey, presses to your chest like a secret the cosmos has whispered just for you. Jeno’s hand anchors yours, a pulse-thread tethering past and future, but your eyes fix on the boy who holds the blueprints to your marrow, every breath a drumbeat, each flutter of his lashes proof that something immortal is now breathing beside you, changing everything

His gaze meets yours, a collision of galaxies, a communion written in the old language of wonder. and everything you have ever survived rewrites itself for him. Your heart stutters, then surrenders, learning his tempo as if this rhythm has always existed, waiting for him to unlock it. He becomes your aurora, your solar flare, the lull between tectonic shifts. His scent, pure, mineral, the hush after lightning, settles in your bones, each inhaling a promise that love can be both weightless and infinite.

In this first hour, time untangles and spins new. The world shrinks to the outline of his body curled into you, the warmth of his mouth rooting him to the earth and to you, the room lit from within by a glow that has no name until now. Every hope you have ever held, every prayer you never spoke aloud, crystallizes in the geometry of his spine, in the way his hand wraps instinctively around your finger as if he has already learned the shape of belonging. He becomes your axis, the new law of your universe, the threshold and the homecoming. Here, with him, the world remakes itself, heartbeat by heartbeat, breath by breath, star by star.

When they lowered him into your arms, time stilled, the axis of your life tipping into a new constellation. Your hands, trembling with exhaustion and awe, curved instinctively around him, feeling the weight of a promise you never knew you were waiting to keep. He was impossibly small, impossibly warm, pressed to your heart as if the two of you had always been searching for the other, destined to meet in this sacred hush. His skin shimmered with newness, impossibly soft, and when you whispered his name it fluttered across his cheek, a spell only you could give.

Your destiny roared to life in that moment. louder than every doubt, every ache, every shadow you’d ever carried. Tears burned down your cheeks, unstoppable, joy and relief and a love so shattering you could barely breathe. You traced the curve of his ear with your fingertip, counted every fragile lash. Then his eyes fluttered open, dark and endless, and the universe poured straight into you, a current you could never outswim. He looked at you—looked—and your soul recognized something it had loved long before you ever spoke his name. All the waiting, all the pain, every hour you spent building a future from scraps and hope, crystallized in that single gaze. You felt yourself breaking and healing in the same breath, rebuilt by the miracle of being seen by him, your son, the story you’d always been meant to tell.

You draw in a stunned breath the moment his eyes find yours, a gasp blooming from somewhere deeper than surprise, because the color shining back at you is unmistakable, rare as meteorite glass, a shade the world only seems to spin for Jeno, and now, impossibly, for your son as well. It’s a hue the earth could never replicate, something alive with light and gravity, neither brown nor gold nor any common tone but an electric, impossible prism that belongs only to your boys. In that instant, you realize the universe has spun its secret twice: no one else alive carries that color in their gaze, no one else will ever make you feel so fiercely that you belong. Both father and son—your miracles—share the same singular glimmer, proof that the most extraordinary things in your life will always come in pairs.

You pressed your lips to his forehead, tasted the salt of your tears in his hair, and the world remade itself, every regret washed away, every wound soothed by the quiet of his breathing and the wild certainty that he belonged here, to you. In his eyes, you see tomorrow opening wide, your future folding into his tiny grasp. For the first time, you understood what it meant to be infinite: to be a mother, to be a universe blooming open for someone else.

Then Jeno came close, silent with awe, his hands hesitant and reverent as he reached for the boy you had made together. You placed your son into his arms, watched as Jeno’s composure splintered in the gentlest way—jaw trembling, eyes shining, breath caught between wonder and terror. He cradled your baby like something sacred, every muscle in his body bending to protect and cherish. For a moment, Jeno’s whole life played out across his face, every hardship, every lost boyhood dream, every fear and hope, gathering in the way he looked at his son.

He spoke nothing, only held him tight, forehead pressed to the downy crown as if memorizing this new gravity, learning the shape of love all over again. Jeno’s tears fell silent and bright, tracing lines down his cheeks, dotting your baby’s blanket like rain on new grass. His thumb brushed over tiny fingers, eyes wide and wet as he watched those perfect hands curl around his own, the same hands he’d once doubted, the same hands now steady with purpose.

You saw Jeno’s heart change in that instant, felt the man he would become blazing through the boy he’d been. He whispered your son’s name like a vow, like a prayer, like a secret only fathers know. There was nothing in the world but this, Jeno, holding his son for the first time, shoulders shaking with a gratitude that reached deeper than words, the two of them woven together, breath to breath, forever. You wept, watching them, a new family forged in the glow of something eternal, every future joy already glimmering in your son’s eyes, every old sorrow redeemed by the simple, impossible wonder of holding him at last.

You’re nearly four weeks in, and the whole world has shrunk to this quiet orbit—just you, Jeno, and your boy drifting through a haze of midnight feedings and warm-lit afternoons. Fatigue threads through your bones, but it feels holy somehow, the kind of exhaustion that roots you to the moment instead of pulling you away. The fabric of your days softens, shirts stained with milk and sweetness, lullabies hummed as softly as prayers against the fragile curve of his ear, the air thick with the hush of the sound machine, your own heartbeat pacing every hour. Every night, when his cries rise sharp and sudden, you and Jeno move like tide and moon—no words, just gentle choreography in the dark, one of you shushing and cradling while the other soothes and strokes his small, restless fists. The sanctuary you build together is made of whispered reassurances and unspoken glances, a refuge where every sacrifice is made lighter by the certainty that you are not alone in this.

Your son rests against your chest, heavier and warmer than you ever expected, his body fitting perfectly into the hollow beneath your collarbone. You whisper to him as if no one else can hear, telling him he is your miracle, your wildest beginning, your heart’s truest answer. Sometimes you thank him, quietly, for choosing you, for trusting you with his first breaths and deepest sleeps. You kiss the downy crown of his head until it feels like a blessing, your lips memorizing the shape of his future and your promise to never let go. His face is a story written in miniature: Jeno’s nose, soft and wide, cheeks flushed and full, his eyes still learning how to open to the world but already flickering with the bright, dreaming light of something ancient. In those bleary hours before dawn, you tell him everything, your fears, your hopes, the prayers you’d never dare to say aloud. You press your palm to his back and feel the way his tiny body settles, how his breathing finds yours and the world falls quiet, just for a little while.

You and Jeno take turns, trading sleep and soft words, hands meeting in the dim light as you pass your son between you, never quite letting go, always holding on together. Sometimes you catch Jeno watching you, eyes full of awe and tenderness, and you know—deep in your bones—that you’ve built something gentle and unbreakable, a home that hums with peace. The three of you wrapped up in a slow, patient love, night after night, morning after morning, learning how to be a family in the spaces between sleep and waking. The ache you carried for so long fades in this sanctuary, replaced by something steadier—hope, healing, a quiet faith in new beginnings. Because every time you hold your son close and breathe him in, you remember what softness feels like, and you let yourself believe that love, when given the chance, can truly remake the world.

The night is impossibly still, as if the whole city has pressed its finger to its lips just for you. Your eyes are heavy and raw from hours without sleep, your body aching in ways you never imagined, but none of that matters when your son begins to stir, his small mouth searching, his fists fluttering against your chest. You draw him into your arms, cradle him to the warmth of your skin, and settle back into the pillowed quiet, milk-warm, heartbeat-steady, the rest of the world falling away until it is only you and him and the silvery hush.

It’s your turn this hour, but Jeno stays close, his presence as constant as breath. He sits beside you on the edge of the bed, bare feet brushing the cool floor, eyes gentle and wide with a tenderness that never dims, not even in these bone-tired hours. One arm slips behind your shoulders, the other supporting the soft, fragile weight of your baby’s head as you guide him to nurse. You feel Jeno’s fingers trace your thigh, his palm curving over the silken map of your stretch marks, reverent and loving, each touch wordless devotion.

He leans in and murmurs, voice low and velvet, “You know, I could stay like this forever.” His thumb circles softly, soothing you as much as your son, and for a moment all the fatigue melts beneath the light of his adoration. “I’ve never felt this content. This is all I ever wanted. You. Him. Us.” You watch his gaze linger on your boy’s perfect face, every trace of worry and exhaustion replaced by quiet awe, as if he is drinking in the sight of the life you’ve built together and finding himself new each time. The minutes unravel slowly, your son feeding in peaceful little swallows, Jeno’s hand never leaving you, every gesture a promise that you’re in this together—no matter how many sleepless nights, no matter how much your world has changed. You feel seen, cherished, wrapped in a hush that belongs only to families built by love and midnight patience. When your son finally sighs, milk-drunk and heavy in your arms, you press a kiss to his hair and lean your head on Jeno’s shoulder, the three of you wrapped in the gentle certainty that happiness is real, and it’s here, cradled in the blue-black quiet, in the glow of Jeno’s eyes, in the tiny miracle of your boy asleep between you.

Morning pours through the window, gold and clean, settling softly on the bed where you’re propped up with pillows, your son nestled against you, his cheek warm and damp from another feed. You hold him close, one hand cupping his delicate back, feeling the tiny bones move as he suckles in slow, dreaming pulls, lips parting with little noises that melt the hush. There’s a wrinkle between his brows, even in sleep. an echo of Jeno’s seriousness, a mark of all the life he’s already lived in these few short weeks. Jeno sits at your side, his hand anchoring your thigh, thumb tracing gentle shapes that promise you’re still tethered, still cherished. His voice is a murmur, half for you and half for the baby, the kind of love that doesn’t need an audience.

Then your phone vibrates against the sheetsc a jarring reminder from the world outside, and you flinch at the headline: Nahyun released. A shadow flickers in your chest but you only gather your son closer, press a kiss to the velvet warmth of his forehead, and hum a lullaby straight into his bones, your thumb tracing slow circles on his spine. He will never know pain like that. Not while you’re alive, not while you can sing. Jeno catches your movement and you tilt the phone toward him. He reads, sighs, and his jaw tenses, that protective edge cutting through his tiredness. “I saw this earlier. I didn’t want to tell you, I know how hard this is, especially now, with everything so new. I just wanted you to stay calm, not stressed out, to stay here. Don’t think about her, just focus on him. She’ll never get close, not with me here. All you ever have to worry about is how beautiful he is.” His words are granite, unyielding, the kind of promise that draws a line the world can’t cross.

You know Nahyun could never stay locked away forever; some things slip the leash, no matter how tightly you hope. Still, when you look down and see your son breathing, all lashes and dreams and the faintest milk-drunk smile, you feel the ancient power of protection coil inside you, something raw, electric, sacred. Motherhood blooms in you like a second soul, a force that remakes fear into courage, turns every doubt to clarity. You have never been fiercer, never more sure that this is what you were made for: to hold, to guard, to love so completely that nothing dark can ever find a way in. In your arms, your son feels like destiny made flesh, your missing piece, your redemption, your reason to fight the world and win.

Later, in the quiet hush of another feed, Jeno exhales like something’s been lodged in his chest for years. His fingers tighten gently around yours, and the look in his eyes sets something trembling inside you before he even speaks. He says your name softly. “I need to tell you something.”

You glance up from where your baby’s latched to your breast, his tiny hand fisting your shirt. Your voice stays calm, instinctively protective. “What’s wrong, baby?”

Jeno swallows. His jaw works, muscles twitching, but the words come out hollow. “My dad and Nahyun… they used to fuck.”

Your breath catches like it’s snagged on glass. Eyes widening, you press a protective palm over your son’s tiny ears even though he’s nestled against your chest, oblivious, warm, impossibly safe, his little sighs painting your skin in soft reminders that innocence still exists in this world. You kiss the crown of his head, breathing in that unmistakable, honey-sweet scent of baby skin and milk-warmth, and for a second, you lose yourself in him. Utterly. Your body wraps instinctively around his, your arms cradling him tighter, your heartbeat syncing to his, as if your soul could climb inside his and stay there, untouched by what’s unraveling around you. He coos, soft and trusting, and you try to anchor yourself to that sound, to that small living truth that everything brutal can be held at bay if you hold on tight enough. The room tilts, the floor beneath you slipping sideways with Jeno’s words, but you don’t fall, you just sink deeper into your son, like he’s the only thing that makes sense anymore.

Jeno’s voice drops, like saying it any louder will make it worse. “I didn’t know, not when I was with her. Coach Suh’s exposé didn’t reveal everything at the exhibition. He sent me files, hidden files. He didn’t release them publicly, but told me to read and watch them when I was ready.” He breaks off, running a hand through his hair. “I only opened them a few days ago. I didn’t want to believe it. I still don’t. There are things in there that I don’t even want to say out loud but it’s real and it happened, I saw it. They were serious. Secret. Before she ever looked at me, she was with him. My father.”

You nearly choke, your stomach curdling. “She…”

He nods, teeth clenched. “Cheating on my mom, for years. Using company resources, properties, hiding it under the business. I even think he got her to film those videos of us at the bar. They were very dark and twisted. It’s like I didn’t even know the man.”

His voice cracks. “And Nahyun—she played me, mirrored me, lived in my skin like it was hers to wear. But it started long before me. She wasn’t obsessed with me, she was obsessed with him. I was just an extension and now looking back at our engagement, Lord, I should’ve bolted on the first day, looking back, it’s so obvious that she just imagined me as an extension of my father.”

Your heart claws its way up your throat. “Oh, Jeno.”

“I want it all erased,” he says, voice cracking with bitterness. “Everything I ever had with her—every memory, every moment, all of it. She was someone else entirely when the doors were closed. I didn’t see it. I didn’t know. And worst of all, I dragged you into her orbit. I put you in danger without meaning to. If I could go back and rip every trace of her out of our lives, I would. I swear, I would do anything to protect you from what she was.”

Jeno lets out a shaky breath, his gaze distant, voice heavy with regret. “Sometimes I wish I could go back, just open my eyes and see it all for what it was—see the signs that everyone else says were obvious. But I couldn’t. Grief was eating me alive, and the NBA schedule was relentless. I barely slept. My head was a mess, I couldn’t see straight, let alone see through her lies. And honestly, it’s not like I spent real time with her. She was my fiancée, but I avoided her every chance I got. I was always on the road, in another city, another hotel. Maybe that was my gut trying to protect me, even when my mind couldn’t. I just wish I could have protected you better.”

You shake your head instantly, tears blurring your vision as you clutch your son tighter to your chest. “No. Don’t you dare think that. She fooled everyone. She was a master at it. No one saw through her so how could you? She wasn’t human, Jeno. She was rotten and dressed in diamonds, a shell pretending to be in love. If anyone was in danger, it was because she made it so. You didn’t bring this on us. She did.” Your voice grows steadier, conviction sharpening every word. “You protected me then, the night of the exhibition, if you weren't there I probably would’ve died. You’re protecting us now. You’re nothing like them, you're the reason I survived.”

Jeno’s face crumples with relief and fierce devotion. He leans over, his hand gentle on your cheek, then dips down to press a series of soft kisses to your son’s head, to your temple, to the curve of your shoulder, like a benediction, a promise in every touch. “You two are everything to me,” he murmurs, his voice thick, brushing your hair back as he kisses you once more. “You’re my whole life. I swear, I’m going to do everything—everything—to keep you both safe. No one will ever hurt you again. Not while I’m here.”

One year circles past in a blur of gentle chaos, midnight lullabies melting into sunlight mornings, every milestone a bead strung onto the thread of your new life. Today, the house thrums with the bright, golden noise of celebration. Your parents arrive first, arms full of gifts and laughter, their voices brimming with a pride that softens every memory of old worry. Your mother lifts your boy into her arms, his tiny hands clutching her cheeks, and for a heartbeat you glimpse the legacy of love flowing through generations, her tears bright and unashamed as she kisses his head, whispering blessings into the whorl of his hair. Your father crouches on the rug, coaxing your son to giggle with silly faces, offering a toy car that rolls away, always just out of reach.

Seulgi’s presence brings another kind of warmth—a second mother’s love, all gentle guidance and steady, open-hearted support. She sits beside you on the floor, one arm around your shoulders, her gaze fixed on your boy with a tenderness that says family doesn’t always start with blood but sometimes with the pure choice to stay. Jeno hovers nearby, camera in hand, cheeks split with an impossible grin as he tries to record every laugh, every messy handful of cake. The air is sweet with sugar and possibility, banners trailing across the room, the scent of new beginnings alive in every corner.

The moment unfolds so gently you almost miss it, dreamlike in its stillness. Your boy stands at the edge of the living room, tiny hands wrapped around your father’s big thumbs, his brows scrunched in fierce, adorable focus. He wears soft blue dungarees over a cotton shirt. pale and sweet, with tiny clouds embroidered at the collar and his dark hair curling over his forehead in fluffy tufts. Chubby knees peek out above white socks, one of them faintly smudged with frosting. A paper birthday crown sits askew on his head, glinting gold against the shine of his eyes. He looks every bit like a child plucked from a fairytalec dimpled cheeks flushed, lashes impossibly long, lips parted in a careful little ‘o’ as if the world is holding its breath just for him.

You watch his courage gather, one foot pressing down, then another, wobbly and earnest, every bit of determination written into the sweet, clumsy line of his body. The room holds its breath as he lets go, arms wobbling, a giggle caught in his throat as he totters toward you. There’s cake stuck to his chin, a dusting of crumbs across his shirt, but in that instant, with a single candle flickering behind him, he is pure magic, light and newness, the sweetest wish ever granted.

The first step collapses into your arms, your laugh bursting into the hush, tears glimmering as you scoop him up, pressing kisses to his soft hair and syrup-sticky cheeks. Jeno’s arms wrap around you both, spinning you in a circle, his own cheeks shining with pride and wonder, the grin on his face an exact mirror of your boy’s. Your parents clap and cheer, Seulgi snaps photo after photo, and the whole world narrows to the glow of family, to the miracle of your dream-bright baby walking, the home filled with laughter, all the hope you ever carried stitched into this one golden, unforgettable step.

There are nights when you and Jeno lie awake, limbs tangled and the world utterly quiet, whispering to each other about how impossibly good your son is. Sometimes you both watch him sleep, lashes fanned across his cheeks, lips parted in the gentlest sigh, his tiny fist curled beside his head like he’s cradling a secret dream. Even awake, Junseo is pure softness, his eyes wide with wonder at the simplest things, reaching out for dust motes in the sunlight, babbling stories to his stuffed animals in a voice so light it seems spun from clouds. He has a way of curling into you, pressing his ear to your heart as if listening for music only he can hear, trusting you with a whole-bodied innocence that leaves you breathless. He holds Jeno’s pinky with all the seriousness in the world, giggles with his entire soul, and sometimes just stares up at you as if memorizing your face, already knowing, somehow, that love is his birthright. In those quiet hours, the air sweet with baby skin and sleep, you and Jeno can hardly believe you made something so good, so delicate and bright, so gentle and true. Every moment feels like a dream you never want to wake from, your precious boy the living promise that wonder can exist in the smallest, softest form. You never imagined you could love anyone like this.

You hadn’t even made it past the terminal before your throat closed. Jeno’s hand was wrapped around yours, his thumb brushing steady circles into your knuckles like he was keeping rhythm for your heart, but it still felt like something inside you had quietly come undone the moment the house disappeared in the rearview mirror. You kept glancing at your phone, searching for reassurance in the photo you took of your baby that morning, his cheeks flushed, eyes wide and soft, arms already reaching for you even as you tried to convince yourself you deserved this time away.

You’d planned this trip months ago—after the blur of first steps, wobbly birthday candles, and the way Junseo had grinned through his entire smash cake like he knew he was the center of the universe. A week away, just you and Jeno. Time to breathe. Time to be. Time to remember you weren’t only parents, you were lovers too, still capable of kissing until dawn in places where no one knew your name, still able to get lost in each other’s hands and laughter and want.

And it was beautiful. You woke slow in hotel sheets, sunlight spilling across your bare skin, your body tangled with Jeno’s, legs hooked over his hip, his hand sliding low across your stomach, fingers drawing lazy patterns over the curve of your thigh. You pressed sleepy kisses into the hollow of his throat, lips parting to taste the salt and heat of his skin, feeling him harden against your hip as his arms tightened, pulling you closer. Mornings unraveled in a hush of mouths and sighs, the world narrowing to the push and slide of your bodies, Jeno’s voice rough in your ear, telling you how much he missed you, how good you feel, how he can’t get enough. You rode him slow, sunlight warming every inch of your skin, his hands worshipping you, palming your breasts, gripping your hips, guiding you over him until you lost your name in his mouth, coming undone in the same bed where you fell in love all over again.

Despite everything, being parents now, the sleepless nights, the chaos of family life, you and Jeno never lost your edge. You still have sex that’s wild and thrilling, just as filthy and uninhibited as when you first tore into each other in college. At night, it doesn’t take much, a brush of your foot against his calf, the sound of your breath catching as you slip your hand beneath the sheets. He’s on you in a heartbeat, mouth tracing fire along your jaw as he murmurs, “Let me hear it, Mommy.” The name slips from your lips without thinking, sweeter than any confession, and his eyes darken with need. Sometimes he pushes your knees apart, slow and teasing, whispering, “Good girl for Daddy,” until you’re writhing, every touch charged with something hungry and forbidden. Even after all this time, that name still unravels you both, turning every gasp and plea into a secret you’ll carry into morning. Nothing’s off limits; you’ve explored every corner of each other, from the softest whispers to the most decadent cravings, ass eating, rough hands, breathless begging, all the things that make your pulse race and your mind blur. No matter how grown or settled you seem, the passion never dulled; with Jeno, it only got better, richer, messier, more urgent with every year. Even now, you can make him lose his mind with a look, and he never hesitates to ruin you the way only he can.

You wandered new cities, Jeno’s hand always seeking you, curving around your waist in quiet devotion, gently steering you through busy streets, pausing at every shop window as he pressed his lips to your ear and pointed out a wooden giraffe, tiny wool socks with strawberries, a little sweater so comically oversized you both laughed until your eyes blurred. “He’ll grow into it, trust me,” Jeno promised, and for a moment, the world felt impossibly safe, every small joy colored by the thought of Junseo waiting at home, his absence as bright and real as sunlight on your skin.

Even as you surrendered to the adventure, Junseo was everywhere. In the empty highchair at the bustling café, in the three spoons set at the table when only you and Jeno were eating, in the ache that slipped quietly between sips of wine as you reached for your phone, scrolling through a camera roll full of baby smiles, videos of his gummy laughter, photos you’d already memorized. Each night you pressed your cheek to Jeno’s chest and whispered, “I hope he’s not looking for us too hard,” your voice trembling with longing and gratitude all at once.

Still, distance became a game of devotion. You FaceTimed each morning, Junseo’s face squished close to the screen, babbling nonsense and waving his chubby hands, his grandparents laughing in the background. Sometimes he’d press his palm to the camera, smearing it with milk, or show you a new toy with a proud, serious grin. You sent back videos of city lights and silly dances, wishing he could see what you saw. Mark texted hourly updates, flooding your phone with photos, Junseo asleep with his feet propped on a pillow, Junseo clutching a block in each fist, Junseo pointing to the sky with solemn purpose. Even his voice notes became lifelines; you played his giggles over and over, letting the sound of “Mama! Dada!” wash through your longing, a lullaby that held you both together, even from far away. Your boy was magic, a living dream, and no distance could keep his sweetness from threading itself through every moment, every breath, every day apart.

Leaving him with his grandparents had been a choice wrapped in tears and lingering hugs and whispered instructions that went on too long. You kissed his forehead three times, murmured a dozen little nothings into his hair, and watched his small face cloud with confusion as he babbled something that almost sounded like “Bye.” The door finally closed, your legs buckled on the porch, and Jeno had carried you to the car in silence, his own eyes red and tired.

So when the week was over, no matter how much you’d needed the rest and time together, you felt like a live wire, vibrating with urgency as you hurried through baggage claim. Jeno was on the phone, coordinating something with Mark, but you barely heard him. Your mind was already painting the memory of your baby’s hands curled into fists when he giggled, the scrunch of his nose when he yawned, that squeal of pure joy when you returned home from the store like you’d been gone a century.

“He said he’s already parked,” Jeno murmured, tucking his phone into his pocket as he reached for your hand again. “Come on, baby. Let’s go home.”

You’re still wiping your eyes when you step into the airport pick-up lane, scanning for Mark’s car. Then you see it, familiar, black, a back window cracked open. You don’t see him right away, but you hear him first. “Mama!” The cry is bright and immediate, slicing through the chaos of taxis and suitcases, and your body stops, utterly, joyfully paralyzed.

Jeno catches you before you can collapse entirely, and then you’re running, yanking open the back door. There he is, your Junseo, your little universe, strapped into his car seat, one sock missing, arms waving with wild abandon. His cheeks are pink, hair a mess, eyes huge and shining as he claps his hands and laughs, shrieking again, “Mamama! Dada!”

“Surprise!” Mark calls from the front seat, already grinning. “You did say you missed him.”

Tears flood your eyes before you can speak. You bend into the car, your hands shaking as you unbuckle Junseo, and the second he’s loose he launches into your arms, his whole body trembling with excitement. Jeno is right there, wrapping his arms around both of you, and together you cradle your boy, your heart, your home, everything you’d ached for in those lonely, beautiful nights away. “Hi, baby. Hi, my baby boy,” you murmur, over and over, pressing your nose against his, kissing every inch of his soft, sweet face. his forehead, his cheeks, the tip of his nose, his tiny chin. “I missed you so much. So, so much.”

You cover every inch of your baby boy in kisses the moment you have him back in your arms, his laughter bubbling up between each soft press of your lips, forehead, cheeks, eyelids, the tip of his nose, his plump, perfect chin. He squirms and giggles, flapping his arms until you realize with a rush of affection that, once again, one sock is missing, his bare foot kicking air, toes curling, impossibly tiny. The sight nearly undoes you; you cradle his foot in your palm, marveling at how impossibly small and delicate he is, how your whole world can fit in the curve of your hand.

Tears prick your eyes as you fumble in your bag, your fingers find what you always keep there: a spare pair of his socks, folded carefully, white with tiny clouds on the cuffs, a comfort for the times you miss him so badly it aches. At first, it was just for you, a talisman in the bottom of your bag, something to hold onto on long days apart, the faintest trace of his warmth and sweetness. But now, as you slip the fresh sock over his wiggling toes, it becomes ritual, something you’ll do a thousand times, in airport parking lots, in quiet bedrooms, anywhere life scatters you. You smooth the sock over his perfect foot, your hands shaking a little with the tenderness of it, and he coos up at you, content and trusting.

You press one last kiss to his ankle and blink back tears, overwhelmed by the smallness of him, the miracle of having him to lose things, to get messy, to need you in the simplest ways. Jeno watches you, a smile breaking across his face as he helps, his hand cupping the back of your boy’s head. In that moment, you know, no matter how far you travel, how long you’re gone, you’ll always come home to this: his little socks, his soft skin, the sound of his giggles and the way he fits perfectly against your chest. It’s a magic so delicate it aches, a love so bright you feel like you might burst.

Jeno leans in, peppering a thousand kisses across your son’s head and then pressing his lips to your temple, his voice thick with love and awe. “You see that?” he whispers, his hand finding your back. “That’s our boy. He waited for us. He knew.”

Junseo coos, claps again, babbling about “Ba-ba!” and “Cah!”—utterly thrilled, as if the week apart had been nothing but a strange dream. Mark glances back and smiles softly, a rare tenderness on his face as he watches your reunion. As Mark pulls away from the curb, you press your cheek to Junseo’s hair, your heart finally settling in your chest. Jeno’s hand finds your thigh, and the weight of his love, your son’s warm breath, the sound of laughter ringing in the car, everything settles where it belongs. You lean your head on Jeno’s shoulder, Junseo nestled between you, and breathe out softly, a promise and a prayer.

“We’re home.”

Of everyone in his small, golden universe, your son’s favorite person, after you and Jeno, is his uncle, Mark Lee.

Junseo Minhyung Lee adores his uncle with a wild, wordless joy, the kind that bubbles up in shrieks of laughter and sticky-fingered hugs, a love so pure it seems to shine in the air around them. Mark appears in the doorway, arms open wide, and Junseo launches toward him with a squeal, chubby legs thumping across the wood, curls bouncing. Mark sweeps him up, spinning him in a dizzy, delighted circle, both of them breathless with giggles. “There’s my guy! Miss me, Junbug?” Mark’s voice is all warmth and mischief, nose crinkling as Junseo burrows his face into Mark’s shoulder, fingers clutching at his shirt like he’s holding on to his best secret. Mark presses a loud, smacking kiss to Junseo’s cheek, drawing a peal of laughter that ripples straight through the house.

They settle onto the living room rug, sunlight spilling comet-bright across their little universe. Mark stretches out, propped on his elbows, while Junseo climbs over his back with a fierce sense of purpose, chubby hands planted against Mark’s shoulder blades, babbling a string of nonsense that sounds to you like pure stardust: “Dada, da da, eomma, Mahk, Mahk, vroom-vroom, peep!” Mark listens intently to every syllable, answering back with soft, silly echoes, his own secret dialect just for them.

Mark never arrives empty-handed, and today he presents Junseo with a box wrapped in deep blue foil, tied with a ribbon as golden as your son’s smile. “For you, Junie,” Mark whispers, and Junseo’s eyes go wide, little fingers tearing at the bow, giggles spilling out as he reveals a set of wooden stacking stars, hand-carved, each piece painted in cosmic colors, moons and comets circling over every edge. “Mahk! Mahk!” Junseo cries, holding the smallest star up for Mark’s inspection, the sound vibrating through the house like music.

Mark hands over his keychain, always, always the first treasure Junseo reaches for. Each charm gleams with some story: a tiny blue sneaker, a smooth river stone, a meteorite chip from a market halfway across the world. Junseo presses the buttons, enchanted, his face split in concentration, Mark showing him patiently how to unlock and lock each one, how to jingle them so they sing. “Woooooah, comet keys, Junie,” Mark grins, letting the light catch and scatter rainbow flecks over the rug.

When Junseo tires of the keys, he clambers into Mark’s lap, waving his favorite board book. Mark opens it, but before he can begin, Junseo grabs a lock of his hair, combing it gently with the blue baby brush, babbling “pretty, Mahk, pwetty hair, mahhhn!” Mark tips his head, feigning seriousness, letting Junseo ‘style’ him as long as he wants, pride and love shimmering in his gaze. “You’re an artist, kiddo,” he whispers, voice dusted with awe, “make me shine.”

Some afternoons, Mark brings gifts he’s crafted himself: a hand-sewn felt rocket, painted pebbles shaped like planets, a nightlight in the shape of Saturn that glows softly beside Junseo’s crib. He never forgets a moment, commemorating first steps with silver booties, birthdays with handwritten songs, every milestone honored with something only Mark could dream up. When Junseo’s eyes grow heavy, Mark lays him gently in his crib, smoothing his curls back, whispering, “You’re my best little dude, you know that?” Sometimes, you catch Mark watching Junseo sleep, something unspoken and fierce shining in his gaze, as if he’s memorizing the smallness and the softness, the shape of this precious, fleeting time. He hums a lullaby that sounds a little like yours, a little like something new, and the room feels flooded with peace, Mark’s presence steady as moonlight. This is what family looks like: the quiet reverence in Mark’s hands as he lifts Junseo, the easy laughter, the whispered promises that echo long after the night settles in. You watch them together, your heart swelling at the bond they’re building, knowing in the deepest part of yourself that Junseo will always have Mark’s love, a love as sturdy and gentle as any in the world.

Mark and Areum finally marry on a salt-brushed afternoon by the sea, the ceremony a tapestry of laughter, pale roses, and sunlight that lingers on every vow. Junseo is two now, a little taller, curls wilder, his cheeks forever sweet with the last traces of babyhood, and he has a role as important as any grown-up: the tiny ring bearer, a crown of white blossoms pressed gently into his hair.

When his moment comes, Junseo stands at the aisle’s edge, fists curled tightly around a velvet pillow with the rings tied like tiny stars. His eyes search for Mark, wide with trust, and when he spots his uncle’s smile, all the nerves melt away. He takes one brave step, then another, shoes pattering softly on the path, every guest charmed silent by the sight of him—his small hands trembling, his voice humming a quiet “Samchon!” as he walks. When he finally reaches Mark, Mark kneels and cups Junseo’s face, pressing a kiss to his forehead, eyes shining with that fierce, gentle pride only an uncle can hold. The room blurs with joy, Areum dabbing at tears, your own heart swelling at the way your son clings to Mark, refusing to let go until Mark promises, softly, “You’ll always be my boy, Junie.”

The night creeps in, honey-gold and restless. Junseo grows fidgety in your lap inside the venue, small body squirming, eyes wide and glossy from too much celebration, his whines tugging at the thread of your patience. You sigh, stroking his hair, about to surrender him to Jeno for another circuit of the garden when Mark appears beside you, warm and familiar, his hand outstretched. “Come on,” he murmurs, a gentle grin softening the exhaustion on your face. “Let’s get out of here for a bit.”

Before you slip outside, Junseo grows more and more restless, twisting in your arms, fussing with the buttons on your dress, making little whimpers of protest that only you can hear. You wander through the reception, the warm glow of laughter and glasses clinking all around you, until you spot Jeno at the edge of the terrace, deep in conversation with Doyoung, hands moving as he tells a story. Junseo’s eyes light up the second he sees his father, squirming to reach for him, his chubby hands outstretched, hope shining in his face.

Jeno doesn’t notice at first, too caught up in whatever he’s explaining, his voice low but animated, brows furrowed with focus. You recognize the shape of the conversation even before you reach them. Business. Closure. Future. In the months after everything came to light, Jeno walked away from the empire his father built, the name, the bloodline, the boardroom legacy steeped in control and silence. He handed it all to Doyoung, the only person he trusted to unmake what had hurt him. And Doyoung did what Jeno could not, he didn’t destroy it. He rebuilt it. Repurposed every ugly corner, every soured dollar, until it became something new. Something kinder. Something honest. You see it now, in the way Jeno listens, nodding slowly, his posture relaxed but intent, no longer haunted by the weight of inheritance but finally at peace with having let it go.

Then Junseo calls out, a soft chirp of “Appa,” thick with joy, and Jeno turns instantly, face breaking into the kind of smile that belongs only to him. He closes the distance, arms out, catching your son and pulling both of you in. And just like that, business is over. The past, too. What matters most is here, clinging to your neck with sticky fingers, pressing tiny kisses to Jeno’s jaw, whispering secrets into your collarbone. You lean into your husband’s side as he kisses your hair and wraps an arm around both of you, his eyes soft, voice quiet again as he murmurs to Doyoung, something about second chances, and how good they feel when you choose them for yourself.

You press a kiss to Jeno’s lips, letting Junseo lean into his father’s shoulder, his small hands grabbing at Jeno’s lapel with desperate affection. “We’re going out for a drive with Mark,” you murmur, your lips close to Jeno’s ear. “We’ll be back soon. He needs to get away from the noise for a bit.”

Jeno’s arms curl around Junseo, pressing their foreheads together, eyes closed for a moment of quiet only fathers and sons share. “Be good for your uncle, okay? And listen to your mum.” He kisses Junseo’s temple, voice dipping into something just for the two of them, soft, adoring, the kind of love that never gets spoken loud enough in this world. “Daddy loves you, little man. Come back to me soon, okay?”

You watch as Junseo beams, some of his fussiness dissolving with the comfort of his father’s voice, the small goodbye stitched together with the surety of home. Jeno squeezes your hand before you go, eyes warm, a silent promise passing between you: there is nothing in this world safer than family, nothing more certain than the love you all share. And as you step out with Junseo toward Mark and the waiting car, you feel that promise shimmer around you, a tether holding you safe no matter how far the road unwinds.

You start to unbuckle the baby car seat from Jeno’s car, fumbling with straps and sleepy protests, but Mark leans over the roof of his sleek, black coupe and shakes his head. “Give him to me,” he says, voice flat, eyes gentle but unyielding. You narrow your eyebrows, hesitating, worry prickling at your spine, but Mark’s gaze doesn’t waver. “This road is dead. Haeun could literally drive here and be safe. I won’t speed, I’ll be careful. Just trust me.”

There’s never been anyone you trust like Mark. You hand Junseo over, watching as Mark lifts him with a reverence that softens every line of his body. Junseo melts instantly, letting out a long, contented sigh, settling on his uncle’s lap as if he’s been waiting for this exact sanctuary all day. Mark slips behind the wheel, Junseo cradled close, small hands clutching the hem of Mark’s suit jacket, the two of them pressed together in the glow of the dashboard. You slide into the passenger seat, the leather cool beneath your palm, heart finally loosening as the car pulls away from the curb, the sound of the world growing softer.

Windows down, sea air pours in, ruffling Junseo’s curls, leaving salt on your lips. Mark drives slow, every motion measured and gentle. He guides Junseo’s hands to the steering wheel, whispering, “That’s it, Junie. You’re doing so well. See, we’re just floating.” Junseo looks up, eyes round and sleepy, a small, drowsy smile curling at his mouth as Mark guides the car forward, slow as a lullaby. “You’ll always steer your own life, yeah?” Mark’s voice drops to a hush, more promise than instruction, his thumb stroking Junseo’s knuckles as the world rolls by in blue and silver outside.

Junseo glances up, eyes shining, a sleepy smile tugging at his lips. “Markie, vroom?” he babbles, twisting the wheel an inch, proud and bashful all at once.

Mark’s laughter is soft, golden. “Vroom, that’s right. Slow and steady, Junie. That’s how you take care of the people you love.” He glances in the mirror at you, his gaze a private reassurance. “You know, your mum is the best co-pilot in the world. She always knows where we’re going, even when I don’t.”

You reach over, squeezing Mark’s arm, heart swelling at the sight of them. “I learned from the best,” you say, warmth threading through every word. Mark turns to Junseo, lowering his voice to a secret only a favorite uncle can share. “Hey, do you know what makes a great driver, Junie? It’s not just how fast you go. It’s who you look after on the journey. You look after your mum, you look after yourself, you keep your hands steady. That’s how you steer straight, through anything.”

Junseo nods, the seriousness of the moment reflected in his little face. “I so safe,” he whispers, laying his head against Mark’s arm, content, trust shining from every inch of him. Mark presses a kiss into his curls, pride shimmering through his next words. “That’s right, little man. I’ll always keep you safe and one day, you’ll keep all of us safe, too. That’s what it means to be family. We take care of each other.”

The engine hums beneath you, the sky deepening with every slow mile, and the world outside blurs into blue and silver lines. Mark tells a quiet story about his own childhood, racing along the shore with you, the feel of the wind, the wild freedom of summer. You and Mark trade soft memories, laughter woven through confessions, as Junseo listens, his fingers curled around Mark’s thumb, his eyes fluttering heavier and heavier, anchored by the safety of their love. “You know, Junie, once I was a little boy just like you, restless and wriggly, full of questions, always looking for adventure.” Junseo peeks up at him, wide-eyed, thumb tucked in his mouth.

Mark glances at you, a quiet warmth in his eyes before he turns back to your son. “My mum—your Nana—sat right where your mum is now, holding her breath because I wouldn’t sit still, either. And you know where I was?” He taps Junseo’s tiny hand, curling it tighter over the wheel. “I was on my uncle Doyoung’s lap. He let me drive just like this, windows down, sea in the air, teaching me to steer and to watch the road.”

He slows the car a little more, voice lowering to a memory only a child could understand. “Uncle Doyoung, he never hurried me. He never made me feel small for trying or scared of mistakes. He taught me how to look after everyone in the car, and how to be gentle, even when life felt too fast.” Mark’s eyes glimmer, caught between past and present. “He taught me to keep my heart open and my hands steady, and that’s why I’m soft-hearted and stubborn today, because I learned from the best.”

You watch as Junseo’s eyelids flutter heavier, comforted by the sound of Mark’s story, the weight of love that shaped him. Mark brushes a strand of hair from Junseo’s forehead and adds softly, “I want you to remember, Junie, that being gentle is the bravest thing you can be and there’s nothing stronger in this world than someone who knows how to love and protect. That’s how my uncle raised me. That’s how I want to help raise you.”

The car drifts on, laughter and nostalgia weaving through the quiet, your little boy tucked in the arms of the gentlest guide you could ever hope for, the legacy of love traveling from one generation to the next, slow and sure as the tide. Here, in the quiet, you watch Mark guide your son not just down the road, but into the heart of what it means to be cherished, to be taught gently, to always know you’re never alone—his guidance a gift you hope Junseo will carry forever. You watch them, Mark, so strong but so heartbreakingly gentle, and your son, moonlit and trusting, every inch the dream Mark never lets himself speak aloud. For a while, nothing exists but the soft hum of the engine, the rhythmic beat of Mark’s hand on the wheel, and the weight of your little boy safe in the arms of the only person you’d ever hand him to without a word.

You lean your head back against the cool leather, the soft whir of the engine a lull beneath the night. For the first time since morning, with Junseo endlessly squirming and demanding your arms, a long sigh of contentment escapes you—pure relief and gratitude stitched through every breath. Your fingers find your son’s, small and warm, and you trace slow circles across his palm, feeling the way he clings to you even as his eyes never leave Mark. There’s a devotion there, something open and guileless, a glow in the way Junseo watches his uncle with unfiltered adoration, as if Mark hung every star in the sky just for him.

You glance across at Mark, the sea sliding past in slow ribbons outside. “The wedding was beautiful, Mark. Areum looked… she looked like something out of a dream. I’ve never seen her so radiant. I’m so endlessly happy for you both.” Your voice softens, full of every ache and joy, the night holding you all in its gentle cradle.

Mark catches your eyes in the rearview mirror, his grin bright even in the blue wash of streetlights. “Thank you,” he says, the words thick with gratitude and something unspoken, a promise as old as childhood itself.

He’s silent for a stretch, the coastal road winding gentle and slow, the world outside dimming to the lull of the sea. Then, almost to himself, he says, “I’m utterly devoted and so in love with my wife. She’s sunlight in a quiet room, she just fills the space. Sometimes I watch her talk to strangers or laugh at something small and I wonder how I ever lived before her. Even after all these years, she still surprises me.” He glances over at you, a shy, sheepish tilt to his smile. “It took us forever to get here, didn’t it? Three years of plans and changing plans, life happening around us but she never complained. She never made me feel like I was failing. She’d just hold my hand, or write me a note and tuck it in my pocket for later, or say, ‘We’ll have our day, Mark. I’d wait a hundred years for you.’”

His thumb strokes the wheel, eyes warm and distant. “Even today, she stopped me before the ceremony and straightened my tie and said, ‘Whatever happens, I’m already yours. We’ve always been enough.’” His words come out in a hush, shining with all the reverence of a prayer. “I still can’t believe I get to call her my wife. I think—no, I know—she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Loving her changed me in every way that matters.” He falls quiet, the corners of his mouth curling up, gaze shining with all the joy and wonder he never quite says out loud. In the hush, you reach across and squeeze his arm, your heart full for him, for her, for the family you’ve built and all the futures still waiting. The night glows softer for it, Mark’s words suspended between you like something sacred, a devotion woven gently into the fabric of now.

As the road unspools before you, memories sift through your thoughts, three years of Mark and Areum circling the word “forever,” their engagement stretched thinner and thinner by life’s demands. There was always some reason to wait: work, commitments, one more chapter of striving before they finally came home to each other. Then the world shifted again, abruptly, when Areum found out she was pregnant. The wedding was put off for a happier reason, preparations paused to make room for hope and all the fragile wonder of firsts.

Their baby boy, Taesun Lee, arrived with a softness that made the world tilt. You remember his dark, wandering eyes, how tiny he looked even in Mark’s strong hands, how Areum cried when she first called herself “eomma.” The wedding was rescheduled, joy humming at the edges, until everything broke open. Taesun was only six months old when the sickness came, silent, impossible to predict. An undetectable fever, something no doctor caught, a thief in the night that stole him away in a handful of hours. The grief was unspeakable, a tidal wave that left everything raw and unfinished, Mark’s arms empty, Areum wandering the house with lullabies still caught in her throat. The wedding, once just postponed, felt meaningless, almost cruel in its brightness. They were supposed to be married that month, plans all set, her dress waiting in the closet, invitations already sent. Taesun died just a few weeks before, the whole world tilting off its axis, leaving the future they’d built hanging in the air like something fragile and unfinished. The joy that was meant to carry them forward turned hollow overnight, the idea of vows and celebration unbearable under the shadow of loss. Every detail they’d chosen together felt too sharp to touch, the date circled on the calendar transformed from a promise to a wound.

You let yourself remember Taesun, the tiny socks in the laundry, the way Mark’s voice shook when he tried to sing him to sleep, the utter silence that replaced the sound of a baby’s laughter. There is a grief in your bones tonight, a mourning that echoes through every loving gesture, every new beginning, because nothing can ever make up for a future lost so suddenly, so senselessly. Junseo shifts against you, his hand still wrapped in yours, his adoration for Mark proof that hope finds its way back, even when everything inside you feels broken. The car moves slowly, salt and light drifting through the windows, and you realize that love, even when battered by loss, can still gather itself around the living, gentle, unyielding, and impossibly brave.

Junseo remembers Taesun too, in the innocent, sunlit way only a child can. You treasure every photo of them together, Junseo clutching a rattle in his fist while Taesun kicked beside him, the two of them tucked under a quilt, eyes wide with wonder at the newness of each other. You remember Junseo’s laughter when Taesun gripped his finger for the first time, the gentle way he would babble to him, as if telling secrets only babies can understand. The time they shared was so brief, but it glows golden in your memory, a season of soft mornings and shared lullabies you’ll hold forever.

Even now, every so often, Junseo’s small voice will float through the house, tugging at your heart as he asks, “Where’s my baby friend? Where Taetae go?”—his words sticky and sweet, unable to shape the weight of cousin but still full of love. The ache is sharp every time, but you gather him in your arms, stroking his hair, pressing kisses into his soft crown. You tell him gently, voice trembling with the effort to be both truthful and kind, “Taetae is in heaven now, sweetheart. He’s playing with the stars and waiting for us, and he loves you very, very much.” Junseo nods, sometimes smiling, sometimes quiet, and you hold him a little tighter, letting the memory of both boys wrap around you, a reminder that even the shortest love stories can last forever.

Mark’s fingers drum absently on the steering wheel, eyes flickering toward Junseo, then back to the horizon. He exhales slowly, like he’s letting himself feel the night’s peace for the first time. “Areum, God, somehow I love her more,” he starts, voice so careful and full of longing it makes you ache, “She’s, she’s the bravest person I know. Sometimes I think she kept us breathing when neither of us could talk. There were days I couldn’t move, I just couldn’t move, and she’d sit beside me, not saying much, just letting me fall apart. Then she’d tuck one of Taesun’s little hats under my arm, or hold my hand and whisper, ‘He knew nothing but love. That’s all we gave him. That’s all he ever felt.’”

Mark’s voice comes again, quiet but trembling at the edges, thick with disbelief and memory. “It was the most shocked I’ve ever been,” he admits, eyes fixed on some distant point past the headlights. “We were planning everything, Taesun’s little tux for the wedding arrived that week, still in its box. Three tickets for our honeymoon, one for him, one for Areum, one for me. I remember Areum laughing, saying he’d probably cry all through the ceremony but fall asleep before we made it to the beach. We thought we had forever. We really did.”

He lets out a breath that catches the pain so raw it feels ancient. “And then one night he just went limp in her arms. One moment, he was right there, blinking at us, breathing so soft, and the next he was, he was just gone. Areum kept holding him, begging him to come back, and I—I couldn’t even move. I kept thinking, ‘This can’t be real, this can’t be happening, not to us, not to him.’ I would have done anything, given anything, just to get another minute. I just wanted one more minute, you know? Just to tell him over and over again how loved he was, how he saved us even as he died. I wanted him to hear it in my voice, feel it in my hands, that there wasn’t a single second in his life he didn’t change us for the better.” His hand trembles as he brushes Junseo’s hair again, eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “Even in his last breath, he gave us so much.”

A tear slips down your cheek, catching the low light as you squeeze Mark’s hand, your voice soft and sure. “He knew, Mark. I promise you, he knew how much you loved him. He left this world the most loved baby anyone could ever be. That kind of love never leaves. It’s everywhere, still. It’s right here.” You press your palm to your heart, letting the silence stretch between you, heavy but bright with everything that remains.

He glances back at Junseo, kisses his forehead again, and you see the way his entire body bends with the memory, love and grief wrapped so tightly together they’re impossible to separate. “I think I’ll always be looking for him in the quiet,” Mark says, voice breaking, “but I’m grateful I still get to love you all. That’s what keeps me going.”

Mark stares out at the sea, his voice barely above a whisper, steady but so thin you can hear it fraying at the edges. “But I miss my baby, I miss him so much,” he says, each word pressed from somewhere deep and aching. “I missed him so much today.” The confession hangs in the quiet car, raw and sacred, echoing against the glass and the hush of the road.

You gulp, throat tight, your heart pounding with the helpless ache of loving someone through an impossible grief. You reach for his hand, sliding your fingers through his, gripping tight as if your touch could bear even a fraction of that weight for him. You want to tell him it gets better, or that love is enough, but there is nothing in your heart or the world big enough to soften this. No pain compares. So you simply hold on, the silence between you thick with every word you cannot say, your hand a quiet promise: I see you, I love him too, and you are not alone.

A quiet smile curves his lips. “We’re finally trying again,” he says, voice soft but sure, each word lit with a tenderness that catches in your chest. He lets the admission hang there, golden and fragile, before he continues, “It took me a long time, honestly. Longer than I thought it would. It took Areum’s patience, her softness, her way of seeing the good in the world, even when I couldn’t. She never rushed me. She just let me hurt, let me grieve, let me come back in my own time.”

He lets out a breath that is almost a laugh, a note of disbelief and gratitude threaded together. “There were nights I’d lie awake thinking, ‘How could I ever bring another baby into this world? Into a place that can be so cruel, so quick to take everything away?’ And she’d just curl up next to me, kiss my shoulder, and remind me that love is always bigger than fear. That the world is worth coming back to, if we build it soft, and gentle, and full of second chances.”

“And selfishly… I didn’t think another baby would fix anything. Would fill the void Taesun left. I thought, I knew, nothing ever could.” His voice drops, quieter than before, like it’s a truth he’s only just finding the courage to speak aloud. “But it doesn’t work like that. Grief doesn’t make space by erasing what came before. It makes space around it. The ache stays, but it softens. It teaches you to love harder, slower, with everything you’ve got, because you know what it means to lose.” He swallows thickly, lips tugging into a smile both broken and whole. “Areum always kisses my shoulders and reminds me that love is always bigger than fear. That the world is worth coming back to, if we build it soft, and gentle, and full of second chances.”

“She reminds me that even the smallest life leaves something permanent in your heart. That you can survive anything if you let love carry what your strength can’t.” His eyes shine, and he blinks quickly, but his next words come out tender, a hush you almost miss over the engine’s low hum. “She’s taught me that loving is worth it, even if it breaks you. I’d do it a thousand times again, just to be his father. Just to see her be his mother.”

His gaze flicks from Junseo to the road, then back again, brimming with something new—light, anticipation, even joy. “I’m scared, but I’m ready. She made me ready. I’m excited, actually. I’m ready for this next chapter, for hope, for a family that’s big enough to hold all our old pain and still make room for new happiness. I think… I think Taesun would want that for us too.”

His devotion wraps around the car, warm and quiet, as precious as a secret only the three of you can keep. Junseo stirs, sleepy, pressing closer to your side, and Mark reaches back to gently squeeze his foot, that same soft smile trembling on his lips. “We carry him with us. Every day. In the way she still sings lullabies, in how you look at Junie, in the way I try to be a better man, even now.”

Mark’s smile lingers as he glances down at Junseo, warmth flickering in his eyes. “Plus, I wanna give this little kiddo a cousin,” he murmurs, his voice lightening as he reaches back to gently tickle Junseo’s tummy. Junseo wriggles and giggles, clutching at Mark’s fingers, eyes alight with sleepy delight. Mark’s laughter is quiet but true, softening the ache in the car. Mark’s smile lingers as he glances at Junseo, his hand slipping back to tickle his nephew’s tummy, drawing out a cascade of sleepy giggles. There’s a tenderness in the gesture, a lightness that’s only possible after surviving something heavy. The car glows soft with the sound of Junseo’s laughter, and in that moment it’s easy to see how much this little boy means to him, not just as a nephew, but as an anchor in a world that once felt too sharp and cold.

After losing Taesun, Mark wandered through days half-empty, moving only through the motions of survival. Junseo’s presence, his tiny hands reaching for Mark, his head finding the crook of Mark’s shoulder, the absolute trust in his eyes, became a lifeline Mark never expected to need. There were mornings when Junseo’s giggles were the first thing that made Mark’s chest loosen, the first time in months he remembered what hope felt like. Through every family dinner, every park outing, every night spent reading the same story over and over just to see Junseo’s eyes light up, Mark began to piece himself back together. Junseo didn’t just fill the silence Taesun left behind; he built new music in it. He gave Mark a reason to show up, to try again, to believe in the possibility of new joy, messier, different, but real. Maybe that’s why Mark’s love for Junseo is so fierce and quiet all at once, a bond layered with gratitude and the soft ache of second chances.

You watch them together, the hush of their bond shimmering in the salt-lit dark, and your chest tightens with a love too big for words. You lean forward, voice trembling but sure, “He already has a cousin, Mark, he always will. Taesun is still part of us, he always will be. Every laugh, every birthday, every story we tell, he’s in all of it. The love between Junseo and Taesun will never disappear just because one of them is gone. Me and Jeno will show Junseo photos of Taesun when he’s older, spread them out on the kitchen table, gentle hands turning each glossy square, pointing out the curve of his cousin’s smile, the soft tufts of hair, the way Junseo’s own fist gripped Taesun’s onesie as if he already knew what it meant to hold on tight. He won’t remember those brief months, the hush of their first mornings or the shared blankets and quiet laughter, but we’ll make sure he knows it all: that his first cousin loved him, that their story began together, and that every memory, their tiny fingers, the afternoons they spent sleeping heart to heart, is woven into the foundation of our family. We’ll remind him that love can outlive even memory, living on in the stories we tell and the photographs we cherish, so he always knows he was never alone.”

The silence that follows is golden, heavy with memory and love, a quiet shared between you, Mark, and your little boy. Mark nods, swallowing hard, and squeezes your hand again, eyes shining with tears and something steadier, something healing. In this moment, you feel the beauty and ache of every kind of family, the ones here and the ones just out of sight, all of them woven together in the soft, enduring fabric of love.

Another year folds quietly into itself, and Junseo is three, still round-cheeked, still dreamy, but taller now, limbs stretching out like young branches in spring. The house fills again with that certain sweetness only Haeun brings. She is five, her voice delicate as spun sugar, hair pulled back in a flutter of ribbons, her eyes gentle and careful in ways that make her seem ancient and brand new at once. The moment she arrives, Junseo lights up, toddling across the living room on uncertain feet, his voice a soft, reverent whisper: “Hae-hae,”—the name he gave her as a baby, still shaped by wonder.

Haeun moves quietly around him, always watching, always ready to notice when he wants company or when he needs the world to slow down. She drapes a yellow cape around his shoulders, her fingers gentle as she smooths the collar and says, “You’re my dragon, Junnie. Only the bravest dragons get to wear gold.” Junseo stands very still, blinking solemnly as if the weight of the cape is a crown, his love for her a secret spell. He doesn’t say much, never has, but his trust lives in the way he follows her, tiny hands finding hers in the hallway, steps soft as shadow, lips parting to say “Hae-hae” as if the word itself could keep them safe.

Sometimes, you find them curled together beneath the piano, knees pressed close, the air filled with crumbs and quiet delight. Haeun breaks cookies into tiny halves, passing them to Junseo as if they are sharing treasures, her voice a gentle hush: “Don’t tell, okay? Uncle Nono is scary when he’s mad.” He nods, serious, eyes wide and sparkling, and when she slips a plastic tiara onto his head, he giggles so softly it almost breaks your heart. Haeun straightens it, cupping his cheeks for a second, and Junseo glows under her touch, proud to be chosen, proud to belong to her world. They grow like vines, delicate and strong, reaching for light, twined together in every corner of the house. Their laughter is the hush of morning, their secrets threaded through each quiet afternoon, each promise kept in the smallest, most sacred rituals. You watch them, heart caught in your throat, grateful that such softness is possiblec that two souls can find each other so early, and choose, day after day, to hold tight and grow up gently, together.

Your son is good, so good it stirs something deep and old in you, a tenderness that aches in your chest. Every day, Junseo grows more like Jeno: those steady, thoughtful eyes, the subtle set of his jaw, the way he tilts his head when he’s curious or quietly sizing up a room. There’s a gentle strength in his small frame, a sturdiness that echoes Jeno’s calm, even presence. He absorbs everything, thoughtful and slow to anger, content to listen more than speak, and in that way he’s every inch his father’s boy. Yet beneath that stillness lives your own patience and warmth: Junseo offers up his last cookie, hugs the dog when she’s sad, and sits for long stretches beside you just to rest his head against your arm, happy to love softly and be loved in return.

He is good, through and through, a golden-hearted boy, cherished and protected, never spoiled, only treasured. Yet you know, if not for Haeun’s influence, Junseo would be as spotless as new snow, a little too perfect, a little too careful with the world. Haeun, with her wild sweetness and soft command, is the one who tugs him into mischief and teaches him the beauty of daring. It’s always Haeun who leads the charge, her voice rising with imperious certainty—“Junnie, we’re queens and dragons today! You have to protect the castle, okay?”—and Junseo follows, solemn and eager, trailing her through the house in his yellow cape. Together, they turn the sofa into a fortress, stacking pillows until they nearly topple, Junseo shrieking with laughter when Haeun “banishes” you from the living room, her finger pointed dramatically, “No grown-ups allowed in our kingdom!”

There was the afternoon you caught them standing in the bathroom, Haeun stirring a forbidden bowl of blue toothpaste “potion” while Junseo dropped in cotton swabs, their faces shining with triumph. Or the time Haeun convinced Junseo to sneak extra biscuits from the tin, crumbs dusting their lips as they crouched beneath the table, giggling each time you walked past, sure you’d never find them. Haeun is the mastermind, the queen in every game, and Junseo her loyal dragon, always at her side, always ready to share in her schemes. He’s never quite the instigator, his goodness runs deep, but under Haeun’s tutelage, his halo sometimes tilts. Together, they tumble through childhood with dirty knees and sparkling eyes, learning, loving, and testing the boundaries of your patience, two souls growing up wild and wondrous, safe in each other’s orbit.

But sometimes, the line between mischief and mayhem blurs, and their schemes grow bolder than any parent’s patience can stretch. There’s the time you discover Haeun balancing on a kitchen stool, Junseo clutching her legs for dear life as she tries to reach the hidden cookie jar on the top shelf, glass shattering, sugar scattering across the counter, both of them frozen mid-crime, guilty eyes huge and glistening in the morning light. Or the day they smuggle every bath toy in the house into your ensuite, flooding the floor until water seeps under the door, turning the bathroom into a small sea, Haeun sailing a shampoo bottle, Junseo delightedly splashing, neither seeming to care about the storm they’ve unleashed.

It’s always Haeun with the plan, her voice whispering secrets that promise adventure, her laugh bright as she eggs Junseo on: painting murals on the underside of the dining table, drawing dragons and suns in marker, or sneaking handfuls of flour from the pantry to build a “castle” on the living room rug. Junseo, loyal and adoring, is her eager accomplice, never quite able to resist her pull, the way she makes even the forbidden seem like the only choice.

You never quite have the heart to shout at them, least of all Haeun, who blinks up at you with a wide-eyed innocence, fingers still sticky with the evidence. And with Junseo, your gentle boy, always so sorry, always so quick to hug your legs and whisper “I’m sorry, Mama”—your voice melts before you ever raise it. Despite every good intention and everyone’s assumption, you’re the soft parent, the one who sighs and shakes your head, who can’t help but smile as you clean up the chaos, secretly treasuring the wildness and the memory of your own childhood’s recklessness.

But Jeno is different. He steps into the room, voice low but unyielding, a steady authority that halts even Haeun in her tracks. He crouches to their level, meets their gaze without flinching, and sets clear boundaries. explaining what could have gone wrong, why rules matter, how love sometimes means saying no. Even Haeun, who looks at him with a mix of reverence and wariness, listens when he speaks; to her, Jeno is almost her second father, his approval heavy, his disappointment felt deep.

Sometimes there are tears, sometimes a sulky pout, but always, when the scolding is over, Jeno hugs them close, one arm around each, making sure they know the difference between a mistake and who they are. And as the boundaries hold and the wildness softens, you’re grateful for the balance: Haeun and Junseo’s wild hearts kept safe by firm love, by lessons given gently but not spared, by a family that teaches both freedom and responsibility, one scraped knee, one broken rule at a time.

But sometimes, the wildness in their play feels too sharp, their laughter carrying a frantic edge, a tension beneath the sweetness you can’t quite name. Haeun is a good girl, gentle, polite, always quick to say thank you and listen, always the one to tidy up after the game is over. Yet there are moments, fleeting, easily missed, when you see a restlessness in her, a secret rebellion that flares in her eyes as she leads Junseo into forbidden corners or dares him to cross lines you never set. You wish you’d paid more attention, wish you’d seen the patterns, the way Haeun grew quieter each time the fun ended, how she clung to Junseo a little tighter, how her smile lingered just a moment too long before she let go. You remember her that afternoon, cheeks flushed from running, yellow cape askew, Junseo’s hand in hers as she left, Jaemin smiling, saying he’d take her home, both of them waving, the light so bright it blinds you to anything but the ordinary joy of childhood.

It happens just hours later. The phone rings, its shrill cry cleaving through the dusk, and when you answer, you hear Jaemin’s voice shattered, barely able to form words through his sobs. “She’s back in hospital. It’s bad. Please, you have to come.” The world narrows to a pinpoint, terror blooming through your veins as you drop the phone, grab Jeno’s hand, and run, no jackets, no plan, just running, hearts pounding in your throats, the city spinning past in smears of neon and headlights.

The hospital is all cold corridors and the endless, echoing rush of your own breath. Jaemin stands there, wild-eyed and shaking, hands fisted in his hair, and when he sees you he collapses, choking on apologies and grief. You barely hear the doctors, the words “worse than it’s ever been” ringing in your skull like a curse. You stumble down the sterile hallway, Junseo clinging to your neck, the world inside you tilting off its axis. The lights are too bright, the air too thin, and every step feels like moving through water, haunted by the memory of Haeun’s laughter just hours before, already afraid of the sound of a life beginning to slip away.

Luckily, against every panicked fear that claws at your heart, the doctors work their magic. Hours bleed into a blur of fluorescent lights, urgent footsteps, the hush of tense conversation outside her room. It’s one impeccable intern, a young doctor with sharp, watchful eyes and a gentle touch, who steps in quietly when no one else seems to notice the pattern, who asks the right questions and adjusts something in Haeun’s treatment, a move so subtle and masked in clinical language you almost miss its gravity. Whatever she does, it changes the tide, and for the first time that night, the monitors steady, the alarms hush, hope cracks open in the space between beeps.

But the battle is far from over. Haeun is a wreck, the trauma of it all pouring out with every scream, thrashing against the sheets, trying to rip out IV lines with shaking hands. Her face is red and raw from crying, breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps, the wildness in her now all pain and protest. She sobs, her words like broken glass—“I don’t want this! I don’t want to be here! I’d rather die than spend another year in this place!” Her voice shreds at your nerves, shatters every part of you that wants to be strong. She fights everyone, nurses, doctors, even you, arms flailing, pleading to go home, to just be normal, to not be sick anymore.

You and Jeno stand helpless at her bedside, Jaemin pressed against the wall, shaking, his own sobs almost silent compared to hers. You want to scoop her up, erase her terror, but there’s nothing left to do but hold her hands, whisper promises you hope you can keep, and let the pain of her words burrow deep. In those moments, all the sunlight of childhood fades; there is only the sharp, black ache of loving a child who just wants freedom, and the desperate hope that someone, somewhere, will finally save her.

Hours later, when the worst of the chaos has dulled but Haeun’s tears have not, the ward is hushed, dimmed for the night, and her voice, raw, desperate, is still echoing down the hallway. She sobs into the blankets, flinches at every footstep, shies away from even the gentlest nurse. You’re at the edge of exhaustion, unable to do anything but smooth her hair and murmur the same reassurances in circles, your own eyes stinging with helplessness.

Then Jeno slips quietly into the room, moving with the kind of calm that hushes even the wildest storm. He crouches beside her bed, hands warm and steady on the rails, waiting until her sobs slow, until she looks at him through puffy, fever-bright eyes. “Hey, angel,” he whispers, soft as dawn, “want to come with me for a minute? Just you and me?” Haeun hiccups, wipes at her face, and nods, small and trusting, her hand finding his without hesitation.

Jeno lifts her gently, wrapping his jacket around her shoulders, and carries her through the sleeping hospital, past the beeping monitors, the antiseptic light, the distant shouts and the ghosts of fear. They step out onto the rooftop, the world suddenly wide and silent, the air cool and alive with wind and the distant lights of the city glittering below. Jeno sets her down beside him, his arm around her shoulders, and sits quietly for a while, just letting her breathe, the two of them cocooned in a hush that feels a little like freedom.

He doesn’t talk to her like a child, not tonight. His voice is gentle, low, adult, soft as the space between heartbeats. “I know you’re tired, Haeun. I know it’s hard. The doctors, the poking, all the noise. It’s too much, isn’t it?” She nods, face crumpling again, tears shining in the neon. Jeno brushes her hair from her forehead, thumb wiping a tear from her cheek. “You’re the bravest person I know, you know that?” he tells her, “You get to feel scared, even heroes do. It’s okay to say it out loud.”

His voice is gentle but edged with a firmness that means he trusts her heart: “Haeun, angel, I need you to listen to me, okay? You have to try to stop shouting at everyone, at all the doctors and nurses who are trying to help you, and you can’t keep being mean to your daddy. He loves you more than anything, and right now he’s not as strong as he used to be. It’s hard for him, too.” Jeno’s eyes are kind, his thumb catching the last of her tears. “You know how brave you are? Sometimes, being brave means being gentle, even when you feel angry or scared. Your daddy gets scared, too, Haeun. He needs you to help him just as much as you need him to help you.”

He kisses the top of her head, pulling her in even closer, letting her feel the steady, grounding rhythm of his heartbeat. “I know it’s not fair. I know you wish things were different. But you’re both stronger when you’re soft with each other. Let your daddy be your safe place, and try to be his, too.” His words hang warm in the night, hope and honesty mingling in the hush. Haeun nods, sniffling, her anger melting under his calm.

Haeun curls into his side, her sobs quieter now, voice shaking as she admits, “I’m scared, Nono. I don’t, I don’t want Daddy to lose me.” The words nearly break you, but

Jeno just pulls her closer, steady and sure, holding her like she’s made of hope. “No one’s losing you, angel,” he murmurs, his own eyes shining, “We’re right here. You’re safe, and you’re loved, every single day, no matter what. And I promise, I’ll always find a way to bring you a little bit of sky, no matter where you are.”

Jeno sits in the garden, the world finally stilled, Haeun soft and small in his arms, her breathing deepening as sleep claims her at last after a night that seemed endless. He stays where he is, unwilling to wake her, letting the gentle hush of morning wrap them both. Around him, the garden comes alive: dew glistening on the fat, ruffled heads of peonies, the delicate blue spires of delphiniums nodding in the breeze, tiny white violets threading the borders beneath a drift of pale climbing roses. The scent is sweet and sharp, and for a moment, Jeno just breathes, cataloguing each color and petal, holding the image close, a memory for another hard night.

He glances up and catches a flicker of light blue at the edge of his vision, scrubs against the riot of flowers. He blinks, surprised. He hadn’t noticed anyone else come up here, but now he sees her: a young woman, maybe early twenties, wide doe eyes and anxious hands, a stethoscope slung over her shoulder. She’s holding a thermos and a folder, but her gaze is fixed on him, startled and suddenly shy as she realizes she’s been caught staring.

“Who are you?” Jeno asks quietly, shifting Haeun so her cheek stays nestled against his chest.

The young woman’s eyes go wide, and she coughs, straightening herself as she fumbles for her ID, lips parting in a breathless rush. She introduces herself, softly, formally, eyes darting from Jeno to Haeun and back, as if she can’t quite believe she’s standing here. Her badge glints in the morning sun. “I’m an intern,” she finally manages, her voice steadying as she finds the words. “Just started my rotations here, actually.”

Jeno’s brows pull together, recognition blooming slowly. “Wait. You’re the intern? The one who saved Haeun’s life?”

She laughs, all nerves, brushing hair from her face. “I mean, not really, there’s a whole team, we all work hard, and Dr. Yoon did the actual consultation, and I just—” She pauses, swallowing. “I guess I did. Yeah. I was the one who caught the… well, I just noticed something everyone missed.” Her humility is so genuine it makes Jeno smile.

He reaches out, ready to offer his hand, but her eyes widen in recognition and she takes a quick step back, something like awe flickering across her face. Before he can speak, she rattles off a string of achievements as if reciting from a page:

“I know who you are. You’re Lee Jeno, youngest NBA starter in history, four-time consecutive league MVP, broke the all-time assists record before you were twenty-five, youngest player ever inducted into the Hall of Fame, Sportsman of the Year three times. Your stats are still used in university sports analytics. There’s a whole section about you in the orthopedic wing, and even a commemorative plaque downstairs in the lobby with your jersey number on it. Your name is written in record books and sports history articles around the world. You’re a legend.” The words tumble out in perfect order, each detail crisp and exact, revealing a memory far sharper than most. It’s clear in the way her eyes flick upward, cataloguing every fact, that she has the rare gift of recalling everything—an almost photographic recall that seems to surprise even her as she lists it.

She pauses, cheeks flushed, then shakes her head with a sheepish smile, almost apologetic for her recall. “Sorry. I have a bit of a memory for details. I read your profile once in a journal and, well, I tend to remember everything I read.”

Jeno can’t help but laugh, a little startled, a little charmed by the matter-of-fact way she unspools his legacy. Sometimes he forgets, in these quieter moments, that he’s not just a husband, a father, or a worried friend, but the most celebrated basketball player of his generation, etched into the public consciousness, even for those who are too young to remember his first game. For a moment, there’s something almost sweet in the way she delivers it, not with awe or hero worship, but the precision of someone who simply remembers everything she reads.

Her eyes soften, and she tucks her hair behind her ear, shifting awkwardly. “I just did my job. But Haeun is really strong. Dr Na has been at her side all night. He’s… He’s taking it hard, isn’t he?” Her voice lowers, gentle and sincere.

Jeno nods, gaze heavy with tired gratitude. “Yeah. He’s barely left her room. He blames himself for missing the signs, even though none of us could have known. You saved her life, She’s everything to us and she’s everything to Jaemin. Thank you.”

Jeno’s laugh lingers between them, the tension easing as she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, eyes shining with the curiosity of someone who genuinely loves learning for its own sake. She settles beside a patch of lavender, shoes scuffing the path, and the questions begin to tumble out in earnest, first about Junseo, but quickly skipping to basketball, to how he balanced his engineering degree with basketball, to what his warm-up rituals actually look like in real life. She’s earnest, fast, sometimes apologetic for her excitement, but her interest is never performative; every question lands like a puzzle she’s dying to solve.

Soon, her attention veers in a new direction—toward you. She mentions your name with a kind of reverence that surprises even her, all breathless enthusiasm and bright, unfiltered sincerity. “I’ve followed her work since I was a teenager, you know? The way she writes about healing, and hope, and everything you lose and find again, sometimes I screenshot her essays just to keep them on my phone. When I started medical school, I wrote out that line from her article about surviving the impossible and taped it inside my locker. My friends all thought I was dramatic, but it helped.” Her laugh is sheepish, but her eyes are shining, her admiration genuine. “You probably think I’m ridiculous, fangirling about your wife, but she makes me believe people can really start over, even when everything hurts.”

Jeno can’t help it, a real, belly-deep laugh escapes him, warm and surprised, the sound rolling easily through the morning air. “Trust me,” he says, shaking his head in gentle disbelief, “I fangirl about my wife too.”

She barrels on, barely pausing to breathe, launching into stories about reading your interviews late at night before exams, quoting your words in her med school group chat, even sharing your wedding photos with her best friend because “if there’s proof true love is real, it’s in the way she looks at you in every picture.” Jeno can hardly get a word in, but he finds himself enjoying the gentle storm of her excitement. He glances at Haeun, nestled against his chest, still sleeping so peacefully, oblivious to the whirlwind, a small smile curving her lips as if she dreams of nothing but comfort.

The young doctor pivots, seemingly without breath, into asking about your wedding, her curiosity unstoppable. “I mean, everyone in my family watched the videos you posted! My aunt cried at the vows, and I swear even my brother paused his game to see the first dance. There was a whole feature on it in the winter edition of Modern Romance—did you know? They said it was the most iconic ceremony of the decade. And those photos with the lanterns, Haeun was so cute and little, my best friend has one saved for her own mood board.” Her voice drops a little, almost confessional. “Sometimes, when things get really bad on shift, I’ll look at those wedding photos and I just remember that good things last, even if it’s only in a moment.”

She admits she still remembers the exact color of your bouquet. The event, she says, is legendary, hailed as one of the most beautiful and heartfelt weddings in recent years, making countless “best of” lists and even studied in a design seminar she once took. She marvels at the details: the rain of petals during your vows, the garden lights strung through the olive trees, the way people still talk about the warmth and joy that seemed to ripple out from every photo. It wasn’t just famous; it became a kind of symbol for what love could look like when it survived everything.

Jeno just sits back, lips tugged into a patient smile, letting her words spin out like silk in the garden air. He’s long since stopped trying to interject, content to be the audience for someone who, for all her brilliance and knowledge, is still so open-hearted and human. She asks about your favorite flowers, about the speech you gave to the children at the reception, about the tiny, private moments that never made it into the magazine spreads, her voice is relentless, but somehow never tiring, more endearing with each detail. She even tries to guess what music you played as you walked down the aisle, getting it wrong but laughing at herself.

Haeun’s breathing is slow and steady, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, perfectly at peace in Jeno’s arms. The young doctor glances at her, eyes softening as she lowers her voice. “She’s beautiful,” she whispers. “I’m glad you brought her up here. I think everyone deserves a garden like this, just for a little while.”

Jeno finally manages a soft laugh, shaking his head. “You’re something else, you know that?” But he means it kindly, grateful for the strange comfort of her presence—a bright, tireless spirit, reminding him that the world is wide and full of unexpected kindness, even on the hardest days.

Just as laughter fades into the soft buzz of the waking garden, Jeno feels a familiar shift in the air, the gentle patter of little feet on stone, the weight of a gaze even before he turns. There’s something about the quiet anticipation, the slight catch in the breeze, that tells him exactly who’s coming. Before he can look, he’s already smiling, warmth spreading from his chest. Sure enough, Junseo rounds the corner, eyes still heavy with sleep but searching for his father, arms full of a crumpled blanket he’s dragged all the way up. Jeno tips his head, grinning, and calls out gently, “Hey, sleepyhead, couldn’t you sleep without me?”

The intern nearly jumps, startled by the sudden arrival. She spins, blinking in surprise, she hadn’t heard a thing, so wrapped up in her stories and Jeno’s quiet listening. Junseo stands beside his father, blanket trailing, rubbing his eyes with one hand. “Daddy,” he mumbles, voice soft but sure, “I was looking for you.” He gazes up, not shy in the least, curiosity lighting his face.

The intern recovers, pressing a hand to her heart and laughing in disbelief. “You scared me!” she admits, eyes wide as she looks from Junseo to Jeno. “How did you know he was coming?”

Junseo’s lower lip begins to tremble, his small shoulders hitching as he clutches the blanket tighter. Before Jeno can say anything more, tears start streaming down Junseo’s cheeks, silent at first and then growing, raw, shuddering sobs that make his whole body quake. “Appa, I’m scared,” he cries, his voice splintering, “Hae-hae’s so sick. I don’t want her to go away. I don’t want to lose my Hae-hae. Why does she have to be in the hospital? Why can’t she come home with us?”

Jeno’s eyes soften instantly, everything in him drawn to his son’s pain. He shifts Haeun, still sound asleep, breath feather-light, carefully in one arm and opens the other to Junseo, kneeling down so their faces are close. Without a word, he gathers Junseo in, letting the boy sob against his chest, tears soaking through his shirt. Jeno doesn’t rush him, just holds him steady, one hand cupping the back of Junseo’s head, his thumb stroking gentle, soothing circles, while his other arm keeps Haeun cocooned and safe. It’s all muscle and tenderness, the perfect blend of protector and comforter, a father’s grace worn like a second skin.

Junseo hiccups between sobs, words tumbling out in a rush. “I didn’t cry before, Appa, I tried to be brave. I wanted to show Mummy I’m strong but I’m so scared. I don’t want to be strong anymore. I want Hae-hae to get better. I want us all to go home.”

Jeno’s jaw flexes, emotion flickering across his face, but he stays calm, anchored, radiating reassurance. He presses his cheek to Junseo’s hair, murmuring softly, “You’re allowed to be scared, Junnie. You’re brave even when you cry. I’m here and I’ve got you. We’ll be okay, we’ll all be okay.”

The intern, forgotten for a moment, watches the scene, Jeno holding both children close, his presence a quiet fortress, strong and unshakeable. There’s something undeniably captivating about the way he moves, gentle, attentive, every gesture instinctive and full of care. She lets out a quiet sigh, under her breath, barely aware she’s spoken aloud: “So hot.” Jeno glances over, an eyebrow arched in amused surprise, and she instantly coughs, cheeks flushed, stammering, “—I mean, um, so… heartfelt! That’s just—so sweet.”

Junseo’s sobs intensify, turning guttural, hiccuping, so desperate and raw that his whole little body trembles with the force of it. He clings to Jeno as if he’s the last safe place in the universe, cheeks streaked with salt, nose running, the grief of a child as honest and total as a storm. “Appa, please, don’t put me down, don’t let anyone else take me, don’t leave, don’t leave,” he babbles, the words tumbling over one another, his need a living thing, clutching, shuddering, utterly consuming. His hands fist into Jeno’s collar, breath hot and broken against his father’s throat, his pain a demand for reassurance, for presence, for the kind of comfort that can only be given with all of yourself.

Jeno, never more beautiful than in this chaos, strong arms gentling, jaw set, eyes fierce with focus, gathers Junseo close and shifts Haeun carefully, pressing his lips to the crown of her head before moving. There’s a soft humility in the way he kneels, the way he lets Junseo collapse fully into his chest, letting the boy’s tears soak through his shirt, not caring about the mess, letting Junseo’s fear become his own. Every so often, he murmurs, “I’m here, I’ve got you, I’m not going anywhere, no matter what,” voice threaded through with devotion that’s bone-deep and indestructible.

He turns to the intern, meeting her eyes, seeing not just her youth, but the steadiness she’s shown, the unspoken trust that’s already grown between them tonight. “Can you take her?” he asks, gentle but urgent. “Please, take her back to Jaemin.” The intern nods, understanding that this isn’t just a request, it’s a transfer of something sacred. She lifts Haeun with a practiced, tender ease, the child limp and deeply asleep, her cheek nestled against the crook of the young doctor’s arm.

As the intern steps away, Haeun stirs faintly, lashes fluttering, her breath catching for a moment. She murmurs “Mummy…” in a voice so thin it’s almost not there, lost in a dream, reaching for something just out of sight. The intern’s arms tighten around her, a gentle promise to carry her safely back to Jaemin, back to her family.

Jeno, completely absorbed in Junseo’s need, misses it all. The garden seems to fold around them, petals brushing his knees, cool grass pressing into his skin, the world shrinking to the hot, shivering body in his arms. Junseo’s fists twist desperately in his shirt, as if the fabric itself might save him. Jeno rocks him slowly, heart beating in time with his son’s pain, whispering fragments of lullabies, snatches of memory, anything that might anchor Junseo back to earth. Above them, the sky is streaked with the first hints of dawn, and the garden holds its breath: Jeno and Junseo, bound in a moment of pure, vulnerable need, father and son with nothing but love between them, love made visible in every tear, every trembling word, every strong, unwavering embrace. For now, there is nothing more important, nothing else in the world but the promise that Jeno will never let go, will always be the place his son can fall apart and be put back together, as many times as it takes.

The sun is barely rising when you finally slip out onto the rooftop, the garden washed in lavender and gold, dew dusting every petal. You find them there: Jeno crouched low, his arms wrapped tight around Junseo, your little boy’s face buried against his father’s neck, small shoulders still shaking with quiet sobs. Jeno holds him close, steady and strong, his hand rubbing slow circles across Junseo’s back, every inch of him radiating warmth and patience, anchoring your son through the storm.

You gasp the moment you see him, his little face crumpled, eyes wet and wide, his whole small body trembling in Jeno’s arms as if the world itself has grown too loud, too big. Tears fill your eyes instantly, the ache in your chest eclipsing everything else. “Oh, sweetheart, what happened? My little moon, my darling boy, what’s wrong?” Your voice shakes as you want nothing but to gather him up and shield him from whatever pain found him in your absence.

He can’t answer, not really, just hiccups, breath stuttering between broken words and desperate gasps, reaching out to grip both you and Jeno at once, needing every part of you, needing home. He tries, “I… I…” but the rest dissolves in a shuddering wail.

He clings to you, burying his face in your neck, his fingers gripping your hair and ear with the desperate strength only a child can muster. You stroke his back, your touch featherlight, whispering soft nothings, “I’m here, my love. Mummy’s here, I promise. It’s all right now. You’re safe, you’re safe.”

He tries so hard to be brave—lips pressed together, little shoulders squared, knuckles whitening as he clings to your sleeve. But as soon as you touch him, smoothing his hair and pulling him close, all that strength crumbles. His lashes are wet against your cheek, his breath catching, voice a tiny, quivering whisper. “I… I try be brave, Mama. I try so much, for you and Hae Hae. I wanna be big boy but… but I’m scared.” He sniffs, clinging to your neck, his words tumbling out broken and raw. “Hae Hae… she my favourite girl and she’s scared too. I don’t want her be alone, Mama.”

Your heart shatters and mends all at once. You cup his damp cheeks in your hands, brushing the tears away with your thumbs, kissing his forehead, his eyelids, his little fists, anything you can reach. “Oh, my precious boy, you were brave. You were so, so brave for me, for Daddy, for yourself and for Haeun. It’s all right to cry. It’s all right to be scared, especially when you love someone so much. I’m here. I’ll keep Hae Hae safe, and I’ll always keep you safe too. You’re not alone.”

He nods into your neck, still gripping your ear for comfort, the rhythm of his tiny breaths catching on every word. Jeno gathers you both close, his strong arms folding around you, voice a low, steady hum, soft and sure, a lullaby spun from hope and memory. Junseo clings to both of you, pressing his cheek against your chest, letting your heartbeat soothe him, little fingers twisting in your hair and ear as if anchoring himself to you, to home. You rock him gently, murmuring promises, pressing endless kisses into his hair, his tears dampening your collar as Jeno rubs his back in slow, grounding circles. The world narrows to this, your boy’s fragile courage, his innocent longing, the miracle of his need. You don’t rush him, letting him sob and sigh and hiccup until finally, his eyelids flutter, his breaths grow heavy, and he gives in to the safety of sleep, trusting you to keep the dark at bay.

Jeno holds him tightly, his arms a fortress, steady and warm, your little boy curled so completely into his father’s chest it’s as if he believes Jeno can keep every monster in the world at bay. Junseo’s small fists clutch at the front of Jeno’s shirt, his cheek pressed to Jeno’s shoulder, breath catching on every tiny sob. His body softens slowly, melting into that safety, the fear unraveling with each gentle coo Jeno whispers, nonsense words, lullabies, promises of light and home and forever. “It’s all right, buddy. Daddy’s got you. Safe, safe, safe.”

You stay close, your hand smoothing Junseo’s hair, your lips brushing the shell of his ear, and the three of you form an unbreakable circle, love wrapping around him tighter than any night could ever be. You watch as his lashes flutter, his grip loosening little by little, his breathing turning deep and slow as he finally lets go, trusting Jeno to hold him through every storm. He cries himself softly to sleep, and in the hush that follows, you realize there is nothing in the world except this: your beautiful boy, innocent and beloved, the miracle of being loved enough to fall apart and be held—always, always held—until peace comes.

Jeno leans in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips—steady and full of quiet reassurance. His voice is low, gentle against your mouth as he whispers, “I’ll tell you everything later, I promise.” He lets his forehead rest against yours for a breath, and you feel the unspoken words in the quiet: he’ll tell you everything, every detail, every fear, just not now, not while your son needs both of you so completely. He knows the questions burning in your chest, the worry, the ache, the why of your baby’s trembling and his tears, but for this moment, you are simply here together, hands wrapped around Junseo, hearts tuned to his smallest sigh.

That’s always been the way you parent: nothing hidden, nothing too big or too small to share. You communicate in glances and quiet talks in the kitchen long after bedtime, in whispered confessions and all the little adjustments you make for each other, always striving to be softer, safer, better, for your son, and for yourselves. Even on nights like this, when everything hurts and the world feels impossibly sharp, you know you’ll talk it through, you’ll listen, you’ll learn and grow together. That’s the promise, silent and shining between you: you’re in this as a team, building something new from every heartbreak, determined to give Junseo the gentlest home you never had.

Jeno tucks Junseo closer, holding your little boy as if he’s carrying something sacred. He turns to you, brushing a soft kiss over your hair, and murmurs, “Let’s get my girl and my boy home.” The words are a balm, gentle and sure, wrapping around your heart with a warmth that eases every ache. You slip your arms around Jeno’s waist, leaning into his side, letting his strength and steadiness anchor you—needing him as much as Junseo does in that quiet, drifting moment.

He leads you from the rooftop garden, guiding you through the softly lit halls, his hand finding yours and holding tight, a silent vow in every step. Before you leave, the three of you slip quietly into Haeun’s hospital room, the light dim and soft, everything washed in a hush that feels sacred. Haeun is fast asleep, her cheeks flushed, lashes fluttering, and Jaemin—finally, finally—has let himself rest, curled beside her on the narrow bed, his arm draped protectively around her small form. Their faces are turned toward each other, the lines of worry smoothed away in sleep, and the sight tugs something deep inside you. You tiptoe over and brush a gentle kiss to Haeun’s forehead, whispering goodnight, while Jeno leans in to do the same, his hand steady on your back, both of you sending every ounce of love you have into the hush between them.

You linger a second, watching Jaemin’s fingers twitch in sleep, the tiniest smile on Haeun’s lips as she burrows closer to him, two souls holding each other through the dark, safe for now. It makes you ache, the sweetness of it, the way love and care thread through every shadow of this room. When you leave, you reach for Jeno’s hand, lacing your fingers together as you step into the hallway. The world feels gentler here, quieter, and you cling to the comfort of his touch. As you walk out, Jeno nods and smiles at a young doctor by the nurses’ station, her white coat crisp, eyes bright with recognition. She glances at your little family—Jeno with Junseo in his arms, you at his side—and smiles back, a spark of something familiar in her gaze.

You glance up at Jeno, curiosity tugging at your brow. “Do you know her?” you whisper.

Jeno squeezes your hand, a secret dancing in his eyes, and bends to press a soft kiss to your hair. “I’ll tell you later,” he promises, voice low and full of affection. He chuckles. “You’re gonna like her.” And so you walk on, guided by the quiet, shared mysteries between you, certain that whatever the answers are, you’ll face them together—your family, whole, moving through the night hand in hand.

The night outside is cool and quiet, the city far below, but none of it touches you here; Jeno is your shelter, your certainty. As the doors close behind you, you know you and Junseo are exactly where you belong—in Jeno’s care, safe, loved, and whole, held by the man who never lets you go. Jeno’s hands are steady and gentle as he buckles your son into his car seat, fingers checking every strap twice, pausing to brush a stray curl from Junseo’s damp cheek. There’s an ease in his touch, a tenderness that seems to gather all the broken pieces of the morning and knit them back together, one soft gesture at a time. You watch, biting your lip, something molten and sweet pooling in your chest, a rush of affection so intense it feels almost like falling in love all over again. It’s the flush of gratitude and awe and sheer, physical longing for the partner and father your husband has become.

He leans in and presses a gentle kiss to Junseo’s forehead, whispering something only your son can hear, and you see Junseo’s eyelids flutter, his little hand coming up to clutch at Jeno’s sleeve as if anchoring himself there. Then Jeno looks up, eyes finding yours across the backseat, and there’s a quiet understanding there, like he can read every thought, every swell of love and hunger and amazement moving through you.

He moves to you next, still in that careful, unrushed way, and cups your cheek, thumb warm against your skin. His lips brush yours, soft, sure, patient, and suddenly you’re breathless, dizzy with the want of him, the certainty that he’s yours. It’s the kind of kiss that says everything: I love you. I see you. We did this. And in the space between heartbeats, you know he understands just how deeply you desire him, not just as your lover, but as this kind of father, this kind of man.

Jeno as a father is a love story rewritten in gestures so gentle they feel almost mythic. He never had a template, no blueprint for this kind of tenderness, only the long shadow of his own childhood, the rigid boundaries and silent expectations that shaped him once. He lives now in conscious opposition to all that. Where Taeyong was distant and sharp-edged, a man who measured love in performance and sacrifice, Jeno chooses softness every single day. He greets his son’s storms with patience, his triumphs with pride, and his ordinary mornings with the kind of affection that comes without conditions or end. Junseo never flinches when Jeno speaks, never wonders if he’s safe because Jeno has never given him a reason to doubt it. There is no fear between them. Jeno meets his son’s gaze every time, kneels to Junseo’s height so they share the same horizon, and makes every conversation a place of safety, a space where Junseo can grow up unafraid of his own voice.

He never makes his son earn affection; love is given as naturally as breath, instinctively, without tally or reservation. It is the air they move through, the constant in a world that shifts and trembles. Taeyong built a son from expectation, the scaffolding of his own disappointments. Jeno builds a son from attention, from the radical act of seeing. He reads every flicker of emotion on Junseo’s face like scripture, tracking every shift in mood, every tiny habit, learning his son’s language in a thousand silent ways. He anticipates tantrums before they form, recognizes the telltale quiver in Junseo’s lower lip, and intercepts tears before they fall, scooping him up, holding him close, whispering comfort into the space between his heartbeats.

He listens, truly listens, when Junseo talks about the world as only a child can. Dinosaurs and dream planets, the shape of the clouds that morning, why blueberries are blue, the secret reasons why the night-light needs to stay on. Jeno doesn’t dismiss or correct, doesn’t brush aside. He listens as though each word matters, as though every detail is another clue to the mystery of his son. When Junseo colors outside the lines or asks the same question five times, Jeno’s patience is endless. He sees every small act of rebellion or curiosity not as something to be fixed but as something sacred, evidence of a mind and spirit blooming in safety.

In the quiet moments, those long, slow mornings when the house is washed in gold and Junseo is still half-dreaming, Jeno pours himself into presence. He lets his son curl in his lap while he drinks coffee, fingers idly tracing little circles on Junseo’s back, humming softly, waiting for the world to come alive together. He’s present, always, in ways that are rare and profound. When Junseo wants to build towers or crash trucks or line up every book on the shelf, Jeno joins him—completely, as if nothing else could possibly compete for his attention. He makes his son feel chosen, cherished, the center of an entire universe.

There’s never a moment when Junseo wonders if he is loved. Jeno tells him every day, sometimes in words, sometimes in the quiet rituals of care: packing his snack with a note, tucking him in at night with three kisses on the forehead, pausing whatever he’s doing just to sit and watch Junseo breathe. He gives him freedom to choose, never imposing his own childhood wounds, never forcing a basketball into his hands, never asking him to be anyone but himself. If Junseo chooses art or music or chasing bugs in the garden, Jeno is there, kneeling beside him, ready to listen, ready to show him how, if he wants. Only if he wants.

This is what it means to build a son from attention: every day, Jeno rewrites what family is, dismantling the old legacies and gifting Junseo something soft, something indestructible. The patience, the warmth, the devotion, these are the things Junseo will remember, the inheritance Jeno is determined to give. It’s a new language, spoken in hands that never hurt, eyes that never look away, a presence that never falters. It’s the way Jeno anchors Junseo to this world, teaching him that the foundation beneath his feet is built not from fear or expectation, but from the wild, unyielding certainty of being loved.

Jeno draws a sacred line between legacy and love, a promise that begins long before Junseo can even say the word “basketball.” He never leads with it. He doesn’t tuck a ball into his son’s crib or sketch out court markings before Junseo has even chosen his first box of crayons. Instead, Jeno waits—he watches. He builds a world where Junseo can pick his passions from a garden of possibility, where nothing is expected and everything is allowed. There are days when he wonders, sometimes in the hush after a win or the lonely quiet of a hotel room, if Junseo will ever want this world for himself—or if he’ll want to run from it the way Jeno once did.

When Junseo finally toddles out one morning, feet clumsy and proud in a jersey so big it drags across his knees, clutching a plastic hoop in one hand and beaming, “I wanna be like daddy!”—Jeno’s heart doesn’t fill first with pride, but with fear. What if the world eats him alive, the way it almost devoured me? What if he learns too soon about the darkness that can live in stadium lights? Still, he kneels, letting Junseo wrap tiny arms around his neck, and presses a kiss to his son’s temple. Jeno lets him come to basketball in his own time, never once pushing, only opening the door.

To Junseo, basketball is joy, not burden. He watches old highlight reels, Jeno’s golden years flashing across the screen, and shouts to anyone who’ll listen, “That’s my daddy!” He brings a small, squishy basketball to preschool show-and-tell, proudly explaining that his daddy “runs faster than the wind and jumps so high he touches the stars.” Junseo doesn’t know about records or rivalries or injuries or pain—he just knows that his father is magic, and being near him makes everything possible.

Jeno only teaches him when he’s asked. There are no drills in their driveway, no lectures, no “practice makes perfect.” It’s just laughter, the thud of a ball on pavement, soft bouncing under kitchen lights. Sometimes, in the gentle blue dusk, Jeno tells his son, “You can be anything, you know. I’ll love you the same.” And when Junseo, breathless with hope, answers, “I wanna be daddy,” Jeno’s chest aches with a fierce tenderness, but he always says, “Only if you want to, buddy. Only if you want to.”

Their rituals become the threadwork of family: Jeno has a charm bracelet on his keyring, Junseo’s name engraved into the silver, a talisman for every city he visits. Whenever he travels, he brings back a tiny souvenir, sometimes a hotel pen, sometimes a silly figurine from an airport shop. These tokens line Junseo’s windowsill, talismans of love that count down the days until daddy’s home. Before every game, Jeno calls, phone pressed to his ear in the tunnel, and asks, “What play should I try tonight?” Junseo always has a new idea, some impossible trick or imaginary move, and Jeno promises to try, making his son a part of every triumph, every challenge, every dream.

After each game, no matter how late, Jeno finds Junseo in the front row. He lifts him over the barrier, settles him onto his shoulders, and carries him for a slow victory lap around the court. The lights are blinding, the fans deafening, but all that matters are Junseo’s tiny hands gripping his father’s hair and the way he shouts, “My daddy won!” Jeno lets him soak in the roar of the crowd, every cheer a memory he hopes Junseo will carry for a lifetime, not as pressure, but as proof that he was part of something beautiful, not just a spectator.

There are traditions, too, stitched into every season. Jeno never leaves for a game without kneeling so Junseo can kiss both of his sneakers, a ritual that began when Junseo was a drooling toddler, barely speaking, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses to the tips of Jeno’s shoes. Now, he does it solemnly, with ceremony, knowing that this is his “good luck seal.” Sometimes, in post-game interviews, when Jeno glances down at his shoes and smiles, it’s not about superstition—it’s the memory of those tiny kisses, the blessing he carries into every match.

Your home is dotted with mini basketball hoops, tucked behind doors and over laundry baskets. Not for training, never for drills, but for play. Even brushing teeth can turn into a dunk contest, Jeno lifting Junseo high to let him score, both of them laughing so hard the world shrinks down to a moment of pure, unadulterated joy. “You’re stronger than me already,” Jeno tells him, flexing dramatically, letting Junseo believe for a moment that magic is real and that love has no ceiling. This is legacy transformed: not a weight, but a gift. Jeno gives his son the world, but never asks him to carry it—teaching him, instead, how to play, how to hope, and how to know, with every breath, that he is enough.

Jeno’s love begins in the quiet hours, in the dawn haze when the world is still soft and Junseo’s hair is a tangled halo on the pillow. He never wakes his son with anything less than gentleness—no harsh alarms, no ripped blankets, just the soft sweep of his hand through Junseo’s curls and a kiss pressed to a warm brow. “Good morning, baby,” he murmurs, as if sharing a secret meant only for them. He lets Junseo linger in that space between dreams and daylight, lifts him slowly into his arms, and always whispers, “You’ve got time, baby. There’s no hurry.” Every morning, Jeno repairs a little more of the childhood he once wished for—a place where love means safety, and waking up means being seen.

It’s in the golden mess of Sunday mornings too, when Jeno tiptoes into the kitchen with Junseo still drowsy in his arms, both of them giddy with the promise of their shared ritual. They measure flour wrong and crack eggs into lopsided bowls; Jeno lets Junseo stir until batter coats their fingers, never mind the chaos that follows. He wears the “best dad” apron that Junseo chose, and flips pancakes into hearts and crooked letters that spell “love u mama.” The kitchen hums with laughter and sweetness; by the time you wander in, Jeno’s kissing batter off your cheek, Junseo’s cheeks are streaked with flour, and the whole house smells like vanilla and devotion.

Even in the tougher moments, Jeno’s gentleness never wavers. When Junseo acts out, throws a toy, screams out his frustration, Jeno never raises his voice. Instead, he crouches down, meeting Junseo’s gaze at eye level, resting his hands on those small, restless knees. “Let’s talk,” he says, voice steady and loving. “Do you know why that wasn’t kind?” There’s never shame or intimidation, just the gift of space to understand and grow. Junseo apologises in his own time, sometimes whispering soft “sorrys” to his toys, learning that kindness comes from reflection, not fear.

But there are moments when even the softest love needs to hold its line. While you’re always the first to comfort and to forgive, Jeno knows when to stand his ground. When Junseo’s stubborn streak flares—when he crosses boundaries that matter, when his voice turns sharp or his hands push too hard—Jeno’s presence changes, gentle but unyielding. He doesn’t yell, but there’s a firmness in his tone that makes Junseo pause, a seriousness that fills the room and says: this matters. He stands tall, gaze unwavering, voice steady as stone. “We don’t hurt, and we don’t disrespect,” he’ll say, his hand resting protectively at Junseo’s shoulder. He waits for his son to meet his eyes, makes sure he understands, and sometimes the conversation is long, sometimes there are tears, but Jeno never rushes it, never lets it slide. It’s discipline wrapped in dignity, guidance without threat, and it works; even as Junseo clings to your side, sniffling and regretful, you can see him growing into the kind of person Jeno hopes he’ll become. Jeno is the softest place to land, but also the one who teaches your son where real strength lies, not in control or fear, but in kindness, respect, and learning how to make things right.

And when the darkness creeps in—when nightmares wake Junseo trembling and lost—Jeno never sends him back to bed alone. He lays beside him on the floor, arms wrapped warm around his little boy, making silly shadow puppets until laughter breaks through the fear. “Nothing can get you with me here,” he whispers, and Junseo believes it, falling asleep tucked safely against his father’s steady heart. Sometimes Jeno stays awake long after, just watching the gentle rise and fall of his son’s breath, thinking, You’re the best thing I’ll ever do. Fatherhood didn’t just give Jeno someone to love; it taught him to mend what he thought was forever broken.

Their world is stitched together in these soft routines, but it’s also made of rituals both grand and silly—like campfire nights in the backyard, fairy lights strung through the trees, Junseo’s eyes wide as marshmallows roast and bedtime stories spin from Jeno’s lips. Tales of a brave, wild-hearted prince who is always loved, always chosen. Or the driveway one-on-one games, where sometimes Jeno lets Junseo win, scooping him up and spinning him around as if he’s just clinched the NBA finals—other times making him work for every basket, teaching that loss is just another way to learn, and that love is never tied to performance.

The magic bleeds into the extraordinary, too—like the time Jeno commissions custom sneakers covered in Junseo’s crayon scribbles, flames and declarations like “Go Daddy!” painted on the sides. He wears them in a championship game, kisses them on live television, then places them in Junseo’s hands in a glass case marked: “We win together.” Every triumph is shared, every joy multiplied.

No matter what the day holds, Jeno’s love is a constant presence. He’s there in the early hours and the blue hush of night, listening—truly listening—when Junseo rambles about dinosaurs or the shape of clouds or why blueberries are blue. He doesn’t just hear; he makes every word matter. And through it all—every game, every mess, every apology and every win—he says I love you again and again, in every way he knows how, until it’s the foundation Junseo stands on, sure and unshakable, no matter where life takes him. That’s the kind of father Jeno is: the kind who builds a new legacy from the ground up, one where love isn’t earned, it’s simply there, endlessly, gently, always.

Sometimes, it’s late, the kind of velvet-blue night where every sound seems softened and the house feels smaller, tucked around the three of you like a secret. You find them on the bed, the lamplight golden, Jeno sitting upright with Junseo tucked against his chest, your son’s small arms wound around his father’s neck. Junseo still has the same habit he had when he was a babg, when he’s sleepy or searching for comfort, he grips Jeno’s ear, tiny fingers curling around it as if it’s the anchor that will always keep him safe. He does it now, eyes heavy, lashes brushing flushed cheeks, while Jeno reads aloud from a dog-eared book, his voice slow and soothing, pacing each line to the gentle rhythm of Junseo’s breath.

You stand in the doorway, silent and half in shadow, and watch as your husband tilts the book so Junseo can see the pictures, pausing every so often to explain a word or let Junseo finish a sentence he knows by heart. Jeno’s free hand rests on your son’s back, palm moving in slow, instinctive circles, a motion so familiar it’s almost as if he was born knowing how to do this. He reads with patience and warmth, his tone dipping lower as Junseo’s grip softens, eyelids fluttering, breath growing slower with each page turned.

Just as Junseo’s eyes start to close, he lifts his head, the tiniest crease between his brows, and whispers something only for Jeno, a single word, soft and private, the kind of word that’s become a hush between them, a secret the world doesn’t need to hear. Jeno smiles, wide and proud, his heart so full you can almost see it shining in the lamplight. He sets the book aside and lets Junseo reach for his keys, the heavy ring that always dangles from Jeno’s pocket.

Junseo curls his little hand around the baby blue sneaker charm, the same one Jeno has always kept close, the color worn smooth from years of holding it tight. Jeno leans in, whispering in the dark, “That’s a special one, isn’t it? Did I ever tell you why, Junie?” Junseo nods, sleep heavy in his gaze but still listening, fingers tracing the curve of the tiny shoe, thumb rubbing the spot where the paint has faded. Jeno’s voice drops lower, gentle as a lullaby. “That’s when your mommy told me I was going to be your dad. I kept that charm so I’d never forget that night, how lucky I was. That was the first thing I ever had that meant I’d get to love you.”

Junseo’s lashes flutter, his breath slowing, and he holds the sneaker and Jeno’s ear at the same time, gripping both like talismans against the night. You feel tears prick your eyes, watching the way your little boy nestles into the crook of his father’s arm, surrounded by the objects and memories that mean “home.” Jeno brushes a kiss to his temple, eyes soft and shining. Junseo is nearly asleep now, holding that charm tight, knowing, because his daddy told him again and again, just how cherished he’s always been, and how every gentle ritual between them is a love story, quiet and unbreakable, written one night at a time.

You can’t help the way heat coils through you, the flush climbing up your neck, how tenderness and want blur into something sharper, more urgent, until you’re almost dizzy with it. There’s something primal in the way Jeno sits there, broad-shouldered and gentle, holding your son as if nothing else exists in the universe, reading softly in a voice made for loving and protecting. You watch his arms cradle Junseo, see the way that sleepy grip tugs at Jeno’s ear, and all you can think is mine, your man, your husband, your whole world wrapped in one scene that makes your thighs press together with longing.

He looks up, meets your gaze, and the connection zings hot and hungry between you, possessive and raw. You want him with a kind of ache that’s barely contained, your body remembering every night you’ve spent tangled together, every time he’s touched you with those same hands now holding your son. That small, knowing smile he gives you across the room doesn’t help; if anything, it makes it worse, because he sees it, sees you wanting him, sees how badly you need to remind him that he’s yours. The ache in your chest, the need thrumming low and wicked in your stomach, all of it knots together until you’re one heartbeat away from dragging him away, wanting to claim him, to brand him with your mouth and hands just as surely as he’s branded every part of your life. Family and longing, devotion and hunger, it’s all the same tonight.

The night hush settles like a balm, and you and Jeno move through your son’s room with practiced care, the softness of routine spun into every gentle movement. Junseo is bundled in the sweetest pajamas, pale blue cotton, printed with tiny yellow moons and stars, the cuffs loose around his wrists, feet tucked in warm. He’s already half asleep, lashes casting shadows on his cheeks, one hand curled possessively around the corner of his blanket, the other resting open against Jeno’s chest.

Jeno lowers himself to the mattress first, shifting Junseo in his arms until your little boy’s head finds the hollow above his heart. You watch as Jeno brushes a stray curl from Junseo’s forehead, his touch so delicate it makes something ache inside you. He leans in, pressing a kiss to the soft hair at your son’s crown, lingering a moment as if breathing in the very heart of his world. “Goodnight, baby,” he whispers, his voice a thread spun with pride and a devotion so fierce you feel it in your own bones.

You kneel beside them, tucking the edge of the blanket up under Junseo’s chin, smoothing your fingers down his warm, drowsy cheek. “Sleep well, angel,” you murmur, your lips brushing his temple, savoring the familiar scent of milk and soap and sun-warmed skin. Junseo sighs, rolling a little closer into Jeno, his body going boneless with trust, a smile flickering even in his sleep.

For a moment, the room holds all three of you in a soft suspension, the lamplight painting golden halos on the wall, the world outside shrinking to just this: the two of you kneeling over your sleeping boy, breath mingling in the hush. Jeno glances up, meeting your eyes across Junseo’s small, dreaming form, and his smile is slow, full, an unspoken ‘I love you’ passing between you.

You press another kiss to Junseo’s forehead, your hand finding Jeno’s on the blanket, fingers threading together as you both rise, slow and careful, hearts full. Jeno stands, tiptoeing to the light switch, pausing at the door to look back one last time. He blows a final kiss, you follow, and the soft click of the lamp plunges the room into gentle shadow, moonlight slanting over your son’s peaceful face. In the hall, you pause in each other’s arms, soaking in the hush that only comes when your child is safe and dreaming, your boy in blue pajamas, his world quiet and warm, your love for him spilling over into the darkness, unbreakable and bright.

You and Jeno drift together to your own bedroom, feet bare on cool floorboards, hands brushing in the dark until they finally find each other and stay. Inside, the world grows impossibly small, only the two of you and the gentle hush of the night. The sheets are freshly washed, pale and silky against your skin as you settle in. Jeno drops his shirt, left only in a pair of charcoal boxers, skin warm and golden from the glow of the bedside lamp. You slip into bed beside him in your favorite lingerie, just to feel pretty, soft cotton, just barely skimming the tops of your thighs, delicate lace at the shoulders, something you know makes him look at you with that kind of slow, aching hunger you never tire of.

He slides in behind you, long arms curling around your waist, gathering you back against the familiar heat of his chest. You can’t help the giggle that bubbles up, soft, girlish, utterly helpless, when his mouth finds that perfect spot below your ear, pressing a kiss that leaves your skin shivering and your heart tripping like it’s the first time all over again. Even after ten years of loving him, four years of loosing him, and after nearly four years married, you still get shy and giddy with him, breath catching as his palm traces lazy, featherlight circles over your hip. Everything about him still feels new, dangerous and safe at once, the way your bodies fit, the hush of your bedroom, the quiet proof that no matter how much time passes, you are still falling for him.

You press into him, smiling, letting yourself sink into the warmth of his embrace, wanting to lose yourself in the comfort of soft sheets and the sanctuary of Jeno’s touch. But then a memory rises, unbidden, Junseo’s tears on the rooftop, his small body trembling in your arms, the echo of his “I tried to be brave, Mama” caught in your mind.

Suddenly you freeze, and Jeno notices, of course he does, he’s always been attuned to every flicker of your mood, every subtle shift. “What’s wrong, baby?” he whispers, his lips brushing your skin, his voice gentle, coaxing.

You bite your lip, trying to keep the tears at bay, but they shimmer anyway. “Does Junie not feel comfortable around me?” The words break free, so small, so scared. “Did I do something wrong? He cries with you, but he always tries to be strong with me. What if he doesn’t feel safe with me?”

At first Jeno laughs, soft and affectionate, like you’ve just confessed a crush after all these years. But when he sees you’re serious, that the question is real and heavy, the laughter fades, replaced by something fierce and protective. He turns you in his arms, cups your face between his hands, his thumbs catching your tears before they fall.

“Hey, don’t even think that. You’re the best mother a little boy could ever have, our little boy is the luckiest in the world to have you. He’s a mummy’s boy, you know that, right?” Jeno’s eyes shine, earnest and raw. “I see the way he looks at you, the way he lights up when you walk into a room, the way he clings to your shirt when he’s sleepy or scared. He feels so safe with you. It’s just… he wants to be brave for you. He thinks he has to be strong, because you’re strong for him. He wants to protect you, the way you always protect him.” Jeno’s thumb brushes your cheek, his words sweet as a lullaby. “He always wants you to be the one who kisses his knee when he falls, he wants you to hold his hand when we cross the street, he saves his best giggles just for you. He even tries to share his snacks with you—have you noticed that? He loves you so much it spills out of him, all messy and bright and impossible to hide. But… he wants to be brave for you. He thinks he has to be strong, because you’re strong for him. He wants to protect you, the way you always protect him. That’s your boy. That’s our boy.”

You sniffle, laughing through your tears, heart swelling with the weight of it. “He really thinks that?” A part of you knows it’s true—you see it in the little things, the way Junseo squeezes your hand and drags his blanket after you from room to room, the way his eyes search for you in any crowd. But it’s different, softer, when it comes from Jeno’s mouth, the man you trust with every tired, unguarded part of yourself. You’re not afraid to admit you need reassurance too; you’re not always strong, and sometimes the only thing that makes it better is hearing your husband say out loud that you’re doing enough, that you’re loved, that your boy is as wild about you as you are about him. His comfort is an anchor, a gentle place to rest, and you let yourself lean into it, letting him shoulder the weight just for a while.

Jeno nods, tucking your hair gently behind your ear. “Of course he does. He’s smart, and he loves you more than anyone. You’re his whole world, baby. There’s things only you can do for him, stuff I can’t even begin to touch. You’re the one who soothes him when he’s sick, who stays up all night with him when I’m on the road, when I miss bedtime because of games or schedules. You let him crawl into your lap no matter how tired you are, you sing him back to sleep, you know every cry and every silly word before he says it. You have this connection with him, this bond, a depth I don’t think anyone else will ever understand. He came from you. He comes to you for things he can’t even put into words, he just knows his mama will make it right.”

Jeno’s voice softens even more, his thumb brushing slow circles over your cheek. “He sees you being strong, and he wants to be strong too, for you. That’s why sometimes he tries to hold it in, but he does cry to you. He lets it out when he needs to, he just wants to take care of you, the way you take care of him. You’re his home. There’s nothing in this world like the way he loves you, and nothing in this world like the love you give him.”

Jeno smiles, shaking his head in wonder. “You know, sometimes I catch him doing these little things, tiny, serious acts, like standing in front of you at the playground when other kids get too close, or putting his toy cars in a line across the door when you’re napping, like he’s building a wall to keep you safe. Remember how he always brings you his favorite stuffed animal when you’re sad, or pats your hand and says, ‘It’s okay, Mama, I’m here’? Sometimes he tries to help you carry the groceries, even when all he can manage is one apple, just because he wants to make your load lighter. It’s the sweetest thing, the way he tries so hard to be your little protector, even when he’s the one who needs holding.” You laugh softly, brushing a tear from your cheek, heart full at the memory of your boy’s fierce, clumsy devotion. “He sees how his daddy protects his mummy. He learns it all from you, you know.” The words linger between you, soft and certain, woven from the quiet truth of your life together: love multiplied, given, received, again and again.

Jeno runs his fingers through your hair, kissing you again—slow, deep, and full of all the things you both feel. “We’re okay, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his forehead pressed to yours. “You and me, and our little boy. We’re more than okay.”

You nod, sinking into Jeno’s arms, letting his certainty fill the quiet ache in your chest. You hold each other in the hush, the world falling away until it’s just the two of you, wrapped up in everything soft and sacred you’ve made together. His hands start to wander, fingertips tracing your spine, palms gliding up beneath your shirt, touch lingering with promise. Your breaths tangle, and the words you whisper, thank you, love you, need you, blur the line between comfort and want. Jeno leans in, his lips brushing the salt from your cheeks, his voice nothing but velvet as he murmurs praise and devotion, each word blooming hot against your skin.

You find yourself pressing closer, chest to chest, your bodies arching and folding into each other, need curling between your thighs. His hand finds your hip, guiding you to rock against him, the friction slow and delicious, clothed but urgent. Your head tips back against the headboard, Jeno’s mouth finding the softest part of your neck as you move together, breaths quickening, hands clutching and sliding, every inch of you burning with how much you love him, how much you want him. Softness turns to heat, every sigh and gasp a prayer for more, your bodies remembering the oldest language, need, tenderness, pleasure, all woven together in the safe, wild dark you call home.

You shift closer in the hush, trailing your fingertips over Jeno’s stomach, feeling anticipation bloom hot and bright in the low light. Your silk lingerie brushes his bare thighs, you feel the way your body fits against his, the way you ache for him even after all these years. Jeno’s hands are everywhere, fingers splayed over your waist, sliding lower, kneading your ass with a hungry reverence that’s never faded. His breath stutters, and then, just like he always has, his impatience gets the better of him. He hooks his fingers beneath the lace and tugs, then rips it, the sound sharp and familiar, the fabric parting like it’s nothing, exposing you for him. He’s always promised to buy you more, his drawers are proof, stuffed with new sets, tags still on, and you never mind, not when he devours you the way he does now.

He groans, voice deep and raw, his lips brushing your ear as he presses you closer. “God, look at you, Mama. You know how crazy you make me in this? But nothing’s better than seeing you naked for me.” His hands skim up your sides, cupping your breasts, thumbing over your nipples with a possessive hunger. “This ass, this body, mine. You look so fucking hot in lace, but you’re even hotter with nothing at all.” He grinds you down onto his cock, letting you feel the thick line of him, and you whimper, shivering as his mouth claims yours, hungry, open, needing you the way he always has.

His mouth finds your ear, voice dropping to that filthy, adoring growl you know too well. “God, Mummy, look at you, always so pretty for me, all this lace just begging to get torn off.” He squeezes your ass, rolling his hips up to meet you, breath hot against your neck. “Bet you love when I ruin you like this, don’t you? My gorgeous Mama, all mine, all wet for me.” He noses along your jaw, licking a stripe up to your cheek, purring low, “Come on, ride Daddy’s cock. Show me how much you missed it.” His hands roam your body like a promise, every touch a reminder that nothing, not years, not parenthood, could ever make him want you less.

Jeno’s mouth is hot and hungry on your breasts, tongue circling your nipple, sucking hard and slow from you like he’s never learned how to stop. His hands pin you in his lap, fingers digging in possessively as you arch into his mouth, every sound you make just fueling his need. He murmurs praise and filth against your skin, teeth grazing, breath coming rough and needy—“Fuck, Mama, you taste so good, always give me everything I want.”

You lose yourself in it, the drag of his tongue, the heat between your thighs, the way your body answers every demand he makes. Then, from the nightstand, your phone starts to buzz, once, then twice, then again, vibrating insistently against the wood. Jeno doesn’t pause, doesn’t care; he just moves to your other breast, lips latching on, making you gasp. But the sound keeps coming. His phone joins yours, lighting up with call after call, messages stacking one after another, relentless, unignorable.

You try to block it out, moaning as he sucks even harder, as his teeth graze sensitive flesh, but the vibration gets louder, harsher, slicing through the haze. Jeno groans in frustration, mouth still latched on, but your hands tangle in his hair, and for one desperate moment, neither of you wants to move, the world outside be damned. Still, the noise won’t stop, pulsing through the dark, demanding attention, until finally you break, breathless, head spinning, pulling away just enough to meet Jeno’s eyes, both of you dazed and still so hungry. You reach over, glaring at the screen, only to see Areum’s name flashing. With a frustrated sigh, you answer, voice sleepy and exasperated. “Do you know how late it is?” you mumble, but Areum is breathless, urgent on the other end.

“Open your email! Just open it, right now!” she insists, barely waiting for your answer before she ends the call in a flurry of static and excitement.

You and Jeno exchange a look, desire briefly replaced with curiosity, and he sits up, grabbing his laptop from the nightstand. The glow of the screen flickers to life, your legs still draped over his lap, as he opens the inbox and clicks the newest message. Together, you lean in, faces close in the glow, anticipation mixing with the last shivers of heat, wondering what on earth Areum has sent you this time. The screen flickers, blue light spilling across tangled sheets and skin. As Jeno opens the attachment, your impatience melts into wonder, the email bursts into three digital photo albums, each one curated with Areum’s loving, obsessive attention to detail. Every album is a chapter: the first three years of Junseo’s life, every milestone, every sleepy smile, every chubby fist wrapped around Jeno’s ear or your thumb. The images scroll past in a mosaic of firsts, newborn yawns, midnight cuddles, first steps, pancake mornings, the clumsy “I love you” written in crayon on your kitchen wall. The intimacy of it all presses in: your family’s whole world, catalogued in color and light, laughter and tears and the soft glow of memory, the years already flying, each one a little miracle you almost can’t believe you get to keep.

The first gallery takes you all the way back to Junseo’s newborn stage, and you see the love story begin, skin to skin, Jeno’s shirt already off, his arms cradling a squalling, impossibly small baby against his chest. You remember how Jeno’s voice, soft and awed, was the first sound your son ever heard: “You’re okay, baby, we’ve got you now.” Even now, your heart twists at the way Junseo’s tiny body curled into Jeno’s warmth, soothed by the constant, low murmur of his father’s devotion. Those first weeks blur into a montage of midnight feeds, Jeno moving like a ghost through the nursery at 3AM, hair a mess, eyelids heavy, humming lullabies in the blue shadows. Sometimes you’d find them both asleep, Jeno tipped back in the rocker, bottle forgotten, your baby’s head nestled against his bare chest, as if there was nowhere else in the universe safe enough.

You laugh at the bathtime photos, the first time Jeno dared to bathe him alone, his face a mix of terror and wonder, talking through every step as if handling something sacred. “Okay, little guy, we’re gonna wash behind your ears now. I swear, if you pee on me again—” The snapshots show tiny fists splashing, water everywhere, Jeno smiling with a look of helpless, fierce joy. There are long walks too, Junseo strapped to Jeno’s chest in a soft wrap, both of them bundled against the wind, Jeno pointing out birds and naming every cloud, teaching your son the world is a place worth loving.

The images shift as you scroll, infant months now, Junseo on a soft mat in the living room, chubby hands gripping Jeno’s fingers, the two of them side by side on the floor at dawn. Every milestone is celebrated with a pride that glows from the screen: the first time Junseo rolls over, the stunned joy in Jeno’s eyes when, during a Zoom call, Junseo suddenly crawls toward him, and Jeno drops everything just to witness it. There’s a courtside photo, Junseo, in giant headphones and a tiny custom jersey, beaming up at Jeno mid-game, his dad waving shamelessly, pointing after every basket as if dedicating each win to him alone. You both laugh, tearing up a little, at the infamous blowout photo, Jeno, gagging dramatically over a diaper disaster, then wrapping Junseo up in a towel and whispering, “You win. You officially own me.” It’s all there: the chaos, the devotion, the realness.

By the time you reach the toddler years, your chest aches with nostalgia. The video of Junseo’s first steps, Jeno kneeling, arms wide, grinning with sunshine, coaxing his boy from you to him. The moment Junseo collapses into his arms, giggling and squealing, Jeno spins him around, shouting, “You did it! You walked to daddy!” There are shots of the backyard, Jeno building a real mini basketball court, painting lines, installing soft mats, timing Junseo’s runs as he clutches a rubber ball, Jeno crouched beside him, showing him how to shoot, but always letting him choose his pace, his game, his joy.

There’s gentle discipline caught on film, too: Jeno crouched at eye-level, holding Junseo’s hands, never harsh, always steady, teaching him to “use your words, baby,” and gathering him into his arms after the storm passes. Sick days: Jeno canceling practice, sleeping on the nursery floor with a damp cloth pressed to Junseo’s forehead, whispering, “Daddy’s here. Just rest. I’ll stay right here.” Airport reunions, Jeno dropping his bags, kneeling, arms open, and Junseo running into them with a scream of “Appa!” The photos are blurry, streaked with the velocity of love.

One of the rarest and most precious images flickers next: Jeno, sweat-soaked and beaming, clutching Junseo on his hip during a post-match interview. Cameras flash, microphones crowd in, but the spotlight never phases your little boy, instead, Junseo presses a kiss to Jeno’s cheek, cheeks glistening, eyes wide as he shyly buries his face in his father’s shoulder, half-hiding from the world. Jeno laughs, pride and love radiating, giving his answer with one arm wrapped around his son, Junseo’s fleeting, golden moment in the public eye, a snapshot that makes the whole arena fall just a little quieter, as if they’re all witnessing something sacred. It’s the only glimpse of him the world gets, but it’s enough: a small, soft boy, safe in his father’s arms, his love shining brighter than any trophy.

Your favorites, though, are always the quiet ones: matching Sunday outfits, both in gray hoodies and rumpled socks, organizing toy cards on the floor, or the midnight cuddles, Junseo tucked under Jeno’s chin, both of them lost in dreams, safe in the world they’ve made together. There are even videos of their secret handshake, a slap-slap-boop-the-nose routine done before bed, before games, before hugs, sealing every moment with laughter and ritual.

“Thank you,” he whispers, voice catching just a little as his lips graze the shell of your ear, “for making me a father. For giving me him, for making us parents.” The words are so soft, but you feel them everywhere: in the gentle tremor of his breath, the way his hand cradles your belly, the press of his body against yours as if he could anchor himself in this moment forever.

Every memory on the screen glows with the truth of it, Jeno’s love, his awe, the devotion that threads through every messy morning and midnight hush. You turn to him, pressing your face to the warm skin of his neck, lips dragging up to his jaw, whispering I love you into the quiet space only the two of you share. There’s longing in it, an ache that’s almost overwhelming, and you feel it spark between your thighs, mixing with the tenderness and the knowing: there is no one else in the world you’d ever want to do this life with, no love deeper, no home safer than the one you’ve built with him, memory by memory, touch by touch, forever.

You’re still lying naked in the sheets, warmth tangled between your bodies, the photo gallery forgotten in the hush. Your skin hums with afterglow, but it isn’t enough, watching Jeno as a father, loving him, wanting more, has always left you hungrier than before. You rise slowly, pressing your palm to his chest, climbing onto him, thighs spread wide as you sink down onto his cock, feeling him fill you inch by inch, slow and achingly deep. The stretch knocks the breath from your chest, but you chase it, rolling your hips until you’re grinding, delicate and deliberate, building heat between you as you press kisses to his jaw.

You let your head fall forward, his hands coming up to steady your hips, your breath brushing against his cheek as you whisper, barely above a moan, “Jeno… I want another baby.” The words slip out, naked and true, a confession pressed into the space between your bodies. Jeno’s eyes darken, his grip on your waist tightening, but he’s patient, letting you find your rhythm as you bounce on his cock, soft, slow, savoring the slide, the way every movement leaves you gasping, pleasure mixing with something so much deeper.

You lean into him, bodies sticky with sweat, your voice cracking as you continue, “I mean it. I want our family to grow. I want Junnie to be a big brother. I want to see him holding a little sister or brother, I want him to know how much love we have left to give.” Your words are delicate but certain, each syllable shaped by longing and hope as you ride him, the movement sweet and hungry, your hips rising and falling, the slick sound of him filling you again and again making you both tremble.

Jeno cups your face, his thumb brushing your cheekbone as he lifts his hips into yours, meeting every bounce with a desperate, controlled thrust. “You want me to fuck a baby into you?” he breathes, voice wrecked and tender at once. “You want to feel me filling you up, making you a mama again?” His free hand slides to your belly, splaying across the softness there as if already laying claim, as if he can will a new life into existence just by holding you like this.

This isn’t the first time you and Jeno have whispered about trying again, about growing your family, about giving Junseo a little sibling to love. There have been quiet moments in the kitchen, gentle talks after Junseo’s birthday parties, soft laughter under shared blankets, each time, the idea blooming between you with a sweetness that felt both thrilling and inevitable. But it’s never been like this. Never this raw, this urgent, this desperate and open. Tonight, something shifts, need tangled up with memory and hope, your body aching to be filled, claimed, made new. It’s the first time you find yourself riding him with abandon, bouncing on his cock, crying out for him to fuck a baby into you, the word ripped from your chest with every thrust. Wanting it, needing it, not just in theory but right here, right now, your whole being pleading for another life, another heartbeat, another piece of your love made flesh.

You nod, wild with need, your nails digging into his chest. “Yes, yes, I want you to. I want you to cum inside me, fill me up, give me another baby. I want you to make me round and glowing for you again. Please, Jeno—give it to me, all of it. I want our family to get bigger, I want you to see me every day and know that I’m carrying your baby.” You can’t help the neediness trembling in your voice, your whole body aching for him as you roll your hips, grinding down and gasping at the thick stretch of him inside you. “Please, Jeno,” you moan, repeating, letting your nails rake over his chest, your voice dropping to a desperate hush, “want you to fuck me full, want to feel you leaking out of me for days, want you to fuck your baby into me so deep everyone will know I’m yours. Give me another, fill me up, make me your mama again.” Each bounce is a plea, a promise, your need pouring out between moans and kisses, every word making him harder, every grind making you needier, until you’re begging for him to claim you, right here, right now, all over again.

Jeno’s breath shudders, his grip bruising on your hips as he thrusts up into you, lost in the way you plead for him. His eyes are molten, locked on yours, his voice rough and wrecked with want. “God, you’re perfect,” he groans, letting his hands slide up your sides, thumbs stroking under the swell of your breasts. “You want me to fuck a baby so deep inside you you’ll feel it every time you move, yeah? Want to watch you swollen and dripping for me, everyone knowing you’re mine, fuck, you make me crazy.” He pulls you down, hips snapping up to meet every bounce, his words pouring hot against your lips, “Let me give it to you, baby, let me fill you up, make you my mama again, watch you take every drop, watch you carry me all over again. You’re mine, all mine.”

He can barely hold back, breath ragged and desperate, every thrust raw with need. His voice breaks, almost a whimper, “Fuck, look at you, so fucking hungry for it, riding me like you need me to breed you right now, want me leaking out of you for days. Say it again, tell me you want it, tell me you want to be dripping, so fucking full you can’t walk straight. Let everyone see who did this to you, my pretty girl, swollen and messy with my baby, my cum.” He tangles his fingers in your hair, dragging your mouth back to his, sloppy and wet, teeth catching your lower lip as you both gasp for breath, every bounce frantic, greedy, both of you spiraling with the ache of it.

Your thighs shake, you’re crying for it, tears beading in your lashes as your climax builds, your words dissolving into broken, breathless pleas: “Jeno, please, I need you, want you to fill me up, make me your mama, mark me, ruin me, give me your everything.” His hands crush your hips down, holding you there, his cock buried deep as he cums hard inside you, filling you with thick, hot spurts that make you sob with relief and ecstasy. The world splinters, your own orgasm tearing through you, clenching around him, milking every last drop as you collapse against his chest, shaking, wet, entirely his.

After, you collapse against his chest, bodies still shivering, the room thick with sex and heat. You barely have time to catch your breath before Jeno’s hand is sliding down between your thighs, catching the warm spill of his cum as it starts to seep out. “Nuh-uh,” he murmurs, voice dark with satisfaction and want, “You’re not losing a drop, pretty.” He slides his fingers through the mess, gathering it up, and then pushes it back inside you, slow, deliberate, almost worshipful, fucking it deeper with his fingers, then the thick head of his cock, making sure every bit stays exactly where he wants it. The sensation makes you squirm and whimper, breath stuttering, your hips lifting off the sheets to take everything he gives.

He keeps you like that, stuffed full and shaking, his hand pressed heavy and possessive on your belly, his lips finding yours in lazy, claiming kisses. “Keep it in,” he whispers, thumb circling where he’s filled you, “That’s it, let me breed you, keep you full, all mine.” The world narrows to this: sweat and seed and his low, hungry praise, the dizzy afterglow of sex mixing with the wild, greedy hope for more. A future blooming inside you, wet and sweet and impossibly his, your body marked and aching for everything you just made together.

You’re still tangled in the sheets, skin flushed and sticky, glowing from the inside out, the air thick with the honeyed heat of what you’ve just done. Jeno traces lazy patterns over your belly, his palm wide and splayed, both of you a little breathless, a little giddy, basking in that raw, intimate ache that always lingers after you’ve had him this deep, this close. You shift onto your side, propping your cheek on his chest, feeling his heart race under your palm, and for a moment, the only sound is your mingled laughter, slow and sleepy and sweeter than anything.

He kisses your forehead, beaming, eyes half-closed. “What do you think it’ll be like?” he whispers, his voice so warm it feels like another blanket. “Another little one. Maybe a little sister for Junseo. You think he’ll share his dinosaurs or stage a protest?”

You giggle, your body still humming with aftershocks, and reach up to play with the hair at his nape. “He’ll be obsessed,” you say, soft and certain. “He’ll want to hold her or him all the time. He’ll be such a loving and caring older brother. He’ll teach them how to dribble before they can even walk. He’ll make up games and rules and try to convince them you’re supposed to color on the walls.”

Jeno’s smile goes slow and lazy, his thumb still stroking the curve of your stomach. “He’ll want to sleep in their bed every night, protect them from shadows, and brag to his friends. He’ll love his little brother or sister so much it’ll hurt.” His voice gets thick for a moment, soft as he adds, “Just like I love you.”

You tilt up to kiss him, lingering and grateful, laughter spilling into his mouth, both of you a little dizzy with hope, a little undone by happiness. You’re never more certain than in this golden, breathless hush, never more sure that you’ve built a life worth everything, that this love will stretch and multiply, spilling into every room, every year, every new beginning. With your bodies spent and tangled, your hearts impossibly full, you know you’ve never been happier.

𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄

The tradition begins in the honey-drenched lull of late afternoon, sunlight rippling across the courtyard in ribbons of gold, dust motes spinning between bursts of laughter. Your wedding veil is half-loosened, ghosting over your bare shoulder—Jeno’s doing, his kisses tracing a constellation from your ear to your jaw, lips warm with champagne and devotion. Silk and lace hug your skin, the fabric clinging in places where his hands have left their mark, and you can feel the pulse of your own happiness, almost dizzying, as the world blurs at the edges. Jeno’s shirt is too crisp, sleeves rolled, collar open in that careless way that means he’s truly himself, every inch of him relaxed but always, always tethered to you. He can’t seem to stop looking at you, brushing stray curls from your face, eyes bright as if seeing you for the first time and the last all at once.

“Group photo!” It’s Chenle, voice hoarse from too much singing and not enough water, waving his champagne bottle overhead like he’s orchestrating an orchestra of drunks. The call ricochets across the courtyard, stirring up a storm, every chair scrapes, glass teeters, laughter jumps an octave as friends and family surge to their feet. You barely have time to set your own glass down before Jeno’s hand finds yours, warm and sure, pulling you into the tide. There’s no plan, no line-up, just a tangle of limbs and half-sipped drinks and skirts flaring as everyone jostles for a place.

Mark, still flush from the dance floor, wraps both arms around Areum’s hips and pulls her unceremoniously into his lap, her laughter spilling down the front of his suit. Areum bats at him, half-hearted and grinning, hair wild from hours of being passed from hug to hug. Jaemin, caught in the rush, catches Karina around the waist and tips her into a full, movie-worthy dip. Karina shrieks, her head thrown back, her dress swirling, one hand clutching at Jaemin’s shoulder for balance, both of them glowing with that wide-open, reckless kind of happiness only possible on days like this.

At the edge, Donghyuck swoops in late, tossing a crumpled napkin like confetti, nearly bowling over Yangyang, who dodges and shoves him back with a laugh. Donghyuck immediately breaks into song—loud, off-key, and infectious—prompting half the group to groan and the other half to join in. Chenle abandons his efforts to “coordinate the back row” when Karina grabs him by the wrist and drags him into frame, still protesting but grinning, cheeks flushed from too many inside jokes.

Haeun, all sunshine and tulle, twirls into the empty space at the center, her yellow dress spinning in a bright, dizzying circle, her giggles so loud they ripple through every adult. Jaemin, never missing a beat, snatches her up at the waist, spinning her again until her curls become a golden halo in the falling light. Karina stumbles forward and tries to wrangle some of your younger kids into some semblance of order, her efforts only encouraging more chaos as one of the children squirms from Yangyang’s grasp and dashes between legs, almost toppling a stack of wedding gifts.

At the edge, Seulgi reaches for Irene, smoothing a wisp of hair from her cheek, both of them beaming so fiercely you’d think it was their wedding day too. Doyoung tries to count heads, losing track halfway through, his half-serious scolding drowned out by Donghyuck’s running commentary and Chenle’s exasperated “just get in the picture already!” Mark tugs Areum closer, and you catch them trading whispered jokes, the years ahead flickering in their eyes, hopeful, golden, unspoken.

Jeno stands behind you, every inch of him pressed close, his palm spread across your stomach—protective, gentle, unspoken. His fingers slip beneath the lace, not quite hidden but not quite revealed, the secret only you two share blooming quietly under the surface. His other hand curls around your waist, tugging you closer, lips pressed to your hair as if he needs one last proof this is real. He smells like citrus and wedding cake and the heady heat of the afternoon. Every time you try to move away, he pulls you back, laughter shaking through his chest. You can feel the future thrumming between your ribs, alive with possibility, with him.

The moment the camera flashes, you’re caught with your head thrown back in laughter, hair tumbling over Jeno’s arm, his lips ghosting your temple. Areum’s caught mid-squeal, Mark’s face tucked into her shoulder, Jaemin crouched at Haeun’s feet, Donghyuck waving both arms, Chenle nearly toppling into Karina, Seulgi and Irene tucked together at the fringe, Yangyang mid-shrug, Ningning somewhere in the tangle. It’s a mess, no one posed, nothing staged, just chaos and color, raw joy and newness, Jeno’s hand cradling the secret only you two know, a seed of tomorrow.

What you couldn’t possibly fathom in that split-second, spun dizzy in the undertow of laughter, veiled in the warmth of too many arms, was that this one, unruly photograph would become a kind of scripture, a living spell. Not just memory, but prophecy: a secret line stitched through the heart of every person you love, tugging you back through every exile and return. Long after the confetti settled and the flowers withered, that frame would smolder on the mantle, unchanged by distance, immune to forgetting. No matter how many seasons cracked open or how far you were scattered by love, ambition, grief, or time, there would always be this: a single, annual invocation.

It would become your North Star. the pulse you’d follow when the world turned unkind, when cities changed their names and familiar streets blurred into strange skylines. Each photograph, another constellation: points of light mapping out the story of your survival, proof that somewhere, always, you are known, you are needed, you belong. The shutter falling is the spell cast again, every year, another vow, another promise that no storm, no absence, no sorrow can truly sever you from the place you are claimed and cherished. In this ritual, you are immortal: not in marble or myth, but in the warmth of bodies pressed close, in the tangle of laughter and limbs, in the radiant echo of the lives you built. Even lost, you are never alone. The photo is your lighthouse, a beacon blazing through every dark, an anchor sunk into the bedrock of your soul, guiding you, unfailing, back home.

The second photo, a year later, glimmers with the softer, golden light of ordinary magic, late afternoon sun filtering through Areum’s studio, the windows streaked with city gold, canvases stacked knee-high and wildflowers brimming from chipped mugs on every sill. The air smells like turpentine, milk, rain, and fresh bread, chaos and comfort braided so tightly you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. There’s a hush of creation everywhere: brushes soaking in jars, the sound of Haeun’s feet padding across paint-splattered floors, the flutter of sketch paper as someone turns a page.

Karina perches on the wide windowsill, her legs swinging in time to music only she and Jaemin can hear, their laughter weaving a private ribbon through the noise. Jaemin, camera slung around his neck, leans closer, his cheek brushing hers, their inside joke flickering between them like light. Haeun, taller, wilder, with yellow paint streaking her cheek, tiptoes beside a half-finished canvas, fingers poised like she might touch the sky if she just stands a little higher. Chenle sits cross-legged on the floor, pretending to read a battered paperback (held upside down), giggling as Yangyang, newly arrived with a gentle partner at his side, drops a handful of sweets into his lap. Yangyang’s arm circles his partner’s waist, both of them luminous with the soft miracle of second chances, their smiles small but certain, a quiet flag of love after the storm.

At the heart of the room, Mark kneels at Areum’s side, the world falling away around them until nothing remains but the quiet orbit of a family learning itself all over again. Their son, impossibly small, only a few weeks into the world, seems to vanish inside the crook of Areum’s arms, bundled in dawn-yellow, eyes wide and clear as a summer moon. Areum curls around him, instinctive and fierce, as if she could shield him from every sharp edge the world might hold. Her touch is a silent incantation: stay, stay, stay. Mark’s hands shake as he traces soft circles over the baby’s cheek, thumb trembling with awe, as if he’s terrified he’ll break the spell just by loving too much. He leans down, pressing a kiss to the baby’s brow, his breath uneven, and in that suspended second his face flickers, gratitude so overwhelming it’s almost agony, reverence as sharp as hunger, a silent promise stitched into the hush between heartbeats. He wants to memorize every detail: the flutter of tiny lashes, the faintest sigh, the miracle of warmth and weight in his palms. It hits him, all at once, how fragile this joy is, how love always risks heartbreak simply by daring to hope for more. A shadow slips through the golden light, just a flicker, but enough to make Mark clutch his son tighter, as if he senses even now that some blessings can’t be held forever. The moment is already vanishing, precious because it is fleeting, their world balanced delicately between wonder and the ache of what they cannot know is coming.

Everything in the room softens. Voices drop, movement slows. For one suspended second, the entire world gathers its breath around the family’s newest miracle: the hush of hope, the ache of possibility, the quiet pulse of everything sacred and new. Areum’s smile is luminous, exhaustion smudged beneath her eyes, awe radiating from her every gesture as if she’s learned a new language in these sleepless nights. You’re wrapped in your own newness too, Junseo tucked to your chest, warm and drowsy, his tiny hand curled in your blouse, his breath a living prayer against your collarbone. The simple weight of him, his trust, his perfect helplessness, grounds you in a way nothing else ever has. Jeno stands behind you, his arm secure at your hip, fingers absently drawing lazy circles just above your waistband. His eyes, tender, fierce, are fixed on you both, a look that holds all the storms you survived and the peace you never thought you’d find. Sometimes he presses his lips to your hair, as if reminding himself (and you) that this is real, that you are safe, that every heartbreak led you here.

Across the room, Doyoung and Irene pass trays of pastries, their bickering the same old love story it’s always been, her teasing, him fussing, both soft with a joy that shows in the easy way their hands find each other. Seulgi leans against the doorway, laughter sharp as a sunbeam, balancing a mug in one hand as she tells a story about old college days, the children listening with round, wide eyes. The whole studio rings with the sound of family: the clatter of cups, the rattle of rain against window glass, the music of voices layered over one another, each note a reminder that this place is built from second chances.

And then there’s Donghyuck, who arrives half an hour late, breathless and beaming, still wearing his on-air badge clipped to his jacket, the flush of live television burning in his cheeks. He’s become a face recognized everywhere: a boundary-pushing sports presenter, helming a company that’s changing the game, redefining how fans and athletes connect. The children light up when he walks in, immediately clamoring for his attention. Junseo crawls right into his lap, babbling into a toy mic as Donghyuck holds an imaginary interview, giving each answer the drama and humor of a post-match final. In every photo, Donghyuck finds his way to the center, narrating the scene like it’s the play-by-play for a championship—“And here, folks, we see the rookie contenders at the snack table, but will they make it to dessert?”

He’s steadier now, his presence an electric current running through the group, lifting every gathering, turning each ordinary day into something that belongs in a highlight reel. He reminds everyone, again and again, that family is the greatest victory, and every year is another win just to be together. This frame glows with the ordinary magic of lives expanding and healing. You see what hope really looks like: arms full, rooms full, futures blooming in the unlikeliest places, proof that family is not just made, but constantly remade, moment by moment, year by shining year.

The third photo explodes with color, Junseo’s birthday in your the garden, sunlight sifting through a parade of paper lanterns strung overhead, ribbons streaming from every tree branch, the grass littered with confetti and the ghosts of trampled daisy chains. Children tumble across the lawn, cheeks slick with sugar and cake, laughter so wild it shakes the windows. Haeun and Junseo command the center, party hats askew, icing smudged across noses, their grins unstoppable and bright as morning. Haeun, her daffodil dress ruffled and wild, crouches to whisper some secret to Junseo, he erupts in giggles, sticky hands reaching for hers, the two of them spinning in a sunbeam, inseparable, a constellation in the making.

Around them, the air crackles with spectacle: Yangyang and his partner, radiant and patient, have transformed the patio into a makeshift stage, bubbles shimmer through the crowd, vanishing in rainbow bursts, while Nari, quick and clever, conjures magic tricks from scarves and coins, their laughter sparking through the party. Sohee, more reserved but equally adored, is perched on a picnic blanket with the littlest kids, reading stories and threading flower crowns, her calm a tether in the storm of celebration. Even the older children gravitate towards her, drawn to the gentle steadiness in her voice, the wisdom of someone who’s seen and stayed.

Chenle, irrepressible, always in motion, pulls endless ribbons from his sleeves, jaw set in comic seriousness, while the children gasp and shriek with each new trick. Karina, softer now, her beauty luminous rather than sharp, sits at the edge of it all, their intimacy easy and sure. Her legs swing in lazy arcs, toes brushing the grass, head tipped back as Jaemin, always meticulous, gathers strands of Haeun’s hair, weaving in tiny braids laced with glitter and stickers Karina slipped into her palm earlier. She’s become the mentor, the aunt every child runs to for stories or secrets, teaching them how to braid, how to paint tiny nails, how to carry themselves with both strength and softness. When Jaemin leans close to whisper a joke, Karina rolls her eyes but threads their fingers together, a silent promise she lets linger when she thinks nobody’s watching.

At the snack table, Doyoung and Irene reign as orchestrators of chaos, doling out watermelon and cookies with the authority of generals and the tenderness of old lovers. Seulgi moves among the kids, arms overflowing with napkins and fruit, her laughter a low, delighted hum. Sohee and Nari work together at a crafts table, making sure every child leaves with a hand-painted memory, their heads bent together in quiet collaboration. You and Jeno are never far from the center. He keeps a hand at the small of your back, guiding you through the garden with quiet confidence. Every now and then, you catch him watching Junseo, pride written in the way his shoulders soften, his lips curve. Junseo darts back and forth between you both, a blue smudge of movement, always coming home to tug your hand or climb into your lap for a quick hug before racing off again. Jeno pulls you close for a stolen kiss when nobody’s looking, his fingers slipping into yours, the warmth of his palm grounding you in a happiness you never take for granted. Later, as dusk falls and the fairy lights flicker on, he lifts you onto the swing set just to hear you laugh, Junseo and Haeun shrieking as they chase fireflies through the grass.

Haeun, fiercely protective as ever, stays near Junseo, inventing games, smoothing his hair, defending him from the bigger kids’ playful teasing with the stubborn love only children can muster. You watch her sometimes—how she stands between worlds, still small enough to tumble through grass, old enough to sense when someone needs a friend. Coach Suh is in his element, kneeling between the children, teaching Junseo to palm a basketball. His voice is mock-serious as he demonstrates perfect form, but his eyes are shining, wet at the corners with pride. You know this photo will join the others on his office shelf, tucked under a plaque that says “Future Ravens Captain.” The legacy isn’t in trophies, it’s in the way he kneels to meet your son’s gaze, in the weight of his hand guiding those tiny fingers, in the roar of laughter that follows every missed shot.

On the fringes, Mark and Areum stand together, hands knotted so tightly their fingers have gone white, bodies pressed so close it’s as if they’re bracing against a storm only they can feel. The party whirls on, the shrieks and laughter of children slicing through the dusk, but Mark and Areum move through it like ghosts in daylight, present, but only just. Their smiles flicker in the fading sun, brittle and brave, but every line of their faces is etched with grief that never truly softens, only settles deeper with each passing year.

They watch the riot of children, Junseo’s bright grin, Haeun’s wild twirls, and in every flash of small arms, in every shriek of laughter, you can see them flinch, as if each joy is a reminder of the boy they carried once, the boy who should have been here, painted in the same riot of color. Areum’s eyes are glassy, not from the glow of celebration but from the ache of absence, a gaze that searches the crowd and finds her arms empty. Mark never stops tracing circles over her knuckles, the motion as desperate as it is soothing, a silent plea for something the world can never return.

There’s a heaviness to their closeness, a gravity you can feel in your ribs, a defiant refusal to move on, a fierce, wordless courage in how they cling to each other, loving not just through what’s present, but through the wide, echoing emptiness of what’s missing. Every breath they take is an act of remembrance, every smile a brittle miracle. They exist on the edge of celebration, survivors holding tight to the space that grief has carved out, a love shaped, and sharpened, by the hollow left behind. And when the camera flashes, catching them at the border of all this color and noise, you see it: the way sorrow makes a shadow of them, the way love refuses to let that shadow be the end. The courage is in their staying, in the way they refuse to look away from what’s gone, and in the impossible, unspoken vow that they will keep choosing each other—even when the world keeps taking, even when joy feels like something they have to borrow, even when holding on is the hardest thing they do.

By the time the shutter falls, the photo is alive with everything that matters: Junseo and Haeun tumbling in the grass, icing smeared from chin to elbow; Karina gathering the children for one last round of braids and stories, Jaemin pressing a kiss to Haeun’s temple as the sun dips low; Nari with a lapful of sleepy toddlers, Sohee waving a wand that leaves sparks in the evening air; Jeno’s arm heavy around your waist, your own hand resting atop his, both of you holding Junseo close, the three of you threaded together by light and laughter and the quiet awe of family. And beyond, Mark and Areum, side by side at the edge of the frame, their grief an old, faithful shadow, but their love outshining even that. The riot of color, the riot of noise, the riot of living: all of it immortalized, all of it proof. This is what remains. This is what grows. This is what, somehow, always finds its way back home.

The fourth year is a mosaic of motion, triumph, and reunion, a garden pulsing with every color of joy, the air crackling with cheers, the hush of impossible gratitude threading between every burst of laughter. This time, Shotaro and Ryujin are the first to arrive, beaming brighter than ever, fresh from the ribbon-cutting of their seventh dance studio, a number that feels almost mythical now, spoken with reverence and disbelief by every friend who remembers the rented basement where it all began. The new keys dangle from Ryujin’s wrist like a trophy; in her other hand she clutches a battered statuette made by one of their earliest students, the sequins mostly missing but the sentiment gold. Shotaro, eyes shining with pride and nerves, presents the keys to Mark for luck, insisting on their old ritual: a blessing from the friend who cheered every step along the way.

The whole group circles them for a moment, everyone crowding in to see the new studio logo on the keys, someone uncorking champagne with a squeal, glasses raised to the skyline. There’s a phone perched precariously on a folding chair, its screen bright with the Tokyo crew, waving, hollering, their faces glowing with shared victory from half a world away, refusing to miss a single second of the celebration, no matter the distance. You hear their voices through the speakers, crackling but alive: “To the seventh!” “Remember the old mirrorball?” “We’re next, promise!” This isn’t just another milestone. It’s a family legend in the making, a moment everyone feels in their bones, a win that belongs to all of you, proof that impossible dreams do come true if you hold tight, build together, and never let go.

Just as the sun dips low, Chenle and Ningning tumble into the garden in a storm of energy, trailing airport lanyards and the smell of duty-free perfume. Their arms overflow with souvenirs, plastic samurai swords, light-up crowns, bags of strange candy, which they distribute with theatrical flair. Children squeal as Ningning demonstrates a rude phrase in French, Areum groans, scolding them in half a dozen languages, but laughter unravels her seriousness. Junseo and Haeun, already sticky from watermelon and icing, tie their new capes on and become superheroes: red silk and blue felt fluttering behind them as they tear through the grass. Haeun shouts, “To the rescue!” while Junseo stumbles after her, giggling, the crown from Chenle already crooked on his head.

The two are inseparable: Haeun insists on rescuing Junseo from imaginary dragons, stuffing her pockets with wildflowers to “heal” his wounds. Junseo, always trusting, lets her lead, his dimple flashing as he tags her hand, their laughter brighter than the string lights strung across the hedges. When they pause for cake, Haeun smashes a piece into Junseo’s mouth, both of them shrieking as chocolate and cream cover their cheeks, arms thrown around each other, unstoppable. They invent new games on the spot, one minute spies, the next magicians, conjuring joy from the ordinary, forever believing that the other’s superpowers are real. They break away only for hugs, Junseo always sprinting into your arms or Jeno’s lap, Haeun diving for Karina, collecting affection like badges before dashing off again.

In the backyard, Mark and Jeno preside over a fierce basketball shootout. Mark’s whistle is ceremonial, Jeno’s commentary full of mock-serious statistics and made-up rules. The kids line up, some too little to dribble, others taking it far too seriously, while Coach Suh stands by with a clipboard, pretending to take notes. The garden echoes with the sound of shoes scuffing grass, balls thumping backboards, and shouts of victory or protest. Haeun, predictably, is the ringleader, organizing teams, shouting encouragement, making sure Junseo gets an extra turn when he misses. When Junseo finally sinks a basket (with a little help from Mark’s guiding hands), Haeun throws her arms around him, chanting, “MVP! MVP!” until everyone joins in, your heart twisting at the sight.

In the lull between games, families sprawl on blankets and benches, Chenle and Ningning leading the kids in a game of telephone that quickly devolves into nonsense and giggling. Areum leans into Mark at the edge of the garden, her head resting on his shoulder, smile softer than it’s been in months, the weight of old sorrow gentled by the easy glow that radiates from every face. She watches Haeun and Junseo run, her gaze full of something close to peace, while Mark brushes a strand of hair from her face, their fingers still threaded tight.

As evening settles, someone calls for the group photo, Jaemin sets the camera on a timer, then rushes in to scoop up Haeun, balancing her on his knee as she tugs Junseo close. You’re caught in Jeno’s arms, his hand spread across your waist, the children squeezed between you, everyone pressed in so close you can feel the thump of their hearts. Chenle and Ningning photobomb from behind, Yangyang lifts Sohee on his shoulders, and Shotaro and Ryujin grin from the front row, the trophy held up like a beacon. The Tokyo faces wave from the phone screen, impossibly far, impossibly close. When the shutter clicks, the moment freezes: arms tangled, cheeks pressed, sun bleeding gold through hair and over shoulders, everyone illuminated by the simple, stubborn truth—no matter how far they drift, no matter how the world tugs at their seams, this is the place where nothing, and no one, ever really falls apart. Family, always expanding, always circling back. The photograph is riotous and imperfect, just like the love that built it.

The fifth year, your favorite, the most recent, thrums with the weight of memory and the promise of everything still unwritten. The reunion spills through your kitchen, sunlight curling over the windowsill and painting gold across familiar faces. Jeno and Chenle are locked in their annual pancake war, the countertop a battlefield dusted in flour and sticky with laughter. Jeno’s brow furrows in fierce concentration as he flips a perfect circle, grinning when it lands just right, while Chenle throws up his hands in mock despair, syrup already dripping from the edge of his plate. Every move is part performance, part tradition, an ongoing rivalry that everyone delights in fueling.

Jaemin drifts through the fray, camcorder perched on his shoulder, his voice dropping into a solemn, documentary narrator’s hush: “And here, deep in the suburban wild, two apex predators battle for kitchen dominance, neither willing to yield, both hungry for glory.” Karina, perched at the breakfast bar beside Seulgi, nearly chokes on her coffee from laughing, her head tipped onto Seulgi’s shoulder, the two of them already teasing bets on who’ll win this year’s crown. The kitchen hums with the warmth of family, every window bright, every inch of countertop cluttered, the air rich with the smell of butter and sweet nostalgia, the kind of chaos that feels like home.

The living room is less a room than a living archive, a museum of memory and proof of joy, where your upright piano is nearly swallowed by a tide of keepsakes. Framed photos layer the top: you perched on Jeno’s shoulders, confetti tangled in your hair, both of you luminous from the state championship afterglow; another from your wilder nights, mic in hand at the bar, Jihyo’s laughter ringing out beside you, glasses raised mid-song. Everywhere, postcards from half-remembered trips, birthday cards with childish scrawls, faded polaroids, all tumbling into each other in a soft-lit collage of everything you’ve survived and celebrated.

Jihyo’s corkboard, mounted behind the bar, famous now, legendary among your friends, has become a revolving gallery: sun-drenched polaroids, beach-day sketches, every crayon drawing and sticker masterpiece that the kids have gifted over the years. Some photos never leave their place: you and Jihyo laughing with glasses raised, hair wild from the wind on a rooftop night; Jeno holding Junseo on his shoulders, the two of them mid-giggle, cheeks smudged with birthday cake; a candid of you perched at the bar, Jihyo grinning behind the counter as if she owns the world. There are photos of Jihyo and her daughter, Chaewon, arms wrapped around each other, both of them flashing the same unstoppable smile, and the walls are crowded with evidence of every birthday, every victory, every homecoming the years have stitched together. Friends and strangers alike stop to marvel at the gallery, tracing the years through faded ink and glitter glue, each piece telling a story of belonging. One corner is always left empty, a sticky note in Jihyo’s neat hand reading, “For next year’s masterpiece”—a small, constant promise that there’s always more to come.

You find yourself tracing a finger over a photo of littler Junseo, round cheeks, gummy grin, arms lifted to be held. You coo quietly over how impossibly small he was, heart swelling with memory, then glance out the wide window and catch your breath: there he is now, nearly four, so much bigger, holding hands with Chaewon and Haeun as they spin in a circle beneath the sun, voices rising in a chorus of “ring a ring a rosy.” In that moment, nostalgia aches sharp and sweet, a reminder of how quickly time spins forward, and how lucky you are to have kept so much of it here, pressed between glass and laughter, always coming back for more.

Coach Suh comes by every spring, never empty-handed, always carrying a new photograph for the alumni case at the school, a case that has become more than a display; it’s a testament to how far you’ve all come. This year’s addition is luminous: everyone packed around your dinner table, faces aglow, laughter so wild it nearly shakes the plates loose, proof that joy can echo through generations. Each new photo is a marker, a visible thread tying the past to the present, a reminder that memory is something you can hold in your hands and pass on.

The places that shaped you, Jihyo’s bar, with its battered tables and permanent laughter in the floorboards; Areum’s sun-filled studio, every corner layered with paint, hope, and the courage to begin again; the old gym, echoing with the ghosts of victories and defeats, have grown into shrines. They are more than destinations; they are sanctuaries. Here, your children don’t just visit, they belong. Their artwork crowds Jihyo’s corkboard, their shouts reverberate in the studio rafters, their small footprints chase old lines on the gym floor. Every wall, every floorboard, every sunlit window becomes living proof that you are part of something continuous, a story bigger than any single day.

The lesson is simple but stubborn: the places we pour our laughter, our heartbreak, our sweat and hope into, those places become sacred. They teach you that home is not built in solitude, but in the messy, miraculous accumulation of days spent together, in the resilience of a table that always finds room for one more chair, in the certainty that love, real, unyielding, patient love, is what holds the roof up. Even as the children outgrow bedtime stories, the legacy is unbroken. The warmth of coming home is the greatest inheritance of all, and the truest lesson: that no matter how wide the world, or how far you wander, you can always find your way back to the places and people that made you, the ones who loved you into being.

This year, Jaemin is changed, still the camera’s favorite, still quick with a joke or a story, but there’s a gentle gravity in him now, a kind of quiet that only comes from having found home. For the first time, he arrives with someone new, a young woman who moves with easy confidence, eyes gentle, her smile as steady as sunrise. Haeun, wild and golden, is utterly devoted to her, never letting go of her hand for more than a moment. Throughout the afternoon, Haeun is glued to her side: tugging on her sleeve to show off drawings, crawling into her lap between games, clinging to her waist during the garden chaos as if she’s the very center of her world.

When Jaemin calls everyone together for the annual photo, there’s an unspoken hush, the sense that something momentous is about to be marked. As the family jostles and laughs, Haeun wriggles her way right into the crook of Jaemin’s partner’s arm, face nuzzled deep into her side. When the shutter clicks, Haeun’s voice, soft and spell-like, drifts up: “Mummy.” She looks up at her with so much pride and certainty that it anchors the entire room, her tiny fingers still curled tightly around her dress, refusing to let go. There’s a collective pause, a swelling in every chest, as if the universe itself has made space for something holy.

Jaemin watches it all, eyes shining, one hand finding his partner’s, the other gently smoothing Haeun’s hair. For a moment, he just lets himself be still, no need to narrate, no need to orchestrate. He’s simply a man in love, watching his whole world stitched together in the softness of his daughter’s embrace. The rest of you feel it ripple through the room: a family stretching wider, new roots taking hold, the proof that love never runs out, it only multiplies. Later, you’ll remember this moment as the point where your history folded forward, a single, golden second where everything felt full, every voice and story and new beginning layered into the light. Haeun, fiercely loyal, will not leave her mother’s side for the rest of the evening, clutching her hand for the family photo, tugging at her sleeve when the cake is served, whispering secrets into her ear until sleep claims her, safe and held, the whole house a little softer for her love.

But at the very center of the photo, where everything else blurs into color and noise, there is an orbit of hope, spun around you and Jeno. He stands pressed against your back, his arms circling you as if to shelter both your heart and the secret flutter beneath your skin. His hands splay gently across your belly, reverent, a silent vow that every new heartbeat belongs to you both. You’re rounder compared to when you were carrying Junseo, unmistakably pregnant, the fabric stretched soft and bright across your bump, your daughter, Junseo’s little sister, her presence already changing the shape of every room.

Beside you, Areum is trembling, a mix of laughter and tears that makes her eyes glisten like morning dew. She lifts her ultrasound photo, voice cracking, and the joy is so big it almost hurts. Mark’s hand finds hers, steadying her as he wipes his face with the other, his smile wrecked and glorious. You and Areum find each other without words, just a magnetism, a knowing. She reaches for your hand, your fingers lacing together, and you both lean in, bellies brushing, giggling through tears as you let the moment settle. There’s something wild and unguarded in the way you press your foreheads together, twin pulses thudding beneath your joined palms. The world pauses around you, softened by the hush of expectation, the ancient, trembling awe of mothers making space for new life.

You and Areum fell pregnant within weeks of each other, as if your bodies had been quietly conspiring, weaving your lives even closer. It’s a secret magic, this shared timeline, a comfort and a thrill to know that your daughters will grow up side by side, as entangled as you and Areum have always been, even when you haven’t always seen eye to eye. When you reach for each other now, bellies still brushing, it feels less like coincidence and more like destiny, a silent vow that the next generation will inherit not just your names, but your laughter, your stubbornness, your friendship in all its messy, miraculous forms.

Areum presses her forehead to yours, the two of you holding hands, giggling through your tears, and you can almost see it already: two little girls with wild hair and bright eyes, fingers stained with popsicle juice and sidewalk chalk, secrets traded beneath the kitchen table, best friends before they even have the words for it. The ache of hope is so sharp and sweet that it nearly undoes you. Mark wraps his arms around Areum, his hand caressing her stomach, pressing a kiss to the curve where his daughter grows; Jeno’s hands tighten over your belly from behind, his body warm and solid and full of longing, and for a heartbeat, you know, without question, that you are all building something unbreakable. You squeeze her hand, your other cradling your bump, and she whispers, “They’ll be best friends, you know.” You laugh, breathless, and answer, “They already are.”

Mark’s gaze is softer than you’ve ever seen it, the nerves and pride and lingering ache in his eyes folding into something nearly holy. As Areum lifts her ultrasound photo, Mark draws her gently against him, his hand finding her bump with reverence, brushing his lips over the gentle curve of her belly. He whispers something too quiet to hear, maybe a promise, maybe a prayer, his eyes bright with tears, his smile crumpled and pure, like a boy seeing a miracle for the first time. He looks at you and Areum, and for a moment, everything in him is gratitude; he squeezes your joined hands and nods, as if he can already picture your daughters tangled together in the summer grass.

Meanwhile, Jeno is pressed against you, hands sprawled wide over your belly, his grip possessive and reverent, fingers slipping just a bit lower each time you breathe. His mouth is at your ear, voice gone low and hungry, the kind of rough whisper that makes your thighs clench and your pulse leap. “You know what drives me fucking crazy, babe?” he rasps, teeth grazing your earlobe. “Seeing you like this. So fucking full, all round and soft, carrying my baby, makes me wanna bend you over right here and remind you exactly who put her there.” His thumb traces the curve of your bump, slow and deliberate, sending heat spiraling between your legs. “Red’s my favorite now because you look like sin, and I swear, every time I see you like this, all I can think about is how much I want you. You make being a mama look so fucking hot, you have no idea.”

The room erupts, Karina groans and buries her face in her hands, Chenle chokes on his drink, and Areum, tears streaming down her cheeks, starts laughing so hard she nearly doubles over. You elbow Jeno, cheeks flaming, but you can’t help the shiver that runs down your spine or the grin that breaks through, because no one makes you feel this wanted, this powerful, this alive. Mark just smiles, soft and awestruck, pressing another kiss to Areum’s stomach as the laughter sweeps through the room, warm and wild and endlessly yours.

Mark’s happiness glows, undiluted and tender, as he wraps his arms around Areum, one hand splayed gently over her stomach, pressing a kiss to her temple. His voice is thick with wonder, the kind that comes only to those who have suffered and stayed. “Can you believe it?” he murmurs, eyes shining. Areum just laughs and buries her face in his shoulder, her joy full and weightless, for once untouched by grief.

Jaemin darts across the room to set the timer on his camera, every motion fluid, the easy keeper of tradition. When he swoops in for Haeun, she resists with a gleeful squeal, stubbornly twisting from his arms and reaching instead for her mother, Jaemin’s partner, youthful and glowing, hair tumbling loose, eyes laughing with shared mischief. With a sigh and a smile, she gathers Haeun into her lap, the little girl instantly molding herself against her mother’s chest, arms wound tight around her neck as if she’d never let go.

Haeun buries her face beneath her mother’s chin, inhaling the familiar scent of skin and sunlight, lashes fluttering as her mom presses a long, lingering kiss to her forehead, soft, instinctive, a thousand unspoken promises in that single touch. They sit hip to hip, cheek to cheek, impossibly close, Haeun’s small hands playing with the buttons on her mother’s blouse as if to anchor herself there. No one could pry them apart; the world could go spinning and Haeun would still reach for her, would always belong there, home where her mother’s heart beats steady against her own. Jaemin watches them, grinning through mock protest, and finally drops beside them, wrapping his arms around both of his girls, the perfect picture of gratitude and love, his family impossibly close, impossibly his.

Karina yanks Chenle down onto the couch beside her, her fingers tangling in his hair until he finally cracks a grin, their easy banter a gentle thread through the noise. Ningning slips in at Chenle’s other side, tossing a bright scarf around both their shoulders, pulling everyone closer as she nudges him, her laughter infectious, shimmering in the air. Yangyang, never one for stillness, claims a spot on the carpet at Ningning’s feet, tugging Shotaro down with him, their shoulders pressed together, Ryujin sliding in beside them, her trophy in her lap and her free arm looped through Shotaro’s, the two of them radiant with new victories and old loyalty.

Seulgi and Irene, luminous as always, curl together at the end of the sofa, heads touching, their smiles soft with the memory of a thousand nights just like this. Donghyuck, ever the performer, finds his place sprawled across the armrest, one hand flashing a peace sign, the other linked with Yangyang’s in a tangle of pinkies and jokes. Mark and Areum press close, Mark’s arm wrapped around Areum’s waist, his palm gently splayed over her stomach, Areum’s hand never letting go of yours, the two of you glowing, round and full, carrying the next generation between you.

Jeno sits behind you, impossibly attractive in the late afternoon light, hair tousled, jaw sharp, arms strong and bare where his sleeves are pushed up. His hands splay across your stomach, fingers spread wide and sure, protective and proud, as if nothing could ever shake what you share. You’re round and full in his embrace, the shape of your body a living testament to the new life you carry, your skin aglow with the certainty of being cherished. Junseo, cheeks pink from running wild in the garden, scrambles between you both, his tiny hands searching for purchase on your dress. With a seriousness that only innocent and loved children possess, he leans down, presses his lips softly to your stomach, and begins whispering secrets to his baby sister, promises to play, to protect, to love her as fiercely as he’s been loved. You watch him, heart clenching, then tilt your head sideways, finding Jeno’s mouth with your own. Your lips meet in a quiet, perfect kiss, a silent exchange of joy, gratitude, and all the awe that words could never hold. The moment feels outside of time, just you, Jeno, and Junseo, wrapped up in the warmth of a family that’s grown from hope and held together by choice. When the shutter snaps, it catches everything: Jeno’s hands on your belly, your lips on his, Junseo’s sweet affection, and the wild, expanding center of your beautiful, forever home.

Junseo’s tiny hands reach for yours on instinct, finding you even in a room full of light and laughter, his grip sticky with mango juice and the blue-green smudges of watercolor paint. He latches onto your fingers, wrapping all five of his around two of yours, so earnest and trusting it makes your chest ache. You bring his little hand to your lips, kissing each knuckle, your thumb softly stroking the delicate crescent of his little nails. Jeno, ever watchful, slides one hand from where it rests on your belly to smooth Junseo’s unruly hair, fingertips chasing the curl that always tumbles over your boy’s forehead. He tucks it back, gentle and adoring, and his eyes flicker with pride as he looks at the two of you, his whole world held in a single, fleeting moment, the lines of love drawn with every small, unspoken gesture.

Junseo leans in close, voice solemn but bursting with joy. “Mama, I’m gonna cuddle you so much,” he promises, squeezing your hand even tighter, as if his little body could keep you safe from the world. “And baby too! Gonna cuddle her every day so she never gets lonely.” His eyes are wide with devotion, cheeks flushed with excitement, and Jeno laughs softly, dropping a kiss on the crown of Junseo’s head, his other hand never leaving your stomach. In that moment, you feel completely surrounded, by your son’s warmth, by Jeno’s steady strength, by the miracle growing between you—all of it shimmering with the certainty that you’ll always be held, always be loved.

Junseo lips brushing your belly again and again. “Hi, baby sister,” he whispers, the words half secret, half spell. “I’m here. I’m gonna play with you every day. I’ll show you how to do swings, and if you ever get scared, you just call Junie, ‘kay? I’m gonna be the best big brother.” He looks up, hope and pride lighting his face, and you swallow tears as your heart aches, cheeks hurting from how wide your smile blooms. Junseo squirms between you, giggling, then leans in again to your bump, whispering, “I love you already, baby. You can have all my stickers, even the shiny ones.” Jeno’s hand rests on your belly, fingers splayed like a vow, while the other threads through Junseo’s hair, his eyes going soft and misty. You curl your free arm around Junseo, holding him close, and the three of you sit wrapped together in a perfect, glowing knot, every part of you touching, fingers laced, arms encircling, hearts synced.

Your baby girl kicks, a flutter beneath Jeno’s palm, and Junseo gasps in delight, “She’s saying hi, Mama! She’s saying hi to me!” and you all laugh, dizzy with the warmth of it, the room honeyed with light and love and the ache of so much joy. You feel completely surrounded, by your son’s warmth, by Jeno’s steady strength, by the miracle blooming inside you. Junseo’s tiny hand clings to yours, his other arm draped across your belly as if to hug his sister before she even arrives, and you feel her flutter in answer, kicking softly right beneath Junseo’s palm. Your son can’t stop squealing, “She’s saying hi, Mama! She’s saying hi to me! She loves me so much!” His wonder rings out, connecting you all in a circle of joy.

Jeno gathers the three of you close, his arms wrapping around your shoulders and waist, his hand never leaving your stomach, thumb brushing over the spot where your daughter wriggles in greeting. You realize, with a quiet awe, that every part of you is bound to someone you love, Junseo’s grip in your hand, your daughter’s heartbeat inside you, Jeno’s touch grounding you both, his gaze drinking you all in with the fierce, grateful tenderness of a man who will never stop marveling at his family. All four of you tangled together, breath mingling, hearts beating in time, a living, breathing knot of love, and the certainty that this is what it means to be home.

When the shutter finally clicks, it gathers every glimmer, Jeno’s arms tightening around you in a quiet claim, Junseo’s sticky hand woven through your fingers, the hush of your baby girl turning somersaults for her brother, your lips still pressed to Jeno’s smile. Junseo’s laughter rings out, promising love and a lifetime of games to the sister he’s already dreaming for, while Jeno’s palm anchors you both to the here and now. For one bright instant, the world and the universe itself seem to shrink to this golden knot: the joy of touch, the hush of belonging, the wild sweetness of being known. Later, when you hold that photograph, you see it all, the proof that in this wild, spiraling universe, no matter how many times you’re scattered, every road you take, every hope you dare, every game you play and every small act of love, somehow always finds its way back to you.

It’s almost too much, the happiness, you feel it blooming wild and bright beneath your ribs, a harvest that leaves your cheeks aching with every laugh and your lips tingling from the kiss you keep returning to, again and again, pressed to the mouth of the only man you’ve ever called home. Jeno, all sun-warmed marble and thunder, your anchor and wildfire, the axis your whole world spins around, his gaze drinks you in with that unspoken reverence, a priest at the altar of your every breath. Junseo, your little sun, your storm-tossed sailor, clings to you with that fierce, tender faith that only a child who has known nothing but love can hold, his fingers gripping yours like a promise, his other hand curved protectively over your belly, whispering vows to his unborn sister as if every word is a spell to keep them safe. You feel his heart through his palm, his hope through his laughter, and as your hand finds Jeno’s again, you know you could live in this moment forever.

You tip your face to Jeno’s, your mouth meeting his in a kiss that’s more than a promise, it’s the secret language you’ve built over ten years, every “I love you” threaded into skin and memory, spoken in a dozen ways no one else will ever understand. It’s thank you for surviving, thank you for every bruise, every night you found your way back to each other, for every morning that remade you side by side. He smells like the man of your dreams, sweat and sunlight and something softer, a private scent that only you know, that lingers in your sheets and in the hollow of your throat. You feel the charm bracelet he clasped to your wrist a decade ago, still there, always, each charm a touchstone, a private history of every version of yourselves you’ve loved into being. Your son fits himself into the space between you both, the three of you tangled in warmth and trust, an infinite circle with no beginning and no end. Sunlight splinters across the floor, gilding every edge, and you realize with a sweet, aching certainty that there is nowhere else in the world, no city, no dream, no memory, that could ever outshine this. The camera captures it: hands gripped tight, laughter caught in mouths, promises poured like honey into the womb of tomorrow. For just this frame, you are complete, awash in the intimate, radiant gravity of a love that remakes you again and again, a family spun from gold, your heart stretched wide enough to contain the world.

It’s here, in the hush before the shutter falls, that you realize what photography truly means: it’s more than a frame, more than paper and light. Each photograph is an anchor dropped in the river of years, holding you steady when everything else is rushing away. They are living proof, of laughter, of survival, of a thousand fleeting moments that would have disappeared without a trace if not for the soft click of a camera and the stubborn, loving urge to remember. One day, when you’re old and grey and your hands are slower but your heart is still full, you’ll gather everyone again, your children, your children’s children, and all the faces you’ve loved and lost. You’ll return to this same room, the walls pulsing with the ghosts of past celebrations, and the photos will become bridges, spanning decades, spanning lifetimes, reminding each new soul how belonging feels, how love can echo and ripple through generations.

The true miracle, what undoes you, every single year, is that when you hold these photographs in your trembling hands, the story refuses to settle. It breathes, aches, pulses with everything you have ever loved and lost. It isn’t just a record of faces and light, it’s a summoning, a gentle haunting. It calls you home, even when you’ve been away too long, even when the ache of growing up and growing old feels unbearable. Each image is a tapestry: laughter tangled with heartbreak, new hands reaching for old ones, the echo of voices you’d give anything to hear just once more. Every time you turn the pages, you see the years collapsing, babies becoming parents, lovers growing soft and grey, children who once clung to your legs now carrying little ones of their own. The ache is almost too much: every color a memory, every smile a reminder of time’s terrible mercy.

And still, you keep returning. You keep building, keep loving, keep turning your face toward the light of those you cannot bear to lose. Even when the world bends, when distance or grief threatens to pull you under, these photos are proof, etched with the ache of days you’ll never get back and the miracle of the ones still to come. Because in the end, this is what survives you: a hundred frames where you are seen, known, claimed, and remembered. The certainty that no matter how many seasons pass, no matter how the world breaks or how heavy nostalgia weighs on your chest, there is always Jeno, your compass, your anchor, the voice that calls you home in every storm. In his arms, you remember: no distance, no grief, no ache of memory can ever truly part you from the love you built together. Even as the years blur, the current of every longing and every joy always finds its way, shaken, grateful, whole—

𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐓𝐎 𝐘𝐎𝐔

authors note — this is it. the final chapter of back to you. i’m emotional. currently sobbing. and i’ll be honest, this one wasn’t easy to write. not even a little. it’s the culmination of of love, pain, reckoning, reunion. the closure of arcs i held so tightly to my chest. characters who have lived in me so long they feel like real people now. their laughter, their ache, their betrayals and their forgiveness, all of it shaped me as much as i shaped them. writing this ending meant letting go of things i didn’t want to let go of. it meant writing with my entire heart cracked open. it meant looking back at every kiss, every loss, every secret, and trying to find a way to say goodbye while still leaving the light on.

so please—read gently. read with care. take care of yourselves. this chapter is a lot. it’s heavy. i didn’t plan the sad back story of mark and areum’s first baby until i wrote it, so please send me lots of asks and questions about that as i wanna dive into it, and why it was a heartbreaking yet essential plot i had to invoice. this part and this series hurts in places i didn’t expect. it holds life and death and legacy. it’s the ending for so many of these beautiful, complicated characters who i will forever, forever carry in me. they don’t all get easy roads, but they get real ones. full ones. and i’m so proud of them.

this universe grew bigger than i ever imagined, so layered, so tangled, so alive, that at some point, i stopped trying to control it and just let it breathe. what started as one story became a constellation of lives, loves, betrayals, second chances, and everything in between. if this ending didn’t wrap up every thread, if you still have questions—good. that’s what the ask box is for. tell me what you’re wondering. ask about the characters who slipped into the margins near the end: nahyun and her fractured legacy, her father’s cold grip on her future, jihyo’s quiet strength, yangyang’s own reckoning and the mystery of the new lover who holds his gaze a second too long. none of it is too small or too big to ask. this story’s heartbeat doesn’t stop here. so dig deep, ask away, let’s keep exploring every corner of this world together. and even though this is the last chapter… the world doesn’t end here. it doesn’t. this universe has gotten so wide, hasn’t it? so full and so alive. so many babies. so many new families. junnie. haeun. y/n and areum’s baby girls, growing up side by side. there is so much more i want to share. please ask me questions. i want to keep breathing life into this world with you.

you can ask about:

the relationships between all the kids and all the adults, there’s so many pairings you can ask about here (what kind of big brother is junseo? who does haeun fight with? are the baby girls opposites or twins in crime? what relationship did jeno have with taesun? what relationship does he have with mark’s baby girl?)

the quiet moments between the married couples, it’s a shame i couldn’t write much about their wedding so send me lots of questions about that🫶.

ask me lots about how y/n and jeno are as parents. there’s a lot of nuance and depth there.

ask about baby junnie’s birth, the labour, more moments from him, i deliberately didn’t write his actual birth cos i want to explore it in different posts<3

who babysits the most (hint: it’s shotaro. he comes prepared with glitter crafts and snacks)

the evolution of jihyo’s bar into a living, breathing archive of their history.

what stories the kids grow up hearing (and which ones they definitely shouldn’t)

ask me about y/n and her music !!! where it took her and where she ended up

whatever you want to ask me. i’m open and ready to write. i don’t want this universe to end. no question is off limits.

this world doesn’t stop just because the story ends. so don’t let it. don’t make it. you can tell that i’m not ready to let go of this universe so write to me. message me. tell me how this story made you feel. tell me who broke you. who healed you. tell me which moments you keep coming back to like a bruise you can’t stop touching. because i’m right there with you. i wrote this story because i believe love survives, across time, across silence, across every goddamn thing that tries to rip it apart. writing back to you was more than just telling a story, it was where i went to heal. it was the place i ran to on my hardest days, the one constant that reminded me love can be messy and painful and still so worth choosing. this universe became my favorite thing i’ve ever created, and watching you all fall into it too—feeling the same ache and joy and longing—has meant the absolute world. to everyone who commented, liked, reblogged, screamed in the tags, or sent the most beautiful asks: thank you, truly. i hope you keep finding comfort in this series, in its ending, and in every reread. please follow me and stay with me for whatever comes next, and please don’t stop talking to me. spam my inbox. i’m begging. tell me everything this series gave you, anything it taught you, your favorite quotes or scenes or characters. i want to hear it all. send me your reflections, your love letters to back to you. this may be the final chapter, but the story lives on in you. (and i don’t get annoyed when i receive asks, please don’t think that).

thank you for reading, for loving this universe endlessly. for staying. i’ll always find my way

back to you. ♡

#series: the love & games universe.ᐟ‧₊˚🏀#jeno x reader #nct jeno #nct x reader #nct imagines #jeno imagines #nct fic

85 notes · View notes

shuafiles · 6 months ago

Text

lie to girls [l.jn]

you don't have to lie to girls. if they like you, they'll just lie to themselves.

MDNI, 18+

SUMMARY | it was hard watching jeno struggle with his relationship, but it was even harder when he ran to you for comfort every time. especially when you, his long-time best friend, have been in love with him for the longest time. but when jeno starts lying about where he’s going and who he’s with, you realize the biggest lie might be the one you’re telling yourself—that he’ll ever choose you. or girls will cry, and girls will lie, and girls will lose their goddamn minds for you.

PAIRING | bff!jeno x afab!reader (x univ student!jaemin)

CONTENT | university!au, best friends to ?, angst, infidelity (no i do not condone this), swearing, miscommunication, drinking, smut (fingering, oral [f receiving], nipple play, unprotected sex [dont do this], dirty talk, few degrading names, perv!jeno, voyeurism? [listening in], masturbation, cream pie), lowercase intended, doesn’t end in angst

FEATURING | nct dream, nct 127’s jaehyun, aespa’s karina & winter, le sserafim’s chaewon & yunjin, txt’s soobin, the boyz’s eric

WORDS | 25.9k

PLAYLIST | lie to girls – sabrina carpenter, everytime – ariana grande, focus – niki, wildflower – billie eilish, cry – cigarettes after sex

A/N | quick disclaimer that this is all fiction, and my depiction of the characters i used is far from reality. i wanted to make the characters (mostly y/n and jeno) a bit flawed but idk dont think too heavily and please read with an open heart and mind. enjoy! likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated (leaving feedback would be great!) <3

“hey.” jeno greeted you, standing at your front door, which only meant one thing. they fought again.

you pushed the door wider, letting him inside. he looked like a mess, his shoulders slumped, dark bags around his eyes, hair disheveled. even from afar, you could tell he was going through something. his phone was in his hand, checking for notifications, but he let out a huge sigh when the home screen was empty.

“do i even want to know?” you prodded, eyes watching him as he plopped down on the couch. his head tilted back on the headrest, mind filled with thoughts.

“you know how she is.” jeno mumbled, rubbing his face with his hands. “said she needed some space.”

unfortunately, i do know how she is. jeno’s girlfriend, karina. they’ve been together since first year of college when jeno met her at some random party. they were the kind of couple on campus that, at first glance, seemed perfect, but you knew all too well what kind of chaos haunted them in private. you were too familiar with how she behaved with jeno; most of the time, you couldn’t help but feel sorry for him.

jeno didn’t even have to say anything when you saw him at your front door. you have grown accustomed to this pattern: the same heartache, apologies, and cycle of hope and disappointment. and every time it occurred, jeno ended up here—at your door, at your couch, sulking.

you wanted nothing more than to scold jeno for letting himself get run over by her, but you kept your lips sealed. deciding that giving him comfort and support was what he needed right now.

“again, huh?” you sat down on the opposite side of him, tucking your legs beneath you.

“i don’t even know what that means, y/n.” jeno sighed, running his hand through his hair. he lifted his head to face you, gaze soft as he held eye contact with you. “one minute, everything’s perfect, and we’re fine, but suddenly, i’ve apparently done something wrong, and she won't even tell me.” his voice cracked, hopelessness evident in his tone. it pained you to see him like this. how many times is he going to let her do this to him?

“well, did you do something wrong?” you asked, but you knew jeno too well, he wouldn’t do anything to sabotage his relationship. sure, he has made mistakes in the past, but he was a good person, a good friend, and a good lover, you suppose.

jeno stayed silent for a moment, recalling if he had done something to make his girlfriend upset. “i–no, at least i don’t think so.” he shook his head, “i’ve just been busy with classes, but i always make time for her. and everything we’re together, i always try to make it special. you know?”

you nodded along to his words, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. you have heard this story countless times, you could probably recite it to him. it wasn’t unusual for karina to act like this; she’d get upset over something vague, and then jeno would beat himself up for it, but he’d still bend over backward to get her back.

“maybe she’s just going through something?” you said, trying to think of what to say to ease his mind.

you and karina were acquaintances at best. it’s not like you didn’t try to be her friend, but something about her attitude seems so off-putting. you weren’t entirely sure if karina was fond of you either. of course, you never told jeno any of these. you knew he wouldn’t listen, not when it comes to her. he loves her. he’d return to her every time, like a moth to a flame. and you’d be there, picking up the pieces when he got burned.

“i wish she’d just tell me what’s on her mind instead of leaving me wondering what i did wrong.” his face twisted into frustration with a mix of confusion.

“jen, you know i can’t help you if you don’t tell her what you’re feeling.” this time, you couldn’t hold back. “you’re supposed to tell her these, not me.”

jeno flinched at your words, somehow unsatisfied with your advice. “yeah… you’re right.”

you watched his expression, his eyebrows furrowed while he was deep in thought. “i’m sorry if it’s not what you wanted to hear.” you hesitated, knowing you were treading dangerous waters. “i just think… you deserve someone who actually appreciates you.”

jeno stayed silent, processing your words as if he hadn’t told himself that a million times. but for some stupid reason, he couldn’t keep it in his head. he looked down at his phone, tapping the screen once more, but to his disappointment, there was still nothing. “i know you’re just looking out for me, y/n. but… i just can’t give up on her. not yet.”

and just like that, you could feel him slipping away, back into her orbit, leaving you alone with all the things you couldn’t say, wondering when he would run back to you again.

“class dismissed.” the professor announced loudly, making you snap out of your dozy state. you weren't even sure if you paid attention to class today.

you quickly gathered your stuff, students leaving the lecture hall one by one. your phone buzzed in your pocket, fishing for it, you read the message from mark.

mark: yo dude heard jaehyun’s throwing a party tomorrow, wanna come? mark: also i think i saw jeno and she-who-must-not-be-named together

struggling to balance your laptop in one hand and type on your phone with the other; you barely noticed a figure stepping in front of you—until they bumped into you, sending you off balance.

“oh my god!” a familiar voice shrieked, karina. you lifted your head to see her arms linked with jeno. her faced mixed with shock and annoyance.

“sorry!” you mumbled, quickly gathering your belongings to be more composed.

“hey, y/n.” jeno smiled at you, your chest tightened at his bright face. after he visited you a week ago, you haven’t heard much from him, aside from his occasional responses in the group chat you share with mark and haechan. all you knew was he was busy trying to get his girlfriend back. you weren’t sure if they made up, given that he hadn’t contacted you at all, but seeing as they were currently inseparable, you could probably guess their relationship right now.

karina patted down her skirt and top as if she were the one who practically fell. “y/n!” as if it was on cue, she flashed you a smile. “haven’t seen you in a hot minute. you going to jaehyun’s tomorrow?” you felt sick to your stomach. something was unsettling about how karina spoke to you, or maybe it was all in your head, and you were thinking too deeply about it.

you hesitated, glancing down at your phone, rereading mark’s message. did you really want to spend an entire night seeing jeno and karina pressed up against each other now that they were back together?

“i might.” you sent her a small smile, “mark and haechan are going, i think i’ll tag along.” glancing at jeno for a second, who was intently staring at you. a pit formed in your stomach at the sight of him, he looked better compared to last week—more relaxed, at ease.

“great!” karina clapped her hands together, “we’ll see you there.” she took Jeno’s hand, pulling him away with a little more force than necessary. he stumbled slightly, laughing as they disappeared down the hall, his voice echoing through the space and leaving a familiar ache in your chest.

you took a deep breath, trying to shake off the interaction, and texted mark back.

you: where are u? need someone to talk to

“are you even surprised at this point?” mark let out, mouth filled with the sandwich he was munching on. you were both seated in the field of the campus, deciding to reconnect with mother nature after the encounter you just had. you told mark about how you saw them together and how jeno looked happy again. you stayed silent at his comment, closing your eyes as you basked in the sunlight. “how’d you feel seeing them together?”

mark knew you too well. he was one of the people you confided in about your feelings for jeno. him and chaewon, your roommate. in the same way, jeno kept running to you when he was heartbroken, you ran to mark and chaewon whenever you were in the same cycle.

just as jeno used you as his safe place, you had mark and chaewon. they were the ones who listened when you cried, over and over, thinking that maybe this time he’d see you differently. and every time, they were the ones who held you every time you fell down.

you were in love with jeno. how could you not be? you grew up together, spending your childhood years nearly every second of the day. you were there to witness every version of him—his awkward phase in middle school with braces and bowl haircut, the high school years when he was navigating through puberty, and now, the college student jeno admired by everyone.

you were there for it all.

you were six when you witnessed jeno’s first tooth falling out. you couldn’t forget the way the blood dripped from his mouth, making you bawl, yet he couldn’t help but laugh at the sight of the tooth on his hand.

you were ten when jeno first learned how to ride a bike. he came knocking on your door to show off his skills, but he fell and scraped his knees within five seconds of riding it.

you were thirteen when jeno came to you when he had his heart was broken. he wrote a letter to his crush admitting his feelings for her, but he came crying to you when he got rejected for the first time in his life.

you were eighteen when you and jeno sat in front of your laptops, awaiting the email of the university you had both applied to. you couldn’t help but wrap your arms around each other and squeal when you found out you both had been accepted.

however, you were sixteen when you first well in love with jeno. it was during prom when you got stood up by your date. jeno saw you sulking in the corner of the room, and without hesitation, he ditched his prom date to be with you for the rest of the night. he brought you to the dance floor and danced with you through every song.

every adult in your life was convinced you two would end up getting married due to your closeness, which he would always deny. each phase, each moment with jeno, made you realize how hard you were falling for him. he was your best friend, the only constant in your life. somewhere along the lines, you realized that friendship wasn’t enough for you.

but for jeno, it was the complete opposite. sure, he loved you, loved having you around, but there was this line between the two of you—one he never dared to cross. he was focused on finding love elsewhere, and it never occurred to him to look for it in the person who was always in front of him. you would be lying to yourself if you said it didn’t pain you that he has never once looked for love in you.

“does it even matter?” you sighed, feeling the sun dance across your skin. “you know he’ll always run back to her.”

“yeah, because you never told him how you felt.” mark scoffed, setting his half-eaten sandwich down while wiping his lips with the back of his hand. “who knows? maybe he feels the same.”

“don’t.” you warned him, sending him a glare while he just sheepishly shrugged his shoulders. it was too painful to entertain the idea, too exhausting to keep hoping. you were just his best friend, the person he ran to when he needed comfort, but never the person he’d choose. you hated it. you hated waiting around like a lost puppy for him. “can we just talk about something else, please.”

mark hummed, his eyes roaming around the campus. “why don’t you let loose at jaehyun’s party tomorrow? maybe even look for someone to distract you from him.”

you chuckled, hugging your knees to your chest. “if only it were that easy.”

it’s not like you didn’t try to suppress your feelings for jeno. in fact, you did everything you could think of, even going to great lengths such as downloading a dating app—due to haechan’s insistence to attempt casual flings, kissing random strangers at parties, and even having one-night stands with people from campus. yet no matter how hard you tried, your feelings for jeno still crept up like a shadow you couldn’t escape.

there were moments where you thought you were okay and accepted that you don’t always get what you want in life—until a memory of him would hit you out of nowhere, and you’re back to square one. you get reminded of his laughter, the soft eye-smile he would give you whenever he spotted you in a crowd, and his goofy side, which only came out when he was around you. the memories haunted you whenever you least expected it, and no dating app or reckless decision could erase them.

chaewon stood in front of your closet; arms crossed against her chest as she inspected your wardrobe. you were not afraid to dress slutty, in fact, you had a fair share of provocative clothes stashed somewhere in your closet. but the way chaewon was staring at your wardrobe made you rethink all your fashion choices.

“i should really take you out shopping more often.” she mumbled, more to herself than to you. she began rummaging through the hung clothes, trying to find the perfect outfit for tonight. “you’re wasting so much potential.”

you raised an eyebrow, “i think i look fine.” watching as she pulled out different articles of clothing.

“fine isn’t going to get you laid.” chaewon turned to face you, a bunch of different colored tops in her arms. “we need something that screams, ‘fuck you, lee jeno, look what you’re missing out on.’”

you’ve mentioned to her that jeno and karina would be there as a couple again. and she—as the most supportive best friend—made it her personal mission to make you look like the hottest bitch in the party, just to flaunt what jeno had been too blind to see. she wasn’t about to let you shrink in the shadows of jeno and karina’s perfect little bubble. she wanted to make sure that all eyes would be on you.

you sat on the bed, watching her make a mess out of your closet. “i’m not even sure if i’m ready to put myself out there.” you sighed.

chaewon shot you a pointed look, the kind you’d see on your disappointed friend's face. “please. this is why we need to get you into the sluttiest clothes ever. you need to stop thinking of him and start thinking of yourself, y/n.”

chaewon’s words hung heavy in the air. she was right. you needed to stop playing the part of a background character in jeno’s life. it was getting exhausting, and you weren’t sure how long you could keep pretending like it didn’t bother you at all.

“you’re right.” you murmured, fingers playing with another.

her face lit up as she pulled out a black leather mini skirt, paired with a tight red crop top that accentuates your curves perfectly. you forgot you even owned these. “found it!” she squealed, showing you her discovery. “perfect. you look hot in red.” shaking your head at her enthusiasm, you let out a laugh. she chucked you the clothes, taking the sign to go change into them. “babe, if jeno’s dick doesn’t stand up the second he sees you in this, then maybe he is blind!” sending you a wink as you walked into the bathroom.

as you changed into your new outfit, your stomach couldn’t help but flip as you stared into your reflection. chaewon was right, you did look hot in these clothes. you felt silly for putting this much effort into jeno, who would most likely give you a half-assed hug in return.

you shook your head as you tried to push him out of your thoughts. deciding to adjust your top just enough to show off the perfect amount of cleavage. you had to focus on yourself. whether or not jeno would notice you didn’t matter anymore. you were going to have fun.

“dang! look at you.” mark whistled as you walked into the kitchen where he and haechan were situated, with drinks in their hands.

you felt your cheeks heat up under mark’s approving gaze. haechan, on the other hand, was shamelessly checking you out. “was this chaewon’s doing? because, wow, you look amazing.”

their flirting wasn’t something out of the ordinary; you were close friends who knew when to boost each other’s confidence. you couldn’t help but laugh at their comments, eyes wandering around the place. jaehyun’s place was filled with students dancing, chatting, and drinking. lights flashing from the makeshift led lights he probably put up, the crowd bathing in neon lights. the air was thick with sweat, perfume, and cheap alcohol. the music was being managed by johnny, who was the designated dj for tonight.

“looking for someone?” mark teased as he watched you scan the environment, nudging heachan with his elbow, who was smirking.

“no,” you lied, but you knew they could see right through you. “just looking around.” haechan nodded, but his expression showed that you were being dishonest. he handed you a red plastic cup filled with something that smelled fruity but strong. you silently thanked him before drowning the alcohol down your throat. you couldn’t help but wince at the intense flavor.

“you sure? not looking for someone in particular?” mark chuckled, taking a sip from his cup.

before you could come up with a response, you felt a hand on your shoulder. your body froze before turning around to see who it was. of course, it was who you expected—jeno, with his usual eye smile—enough to brighten up the room. karina, who looked as beautiful as ever, was attached to his side with a smile on her face.

your heart sank, but you kept your expression light, flashing the couple a smile while locking eyes with jeno. you nearly missed the way his eyes traveled down your frame, but you weren’t sure if it was because you were intoxicated or you just wanted him to check you out. you swore his eyes lightly widened, but his gaze returned to karina as if nothing happened.

“hey guys.” jeno greeted, eyes wandering between the three of you but landing on you. you shifted beneath his gaze but shook it off; he was your best friend, of course. you gave him and karina a polite nod, although your stomach was churning at the sight of them.

“jeno!” haechan exclaimed, wrapping an arm around his shoulder, making karina lightly lose her balance. her expression grew sour at haechan’s actions. “we missed you, man.” he jokingly puckered his lips to plant a kiss on his cheek, but jeno just laughed and tried to dodge his lips.

“here you go, dude.” mark handed jeno and karina a drink which they accepted and drank. the air suddenly felt tight, your chest pounding, so you looked at mark for help. he sensed your uneasiness, placing his cup down on the counter. “alright! time to dance, y/n, come with me.” mark grabbed your hand, guiding you towards the dance floor, feeling a gaze on you as you left the kitchen.

the music was deafeningly loud, bodies bumping into each other as you navigated the living room. you mumbled an apology to every person you hit, nearly stumbling, but mark’s grip on you saved you. once you finally found a spot, you let loose, moving to the rhythm as the lights flashed overhead. haechan and chaewon shortly found you, forming a crowd as you danced.

from across the room, jeno sat on a couch with karina perched on his side, her legs on top of his lap as her fingers ran across the back of his head.

“this party’s boring.” karina complained, letting out a sigh while taking another sip from her cup.

jeno didn’t respond. he wanted nothing more than to join his friends on the dance floor, but he knew it wasn’t karina’s crowd, so he decided to stay with her to avoid getting her upset. “you’ve been awfully quiet. did i do something?”

jeno shook his head, eyes landing on hers. “no,” he grasped her hand in his. “don’t you want to dance?”

“you know i’m not into this kind of scene, jeno. why’d we even come here?” karina scoffed, pulling her legs off his lap and crossing her arms. jeno pursed his lips, the tension between them rising.

“you said you wanted to see what the fuss was about, babe.” jeno sighed, running a hand through his hair. “i thought we could have fun together with my friends for once.”

“what’s that supposed to mean!” karina snapped, but jeno was listening to someone else in particular; a burst of laughter from the dance floor caught his attention. his eyes instinctively found you, spinning with mark and chaewon, a carefree smile on your face. he nearly sulked as he watched his friends have fun while he was sitting in a corner.

karina’s eyes followed to where jeno was staring at, her expressions souring even more once he realized jeno wasn’t even listening to her. “of course,” her voice cut through his trance. “you’re not even paying attention to me.”

chaewon caught what was stirring from the corner of her eyes, nudging you. “uh oh, trouble in paradise again.”

you sneaked a glance at where they were sitting; it was easy to spot jeno in a crowd. his back was hunched, karina’s eyebrows furrowed while speaking to him. you almost felt sorry for him.

jeno’s gaze met yours, you quickly looked away to pretend you were not snooping on them, but you knew he saw you staring anyway. you shook off your thoughts, trying to focus on having fun with your friends. you hated the effect he had on you. you hated how easily he got under your skin, how his presence could unravel the fragile composure you worked so hard to maintain.

meanwhile, karina had grown tired of jeno’s distracted demeanor. she stood up abruptly, clutching her purse in her hands. “i’m leaving.” she told jeno, annoyance evident in her tone.

“babe, wait—” jeno stood up, catching her arm, but she shrugged him off.

“stay if you want. don’t bother following me. i’ll text you whenever.” she snapped before storming out of the room.

jeno stood there, watching her back, slowly immersing herself in the crowd. for some reason, he couldn’t move; he didn’t want to move. the guilt of letting her storm off alone clashed with the relief of not encountering a full-on argument. he knows his actions will probably lead to a massive fight with her again, but he was just too tired to deal with it tonight. his eyes trailed back to where you were dancing, but you were no longer there; only mark and haechan remained.

you couldn’t handle another second of witnessing jeno and karina together. you decided to escape the crowd and find an empty room to gather your thoughts. thankful that jaehyun’s house was large enough to have an unoccupied room. the noise from the party was muffled the second you shut the door behind you.

you sat on the edge of the bed, sighing as you ran your hand through your hair. get it together. you scolded yourself before plopping back on the soft mattress. tonight was supposed to be about letting loose, but the sight of jeno with her was too unbearable. the room became unbreathable as thoughts clouded your mind. you often wondered why jeno couldn’t just look at what was in front of him. the way he made you feel like a teenager pining over her crush made you laugh.

soft knocks on the door snapped you back to life. curious, you stood up and hovered over the doorknob.

“y/n?” the voice from the other side of the door called out, making your breath hitch. “are you in there?”

jeno. why was he here? how did you know you were here? you hesitated before grabbing the doorknob and turning it to open the door. there he was—clad in a black shirt with some jeans, yet he still looked like he was crafted by the gods.

“jeno? what are you doing here?” you resisted the urge to ask him why he wasn’t with his girlfriend, but from the looks of the events earlier, they probably quarreled again.

jeno didn’t respond, instead, he moved past you and into the room you were occupying. you shut the door behind you, not bothering to lock it because you saw no need to. he sat on the edge of the bed, where you had previously sat.

you were lost. you don’t know how you should act right now, and jeno seemed so defeated.

“you’ve been avoiding me all night.” jeno spoke, his eyes trained on you. you were leaning against the door, a wide distance between the two of you.

you nearly laughed at the absurdity of his statement. “i wasn’t avoiding you, jen. you were just busy with karina the entire night.” it was true, you had no intentions of ignoring him. in fact, a part of you wanted to see him, to see you. even though you convinced yourself that tonight was about you, it wouldn’t hurt if he saw the effort you put on today.

he took a second to scan your frame, his lips tugging into a small smile when he reached your face. “you look nice.” your heart leaped at his compliment. throat going dry as you thought of words to say to him.

“you’re not so bad yourself.” you chuckled. the air felt thick, you weren’t sure if it was only on your end. you couldn’t help but let your eyes roam his body as well. you knew jeno was fit—he was always diligent about his attendance at the gym—and it surely didn’t help your thoughts that you had a massive crush on him. he looked great, so hot. it made it hard to think straight.

jeno’s eyes didn’t leave yours, his gaze was so intense that it made you want to cower and run away. you cleared your throat. “why are you here, jeno?” you asked, breaking the silence. even though you already anticipated the answer.

“we fought.” you knew it. “i just… i needed to get away for a bit.” of course, why else would he seek for you?

your heart banged against your chest. you wanted to comfort him, to be his solace as you had always been, playing the part of his best friend. but at the same time, you hated being his safe space, you hated how he ran to you only when things got messy with her. it was not fair.

“does she know you’re here?” you asked cautiously, watching as his face twisted into worry.

“she left.” jeno shook his head, leaning back against the mattress with his hands bracing him. you hated how casual he was being. “said i could stay here if i wanted.” his voice laced with frustration, eyes falling to the floor.

you nodded slowly, biting the inside of your cheek to prevent yourself from uttering words that you’d soon regret. as a best friend, you were supposed to tell him to go after her, to patch things up with her like he always does. but tonight, you wanted to be selfish. you wanted him to stay.

“and you came here?” the words left your mouth, and you regretted it immediately.

jeno lifted his head, eyes meeting yours once again. “yeah.” he said, standing up from his spot, taking careful strides towards you. your eyes widened when he approached you. “i came here.” he stopped in front of you, making you take a step backward, but your back just hit the wall, preventing you from moving any further. his frame towering over yours.

there were warning bells ringing in your ears as jeno’s eyes flicked down to your lips. it was subtle, but it was enough to send your thoughts spiraling. your mind was screaming at you to move, to say something, to do anything—but all your heart could focus on was him.

what was he doing?

he was getting dangerously close to you. his perfume hitting your nose, the familiar scent taking over you. the silence in the room was loud, his hand landing on the space next to your head, resting on the wooden door.

“jeno…” your voice came out soft, almost whisper-like, pleading him. although you weren’t entirely sure if you were pleading for him to stop or continue. your pulse racing as he leaned even closer, the gap between you shrinking. the invisible barrier you’d tried so hard to build came crashing down as his intoxicating scent painted the room with tension that grew impossibly thick.

jeno paused to stare into your eyes, looking for signs of doubt in them. his movements were cautious, as though he was giving you time to stop him—but your body betrayed you as you stood frozen in place.

this wasn’t—shouldn’t— supposed to happen. this wasn’t you. you weren’t supposed to have him this close to you—not when he wasn’t yours to begin him.

but the way he looked at you now, like you were his favorite dessert that his mother told him he couldn’t have at a grocery store, made it so hard to pull away.

“i—we can’t.” you croaked out, your voice betraying you.

“tell me to stop.” jeno mumbled, his lips barely grazing yours.

stop.

stop!

you couldn’t stop.

jeno crashed his lips to yours. his taste greeting your tongue, the flavor of alcohol mixed with something uniquely him. you gasped into the kiss, eyes shutting as your hands instinctively flew to his chest while his mouth moved against yours. he didn’t miss the opportunity to slide his tongue between your parted lips, roaming it around. you felt your knees weaken.

jeno was kissing you. and you were kissing him back. the moment you had dreamed of and longed for was becoming a reality. it was real—vivid, and more overwhelming than anything you could imagine.

his hands fell to your waist, pulling your body flush against his. your hands gripped his shirt, tugging him close to you. the heat of his body pressed against yours, sending shivers down your spine. the feeling of him getting hard against your thigh snapped you back to your senses. your eyes fluttered open with a surge of panic before pushing his body away. what have you done?

“what the fuck.” you whispered, hand reaching up to touch your lips that were on his mere seconds ago as if you couldn’t believe the affair that just occurred.

“y/n—“ jeno started, arms reaching out for you. but you pulled away from him. “hey, it’s okay.” he assured you. his expression turning soft as he watched your panicked state. “i’m sorry, i shouldn’t have—”

the kiss was replaying in your head, the vivid moment playing repeatedly to remind you it was immoral. but deep inside, you were floating on the clouds. jeno kissed you. you weren’t sure if you were sorry to begin with.

“i-i need to go.” you mumbled, turning around and grabbing the doorknob. jeno took a step back to give you some space.

“let me explain.” jeno called out, but you were already scrambling towards the door, needing to create distance between the two of you, leaving him and your chaos of emotions behind.

“i’m so excited!” chaewon squealed as she held onto your hand, practically dragging you towards the bus.

it was the annual retreat the student council had organized to help students destress and bond outside of academic pressure. this year, the arts and business departments were grouped to blend creativity and strategy. since you and chaewon were both visual design students, you agreed to be seatmates on the bus. mark and haechan were also coming along because they were music and dance majors, respectively. while it sounded like an excellent opportunity to unwind, you knew it also meant that jeno and karina would be there since they were a part of the department as business and fashion majors.

you haven’t spoken to jeno since your last encounter. you weren’t sure you had the right words to say to him. no one knew of what happened that night, and the guilt was clawing you alive. you contemplated whether to tell chaewon about it. you knew she was going to be by your side, but admitting that you kissed jeno while he was in a relationship with karina was something you didn’t want to say out loud. admitting it would make it real. and making it real meant facing the truth: you kissed someone else’s boyfriend. even if he started it.

the mere thought made you shiver. although jeno was equally responsible for the kiss that he initiated, you wondered if he told anyone about it, if he regretted it, or if he thinks about it as often as you did.

you would be lying to yourself if you said that you had already forgotten about the kiss. the memory of kissing someone you were in love with was not easy to bury. the feeling of his lips on yours haunted you on nights you couldn’t sleep, your heart racing at the faint thought of it.

you found yourself seated in the middle section of the bus. chaewon begged for the window seat, striking a deal to share her stash of snacks in exchange. students gradually filled the bus, mark and haechan seated on the aisle across from you, their banter already filling the air. it wasn’t long before jeno and karina boarded the bus, karina leading jeno with her hand in his. for a brief second, you locked eyes with jeno, whose face was filled with sorrow when he looked at you. you loathed it.

you quickly broke eye contact, but you swore his gaze lingered on you a bit longer. you faced chaewon, who was telling you about her latest boy drama. she noticed that your expression had shifted; she turned her head to see where you were just looking, and her suspicions were confirmed when she saw the couple.

“are you and jeno alright?” chaewon whispered, leaning towards you. “don’t think i saw you guys together since the party.” you stiffened. she was right.

chaewon was observant. she knew you too well. she noticed the small things, like how you look for jeno in crowds or how your mood shifts downward when you spot him with karina. it had been two torturous weeks since the party, since you had a secret you couldn’t muster up the courage to tell anyone. two weeks of trying to convince yourself that it didn’t mean anything—when deep down, you knew it meant everything.

and two weeks' worth of unread messages from jeno.

you thought back to the notifications you had stared at countless times, your heart clenching every time his name lit up your screen.

jeno: hey jeno: how are u? jeno: we should really talk jeno: let me know when ure free jeno: i miss u y/n jeno: pls dont ignore me

you had read them all. your fingers hovered over the keyboard countless times, thinking about what to say to him. what were you supposed to say? that you were in love with him? that the kiss meant everything to you while it was probably a drunken mistake for him? that you were drowning in guilt but couldn't help but think about the kiss? you decided that saying nothing would be better, giving you time to gather your thoughts.

but no matter how you tried, jeno was everywhere. in the halls, in your dreams, and now, on this godforsaken bus.

“yeah.” you smiled at chaewon, pulling on her arm so you could nest your head against her shoulder. “i’m just sleepy.”

“my ass hurts.” haechan whined dramatically as you got off the bus. mark chuckled at him while he extended his arms. the ride took three hours and you were all sore from sitting down, eager to stretch your legs. but the view was worth the pain.

the beach house that the council rented was massive. its modern design stands out against the blue ocean and white sand. large glass windows reflected the sun rays, and the sprawling deck held enough space for barbecues and hangouts. off to the side were lounge chairs arranged neatly with umbrellas softening the harsh sunlight. the waves crashing softly against the shore added a soothing background hum, instantly washing away some of your earlier tension.

“alright, everyone!” one of the council—who you recognized was soobin—announced, making heads turn to face him. “we’ll be assigning rooms in fifteen minutes. grab your stuff, and let’s meet in the living room.”

moments later, the group navigated to the now cramped space. you were sure there were at least twenty students in your house, and you wondered if it was enough to fit all of you. the rest are probably in the beach houses next door. the living room buzzed with activity. some familiar faces are scattered around the area; you gave them a polite nod when you met their eyes, thankful that they returned the gesture. you settled for the vacant space on the couch, with chaewon trailing behind you.

“settle down, guys.” soobin cleared his throat. the noise in the room died down, with jisung and chenle the last ones to squeeze into the room. soobin lifted his phone, assuming to read off the names and room assignments. “some already requested to be paired before this trip, so let me tell you which rooms you’ll be in.”

“chaewon and y/n.” soobin called out, head whipping to look for us, nodding once he spotted us. “you’ll be in room 3.”

chaewon let out a tiny clap with her hands, smiling at you brightly, to which you returned the energy. soobin continued announcing the names of the students who would be roomed together. mark and haechan are paired in the room across the hall from yours.

“i know some of you requested to be with your partners, but the school board requires us to separate male and female students.” soobin started, groans echoing throughout the room. “i know, i know. but this will just be for formalities. what you do after lights out is none of our business.” his comment drew waves of laughter and grins.

“jeno and renjun.” he continued, looking around the room. “room 6.”

the sound of his name made your stomach drop, nearly forgot that he was in the same room as you. you tried to keep your expression neutral as your eyes shifted to him, who was leaning against the wall with karina on his side.

“find your rooms and settle in. dinner’s at six. feel free to explore the area until then.” soobin finally finished disclosing information, and everyone hurried off to find their respective rooms.

chaewon led the way to your room, with you trailing behind her, struggling to navigate the vast house with your bags. the weight of your stuff was slowing you down, and you silently cursed yourself for your overpacking tendencies. startled, a pair of hands who obviously saw you struggle helped you carry them. you lifted your head to say thank you, but the words got stuck in your throat when you locked eyes with your rescuer, jeno.

“i could’ve carried them.” you mumbled, watching as he effortlessly carried your bag with one arm, and—you're assuming—his and karina’s bag in another. speaking of, where was she?

“just accept the help.” jeno replied, his tone simple. a wave of emotions washing over you—guilt, confusion, and something you did not want to name. this was the first time you’d talked to him since the incident. “lead the way.” pursing your lips, you ascended the stairs, feeling him trace your steps but not utter a word.

shortly, you found chaewon standing in front of a bedroom door, which you’re guessing is your room. her eyes widened when she saw who was behind you, but you’re thankful she didn’t mention anything.

“i can take it from here.” you told jeno, who nodded. he handed you your bag, his fingers grazing your skin as you retrieved it from his grasp. you don’t know if you were going crazy, but you swore sparks shot out of your entire body from the mere touch of his skin.

get a hold of yourself.

you thought to yourself. you have experienced jeno’s touch before, but why were you acting like a teenage girl who got to hold her crush’s hand for the first time?

you muttered a thank you to jeno before following chaewon, who had already entered the room. but before you could cross the doorway, you felt a hand on your arm. your heart speeded up at the contact. head turning to face him, he opened his mouth to talk, but no words came out.

“can we talk?” jeno asked, his eyebrows twisting in concern. “please?”

“later.” you affirmed, sending him a weak smile. “come over later.”

his lips tugged upward into a tight smile before nodding and walking away to enter his room, which you saw was just a few doors away from yours.

you shut the door behind you once you entered the room, sighing against it. chaewon watched you with worried eyes, and it took everything in you not to admit to her and cry in her arms. still, the weight of her stare told you that she knew something was wrong.

“had a small fight with jeno.” lie. “don’t worry, i’m used to fighting with his ass.” you dryly laughed. you knew she didn’t buy it but decided to let it go, not wanting to pry when you’re obviously not in the mood to talk about it.

you took this time to scan the room. two single beds in the middle of the room with a bedside table separating them. light blue wallpaper covering the wall, the sunlight peeking through the glass windows. and the view showcased the ocean’s beauty, which made you smile. maybe this retreat wouldn’t be so bad after all?

“you look hot!” chaewon complimented as you slipped into denim shorts. you were wearing a light pink two-piece bikini that was enough to prevent public indecency.

haechan texted you, saying that he, mark, and a few other people were hanging by the beach, and of course, you didn’t want to pass up the opportunity to feel the ocean breeze on your skin. you immediately pulled out the bikini you packed for this trip.

“look who's talking!” you giggled, pointing to her black bikini that perfectly hugged her body. “who will be the lucky guy tonight?” you wiggled your eyebrows teasingly, which she just laughed at.

“whoever it will be, i just hope he’s good in bed.” chaewon fake sighed, making you jokingly pat her arm.

the sun was about to set. some students were already grilling dinner to serve to everyone, and some were mingling by the pool. you could not wait to spend time with your friends to take your mind off him.

the two of you left your room and walked down the hall towards the beach. the faint sound of familiar voices filling the air as your toes reached the sand. you spotted mark, whose back was facing you, seated on a camp chair circling a fire. the cool breeze brushing against your skin as you neared them.

“there you guys are!” haechan exclaimed once he spotted you. he patted the empty chair for you to sit next to him, which you did. chaewon sat on the empty one next to yunjin, who was also in your year. you said your greetings to everyone around the fire, thankful that you were familiar with all of them.

the scent of the ocean filled your nose. the sounds of seagulls flying echoed the air. the warmth of the fire dancing on your skin. it felt soothing not to have to think about the stress of academics. however, your solace was cut short when a familiar couple took the spot directly in front of you.

“why don’t we play a game!” jisung, seated beside haechan, suggested, voice cutting through the conversation.

“what are we? twelve?” chenle scoffed, leaning against his chair while taking a sip out of his cup.

jisung smirked, punching him lightly. “come on, live a little, you prude.”

“bet you’re going to suggest tru-“

“truth or dare!” jisung suggested, eyes lighting up mischievously, earning a chorus of groans from the crowd, which you chuckled at.

“i think it’ll be fun!” chaewon chimed in, voice raising as she clapped her hands.

jisung scanned the area, “alright, let’s see!” a finger tapping his chin as he picked his first target. “jeno, truth or dare?” all eyes landed on him, including yours, watching as he contemplated what to choose.

jeno chuckled, running a hand through his hair. “truth.”

“boring.” jisung groaned but conjured up a question anyway. “who is the prettiest woman in this circle? and it doesn’t have to be your girlfriend!”

“jisung, you’re being weird.” renjun interjected, shaking his head in disapproval.

“what! it’s called truth or dare for a reason.” jisung defended, putting his hands up in defense.

jeno stayed silent for a second before he lifted his head. you swore his eyes lingered on you for too long before uttering his answer. “karina, of course.”

“boo!” jisung chanted, but some were in awe of his loyalty to his girlfriend. karina, who was next to him, jokingly rolled her eyes before kissing jeno on the cheek. you stayed silent, chewing on your bottom lip, trying to avert your gaze from the affectionate display.

“eric!” jisung called out. heads turned to him, who was seated beside you. you followed their gaze to see the handsome male.

“dare.” eric smirked, leaning forward in confidence.

“finally, someone who’s not a pussy.” jisung grinned mischievously, rubbing his hands together. “i dare you to kiss the prettiest woman in this circle.”

“dude, what is your obsession with pretty girls.” you heard mark whisper.

the circle broke into fits of laughter, but what happened next came as a shock to you. eric turned to face you, your eyes widening once you realized what he was asking. the laughter died down as everyone’s attention shifted towards the two of you. his eyes met yours, and your heart began pounding as the realization hit.

“what—” you started, but the words barely left your mouth before eric leaned in. his lips inches away from you, staring into you as if he was silently asking for permission. you froze, not retracting your face away. you gave him a tiny nod of confirmation. he placed a soft kiss on your lips, lingering just a second too long for it to feel innocent.

the group erupted into a mix of cheers, gasps, and whistles.

“my guy didn’t even hesitate!” mark exclaimed, patting eric on the arm. you pulled away from eric, cheeks heating up from the amount of people witnessing the dared kiss.

you didn’t want to, but you couldn’t help but sneak a glance at jeno. his expression was curious, his previous relaxed demeanor replaced by something you couldn’t understand, making you wonder if it was because of you.

eric leaned back into his seat, a cheeky grin on his lips. “sorry if it was too forward.”

you let out a small laugh, brushing it off. “it’s fine.” tucking a strand of hair behind your ears.

“moving on!” jisung announced, “renjun, truth or dare?”

jisung’s words faded away as your attention averted to something—someone—else. from the corner of your eye, jeno’s gaze was flickering between you and eric, his jaw clenching as he gripped the red plastic cup in his hand.

haechan leaned to you, mouth near your ear. “think that’s because of you?” he whispered as if he read your mind. he was always the one to tease you about your feelings for jeno.

“don’t be absurd.” you glared at him, pushing him away, but he only laughed. but deep inside, your thoughts were all over the place, with jeno’s reaction lingering in the back of your head, making things feel infinitely more complicated.

a knock on your door pulled you out of your trance. you decided to head back to your room, leaving the group behind to catch up on some well-deserved sleep. you were feeling overwhelmed with the social interaction you had to go through today, quietly slipping yourself away from haechan’s coercion of trying to make you stay longer. not to mention it seems like jeno and karina were getting heated up from the amount of affection they were displaying. you did not want to stick around when things escalated.

curious, you stood from the bed and gripped the doorknob before turning it and opening the door.

“hey.” jeno greeted, a sheepish smile on his face.

the wind was knocked out of you. you forgot you asked him to come over, seeing him in front of you made you nervous.

“jeno.” you breathed, .

“can i come in?” red exclamation marks were clouding your vision, but you shook them off, pulling the door wider so he could pass through.

jeno stayed silent as he entered your room, eyes wandering around the place for a second before facing you. you were almost certain you felt deja vu by your current positions.

“i wish you would stop avoiding me.” jeno started, “i know what i did was uncalled for, but i—it was—“

“did you tell her?” you interrupted, voice sounding sharper than you intended.

“i—no.”

“jeno.” you glared at him.

“i know! i feel so fucking guilty about it, too, okay? but i—“ jeno took a step forward to you. “have a lot in my head.”

“imagine how i feel!” you shot back, voice jumping an octave. “i made out with someone else’s boyfriend.” you whispered the last part as the weight of your words sank in.

“fuck, y/n. it’s not easy for me either.” his eyes were trained on you with an expression plastered on his face that you couldn’t quite understand.

“what are you saying?” frustration lacing your voice.

jeno thought for a second, letting the silence fill the air as he racked his mind of what to say. “do you like eric?”

“what? no!” you replied instantly to his ridiculous question. why does he even care if you had feelings for eric?

“does he kiss better than me?”

“are you insane?” you spat. “are you literally joking about this right now?”

“i’m not joking.” jeno inched closer to you. your heart racing once his scent reached your nose, his warmth radiating off his body. “does he?”

thoughts clouded your mind. why would he even care if eric was a good kisser? he had karina. a girlfriend who he had been with for years. “i’m not answering that.” you shook your head, crossing your arms across your chest in an attempt to build a wall between the two of you.

“i want to kiss you again.”

“what?” your knees grew weak at his confession. staring at him as if he had three heads. was he hearing himself right now?

“can i?” jeno grabbed your arms, making them uncross from your previous stance. so much for building a wall. “kiss you…” he dropped his grip from your arms, caressing your cheek with his hand. “again?” his thumb sliding down just enough to reach your lips.

“jeno…” you begged, almost sounding like a whimper.

“just… one more time, please?” he pleaded, gaze dropping to your lips. you didn’t miss the way he licked his lips before flickering his eyes back to meet yours.

“this is wrong.” you whispered, voice unsteady. your words contradict your actions.

“i know.” his breath fanned your face. “but i can’t stop thinking about our kiss.” his lips dangerously close to yours. the weight of his confession sending you into a spiral. “tell me to leave.”

you stayed silent. the words hung in the air, heavy with anticipation. the internal battle inside you faltered as you slowly caved in. you slightly shook your head no, and that was all he needed.

jeno kissed you like he had been waiting his whole life for it. you reciprocated his energy, arms flying around his neck to tug him closer to you. his arms wrapping around your waist to pull your body against him. you whimpered against his lips when you felt his cock hardening, just by your mere.

“fuck.” jeno whispered, hands cupping your face as he pulled away from your lips. “i need you so bad.” desperation lacing his voice.

“w-what?” you froze, not expecting things to escalate so quickly. “jeno, kari-”

“she’s mad at me.” oh. “told me not to bother looking for her tonight.” his expression turned sour from mentioning her girlfriend. odd.

your heart raced. is that why he was here? to look for release?

as if he read your mind, he was quick to respond. “you’re not a placeholder for her, y/n.” this was the first lie jeno told you. “i’m here for you.” he reassured.

jeno leaned in and kissed you again, the kiss soft and filled with need. your mind is still on the fence about the entire situation, but by the simple “please?” he uttered, your walls came crashing down. it felt like you two were the only people on earth.

one thing led to another; you found yourself laying on the mattress with jeno in between your legs. his lips on yours as he kissed you hungrily, his hands playing with the hem of your shirt. he pulled away from you, looking at you for confirmation before you nodded. he slipped the shirt off your frame, eyes roaming your bra-clad body the second you were exposed.

feeling vulnerable beneath his gaze, you moved to cover yourself, but his grip on your arms prevented you from doing so.

“don’t.” he muttered, leaning down to place a kiss on your chest. “beautiful.” his hand snaked behind your back, his fingers grazing the clasp of your bra. “can i?”

you nodded, and in a swift motion, the clothing fell down your chest. your heart speeding up as his fingers trailed from your back to just below your breast. he looked into your eyes for any signs of doubt, but you didn’t provide any. you needed him badly.

you reached for his shirt, tugging it as a sign. he noticed the signal and pulled away from you, lifting his shirt off his body. your eyes shamelessly traveling down his toned chest, feeling a wave of heat forming between your legs. damn his addiction to working out.

“you can touch me, you know.” jeno chuckled once he saw your mouth slightly part at the sight. you took his words as a sign to caress his chest, down to his abs and just above his abdomen, making him groan. “didn’t know you’d be such a tease.”

“shut up.” you mumbled, hands playing with the buttons of his jeans. “i’m taking my time.” you admired his body; after all, you had only been dreaming of this moment.

“oh?” jeno teased, grabbing you by the thighs and pulling you down so your core was close to his crotch, making you gasp. “well, i need you now.” he whispered before attaching his lips to yours, hand reaching up to your breast to knead the skin, making you moan against his mouth. his free hand reached in between your bodies to cup your core, the wetness seeping through as he gently rubbed up and down.

his cock growing against your core, feeling your body heat rise at the sensation. his fingers hooked the waistband of your shorts before sliding them down your legs, leaving you completely exposed.

in an abrupt motion, jeno took off his pants and boxers. his cock springing against his abdomen, the head red and precum spilling from the tip. you licked your lips before reaching to pump his cock. he was so big and thick, better than you could ever imagine.

“fuck.” jeno grunted against your touch, hips bucking to meet your hands. “i-i don’t have any condoms.”

“just pull out, i trust you.” you bit your lip. “and i’m on the pill if that helps.”

“why didn’t you start with that?” jeno replaced your hand with his. aligning his length with your entrance. spreading your wetness with the head of his cock.

you whimpered at the sensation before he slowly pushed into you. muted gasps leaving your lips, mouth falling agape as you grew accustomed to his size.

“shit—“ jeno’s hands fell to your hips, gripping on the skin. “you’re so tight.” he said, fully burying himself into you. your insides were burning from the lack of foreplay, but you didn’t care; you wanted him—needed him—before he slipped out of your grasp again. tears pricked your eyes as he adjusted himself. he stayed still, waiting for any confirmation from you. “i know, i know.” he muttered, pressing a kiss on your forehead once he saw your pained expression. “it’ll feel better, i promise.”

a few moments later, you tapped his thigh as a signal. he carefully moved his hips, slowly thrusting out before fully pushing in again. once you got used to his movements, moans spilled from your lips. he took this as a sign to increase his speed.

“god—“ you cried out, hands gripping the sheets beneath you. “jeno!”

his hands reached for your breasts, massaging them while simultaneously playing with your nipples. your back arched against the mattress when his fingers circled the sensitive buds.

your hips bucked up in an attempt to meet his thrusts, making him pick up the pace even more. “so good for me.” he praised, making your head dizzy. his lips find your neck, sucking and licking on the skin.

lewd sounds escaping your lips from his actions. your hand flew to grip his hair, tugging it lightly, making him grunt. the familiar knot forming in your stomach as he picked up his pace. your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, the new position allowing him to bury his cock even deeper.

you cursed out his name as his tip perfectly hit the spot that drove you insane. “f-fuck.” you managed to let out. hands falling to his shoulder, fingernails slightly digging into his skin.

sweat trickled down jeno’s forehead as he pulled away from your neck. his eyes trained on you—his best friend—as you took his cock.

“are you gonna be a good girl and cum for me?” jeno grunted, watching your breasts bounce from his every thrust. he licked his lips at the sight.

you nodded, biting on your lip. “god—yes!”

jeno slipped his hand in between your bodies, fingers finding your clit. he circled the sensitive nerve, adding even more pleasure, making you near your orgasm even more.

“come on, baby.” jeno whispered, lips capturing yours. “cum for me.”

you clenched around him. your release begging to be freed, with a few more thrusts from him. you came crashing down on his cock. moaning loudly as you chased your high. you were thankful that almost everyone was busy getting drunk on the beach.

“oh my fucking god.” jeno groaned, watching as you squirmed beneath him. your back arching, giving him a perfect view of your tits. and soon enough, his orgasm hit him; he quickly pulled out, spilling his cum all over your stomach.

you lay there breathless, chest heaving as you recovered from your high. jeno pulled his body away from you, walking into the connected bathroom before coming back with a roll of tissue. he peeled a fair amount before rushing to wipe his cum all over you.

you giggled when his hands reached your sides, feeling ticklish. you watched him clean you up, and suddenly, reality came crashing in.

you just fucked someone else’s boyfriend. the air suddenly felt tight as jeno trashed the dirty tissues. he reached for his pants, slipped them on before reaching for your clothes, and placed them near you.

“oh my god.” you whispered as your realization kicked in. your hands reaching for the covers to hide away from him somehow.

“what’s wrong?” jeno asked, brows furrowed as he watched you try to scramble away from him.

“jeno, we just fucked.” you reminded him, reaching for your shirt to cover yourself up.

“we’ve literally known each other for years, y/n. i don’t think now’s the time for you to be shy.” he chuckled, slipping his shirt on.

“that’s not—jeno, what about karina?”

jeno froze, expression twisting into worry at the mention of his girlfriend’s name, but he quickly shook it off, masking his unease. “don’t worry, i’ll take care of it.” he mumbled, avoiding eye contact with you. his words felt empty, a hollow reassurance that only deepened the pit in your stomach. you weren’t exactly sure what he was promising—what was he going to take care of? “i can’t stay here tonight.” he moved closer to the doom “i’ll see you soon?” his hand lingered on the doorway, finally fixing his gaze on you.

then it hit you like you were punched in the gut, and it all made sense now. you weren’t sure if jeno was here to patch things up with you or dig a hole even deeper, but given your past activity, you could only guess he made the decision for the latter. jeno was just here for a quick release. and who better to turn to rather than his best friend—the one he knew would always bend over backward for him?

you sat there, unable to move. you were equally to blame. you had let this happen. you let yourself fall down his trap, even though warning signs blared in your mind. you let yourself believe that he was capable of having feelings for you beyond friendship.

“right,” you nodded curtly, voice barely audible. “see you.”

jeno hesitated for a second, “don’t be a stranger, okay?” he said before slipping out the door. the soft click of its closing was deafening, and the silence that followed felt suffocating.

your gaze stilled on the door. his presence still lingering at the back of your head. he said he couldn’t stay, but you wondered if he wanted to. or were you just a convenient distraction, someone to make him feel grounded while he sorted his mess with karina?

tears welled in your eyes, but you quickly wiped them away. chaewon could be coming in any second—quite grateful that she didn’t when jeno was balls deep in you—and you refused to show any vulnerability, not when it comes to him. not this time, you couldn’t keep doing this—not to him, or karina, and definitely not to yourself.

your little secret was eating you alive.

here you sat, curled up on the couch in the living room of your shared apartment with chaewon. it was one of those rare nights when you and your friends—chaewon, mark, haechan, and jeno (when he wasn’t busy quarreling with karina)—could indulge in your movie night tradition.

the aroma of buttered popcorn filled the air, and a pile of blankets and pillows was scattered around the room. you were seated on the loveseat couch with chaewon beside you, her legs resting on your lap. mark and haechan were below you, sitting on the air mattress you had put out specifically for this night. and jeno splayed himself on the comfortable armchair. the tv illuminated the room as the opening credits of a classic rom-com played, but you were barely paying attention. how could you? your mind was floating, caught in a web of guilt.

after the encounter you had with jeno, you were convinced he was going to do the right thing—either end things with karina or at least come clean about what happened. but alas, you heard that he somehow made up with her, leaving you wondering and confused.

you felt used. it wasn’t that you expected he would ditch karina and be with you; you weren’t that naive. you simply hoped it would be the start of shifting your relationship—if you could even call it that—with jeno. but instead, he was still hesitant about crossing the line from friends.

jeno was within your peripheral vision, laughing at the comment mark had said about the movie. the sound of his voice made your stomach feel uneasy. he seemed so unbothered, so perfect and fine, yet you felt like you were drowning from the weight of what the two of you shared. it felt unfair.

you couldn’t bring yourself to tell anyone, not chaewon, not mark. you were carrying the burden alone. but jeno’s every glance at you made your body feel like it was under a spotlight.

it didn’t help that you hadn’t spoken to jeno about it. granted, you were both busy with university and this was the first time you’d been in the same room as him since the trip. talking through the phone just doesn’t seem enough for the weight of your conversation.

“why are you so quiet tonight?” chaewon asked, munching on popcorn. “you okay?”

“of course!” you shot her a smile, reaching for the bowl she had with her and popping some popcorn in your mouth. “just really wanted to watch this movie.” you lied, hoping she wouldn’t see right through you. she believed you, dropping the subject.

if only you could bury the truth as easily as you buried your feelings.

from the corner of your eye, you knew that jeno tuned in to the brief conversation, his expression dropping from the tone of your voice.

the movie continued. the comedic skits drew laughter from mark and haechan. chaewon lets out squeals whenever the main lead does something romantic. despite the bubbly atmosphere, you couldn’t fully immerse yourself in the group. you sneaked another glance towards jeno, whose gaze was directed to his phone.

his screen lit up, indicating a notification, and his fingers hovered over the keyboard. the soft glow gave you enough light to see his jaw tense slightly. you didn’t even have to think for a second that the text had come from karina. you felt foolish for somehow believing him when he said he would take care of it.

jeno stood up abruptly, drawing everyone’s attention. “i—uh have to go.” he announced, pocketing his phone and reaching for his jacket.

“what? i thought we were having a sleepover!” haechan whined, tossing a piece of popcorn in his direction.

“yeah, dude, the movie was just about to get interesting.” mark chimed in, his eyes darting to the screen, making sure not to miss a scene.

jeno could only muster a chuckle. “sorry, something came up. it’s, uh, family stuff.” he lied through his teeth. his eyes avoided yours no matter how intent you were staring at him, which alone was enough to confirm your suspicion.

why did he lie about seeing karina?

“everything okay?” chaewon asked, concern dripping from her tone.

“oh yeah, nothing serious. they just need my help with something.” jeno assured, enough to not worry anyone.

you stayed silent, watching as he lied about his whereabouts. you merely nodded at his words, not having the right words to say. they all bid their goodbyes, and you managed to utter a tiny “bye” to his departure. you swore he turned back one last time before leaving, not to look at the group but to look at you. the look on his face was unreadable, and you hated how you couldn’t see right through him.

once jeno left, everyone returned their attention to the movie. your chest felt much lighter by his absence, but once you thought about where or who he was going to, you felt a commotion stir inside you.

“how’s it going with you and jeno?” mark casually asked, making you panic. worried that you might have let something slip.

“what do you mean?”

“figured out how to get over that crush of yours?” oh. chaewon and haechan’s ears perked up, looking at you for confirmation.

“i’m trying.” you kept your answer curt, shrinking into the cushions, trying to avoid the discussion.

“you know, i have this friend, and i think he’d be perfect for you.” mark started, head turning to face you, a mischievous smirk plastered on his lips. “good looking, smart, studying for his medical degree, loves cats.” he listed, trying to make his friend sound as attractive as possible.

“what? are you trying to set me up on a blind date?” you raised your brow at him, which he only sheepishly smiled at.

“well, technically, it’s not blind, i have a feeling you’ve seen him around.”

“please! this is exactly what you need.” chaewon chimed in, nudging your body.

“i don’t know…” you trailed off hesitantly.

“why not?” haechan jumped in. “it’s not like you have anything to lose, right? and besides, it’ll be fun.”

“and it will be a good distraction from you-know-who.” chaewon chipped in.

they were all looking you, waiting for your response. you paused, contemplating their suggestion.

they were right. you had to stop considering Jeno in all your decisions. especially after tonight when he so painfully cannot let go of her even after your moment with him. it was clear where you stand in jeno’s life—his best friend who he had slept with. going on a date with a handsome stranger did spark something within you.

“fine.” you sighed, making them cheer. mark already reached for his phone. “don’t make me regret this.”

as excitement filled the room, you couldn’t help but be thankful that your friends were helping you keep your mind off of jeno. maybe this distraction was precisely what you needed.

you fixed your hair in the mirror's reflection one last time before heading out. today was your date with mark’s friend, jaemin. his name sounded oddly familiar to you, but you couldn’t pinpoint where you heard it. you figured it was a common name around the city, so you brushed it off.

to say you were not nervous would be a lie. your heart beat against your chest as you waited for the knock on your door. mark sent you jaemin’s number so you could set up the details yourselves. you’ve briefly exchanged conversations with the mystery guy, and you found out he was in the same year you were at university. it made you wonder if you had crossed paths with him.

jaemin persistently insisted that he come to pick you up at your place, claiming he is a gentleman. which was a massive check in your book, and you couldn’t bring yourself to say no. it was charming and refreshing. so here you were in a white silky long-sleeve dress that stopped mid-thigh, stocking on, and nice cute heels to go along with the outfit. he had told you to dress not too fancy but not too casual either, and you figured this was the best you could come up with.

moments later, the inevitable knock on your door came. you smoothed out the fabric of your dress before approaching the door.

“hi–” you pulled the door open and faced him, the wind knocking out of your body once you laid eyes on him.

jaemin was gorgeous. his black hair falling in the most perfect way possible. he was dressed in a black shirt that peeked through his jacket, paired with dark denim jeans. he emitted a calm, understated confidence that made your stomach flutter and your cheeks warm.

“hey.” jaemin greeted you, a smile on his lips, his voice warm and comforting. “you look—wow, stunning.” he breathed, feeling shy beneath his gaze.

“hi, jaemin.” you replied, returning his grin. “thank you. you’re not so bad yourself.”

jaemin chuckled, holding out his arm in a cheesy way. “shall we, m’lady?”

“oh god.” you covered your face with your hands.

“i’m kidding.” jaemin reached out to pull your arms away. “come on.” he slipped his grip from your arms to your hands, locking his fingers with yours. a bold move, but you liked it.

jaemin opened the car door for you. you silently thanked him as you slipped into the passenger seat. he closed the door gently before jogging to the driver's side.

“so,” jaemin spoke once he started the car. you turned to face him. “are you nervous?” a hint of playfulness in his eyes.

you couldn’t help but laugh at his question. “kinda.” you admitted.

“good, that makes the two of us.”

the car ride was surprisingly comfortable. the small talk flowed easily, revealing more of his sweet and kind nature. you noticed how he drove the perfect speed to not make you nauseous, how he would avoid the potholes in the street so the ride wouldn’t be bumpy. you were hoping this entire night would keep your mind off the chaos you tried to bury.

he pulled up to a restaurant that was part of town that you were unsure if you’d been to before. the minimal but sophisticated signage illuminated the name that you were sure you couldn’t pronounce.

jaemin didn’t forget to open your car door for you once again. his hand resting on the small of your back as he navigated the both of you through the dimly lit restaurant. fancy. he gave his last name to the host before you were both assisted to your seats. as you followed the steps of your waiter, a familiar laughter erupting in the air made you stop in your tracks

no. it couldn’t be.

“jeno!” jaemin greeted the young man. jeno turned his head as he heard his name called, and his familiar eye smile made its way to his face once he saw jaemin. but his expression quickly faltered when he saw you were next to him. when did this happen? he wondered.

across from jeno was—you already guessed it—karina, who was slicing through her steak, unbothered by the newly arrived presence.

blood raced through your head, feeling dizzy when the two men exchanged greetings and surprisedness. of course, that was why jaemin was so familiar, he was jeno’s roommate! you have only been to jeno’s apartment a few times, and he told you that he had a roommate who was busy with his medical degree, so he always opted to hang out at your place. you never would’ve imagined that he was the same jaemin that lived with jeno. you silently cursed mark and his conniving ways; he probably set this up on purpose, too.

you stood still, watching the scene before you unfold. the air suddenly felt tight as the waiter pointed to the two vacant seats directly beside jeno and karina. ringing noise infiltrated your ears as jaemin smiled and pulled out the chair for you to sit in.

“can—are there any other seats?” you asked the waiter. this time, karina dropped her utensils at the familiar voice, her brow raising at the sight of you. “i just—it’s too hot in here.” you stammered, gripping the back of your chair.

the scene in front of you felt like a cruel twist of fate. the universe couldn’t have planned this better if it had tried. out of all the restaurants in the city, you just had to end up here. with jeno. and karina. together. on the night that you were supposed to forget said people.

“are you okay?” jaemin was quick to your side, worry plastered on his face. his genuineness added to the heaviness of your chest. you sent him a weak smile, brushing off his worries.

“i’m sorry, miss.” the waiter said apologetically, bowing his head lightly. “we are fully booked tonight.” you pursed your lips, nodding at him.

the last thing you wanted was to sit through an awkward dinner with jeno within your eyes and earshot while his girlfriend smugly sat mere inches beside you, completely unaware of what happened between you and jeno. but you couldn’t let jaemin’s effort go to waste. you fixed your posture, grabbing jaemin’s outstretched hand that was waiting for you, and you sat on the chair he pulled out for you.

you couldn’t help it; you hesitantly glanced at jeno, whose gaze was intent on you, jaw almost clenching at your presence. swallowing hard, you lifted the menu to cover your face from his intense stare, questioning what you had done to deserve this.

somehow, jaemin couldn’t sense the tension between you and his roommate. he talked to you with a sweet smile, but you could barely register his words because you kept zoning his words out due to the presence next to him.

“oh! have i told you that this guy,” jaemin pointed his thumb to jeno who suddenly turned to look at him. “is my roommate! what a small world.” he chuckled.

your stomach dropped. of course, he had to bring it up. you chewed on your bottom lip, contemplating whether you should mention the nature of your relationship with jeno.

karina, who overheard your conversation, snickered before chiming in. “of course, she would know, silly! she’s jeno’s best friend.”

“wait, what?” jaemin’s eyebrows furrowed, gaze flicking from you to jeno. “you two know each other?” he questioned.

“yeah.” you forced a tight lip smile, feeling the heat creep up your neck. “we’ve known each other since we were kids.”

“wait, so you’re y/n—jeno’s y/n?” you winced at his words, hating how you were addressed. he wasn’t yours, and you certainly weren’t his. “oh my god, how didn’t i connect the dots sooner.” he mumbled, more to himself, still surprised by the proximity of relationships.

jeno let out a dry chuckle at his reaction, trying to mask his stern expression. the room suddenly felt hot. you reached for the glass of water and sipped it in the cool liquid to neutralize your throat.

“this makes tonight even better! no first-date awkwardness since you’re practically family with jeno.”

you choked on the water, the liquid spilling from your lips as you coughed, making jaemin’s eyes widen. people started to stare, but jaemin was already rushing to your side to help wipe the spilled water. out of the corner of your eye, you noticed jeno slightly twitch as if he wanted to offer some help but restrained himself, letting jaemin do the work. his jaw was tight; his lips were pressed into a thin line.

you wanted to crawl under the table. family? the word felt like a bucket of ice being poured down your body—literally. the word was laughable, given everything that happened between you and jeno.

jeno tried to peel his eyes away as jaemin’s hands roamed your body. averting his gaze to karina, his lovely girlfriend. he reminded himself.

once jaemin made sure you were okay, you thanked him, and he returned to his seat, apologizing to the other tables bothered by your sudden outburst. cheeks heating up when you realize a lot of people were witnesses to your clumsiness.

the food you ordered shortly arrived. the smell of freshly cooked meat and pasta filling the air, you hadn’t realized how hungry you were until the plates were set up in front of you. the meal provided a much-needed distraction, and the night seemed to flow more smoothly for a while. jeno finally fixed his gaze to fixate on his date, and you were paying attention to yours.

“hm, what are your pet peeves?” jaemin asked, taking a bite of his food.

you paused for a second, profoundly considering his question. “i hate liars.” you blurted out. you didn’t miss the way jeno’s hand froze mid-way into feeding the spoon into his mouth. “i hate when people tell me they’ll do something or take care of something for me but end up not keeping their end of the bargain.” you kept your tone casual. still, you knew you got the message across—even to the table beside you.

jaemin nodded along. “yeah, i get that.” his tone was empathetic. “it’s frustrating when someone doesn’t follow through. makes them seem untrustworthy.”

you smiled at him, grateful that he shared the same views as you. you stole a quick glance at jeno, whose gaze was fixed on the plate on the table, but his hand was nearly turning red from his grip on the utensil. karina, who seemed confused by his sudden behavior, reached out to grab his hand in hers, making jeno look up and let out a sigh—you don’t know whether it was one of contentment or annoyance.

“please excuse me, i need to run to the bathroom real quick.” you mumbled to jaemin, flashing him a small smile as you slid your chair back. he nodded, returning a gentle smile, averting his attention to his phone while he waited for you to return.

jeno heard your excuse, eyes scanning karina who was too busy consuming her dessert before flickering to you who disappeared into the hallway that lead to the restroom.

without much thought, jeno impulsively excused himself from karina, muttering something about needing to wash his hands.

you leaned against the bathroom sink, sighing to yourself before running the cold water over your hands to somehow calm your nerves. jeno was confusing you. you hated not knowing what he was thinking, not having control over the situation. you didn’t have it in you to actually talk to jeno about the previous events. you were afraid of hearing the truth—that he chose her, like he did over and over again.

the sound of the bathroom door creaking open brought you to your senses. you glanced in the mirror, expecting another customer, your heart skipping when you saw jeno standing there, his expression unreadable.

“jeno? what are you doing here?” you whispered, eyes wide as you realized he’s in the women’s bathroom.

“jaemin, really?” jeno snorted, face contorting into anger? annoyance? you couldn’t tell, in fact you were confused as to why he was acting out of proportion. “out of all the people, you chose my friend?”

“i didn’t know he was your friend.” you defended, frowning at his accusation. “and why do you care?” you prodded, trying to grasp the situation.

“i don't.” jeno shot back. “as your friend,” he said, as if the word was laced with venom. “i’m just looking out for you. jaemin’s very busy with his degree and i doubt he has time to settle down.”

you couldn’t help but laugh bitterly. “that’s rich coming from you.” you spat. “and friend? really? friends don’t do what we did, jeno.” you angrily whispered the last part, cautious of the people around.

jeno lightly flinched at your words, the sentence hanging heavy in the air. you sighed, getting ready to walk past him but he caught your arm before you could leave.

“i’m sorry.” jeno mumbled, regret evident in his eyes.

you shook your head, the lump in your throat threatening to be released. “just go back to her, jeno. isn’t that what you’re best at?” you pushed past him, shoulders brushing against one another, leaving jeno alone in the bathroom.

jaemin drove you back to your apartment. jeno and karina had left moments before you did, allowing you to let out a sigh of relief as soon as they were gone. you offered to pay for half the meal, but jaemin insisted on covering it, even sneaking in a small “you cover it next time,” accompanied by a wink that made your heart flutter.

jaemin was perfect. he lived up to mark’s description of him—kind, sweet, and painfully handsome. you’ve caught yourself staring at his face down to his lips more times than you cared to admit. there were even moments when your eyes drifted to his biceps when he shrugged his jacket off.

but somehow, deep inside, your mind stubbornly drifted back to the one person you wanted nothing more than to forget. seeing jeno witness you on a date to sparked a sense of satisfaction within you—a small win to prove to him (and maybe even yourself) that you were capable of forgetting that night. but the truth lingered in the back of your mind: you hadn’t. the little encounter you had with him also etched in your mind, still wondering what the meaning of all of it was. that night replayed over and over, making it impossible to let go. you convinced yourself that you didn’t care that he was still with karina, but it was like a fever burning you alive. every time you saw her, the weight of your actions dragged you down. you slept with her boyfriend, and no self-justification could erase the betrayal that you had inflicted. you weren’t sure if you could ever forgive yourself for it.

jaemin seemed quieter on the drive home, and you wondered if you ticked him off. he barely spared you a glance, and it made you even more nervous.

did he not enjoy the date? had you done something to upset him?

as he pulled up to your apartment, you beat him to open your door for you, wanting to escape the suffocating confines of the vehicle.

“hey, y/n.” jaemin called out when you barely glanced in his direction, directly jogging to your apartment entrance. you froze in your spot, barely entering your complex when he caught up to you. he stopped in front of you, his frame towering over yours beneath the moon's soft glow.

“did i do anything wrong?” you blurted out, avoiding eye contact with him.

“what? no.” jaemin’s eyebrows furrowed, shaking his head, sincerity dripping from his voice. “i was just thinking about how much i wanna kiss you tonight… but i didn’t want to scare you off.” he admitted, scratching the back of his neck.

the anxiety and tension within your body dissipated from his mere confession. you blinked up at him, processing his words. the knot in your stomach unraveled, and you felt foolish for jumping to the worst conclusion.

jaemin took a step closer, his warmth engulfing you. he lifted his hand, fingers gently tucking the loose strand of hair behind your ear. the soft touch sent a flutter through your body, instinctively leaning against his touch.

“can i?” he asked softly, voice so tender it was enough to make you melt.

you nodded, unable to find the words.

jaemin leaned in, your eyes falling shut as he minimized the distance between you. when his lips finally met yours, it was soft and gentle. his hand cupping your cheek while his other arm wrapped around your waist, pulling your body flush against his so that you were chest-to-chest.

his kiss wasn’t rushed and overwhelming—it was perfect as if he was savoring every moment.

he pulled away, lips mere inches from yours as you both caught your breaths. “i’ve been wanting to do that all night.”

you giggled at his confession, cheeks burning as you met his eyes. you placed your palms against his chest, fingers tapping. “i’m glad you did.”

jaemin grinned at you, his thumb caressing your cheek. “good.” he said softly. “because i’d like to do it again sometime.”

your lips parted to respond, but he placed a quick but affectionate kiss on your forehead before you could. a small gesture, but it made your knees weak.

“goodnight, y/n.” he mumbled, stepping away from you with a small wave.

“goodnight, jaemin.” you replied, smiling at him.

with one last glance, he turned and walked back to his car, leaving you with a smile you couldn’t seem to wipe away.

“tell me everything!” chaewon’s voice echoed throughout the apartment the second you stepped foot in it. you laughed as she almost tripped, making her way to you. she grabbed your hands, shaking them excitedly. “well?” she questioned, voice jumping an octave. “was he nice? handsome? did you kiss?” she gasped, hand covering her mouth. “did you fuck?”

“chaewon!” you playfully scolded her, as she guided you to the couch. her knees tucked beneath her as she looked at you with wide eyes, waiting for you to fill her on what happened.

you took a deep breath before you disclosed everything that had happened that evening. how jaemin was a perfect guy—not forgetting to mention how handsome he is—and how jeno and karina were at the restaurant you were at, deciding to leave out your encounter with jeno in the bathroom.

“what, what?” chaewon exclaimed, “they were there? out of all places jaemin could’ve taken you to?” she tried to suppress her laughter, but you saw how amused she was by your revelation.

“i know.” you groaned, letting your body fall on the sofa, head landing on her lap. “i’m convinced the universe hates me.” you covered your face with your hands.

“how did you feel?” chaewon asked, patting your head that was laid down on her lap. “when you saw jeno and karina together?”

you pondered for a second. how did you feel? there was a mix of emotions that coursed through you—guilt, anxiety, jealousy, anger. everything felt so different. jeno is—or was—your best friend. whenever you two argued, it could usually be resolved over a shared tub of ice cream, but this situation felt far beyond the reach of simple, sweet solutions.

no one knew about what happened that night, and it seemed like he had no intention of telling anyone either. you were equally guilty, of course, having taken part in such a scandalous act. but you couldn’t bring yourself to speak the truth aloud.

“i don’t know.” you mumbled, pulling your hands away. “i told myself before that i’ve accepted it, that he will never like me, but…” you trailed off, contemplating whether you should tell her to truth or just keep it to yourself a little longer. “but i have got to stop lying myself. i’m losing my goddamn mind because of him.” she nodded to your words. “it’s just so hard to pretend that he’s just my friend, chae.” a tear slipped from your eye, and she immediately reached to wipe it off.

chaewon stayed silent, still gently brushing your hair. “it’s okay.” she comforted, flashing you a soft smile. “you can’t just flip a switch and stop caring about someone who’s been such a big part of your life.”

her words struck like a chord. you blinked at her, sighing. “i just thought it would be easier as time passed by.” this time, you couldn’t stop the tears that gushed. you hadn’t realized how much you’ve been carrying alone. it was too much. you needed to clear your head.

“you’re not alone in this, okay? you’ve got me, mark, haechan, and now… even jaemin.” she wiggled her eyebrows, a teasing smile on her lips.

a small laugh escaped you despite the tears. “jaemin.” you repeated, the thought of him momentarily bringing you joy.

“excatly! and from what you told me, he sounds like a dream.” chaewon’s excitement bubbled up again. “now tell me more about him!”

the front door opened and shut, making jeno stand from his bed and walk out to the living room. jaemin was setting his keys down on the counter while shrugging his jacket off when he spotted jeno.

“hey, jeno.” jaemin greeted, smiling at him. “tonight was crazy! i didn’t even know she was the same y/n you told me about.” he recalled, heart feeling warm at the thought of you.

“yeah,” jeno replied gruffly, “so listen,” he started, making jaemin turn to him, listening intently. “y/n’s… my best friend, and i wouldn’t want anything—or anyone to hurt her, you know?” he threaded lightly, careful not to show too much emotion, but enough to get the message across. he knew he had no right to tell you who to date but something about seeing you with jaemin stirred something within him and he didn’t know if he wants to find out.

jeno couldn’t bring himself to admit it. he had been avoiding you as much as you were to him. he couldn’t face the consequences of his actions. this was unlike him. he didn’t mean to lie to his girlfriend—didn’t mean to lie to you. when he told you he was going to fix it, he thought he could get it over with karina. he saw you in the back of his mind every time he closed his eyes. he remembers the soft feeling of your lips against him or how your bodies were pressed up against one another. he felt like shit, having all these thoughts about a girl—his best friend—while he had a girlfriend. but something tugged at his heart, the sight of her brought him back to reality, grounding him.

how could he trade what he had for something uncertain?

jeno loved karina. he. loved. her. so he convinced himself. she was perfect—beautiful, confident, and everything he thought he wanted. he felt a pang of guilt every time he kissed her, every time he touched her. how could he hurt the woman he claimed he loved?

so why did the thought of jaemin kissing you make him feel like he was losing something he never realized he wanted?

jaemin raised a brow but nodded anyway. “of course, man. i like her. i wouldn’t do anything to mess this up.”

all jeno could do was nod, although the weight never left his chest. “thanks, jaem, that’s all i needed to hear.” he forced a smile before retreating back to his room.

your laughter echoing through the hall made jeno freeze. what were you doing here? he thought to himself. he curiously opened his bedroom door, trying to eavesdrop.

“sorry, it’s a bit of a mess. i haven’t had time to clean up.” jaemin nervously laughed, trying to chuck away any trash or mess lying around.

you giggled at his nervousness, “it’s fine, jaemin.”

you were here for jaemin, of course. jeno scoffed, shutting his door to try and drown out the noise.

it had been a week since your first date with jaemin, and the two of you had been texting constantly the minute you parted ways. to say he was great would be an understatement—he was perfect. he knew exactly what to say to sweep you off your feet, leaving you smiling and giggling at your phone more often than you’d like to admit. however, as much as jaemin was perfect, your heart had a way of tugging at you, persistently reminding you of the one person you were trying so hard to erase from your mind.

jaemin invited you over to his—and jeno’s—apartment. you were weary of accepting his invitation at first, not wanting to invade jeno’s space, especially after your encounter with him. but jaemin seemed so excited to see you again, and despite everything, you were, too. you decided not to let jeno affect your relationship with jaemin.

you took a seat on the far end of the couch while jaemin sat on the opposite. he shot you a funny look before patting over to the space beside him. “why are you so far?”

you were as nervous as him. you hadn’t been alone with a boy—other than jeno, mark, or haechan—in so long you weren’t sure if you could contain yourself. after all, you are still a very hormonal girl.

“no reason.” you mumbled, but your expression failed you. you were getting goosebumps with the simple chill of the air. jaemin chuckled, deciding to slide over to your side instead. your thighs touching from his sudden proximity.

“you’re cute.” jaemin muttered, his hand moving to brush the stray hair that fell on your face.

“are you sure jeno doesn’t mind that i’m here?” you questioned, facing jaemin.

“you’re literally best friends, i know he doesn’t mind.” he smirked, eyes falling to your lips.

oh, but jeno minded. he minded a lot. it wasn’t his fault that the walls in this apartment were thin. your voices pierced through, hearing your every word, every laugh. his chest tightening with something he couldn’t quite place his finger on—guilt? frustration? jealousy? all he knew was that hearing you with jaemin felt like a knife twisting deeper with every passing second.

“you’re so beautiful.” jaemin mumbled, licking his lips. you placed your hands on his chest, tugging the collar of his shirt slightly closer to you. his breath fanned your face as he inched closer to you. “just wanna kiss you all day.”

you closed the gap between your lips, savoring his taste. jaemin wrapped his arms around your waist, hoisting you so that you were straddling his thighs. you gasped at his suddenness, but you secretly liked it anyway, looping your arms around his neck. he effortlessly slipped his tongue into your mouth, taking control, and you let him.

you felt his growing bulge beneath you, making you giggle into the kiss. you ground your hips against him, pressing onto his cock, eliciting a groan from him. “who knew you were so naughty, hm?”

jeno had enough. he purposely pulled his door open, making a loud enough commotion to have you and jaemin separate from each other. you were about to hop off jaemin’s lap, but his grip on your hips prevented you from leaving.

“jeno, didn’t know you were here!”

“yeah, well, i live here too.” jeno grumbled, pretending to go to the kitchen and look for a drink. he saw you sitting on jaemin’s lap, and it felt like he was punched in the gut.

from jeno’s point of view, he could only see your face and the back of jaemin’s head. jeno’s eyes locked with yours, his jaw clenched as his gaze flickered to the both of you. your cheeks grew warm, your hands resting awkwardly on jaemin’s shoulders as if unsure where they should be.

“please don’t fuck,” jeno paused, eyes directly fixated on you, his eyes dark. your heart sped up, somehow getting his message. “on the couch.” maybe you were reading too much into it.

jaemin chuckled, his grip on you tightened, and suddenly, he stood up and held you in his arms. you yelped, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. “we’ll move this party elsewhere.” he guided you towards his bedroom, leaving jeno alone in the kitchen with his fist curled up into a ball as he watched you descend into the room.

only a thin wall was separating him from you and jaemin. jeno knew what you two were up to. he sat on his chair, facing his desk, head in his hands as he tried to contain himself. his curiosity got the best of him. he stood up, walking towards the wall that faced jaemin’s room and pressing his ear against the wall.

holy shit. jeno thought. he could hear your soft moans through the mall, his mind flashing back to the night you spent together. the sound immediately traveling to his dick. jaemin either had his fingers or dick in you because the way you were whining for him sounded so pretty.

jeno couldn’t help it, he palmed himself through his pajamas, ear still pressed against the wall.

“fuck, jaemin.” he heard you cry out. he bit his lip, trying to prevent any noise from escaping him as he took his cock out of his bottoms. it didn’t take long before he heard clapping and squelching sounds from the other side of the room.

jeno was upset—upset that he had to listen to another guy fuck you while he pathetically jerked himself off. his fingers wrapped around his length, closing his eyes while he listens to your moans. he imagined you. imagined how you were in his room instead of the other. imagining how it was your fingers wrapped around his cock. he began to stroke himself slowly, his thumb smearing the pre-cum that managed to spurt from his tip.

your moans began to get louder, jeno began picking up his pace. fucking his hand with every sound that left your lips. his mind convinced himself that you were making such pretty noises for him. he contained the grunts that threatened to escape his mouth, lips nearly bleeding from holding back. you began chanting jaemin’s name through breaths, indicating that you were close. jeno continued stroking himself until he came hard with his hand around his length, just from the sound of your moans.

you jolted awake, glancing at the clock, the number 1:43 am on display. after you and jaemin had sex, you immediately passed out, not having a chance to get ready for sleep. jaemin’s arm was lazily wrapped around your waist. you gently pushed it away. your throat felt dry, so you decided to sneak into the kitchen to grab a glass. you picked up the discarded shirt on the ground—most likely jaemin’s—slipped it on, and put on your underwear before tiptoeing out of his room, careful not to make too much noise.

in the midst of chugging down a cold glass of water, the sound of a door opening was heard from the end of the hall. it was jeno’s room. you froze, realizing you were not in proper attire right now. you set the glass on the sink before trying to retreat into jaemin’s room.

“y/n?” jeno’s voice echoed through the hall. you mentally cursed as you got caught, thankful the room was still dark. that was until he met you in the kitchen, hand instinctively reaching for the switch to turn on the overhead lights. his breath hitched once he took in your state. legs bare and nipples hard against your plain white shirt that stopped just below your ass. it was like the universe wanted him to sin. “what are you doing awake?” he managed to let out once his eyes stopped taking in your figure. his voice was rough as if he had just woken up from slumber.

“just thirsty.” you mumbled, cheeks getting warm at your semi-exposed state. jeno wasn’t that covered at all, too. he was in his plaid pajama pants that hung low on his waist, and his chest was bare, his toned abs emphasizing under the dim lights.

jeno hummed, walking carefully towards you. “couldn’t sleep?”

you nodded, instinctively trying to move further away from him, but you bumped into the kitchen island behind you. trapped, you placed your hands against the counter to support yourself, forcing you to meet his eyes. you couldn’t understand the emotion behind them. your mind was getting hazy from his gaze. as much as you wanted to cower and run away, your feet seemed to stop working for some reason.

jeno leaned in slightly, his arms on either side of you as he gripped the edge of the counter, effectively caging you in. your whole body froze, unsure what to do next. all you know is his scent was once again invading your space. his face was so close to you that it reminded you of the night you spent together.

“why do you keep doing this to me?” he whispered, breath fanning your face.

“i’m not doing anything.” you defended, but your voice came out soft.

“exactly.”

jeno kissed you, and you kissed him back. your arms traveled around his neck, pulling him close to you. notwithstanding the fact that the guy you were seeing was in the other room, merely a few steps away from where you were.

the effect jeno had on you was different, almost perplexing. it was like he knew exactly how to get under your skin—like he knew that you would come crawling back to him like how he would to her.

jeno wrapped his arms around your waist. his tongue effortlessly slid into your mouth, twirling it around yours. suddenly, he hoisted your body so that you were sitting on the island counter, making you gasp through the kiss.

“open your legs for me.” he mumbled, pulling away from your lips.

you did as he told, spreading your legs. he stood in between them, giving you another short kiss before his hands traveled to slightly lift the hem of your shirt, just enough to give him the perfect view of your lacy underwear.

jeno groaned once he saw the wet patch forming between your legs. “you just got fucked two hours ago, and you’re still this wet?”

“how did you—“

“you’re not exactly quiet, sweetheart.”

you cowered, head turning away from him, but his fingers caught your chin, forcing you to look at him. his other hand hooking the waistband of your underwear, playing with it.

“can’t believe you’d rather get fucked by him when i’m right here.”

you glared at him. “this is wrong.”

“do you want me to stop?” you stayed silent, making him smirk. “that’s what i thought.”

jeno pulled your underwear down your legs in a painfully deliberate manner, making you swat his arm. he laughed, letting the fabric fall down the floor.

“keep laughing. i can just wake him up, and he’ll do it for me.”

jeno’s laughter faltered, a dark look in his eyes replacing his playful mood. “not fucking funny.” his hand cupped your core, a small yelp escaping your lips. his fingers ran down your folds, spreading your arousal.

your hands fell to his shoulders, gripping it as he teased your hole. it felt so wrong, but you had clearly decided to throw your morals out the window long ago.

“don’t like seeing you with him.” jeno admitted, his voice low. his confession was supposed to drive you crazy, instead, it felt unfair—like he wasn’t keeping his end of the deal.

“j-jeno.” you moaned, mindful of the volume of your voice. his fingers circled your entrance, just enough to drive you crazy. “you can’t tell me what to do.” you managed to let out, keeping him in place. it was almost absurd how he had the nerve to admit that he didn’t like seeing you with another guy while having a whole girlfriend himself. you bit your tongue back because, well, he was touching you so good, and quite frankly, you didn’t want him to stop.

“maybe,” he hummed before inserting two digits into your entrance. your head dropped to his shoulder, heavily breathing against his skin. he pulled his fingers out before inserting them again, your wetness coating his digits. “but at least i have you moaning my name like the slut you are.”

jeno thrusted his fingers at a pace that had your vision clouded with stars. your fingernails dug into his skin as he curled his fingers, hitting all your sweet spots. you bit your lip to avoid making too much noise, especially since jaemin was just in the room next to yours. his free hand snaked to your hair, gripping it while pulling your head away from his shoulder—careful not to tug on it too harshly—making you look at him in the eye.

“keep quiet. don’t want loverboy to find you grinding on my hand now, do we?” jeno smirked, making your mouth water.

you squirmed at the stretch of his fingers. when he felt you clench around him, he placed his thumb on your clit, rubbing addicting circles on it. his fingers effortlessly sliding in and out of you. his eye contact was overwhelming as he watched you tremble from his mere touch.

“oh god.” you cried out, face scrunching from the pleasure. your hips bucked against his hand, desperate to feel more.

jeno’s pajamas grew tighter at the sight of you, wishing nothing more than to bend you over and fuck you senseless on this counter—but he couldn’t. not when you just emerged from the room of one of his closest friends, where you did the same activities he wished he could’ve done with you. so he resorted to making you cum just with his fingers.

“be a good girl,” jeno mumbled, pressing his lips against yours. “and cum for me.” he increased the pace in which he was thrusting his digits, each one accompanied by the slight curl of his fingers.

your back arched just by his words, body pushing into him as small gasps left your lips. he almost smiles at the way you looked. so fucking cute, he thought.

“shit—jeno.” you whimpered. your stomach contracted, a clear sign that you were close. and with his thumb doing miracles on your clit, you couldn’t help but cum all over his fingers.

a string of curse words fell from your lips. legs trembling and breath shaking as you rode out your high. your posture nearly giving up as you tried to compose yourself.

jeno pulled his fingers away from your pussy. he couldn’t resist placing them in his mouth, lapping up your juices while maintaining eye contact with you.

that was so hot.

you swatted his arm, feeling shy, but he only chuckled. he leaned down, grabbing your discarded underwear from the floor. “can i keep this?” he boldly asked.

you pondered for a second before quickly snatching the item from his hand. “and if karina finds it?”

jeno grumbled, shoulders slouching from the thought of his girlfriend. “killjoy.” he muttered.

you hopped off the counter, slipping your underwear on. “i gotta go before jaemin wakes up.”

“right.” jeno mumbled, eyes lingering on you for a second, “no goodnight kiss?” he sure was getting comfortable.

“don’t push it.”

you sneaked back into jaemin’s room. his sleeping figure peacefully lying on the bed, almost in the same position you left him in. you nibbled on your bottom lip as guilt started to creep in. you occupied the space next to him. his unconscious self felt your presence, immediately wrapping his arm around your waist. you decided to close your eyes, slumbering taking over you while the weight of your actions sat on you.

you: i need u where are u mark: ??? i am not your sneaky link you: not like that asshole. need someone to talk to mark: diner? you: be there in 10

your eyes scanned the diner, looking for mark’s blond hair to stand out. spotting him at the corner booth, you slid into the empty seat before him. his head looking up to face you, his usual smile plastered on his face.

“hey, nerd.” mark greeted. “you okay? i thought you wanted to fuck me or something.” he chuckled, nudging his plate of fries close to you.

you groaned, head falling to the table. “i’ve had enough of fucking friends for a lifetime.” you mumbled, voice low.

“what’d you say?”

you lifted your head, crossing your arms on top of the table. “you have to promise not to be mad, okay?” you pouted.

“it depends.”

“mark! i’m serious, i don't think i can't take it anymore.” you groaned.

“is this about jeno?”

“what?” your eyes widened, head tilting at him. “not that i’m saying it is, but why did you think that?”

“it’s obvious. you two aren’t hanging as much as you used to. i just figured you got into a fight or something.” mark shrugged, leaning against the chair.

“before i tell you, you have to promise not to judge and that you won’t think any less of me.”

“alright, fine. i promise.” mark raised his hands in defeat.

you let out a sigh before telling him everything. starting from the night of the party—how that one tiny kiss led to the chaos you were now tangled in. you opened up about your feelings for jeno and how conflicted you were now that jaemin’s in the picture. you told him about how guilty you were for doing this to karina. then you moved on to your encounter at jeno and jaemin’s apartment.

mark’s expression shifted throughout your story. his expression juggling between shocked and confused. his brows furrowed in concern, mouth dropping in shock. he let out tiny coughs whenever the story steered into messy territory, his eyes wandering anywhere but on you, trying his best to keep his promise of not judging you.

when you finally finished summarizing everything to him, you covered your face with your hands, ashamed of your story. although your chest felt lighter at the thought of finally confiding about your situation with someone like you had just ripped open a wound and exposed it to the world.

“wow,” mark started, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table. “that’s… a lot.”

“i know.” you grumbled, looking down at the table.

“but i’m not mad at you.” he quickly assured, his tone gentle. “and i don’t think less of you. after all, you’re still human, y/n. it must’ve been so confusing for you.” his hand reached across the table, taking your hand in his, in an attempt to comfort you. “i won’t lie, this is really messy, but you’re not a horrible person. you just made bad decisions, but it doesn’t mean you’re bad.”

anxiety washed over you, you wanted to believe his words, but a part of you was convinced he was only saying this because he’s your friend. you shook your head, feeling defeated. “i don’t know, mark. i just… i could’ve stopped it, you know? but i felt stuck.” your throat tightened as the words left your mouth. “i was too caught up in this—this fantasy of mine that i didn’t realize i’d be hurting people.”

mark’s thumb drew small circles on the back of your hand. “hey, we’ll figure it out, okay? the first step is being honest—talk to jeno. if you really regret it, tell him this… thing between you has got to stop. he’s your best friend, y/n, and he has a girlfriend, i know it hurts, but we can’t force things to happen.”

he was right. you couldn’t keep doing this to yourself, especially with other people involved.

“yeah.” you whispered, voice cracking as tears welled in your eyes. “i’m sorry, mark.”

“don’t apologize to me.” mark squeezed your hand. “i’ll support you no matter what, but you have got to clean this up. because the longer you wait, the worse it will get.”

you stood outside the lecture hall where jeno was, shifting your weight from one foot to another as you waited for the bell to dismiss his class.

after your conversation with mark and a sleepless night, you decided to confront jeno. the weight on your chest had become unbearable, and you knew it was time to address everything head-on.

“jeno—” you called out as students began to flood out of the room, but your voice faltered when you saw that karina trailed behind him, naturally reaching for his hand.

jeno’s head turned at the sound of your voice. his eyes widened when they landed on you, surprise evident in his expression. he hesitated before walking toward you, karina following at his side.

“y/n? what’s wrong?” jeno wondered, his tone soft. you weren’t exactly on speaking terms recently, so you looking for his presence was news to him. karina stood beside him, making your stomach twist uncomfortably. she glanced between the two of you, curiosity and perhaps suspicion flickering across her face.

you gave karina a polite nod, barely meeting her eyes. you couldn’t even face her; seeing him with her stung, and you didn’t even have the right to be hurt. she returned the gesture with a tight, hesitant smile. you always sensed that she wasn’t fond of you, you couldn’t blame her—especially with recent events.

“i need to talk to you,” you pleaded, looking up at him. “alone, please?”

karina’s expression shifted, but she said nothing. jeno glanced at her, silently asking for permission. she gave him a nod as jeno mumbled something you couldn’t hear. she let go of his hand after he let her go with a quick peck on the lips, making you avert your gaze elsewhere—the simple act making your chest tighten with jealousy and guilt tangled together.

jeno returned his gaze to you and gestured his hand for you to lead the way.

you ended up at the park located on campus. given your situation, a secluded area wouldn’t be the best for you right now. you and jeno sat on a bench with the perfect fountain view. chatter could be heard from around you, and it somehow eased your senses.

you stayed quiet, pondering on what to say to him. this morning you woke up with a heavy heart. you spent all night thinking about mark’s advice. the events of the past month haunted you. although your time with jaemin had been filled with warmth and laughter, the guilt clawed at your chest, begging to be released. you felt like you couldn’t entirely give yourself to him without addressing the elephant in the room with jeno.

it was unfair—to jaemin, who had been nothing but kind and sweet, and to yourself, for carrying a weight that wasn’t entirely yours to bear. it was also hypocritical, you were doing to jaemin exactly what you hated that jeno was doing to karina.

“y/n?” jeno’s voice bringing you out of your trance. you lifted your head to face him, his eyes filled with sincerity. “are you okay?”

you looked at him as if he had three heads. here you were, almost drowning in guilt, and he couldn’t even sense you were struggling. “are you serious, jeno?” you scoffed, folding your arms across your chest. the frustration you had bottled up spilled before you could register it. “you’re really asking if i’m okay?”

his eyes widened at your outburst, expression turning soft as he tried to read you. “i just—”

“i can’t take it anymore, jeno.” your voice turned soft, sighing. “this—what we’re doing, we can’t.”

“y/n…”

“can you be honest with me?” you asked. he nodded, gaze intent on you. “do you regret it? what we did?”

jeno paused for a second, scanning your exhausted expression. “i don’t want to hurt you.” he mumbled, voice low.

“that’s the thing, though.” you dryly chuckled, running a hand through your hair. “i’m already hurting. do you think it’s easy for me to see you with her, especially after what we’ve done?”

“what—”

“i like you, jeno.” you confessed, watching as his expression twisted into surprise. “i’ve liked you ever since we were kids, and i thought it was just a silly crush, but it’s not. i keep lying to myself that you’ll like me, that maybe you’ll see me the way i see you.” you spilled before you could even stop the words running out of your mouth. “every time you came to me when you fought, i thought that there was a reason you kept seeing me.” you blinked at him. “and i thought that you kissing me meant that you had the tiniest feelings for me, but you’re still with her, i see the way you look at her.”

“y/n, its not like that—”

“then what is it, jeno?” your voice trembled as you took a shaky breath. “because i—i’m losing my mind here, and you’re being… you’re being mean.”

“mean?”

“yes. you don’t have to lie, okay? i know i’m equally responsible for doing this with you, but i feel like i don’t deserve to be lied to. don’t tell me you’ll take care of things, and don’t tell me not to worry because i’ve been waking up worried ever since that happened! and what we did to jaemin the other day…”

“i’m sorry…”

“you love her, jeno. i get it. but do you have any idea how hard it was for me to see you run to her every time? how hard it was for me to pretend like i’m okay with just being your friend?” tears were threatening to spill from your eyes, and you looked up to prevent them from falling.

“i didn’t—i never meant to make you feel this way, y/n.” the guilt in his eyes was so heavy it made your heart ache.

“then what did you mean to do?” you asked, voice barely audible.

“i don’t know.” jeno admitted, “i’m confused, y/n. i care about you a lot, okay? i really do, but i…”

“you love karina.” you finished for him.

jeno stayed silent, and that was all the confirmation you needed. you stood up abruptly, wiping your tears with the back of your hand before turning around to walk away from him, each step feeling heavier than ever

the sound of hurried footsteps followed you, but you refused to look back, not when you were this vulnerable. before you could take another step, a gentle hand on your arm prevented you from moving any further.

“y/n, wait.” jeno pleaded, softly tugging your arm to turn you. your teary eyes meeting his gaze.

“let me go, jeno.” you clenched your jaw, forcing yourself not to cry.

jeno’s grip softened, but he didn’t let go. “give me time.”

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

“i—let me sort my thoughts first, okay?” jeno stared down at you, his eyes genuine. “i don’t what i’m doing. y/n. but i know that when i’m with you, it feels…right.”

“that’s not fair.” you frowned, shaking your head. “it’s not fair to her, and it’s not fair to me.” his words did nothing to ease the ache in your heart.

“i know, but…” his eyes never left yours. “i don’t want to lose you.”

you let out a bitter laugh, wiping your tears. “you don’t get to have it both ways, jeno. you can’t just keep me on the side while you figure yourself out.”

“i’m not trying to,” he said, stepping closer to you. his hand trailed down your arm to hold yours. your eyes widened, and you grew aware of the fact that you were in public. “please, just—wait for me.”

you opened your mouth to respond, to tell him how unfair he was being. but before you could muster up the words, his lips captured yours in a kiss that was soft but so desperate. the action filled with longing, as if it contained all the words he couldn’t say.

the world faded away as if you were the only people there, and all you could feel was him—his lips on yours. you hated yourself for it, but you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away.

your mouth moved against his before you heard chatter around you, making you push his body off of you. he kept his hand on yours, refusing to let go.

“don’t walk away, yet.” jeno pleaded. “i’ll make things right. i’ll talk to her and figure it out. i promise.”

his words sent a pang through your chest, making you shake your head. “how am i supposed to believe you, jeno? you always went back to her regardless. how do i know this isn’t just another moment you’ll regret?”

jeno pondered for a second, “i’ll be honest with her. i’ll tell her everything.”

“and then what?”

“and then,” he brought your hand up to his mouth, placing a soft kiss on your knuckles. “i’ll come and find you.”

your breath hitched at the sincerity of his voice. you wanted to believe him, but the ache banging against your chest reminded you of the risk. taking a deep breath, you stepped back slightly, breaking his hold on your hand.

“i’ll give you time, jeno.” your voice was soft but firm. “but you need to figure this out, really figure it out, before i can even think about…” you trailed off, unsure about what to label the entire situation.

jeno nodded, determination in his eyes. “i’ll call you, okay?”

and with that, you turned and walked away, your heart pounding with both hope and fear as you left him standing there.

the day had slipped into the evening. jeno walked into the halls of his apartment, the soft glow of the sun casting shadows across the room, reminding him how long it had been since your conversation earlier.

he pondered how he would bring the situation up with karina. no matter how hard he tried, he could no longer bury this secret. his mind kept drifting back to you, to how you looked so disappointed in him, and every time it did, his chest tightened with the thought of how things would never be the same again.

jeno loved karina. every time he closed his eyes, there she was—her face, her smile. she was his anchor, the one thing in his life that he couldn’t discard. they knew each other’s flaws and strengths. they argued, but they always bounced back from it. sure, they had their differences, but they always got through it, finding their way to one another.

i’ve always loved her. jeno thought. that’s how it always was.

but you… you were different.

you were his best friend—the one who knew him. you had been there for him since day one. you experienced life together, laughing over stupid inside jokes, supporting different decisions, and comforting each other through the toughest times. you were his safety net. the person who he knew he could rely on when it felt like the world was against him.

jeno sighed, running a hand through his hair. he had always considered you family—how could he not?

the thought of losing you terrified him. although he would be lying if he said he hadn’t had these flashes filled with thoughts of you. he’s used to dismissing them; it was you, for fuck’s sake. you had been his best friend for so long that even thinking of you differently felt crazy to him. but now, looking back to everything—the way his heart would race when your eyes met in a crowded room, the way his smile would reach his eyes when you laughed at something he said, the way he could always see you in the back of his mind—it all felt so clear.

realization came crashing down on him. his mind racing with thoughts of you. he thought it was just some passing attraction. but it was deeper than that. you were the only person who made him feel seen, the only one who showed him warmth. feelings he couldn’t even seek in karina, despite the love they shared. it terrified him.

he was too scared to admit it. he could no longer pretend. how could he? knowing a part of him belonged to someone else—someone who was not his girlfriend.

he felt sick, the guilt gnawing at him. he loved karina… didn’t he? his feelings for you were uncertain, fleeting… wasn’t it?

jeno opened the door to his bedroom, and his eyes widened at the sight.

“karina?” jeno questioned, brows furrowing. “what are you doing here?”

“jaemin let me in.” karina replied abruptly. her arms across her chest, an unreadable expression plastered on her face. she was sitting on the edge of the bed as if she was waiting for hours.

jeno set his things down on his desk before approaching karina. instinctively reaching up to kiss her, but she turned her head, his kiss landing on her cheek.

“what’s wrong, babe?” jeno asked, curiosity lacing his voice.

“you tell me.” karina responded, fishing for her phone in her pocket. a confused expression latched on jeno’s face as he watched her tap away on her phone. she raised her phone and shoved it in his face. “care to explain?”

his heart stopped. the color drained from his face as he stared at the photo she was showing.

it was you and jeno—kissing.

he could tell from your outfits that the photo was taken earlier that day, during your heated conversation near campus.

jeno’s mouth went dry as he racked up a response. “i—“ he stammered, words failing to come out.

“don’t try to lie.” karina interrupted, her brow raising. “winter sent it to me. we both know she wouldn’t fabricate such things.”

jeno’s stomach dropped. of course, they were seen, they weren’t exactly keeping it private. “karina…” he started, thinking of words to say to her.

what exactly do you say at this moment?

“that’s y/n, isn’t it?” karina scoffed, standing up, her height barely meeting his. “i always knew she was a whore.”

“don’t say that.” jeno’s tone shifted, eyes darkening as his voice got firm.

“what?” karina asked incredulously.

“she’s not a whore.”

“are you seriously fucking defending her right now? she kissed you! my boyfriend!” karina spat.

“i kissed her.” jeno admitted, his gaze all over her face.

karina nearly lost balance at his confession. “you—what!” she exclaimed, a frown forming on her lips.

“i kissed y/n.” jeno repeated, his gaze unwavering. “and it isn’t the first time we kissed.”

“what the fuck are you saying?” karina’s voice cracked, disbelief was written all over her face.

“i slept with her on the night of the retreat.”

karina’s eyes widened. “jeno—“

“i started it. i think i’ve known for a while, but i refused to face it.” jeno couldn’t even fathom the words he was spitting out. “i think i’m in love with her.” he admitted, more

the room fell silent at the weight of his confession. the burden lifted off his chest as he comprehended what he had spilled.

“i can’t believe this.” karina shook her head, a bitter, sarcastic laugh slipping past her lips. “after my friends told me i’m way too good for you. you fucking cheated on me? with some bitch?”

“don’t drag her into this. it’s my fault.”

“fuck you.” karina spat, prodding a finger on his chest. “and fuck her, too.”

karina stormed out of the room, pulling the door wide and loud enough to cause a commotion.

jeno called after her, “karina, wait. i’m sorry!” he followed her through the hall.

“sorry?” karina shot back, spinning around to face him. “sorry you got caught, or sorry you have a homewrecker for a best friend?”

jeno winced at her words. “i’m sorry for what i did.” he replied softly. “for hurting you. you didn’t deserve that.”

karina stared up at jeno, eyes glistening as his previous confession came crashing down on her. “i never want to see you again, jeno.” she said, voice breaking before she turned and walked out, slamming the door behind her.

jeno stood frozen in the hallway—the ghost of their conversation haunting the air.

“dude…” jaemin’s voice cut through the thick silence.

jeno turned to the source of his voice, a sullen expression on jaemin’s face. he was standing in the doorway of his room, clearly having heard the entire conversation.

“jaemin!” jeno exclaimed, completely forgetting his roommate was next door. “did you—“

“you’re in love with y/n?” jaemin cut him off, his expression unreadable. he tilted his head as he looked at jeno. “why didn’t you tell me?” he crossed his arms across his chest.

jeno opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. he took a second before letting out a sigh. “i couldn’t—i wasn’t sure.” he admitted.

“did you… sleep with her when we were together?” jaemin treaded lightly, unsure if he wanted to hear the answer.

“no! no, we didn’t.” jeno defended, shaking his head. technically it wasn’t a lie. a little fingering doesn’t count as fucking, right?

“i see.” jaemin nodded, a weary look on his face. “i don’t think i can continue seeing her then.” he frowned, rubbing the back of his neck.

“what?”

“you love her, man.” jaemin sent him a small, sad smile. “i don’t want to stand between you.”

“but you said—“

“don’t get me wrong. she’s beautiful and amazing.” jaemin interrupted, holding a hand up. “but you’ve been there for each other since you were kids. i could never stand a chance.” he shrugged. his expression softening.

jeno swallowed, his chest tightening. he never meant for this to happen. jaemin is one of his best friends, and he had betrayed him. “she likes you, jaems.”

“but she loves you.” jaemin lifelessly chuckled. he took a step closer to jeno, placing his hand on his shoulder, and giving it a firm squeeze. “go get her, jeno.”

taking a deep breath, jeno smiled at jaemin. he knew what he had to do.

you anxiously stared at your phone, as if guarding it would make a notification pop up.

the entire night had been a blur of pacing around your room. the events of your conversation with jeno are stuck in an endless loop in your mind. you hated feeling this way, as if your heart was at someone else’s mercy.

“come on…” you muttered to yourself, checking your phone once more. nothing. just the same blank lock screen.

you sighed, flopping onto your bed and letting the pillows engulf your head. your chest felt heavy. what took him so long? he said he would fix things—was it a lie? maybe he changed his mind. maybe he—

your phone buzzed, snapping you out of your thoughts. your heart jumped as you grabbed it, only for your heart to sink even deeper. it wasn’t jeno.

it was jaemin.

jaemin: hey, y/n. jaemin: i’m sorry to message so late. jaemin: i think it’s best if we stop seeing each other. jaemin: i’m sorry.

your head began to spin. your eyes scan his message repeatedly, trying to make sense of it.

what? your mind raced. this wasn’t what you expected. why would jaemin reach out? and why was his timing odd?

your fingers danced over the keyboard, thinking of a response. a hundred of questions swirled in your head. was this because of jeno? did something happen between them? did he find out what happened in his kitchen that one night?

you: did i do something wrong?

jaemin replied almost immediately.

jaemin: you deserve someone who can give you their all, and i don’t think i can. jaemin: take care, y/n.

your brows twisted into confusion. his response made you even more curious. his words sounded kind, almost too rehearsed. it was as if something was missing, and you couldn’t figure out what.

you stared at the screen, blinking at his message. your emotions swirling wildly between confusion, frustration, and hurt. and still nothing from jeno.

what the fuck was going on?

another buzz came from your phone. instantly checking it, your confusion growing deeper.

karina: never knew you were into boys who had girlfriends karina: *sent one photo*

holy shit.

you sat up in bed, heart banging against your chest. eyes refusing to leave the photo of you and jeno, openly kissing each other from earlier.

and karina knows.

your hands trembled, throat feeling tight. you dropped your phone on your bed and rushed out of your room. tears blurred your vision as the gravity of the situation finally sank in. you had no idea what to do, the room felt like it was shrinking by the second. you needed someone.

without thinking, you rushed out of your room and ran to chaewon’s. you banged on her door, your knuckles trembling as tears flowed down your face.

the door opened almost immediately, revealing chaewon in her pajamas, her eyes widening as she saw your state.

“y/n? babe, what’s wrong?” she instinctively wrapped her arms around you, her hand caressing the back of your head to console you.

“i fucked up.” you cried out, sniffling against her shirt, but knowing her, she doesn’t mind. “i didn’t—i wasn’t—” you stammered, head feeling light.

chaewon hummed, “hey, hey, it’s okay. slow down.” she pulled away just enough to see your face, “whatever it is, we’ll figure it out, okay?”

“chae, i—“ you gasped, unable to stop the tears from gushing out. “i need to tell you something.”

soon enough, you both sat on chaewon’s bed while she tried to comfort you. you told her everything, sparing no details. she sat silently while intently listening to your spew. from repeating your confession to mark to your encounter with jeno earlier, down to jaemin’s cryptic texts—and finally, the photo karina had sent you. by the time you finished, chaewon had a worried expression from your entire story.

“y/n…” chaewon began, and you flinched lightly. you knew she was serious; she would usually refer to you using endearments or your nickname, but the lack thereof told you she was not in the mood to tolerate your actions. “this is serious. i love you to death, but you fucked up.”

“i know,” you sniffled, wiping away the tears with the tissue she previously handed to you. “i don’t know what to do.”

chaewon let out a deep sigh, grasping your hand in hers. “first off,” she reached up and helped you wipe your tears. “you need to stop beating yourself up. i know you’re in a sticky situation, but falling apart isn’t going to help you figure it out.”

you nodded, even though her words hadn’t completely eased your mind.

“and second,” she continued, voice growing softer. “i know you won’t like it, but you need to stay away from jeno for a while. let him sort his shit out. give him time.”

even though you refused to face it, the weight of her words eventually sunk in. she was right. it would be unfair for you to force jeno to make his decision immediately, especially since he is in a relationship.

after a long night of sobbing in chaewon’s arms. you eventually passed out beside her, with the thoughts of jeno being the last thing you remembered.

lightning struck across the campus as you exited the library, tugging your coast closer in an attempt to shield yourself from the downpour. you silently cursed yourself for forgetting to bring an umbrella today. looking up at the sky, you wondered if you could bolt through the pouring rain.

it has been a week since your last encounter with jeno. it would be a lie if you said you were doing fine. every passing minute made you even more anxious. he had made some efforts to reach out to you—sending you texts, calling your phone, and even talking to your friends to ask and see you. but your guilt was weighed heavier than your longing, and you had convinced yourself that you couldn’t face him. not yet.

you stuck with chaewon’s advice; you gave him space. although you felt like the distance was killing you more than him.

you missed jeno. how could you not? he was your best friend. you were so used to being so close to him that the space between you was foreign. you missed having him over and talking about everything and nothing all at once. you missed hearing his voice and his comforting laugh. a smile crept up on your face every time you looked back at your memories with him, making you feel ridiculous.

it was foolish of you to think that you could sway him into thinking that you were the one for him. he always loved karina and you were afraid that it was what his heart was heading towards.

you tried reaching out to karina. you sent her an text even though you knew words alone wouldn’t be enough to mend the damage. once you saw that your message bounced back, you tried again on another platform, the same thing happened. you realized she had blocked you on every social media app. you don’t blame her, of course. you had to live with the pain you caused her.

you clutched your bag tightly before running out in the rain. your apartment was a ten-minute walk from campus—maybe less if you ran. the cold droplets seeped through your clothes as you hurried along the wet pavement, shivering as the storm grew.

you nearly reached your apartment when a car screeched to a halt in front of you, its headlights glaring through the rain, clouding your vision. your brows furrowed as you used your hand to shield the bright light. squinting as you tried to make out who was behind the wheel through the rain. the car door opened, revealing a tall figure emerging from the driver’s seat.

jeno.

“what are you doing out here in the rain?” jeno raised his voice enough for you to hear him through the sound of the rain hitting the pavement.

“i didn’t have a choice.” you admitted, your voice trembling from the cold and the sight of him. you watched, puzzled, as he left the warmth of his car to stand in the rain with you, water drenching his hair and clothes.

“aren’t you freezing?” jeno questioned, shrugging off his soaked coat and gently draping it around your shoulders.

“aren’t you?” you looked at him with wide eyes. the rain dripping down his face did him justice, he still looked beautiful.

“you’ve been avoiding me,” he said, tone turning soft. deja vu. “why?”

“i thought you needed time.”

“i said i would come and find you.” his eyes locked on yours.

“karina sent me—“

“i know.” he interrupted. “i told her everything.”

your heart sped up. “how’d she take it?”

“we broke up.” he said, the weather matching his tone. “for real this time.”

“oh.”

“oh?” his brows furrowed, taking a step towards you. “that’s all you have to say? oh?”

“well, what do you want me to say?” you frowned. “thank you for breaking up with your girlfriend for me?”

“i didn’t—you know it wasn’t like that.”

“then what is it, jeno?”

“it’s you.” jeno said. even with the rain surrounding him, you heard him loud and clear. “it’s always been you.”

you blinked up at him, stunned, lips quivering.

“i was too blind to see it,” he continued, stepping closer until your chests were nearly brushing one another. “too scared to admit it. but it’s you, y/n. it’s always been you.”

your heart pounded as he raised his hands to cup your face. his gaze was soft and focused on you. only you.

and then his lips were on yours, warm despite the storm. you melted into the kiss, your hands clutching at his soaked shirt as the noise of the rain started to drown out. the kiss was soft but so full of emotion that it left you breathless.

“jeno…” you whispered once you pulled away, his forehead resting against yours. “i missed you.” you admitted, voice trembling.

“i missed you, too.” he mumbled, his lips brushing yours. “i’m not letting you go again.”

“kiss me.”

jeno didn’t hesitate. his lips found yours once again, kissing you softly but quickly turning passionately. his hand copper your cheek as his tongue brushed against your bottom lip, asking for permission. you parted your lips, and he immediately shoved his tongue in your mouth, exploring it with hunger. a soft whimper escaped you as his hands slid down to grip your waist, pulling you closer.

“need you,” he murmured, pulling away lightly. your gaze flickered briefly towards his car, and as if he had read your mind, he took your hand and guided you to his vehicle.

jeno parked the car on the side of the road, grateful that the rain had driven everyone to stay indoors. the windows fogged almost instantly as you both scrambled into the back seat, the heat between you radiating.

jeno’s hand found you once more, gripping your waist as he pulled you onto his lap. your legs straddling either sides of his thigh. he pressed his lips against yours, kissing you like he had been holding back for years. the rain was pounding on the roof of the car, but neither of you cared.

you could barely think, lost in the sensation of his touch as he slid down your coats. your heart beat against your chest once you made eye contact with him. you could make out the sharp lines of his face through the soft glow of the moon. your hand reaching up to caress his cheek, not believing that you had him in your clutches.

“what’s wrong?” jeno asked. “do you want me to stop?”

“no.” you instantly responded, shaking your head. “i just can’t believe it.”

“can’t believe what?” jeno’s lips trailed down your jawline, kissing and sucking on your skin.

“that you’re mine.”

“better believe it, baby. i’m not going anywhere.” jeno chuckled, kissing you again. his lips molded with yours slowly and sweetly. you pressed your body against his, hips instinctively grinding down on him.

“want you so bad.” jeno groaned, his hand reaching down to the hem of your shirt. looking up to you for confirmation, and when you showed no signs of refusal, he lifted the fabric off your body. leaving you in your soaked dark bra. “my beautiful girl.”

you grew shy beneath his gaze, trailing one finger down to the zipper of his jeans. “how bad?” you breathed, toying with his pants, feeling him grow hard below you.

“so fucking bad. i’ve been dreaming of having you again.” jeno admitted, hands roaming your body. reaching behind you to unclasp your bra—which he did effortlessly. once your breasts were on full display for him, he couldn’t help but attach his mouth to your nipple, enclosing his lips around the bud while his fingers circled the other. you moaned, arching your back, pushing your breasts closer to him.

in a swift motion, jeno’s shirt and pants were pulled off him and discarded somewhere in the car. your bottoms and underwear, too, were slid off your body. leaving the both of you breathless and naked.

jeno laid you down on the backseat, carefully trying to maneuver himself between your legs. his gaze on your completely bare body, all waiting and craving for him.

“you’re driving me insane, did you know that?” jeno mumbled, tracing his fingers over your delicate body. from your chest, down to your stomach, and in between your legs. “couldn’t stop thinking of you. no matter how hard i tried, i could always see your pretty face.”

jeno’s fingers ghosted over your entrance, making your breath hitch. his digits toying with your slick, spreading them up and down your folds. “so wet and ready for me, hm?” he teased, watching you squirm from his touch.

“j-jeno.” you whimpered, hips bucking as he circled your clit.

“so cute,” he whispered, almost entirely to himself. he inserted two fingers into your pussy, making you gasp. your hands fly to his shoulder to grip it for support. “you like that, baby?”

“y-yes, so good.” you cried out, making him smirk. he pulled his fingers out ever so slightly before thrusting them in again. keeping his pace steady as your pussy swallowed his digits.

“want to taste your sweet pussy.” jeno said, pulling his fingers off of you before sliding his body to the floor of the car. “sit up for me, baby.” he instructed, and you immediately followed. sitting up while he kneeled in front of you. “good girl.”

jeno wrapped his arms under and over your thighs, pulling your pussy close to his face. he inhaled your scent before darting his tongue out, licking your folds. you moaned out his name as his tongue circled your clit while his fingers returned to your core. he easily thrust his fingers in, curling them just the way you liked it while his mouth relentlessly sucked on your clit.

“oh god.” you moaned. your hand falling to grip his damp hair, tugging on it.

jeno’s rhythm was perfect. his fingers and tongue were in harmony as he pleasured you. you were a trembling mess from his touch, each movement of his threatening your orgasm to come even closer.

“you’re so fucking sweet.” he hummed against you, sending vibrations throughout your entire body. a jolt of pleasure coursing through you as he pressed his tongue flat against your clit, while his fingers increased in pace. “gonna cum for me, baby?”

you nodded, the familiar tight knot forming in the pit of your stomach. with just a few thrusts of his fingers, you came crashing down. you clenched around him as you rode out your high. his pace decreased while his tongue lapped up your cum. you shivered from the sensation, chest heaving from your orgasm.

jeno smiled before leaning up and pressing a sweet kiss on your lips, tasting remnants of your arousal on his lips. “ready for me, baby?”

“hurry up.”

jeno chuckled, taking a seat beside you. “ride me, princess?” he tilted his head, almost in a pleading manner.

you climbed on his lap, supporting yourself on his shoulder while your other hand reached in between your bodies to align his cock with your entrance. you teasingly rubbed the tip of his length against your slit, watching him bite his lip at the sight.

“stop teasing me. i need you so badly,” jeno grunted, his large hands reaching behind your back.

you smiled before sinking down on his cock, mouth falling agape at his size.

“oh fuck.” you whispered once he was fully buried into you. you caught your lip in between your teeth as your walls adjusted to his cock. his hands rubbing soothing motions on your back as he watched you with dark eyes.

“slowly, baby.” jeno assured, pressing a soft kiss on your lips.

you slowly started to bounce on his cock. the sensation was burning but quickly turned into pleasure. you held onto his shoulders as you increase your pace,

“fuck, fuck.” jeno chanted, head falling against the headrest. “so tight and warm for me.”

whines slipped past your lips with each bounce, the tip of his cock perfectly kissing your cervix.

“s-so big.” you let out, nails digging into his shoulders.

jeno lifted his head, his eyes falling to your breasts, watching as they bounced right in front of his face. his mouth caught one of your nipples, tongue circling the sensitive bud.

the car shook with every movement you made. the window fogging and the scent of sex filling the air. you gasped as jeno’s fingers reached between your bodies, thumb circling your clit. your legs started to burn from riding him, so you sank further and began grinding on him.

“holy shit.” jeno cursed, pulling away from your nipple. his free hand gripping your hip to guide you, pushing you further down on his cock.

“i-i can’t—“you cried, tears forming in your eyes. legs growing weak with every grind.

“you can do it, baby. fuck yourself on my cock like the good girl you are.”

jeno’s words sent shocks through your body, moaning loudly as you chased your high. the stretch of his cock was enough to cloud your vision with stars. feeling lightheaded as you rocked yourself forward, the friction drove you insane.

“fuck, that’s it, baby. almost there.” jeno groaned, his voice deep.

you were cumming in no time as jeno increased his pace in circling your clit. your body squirming as you clenched around his cock. but jeno’s grip didn’t falter, still guiding you to grind your hips and you did. helping him reach his climax.

“shit—i’m gonna cum. where do you want it?”

“inside, jen.”

“fuck, i love you.” jeno grunted, making your eyes widen. with a throaty moan escaping his lips, his cum painted your walls. you gasped as his cock twitched inside you. catching his breath, he placed a kiss on your lips before flashing you a lazy smile.

“what did you say?” you questioned, an evident smile on your lips.

jeno’s grin faltered, a flush of embarrassment replacing his expression. “i love you, y/n.” he repeated more confidently. “i’m sorry it took me so long to realize.”

“i love you, too, jeno.”

relief washed over him as he cupped your cheek, pulling you into a kiss that was slow, sweet, and filled with every unspoken word between you.

in that moment, the outside world ceased to exist. it was just you and jeno, wrapped in a love that had always been there.

“do we have to go?” jeno groaned dramatically, burying himself under your covers as if the mere thought of leaving your apartment was too much to bear.

you couldn’t help but giggle at him. grabbing his shirt from the ground and putting it on. the oversized fabric falling just above your thighs. “yes, jeno. we promised them, remember?”

jeno peeked beneath the comforter, his dark and messy hair sticking up in different directions. his gaze falling to your almost bare state. he sat up to wrap his arms around your waist, pulling you into his lap, making you squeal. “why go to some party, when we could just stay here? in bed? loving each other?”

you playfully smacked his arm, although secretly loving his treatment. “because, baby, we said we’d be there. and besides,” you added, turning to face him with a smirk. “don’t you want to show off your girlfriend?”

the corner of jeno’s mouth lifted into a wide grin. “girlfriend, huh?” his voice laced with pride. “let’s go. but only because i love the sound of that.”

the loud music echoed throughout the house party. you and jeno entered together, his fingers intertwined with yours. as you both navigated the crowd, you spotted chaewon, mark, and haechan all hunched up together near the kitchen.

“y/n! jeno!” chaewon greeted, sending a wave over to the both of you. “what took you so long?” she engulfed you into a hug.

you returned her hug with a laugh. “it’s his fault.” you teased, nodding in jeno’s direction.

“hogging our girl all to yourself, lee?” mark raised a brow, smirking as he took a sip from his cup.

“correction,” jeno playfully glared, wrapping his arm around your waist, pulling you close to him. “she’s my girl.”

“barf.” haechan made a gagging motion, scrunching his face. “can’t believe we lived to see the day these two finally get together.”

“finally?” jeno questioned, a knowing smirk on his face as he faced you.

“y/n had a massive crush on you—” haechan singsong tone was cut short by your swift swat to his arm.

“okay, that’s enough!” you interrupted, dragging jeno away to grab some drinks. “let’s get drunk, shall we?”

jeno chuckled, pulling your body flush against him. he captured your lips into a soft kiss, the chaos of the party fading into the background.

as the night went on, the teasing and laughter continued. jeno stayed close, his hand never leaving yours. it felt good—natural—to finally not be afraid. throughout the evening, you caught him staring at you on multiple occasions. his eyes filled with adoration every single time, your heart felt content, and you knew this was exactly where you were meant to be.

#please leave some thoughts !!!#this literally took my blood sweat and tears #nct #nct dream #lee jeno #jeno imagines #nct imagines #jeno smut #nct smut #jeno angst #nct angst #jeno x reader #nct x reader #jeno oneshot #nct oneshot #jeno scenarios #nct scenarios

1K notes · View notes