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seungkw1 · 6 months ago

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safe haven — ljh

♡ pairing: neighbor!jihoon x fem!reader ♡ theme: fluff, hurt/comfort ♡ wc: 3.9k ♡ warnings: post-breakup dynamics, cheating (from ex), swearing, mentions of food ♡ a/n: written as part of the Winter with You collab put on by @camandemstudios - make sure to check out the full collab masterlist here!! give all these talented writers some love <3 and big thanks to @lovetaroandtaemin for beta reading!!

As if your fiancé leaving you for another woman wasn’t enough to make this the shittiest week of your life, now you’ve managed to lock yourself out of your house during an incoming blizzard. At least your next-door neighbor is home, and he’s kind enough to offer you shelter from the storm. You barely know Jihoon, only having spoken to him a few times - but soon, you discover you have more in common than you initially thought.

Five days ago, you made the innocent mistake of picking up your fiancé’s phone when you thought it was yours. You noticed immediately when you saw the lock screen - it was a photo of you and him from last December, posed in front of a Christmas tree, taken minutes after he proposed. In it, you’re smiling ear to ear, enthusiastically showing off the beautiful engagement ring he bought you. The photo has been his wallpaper ever since. “You look so happy,” he told you a couple months ago. “I can’t bring myself to change it.”

You go to set the phone back down, but a notification catches your eye. You take a closer look, discovering a string of WhatsApp messages, all from somebody named Kelsey.

Huh, that’s weird, you think to yourself. I didn’t know he even used WhatsApp.

Normally, you’d think nothing of it - but something feels off. You hesitate for a moment. You know each other’s passcodes for the sake of convenience; you’ve never felt the need to go through his phone, and you feel bad about even thinking about doing it. But, your gut is telling you to investigate.

You input the password and open the message thread. You’re not quite sure what you’re even looking for, but two seconds of scrolling tells you all you need to know. Dumbfounded, you read the particular message three more times before it sinks in:

Can’t wait for our vacation next week baby, I really need to get away from all of this right now.

Your stomach lurches as if you’ve just been punched in the gut. He told you he was going on a business trip next week. He told you that months ago.

Get away from ‘all of this’? What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Does he mean… me???

Blood rushes through your ears as you read through the never-ending series of sexts, nudes, notes more romantic than anything he’s ever said to you before, an entire paper trail of all the times and locations of the evident affair - until you feel like you’re going to be sick.

No, it’s not real. It can’t be. There’s no way…

Paralyzed, you stand there in disbelief, but as several more minutes of scrolling pass, it becomes clear that this is actually happening. Tears start to well in your eyes, but you quickly bottle it up, converting the energy into anger instead. You take the phone and march into his office to confront him - ready to shut him down when he tries to deny it.

But, he doesn’t even try to deny it. He doesn’t even care.

“Well, it’s about time you found out anyway,” he tells you nonchalantly.

“Our wedding is in three months!! How fucking long were you going to wait to tell me??”

“I was gonna tell you soon, I just needed it to be the right time.”

“The right time??!! When is there a right time to dump your fiancé???”

“Listen, y/n-”

“Don’t tell me to fucking listen!!” you raise your voice at him. “In fact, don’t say anything else. Get the fuck out of my house.”

“You can’t tell me to get out, this is my house too,” he replies, with the sheer audacity to have a tone of annoyance in his voice.

“It’s MY name on the fucking papers. Get. Out.”

And so, he left. Didn’t even give you his set of keys back. Didn’t even say goodbye.

Now, you sit here parked in your driveway, the howling of harsh winter winds whistling over the melancholy tune playing loudly from the car radio. The volume is cranked all the way up, but despite your best efforts to drown out the outside world, the sharp whooshing sounds persist. Looks like the incoming storm is going to be as bad as predicted - if not worse. The blustering begins to jostle the whole vehicle. You stare aimlessly out the front windshield, watching chunks of snow flying erratically through the air as the winds pick up further. With a sigh, you turn the ignition off, the engine and radio going silent. If you're going to sit around moping, might as well do it inside where it's warm. You reach for the garage door remote clipped on the visor above you, but your hand only hits the soft padding. Right, you think to yourself, still gotta get that one replaced too.

You drag yourself out of your car, hastily throwing your coat on and stumbling through the wind toward your front door. Flipping through your keys, something feels off. You look down, assuming your frozen fingers are just too stiff to pick out the correct one. You stare at the collection for several seconds, but your house key is not there.

“What the fuck?” you mutter to yourself in confusion. Then, a horrible realization sets in: you never put your new key on the keyring after getting your locks changed.

You brace yourself against the wind, trudging through the pile of snow accumulating in your front yard. As you reach the window, you lean over the bushes, peering through the partially-shut blinds into your kitchen to see a set of gold keys, sitting upon the center of the countertop.

“You gotta be fucking kidding me.”

Your stupid ex-fiancé isn’t even around anymore and he’s still finding new ways to make your life miserable. If he had just returned your damn keys, you wouldn’t be in this situation right now.

Tears start welling in your eyes - and this time, you surrender. The droplets begin to freeze on your face almost instantly, but you let yourself cry. After several minutes, you’re feeling slightly better - but you’re getting quite cold. You decide to head back to your car, at least turn the heat on while you try and figure out what to do, no need to stand here and get frostbite-

“Um, excuse me…”

You jump at the sound of the voice coming from behind you, whipping your head around to see a very bundled up man. You can’t see much of his face, but he looks to be in his late-twenties, with dark hair peeking out from under a thick beanie. It takes you a moment, but you realize it’s your next-door neighbor, Jihoon, whom you've met approximately once.

“I just wanted to check if you were okay,” he says loudly, doing his best to speak over the noisy wind. “You’ve been standing out here for a while.”

“Oh,” you reply, also speaking up. You wipe the tears off your cheeks with the back of your gloves. “Um, I’m kind of locked out of my house.”

“Is the lock frozen?”

“No- well actually, I don’t know, it might be, but I don’t have my key,” you explain, gesturing through the window. “It’s in there.”

“How did you manage to do that?” he inquires, not being condescending, but genuinely asking.

“The front door locks behind you when you leave.”

“Ohhh. Well that’s no good.” He pauses for a moment, looking at you curiously, before continuing.

“Um, well I know you don't know me very well, but if you need a place to wait while you call somebody you are welcome to come in,” he tilts his head toward his house. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable or anything, but it’s really dangerous to be out in this storm.”

Normally, you’d be standoffish to a man you barely know inviting you into his house - but, something about him tells you you can trust him. He looks and sounds sincere, and you really don’t have anywhere else to go. Plus, you’re fucking freezing. You nod at him.

“I would really appreciate that,” you shout over the wind. He nods back, gesturing for you to follow along. He walks with you to his front door, the both of you taking large steps to trek through the several inches of snow that has already accumulated. He turns the knob and ushers you inside, following quickly and shutting the door behind him.

The sounds of the howling wind abruptly stop, the door creating a barricade between you and the heavy winter storm. Your ears ring slightly, but as you adjust to the quietness of indoors you pick up on a familiar tune playing from the other room.

“Is that En Bateau I hear?” you ask as you unlace your boots.

He’s in the middle of unwrapping his scarf from around his head, but he perks up at your question. ��Yeah! You know Petite Suite?”

“It’s one of my favorites,” you reply warmly as you take off your coat. You try to avoid letting the jacket’s heavy dusting of snow fall to the floor, without success.

“Dammit, I got your floor all wet,” you inform him with a sigh. You realize you’re shivering - the house is warm, comfortably so, but standing out in the cold for however long you were out there certainly chilled you to your bones. He takes your coat from your hands, shaking off the rest of the snow before putting it on a hanger for you.

“Don’t even worry about it,” he tells you, grabbing a neatly folded towel from the closet and mopping up the mess. “There’s some blankets on the couch, you should warm yourself up.”

The prospect of a nice cozy blanket sends you speedwalking into the living room. You spot the stack of blankets, also neatly folded, and grab the thickest one you see - it’s plush and velvety, dark red in color, and gigantic. You wrap the soft fleece around your whole body, plopping cross-legged onto the couch, practically turning yourself into a cocoon. Immediately you start to warm up, your poor frozen extremities finally relieved of the painful cold. As you defrost, your brain begins to work again, processing your surroundings. Though you’ve never been inside, your neighbor’s abode feels very homely - the decor is largely cream-colored, accented with warm earth tones, doused in low lighting sourced from a few lamps placed strategically around the room. Though a plain, warm white, the walls are flourished tastefully with various unique artworks - nothing you recognize, but all very pleasing to the eye. Not that your ex was a slob, but you’ve never known a man to be so neat and tasteful. Refreshing, you think to yourself.

You hear soft footsteps from behind you as Jihoon enters the room. You turn to see him bearing a glass of water, a piping hot mug, and a small metal tin.

“I don’t know if you like tea,” he starts as he sets the beverages on the coffee table’s coasters. “But I thought you might want something warm to drink.”

“Tea sounds great, thank you so much,” you reply as you wiggle your arms out of the tangle of blanket surrounding you. Reaching for the tin, you pull out a bag of Earl Grey and place it in the mug to steep.

“It’s y/n, right?” he asks as he sits in a nearby armchair.

“That’s me,” you reply. “And you’re Jihoon, yes?”

He nods to confirm. “I know we met once a while ago,” he adds, “but I wasn’t sure if you remembered.”

"Of course I remember, I accidentally stole your packages,” you say with a laugh. “I felt bad about that for months.”

“No harm done, it was an honest mistake,” he replies with a calm smile.

The tea is nowhere near ready, but you take a sip anyway. The hot liquid sends a wave of warmth through your whole body, making you instantly feel much better. Now that you’re not freezing and in tears, you can finally think straight, and you remember why you’re here in the first place.

“I should call the locksmith, god knows how long it’s gonna take them to get here in this storm,” you state as you look around for your phone, but it’s nowhere to be seen.

“Oh, I think my phone is still in my bag.”

You start to get up, but Jihoon is faster.

“Here, I’ll grab it for you.”

He disappears from the room in an instant, returning a few moments later with your bag in hand. Thanking him politely, you rummage around for your phone until you find it. You open Google and type locksmith into the search, calling the first one you see with good reviews.

“I’m sorry ma’am, due to the storm we aren’t able to send anyone out until tomorrow.”

You try another one, but it’s the same story. A third one, no luck either. Nobody is able to come out until tomorrow morning. Dejected, you go ahead and schedule an appointment for 7am the next day. You do your best to remain calm, but you’re too exhausted to hold in your tears.

“I don’t know what to do,” you say to Jihoon, burying your face with your hands.

“Hey,” he replies softly. “It’s gonna be okay. You can stay here as long as you need.”

“I don’t want to be a bother,” you sigh.

“You’re not,” he assures you. “I promise. You’re welcome to take the guest room.”

“Are you sure?” you say with a sniffle, wiping the tears from your eyes.

“Of course,” he nods.

“Thank you so much,” you tell him sincerely. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“No problem at all,” he says with a soft smile. “Also, are you hungry? I have some leftover stew I was going to heat up, if you’d like some.”

You didn’t even realize that you were hungry, but the mention of food makes your stomach rumble.

“That sounds amazing,” you reply.

Jihoon spends a few minutes in the kitchen, returning with two steaming bowls of a hearty-looking beef stew.

“This is delicious,” you remark as you scoop another chunk of potato into your mouth. “I’m gonna need your recipe.”

“Oh, thank you,” Jihoon replies humbly. “I’m glad you like it.”

Several moments of silence pass between you two as you enjoy the meal, the music of Debussy’s piano filling the room in lieu of conversation. But instead of it being awkward, you feel peaceful, replenished from the food and the warmth of Jihoon’s home.

“Is there anything you want to watch?” he eventually turns to ask you. “I like having something on while I eat, but if not it’s okay.”

“Sounds good to me,” you reply. “What are you watching right now?”

“Oh, um, I like… anime,” he says sheepishly, turning slightly pink with embarrassment. “But we definitely don’t have to watch that. What do you like?”

“Have you seen The Great British Bake Off?” you respond. “It’s on Netflix.”

“Never heard of it,” he admits, but he already has the tv remote in hand, opening the app.

“I haven’t seen the new season yet, if you want to start there.”

“Will I understand it if I haven’t seen the other seasons?” he inquires, causing you to giggle.

“It’s a reality show, each season is different,” you fill him in, proceeding to explain the premise. He listens earnestly, but his facial expression tells you he is skeptical.

“It’s really good, I promise!” you assure him.

“I don’t really get it,” he admits with a confused look on his face. “But if you say it’s good, I’ll take your word for it.”

He puts on the first episode, letting you explain the different challenges to him. About halfway through the episode, he turns to you.

“So… what exactly do they win?”

“A cake stand,” you answer. The look of bewilderment on his face makes you laugh again.

“So they don’t even get any money from it??”

“Nope,” you reply, cozying up under the blanket again. “That’s why it’s so wholesome.”

“Ah, okay,” he says, still unsure about the whole thing. But by the end of the first episode, he’s hooked.

“How do they do that??” he remarks at each contestant’s fanciful cake in the final challenge, his eyes glued to the tv. As soon as the credits start to roll, he clicks the Next Episode button.

“See? I told you it was good,” you say with a sleepy smile. The combination of the satisfying dinner, the warmth of the blanket, and the relaxing nature of the show is quickly making your eyelids turn heavy. You lean your head against the back of the couch, determined not to doze off - but within a few minutes, you are fast asleep.

The soft light of early dawn glows through your closed eyelids as you begin to awaken. You’re so warm and comfortable that you don’t even bother opening your eyes - instead you just lay there, relaxing under the blankets. As your brain slowly wakes, last night’s events start to register in your mind - you grimace as you recall the bitter cold of being stuck outside your own house, having a breakdown, feeling utterly helpless until-

Your eyes pop open. Sleepily adjusting to the morning light filtering in through the windows, you see that you’re still in Jihoon’s house, on the couch. You turn your face to see a pillow underneath your head that wasn’t there previously, and an extra knit blanket draped over the red fleece one that was already wrapped around you. Jihoon is nowhere in sight, presumably still asleep. You wonder what time it is - when suddenly you remember the locksmith appointment you made for 7am. Panicked, you bolt upright, searching for your phone amidst the blankets, until you spot it laying upon the coffee table, plugged into a charger that isn’t yours. You snatch it up, your heart sinking when you see the time: 7:34am.

“SHIT,” you grumble to yourself. You hurriedly unravel yourself from the tangle of blankets - it’s still warm in his house, but a chill hits you in the absence of the cozy covers. Sitting fully upright, you feel your feet bump something as they touch the carpet. Looking down, you spot a pair of slippers - light beige in color, women’s, brand new with the tags still on. For a moment you feel a bit weird about putting them on (Why does he have these, anyway?), but you��re cold, and at this point you don’t care. You slip them on, the comfort of the fluffy interior immediately making you glad you did. They feel high quality - luxurious even, and now you feel nice and toasty. Rising from the couch, you grab the top blanket and wrap it around you. The inviting scent of coffee suddenly hits you - you follow it into the kitchen, where Jihoon stands before a brewing coffee pot. Noticing you have entered the room, he turns to greet you.

“Good morning,” he says warmly. He wears a pair of plaid pajama pants, seemingly with a matching top underneath a dark fleece quarter-zip. You note that he also has slippers on, not too dissimilar from the ones currently on your feet. As the coffee finishes brewing, he grabs two mugs, gesturing to you with one.

“Would you like some coffee?”

“I’d love some,” you answer. He takes the pot and pours the piping hot beverage into your mug.

“Cream and sugar?”

“Yes, please.”

He fixes your drink and hands you the steaming mug. You take a small, careful sip, your insides instantly warmed by the smooth brew.

“Delicious, thank you,” you tell him, taking another generous sip.

“Of course,” he nods.

“Guess I missed the locksmith,” you say with a sigh. “I should’ve thought to set an alarm before I passed out.”

He turns, reaching for something on the counter. Turning back, he extends his hand to you, your keys laying in his palm.

“Already taken care of,” he says with a smile.

“How did you…” Your words trail off as you take the keys, your fingertips lightly grazing his warm skin.

“I met the locksmith and explained the situation,” he explains. “He picked the lock in like, one minute.” He gives you an apologetic look as he continues. “I’m sorry I went into your house without asking you first, I felt bad, but I didn’t want to have to wake you and drag you out into the cold.”

“Don’t apologize,” you reply, shaking your head quickly. “I really really appreciate it.”

“I’m glad I could help,” he tells you with a soft smile.

“Thank you for the pillow too,” you add. “And the slippers, glad you had these laying around,” you say with a grin. His smile fades slightly, glancing away for a moment.

“They were supposed to be a gift,” he says as he looks at you again. “But I didn’t need them anymore. You can keep them.” He smiles, but despite trying to hide it, his tone is tinged with sadness.

“Oh,” you say softly. “You sure?”

He hesitates slightly, unsure whether to tell you.

“They were for my girlfriend, but she left me a couple weeks ago,” he admits. He looks down at his coffee, stirring it aimlessly with the spoon. A pang of sympathy hits you.

“I’m sorry,” you say gently. “I unfortunately can relate. My fiancé left me five days ago, for another woman.”

He perks his head up slightly in surprise. “Oh wow, what an awful week this must be. I’m sorry, too.”

“Yeah, quite honestly, it fucking sucks,” you say, staring off into space a bit.

“I was about to propose,” he adds, unsure exactly why he’s telling you this. But you both are feeling a newfound, unspoken kinship in your aligned misfortunes. “But one day she just told me she didn’t love me anymore.”

“Jesus, that’s terrible, I’m so sorry,” you empathize. “I found out my fiancé was cheating on me and confronted him. He didn’t even give a shit so I kicked him out, haven’t seen or heard from him since.”

“Wow,” Jihoon says with wide eyes. He lets out a sigh. “I had already bought a ring, too. She didn’t know, but I had the whole proposal planned out.” He shrugs, shaking his head. “I guess it’s for the better that she left before I even bothered.”

“Yeah, doesn’t make it any less painful though.”

“Definitely not. And I wasn’t even able to return the ring.” He laughs, letting out an incredulous huff.

“Oh my god,” you react in bewilderment.

“It’s alright,” he says calmly. “Maybe I’ll be able to use it someday.”

His eyes linger on you slightly too long as the words roll off his tongue. The moment is brief, fleeting - but it’s enough for you to notice.

“Would you like any more coffee?” he asks before you can fully process anything, nudging the pot in your direction.

“I’m alright, thank you,” you reply, finishing the last bit in your mug.

“Here, I’ll take it.”

“I better get going, now that I can actually get into my house,” you announce with a smile. “I’ll get out of your hair.”

“You weren’t a bother at all,” he assures you. “But I’m sure you’re dying to go home.”

Jihoon walks to his entryway. He gathers your things for you, taking your coat from the closet and helping you into it.

“I truly can’t thank you enough,” you tell him sincerely. “You really saved my ass.”

He smiles at you. “You’re very welcome. It was nice to finally properly meet you, y/n.”

He hands you something as he opens the door for you. You take it - it’s a blue sticky note, with his name and phone number written neatly on it.

“You can always call me if you need anything at all.”

“Thank you,” you smile warmly, folding the note and tucking it safely into your pocket. “I will.”

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diamonddaze01 · 5 months ago

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The Somerset Affair

Chapter 4: The Duke Who Loved Me

pairing: lsk x fem!reader genre: Bridgerton AU, friends to (?????) to eventual lovers, brother’s best friend, SLOWWWW BURNNN chapter wc: 8.0k warnings: alcohol consumption, societal expectations, eventual smut, more to be added a/n: ok i know this is long overdue but ENJOYYYYY // as always, ENORMOUS thanks to indi @wongyuseokie for this GORGEOUSSSS banner // and to my lovely betas shu @welcometomyoasis lou @tusswrites haneul @chanranghaeys this could not have happened without you // part 5 is in the works rn!

summary: your engagement to Lord Yoon Jeonghan will be nothing short of perfect. You will make sure of it.

comment to be tagged when chapters are posted, or join the my taglist here!

The morning sun filters through the grand windows of the drawing room, casting warm patches of light onto the plush carpets and fine upholstery. The air is filled with the subtle scent of bergamot from your mother’s tea and the quiet rustle of her lace fan as she sits beside you, pleasantly engaged in conversation. Minghao, reclining with a book in one hand, seems content to observe, his eyes flicking up occasionally, assessing with that quiet, perceptive gaze of his.

A servant enters, announcing with a slight bow, “Lord Yoon, for Miss Xu.”

Jeonghan steps in, exuding a refined elegance, his appearance crisp and perfectly polished. In his hands, he carries two bouquets—an artfully arranged bouquet of roses for your mother and a softer bundle of daisies for you.

“Oh, Lord Yoon!” Your mother’s face lights up with delighted surprise as he presents her with the roses. “Such beautiful flowers! You spoil us, my lord,” she coos, taking them with clear admiration.

Jeonghan turns to you next, extending the daisies with a warm, almost conspiratorial smile. “These, Miss Xu, are for you.” His gaze lingers just a moment longer than it should, his eyes holding a silent promise.

You accept them, feeling your pulse quicken despite your best efforts at composure. “Thank you, my lord. They’re lovely,” you reply, your voice steady yet soft.

The light streams through the drawing room, catching on delicate patterns in the wallpaper, illuminating the intricate tapestry of flowers on your mother’s dress. She sits forward, her face lit with excitement, as if this visit from Jeonghan is a personal victory.

Jeonghan’s bouquet fills the room with a faint scent of wildflowers, light and pleasant, yet somehow starkly out of place in this space where every gesture feels rehearsed. The daisies he offered you lie lightly in your lap, their cheerful brightness a contrast to the steady, almost unfeeling exchange that has just unfolded. His eyes meet yours for a brief, knowing second, and there’s a flicker of mutual understanding beneath the surface, an unspoken acknowledgment of what this marriage truly is—a carefully crafted arrangement, one that neither of you expects to fill with romance.

As Jeonghan addresses Minghao, his voice is calm, almost clinical. “Lord Xu Minghao, I come to you today with the hope of asking for your sister’s hand in marriage.” There is no impassioned plea, no pretense of romantic affection—only a polite tone as he lays out his intentions, as though presenting a proposition in a business deal.

Minghao’s gaze sharpens as he turns to you, his eyebrows raised slightly in silent question. He knows you better than anyone; he knows why Jeonghan’s proposal isn’t shocking, why you don’t hesitate. The room is quiet, and your mother leans forward in her seat, her excitement radiating out in delicate bursts like the sweet scent of her tea, oblivious to the subtleties of the exchange.

Clearing his throat, Minghao shifts in his seat and addresses Jeonghan with his usual calm. “Lord Yoon, I know better than to answer for my sister.”

All eyes turn to you, and the room feels suspended, like the world itself has paused to witness your response. “Yes, my lord,” you say, the words escaping your lips in a careful, measured tone. “I shall.” And there it is—final, as much a confirmation of acceptance as a concession.

Jeonghan’s faint smile returns, polite but distant, as if his mind is already on other matters. He is not the lover you dreamed of, and you are not the woman he once allowed himself to yearn for; you both know this, and perhaps that is why it works so well. The arrangement is neat, efficient, each of you choosing the practical over the sentimental, the future over desire.

Your mother, however, cannot contain her delight. “Oh, this is wonderful! A fine match indeed!” she exclaims, her fan fluttering excitedly in her hand. She glows with pride as if this alliance were a personal triumph, her dreams for you fulfilled without understanding the true weight of the moment.

The silence that follows feels heavy, like an agreement quietly sealed, and as you look down at the daisies in your lap, the cheerful white petals suddenly seem out of place in the drawing room, a reminder of a life that might have been. Jeonghan, still standing beside you, inclines his head just slightly. His glance is fleeting, but there’s something in it—a flicker of empathy, perhaps. Just as quickly, it’s gone, replaced by the calm, composed mask that both of you have agreed to wear.

Jeonghan turns to you as he prepares to leave, his gaze softening ever so slightly. For a moment, the polite distance in his eyes fades, replaced by a warmth you hadn’t anticipated. He takes your hand, his fingers cool but steady as he lifts it gently to his lips.

“Until next we meet,” he says, his voice low but warm, carrying a sincerity that feels entirely unfeigned. He brushes his lips softly against your knuckles, the gesture tender enough to feel both comforting and bittersweet. As he looks up, a gentle smile graces his face, one that holds neither expectation nor demand—only a quiet understanding, a rare kindness beneath the formalities.

The touch lingers even after he releases your hand, and in the hush that follows, you’re struck by the thought that perhaps, despite the arrangement you’ve agreed upon, Jeonghan will bring a certain gentleness to the role he has taken on.

As he steps back and bids your family farewell, your mother practically glows, her happiness radiating through the room like sunlight through lace. Jeonghan’s parting glance catches yours, a hint of reassurance in his gaze, as if to say he’ll uphold his part of the pact with grace, that this arrangement—though devoid of romance—will be one rooted in quiet respect.

Minghao finds you beneath the old swing, nestled among the twisting garden vines and the soft crunch of autumn leaves. You hardly hear him approach, lost in thought as you watch smoke curl from the cigarette you’d pilfered from his room yet again. Each puff you take burns slightly in your lungs, though the familiar sting feels oddly soothing tonight.

“Nicked another one, have you?” he teases as he sits down at your feet, stretching his legs out lazily on the grass. Without waiting, he holds his hand out, gesturing for you to pass the cigarette. “If this becomes a habit, I’ll have to report you to Mother. Thievery wasn’t exactly on your lesson plan.”

“Oh, hush,” you mutter, flicking a stray leaf toward him in mock annoyance. But the tension in your body gives you away, your shoulders stiff beneath his watchful gaze.

He watches you closely, his gaze quiet and discerning as he brings the cigarette to his lips. The glow of the ember casts a brief, warm light across his face, highlighting the concern in his expression. Minghao inhales, then exhales a plume of smoke that drifts around the both of you in wisps, curling lazily into the air. The scent mingles with the earthy richness of the garden, settling between you like an unspoken question.

For a moment, there’s only the soft creak of the swing and the distant hum of cicadas, the two of you wrapped in a fragile peace.

“You know,” he says at last, breaking the silence. “It isn’t too late to change your mind. Mother may be overjoyed, but I know you. You would only say yes if…” He trails off, letting the implication hang in the still air.

You scoff, but it’s softer than usual. “What are you implying?”

Minghao studies you, his gaze level and piercing, then asks plainly, “Do you love him?”

You pause, watching the glow of the cigarette dim between your fingers. “I… respect him. And he respects me.”

Minghao’s eyes narrow slightly, as if he’s turning your answer over, searching for the truth beneath it. “But you don’t love him,” he says softly. “Not like you love Seokmin.”

Your breath catches, and you quickly look away, the sting of his words more potent than the cigarette’s burn. The thought of Seokmin’s name hanging in the air between you is almost unbearable. “How long have you known?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

“I am your brother, Y/N. I’m not blind, no matter how oblivious some of the company I keep may be.”

The corner of his mouth quirks in a wry smile, but his gaze is tender. You find a slight comfort in it, and for a moment, you feel the urge to tell him everything—to let yourself be held by the simple warmth of his understanding. But you hold back, your jaw set in a familiar, resolute line.

“Does he know?” you ask finally.

“No,” Minghao replies after a moment. ��At least, I don’t think so.”

The words settle heavily between you, and the silence stretches, thick and suffocating, broken only by the faint crackle of the cigarette as Minghao takes another slow drag. He hands it back to you, his fingers brushing yours in the exchange, grounding you. The faint tremor in your hands feels all too telling, but you steady yourself, forcing composure.

“You truly want to marry Yoon Jeonghan?” he asks quietly, almost like a plea. “Even though you’ll never love him?”

“Love isn’t in the cards for me,” you reply, each word measured and calm. “Besides, brother, what else would you have me do?”

His brow knits together, and he leans forward, clasping his hands between his knees. “Stay,” he says, voice thick with urgency. “Stay here, with me and Mother.”

You let out a breath, a bitter smile tugging at your lips. “Please, brother. You know that would send our dear mama to an early grave. A loveless marriage is better than none at all.” You draw in a deep breath, the smoky tendrils filling your lungs. “What happens when you can no longer provide for me?”

He bristles, his voice fierce. “I’ll always provide for you.”

“I know. That’s not what I meant,” you say, your voice softening as you look at him. His expression shifts, and he nods, understanding passing between you in the quiet.

A heavy silence falls, interrupted only by the soft crackling of the cigarette as you pass it back and forth, each drag punctuating the night air with a faint, bitter tang. The smoke lingers around you, a hazy veil that cloaks the unsaid words, the hidden fears, the ache of dreams surrendered.

Finally, he breaks the silence, his voice a mere whisper, carrying the weight of resignation. “So you are to be married.”

You nod, your fingers grazing the cigarette one last time before you extinguish it in the grass, grinding the last ember beneath your thumb. “So I am,” you say, a finality settling over the words as you both gaze into the dark, each lost in the flickering embers of what could have been.

The church’s thick stone walls seem to press in, trapping every sound, every movement, as though the weight of centuries hangs in the air. The fragrance of lilies and incense mingles into something heady, almost suffocating, filling your lungs with every breath. From the stained-glass windows, slanted bands of sunlight cut through the space, spilling ruby, sapphire, and amber hues across the dark wood of the pews. You keep your gaze fixed ahead, forcing yourself to breathe slowly, to project nothing but composure.

Then the cardinal’s voice cuts through the silence.

“I publish the banns of marriage between Lord Yoon Jeonghan, and Miss Xu Y/N. They are to be married in three weeks. If any of you know cause or just impediment why these persons should not be joined together in Holy Matrimony, ye are to declare it. ”

The words land heavy, echoing through the cathedral and settling over you like a thick veil. For a moment, it feels as though the world has been carved in two, time splintering around that proclamation.

Across the aisle, there’s a sharp intake of breath. Seokmin’s entire frame goes rigid, his back snapping straight as if he’s been struck. He turns to look at you, his movement quick and desperate, and his eyes find yours, wide with shock and something far deeper, something close to despair. His mouth opens, but no words come. You feel his gaze drilling into you, intense and searching, as though he’s willing you to look away—to give him anything but the confirmation of what’s just been read aloud.

Your pulse pounds in your ears, and your throat tightens with the urge to cry out, to take it all back. But you force the tremor down, and at that moment, you feel Minghao’s hand slide over yours, his steady, grounding warmth the only thing keeping you from breaking. His grip is strong, his fingers curling over yours in silent reassurance, and you clutch onto him as though he’s a lifeline.

Across the aisle, Jeonghan meets your gaze, a calm confidence emanating from his gaze, like the unwavering stone of the church itself. He offers a small, almost imperceptible nod, a silent affirmation of the pact between you—a pact that is anything but romantic, but unbreakable all the same.

When the service ends, and the congregation rises, their whispers a growing swell of murmurs, Jeonghan strides toward you with that same unruffled grace, his every step measured and unhurried. But before he can reach you, Seokmin is there, his hand outstretched, his face a mask of disbelief.

Jeonghan glances at him, his eyes flicking to you, reading your expression before he steps back, giving the two of you a semblance of privacy.

“Are you marrying Yoon Jeonghan?” Seokmin’s voice is low, tight, his face a mix of anger and pleading. The words come out hoarse, as if he’s forcing them past a stone lodged in his throat.

“Yes, Seokmin,” you reply quietly, your voice controlled but aching. “The cardinal just read the banns.”

He stares, and you see him search your face, looking for any trace of the girl he once knew, perhaps hoping for a flash of hesitation that would betray you. Instead, you lift your chin, steeling yourself against the helplessness etched into his features.

“But he’s a scoundrel!” he insists, his voice thick with desperation.

A bitter laugh escapes your lips, though it feels hollow. “You have much audacity to speak of scoundrels before me, my lord.” You pause, letting the words settle. “Lord Yoon is kind to me, and he has always respected me. His attention has never been out of pity, nor at the behest of another.”

A flicker of pain crosses Seokmin’s face, and he drops his gaze, your words striking a chord that silences him. His fingers flex, grasping at air as though there’s something he wishes he could say, something he wishes he could fix, but the moment has already passed. You turn, letting the silence grow between you, feeling the weight of his unspoken words fall away.

As you make your way to the back of the church, Jeonghan stands waiting, his posture relaxed, as though he has been waiting patiently his entire life. He offers you his arm, the small smile on his lips almost kind, and you accept, feeling his warmth against you as you step together into the sunlight outside.

The murmurs rise from the crowd that’s gathered, their gazes a mixture of awe and curiosity as they watch the newest couple of the season descend the church steps. The sun casts a golden glow over the stone path, illuminating the two of you as you walk together, each step echoing in the stillness. Just as you reach the final stair, Jeonghan glances over at you, his eyes softening as he reaches into his pocket.

Without a word, he holds out a handkerchief, his fingers brushing lightly against yours as he passes it to you.

“You’re crying,” he says softly, his voice gentle, his eyes searching yours with something that might almost be tenderness.

The dampness at the corners of your eyes betrays you. You take the handkerchief, feeling the cool linen against your fingertips as you bring it to your face, dabbing away the tears that have slipped past your defenses. A small, appreciative nod is all you manage, and Jeonghan’s hand remains extended, waiting patiently for you to accept the support he offers in silence.

You take his arm once more, and together you walk toward the waiting carriages, leaving behind the whispers, the stares, and the man you love, your steps a steady beat against the uncertainties that lie ahead.

The air is electric with anticipation, and you can feel the weight of every gaze in the room before you even step into the lavish ballroom. The future Viscountess of Hastings, they will say, the supposedly hopeless spinster who somehow captured the heart of one of Mayfair’s most eligible bachelors. Perhaps that's why your mother is a whirlwind of excitement, her chatter endless as she flits around the room, adjusting the last few details of your appearance while your lady's maid fusses with your hair and gown.

Your dress tonight is a ravishing turquoise, its fabric flowing like water around you, hugging your figure before cascading into a graceful skirt that swirls with every step. The neckline is artfully crafted, a delicate off-the-shoulder design that highlights your collarbones and frames your face, drawing attention to the soft curve of your neck. The fabric shimmers in the candlelight, the color reflecting hues of the deep sea, rich and vibrant, evoking the image of sunlit waves. A hint of silver thread weaves through the gown, catching the light as you move, creating an illusion of movement, as though the ocean itself were swirling around you. Your mother’s excited chatter fills the air, but you find yourself lost in your own thoughts, momentarily detached from the flurry of activity.

You catch a glimpse of the ring Jeonghan slid onto your finger during the carriage ride home, its beauty undeniable as it glistens under the soft glow of the lamps in your room. The polished rose gold band curves gently, embracing a single, lustrous pearl at its center. The pearl shines with a soft luminescence, hints of ivory and blush swirling within, exuding a quiet elegance as if it held whispers of its own secrets. It’s exquisite and understated, a piece that commands attention without being ostentatious. Jeonghan had presented it to you with little flourish, his fingers pushing the ring onto your finger as you stared out the window, deep in thought.

“Jeonghan,” you gasped, the words slipping from your lips as the reality of its beauty settled in. “It’s beautiful.”

His lips quirked at that, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth before something deeper flickered in his eyes. “Thank you,” he murmured, fingers pulling at his too-tight cravat, a hint of discomfort crossing his features. “I had it made some years ago.”

“For—”

“Yes,” he cut you off gently, his tone firm yet soft. “For Lady Choi.”

The weight of those words hung between you, thick and heavy, silencing the room as he gazed out the window, his expression closing off. You chose not to pry, twisting the ring around your finger, feeling the coolness of the pearl against your skin as your thoughts drifted to the man you had left behind in the chapel.

“Oh, darling,” your mother’s voice pierces through the haze of your reverie, snapping you back to the present. “You look beautiful. A true viscountess.”

You hummed in agreement, your eyes drawn to your reflection in the mirror. Your ladies' maids had truly outdone themselves. The intricate braids of your hair were artfully woven together, sparkling gems and pearls interspersed throughout, echoing the beauty of your ring. The delicate tendrils framing your face were styled to perfection, soft curls cascading down your shoulders like a waterfall of silk. In the soft glow of the lamp light, your complexion looked radiant, enhanced by the glow of the pearls nestled in your hair. You twist the pearl again, adjusting it until it feels right, then straighten your back, donning the façade of a viscountess—a true leader of society.

Jeonghan is a good man, you remind yourself, forcing a smile as you repeat the mantra. He shall be a good friend.

As the carriage rolls to a halt at the FitzWilliam estate, the sounds of the ball waft through the air, laughter and music melding into a sweet symphony that invites you into its depths. You step out, and Jeonghan is already waiting, his demeanor calm and collected as he extends an arm for you to grasp.

The main hall is alive with opulence, chandeliers casting golden light that dances off polished marble floors. The scent of rich perfumes and expensive colognes mingle in the air, thick with the promise of high society and whispered secrets. Impeccably dressed couples twirl across the dance floor, their laughter echoing like a soft refrain, while clusters of guests gather, engaged in hushed conversations punctuated by occasional bursts of laughter.

You take a deep breath, feeling a pang in your chest as you remember the last time you stood in this very room, the night Seokmin broke your heart. The echo of his laughter, the way he moved so effortlessly through the crowd—memories flood back, bittersweet and sharp, threatening to steal your composure.

Sensing your unease, Jeonghan nudges you gently, his presence a steadying force. “Look,” he murmurs, gesturing to his cravat, which matches the deep turquoise of your dress perfectly. “We match.”

That’s enough to elicit a light laugh from you, a sound that feels foreign and welcome at once. Jeonghan’s grin broadens, and the warmth of his gaze brings you a measure of comfort as you allow yourself to relax in his arms.

Your hopes for an uneventful night are dashed almost immediately when Seokmin catches your eye. The moment his gaze lands on you, something flickers across his face—an emotion you can’t quite place, his brows furrowing slightly before he glances down at your arm linked with Jeonghan's. His eyes trail from the vibrant turquoise of your dress, down to your arm in Jeonghan’s, and finally to the gleaming pearl ring on your finger. Then, without warning, he turns away, his shoulders tightening and a slight movement that lodges itself in your throat like a stone, heavy and uncomfortable.

Your mother, oblivious to the tension, all but shoves you and Jeonghan toward the dance floor as the next waltz begins, her voice bright with excitement as she declares, “The next bride and groom of the ton must have their moment to shine!” Jeonghan chuckles at her enthusiasm, a warm, carefree sound that dances in the air, as he gently tugs you into the throng of swirling gowns and polished shoes. The orchestra strikes up a lively quadrille, and you quickly lose yourself in the rhythm, the world narrowing down to the two of you, grinning up at Jeonghan every time you find yourselves partnered again.

In your breathless excitement, you barely notice the whispers of the ton, a familiar backdrop to your existence as they observe your every misstep with keen interest. But Seokmin’s gaze remains like a hot brand against your skin, intense and unyielding, making it hard to breathe. You feel the weight of his eyes like an anchor, and it draws your attention back to him against your will.

“Do not look at him,” Jeonghan murmurs, his voice low and steady as he twirls you beneath his arm, his grip firm yet gentle. His eyes search yours for a moment, grounding you, before he adds, “Look only at me, Y/N.”

You nod, your heart racing, and it's easy to follow his command, to lose yourself in the warmth of his smile and the way his eyes light up with every turn. Jeonghan moves gracefully, the two of you swirling together, his laughter mingling with the music. But just as quickly, his cool facade slips—he trips slightly on your flowing dress, and for a brief moment, his expression falters. His eyes dart toward the edge of the dance floor, tension radiating from his frame. When you follow his line of sight, your heart sinks.

The ever-enigmatic Lady Choi has graced the ball with her presence, and her gaze is locked on your fiancé, unwavering and knowing. When she catches Jeonghan staring, a slow, deliberate smile spreads across her lips, and she subtly nods her head toward the door. Jeonghan falters again, his brow creasing with worry as he shifts his weight, uncertain.

“You should go,” you urge gently, your voice barely above a whisper, and you lean in closer to him, the warmth of his body reassuring yet electric. He looks down at you, surprise etched across his features, his grip on your hand tightening involuntarily.

“No, I… I shouldn’t—I shan’t—” he stutters, attempting to regain his composure as he starts the next sequence of steps with an uncharacteristic bravado, but the confidence doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Jeonghan,” you murmur, your grip on his hand tightening as you lean in closer, your heart aching for him. “Go.”

“In the middle of a dance? What will the ton say about the viscount who leaves his new fiancée? What will become of you?” His concern is genuine, but it only adds to the pressure building within you, and you can see his throat bob as he swallows hard.

“It is nothing I have not handled before, my lord,” you tease lightly, a playful smile curving your lips as you step back and curtsy with a playful flourish. Jeonghan bows in return, though you can see the conflict in his eyes, and in that moment, you watch him leave you alone on the dance floor, the air heavy with the weight of unspoken words.

Your mother gasps from the edge of the dance floor, her shock palpable, and you can feel the heat rise to your cheeks at the attention. Minghao quickly attempts to soothe her, sharing a knowing glance with you that promises support as you excuse yourself for a refreshment.

Seokmin finds you at the drink table, his expression taut and focused, as though he’s been waiting for you. “He left you,” he states, his voice low but firm, eyebrows drawing together in disapproval.

“Good evening to you as well, Lord Lee. Quite hot, isn’t it?” You reply, your tone light as you feign nonchalance, but your heart races beneath his scrutinizing gaze.

“Y/N, he left you. His fiancée,” he presses, the weight of his words heavy in the air, and he leans closer, the intensity of his focus making it hard to hold his gaze.

“Yes, Seokmin, I do have fully functioning sight. I saw him leave.” You can’t help the bite in your tone as you straighten, the defiance rising within you.

“And what was so important that he had to abandon you in your first night out as a couple?” His voice sharpens, laced with an urgency that makes your heart clench.

“I do not need you to defend my honor, my lord. Nor do I need to explain my fiancé to you.” Your eyes flash, and you can feel the heat of your anger boiling beneath the surface.

With a huff, he turns away, frustration evident in the tight set of his jaw, leaving you alone at the table. You sip your lemonade, trying to ignore the murmurs that swirl around you, the familiar buzz of speculation and gossip that seems to cling to your skin like a second layer. Just then, Minghao finds you, his expression serious yet concerned.

“Walk with me,” he commands, his tone leaving no room for argument, and you can see the protective glint in his eye.

As you begin to move through the crowd, he squeezes your hand reassuringly, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Are you alright?” he asks, concern lacing his voice as he studies your face.

“Quite, brother,” you assure him, though your heart feels heavy.

“Seokmin is quite upset. I would have been as well, had I not known what is happening between you and Lord Yoon.” His gaze softens slightly, but it’s clear he’s trying to gauge your emotions.

“Thank you for your understanding,” you reply, your heart swelling with gratitude.

“Was she here? The woman he loves?” Minghao’s question is gentle but probing, his concern evident as he meets your eyes.

“Yes,” you whisper softly, the admission tasting bitter on your tongue, and you can feel a weight settling in your chest.

“I see.” He nods slowly, processing the gravity of your words. “Are you truly alright with this?” His voice is steady, but there’s a hint of uncertainty beneath it.

“Yes,” you affirm, though your voice shakes slightly, a part of you longing for reassurance.

“Then I shan’t bother you about it any longer. I must tend to Mother—if you need me, we shall be at the edges of the dance floor.”

“Brother?” You call after him as he turns away, the crowd shifting around you. “Thank you.”

His only response is a gentle smile before the crowd swallows him whole. The ballroom thrums with the sound of laughter and music, a whirl of colors and movements that feel distant and dreamlike. Your heart is heavy, and each beat echoes louder than the chatter around you. As you stand alone, the weight of unspoken words presses down on your shoulders like a cloak, and your thoughts swirl like the skirts of the dancers gliding across the floor.

Suddenly, Seokmin strides toward you, his figure slicing through the crowd with a sense of urgency. The moment his eyes lock onto yours, a spark ignites—a mix of anger and something deeper. You can see the tension in his jaw, the way his brow furrows as he approaches, and you brace yourself for confrontation.

“Come with me,” he demands, his voice low but unmistakably firm, carrying an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine. You can feel the heat radiating from him, a force you can’t ignore.

“Seokmin, please, I truly cannot fight with you any longer on this subject—” you start, your voice trembling slightly, but he interrupts, his frustration spilling over like a tide.

“I said come with me!” He grabs your wrist, his grip tight and insistent, forcing you to follow him through the thrumming crowd. The sound of your footsteps reverberates off the marble floors, each echo punctuating the space between you and the safety of the ballroom. The laughter and music fade, replaced by the heavy thrum of your heart and the frantic rustle of your gown.

“Seokmin, you’re hurting me!” you protest, panic creeping into your voice. You feel the pressure of his fingers, warmth mingling with the discomfort. As he glances back at you, anger flickers in his eyes before it softens, just for a moment, revealing a vulnerability that pulls at your heart.

He loosens his grip, but the air between you crackles with tension, a silent battle of wills that feels palpable. “Where are we going?” you ask, concern bleeding into your tone. “My mama will worry, and Minghao, and Jeonghan—”

“Damn Jeonghan!” he snaps, his voice rising, shattering the fragile silence around you. The heat of his words lingers in the air, mixing with the coolness of the corridor.

“Seokmin!” Your cheeks flush with indignation, a mixture of anger and hurt blooming in your chest.

“I told you,” he hisses, urgency fueling his movements as he pulls you further into the shadows of the hallway. The flickering candlelight casts ghostly shadows that dance along the walls, an eerie backdrop to your escalating emotions. “I told you he’s a scoundrel. And you wouldn’t listen—”

“Enough! I will not have you sully his good name. What in God’s name are you trying to accomplish?” you fire back, desperation tinging your words. The air feels thick, heavy with unresolved feelings that twist like vines around your heart.

“Will you listen?” He halts abruptly, spinning to face you, his expression a tempest of frustration. The tension radiates between you, and you can see the muscles in his jaw clench as he gestures toward a small window that overlooks the private gardens. “This is the man you wish to marry?”

He pushes the window open, and moonlight spills into the dim room, illuminating his features with a ghostly glow. Outside, you see Jeonghan, silhouetted against the soft glow of the moon, entangled in a passionate embrace with Lady Choi. A sickening twist of emotion churns in your stomach, a cocktail of heartbreak and unexpected relief; at least one of you gets a taste of the one they love.

“He is a SCOUNDREL,” Seokmin roars, his voice rising with indignation, the words dripping with disdain as he steps closer, his presence a whirlwind of intensity. “I shall duel him for your honor. I must tell Minghao of the grave error you have made—”

“Seokmin—” you start, your voice rising with urgency, but he interrupts again, the fervor in his tone igniting a fire within you.

“We must duel tonight, before the sun rises—”

“SEOKMIN! I knew.” The words escape you, a rush of truth that bursts forth like a dam breaking, raw and unfiltered.

“You—you knew?” His eyes widen, disbelief crashing over him like a wave, and for a moment, everything else fades away. The silence that follows is suffocating, filled only with the quickened rhythm of your breaths and the pounding of your heart. The weight of your confession hangs heavy in the air, thick as smoke.

“Yes.”

His expression contorts, shifting from shock to outrage, and you can feel the air crackling with tension. “You knew he was sinning with a married lady, no less, and you still agreed to marry him? My God, Y/N, I knew you wished to marry, but I didn’t know you would abandon all sense for that!” His hands are balled into fists at his sides, frustration radiating from him like heat from a flame.

Your chest constricts, the familiar ache of longing and sorrow spiraling within you. “Oh, you dolt, it was an arrangement! I knew he loved another, just as he knew I loved another!” You can feel the tears prickling at the corners of your eyes, the weight of your heartache spilling over into your voice, echoing off the cold walls.

A heavy silence envelops you both, every breath echoing with unspoken truths. The air feels charged, electric, as the reality of your situation sinks in.

“You love…someone?” he asks, the vulnerability in his voice slicing through the tension like a knife.

“I must go, my mama—” You attempt to break free, but he grasps your wrist again, his fingers warm yet insistent, the touch igniting a spark of something more profound within you. You can't meet his gaze, the shame of your feelings swirling with fear and longing.

“Y/N.” His voice is a soft plea, low and raw, wrapping around you like a familiar embrace. The way he says your name sends a shiver through you, and for a moment, you feel as though you are on the brink of something monumental.

“Please, Seokmin.” Your voice trembles, a mixture of desperation and desire, the air thick with unspoken confessions.

“Who? I shall make him pay for everything he has done to you, my dear friend—how dare he—”

“Oh for God’s sake, it’s you!” The words tumble out before you can stop them, the truth bursting forth like a firework exploding in the night sky.

You attempt to retreat, to escape the intensity of the moment, but his grip is unyielding, a tether binding you to him. With a swift motion, he yanks you back, and before you can even process what’s happening, his lips crash onto yours, fierce and unrelenting. You can taste the warmth of his breath, the desperation in his touch, and it wraps around you like a cocoon. For that brief, intoxicating moment, everything else fades away—the hurt, the confusion, the chaotic world outside—leaving only the two of you.

You melt into him, the kiss a torrent of everything unspoken: the longing, the frustration, the fear of what lies ahead. It’s passionate and fierce, as if the very fabric of your souls is interwoven in that moment, a confession without words. His hands cup your face, grounding you as the world blurs around you, leaving just the warmth of his body and the desperate connection that binds you both.

He groans, muttering a curse under his breath, and it ignites something deep in the pit of your stomach. You know this is a terrible position – if anyone were to see you, your reputation, your future, your engagement would be ruined – but when his lips find your pulse point in your throat, all you can do is arch your back with a low keen.

His teeth graze your skin, sending shivers down your spine. You clutch at his shoulders, fingers digging into the fabric of his jacket, desperate for purchase in this whirlwind of sensation. The rational part of your mind screams at you to stop, to push him away, but your body betrays you, leaning into his touch with a hunger you've never known before.

"Seokmin," you gasp, his name a prayer on your lips. He responds with a low growl, pressing you against the wall, his body flush against yours. The heat between you is palpable, electric, threatening to consume you both.

His hands roam your body, leaving trails of fire in their wake. You're dizzy with desire, drunk on his touch, on the intoxicating scent of his cologne mingling with the musk of his skin. You know you should stop this, end it before it ruins you.

But you can't bring yourself to end it. Not when his touch feels like salvation, like coming home after years of wandering lost.

"We shouldn't," you manage to whisper between kisses, your words contradicting the wayyour fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer.

Seokmin pauses, his breath hot against your neck. "Do you want me to stop?" he asks, his voice husky and strained.

Before you can even fathom an answer, the sound of footsteps down the corridor sends your mind into a panic. You shove him off, urgently trying to right your dress.

Seokmin stumbles back, his eyes wild and still clouded with the raw emotion of your kiss. His gaze locks onto yours, both of you caught between passion and the creeping dread of what you’ve just done. The footsteps draw nearer, each one a reminder of how close you are to ruin.

The door swings open, and Minghao strides in, his eyes narrowing the instant he takes in the sight of you both—flushed cheeks, disheveled attire, the undeniable aura of something forbidden and unspoken hanging heavy in the air.

“What is the meaning of this?” Minghao’s voice is a blade, slicing through the room with cold fury.

Seokmin straightens, trying to regain his composure, but the guilt is written all over his face. You feel your heart slam against your ribcage, panic curling like smoke in your chest. But Minghao’s gaze stays sharp, unforgiving as he looks between the two of you.

“Seokmin,” he starts, his voice low and dangerous. “You’ve dishonored my sister—this is unforgivable. You must either make amends or answer me on the dueling ground at dawn.”

You cast a desperate look toward Seokmin, but his face is tense, unreadable, his own turmoil barely held at bay. He takes a deep breath, then steps forward, addressing Minghao with a steady resolve you didn’t know he possessed.

“Minghao,” Seokmin says, his voice low, respectful. “Please understand. I would never wish harm or shame upon your sister. I care for her deeply—more than I can put into words.”

The air in the room thickens, dense and electric, as if even the walls are holding their breath, waiting for the decision that will shape your fate. Minghao’s stance is rigid, his eyes flashing with anger and something else—concern, maybe fear. It sends a cold wave through you, underscoring the gravity of what he’s demanding. The faint scent of candle wax mingles with the night air creeping through the open window, casting a ghostly glow across the floor.

Your heart races, each beat echoing like a drum in the silence. Your skin still hums with the memory of Seokmin’s touch, the heat of his kiss lingering on your lips like a forbidden brand. You swallow hard, the taste of that moment bittersweet, and glance toward Seokmin. His face is caught between shock and something else—determination, maybe defiance. He’s breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling, and his gaze flits between you and Minghao as if assessing the weight of his next words.

“Then prove it,” Minghao says, voice low and slicing through the haze that surrounds you, “or I’ll demand satisfaction for my sister’s honor.”

The word honor hangs heavy in the air, and a slow burn of anger coils in your chest. Your fingers curl into your palms, nails pressing into the skin, grounding you against the urge to scream. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. You never wanted to be caught like this, not in a moment of vulnerability twisted by the presence of an audience. Minghao’s protective stare feels like a chain around your neck, while Seokmin’s gaze—a mixture of apology and restraint—only intensifies the confusion swirling inside you.

“Brother,” you say, forcing your voice steady, though your heart feels as if it’s beating in your throat, “this is unnecessary. I am engaged to another. You know this. To demand a marriage over one moment is—”

Minghao cuts you off, shaking his head. “We both know that arrangement is nothing more than an exchange of power, not a bond of love. But this?” His eyes narrow as he looks at Seokmin, his expression hardening. “This is no mere arrangement. I won’t allow this… this recklessness to tarnish your future. Not if I can prevent it.”

His words twist around your heart, anger simmering as he speaks as though you’re not even here, as if you’re some fragile creature incapable of understanding the consequences of your own actions. You tighten your hands into fists, the fire in your chest blazing hotter, burning through your lingering shame and leaving only fury in its wake.

“Brother, this is my choice,” you say, your voice sharper than you intended. You refuse to let him dictate your fate, no matter how well-intentioned he may be. “I won’t be forced into anything, not by you, and not by—”

“Fine,” Seokmin interrupts, his voice low, but the intensity behind it makes your breath hitch. His gaze shifts to Minghao, defiant yet respectful, a calm resolve settling over him that you’ve never seen before. “I’ll marry her.”

The words strike like a thunderclap, sudden and irrevocable, and the room feels smaller, suffocating in the aftermath. You gape at him, heart pounding, pulse roaring in your ears as the weight of what he’s said crashes over you.

“You’ll… what?” Your voice is little more than a whisper, confusion and anger tangling together, leaving you breathless. It’s as if the ground beneath you has tilted, your life, your future, shifting without your consent, controlled by the decisions of two men who seem to think they know what’s best for you.

Seokmin meets your gaze, and for a moment, the vulnerability in his eyes betrays the mask of resolve he wears. But then his expression steels, his jaw set as if he’s made peace with something.

“Fine,” he repeats, his tone unwavering. “I’ll do what’s necessary.”

The finality of his words ignites a fury in you, fierce and hot. How dare they decide your fate like this, without so much as a thought for your own desires, your own choices? Your fists clench, knuckles white as you stare between them, your breaths coming short, uneven.

Minghao nods approvingly, his gaze flicking back to you, as if expecting gratitude, as if this was what you wanted all along. But you feel trapped, as though walls are closing in, boxing you into a life decided for you, a future crafted by others’ expectations.

“Is that it, then?” you ask, the bitterness in your voice surprising even you. “You two decide, and that’s that? No thought for what I might want?”

Seokmin’s gaze wavers, a flicker of guilt crossing his face. But he doesn’t answer, and neither does Minghao. The silence stretches, heavy and charged, and you realize with a sharp pang that neither of them truly understands—that perhaps they never will.

The weight of their silence drives you to turn on your heel, striding down the corridor in a rush to escape. You don’t care about decorum anymore. All you want is space, a moment to process the shock, the hurt, the sheer indignity of having your future decided without so much as a word from you.

But the sound of hurried footsteps behind you keeps pace. You don’t need to look back to know who’s following.

“Wait!” Seokmin’s voice is laced with desperation, and you feel the words tug at you despite yourself. “Please, Y/N—just… please, stay. Let’s talk this out.”

You quicken your steps, but his voice drags you back, its gentle earnestness slicing through your anger like a double-edged blade. You stop, shoulders tensing as you draw in a shaky breath, trying to steel yourself against him. But when you turn around, his expression—pleading, open, raw—almost undoes you.

“Talk about what, Seokmin?” you say, voice barely concealing the tremble. “There’s nothing left to discuss. Decisions have already been made, haven’t they?”

“Not like this,” he says, his voice soft, an ache threading through his words. His hand reaches out toward you, hesitating in the space between you both. “Not without you. I’m sorry. I should have… I should have thought—”

“No,” Minghao interrupts, stepping up beside Seokmin, his jaw set and his gaze unyielding. His hand wraps firmly around your elbow, his voice edged with protective steel. “It’s done for tonight. She’s had enough. We’re going home.”

Minghao’s grip is gentle yet firm, and before you can protest, he begins to lead you down the dimly lit corridor, each step echoing louder than the last. You glance back, catching the hurt etched into Seokmin’s face, his hand outstretched as though still reaching for you. But he doesn’t follow; he stays rooted in place, watching you disappear.

The carriage ride back is filled with silence so thick you could cut it. Minghao says nothing, and you’re grateful. You can barely keep your thoughts in line, let alone handle a conversation. You close your eyes, leaning back, but the image of Seokmin’s pleading face and the desperate, furious embrace you shared lingers like an imprint on your skin.

When you arrive home, you stumble up the stairs, trying to erase the chaos of the evening, but it follows you like a ghost. You catch your reflection in the hallway mirror, and the sight stops you cold. Your hair is in complete disarray, a few strands falling loose from your intricately pinned style, and your face is flushed, cheeks streaked with faint traces of dried tears. Your chest rises and falls, still heaving from the intensity of everything that has happened.

You barely recognize yourself. The wildness in your eyes, the raw emotion painted on your face—it’s as if the person staring back at you is a stranger, a part of you that you’d never thought you’d see.

Hours pass, but sleep evades you, each tick of the clock an insistent reminder of the turmoil simmering inside. Every time you close your eyes, you’re back in that dim room, tasting the fire of his kiss, feeling the weight of Minghao’s words, and wondering if you’ll ever be free from the choices that were made for you tonight.

Tagging: @kibs-and-bits @moondustmemories @shinwonderful @ivehypnosis @gwend0lyne @thestoryofana13 @mellowamour @blissedjoon @begentlewithme-please @xabsolutelynothingx @reiofsuns2001 @mngyulvrs @mooniewrld

@archivistworld @lexyraeworld @ateez-atiny380 @walkinganxiety01 @lovecleastrange

@uriguyeok @nenojaems @carefully325 @meowmeowminnie @ts19009 @flickhurstyles

@spookyeomgoose @princelingperfect @tinkerbell460 @xueisaaa17

@deekaykaykay @ottersmind @sungbeam @blvenote @kyeomsworld

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frogwithgun · 10 months ago

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Write time! With the students cause I feel like it. Um yeah enjoy this one!

In which Gojo forgets his anniversary!

-------------------

Stood in front of three teens he swears that something is off. He's checked, double checked, and triple checked things already. As Yuji, Nobara, and Megumi watch him pace back and forth while muttering to himself.

Maybe he's going insane? No. That happened a while ago when he chose to be a teacher. Gojo turns to his students. "Are you sure?" Mugumi sighs and buries his face in his hands. Yuji pats his back and Nobara nods. "Very. You forgot something." Yeah he must be insane.

Gojo turns his back to his students and starts to pace again. Running through all the things he could have forgotten. "It's not my birthday." He mutters. "It's not Sugurus birthday." He turns back to the students. "It's not the girls birthday." Is he just going through birthdays?

Yes. Yes he is. "It's not a birthday." Nobara says with an eye roll. "Is it a holiday?" Nobara shakes her head. Gojo is just confused now. "Then what is it?" Yuji looks at Gojo with his head tilted. Still rubbing Megumis back. "Didn't you marry Geto-sensi today?" Gojo laughs.

He loves thinking about his husband. "What? No! That's two days from now." Now Nobara is laughing. "Today is March 27." Gojos eyes widen behind his blindfold. He even takes it off to see them better. "What?! No it's the 2-" He pulls out his phone in a hurry. Checking the date.

He pauses. His wallpaper, a photo of Geto and the girls, stares at him. And right above Getos head is the time. In smaller letters above that reads, March 27th. The day he married Geto. The day he proposed to Geto. The day Geto asked him out.

Slowly he puts his phone back in his pocket and clears his throat. "If you'll excuse me." He says as calmly as he possibly can. Then he bolts away from the training grounds. Leaving behind a strong gust of wind.

--------------------

The tea Geto made was sitting on the coffee table. He was sat on the couch peacefully reading a book. As he turns the page he notices the tea in the cup started to ripple. He closes the book and sets it aside. Bringing the cup closer he looks confused. "What the fuck?"

The door slams open. He jumps and almost falls off the couch as a whole. "AH!" He gets ready to summon a curse. But stops as he sees who it is. "Satoru? What are you doing home so earl-mph!?" He's cut off when Gojo kisses him. "I FORGOT." Geto blinks.

Then he starts laughing. "I knew I wasn't crazy!" Geto kisses Gojo on the check and sighs. "I COMPLETELY FORGOT IT WAS TODAY. I SWEAR IT WAS TWO DAYS FROM NOW." Gojo is pacing back and forth again while Geto just calmly keeps reading. "WHAT DO YOU WANT?! MONEY, A CAR, A NEW HOUSE?!" Geto sighs again.

As much as he loves freaking out his husband he would rather he's clam. "Satoru I don't want any of those things." Gojo drops to his knees in front of Suguru. "I DIDN'T MEAN TO FORGET." He's growing at his feet. God he's dramatic. Geto pats his head and smiles. "Calm down. It's fine."

Gojo buries his head into Getos lap and whines. "But I forgot!" Geto nods and turns to the next page in his book. "Yes." Gojo looks up at him. "Aren't you mad?" Geto just shrugs. "Why would I be mad? You're a busy man." Geto looks down at him. "Probably to busy for little old me." Gojo looks offended. "NEVER!"

Then Geto leans down and kisses him. "Then you can take me out to dinner." Gojo lights up. "Ok! I'll take you to a five star restaurant!" Geto shakes his head while Gojo is just happy to be going out with his husband.

------------------

Bonus!

Nobara looks at Megumi and Yuji. "How are they still together?" Megumi looks at Nobara. "Because Geto-sensi likes Gojos muscles." Nobara shrugs and nods. "I guess that's fair." Yuji looks around the training grounds. "So, when is he coming back?" Megumi sighs and covers his face. "He isn't. Their probably at home eating each others faces off."

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #satosugu #geto suguru #gojo satoru #megumi fushiguro #nobara kugisaki #yuji itadori #gojo is forgetfull #Geto is ok with it #In fact he's used to it #The students help Gojo #They say gojos ass

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mirageofadesert · 1 year ago

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Give me more morally gray characters ...

Let me interrupt my regular program for a brief rant about Downton Abbey and Thomas Barrow… well, not really regular as I've been too busy to watch anything with subtitles for the past few weeks. Instead, I passively binged on Downton Abbey while working.

I love morally gray characters, be it Tantai Jin from TTEOTM or Spike from Buffy. One of my favorite characters is Thomas Barrow from Downton Abbey. (Spoiler Alert, TW // suicide, homophobia, conversion therapy)

Thomas is everything I need in a character ... unhinged, angsty and gay.

I loved him from the first rude line to the last. He starts out as a delightful troublemaker with a cruel streak born of fear, hurt and the desire to be respected, fit in and belong. He is, as Baxter understands so well, his own worst enemy, having perfected self-sabotage over the years.

A supporting character for most of the show, the footman-turned-butler's story is usually prioritized over his character development - meaning the writers know where they want him to end up each season, even if it contradicts previous characterizations. This leaves the audience with a character who can be hard to follow at times.

The writing really got on my nerves at times. From conveniently forgetting his medical training when they want him to despair during his job hunt, to pulling any kind of cunning out of him when they want him to appear changed (and depressed), Thomas is always what the showrunners need him to be, but not necessary what would make sense for his character. I'm still annoyed that they made him go through medical torture in the form of conversion therapy and a suicide attempt, and then glossed over these traumatic incidents in favor of boring other storylines. Or how they portrayed his war injury as an act of cowardice rather than desperation.

What I love about him is that he was still a coherent character who remained a morally gray character (the last film aside, because they sort of forgot to give him any of his character traits back). Thomas would still lash out when he was angry or hurt, would still manipulate others for his own gain, and would still feel wronged by the world. Once the world has brought him to his knees, he understands that he has only himself to blame, and he tries to do better - which has its ups and downs. The Thomas we see in the final and in the films still wants to belong, is still a desperate romantic, but he is also so incredibly insecure in a rather endearing way.

Younger Thomas was rather stiff but dignified, trying to appear immaculate, trying to hide the fact that he felt he was anything but. Once the mask comes off, he goes from being a reluctant cat to being full of nervous puppy energy. As a neurodivergent person who has recently struggled with not being able to masks well, I can relate a little too much to this version of Thomas.

Most characters, that start out as villains, either change completely (like Tantai Jin), their behavior will be excused (like Mo Ran or Spike) or they sacrifice themselves for the greater good to redeem themselves (like Spike). Thomas stays more on less morally gray. We understand the reasons better, why he would lash out at others, and we can feel sorry for him. He had a harder life than most, but that still does not undo the harm he has done to others.

All in all, the last film was a bit of a disappointment for me, mainly because a lot of the characters felt a bit off. I had to watch the film twice to get behind the romance with Guy Dexter. What Guy meets is Thomas desire to be respected as a person, to be seen as worthwhile, to escape the life as decorative wallpaper and to finally have a romantic relationship with someone that is rather enthusiastic about him. A lot of their relationships seems to have developed off-screen, based on Guy knowing who Carson was during his proposal and understanding how uncertain Thomas still feels about his role in the household. I wish them well - but not at the expense of Thomas being excluded from the rumoured 3rd film. I hope it takes place in the USA and we get to see him again!

I really wish we would see more morally gray characters like this, even through a quick look into the fandom of Downton Abbey shows me, that not everybody can handle it.

#downton abbey #thomas barrow

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rom-e-o · 3 months ago

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⁘ Our First and Last ⁘ (Ebenezer/OC Wedding) (Part 1)

I will not let my job keep me from these two.

So, this is Part 1 of 3. Part 2 is nearly done, and Part 3 will be the official ceremony, and it is halfway done! Thank you for your patience, haha.

"A man is lucky if he is the first love of a woman. A woman is lucky if she is the last love of a man." ~ Charles Dickens

Main Story ("Begin Again") ⁘ Proposal ("New Beginnings & Second Chances")

A wedding. There was to be a wedding.

After months of courtship, heated kisses, lingering gazes and roaming hands … they were to be wed. It was a day that had been hard-fought for, and like in the fairy tales the bride and groom had read as children, love had triumphed at the end of long battles of hardship.

Constance lifted one of her slender hands up and over her head, angling her fingers just so the sunlight from the counting house’s tall windows reflected through the large diamond. Under the gentle blare of the early evening sun, light hit the stone and then scattered into a spectrum of small, tiny fractals across the ledger-lined wall.

The jewel was a sight. Dazzling in both its size and clarity, her eyes hadn’t tired of gazing into it, even months later. It mesmerized her like the crystal balls that fortune tellers touted at the circus.

Even a week after the proposal, she found herself unable to take her eyes off the magnificent piece. The former socialite and model had been gifted diamonds before and on many occasions, but this one was by far her favorite.

It was solitaire ring, with the diamond cut in an elongated rectangle and nestled cleanly upon a slender gold band. Simple. Timeless. Elegant.

He’d chosen the perfect ring, which hardly surprised her. She knew above all others that her husband-to-be was an exceptionally detail-oriented man. From numbers and complex mathematics to complex societal exchanges, he was an expert navigator and negotiator. In the realms of romance, he was equally equipped for excellence.

Oh, he was always humble about it. Every dress he sent her or gift he bestowed upon her always came with the caveat that she was free to reject anything if she didn’t care for it.

Thus far, she’d never had to invoke said condition. Everything he did was perfect.

He was perfect. As perfect as a human could be, and his imperfections only endeared her to him even more. The way he tapped his fingers when he was bored, or how he would cocoon himself in the covers on some cold nights. Or how he sneakily used a pair of reading glasses, revealing his secret on accident only after falling asleep reading a book of poetry by the fire.

Of course, they occasionally disagreed. They even bickered. Over small things, mostly. Work schedules. Opinions on client reliability. But, before the day ended, they always reunited to smooth things over.

It was such a stunning shift. One she continued to adjust to.

Sometimes, as she continued to lose herself in the intersecting walls of the diamond’s reflection, she wondered when she would wake up. Back in New York, in her townhouse with green ivy wallpaper and a fireplace that always smelled like cinnamon, even in summer.

Back with staff that treated her like cracked glass on the brink of shattering, and ‘friends’ that only associated with her because of her husband’s status.

Back to closed-door meetings where associates were invited to partake in her. Back to the taste of blood every night.

Back to him.

“It’s a lovely ring.”

Constance’s eyes flicked across the room to Bob Cratchit, former clerk turned business partner, as he beamed at her from his desk. We wore a dark blue frock coat, and a set of spectacles was balanced on the tip of his nose.

“Oh, I was daydreaming, wasn’t I?” Constance asked, her tone guilty but her smile unconquerable in its joy. Her left hand descended while the right one reached for the quill, determined to get back to transcribing the submitted transactions for the day. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t let my mind wander while we’re at work.”

“Now, I’ll hear none of that,” Bob said, his tone almost brotherly. He pointed his own feathered writing instrument at her for emphasis. “If anyone has deserved a moment or two to let her mind wander, it’s you. Truthfully, I’m a bit surprised you’re still at the office.”

“The wedding isn’t for another month,” she reminded him. “Besides, I couldn’t sit and be idle all day. I’d be clawing at the walls. Right, Prudence?”

The redheads both glanced to the nearby doggy bed, where Prudence was sprawled about in animated slumber.

Bob smiled, remembering the days when London’s finest lady slept curled up in a tense ball in her bed.

“True, and yet …” he paused, “There is much to plan, isn’t there? I can only imagine, what with how … notable you and Mr. Scrooge are.”

“Ah, you mean how scandalous we are? At least according to groups of a certain persuasion?”

There was a small rabble of elites that expressed immense disdain at an older English bachelor marrying her. An almost middle-aged, divorced American woman.

The further they dug into her past, the more they shook their fists.

“It’s a very vocal minority, but I still worry,” he said. “I hope you’re both well.”

“We keep sterling company in the form of friends and family,” she said, smiling kindly at her supervisor. In fact, she had more friends in London than she’d ever had in New York. “If I’m going to care about anyone’s opinions, it’s would be theirs.”

Unlike her ex-husband, Ebenezer kept good company and encouraged her to make her own connections and friends.

“I appreciate your care, truly. As for the rest, planning a big event like a wedding is so exciting! It’s hardly work, in my opinion, especially when compared to other tasks that could occupy my time.”

“There’s those socialite-begotten manners,” Bob teased. “Well, when Ethel and I were engaged, it felt like there was so much to tend to before and during the festivities! The ceremony, the breakfast, then the court presentation to rush off to. We had a humble ceremony, of course, but it felt like a mountain was before us. We planned everything mostly by candlelight. I don’t think we would have gotten it all done otherwise. You’re quite brave.”

The slight tremble in his voice lent itself to his sincerity.

“Thankfully, Ebenezer and I are planning everything together, so it’s hardly all on me,” she shared. “We’ve had lots of input as well. I cannot imagine two people planning a whole wedding, especially while balancing work. Why, you and Ethel have been immense help.”

“You are too kind.”

“I’m merely honest. Your recommendations for a tailor and florist were both spot-on. We’re still deciding on the invitations, but from what I’ve seen from the proofs, it’s looking like you’ll have another tally in your favor there, too.”

“W-Well, providing recommendations is the very least I can do, especially as a groomsman,” he said, almost sounding flustered. Obligation to his duty activated a small defensive streak, and it was endearing to see the timid man start to come more into his true self as time passed. “I never thought I’d the opportunity, let alone that it would be for Mr. Scrooge’s ceremony.”

He didn’t hold back his truthfulness, despite the taste it left on his molars.

“I must confess, I still don’t know what caused his … sudden change, but because of him, Tim was able to get the medical treatment he needed. Many good things have come from our partnership.”

“I’d certainly say so,” she said, “Nonetheless, your help is gracious and appreciated.”

“I’m thrilled we can be helpful,” he said. “I confess, though I’m sure you know … I have never been a groomsman before, and Ethel has never been a bridesmaid. Mr. Huffman and his wife would have much more recent expertise.”

Harry was to be his uncle’s best man, and as expected, he was bouncing off the walls at the opportunity. Bob, Tom and Tim would all serve as groomsmen. Ethel and Hela would be Constance’s bridesmaids, and all the Cratchit girls were preparing to be flower girls.

Kathy, by her own request, would assist in the playing of the wedding march. Her mother, Ethel, was proud as punch about the accomplishment.

“Oh, by the way, what of your mother?” Bob segued as they ran through the roles. “I remember you mentioning that you wrote to her previously and sent an invitation. Have you received a reply?”

Her sunny mood dimmed slightly. “Not yet, I’m afraid.”

“I see. I apologize for bringing it up.”

“No, it’s quite alright. Mama is busy, I know, and letters travel slowly. But if I don’t hear soon, I’ll have to send a wire to check on her.”

“It certainly wouldn’t hurt. And I’m quite sure a woman as doting as your mother wouldn’t want to miss such a special day because a post boy took an incorrect detour one day.”

At the praise of her mother, that smile returned. Bob swore the streets outside brightened a bit. “Indeed.”

Many moons ago, the day after Constance had watched the ferry carry Orin across the threshold of the ocean’s horizon, she’d sent a letter to her mother. By that time, with the ocean travel factored in, it had been over a month since she’d vanished from her life in New York. She was certain her mother had to be worried sick, or worse.

As such, her letter not only proclaimed her safety, but also detailed what had happened during her short yet turbulent stay in London:

Mama, I would not scorn you for detesting me for how I left things. I left you without news of my well-being for far too long. I should have taken extra care to at least share the news with you or find a way to write you in the interim, but my heart and mind felt so frayed. Looking back, there are hundreds of actions I would have performed differently, but all for the same result. My destination is the one part of my voyage that, especially now, I harbor no regrets toward. From the bottom of my heart, I apologize and hope you’ll forgive me. You have always been an inspiring example of strength for me to aspire to, and I hope you know your daughter well enough to understand that I truly did what I needed to do. I had to leave him, and the city. I was terrified that if I wrote to you or touched the bank accounts at all, it would lead him to me. I saw the newspaper listing that Orin ran to search for me – and he did eventually find me, despite my precautions. Thankfully, thanks to the many wonderful companions I’ve met here, he was detained and sent back to New York. I am currently in talks with a lawyer to settle all matters of property and asset division, so please worry not. That being said, I will not be returning to the townhouse on 5th Avenue. As you’ll note on the postage, I’m writing to you from London. More specifically, I’m writing to you from a mansion near the Thames, and with a lovely mastiff snoring in my lap. Her name is Prudence, and I’d love for you to meet her, along with the others who all helped save me. I am currently under the employment of Scrooge & Cratchit’s and working as their clerk. Mr. Ebenezer Scrooge is actually the man that hired me, and it is also from his home that I am writing to you from. I feel as though I have too much news to share with you for even pages upon pages of stationary to contain. I will await a reply first, as I’m sure you have many, many questions. I will tell you, in utmost confidence, that I am safe, sheltered, and so happy. I miss you and love you dearly. I eagerly await your reply, and again, I beg your forgiveness. I send all my love and kisses across the sea to you, and above the clouds to Papa. Your daughter forevermore, Connie

Theresea had responded as promptly as possible, though her reply lacked the verbiage of her daughter’s. In fact, the letter was unusually brief but carried the scent of her familiar oud perfume, verifying the legitimacy of the sender.

My beloved girl, My heart somehow knew you were well, and I am thrilled beyond all measure to see that hope realized. I could never scorn or hate you, my Dear, but I was worried gravely. It was not your actions that sickened me. I know you could handle yourself anywhere in the world, if you had to. Your ex-husband as a flailing wildcard was what had me pacing a hole in my floor every night. Please know that while I am still properly miffed about you fleeing without a word, your safety is priceless. I would never scorn the preservation of it. I understand why you did what you had to do, and ultimately, you were successful. All it well, seemingly. You are sheltered and employed. That is paramount. In regard to the specifics of your living arrangement, I do hope you intend to share more details. Especially considering that you are speaking with a lawyer. I cannot surmise the full extent of my feelings at this time, my Dear. I wanted to respond promptly, but alas, I have business to tend that cannot wait. The post seems to travel fast some days, and slow as molasses on others. I eagerly await the indulgence of more details about your new life, as well as Mr. Scrooge himself. I send you all my love, as well as any resources you need. Should you need affairs carried out in New York, I am at your beck and call. P.S. – Prudence sounds simply charming. An English mastiff, I presume? Your father always wanted a French mastiff, but could you imagine a lovely beast like that detained in a Manhattan apartment without a yard to run free in? It would be cruelty. Your mother forevermore, Theresea

The six months that followed were full of lively correspondence.

In the many letters that followed, Constance wrote about her new job and the fascinating clients she had the privilege of helping. She talked about the Cratchit children, and how amazingly smart they were. She even wrote to her mother about Harry and Hela, including her very involved family. The two women would have much to discuss and bond over, she’d said. (“I told Hela that you introduced me to kohl and lapsi candy as a teenager, and she clapped. Actually clapped!”) She also shared details about Magda, Mr. Scrooge’s Hungarian maid whom Constance was already certain Theresea would get along swimmingly with. Both matriarchs had a fondness for eye-rolling and no-nonsense honesty. Though Magda favored frugal traditionalism over flamboyant luxury, that would be only a small hurdle for them to navigate. One cordial teatime together would square them away.

Then … Mr. Scrooge himself needed to be introduced.

Trying to describe him in words was harder than Constance could have ever anticipated. She wondered, how could she even hope to sum up everything between them so succinctly?

Not to mention, there was a not-so-teensy (and incredibly complicating) detail that Constance was living with Ebenezer – her employer – right off the cusp of a marriage to another man.

…A man now being imprisoned for twenty years of abuse and fraud during their marriage.

She’d all but jumped back into the same fire that had burned her before, and quickly, to boot. Would even the most lyrical poet have an eloquent way to say, ‘I’m divorcing my husband that I married too quickly, oh, but let me introduce you to the man I started living with and fell in love within a week’ without sounding foolish?

Simply, there was no way. But she'd made an attempt nonetheless:

“The safety, support, and love I have been fortunate enough to experience in this wonderful city all hinged upon a meeting with him. If our paths hadn’t collided that first night, I do not know how my life would have panned out. He invited me, an unwashed and manic stranger, into his home. He tended to me. Listened to me. I know it sounds foolish, but he isn’t like Orin. Please trust me about that. I would be beside myself with joy if you two had the opportunity to meet. He has also stated that he would love to write you, but he doesn’t want to infringe on our communications without permission first. I have no doubt you two would have much to discuss regarding philanthropy and business.”

Then, only six months after the first exchange, Constance had nervously sent her mother an invitation to her and Ebenezer’s wedding.

And … there was no reply. Only silence. Crickets. Nada. Goose egg.

Perhaps this was her mother’s way of conveying her skepticism about the occasion, she thought, but knew that was unlikely. Theresea DoGoode, in addition to being a shrewd yet charming businesswoman, was honest and open. One knew exactly where they stood with her at all times. It was as much a comfort as it was a curse to the inauspicious few that crossed her.

That made her sudden reticent nature even more bizarre.

In a daze about her mother’s mysterious silence, Constance glanced down at the parchment beneath her fingers briefly, a few soft curls coming loose from her hair ribbon and falling about her cheeks.

There, before her eyes, was a bank note authorized with a familiar signature.

Ebenezer S. Scrooge

Each letter was crafted in bold, straightforward strokes.

The sight sobered her in the most refreshing way. In a month, she would be signing her own name next to his on official documents in court. Their signatures, and lives, would reside together. In a still unfamiliar city filled with the most kind and wonderful people she’d ever had the privilege of becoming acquainted with.

Even if she did not have her mother’s blessing, she was certain of her path and choice.

“Bob, thank you.”

“For what, pray tell?”

“For everything. I couldn’t ask for a more wonderful group of people to be surrounded during this time. I thank you for being one of the many people who was generous enough to give me a second chance.”

The man’s crescent smile widened into a half-moon grin.

“Much obliged, Ms. DoGoode,” Bob said, a twinkle in his eye. “For the remaining month that the title is applicable.”

At that moment, the chime of the front door interrupted their banter.

Ebenezer Scrooge strode in with a laugh, his conversation with his walking partner carrying into the entryway briefly.

“Yes, thank you again,” Ebenezer called gaily as he shut the office door slowly. “Thank you for your assistance today, my good man! Please, do take care, won’t you?”

At the sound of her papa’s familiar voice, Prudence was immediately roused out of sleep. In a flash, her eyes snapped open and she rolled over onto all fours to gallop into the entryway to greet him. She greeted him with excited barks until he dropped on his knee to pet and greet her.

Once he had finished bidding Prudence hello, he let out an accomplished sigh and redirected his attention to setting his cane to the side.

“My heavens, the company at today’s chamber meeting was nothing short of spritely,” he declared. “We’re finally seeing some young blood in the business sector – it’s a comfort to see the next generation delve into charity so early in their lives.”

After removing his day coat and hanging it on the hook, he scratched Prudence under her chin one last time before pirouetting swiftly to Constance’s desk near the door.

They had been apart for mere hours, but the energy that warmed his complexion at the sight of her was fitting of a man seeing his lover again after years apart. “Darling.”

She preened under his adoring gaze, and she made a silent promise to herself to never take the warmth of his ice-thawed gaze for granted.

He outstretched a hand, beckoning her closer despite the fact that he was already crossing the threshold to meet her. When his hand caught hers, the fit was natural and easy, and was now further weighted by her engagement ring.

Stepping out from behind her clerk’s desk, she welcomed him with a kiss he was eager to receive. Her lips molded to his fully, the contours of his face beautifully familiar to her by now, but no less addicting in its comfort and warmth. Had they been alone, her hands would have lofted to cup his chiseled face. Later tonight, she thought cheekily.

“All is well at Lloyds, I presume?” she asked instead, her hands coming to a rest upon the impressive expanse of his shoulders. She smoothed the velvet-lined lapels of his jacket, appreciating the masculine breadth of his form.

“Very much so,” he told her, his own palms coming to a comfortable rest atop her hips. His placement was just high enough to be proper, even behind closed doors. “They are congratulatory of our union, as well. Drosselmeyer sends his regards, as do Haverty and Stevenson.”

“How wonderfully kind of them! Though I’m not surprised by their thoughtfulness, especially Mr. Drosselmeyer’s.”

“I think he’d be flattered to know that, the good man he is.”

Drosselmeyer was one of the hew associates that had been supportive of their relationship since its start, even back when her ex-husband had infiltrated Lloyds to track her down. He was a good man, and she made a mental note to send him and all the other associates a kind note and a large vase of flowers for their office as thanks.

“I … erm, do apologize for barging in like I did,” Ebenezer said with a light blush, “I suppose I got caught up in the conversation and also got Prudence quite excited. That was improper, and I hope I didn’t disrupt you.”

As if his happiness could ever disrupt her, she thought.

“Seeing you come through that door, or any door, could only ever bring me grand excitement,” Constance confided.

His laugh was resonant. “Is that so?”

“I’m afraid I have a habit of missing you dearly, even when we are only parted for a short while.”

His sparkling daze darkened into something more sensual at that admission, and his soft smile widened ever-so-slightly. “Very much noted, my darling.”

As Bob rose to join them at the door, Ebenezer quickly lofted his hands from the precarious placement and the couple stepped away from each other respectfully. Being a married man himself, Cratchit respectfully averted his eyes and humored the couple by pretending to be none the wiser to their obvious affections.

“Are you finished for the day, sir?” Bob inquired. “I’m happy to lock up if you and Ms. DoGoode would like to make your way home.”

“As lovely as that sounds, I do have a few ends to wrap up,” he answered almost mournfully. He turned to his fiancée, placing a broad hand upon her shoulder. “I apologize, dearest, but I have a few items to draft and get notarized for the morning post. It may take an hour or two, but as always, I will be home before sunset.”

“Could I be of any assistance, sir?”

“Thank you, Bob, but the matter must fall to me. I appreciate your kindness, but I couldn’t keep you from your wife and family.”

“Very well, sir.”

“I would be happy to stay,” Constance offered genuinely.

“I know you would,” Scrooge said, his hand covering hers, “But there’s no point in forcing you to stay late and linger for no reason, my love. I’ll be back home swiftly. I promise.”

She understood. After all, if he had to draft letters and prepare materials for a notary, there wouldn’t be much opportunity for discussion or for splitting of responsibilities. Another person in the room – any other person – would only be a distraction, and that was not something she wanted to be. Besides, Prudence would be lovely company by herself, and also kept watch over him on those dimly-lit walks home.

“Well, in that case, perhaps I’ll visit the market to pick out some fresh ingredients for dinner.” After all his hard work, she figured he deserved to come home after the end of a long day and enjoy a good meal. “Any preferences?”

“Anything you or Magda cooks is an absolute privilege to enjoy,” he said. “But something with fresh produce does have a certain appeal to it, I’ll admit. It must be this warm weather.”

“Then it is settled! Oh, I used to make a lovely lemon-orange marsala back in New York. It was always a hit in summer, and it pairs wonderfully with white wine.”

“That sounds divine, dearest.”

“I’m meeting Mrs. Cratchit at the market as well,” Bob said. “Seeing that we share a common destination, shall I walk with you, Ms. DoGoode?”

“That would be wonderful,” she replied, beaming. “Thank you, Bob. And, of course, I’ll make enough for your family as thanks.”

“That is incredibly kind, Ms. DoGoode, but please don’t trouble yourself. Especially after working a full day yourself.”

“Please, allow me. Maybe one day I’ll learn how to cook for just two, but as long as my socialite skills are still baked into me, I’ll prepare enough food for twelve and happily share.”

With a laugh, Bob offered her an arm. “Well, perhaps I’ll take a few extra laps around the market, then. Otherwise the money I save on ingredients is going to go right into my tailor’s pocket before long.”

With one last pat on the back, Scrooge sent the two redheads off. They both donned their light walking jackets, with Bob donning a top hat and Constance tying a sunflower-adorned hat to protect her from the day’s last rays of sun.

Ebenezer, ever-doting, helped his fiancée secure her jacket and set her cap, including the ribbons. As soon as everything laid perfectly, they shared one more fleeting kiss.

“I’ll be home before nightfall,” he promised.

A couple hours into the evening, it appeared at first that things would truly would be that simple.

He’d just reached the last page of his reply before Prudence whined from her doggy bed, pawing at his leg through his trousers. Thanks to her size, the motion was enough to jostle his chair.

With a chuckle that exuded almost fatherly patience, Ebenezer leaned down and rubbed the mastiff’s head in apology. In what was most certainly a first in his adult life, he had underestimated the amount of work he’d needed to finish.

“Almost done, my girl. Just one more letter, and we’ll be home in a jiffy. How does that sound?”

Her tail hit the floor with a happy thud, inspiring him to refocus on work promptly. Between Prudence, Constance and Magda, the three ladies certainly kept him on a tight schedule. Not that he minded in the slightest.

As he scribed the last of the remaining letters by candlelight, he failed to notice the shadow of a fourth lady strutting with purpose up to the counting house.

If the cloying darkness of the quickly approaching London sunset bothered the mysterious visitor, it did not manifest in her movements.

Without knocking, she tried the door and found it unlocked.

Hearing the sound of the entry bell chime, Ebenezer was roused from his focus with a blink. Had the door been unlocked the entire time? He supposed he’d forgotten to latch it.

The gas lamps overhead were also lit, providing precious light in the otherwise cavernous room.

Pushing himself up from his desk, he went to approach the guest.

“I’m terribly sorry, but we are closed for the night,” he vocalized in his usual, stately voice. “I’m afraid you’ll have to come back tomorrow.”

The woman’s face was shielded by a large, wide-brimmed hat adorned with starched peonies. The accessory’s impressive circumference was rimmed with a thick, satin ribbon. It’s long tails draped over the edge of the rim and flowed behind her like a gentleman’s coattails. It was an accessory that hardly made sense to wear after dark, but did pair well with her dress, which was fashioned from a striking swatch of coffee-colored cambric with an ornate cream brocade. Her buttons, gloves, and even the flowers in her hat were a matching shade of pearly white. The only interruption of the distinct was a striking brooch pinned high on her collar, the design emblazoned with a man’s profile.

As she turned to meet him, he realized the purpose of the brooch was to help keep an expensive oxblood scarf in place.

That scarf might have been the first thing he noticed when their gazes met, but the observation that immediately followed was how familiar the woman was.

With her hair styled to favor one side of her head, her starlight-streaked black hair swooped artfully across her forehead, highlighting her dark brown eyes. They appeared to be lined with kohl as well – something Hela often did, as he’d come to learn since they’d bonded more. And someone else as well, although that woman used a deep brown instead of black because it paired more naturally with her auburn hair and lash line.

Her eyes weren’t the only thing that was familiar. The way she posed herself, with her shoulders squared perfectly and her head tilted up proudly was strikingly familiar. The way her hands didn’t so much as flinch as they rested against the swell of her skirt was also impressive – indicative of someone used to being dissected in public.

Then, one of those hands reached out and stroked the metal placard upon the clerk’s desk. The name Constance DoGoode was proudly scribed in noble, engraved script.

They would have to update it soon, he vaguely realized.

When he glanced up again, her eyes met his. At their second glance, it struck him that her gaze was not kind, cordial, or even inquisitive. It was scrutinizing.

“Ebenezer Scrooge, I presume?” the woman inquired, her voice harboring a familiar New York accent. A midtown accent, as he's come to learn. “My name is Theresea DoGoode, and I believe you are acquainted with my daughter.”

TAG LIST: @quill-pen @thedivinelights

Theresea DoGoode has entered the chat, and boy oh boy, she is NOT pleased about it. I had fun with some nods to our favorite Mr. Marley as well.

Thanks for reading!

BGM: Coffee Jelly ⁘ Spring Mode in New York

#ebenezer scrooge #scrooge x oc #scrooge 2022 #scroogeverse #scrooge netflix #oc constance dogoode #scrooge a christmas carol #oc theresea dogoode

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