#and even more so when that world is the real one

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

💀 Making Your Villain Make Sense (Without Making Them Right™)

("because if I see one more war criminal with a sad diary entry get a redemption arc, I’m gonna throw my laptop.")

Here’s the thing: your villain doesn’t need to be redeemable. But they do need to make sense.

And I mean sense beyond "they’re evil and they monologue about it." Or “they have a tragic past, so now they do murder <3.” Or “they were right all along, the hero just couldn’t see it 🥺.”

Let’s fix that.

─────── ✦ ───────

🧠 STEP ONE: BUILD A LOGIC SYSTEM THAT ISN’T OURS Your villain shouldn’t just be wrong, they should have their own internal system that works for them. Morally flawed? Absolutely. But coherent.

Ask yourself:

What do they value more than anything? (Power? Order? Loyalty? Vengeance?)

What do they believe about the world, and how did they get there?

What fear drives them? What future do they think they’re trying to prevent?

The villain doesn’t need to know they’re wrong. But you should.

Make their logic airtight. even if it’s awful. Give them cause and effect.

─────── ✦ ───────

👿 STEP TWO: STOP GIVING THEM THE BETTER IDEOLOGY Listen. I love a “morally gray” moment as much as anyone. But if your villain is making all the good points and the hero’s just like “no because that’s mean,” your arc is upside down.

If your villain is critiquing injustice, oppression, or inequality, make sure their methods are the problem, not their entire worldview.

✖︎ WRONG: Villain: “The ruling class is corrupt.” Hero: “That’s not nice.”

✔︎ RIGHT: Villain: “The ruling class is corrupt, so I’m burning the city and everyone in it.” Hero: “So you’re just… committing genocide now?”

Your villain can touch a real issue. Just don’t let them be the only one talking about it, or solving it with horror movie logic.

─────── ✦ ───────

🔪 STEP THREE: GIVE THEM POWER THAT COSTS THEM The best villains lose things too. They’re not just untouchable horror dolls in sexy coats. They make bad choices and pay for them. That’s where the drama lives.

Examples:

They isolate themselves.

They sacrifice people they love.

They get what they want, and it destroys them.

They know they’re the monster, and choose it anyway.

If your villain can kill a dozen people and feel nothing, that’s not scary. That’s boring. Let them bleed. Let them regret it. Let them double down anyway.

─────── ✦ ───────

🧱 STEP FOUR: MAKE THEM PART OF THE WORLD, NOT OUTSIDE IT Villains shouldn’t feel like they were patched in from another genre. They should be part of the world’s logic, culture, class system, history. They should reflect something about the setting.

Villains that slap:

The advisor who upheld the regime until they decided they deserved to rule.

The noble who’s using war to reclaim stolen legacy.

The ex-hero who thinks the system can’t be saved, only reset.

The priest who truly believes the gods demand blood.

They’re not just evil, they’re a product of the same world the hero is trying to save.

─────── ✦ ───────

👁 STEP FIVE: SHOW US THEIR SELF-JUSTIFICATION You don’t need a tragic backstory™. But you do need to show us why they think they’re right. Not just with exposition, through action.

Let us watch them:

Protect someone.

Choose their goal over safety.

Justify the unjustifiable to a character who loves them.

Refuse to change, even when given a chance.

A villain who looks into the mirror and goes “Yes. I’m correct.” is 1000x scarier than one who sobs into a journal and says “I’m so broken 🥺.”

─────── ✦ ───────

🧨 BONUS ROUND: DON’T MAKE THEM A HATRED MEGAPHONE Especially if you’re writing marginalized characters: don’t let your villain become a mouthpiece for slurs, abuse, or extremism just to make them “evil enough.” That’s lazy. And harmful.

You don’t need real-world hate speech to build a dark character. You need power, consequence, and intent.

─────── ✦ ───────

TL;DR: Good villains don’t need to be right. They need to be real. Not a vibe. Not a sad boy in a trench coat. Not a trauma monologue and then a sword fight. They need logic. They need cost. They need to scare you because you get them, and still want them to lose.

Make them dangerous. Not relatable. Make them whole. Not wholesome. Make them make sense.

—rin t. // thewriteadviceforwriters // villain critic. final boss consultant. licensed chaos goblin

P.S. I made a free mini eBook about the 5 biggest mistakes writers make in the first 10 pages 👀 you can grab it here for FREE:

[mymarifae]

dess is the knight. here's why

so, i keep seeing people arguing and being unsure who/what the knight is. lots of people saying that it's carol, or that it's actually none of the holidays and is just connected to them somehow. meanwhile i'm 99.99999999% certain it is in fact DESS. and you know what bumped my certainty levels up from like 75% to that 99.99999999%? gerson.

the dark world was able to use his dust to revive him for a time. he was perfectly himself, and he was in this sort of... limbo state of being a darkner and a lightner. but his funeral rites were followed correctly, minus actually burying his urn. so let's ask ourselves: what happens when the funeral rites aren't followed correctly?

what if they CAN'T be? what if the death is so sudden and horrible and her dust is lost? ... what if a fraction of her dust attaches itself to an object that does not correctly resonate with her soul? what if that's all that you have left of her? this incongruent amalgamation of her-but-not-her? do you throw the object away? no, that's your daughter. your childhood best friend. you're going to cling to the little bit you still have of her and try to bring the rest of her back. let the world end if it must; she's more important.

knight carol immediately falls apart for me for two big reasons, and one is simply that this is not what a lightner would look like in the dark world.

this is a lost, twisted being. this is the other side of the scale gerson was on, of near-simultaneously being a lightner and a darkner.

the other reason i can't buy into knight carol is that the knight was already waiting for susie and kris in the dark world while carol was at home grounding noelle. can the woman teleport? exist in two places at once? no. it's just not her.

anyway, plotholes in knight carol theory aside, there are SO many visual clues that the knight is at least a fraction of dess. if you weren't paying close attention - and good chance you weren't because you had bullets to dodge - you might have interpreted the knight's sword as just a sword. and then later, in noelle's house, you run into carol's katana and it's like, woah wait a SWORD?! that is intentional misdirection. the knight's sword is not a Sword. it's a bat.

here i have a handy and very painstakingly detailed chart just for you

real life + in-game katana vs the knight's "sword" vs real life bats. note the bottom of the knight's sword jutting out in one direction and how the real life black bat does the same thing.

katanas are also not wielded with one hand. the correct posture is with two

now, look how the knight swings her "sword":

if you manage to "win" the fight in chapter three, susie attacks the knight head-on, and chips the sword

and, oh, huh would you look at that-

interesting coincidence. also, the knight turns into a baseball-looking ball multiple times

one more thing. this stained glass window design in the church. it's dess standing below the titan she now shares a body silhouette with

(pardon the shaky outlines i refuse to turn on my tablet right now but hopefully that helps you see what i'm talking about if you couldn't at first)

and this isn't even getting into how dess's song is incorporated into the knight's battle theme. we finally met our girl, guys. it's her

[hrrtshape]

“the light has been at the end of the tunnel but i don’t think i’ll ever reach it.” aka something that you might want to hear if you’re struggling <3

this is not a lost cause. not now and not ever.

the fact that you’re still here, still aching for it, still trying, it’s not failure or proof it isn’t real. it’s proof that something inside you knows it’s possible and that it’s it’s than here.

i’m not going to give you a soft, meaningless answer, i know exactly how much it hurts and i know what it feels like to want something so bad you can barely breathe without it. i know what it’s like to look at this world and think i wasn’t built for this one. i belong somewhere else, with him, with her, with them. and i know what it’s like to have thought: what if i’m just lying to myself? what if this is never going to happen?

but look at what you’ve built.

five years, and you have not let go. that’s devotion.

you’ve done more than most people ever could, you have a whole reality, multiple even, layered in your chest as if it’s a second heartbeat. you’re not just chasing something vague, you know their eyes and have memorised the notes of their scent and how they never let go. you know the exact slouch of their shoulders when they’re sleepy and trying to stay awake for you. you know how they hold you like your body is the answer to every question they’ve ever asked.

that kind of knowing is not fake or imagined but memory.

if your mind can go there so vividly, so often, so intensely that it hurts not to be there……… then the place you’re aching for already exists.

and you exist there too

you’re not wrong for feeling hopeless. and you’re definitely not behind

i won’t say it’s “building.” but i will say say this: it’s not that you have to get there. your awareness is already tangled up in that world, and the moment that tangle pulls tighter than this one, you’re gone. gone in a blink, gone like breath, gone like magic. you’ll open your eyes and they’ll be there and it will feel like the only thing that’s ever been real.

please don’t give up. dont let go of the one place you feel home

the second you let yourself assume it’s real without shame, without pause, it will be. i promise you

[twilightofthesandwiches]

…So we do have some implications that Kris… at the very least, does not care for Ralsei as much as they care for Susie, or as much as Ralsei cares for them. Most notably with Chapter 2’s Teas;

I think also maybe their tendency in the recent chapters to point out the differences between Ralsei and Asriel might be related to it. They don’t want to compare Ralsei to their beloved older brother.

But I wonder if that’s beginning to change. Most notably with all the scenes of Kris and Susie comforting Ralsei and encouraging him to be himself… Obviously we are the ones telling Kris to say the words, but... it seems like it was their choice to give him a hug.

Which kinda reminds me of our first indication that Kris genuinely considers Susie their friend.

Plus, like, sure we CAN force Kris to say certain things, but they can also subtly rebel against it by saying things 'weirdly'

or immediately contradicting our words with their own.

So.... not only do they don't really resist this attempt to help Ralsei, here is how they react if you try and pick one of the most flagrant "no Ralsei you and your feelings don't matter (:" options.

They are literally fighting against the Player's control to try and emotionally support Ralsei.

I wonder if this was a matter of Kris' thoughts about Ralsei actually mirroring many Players, that they also thought he was weird and shady and that his niceness was too-good-to-be-true and that he's probably manipulative and evil. And with the revelations about Ralsei and the way he thinks about himself and his reasoning for keeping secrets in Chapters 3 and 4, it's only now that Kris is starting to let their guard down around him and allows themself to like him.

Or if it's a matter of... clearly Kris' situation with the SOUL (AKA us) is a very unhappy one for them. Even if it also seems to be part of the plan Kris and Evil Phone Voice are on, it is not a pleasant experience for Kris. It might be that the thing that endeared them to Susie so much in the first place is the way that she also chafes and rebels against being 'railroaded' by the prophecy stuff all through Chapter 1 - and therefor they were always put off by Ralsei's happy-peppy lack of resistance to following anything the prophecy said....

Hell... we STILL don't know what these two talk about when the SOUL is away following Susie... if Ralsei told Kris they need to put on a happy smile and accept being a 'Cage' for an Amoral Time God, that will certainly sour their relationship.

But now Ralsei is opening up to how much this fatalism has caused him pain, and now he's starting to push back against it. And maybe now Kris can understand that Ralsei is also in the same boat as them and Susie, that they are kindred spirits.

Or maybe... that whole deal with Kris and the Evil Phone Voice seems to indicate they might've known about Dark Worlds and how they work before the story of the game properly starts, and at least that they understand them more than Susie does. Maybe Kris themself thought of Darkners the same way Ralsei thought. Maybe they were distant from Ralsei because they saw him as not 'real'. And watching Ralsei unlearn this mindset is causing Kris to reconsider the way they were thinking of Dark Worlds and Darkners.

Or... well... it could just be as simple as Kris seeing how much Ralsei matters to Susie. We have constant reminders through these two chapters of how much Susie cares for Ralsei and how much she sees them as a trio. So even if Kris just doesn't Vibe with Ralsei, thinks he's annoying or weird or creepy or whatever, Kris cares for Susie, so they know they have to care about her other very best friend.

I wonder if the reason behind the Person-Flavor-Teas being 'Rotten' past Chapter 2 is because Chapter 3 and 4 actually have a lot of subtle shifts in the characters' relationships and it would've been unpractical to keep track of them all, or simply narratively unsatisfying to spell them numericaly out like that.

[blueberrybirdsworld]

Out of frame 3/4

Summary : Y/N and Lando Norris have been together for three years. Their relationship is real, steady, and full of quiet love but always behind the scenes. While fans know they’re a couple, Lando has never posted about her, avoids public displays of affection, and never mentions her in interviews. At first, Y/N understood. She believed it was about privacy, about protecting what they had. But over time, being constantly left out of frame has started to hurt.

Genre : angst, SMAU

Pairing : Lando Norris x reader

Faceclaim : @suanbeiii

Main Masterlist

Serie Masterlist

@your_username 📍Côte d’Azur

A very special photoshoot, thanks @your_photograph 🌸

@_user1 she’s literally the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. like??? how is this even real??

@_user2 Lando must be the dumbest man alive I fear 😭

@_user3 girl you’re glowing like someone who deleted his number ✨

@_user4 he said “which gf?” and she said “not me then.” ICONIC.

@_user5 this is exactly what peace looks like after you stop begging a man for the bare minimum

@_user6 no because if they break up for real, I’m shooting my shot 🫡

@_user7 soft girl era activated. and he’s nowhere in sight? suspicious 🧐

@_user8 I just know Lando’s watching this through his tears

@_user9 the flower, the pearls, the PINK , yeah no, he lost

@_user10 if he doesn’t come crawling back after this… I WILL. give me a chance queen 😭❤️

@_user11 she didn’t need to mention him to completely obliterate him

@_user12 you mean to tell me he left this to go party with his friends in Japan? okay clown

@_user13 this looks like a breakup shoot and a Vogue cover at the same time

@_user14 soooo when are you free for dinner? asking for literally all of us

Texts messages :

Lando I saw the photos You look… breathtaking

Lando I don’t even have the words How do you manage to look like that and I act like you’re not the most beautiful person in the world?

Lando Y/N please. You know I’m sorry I’ve been sorry since the second we started fighting

Lando I messed up, okay? I was defensive, I didn’t listen, I didn’t take in how much it mattered to you I thought I was protecting something private and sacred, but I see now I was just hiding

Lando I was scared. And I pushed you away because I didn’t know how to be vulnerable in front of everyone

Lando I see the comments I know what people are saying I know I look like the dumbest man alive Because I was.

Lando I’m not partying, I’m not happy, I’m not okay. I miss you. I miss your voice, your laugh, your constant humming when you cook, the way you curl your fingers in my sleeve when you’re cold

Lando I sent the flowers because I didn’t know what else to do And yeah, anyone can send flowers. But no one can love you the way I do

Lando I’m sorry. For every time I made you feel small, or hidden, or unloved You weren’t. Not even for a second You are everything

Lando Please talk to me. Please. Even if you’re mad. Yell at me. Swear at me. Just… don’t go silent on me

Lando I don’t want to lose you because I didn’t know how to show I was proud of you I am, I’m so proud. Of everything you are

Lando I love you. More than ever

Lando Please come back. Or let me come to you Just say something Anything ?

@_F1Gossip 📍Tokyo, Japan

Spotted: Lando Norris seen out partying in Tokyo after the Japan Grand Prix last night. No Y/N in sight.

@_user1 not him clubbing while she’s not here, be serious lando

@_user2 he’s out here drinking and dancing while the rest of us are grieving their relation??

@_user3 how are you gonna party when you clearly hurt your girl and she’s getting love letters in her comments?? GET IT TOGETHER.

@_user5 I’ve defended him for years but… I can’t do this anymore. she deserved better and we all know it.

@_user6 I know PR team is sweating.

@_user7 he parties like he didn’t just lose the most beautiful woman alive and humiliate her on live TV. delusion.

@_user8 idc what the drama is, I’m just waiting for Y/N to post again. SHE’S the star now

@_user9 literally everyone: “Lando please fix it” Lando: goes clubbing with his shirt unbuttoned

@_user10 “which girlfriend” got him feeling single I guess 😭

@your_usurname

Needed a drink and have the best friends ever for that🥂

@_user1 She’s in her IDGAF era and I’m here for it 🔥👑

@_user2 Oh she’s DONE done. 😮‍💨

@_user3 the crown. the girls. the middle finger. this is the official breakup tour

@_user4 Y/N said “cry about it, I’m busy glowing.”

@_user5 your glow-up is legally blinding. teach us your ways

@_user6 she’s heartbroken but make it sexy

@_user7 I know Lando’s watching this post on repeat 😭

@_user10 She’s too fine to be sad. Lando who???

@_user11 Not to be dramatic but I’d jump in front of a train for her

@_user12 Her friends deserve a raise. Crowned their queen and gave her the world tonight.

@_user13 this is what it looks like when the pretty girl realizes she deserves better 😭👏

@_user15 tell me your bf fumbled without telling me 💅🏽

3:02 AM Texts messages : Lando babe babeee bbabyyy i mean not baby i mean. ugh whatever why u so pretty huh?? like??? WHYYYY

Lando saw ur post n now i’m lying on the floor face down sad pathetic loser man vibes

Lando u look like a literal goddess like Aphro… aphroditty… aphrotiddy?? idk u know what i mean

Lando not even mad just confused hurting too mostly sad after seeing your post

Lando did ur friend give u that crown? tell her i said thanks for crowning the queen of my whole life also tell her to stop commenting “he fumbled” i knooooow

Lando i miss ur laugh ur hands ur eyes ur frown when i’m being annoying miss all of it even ur cold feet under the covers

Lando i shud have posted u every day every hooour every millimillisecond u soooo pretty i wanna scream

Lando come back plsss or lemme come back i’ll be so good. i’ll buy u flowers every hour i’ll post u. tag u

Lando can i call uuuu i wanna hear ur voice just wanna know ur real and not like. a hallucination from my own stupidity

Lando ok gonna go cry in the shower now

Lando iloveyou babyyyy answer plssss i'm not drunk just ok i'm drunk plssss answer fuck i miss u

@landonorris

Mmyyy loove

@_user1 wait… WHO is this girl??? where is Y/N??? 😭

@_user2 why this man do a post at 4 a.m, is he not in a club ??

@_user3 so let me get this straight. he couldn’t tag Y/N, never posted her, but now he’s posting mystery girl like this???

@_user4 he really said “which gf?” and then proved it 😐

@_user5 the audacity of this man is actually insane. like. Y/N was literally still watching his races

@_user6 did they break up and he already moved on?? and posting about it?? bold

@_user7 3 years of silence and now THIS. lando norris you will pay for your crimes

@_user8 hope Y/N is living her best life far away from this nonsense

@_user9 he’s just soft launching a whole new girl while Y/N gets silence. bro what

@_user10 if this is a new gf… he better never talk about privacy again cause this is messy 😵‍💫

@_user11 no way you were gifted the most elegant woman and fumbled her like this

@_user12 someone go check on Y/N cause this?? this is COLD.

5:02 AM Texts messages

Y/N who the fuck is she?

Y/N you seriously meet some random girl ?

Y/N you CHEATED on me??? you really cheated on me and then posted it for the world to see?

Y/N lando what the hell you disappear on me, ignore everything I said, and now THIS?

Y/N you couldn’t post me for THREE YEARS

Y/N is this why you didn’t tag me? because you still flirt with girls in clubs and you didn’t want me to find out?

Y/N you didn’t even have the decency to end things before doing this we weren’t okay, but I still loved you. I will have still showed up for you and this is how you repay me?

Y/N this is LOW. even for you.

Y/N say something SAY. SOMETHING. LANDO !!!!! Answer your phone I'm trying to call you rn

Y/N I swear to god, we’re DONE.

Taglist (closed) : @angelluv16, @httpsxnox, @anunstablefangirl, @chocolatemagazinecupcake, @mayax2o07, @freyathehuntress, @verogonewild, @lilyofthevalley-09, @esw1012, @its-me-frankie, @linneaguriii, @ezzi-ln4, @rlbmutynnek, @actuallyazriel, @sofs16, @thulior, @sltwins, @henna006, @stylesmoonlight12, @lilaissa, @sideboobrry11, @l3thal-l0lita, @lorena-mv33, @ispywlittleeye-blog, @lesliiieeeee, @sageskiesf1, @adynorris, @curlylando, @rebelliousneferut, @justcharlotte, @secret-agents-stole-my-bunnies, @emneedshelp, @lando-505, @yukimaniac, @sashisuslover, @f1norris04, @hi26loveie, @bunnisplayground, @nina481, @reallifemermaidprincess, @cars-and-frogs, @delululeclerc, @txmhxllqnd, @lydia-demarek, @destinyg237, @rhaenyrasversion, @sarascabiosa, @readz4u, @tvdtw4ever, @mynameisangeloflife, @teti-menchon0604, @suns3treading, @op814kitty, @prettyboyroseberg, @willowsnook, @ariesandwolves, @clarksgf, @knivesdoingcartwheels, @pinklemonade34, @fat-meh, @tiaajosephin, @landosbabe4, @easy4, @jule239, @mercrussell, @skylandori, @ryuucollapse, @nickie-amore, @fairyjinn, @seonaw, @strawberrylov-er, @linnygirl09, @dilflover44, @bell1a, @f1fantasys, @sillyfreakfanparty, @janonymus0, @taetae-armyyyyy, @charlesgirl16, @angstynasty, @jules-bea2308, @afternoonarchive, @itsbieberxholland, @rexit-mo, @chlmtfilms, @vampgege, @mochimommy2002, @budgetcupid, @lemon-stvrrr, @bell1a, @taebearyoongs, @hazzasmunchkin, @sainz0fthetimes, @didaaa4, @madelyn2000, @il0vereadingstuff, @march32nd, @chlmtfilms, @literallysza, @cheapdocmartens, @wolfstarsimpxx, @pretzelcat4-blog, @larya810, @6-noir, @urfavftoomie, @ficr3ccs, @strawberrylov-er, @wosof1, @behindmygreyeyes, @justheretoreadthxxs, @pinklemonade34, @ninass-world, @landosbabe4, @leclercdream, @perfectsuitcasegardenpie, @flowersandalll, @sagestack, @angxedxtz, @fangirl125reader, @mimisweetz, @mattslovelygf, @taetae-armyyyyy, @guacala, @gothicwidowsworld, @chezmardybum, @virtualperfectioncat, @cherryhazee,@bubble012, @teti-menchon0604

[cressidagrey]

You are in Love

Summary: Emilie Abadie still didn’t care about Formula 1. But she may care about a specific McLaren Driver. 

Warnings and Notes: 

I promised and here it is. Second Spin off featuring Emilie and Lando.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Emilie hadn’t planned on arriving early. But the flight had landed ahead of schedule, her suitcase had actually appeared on the carousel like a miracle, and the driver had taken a shortcut that shaved twenty minutes off the usual paddock run. 

For once in Emilie Abadie’s chaotic little life, the universe was in fact cooperating.

Her phone buzzed with a message from Belle - just a location tag. No words. No fuss.

Classic Belle: elegant emotional manipulation dressed up as casual precision.

Emilie adjusted her sunglasses on her head and smoothed a hand over her linen jumpsuit as she walked. 

Singapore’s heat hit like a wall, heavy and immediate, but her nerves were louder. It had only been eight days… (Emilie knew that, she counted them)  but something about Lando in this particular city made her feel…things.

Lando liked night races. He liked dumplings and market stalls and neon lights reflecting off the marina. He always said the chaos of Singapore matched the chaos in his head, which she found oddly poetic for someone who once got stuck inside a beanbag chair and called it “the most humbling moment of my adult life.”

As she reached the edge of the McLaren hospitality, Emilie hesitated… just for a second.

She could see the terrace through the slats of the fencing. People scattered at tables, laughter in the air, that unique pre-race buzz humming through everything. And there - not far - was him.

Lando.

Animated. Talking too fast. Probably retelling his quali lap with hand gestures and self-deprecating flair. His curls were damp with sweat and he’d shoved his cap on backwards, like always. He was smiling.

But not with his eyes.

She knew that smile. It was the one he wore when he was trying really hard to pretend. The one that didn’t crinkle the corners or soften his face. Just teeth and noise and practiced charm.

It made her chest ache.

Her gaze flicked across the terrace, and found Belle sitting in the corner beside Max, looking deeply smug. She didn’t wave. Didn’t call out. Just gave the world’s tiniest nod. A signal.

Go.

Emilie moved.

She didn’t think. She just walked. Past the tables, past the sunlit terrace, cutting through engineers and junior drivers like they were static. It was instinct. Like orbiting back to gravity.

She caught the moment Lando noticed. Saw the flicker of confusion, the sudden stillness, like he was watching something impossible.

He turned. And froze.

His eyes went wide. His whole body locked like a system crash.

“Holy—” he started, but she didn’t let him finish.

Her arms were around his neck before he could even breathe out the next syllable. He smelled like sweat and sunscreen and the detergent from his race suit. He was so warm and so very real, and Emilie felt the week of missed calls and longing texts collapse in on itself.

Lando’s arms wrapped around her like muscle memory. One hand curled at the back of her head. His chin tucked instinctively against her temple.

“Hey, idiot,” she whispered, half-laughing, half-choked. “You didn’t think I was missing night race dumplings, did you?”

Lando made a sound halfway between a choked laugh and a whimper, and Emilie felt the last thread of her exhaustion unravel in his arms. 

God, she’d missed him. His warmth, his scent, his chaotic aura and stupid jokes. The way he somehow made her feel like everything, everything, was a little more bearable, even when the world was loud.

She pulled back just enough to look at him.

He looked overwhelmed. Damp curls clinging to his forehead. Wide eyes. That open, helpless expression she’d seen sometimes on his face when he watched her. Like he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. 

Around them, the terrace kept buzzing. She heard Oscar’s voice, low and amused. A quiet laugh from somewhere to the left. Probably Belle, watching with all the satisfaction of a woman who knows she’s done something good and thinks she’s subtle about it.

“I thought you were in Denmark until Sunday,” he said, voice hoarse.

“I was. Then Belle weaponized her unborn child and guilt-tripped me into flying to Singapore”

Lando blinked. “That tracks.”

And then his arms were around her again, and Emilie let herself melt into it. Around them, the world kept turning…Oscar made a dry comment that made someone laugh, a camera clicked somewhere in the distance, Belle gave her a little wave from across the terrace, smug as hell—but none of it mattered.

Emilie didn’t care.

She closed her eyes and held on tighter, like if she let go now, she might not get another chance.

And maybe later she’d tease him about sulking. About dramatic sighs and sad-boy playlists and whatever nonsense he pulled while she was gone.

But not right now.

Right now, it was enough to be back. In his arms. In this stupid, sweaty, beautiful corner of the world where everything always felt like too much…and exactly right.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Lando Norris

Lando: hey just wanted to say thank you

Belle: for what?

Lando: for telling Emilie to come for making that happen i know you did. don’t pretend you didn’t

Belle: 😇

Lando: you’re terrifying and also the best

Belle:I prefer “emotionally strategic genius,” but I’ll accept “the best”

Lando: seriously though i haven’t felt like myself in a while not properly but when she showed up… everything clicked again

Belle:Good That’s what she does, doesn’t she?

Lando:Yeah she’s like coming up for air

***

The air-conditioning hummed low in the background, but the humidity still clung to Lando’s skin like a second layer. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, barefoot, damp curls falling into his eyes, fidgeting with the corner of a room service napkin like it had wronged him.

Emilie stood near the window, her linen jumpsuit swapped out for one of his oversized t-shirts and a pair of cotton shorts she’d dug out from her overnight bag. Her hair was damp from the shower. Her face was bare. She looked at home.

And he was terrified.

Not because she was here…but because he knew, somehow, this was the moment. The line they hadn’t crossed. Not really. Not with words.

He didn’t look up when he spoke. “I missed you.”

It came out quieter than he meant it to. But true.

Emilie turned from the window. Her expression softened. “I missed you too.”

He let out a breath, short and sharp. “I thought I was fine, you know? Like…I’m a grown man. You went to work. Not Mars.”

Emilie crossed the room and sat beside him. “And yet?”

“And yet I was pathetic,” he muttered, glancing sideways. “Oscar caught me listening to your voice messages.”

She blinked. “You listened—”

“I was down bad, Emilie. Like, tragic. I think I even made a sad playlist.”

She gave a quiet, delighted laugh. “Oh, baby.”

Lando smiled, but it faded quickly. His fingers stilled on the napkin. “You’re the first thing that’s felt... steady. In a while.”

Her smile faltered. He wasn’t joking anymore.

“I know I’m all over the place,” he continued. “On track. Off track. I make dumb jokes and act like everything’s fine even when it isn’t. But when I’m with you… I don’t have to do that. You don’t need me to be anything except… me. And I don’t think I realised how rare that was until you weren’t here.”

Silence stretched between them, warm and heavy and full of everything he hadn’t said before.

Emilie didn’t interrupt. She just reached out and took his hand, threading their fingers together.

“I don’t want to be casual about this anymore,” he said, eyes still fixed on their joined hands. “Whatever we’ve been doing… halfway, undefined, letting everyone think we’re just friends… I don’t want that. I want it to be real. Official. Known. I want you.”

Emilie was very quiet.

Lando finally looked up. “If that’s not what you want, that’s okay. Just… don’t lie to spare me.”

She looked at him for a long moment. Then exhaled. “You’re an idiot.”

He blinked. “That feels mean in context.”

“You’re an idiot,” she repeated, softer this time, “because you think you’ve been the only one scared.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

“I didn’t want to say anything first,” she admitted. “Because I thought… if I say it, and you don’t feel the same way, if I ruin the best thing I’ve had in years because I wanted more… then what? But the truth is, I’ve felt like this for a while.”

Lando’s throat worked around a swallow. “How long?”

“Long enough that not saying it has started to feel dishonest.”

He laughed…quiet, awestruck. “So say it.”

She smiled, something a little shaky in it. But true. “I’m in love with you.”

Lando stilled.

Then he surged forward, hand curling around the back of her neck, mouth pressing into hers like he’d been holding it in for months.

When they finally broke apart, his forehead rested against hers, breath uneven. “You’re mine,” he whispered. “Properly. Now.”

Emilie smiled into his skin. “I always was.”

And just like that, everything slotted into place.

***

It was the kind of heat that didn’t just settle on your skin—it sank in. Thick, sweet, almost alive. Singapore didn’t do quiet. Not even at night. Not even after the fireworks died and the engines went still. There was always something humming—underfoot, in the air, inside her chest.

Emilie stood just past the barriers near Parc Fermé, surrounded by chaos, but strangely untouched by it. She had come down with the mechanics, badge clipped to her collarbone, her fingers curled tight around its edge like it was the only thing grounding her.

She hadn’t even thought about what she was doing. She’d just… moved. Like instinct. Like orbit.

And then she saw him.

Lando.

Helmet off. 

Still trembling, still breathless. He’d driven like a man possessed—like someone burning for something, someone. And when the checkered flag dropped, Emilie swore she felt it in her teeth. 

That kind of win doesn’t whisper. It shouts.

But what really unraveled her wasn’t the win.

It was the way he looked at her when he found her in the crowd.

It wasn’t just relief. It wasn’t just joy. It was recognition. Like his entire body had been straining toward something and now - finally - he could stop.

There was no hesitation.

One stride. Then two.

And then he was there, in front of her, hands coming up to cup her face like he couldn’t believe she was real. Like the only thing holding him together was the fact that she was here.

And then he kissed her.

Not a PR kiss. Not a cautious “maybe if we angle this right it won’t go viral” kiss.

No - this was reckless and real and right there in front of every camera lens in a ten-mile radius. His mouth against hers, desperate and tender and breathless. She tasted champagne and adrenaline and something wild, something golden. His hands trembled as they curled around her waist. Her nails curled into his shoulders.

The crowd exploded. Applause. Cheers. Someone whistled like they were at a wedding. Someone else yelled “GET IN THERE, NORRIS!” like it was the finale of a romcom they’d all been waiting for.

But Emilie didn’t hear it. Not really.

All she heard was the sound he made when he pulled back just slightly, forehead pressed to hers, nose brushing hers. That broken little laugh. That sound of disbelief and joy and love all tangled together.

“I won,” he whispered.

“I know,” she whispered back.

And then he picked her up like she weighed nothing and spun her. Just once. Just because he could. Because the world was spinning anyway.

She could hear Oscar saying something behind them (probably deadpan and hilarious) and someone on the McLaren crew absolutely howling. But none of it stuck.

Because all she could think was: this is it.

Not just the win. Not just the kiss. But the moment. The shift.

There was no going back after this.

No hiding. No halfway.

This was his world, and he’d pulled her into it like she belonged there.

And for once, Emilie didn’t flinch under the weight of being seen.

She leaned into it.

Into him.

And as he kissed her again—softer this time, slower—she knew something else too:

This wasn’t the end of anything.

It was the beginning.

***

Text Messages: Max Fewtrell & Lando Norris

Lando: Mate.

Max: oh look who won a race and became the main character big night for you, rom-com boy

Lando: shut up

Max: no actually I won’t you kissed her in Parc Fermé with your HAIR doing that curly mop drama do you want a movie deal or should i start pitching it for you?

Lando: i blacked out okay

Max: you kissed her like she was oxygen and you’d been drowning sky sports is already calling it “the kiss that broke the internet” crofty said he felt emotions

Lando: he WHAT

Max: don’t worry i’m making a montage music options so far include: – “Can’t Help Falling in Love” (classic) – “Unwritten” (chaotic) – or just a slow-mo replay with crowd screams behind it

Lando: i will block you

Max: you kissed her and spun her around are you trying to get nominated for a Teen Choice Award?? do we need to get you a surfboard trophy?

Lando: it wasn’t planned i just… saw her and it was like. yeah. her. the win was hers too

Max: 🥹 okay fine that’s actually adorable still gonna roast you though

Lando: i’d be offended if you didn’t

Max: also oscar said you made a noise like a sick baby deer when she hugged you

Lando: i’m ending this conversation now

Max: love you too, parc fermé prince 💋

***

Text Messages: Emilie Abadie & Belle Verstappen

Emilie: so we’re official

Belle: you’re kidding

Belle: i thought you already were?? you’ve been attached at the soul for like two months

Emilie: we hadn’t said it you know? not out loud but now it’s real. like… capital-R real

Belle: i’m so happy for you and also going to start charging you rent for how often you live in denial

Emilie: you’re not wrong but he said it, belle he said he wants this us. publicly. completely.

Belle: you deserve it, Em all of it

Emilie: i didn’t think it’d ever feel like this like being wanted could feel safe

Belle: that’s what love’s supposed to be not fireworks not tension just… a soft place to land

you’re allowed to be happy and soft and loved

Emilie: i didn’t think i’d ever get all three

Belle: you got them in a boy with curls and questionable fashion sense

Emilie: god help me

Belle: yes. you can trust him. he loves you with his whole dumb, golden retriever heart

Emilie: okay thank you (for seeing it before i did)

Belle: always. now go be disgustingly in love

[dark-night-hero]

Imagine being the non-mc significant other of lead guitarist! Sylus. part2

Imagine the night was going well, last set of play and they were done for the day until that damn request card came. The way he stared at it under the stage light, jaw ticking, heart twisting in quiet dread. Lips of an Angel. He didn’t need to flip it over. He already knew who it was from.

Imagine the way he gripped the card tighter, wishing it would dissolve in his fist. A request like this wasn’t just a song. It was a test. A fucking ghost tapping on his shoulder. He looked over at the frontman, already nodding, already smiling that smug smile that said "Just do it. One more time won’t kill you."

Imagine he wanted to say no. He should have said no. He almost did. But the crowd was waiting, and when he glanced out across the sea of dim faces, he didn’t see you. If he had, he wouldn’t have done it. Maybe.

Imagine the way the first chord came like muscle memory to him. The way his fingers danced a familiar pattern of pain. He hadn’t played this song for years. Had not sung it in longer. There was no reason for that. He never sings, only does on occasional day but mostly because nowadays, he only sing for you and only you.

Imagine the way he knew this song isn't just music. It was a confession with a melody. And tonight, he was about to lie to the only person who really mattered.

"Honey, why you calling me so late?" The words sat like broken glass in his mouth. They didn’t belong to him anymore. But she was out there.

Imagine the way her eyes, not as sweet and shiny as yours, locked on him. Like he was still that boy who used to write songs about her and pretend it didn’t hurt. Thag made something unspoken twist inside his chest. Not love. Not anymore. It was just unfinished business. The kind that rots if you never open the box.

"I gotta whisper cause I can’t be too loud." He used to believe that. Used to think love had to hide in shadows and stolen glances. But you, you showed him difference. You were sunlight and stability. You laughed at his shitty guitar riffs, kissed the calluses on his fingers, and loved him on the quiet days. You were never a secret.

"Well, my girl’s in the next room" He cringed on the inside. His stomach turned with every lyric. Because you weren't in the next room. You were probably at home, curled up with one of his old hoodies, reading the same damn novel you've been teasing him with for weeks. Or maybe out with friends, texting him when you got home safe. You were his now. And he was yours, only yours. And yet, the song came out like a betrayal he didn't mean to sing.

Imagine he looked at her, MC, only once. Just for a second. She smiled like the world hadn't moved on. Like she still owned a part of him. Maybe she did. Maybe she always would. But what he had with her was then. What he had with you was real. It was now.

Imagine the way he finished the song on autopilot. The way no amount of applause could cut through the guilt already pounding on his chest. The band moved into the next song, but he barely played. His fingers hit strings without hearing them. His mind was somewhere else. Somewhere he couldn't follow.

Imagine he didn't know you were in the crowd. He didn't know you'd planned this as a surprise. He didn't even notice the shift in the crowd. Didn't see you leave. Didn't see your face. Didn't see the hurt. Not yet. Later, when he got backstage, there was a note waiting on him. No name. No message. Just a guitar pick.

Imagine the way his heart dropped. The way he picked up the guitar pick. Custom-made. His initials engraved in your handwriting. He stared at it like it had teeth. Every second he was touching it felt like it burns him. And then it hit him. You were here.

Imagine the way he ran out of the back door. Searched the alley. The parking lot. The street. But you were long gone. The night had swallowed you whole, and it didn't even leave a single echo behind.

Imagine he went home that night and stared at the ceiling in silence. He tried calling. No answer. Tried texting. Left on read. He couldn't sleep. He could not breathe right. Every minute that passed was a beat he felt like he doesn't deserve.

Imagine, the worst part wasn't that he sang to someone he didn't love anymore. It was that he did it thinking you will never know. But you did, and what was the cause?

Imagine he never told anyone what happened that night. Not even the band. He kept it all to himself. And the pick. He kept the pick. Carried it with him like a secret punishment. You were his home. And now, he was just another man who sang the wrong song to the right person who didn’t stay long enough to hear him say sorry.

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2025°

: part 4 u : imma bake some brownies rq. Bye.

[queen-mihai]

H..how does a person like this...

I need yall to understand something deeply important about me

I try to tell people that invisibility is a superpower and this shit is what I mean.

I won't say I couldn't get away with this. It's a given that I couldn't get away with this. Everyone who knows me, knows I couldn't get away with this

What people who don't know me that well may not realize?

Is that I couldn't get away with JOKING about doing something like this

I couldn't get away with IMAGINING doing something like this

I. Would be. A fucking. INTERNATIONAL. News story.

This is what I mean when I say I'm too noticeable. And what I mean when I say invisibility is a superpower.

HOW DID NOBODY SEE THIS

How did nobody call the fucking cops before the first dead bird hit a window

How the fuck does one get dead birds in the first place?

How did nobody call the cops AFTER dead birds start hitting windows??????????

I don't even want the girl to get in trouble. I just need yall to understand that in the world I live in, if I sneeze at the wrong time, somebody writes a fucking complaint and I've gotta spend a month having arguments with Very Serious People who "want me to understand just how serious this situation is"

And motherfuckers are just out here casually throwing dead birds at peoples windows often enough that someone stopped seeking other partners???

That's not just more than once,

That's gotta be OFTEN.

And just... getting away with it. That's just "wacky"

How on earth..... I get people up in arms at me because I didn't want to keep volunteering at a volunteer center. There wasn't a dead bird in sight. How on.. it can't... like... this can't be real. It can't. My sanity meter can't even fathom this being real. I'm gonna pretend this is a joke and absolutely no one on earth is getting away with stuff like this while I'm constantly bound up so tight I'm getting stress fractures and STILL having people mad at me for not doing good enough

It's not real

Not in the reality I inhabit nope nope nope 🤣

[fic-girlie]

I believe the only contraceptive available in the apocalypse is the good ol' pullout method. I think Joel would do fairly okay, but one night maybe he's so into it that he can't pull out on time and ends up cumming inside 🫣🫣🫣

Couldn't stop

Pairing: jackson!Joel Miller gf!reader Summary: Joel’s careful with pulling out, but one night, he can’t hold back and finishes inside you, changing everything between you. Warnings: established relationship, explicit sexual content (+18), desperate Joel, unprotected sex, p in v sex, failed pullout

The fire crackles low in the hearth, throwing warm amber light across the room, painting everything in shades of gold and shadow. The bed creaks under Joel’s weight as he leans over you, one arm braced beside your head, the other dragging slow and reverent fingers down your bare side. Outside, Jackson is quiet for once — patrols done for the night, the streets tucked into snowfall and silence. You’d made it home just after dusk, boots wet, cheeks pink from the chill. And he’d looked at you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered.

Now, you’re beneath him, legs parted around his hips, the heat of his body heavy and grounding against yours. He’s kissing you like he missed you all damn day — slow and deep, like he needs to memorize the taste of your mouth again, like he needs to remind himself that you’re safe and warm and here, right here, with him. His tongue slides against yours and he groans low, deep in his chest, like just kissing you is enough to undo him.

“Joel,” you whisper, arching your back just enough for your chest to press against his, and his breath stutters against your lips. “Please.”

He never makes you beg. Doesn’t like it, even. He says you never have to — that he’s always gonna give you what you need. And he does. Rough hands that know exactly how to touch you, calloused fingers tracing the shape of your waist, your ribs, the softness of your thighs as he hooks one over his arm and slides forward, guiding himself against your slick heat. Just the thick head of him brushing through your folds, slow, patient, teasing.

“Shit, baby,” he mutters, voice raw and cracked at the edges, already losing himself in the feel of you. “So wet f’me.”

You gasp when he pushes in. Just the tip, then a little more, stretching you open, filling you with slow, aching precision. His forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing heavy, still clothed in the scent of each other — sweat, pine soap, something warm and faintly smoky clinging to his skin.

“God,” you whisper, nails biting into his back. “You feel so good, Joel.”

He moves deeper with a groan, thick and slow, bottoming out inch by inch until he’s fully seated inside you. You clutch at him, thighs trembling around his hips, breath catching as he stills to let you adjust. But he’s not patient — not tonight. There’s something frayed in him, something wild. You feel it in the way his hips jerk forward a little too hard, in the way his voice catches when he murmurs your name, like he’s not sure if he’s praying or cursing.

“I missed you,” he says, voice a hoarse whisper in the dark. “All damn day. Think about this every second I’m gone.”

He pulls out almost entirely before thrusting back in, hard enough to make the bed jolt, and you cry out, clinging to him as he sets a pace that’s already pushing the edge of control. Every stroke is deep and perfect, hitting just right, and his body is so hot and heavy against yours it feels like you’re drowning in him. Your name leaves his mouth like a plea, like he needs to say it just to stay grounded.

The pullout method. It’s been the quiet rule between you. The only real option left in this world. And Joel, ever responsible, ever careful, always manages it — always groans low and pulls out at the last moment, finishing messy across your belly, your thighs, your lower back, wherever he can, always with a whispered apology he doesn’t need to give.

But tonight — tonight feels different.

He’s panting against your throat now, fucking you harder, deeper, rougher than he usually lets himself. There’s nothing frantic or angry about it — just desperate, raw need. His control is slipping. You feel it.

“Joel,” you gasp, breathless, the pressure building inside you so sharp it borders on unbearable. “You—fuck, you have to pull out—”

“I know,” he growls, but his hips stutter, and instead of retreating, he sinks even deeper. “I know, baby, I just—I can’t—fuck—”

You feel him twitch, the thick throb of him inside you as his rhythm falters. His whole body seizes above you, arms trembling, forehead pressed tight to your temple as he lets out a sound that’s somewhere between a groan and a growl, almost pained.

And then you feel it — the heat of it, spilling inside, sudden and deep and thick. Your whole body tightens, pleasure rippling through your core in a blinding wave as you come just from the sheer shock of it — from how deep he is, from the stretch, from the raw, possessive way he gasps your name as he pulses inside you again and again.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just breathes against your throat, heart pounding like he ran a mile, still buried to the hilt inside you, one big hand curling protectively around the back of your neck.

“I didn’t mean to,” he murmurs after a long, quiet moment, voice ragged, guilt-tinged, like it’s some kind of confession. “Shit, baby, I was gonna pull out, I swear. Just—fuck—felt too good. Couldn’t stop. Couldn’t…”

You stroke his back slowly, still dazed, your body still fluttering with aftershocks. You feel full in a way you haven’t before. Warm, stretched, deeply his.

“I know,” you whisper, pressing your lips to the underside of his jaw. “It’s okay.”

But your voice is soft. Thoughtful. You both know what that means. What it could mean. There’s no Plan B here. No backups. Just this.

Joel lifts his head to look at you, eyes dark and still wrecked with the afterglow, but there’s something else there too — fear. Hope. Love. You don’t know which is stronger.

“I’ll take care of you,” he says, voice hoarse and trembling, like the words matter more than anything else. “No matter what happens.”

[infinite-orangepeel]

steve & eddie hate sex in which they continue to try to piss each other off by spitefully leaving as many obvious marks as possible.

eddie sinks his teeth into the fleshiest parts of steve’s muscled thighs—reveling in the idea that he’ll have no way to hide those pretty bruises under his tiny basketball shorts at practice. reveling even more in the way steve gorgeously writhes & gasps each time he bites down.

in retaliation, steve sucks as many hickeys as he can right beneath eddie’s ears, below his chin, & on the sides of his neck until it looks like someone’s painted his pale skin with a palette of overripe berries.

eddie groans beneath steve—twisting & turning at the beautiful ache, “fuck you, harrington. i’m not wearing a scarf in the middle of the goddamn summer. i’m gonna start telling people it was you—i’m not fucking around anymore. i’m not hiding.”

eddie figures it would be steve’s worst nightmare to have people find out he’s been falling into bed with the town freak night after night. what if they all thought steve wanted eddie for real—that this wasn’t just something they did to deal with how fucking detestable they find each other? what if they thought steve actually had real feelings for him?

“tell them,” steve yanks eddie’s hair—which feels all too many types of good (though, he’d never admit that), “i dare you,” he tugs on his earlobe with his teeth—bitchy, as usual, “see what happens.”

eddie’s not expecting this response.

he thought steve would cuss him out or threaten him with crueler words.

this strays from their routine. causes eddie to question if he understands the true nature of what’s really going on here—in this bed, in this world they’ve created for themselves.

unsure of what to do, he flips steve over—bites a path down his chest, meanly snapping the waistband of his underwear when he gets there so the skin shines red, “fine—i’m gonna tell them you’re obsessed with me,” he sinks his teeth into the spot where steve’s hip meets his side, “i’m gonna tell them you won’t stop begging me to make you mine. i’m gonna tell them you love me. how’s that, harrington?”

steve stops what he’s doing immediately.

the only sound left in the room is the record spinning on eddie’s nightstand & the shallow breaths shared between them.

“go ahead,” steve’s eyes are glistening, “i want you to.”

eddie swallows, his face hot, his limbs trembling, the marks on steve’s body looking more & more like a secret language only the two of them could ever possibly understand.

eddie cautiously kisses steve on the corner of his mouth, whispering, “you should know better than to tempt me with something like that,” he pins his wrists down—gently stroking the place where he can feel steve’s pulse, “you sure? i might just ruin your perfect little reputation.”

steve leans up to suck at eddie’s collar bone until it turns a nice raspberry shade—proof of something greater than the both of them, “you’ve already ruined me,” he gestures to the marks on his thighs, his chest, his abdomen, “do you think i’d really let you do all this if i was worried about my reputation?”

the next day, they show up hand in hand at school & no one can quite figure out what transpired—seemingly overnight—between these two sworn enemies, but they figure the multitude of hickeys & bite marks peeking out from under their clothes might have a little something to do with it.

[skmhlml]

you probably have a ton of these already but could you write some smut headcanons for shadow milk cookie? 😩💙

I am so down bad for this blasted jester it's not even funny anymore–

maybe reader is a cookie from gingerbrave's group that caught his interest and he practically takes reader away once pure vanilla and the others arrive in his territory?

sorta like beauty and the beast vibes going on between them 🤭💕

🃏 Shadow Milk Cookie x Reader — (NSFW + Dark Headcanons)

⚠️ WARNING: This post contains NSFW content, including dark themes such as dubcon/noncon elements, obsession, degradation, biting, sensory play, and breeding kink (fantasy). Reader discretion is heavily advised. This is a villain x reader piece with beauty and the beast dynamics turned corrupted and twisted.

—————————————————————————————————————————

🧿 You were the light in the dark, a vibrant presence among Gingerbrave’s little group, and unfortunately (or perhaps fatefully), Shadow Milk Cookie noticed you immediately.

🧿 He doesn’t like “innocence” unless it’s something he can warp, stretch, and lace in velvet filth. You were soft. Touchable. Curious. Easy prey

🧿 When Pure Vanilla and your allies step into his nightmare domain, you’re separated in the chaos—and Shadow Milk doesn’t hesitate. One swirl of shadows, a manic laugh, and you’re gone.

🧿 To the rest, it’s a kidnapping. To Shadow Milk, it’s a gift. A perfectly timed claiming. “You’re mine now, little cream puff. Let the world rot—you’re the only sweet I want to taste.”

🧿 He loves the contrast of your goodness in his twisted world. You’re chained in silk, kissed in poison. He makes every touch a punishment and a reward.

🧿 Shadow Milk’s kisses taste like spoiled wine and smoke, and they always leave you dizzy. He does it just to see you melt.

🧿 He’s not gentle. He’s dramatic, sensual, and utterly consuming. Think tangled limbs on a throne of bones, your pleas muffled by velvet gloves.

🧿 Very vocal. Dirty-talking menace. “Say my name. Beg for more. Or I’ll make you cry for real.”

🧿 He doesn’t just fuck—he devours. He likes to mark, to ruin, to makes you his masterpiece of lust and surrender. Bites. Scratches. Clawing hands under your icing-smeared clothes.

🧿 He’ll pin you under his weight, his long limbs caging you like a predator, and just…stare. Letting the moment hang. Letting you squirm.

🧿 You consent in some moments, but others feel like you’re being emotionally or magically pushed until resistance becomes pleasure.

🧿 He loves sensory control. Blindfolds you, ties your wrists, pours shadowy milk over your body and licks it off slowly, lazily, cruelly.

🧿 Under all the madness, the sadism, the possession, there is something achingly real in how he loves you. It’s not sane, but it’s genuine.

🧿 He strokes your hair after using you like a doll. He hums lullabies. He lets you wear his jester cloak and calls you “his little moon.”

🧿 He will destroy kingdoms if they ever try to take you back. Pure Vanilla? Gingerbrave? They’re dead men walking if they try to touch his sugar drop.

🧿 Shadow Milk Cookie doesn’t just live in solitude—he was born in it. His world is a theater with no audience, a performance for shadows that never clap. He laughs because if he doesn’t, he’ll scream.

🧿 The first time he sees you smile—genuine, warm, untouched by the rot of his world—something in him cracks. “I want that look… I want it to belong to me. Forever. Even if I have to carve it into your face.”

🧿 He doesn’t understand love the way others do. He understands need and the gnawing loneliness that chews through his sugar-brittle brain.

🧿 Every time you resist, he loves you more. Every time you cry, he drinks it in like wine. He wants to see the moment the light in you dims, the exact instant you choose him over the others. “You’ll thank me. I’m freeing you from their lies. From hope. From weakness. I’ll make you strong, sugar drop. Just like me.”

🧿 Slowly, he conditions you. You get praise for being quiet, soft, needy. You’re rewarded for moaning his name, punished for calling out for help. And eventually, you forget who you were before him.

🧿 He’ll paint your face like a doll, tie ribbons in your hair, dress you in ruined royal silks. He needs you beautiful—his version of beautiful: corrupted & ruined.

🧿 His obsession turns manic fast. If you smile at anyone else, even the crumbs of your old group, he spirals. Violently. He’ll torture one of them just to make you watch. “You looked at them like that once. Never again. That smile’s mine.”

🧿 He alternates between tenderness and torment. One moment he’s holding you like a lover, murmuring lullabies. The next, he’s forcing you to your knees, shadowy fingers curling under your jaw, voice like poisoned honey. “Cry for me, sweet thing. Let me fill that empty little head of yours with only me.”

🧿 And he’s afraid. If you ever leave—if you ever regain your light—he’ll break for good. And so, he keeps you broken. It’s the only way he feels safe.

[ms-interpret]

Im an atheist and yeah, it is annoying honestly. This is one of the first times i think ive seen someone else in the wild posting about this phenomenon.

Im gonna rant a little bit about my experience with it.

(Piss poor reding comprehension disclaimer: this is based on my personal experiences and things that have stood out in my life, not a universal truth and there is use of hyperbole because im speaking genrally and not trying to be overly specific)

I find that it is very hard to just exist as an atheist when people go around talking about their beliefs and not have the matter of stating what you believe be taken as an invitation for people to challenge you.

Yet i have to be polite and "not be rude" about everyone elses beliefs and let them think and say what they want since (usually) it hurts no one to do so and helps them cope with their life.

But if i say what i think is equally true as my world view, then im being rude by default / closed minded? It is instantly taken ofense to or seen as combative since its in direct opposition to their view. And instead of acknowledging that and letting live and let live be a thing the have to push. Because their diety/deities want it or they can't handle it being called into question even conceptionally and shaking their coping mechanisms. So in order to be respectful i cant say anything and or have to allow for the possibility of others being right aka be open to soft conversion to their view and thus inherently undermine my own? But they dont every have to, in that same conversation, conceed that maybe im right and there is no divine anything?

You try and make a christian admit that there is a chance that actually the flying spaghetti monster is real and the pastafarians are right and if they dont then they're being closed minded, smug, and rude.

Not gonna happen plus you're being an asshole trying to be a missionary forcing them to acknowledge your belief or else they're a jerk and a bad person. And you dont do that / we know how unwelcome missionaries are (jehova witness at the door anyone? They purposefully use those exchanges to strengthen their followers bonds and cult mentality because of the expected rejection because again: forcing others to acknowledge your belief system must have some kind of legitimacy is understood and expected to be seen as rude.)

But atheists inherently by existing are tested and are rude if they cant meet some magic idea of proof they're not agnostic or they're smug attention seekers if they dont admit the possibility because then they're turning their backs on science. Because the atheists belief/lack of blief in the divine by default is in direct contradiction to other theists.

More often than not there is a reasoning for why they dont allow for the possibility of the divine and how it lines up with the scientific world view. (Example: i personlly don't think there is any higher power in the same way i don't think magic (like from fantasy stories) exists. Anything that is behaving like magic or from divine intervention is just a level of science we dont understand yet. We will figure it out eventually on a long enough timeline, but for now we dont have the tools or methods to do so just yet. See the history of medicine evolving as we understand more about illness and cures for the body. I dont have to admit to a possible divine thing in order to reject it and have a scientific compatible reasoning for why.)

It is just frustrating that so often people are not comfortable enough with their own self or accomodating enough to give space for an alternate world view without having to make a big deal about it and test it. Like im sorry but not sorry that me saying your divine whatever is not real makes you so vulnerable and defensive that you need to make sure i comfort you by allowing for the possibility of your mental safety blanket even if it puts the emotional labor of regulating your personal emotions onto me. And i have to be the bigger person and hande that with grace and allow the testing scrutiny because otherwise im the one being rude or smug to you by standing by what i believe in without proving myself to you?

I have to prove myself to you because you cant smile and nod and let people be with a polite acknowledgement of them sharing their world view? (In the same whay you nod or make a confirmation to someone that you heard them or are listening still kind of way i mean.) And importantly, acknowledgement without testing and without feeling like you can get a "gotcha" moment out of me?

Its not coming in and trying to be smug at others to say what you think just because it is in direct conflict with others world view. It is not smug to have reasons why they have the lack of belief in the divine that makes others subconciouses bristle because it is against something that seems obvious and fundamental to them. Its not smug to not want to have to prove yourself every time you say wht your view is. We dont argue with every bhuddist or jew or christian or muslim to make sure they have an airtight case for their beliefs. Often people will jut smile and nod and accept it as part of them and move forward.

Thaat would be nice. That or if you're gonna force them to have to admit a possibility then you have to admit you could be wrong too in the same breath at least.

There's something about atheism that I've repeatedly tried and failed to put into words on several posts on this blog but I think I finally got it.

Atheists are the only religious minority who, even (or sometimes even *especially*) in ostensibly progressive spaces are not allowed to ever act like they're sure of their beliefs.

[liuhsng]

✩ˎˊ˗ always been yours ( nk ! ) — part 1

✩ˎˊ˗ part of the untouchable series | enhypen masterlist

⤷ pairing — ni-ki x fem!reader

⤷ part 1 | part 2 ⤷ word count — 18k ⤷ taglist for the series — open !

⤷ warnings — a/b/o au, alpha!ni-ki, omega!reader, fem!reader, foul language, arranged marriage au, childhood friends to lovers-ish, emotionally constipated alpha!ni-ki, reader is confused and overwhelmed, ni-ki is mad but also so clearly in love it hurts, angst, tooth-rotting fluff (kinda), mentions of the other parts from this series, not proofread

⤷ a/n — guess who’s back + you all are gonna hate me for the long ass edging and ni-ki’s monologues that are even longer, BUT I PROMISE YOU GUYS IT’S WORTH IT, I THINK. this one has a part two, don’t worry <3

✩ˎˊ˗ summary — nishimura riki has never been good at sharing. not his things, not his time—and definitely not you. his childhood best friend, his first love, the one person he thought would always be by his side, and the one person who left without warning five years ago. now, out of nowhere, you’re back. still familiar, still his, and suddenly surrounded by alphas who don’t know where they stand. ni-ki isn’t the type to say how he feels. but he’s also not the type to sit back and watch someone else try to take what’s his. especially not when everyone already knows who you belong to.

Nishimura Riki sat curled into the corner of the oversized couch, eyes fixed on the chandelier above him—some imported crystal monstrosity that probably cost more than most people’s cars. The afternoon sunlight filtered through it just right, scattering little flecks of rainbow across the pristine white ceiling. He stared until the colors blurred.

The estate was quiet. Not peaceful, not relaxing—quiet, in that eerie, suffocating kind of way that made everything feel too pristine. The high ceilings, stark white walls, and flawless marble floor all echoed with nothing.

No voices. No footsteps. Just the distant hum of the central air conditioning and the occasional clink of glassware from the kitchen staff.

He blinked once. Twice. Then let his head fall against the backrest, jaw slack with boredom.

“This house is too damn quiet,” he mumbled, the words barely above a whisper, but loud enough to bounce back at him in the emptiness. “What the hell…”

The estate was far from empty. Staff bustled in the background, dusting imported sculptures, adjusting blinds, organizing already-organized bookshelves. But they moved like ghosts, all too practiced in the art of being invisible. It only made the silence worse.

Konon and Misora were out shopping, some weekly ritual that he usually tolerated, but skipped today. Misora had whined at him through the hallway, arms full of tote bags and half-curled hair.

‘You’re gonna regret not coming when we hit Chrome Hearts!’

He didn’t budge. Just threw a hand over his face and muttered, ‘Call me if there’s a necklace I don’t already own.’

Now, of course, he was kind of regretting it.

His siblings were off having fun. His parents were halfway across the world, negotiating with business giants in Hong Kong. They were set to return Wednesday—he’d seen them off late Friday night, both dressed in clean-pressed suits, the car waiting outside.

They weren’t cold. Never had been. Just busy. Big names came with bigger expectations, and while the Nishimura empire had always demanded attention, they never let him forget he was loved—even when the world demanded more from him than it should.

Now, for a few days, he and Konon were in charge of the Korea-side operations. A temporary hand-off, something his father framed as a ‘trust exercise’ and his mother as a ‘chance to breathe before your real responsibilities start.’

Between student council duties, public appearances, and preparing to step into an upcoming board position—one that came with his name written in permanent ink—he barely had space to think. Still, he liked the pressure. It meant something. It meant he was being trusted with more.

Still… right now? He was bored out of his damn mind.

His fingers drummed against the sleek coffee table, tapping a restless rhythm before finally reaching for his laptop. If he wasn’t going to go out, he might as well catch up on council emails. Or finalize some documents. Or check how the stock pitch he greenlit was doing.

The screen lit up, blue light reflecting in his eyes. Dozens of updates stared back at him—messages, proposals, reminders he’d been ghosting on purpose. His friends were probably doing the same.

He scrolled halfheartedly, eyes skimming past council threads, finance reports, and that one email from his father’s assistant reminding him to review next quarter’s agenda. “I’ll do it later,” he muttered, even though later had already come and gone twice.

His friends were all busy, he knew that. Off playing house or pampering their Omegas like the lovesick idiots they were. Dates, getaways, brunches in private villas.

Even Jay—Jay, of all people—had gone suspiciously quiet. Which meant he was either fighting with his Omega, or spoiling her until she forgot why she was mad.

Not that he was jealous.

“Tch. Simps,” he mumbled under his breath, shifting to lay sideways on the couch, one leg draped over the armrest. “Y’all used to be fun.”

Ni-ki huffed, setting the laptop aside with a dull thud. His eyes flicked back to the chandelier.

Maybe next time, he would go shopping. At least clothes didn’t cuddle.

The low purr of the Lamborghini Revuelto finally died as Ni-ki turned the key, killing the engine with one smooth motion. The soft click of the door echoed faintly in the morning air as he stepped out, the matte black finish of the car gleaming under the early sunlight.

It was still early—maybe too early. Students milled around the front steps of the university, but he didn’t spare them a glance.

He reached over the passenger seat, grabbed his backpack, and slung one strap lazily over his shoulder, letting it hang off one side as he shut the door behind him.

His strides were unhurried, long legs carrying him through the main entrance with a kind of silent arrogance he didn’t even have to try for.

His custom-tailored uniform blazer fit like it was stitched directly onto him—dark navy with subtle embroidery along the cuffs and collar that only the observant would catch. The fabric clung just right to the broad lines of his shoulders before tapering down his waist.

His tie was a little loose, on purpose, and the crisp white shirt underneath had the top two buttons undone, revealing just enough skin to tease. A delicate silver chain glinted around his neck, resting against his collarbones, an understated but expensive piece he never left without.

Ni-ki tucked one hand into his slacks’ pocket, the other loosely holding his phone as he turned toward the open hallways instead of cutting through the inner buildings.

It was a good morning for a walk, anyway—the breeze was soft, the sky pale and washed out, and from the upper hall he had a perfect view of the school field stretching wide and green below.

His shoes clicked against the marble tile as he walked toward the council room, head slightly tilted like he was lost in thought—but that was just how he always looked. Effortless. Icy. Way too gorgeous for anyone’s good.

He could feel people staring—students whispering, trying not to be obvious. Some Omegas caught mid-swoon, quickly looking away. But again, he paid them no mind.

If they weren’t you, they never mattered anyway.

A real, audible groan that escaped his chest before he could stop it, echoing off the walls of the wide hallway and startling a pair of Betas who had been quietly chatting near one of the lockers. They jumped, blinking at him in alarm, and Ni-ki—usually too detached to care—glanced over with the faintest wince and offered an apologetic nod.

“Sorry,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

He hated this. Hated that even when you weren’t here, you still managed to occupy his head rent-free. It was annoying. Infuriating. Endless.

His mind, no matter how hard he tried, wouldn’t shut up. About you. About how you used to walk beside him in these same hallways, brushing shoulders. About the way your laughter used to echo, and how quiet it felt without it.

The doors to the council room loomed up ahead—tall, polished, regal. He reached out and pushed one of the heavy double doors open with ease, the brass handle cool under his fingers. The room was quiet—only the faint hum of the central air and distant footsteps filtering in.

Ni-ki made a beeline for his table and dropped his bag with a soft thud beside the mahogany table before settling into the leather chair like it had been waiting just for him.

His fingers ghosted over the glossy surface of the nameplate in front of him.

Nishimura Riki, Student Relations Director.

But instead of pulling out paperwork, or checking the meeting agenda, his hand moved to his phone. He turned it on without thinking—again.

He stared at it for a long second, his thumb hovering over the side like he might turn it off, shove it away, and focus on literally anything else.

“What the hell am I doing? This is pathetic.”

He was supposed to be better than this. Smarter. Stronger. He was a goddamn Alpha. He didn’t wait around like some love-struck idiot for someone who wasn’t even—

Ping.

His breath hitched.

Your name popped up on the screen, bold and glowing like some kind of divine sign from the universe. A simple message, probably something stupid or casual, but it made the corners of his lips twitch up in quiet, miserable glee.

my (y/n) [6:10 AM]: hi 🥱 good morning.

my (y/n) [6:10 AM]: well it’s morning in korea anyway 🫠 i haven’t slept yet ugh.

my (y/n) [6:10 AM]: i’m tired and cold and my brain is melting i want to go home already :(

Ni-ki’s heart squeezed.

He exhaled through his nose, letting his phone drop slightly into his palm.

Italy. Five years. You’d been gone that long, and yet not a single thing about you ever felt distant. Not really.

He could picture it now. You, curled up somewhere in your small European apartment, probably buried under your favorite duvet, only your face sticking out. Hair messy, eyes puffy from staying up too long again, your lips slightly chapped and your cheek pressed against a cold pillow you’d never remember flipping. You were exhausted and cranky and so far away.

And yet, you still looked good. You always did.

Even when you were tired. Even when you didn’t try.

His fingers hovered over the screen, then typed.

ni-ki [6:11 AM]: should’ve told me you were still up.

ni-ki [6:11 AM]: i would’ve called. even if you just wanted to hear my voice and knock out.

There. Calm. Unbothered. The lie practically rolled off his thumbs.

my (y/n) [6:12 AM]: you? offering to call? who are you and what have you done with nishimura riki?

He scoffed, the sound echoing too loudly in the silent council room. His hand reached for the chain around his neck, thumb grazing the silver habitually.

ni-ki [6:13 AM]: shut up. i’m always nice to you.

He hit send, jaw tightening.

ni-ki [6:13 AM]: go to sleep. you’ll get sick.

ni-ki [6:13 AM]: wrap yourself like a burrito or something.

He imagined you reading that—messy, puffy-eyed, probably smiling that small, sleepy smile that made something inside him ache in places he didn’t want to name.

God, you didn’t even try. And you still had him like this.

Still no reply. Still no typing bubbles. You were probably drifting off already, phone warm in your hand, heart somewhere far away from his, like always.

He sighed and gently placed the phone face-down on the desk.

Ni-ki leaned back in his seat, eyes fixed on the high ceiling, as if the answer to his confusion was hidden in the shadows of the chandelier.

He hated that someone so far away still felt this close.

His thoughts were abruptly interrupted by the sound of Jay’s unmistakable laugh, loud and careless as it echoed down the hallway. Ni-ki groaned audibly, dragging his hand down his face before turning to the council room door, just as it swung open with force.

Heeseung entered first, holding the door casually with one hand, and immediately spotted Ni-ki already at his desk.

The eldest’s steps faltered for a beat, eyebrows lifting in obvious surprise as he muttered under his breath, “What the hell…”

But of course, Ni-ki heard it. His pureblooded alpha senses didn’t miss a thing, especially not when Heeseung was only a few feet away.

He shot the older boy a flat look from beneath his lashes, dark eyes slightly narrowed in warning. A lazy glare—but one that said don’t even start.

Heeseung blinked, then tilted his head toward the hallway, calling back with casual disbelief:

“Guys, Ni-ki’s already here.”

Jake and Sunghoon appeared next, eyes scanning the room in disbelief as they walked in. Jay peeked around from behind Jungwon and Sunoo, clearly confused.

Their mates were right behind them. Hushed whispers. Quick glances. Giggles just a little too coordinated. Like a plan was being carried out behind enemy lines. Ni-ki’s eyes narrowed slightly at the girls, suspicious, his instincts tingling.

They were definitely up to something.

But before he could dwell too much on it, Sunoo’s mate caught him staring.

“Good morning, our little baby,” she cooed, her voice teasing but warm.

Ni-ki groaned again, dragging his palm over his face.

“I’m not a baby.”

Sunoo laughed as he headed for his desk. “He’s lying. He totally is.”

Heeseung threw his bag on his desk and eyed Ni-ki with mock caution.

“You’re not dying or something, right?”

Ni-ki rolled his eyes. “I woke up early.”

Jake raised a brow. “So you decided to come here of all places?”

“It was quiet.”

Jay laughed. “Keyword was.”

Ni-ki ignored them, slouching lower in his chair as the others all settled into their own seats—each desk personalized to their taste, decorated in varying levels of chaos or minimalism.

Jungwon clicked open his tablet, stylus tapping against the screen.

“We’ve got that department head meeting at nine,” he said casually, eyes flicking toward Ni-ki’s general direction.

Ni-ki just nodded, almost absently. One hand resting on the edge of his desk, the other fiddling with the corner of his phone.

Sunghoon didn’t miss it.

He walked over, leaned just slightly over Ni-ki’s chair, peering down at the younger alpha like he was trying to scan him for symptoms.

“Are you sure you’re not fucking dying?”

Ni-ki finally cracked a smile—small, lazy, but unmistakably real.

“Fuck no.”

Jay looked up from his planner, brows raised in that judgmental way only he could pull off so casually. “You sure?” he asked, tone deceptively light but eyes sharp—more serious than usual. “You seem kinda out of it.”

Ni-ki didn’t even blink. His voice came out smooth, quiet, practiced. “I’m good.”

He wasn’t lying. Not really.

But before the topic could fade, Jake suddenly pointed at him with the energy of someone who just solved a murder case. “Nishimura,” he accused, “you better not be in love.”

Ni-ki's eyes narrowed, head tipping to the side as if he couldn’t believe the words. “What the hell, Jake? As if.”

“As if?” Sunoo echoed, practically skipping into the conversation. “Please. (Y/N) wouldn’t like that.”

Ni-ki’s expression didn’t change, but his scent did. It changed—once light and crisp with notes of lime and amberwood, now sharp and bitter, the edges curling like paper touched by flame.

Jungwon’s mate leaned forward slightly, an amused lilt in her voice as she added, “Yeah, Ni-ki. What about (Y/N)?”

Heeseung chuckled under his breath, a soft, knowing sound. “Still thinking about her, huh? That’s kinda cute.”

Jay didn’t even look up from his planner. “Of course he is. Dipshit’s been into her since diapers.”

“She visits every holiday,” Jungwon pointed out, arms crossed but lips curled into a smirk. “And when she does? Ni-ki goes full golden retriever mode.”

Jake sighed, “Held the door for her. Offered her his hoodie. Helped me clean the council storage room while she was around. I’ve never seen him clean, bro.”

Jake’s mate slid into his seat, her legs draped neatly over one side as he stood behind her with one hand resting lightly on the backrest. She tilted her head and offered Ni-ki a teasing smile. “Poor (YN). She probably has no idea there’s a little Nishimura waiting for her back home.”

Ni-ki groaned, eyes slipping shut like the weight of their voices was physically exhausting. “I don’t like her.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then, a soft hum.

Sunghoon.

Low, barely there—but loud enough to dig under Ni-ki’s skin.

Ni-ki’s brows furrowed as he peeked an eye open, just in time to see the older Alpha tilt his head slightly, eyes still locked on him like he was trying to see right through the denial and pull the truth out by force.

“I really don’t,” Ni-ki repeated, firmer this time, more clipped.

Sunghoon didn’t blink.

The hum stayed with them, echoing in the air long after it ended. A quiet challenge, a dare to keep lying.

“Okay,” Jay muttered, sarcasm laced through every syllable. “Sure.”

Ni-ki turned to glare at him, “I’m serious.”

“Mhm,” Jungwon said from his desk, spinning a pen between his fingers. “You totally don’t talk about her every time she messages.”

“That’s literally not true.”

Jake snorted. “You literally smiled like a dumbass last week when she texted you.”

Sunoo leaned forward, smirking. “Didn’t even open the message yet, by the way. He just saw her name.”

The tips of Ni-ki’s ears started to burn. “Shut up.”

But they weren’t listening anymore. Not really.

Even Heeseung’s mate leaned back in her seat with an amused smile, sharing another knowing glance with Jay’s, both of them clearly deciding to let him simmer in his own denial for now.

Because Ni-ki wasn’t just stubborn—he was Ni-ki stubborn.

He’d rather die than admit it.

But even as he doubled down, slouching lower in his chair and scowling like it would hide anything, they could all see it: the softness in his eyes when he looked at his phone, the way his fingers hovered before typing, the way your name still made him falter.

He was stubborn, yes.

But they all knew what he didn’t want to say.

That he liked you.

Maybe more than liked. Maybe always had.

He flipped them off again, but even that was weaker now. The fire wasn’t in it.

The cafeteria was unusually quiet for a mid-afternoon. A few students passed through for snacks or late lunches, but the long stretch of tables remained mostly untouched, sunlight bleeding in through the tall glass windows and washing everything in pale gold.

The sound of wooden chairs scraping against tiled floors echoed as Jay dropped his tray down with a groan, slumping into his seat.

“That beta’s asking for it,” he muttered darkly, stabbing at his food. “Another word out of his mouth during proposal presentations and I will punch him. I don’t care if I get benched for a week.”

Jake chuckled, leaning back in his chair with a lazy grin. “You’re a walking pureblooded Alpha temper tantrum with muscles. Sit your ass down and breathe.”

Jay narrowed his eyes. “I am sitting. And breathing.”

“Yeah? Try not breathing for a minute. Might do us all a favor.”

Heeseung snorted from beside them, lazily flipping through the thick folder in front of him. “You two fight more than Jungwon and his mate during exams.”

“At least they apologize after,” Jake shot back.

Jay scoffed. “Yeah? Well, I apologize—sometimes.”

Jake leaned forward, elbows on the table now, eyes sparkling. “Right. Just like you almost apologized when you nearly started a fight over a statistical error.”

Jay’s scowl deepened. “It wasn’t just a statistical error. He said our estimates were flawed when it was literally his damn data set that skewed the chart—”

“Oh no,” Jake cut in, holding a hand to his chest with mock sympathy. “A chart, Jay? I’m so sorry for your loss. Want me to send flowers to your ego?”

Jay glared. “Thank you.”

“I wasn’t complimenting your ego, dumbass.”

While Jay and Jake continued to, Heeseung’s gaze drifted. Quietly. Thoughtfully. His eyes slid to Ni-ki, who hadn’t said a word since they sat down.

The youngest sat hunched forward, fingers ghosting over his untouched tray. He was spinning the bottle cap of his drink in circles, over and over again, his brows faintly furrowed, lips pressed into a tight line. His phone sat face-up next to his tray, screen black, unmoving. Waiting.

Heeseung leaned back slowly, chair creaking beneath him. “Ni-ki,” he called gently.

Nothing.

Jake looked up too, the humor slipping from his face. Jay went quiet beside him.

The beef Wellington on his plate—normally devoured in a heartbeat—was cut into unnervingly perfect cubes. Equal sides. Edges lined up like they were going to be submitted for inspection. His fork moved like clockwork, slice after slice after slice.

Ni-ki blinked. Slowly. As if being pulled from underwater. “Huh?”

“You haven’t touched your food,” Heeseung said.

“I’m not that hungry,” he muttered.

Jay blinked. “You good?”

“Fine,” Ni-ki muttered, not meeting anyone’s eyes. His voice was tight. His shoulders tense.

Jake frowned, then started rummaging through his bag. Papers shuffled, folders slapped against the table. “Shit,” he muttered. “Shit, shit, shit—”

Jay raised a brow. “What, did your IQ fall out?”

Jake rolled his eyes and started flipping through another folder. “No, I just—Jungwon gave me those event documents this morning and I think I left them in my other bag. Crap.” He slung his strap over one shoulder and stood. “I’ll be right back. Try not to let Jay pick a fight with the salad bar while I’m gone.”

“Low blow,” Jay mumbled.

“Try breathing,” Jake tossed over his shoulder before walking off, bag swinging against his side, the wooden floor creaking beneath his boots.

The table fell silent again.

Heeseung’s eyes didn’t leave Ni-ki. “Something’s up.”

Ni-ki shifted, jaw tense.

Jay leaned forward. “She still hasn’t called?”

Ni-ki exhaled through his nose. “Nope.”

Heeseung set down his pen and turned fully to Ni-ki. “How long has it been?”

Ni-ki’s fingers curled tighter around his knife. “A week.”

Jay let out a low whistle.

“I’m not freaking out or anything,” Ni-ki added quickly, running a hand through his hair, agitated. “I know she’s busy. I know she’s got… stuff in Italy. Just—usually, even when she’s busy, she texts. Or calls. Just for a minute.”

He paused. Stared down at his tray again.

“I’m just not used to her being this… distant.”

Heeseung sat back in his chair, watching him carefully. “You miss her.”

Ni-ki scoffed. “No, I don’t.”

“Ni-ki.”

“I don’t!” He looked up, eyes sharp. “It’s not—look, I’m not going insane.”

Heeseung raised a brow.

“I’m not,” Ni-ki repeated, voice flat.

Jay leaned in, elbows on the table. “You sure? Because you’ve been checking your phone every five minutes like a rejected Omega.”

Ni-ki glared. “Screw you.”

Heeseung held his hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay. Not insane.”

“Just perfectly composed while cutting food into geometric shapes.”

“Shut up.”

Jay bit back a grin. “We’re just saying… it’s okay to care.”

“I don’t care.”

No one said anything. But they didn’t need to.

The way Jay looked at him, the way Heeseung’s expression softened, the way Jake had noticed it even before leaving—they all knew. They saw it.

Ni-ki slumped slightly in his chair and muttered under his breath, “I’m gonna kill her when she calls.”

Jay smirked. “You mean kiss her when she calls.”

“Say that again and I’ll make you eat that damn folder in front of you.”

The long council room was dimly lit by late-afternoon light pouring through tall windows, warm but heavy—the kind that made your eyes sting if you looked too long. Papers scattered the polished mahogany table, coffee cups lay abandoned at every corner, and the air was thick with exhaustion.

Sunghoon stood at the front, sleeves rolled, a pen in one hand and stress in the other.

“If we reposition the second-year booths by the south exit, we can free up space for the open performance stage,” he said, turning slightly. “Ni-ki, student relations—your call?”

Ni-ki didn’t even need the cue. He was already standing at the front beside Sunghoon, arms crossed, eyes locked on the giant screen like he was about to burn holes into it.

“We’ve got issues,” he said plainly. “Four different booth leaders complained about miscommunication. Some were sent the wrong drafts. One got their schedule three days late. I gave my team everything they needed. They still dropped the ball.”

He didn’t look at them. Didn’t need to. The guilt alone from his tone was enough.

He didn’t spare them a look. Just pointed to the next slide—a familiar layout titled in your handwriting: ‘Memory Garden.’

“This stays,” Ni-ki said. “(Y/N) built this. You all know that. It’s tradition.”

Silence.

Then a voice from the back—casual, cocky, and very much older.

“Nishimura, with all due respect,” a fourth-year Alpha drawled, reclining just slightly in his seat, “it’s a little sentimental, don’t you think? We could go digital. More efficient, less space. Feels… outdated.”

Ni-ki didn’t even move, he didn’t have to.

He just raised an eyebrow—slowly—like a predator sizing its prey, like he couldn’t believe someone so pathetically ordinary dared to speak with that tone.

The silence was deafening as his scent turned bitter.

It laced the air like frost crawling over skin, like metal against teeth. The kind of scent that made your instincts curl inward, unsure if you should fight or flee—but knowing damn well you wouldn't survive either.

The air grew heavy—oppressive. The cocky Alpha visibly stiffened. His smirk faltered, just slightly, when Ni-ki raised a brow, eyes gleaming with quiet fury.

It wasn’t just dominance; it was a reminder. A statement.

That despite being barely nineteen, Nishimura Riki was the most dangerous Alpha in the room at the moment.

The unknown Alpha across the room visibly faltered. His voice died on his tongue. The confidence drained from his posture, spine straightening as his jaw clenched tight. He was trying to hold composure, but his throat bobbed in a swallow too forced to hide.

Because Ni-ki wasn’t just an Alpha—he was a pureblood.

His eyes carried centuries of power, his aura an inheritance sharpened by years of restraint, calculation, and silent fury.

And when pushed, he didn’t hesitate to bare his canines.

Sunghoon, still next to Ni-ki, immediately placed a firm hand on his shoulder. His grip was steady, a silent warning: breathe.

Across the room, Heeseung mouthed silently from his seat, “Don’t.”

Across the table, Jungwon sat still, eyes locked on the exchange. Sunoo glanced at him, both ready to intervene if something physical broke out.

But Ni-ki didn’t explode. He didn’t lash out.

He leaned into cruelty like it was an art.

Ni-ki tilted his head, “Say that again,” he said, voice almost amused. “Go on. I dare you.”

The older Alpha blinked, struggling to breathe properly under the pressure, but Ni-ki didn’t let up.

“Tell me, old man,” he said with a sweet venom, “do you make a habit of disrespecting things you don’t understand, or is this just a hobby?”

“Because unless you’ve stood in that Garden at 11:52PM watching someone read a letter they never got to say in person—unless you've seen people leave pieces of their hearts there, maybe keep your mouth shut about what’s outdated.”

Even Sunghoon’s hand on Ni-ki’s shoulder wasn’t enough to cut through the tension.

“Get your mutts under control, Sunghoon,” he said, voice dry as bone. “You don’t want the marketing team to get tainted.”

Sunghoon didn’t argue.

Because despite being the youngest among them, Ni-ki didn’t go unheard.

He turned on his heel, calm and precise, and sat back down, crossing his arms.

But the damage was done.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, it was terrifying.

Every council member outside of his circle sat still, stiff-backed, like any movement might get them noticed. Like any breath might set him off again.

The only people unaffected were his friends.

And the empty chair beside him—still waiting for the one person who could’ve softened that storm.

The only one he might’ve listened to.

But you weren’t there.

It was already past seven.

The overhead lights had dimmed automatically to their evening setting, casting a faint golden glow across the long stretch of the council room. Most of them had already gone home.

The once-lively chatter, the shuffle of papers, and the light clinks of glass tumblers were long gone. The silence had taken over—and it was starting to settle into Ni-ki’s bones.

He moved slower than usual.

His hand skimmed over the final page of a student affairs request form that needed triple verification before he could sign off on it. The edges were slightly crumpled, not from the printer, but from how long he’d been holding it. Reading it once. Then again. Then one more time. The words were starting to blur together, but he refused to admit he needed a break.

His desk was still cluttered. A few printouts from the last meeting, two untouched energy drinks, a pen cap he hadn’t seen in half an hour. He stacked what he could, aligned the folders, straightened the corners—desperate for something to control.

Ni-ki’s scent, once sharp and bitter from the earlier altercation, had dulled down to something faint and cold. He didn’t even notice how quiet his breathing had become until a soft clack snapped him out of it.

A cold americano. Placed carefully in the only clean space on his desk.

He blinked up, dazed.

Jay stood across from him, not saying anything at first. Just watching.

“I know you’re big and all,” Jay said finally, voice steady and low, “but don’t forget to take care of yourself.”

It wasn’t condescending. It wasn’t a joke. It was genuine—but it came from a place only few got to see. Jay—not exactly warm, but never careless. When Jay looked after someone, it was without spectacle.

He adjusted his bag over one shoulder, then turned slightly toward the door.

His mate was waiting.

She stood just outside the council room, leaning lightly against the frame, a book in her hand. When she noticed Ni-ki looking, she offered him a small, knowing smile.

Jay reached her first, slipping his fingers into hers with ease like they’d been doing it for years. No words passed between them. They just turned and walked off together, steps soft against the polished floor. A quiet, normal kind of love that felt almost too far away.

Ni-ki was alone again.

His stared at the cup Jay left behind.

He didn’t drink it.

He just sat there, staring at the small patch of condensation forming beneath it. He could smell the faint caramel notes drifting upward, mixing with the sharp scent of ink, old paper, and whatever remained of his own presence in the room.

Ni-ki leaned back in his chair.

Exhaled.

But it didn’t make the silence go away.

Ni-ki stared at it again. The plastic lid was already fogging, the condensation slipping down like teardrops onto his paper-strewn desk. His fingers twitched beside it, but he didn’t move to touch it. Not yet.

His eyes dropped to the swirl of ice floating inside. The cold brew was pitch black, just the way you used to drink yours. Just the way you taught him to drink it.

He hated coffee before you.

Didn’t see the point in it. Too bitter, too acidic, too unnecessary.

But then came you, with stars in your eyes and a smile that could bend galaxies. You showed up in his kitchen at 7:14 a.m., wearing his hoodie and hopping on your toes because “Riki, I got it this time, I finally found the right beans!”

You made that stupid cup like it was magic—pouring, stirring, humming along to some playlist he never admitted to liking. You grinned when you handed it to him, fingers brushing his. “Trust me, this one’s different.”

And it was.

Not because of the flavor. But because of you.

He exhaled through his nose, fingers finally reaching for the cup. He didn’t drink it. Just held it—like the cold would bring you back.

The room was too quiet. The overhead lights buzzed low, casting long shadows over the scattered council documents he still hadn’t finished.

Just as he leaned down to grab another folder from under his desk, the door creaked open.

Ni-ki didn’t flinch, but his eyes flicked up.

Sunghoon stood in the doorway, shoulders slouched, brows furrowed in tired disbelief. He blinked once. Twice. Then sighed—long and loud.

“I knew it,” he muttered, stepping inside. “I literally came back just to grab the membership forms I left under my seat and—yep. Of course. You’re still here.”

Ni-ki didn’t look up. Just thumbed through the folder he’d picked up.

“You could’ve asked someone to send them to you,” he said, voice flat. Dull. Worn.

“I could’ve,” Sunghoon replied, making his way over to the table and picking up a stray form, “but then who would’ve found you half-dead over three different budget proposals and a black coffee you didn’t even buy yourself?”

Ni-ki paused.

Sunghoon stared at the untouched drink. “Jay?”

Ni-ki gave a slow nod.

Sunghoon gave a slower hum. “Figures. Romantic-ass bastard. Can’t go thirty minutes without checking on everyone.”

Ni-ki didn’t reply.

Sunghoon crouched slightly to look him in the eyes. “You good, kid?”

“No,” Ni-ki muttered honestly.

Sunghoon didn’t push further. He just nodded, then picked up his folder and tapped it against the table. “Go home, Ni-ki. You’re not going to win a medal for burning yourself out. This isn’t a contest.”

Ni-ki’s lips quirked just a little at that. Barely.

Then, under is breath, low and dry, “Fuck it.”

Ni-ki reached for his car keys, fingers closing around the familiar weight. He didn’t bother fixing his desk—left the half-signed documents scattered, coffee cold and untouched. Everything about him screamed done, drained, empty.

He straightened up slowly, the exhaustion pressing down on his shoulders heavier than it had all day.

“Thanks,” he said, voice quiet. Sincere in a way Sunghoon could always tell.

Sunghoon didn’t say anything back. He just gave the boy a nod—one of those rare, wordless acknowledgments between Alphas who’d already said too much with too little. Despite all the snarkiness, all the sharp-tongued remarks, Sunghoon knew Ni-ki meant it.

The council room door creaked as Ni-ki slipped through, Sunghoon turned back to the folder in his hand, but something tugged at him.

He looked over his shoulder.

Ni-ki was already halfway down the hall, swallowed by dim lights and the soft sound of his footsteps echoing against the tiles. His shoulders were tense, head low, blazer shifting ever so slightly with each step.

And for someone who had half the fourth-years shaking in their seats just hours earlier, for someone who could silence a room with nothing but his presence,

It always amazed Sunghoon how quiet Ni-ki could get.

He shook his head to himself, lips twitching into something that wasn’t quite a smile. Just a knowing expression. The kind only older brothers wore when they watched the people they cared about unravel in silence.

And then he let the younger Alpha go.

Let the hallway swallow him whole.

Because even the most dangerous ones needed time to fall apart.

The parking lot was still. A vast stretch of silence interrupted only by the low hum of distant streetlights and the lonely tap of Ni-ki’s footsteps against the pavement.

His breath misted in the cool night air as he walked—brisk, sharp, like he was trying to outrun something that kept catching up anyway. The entire campus had quieted down, lights dimmed, the night wrapping around the buildings like a blanket too thin to keep out the cold.

But he didn’t feel it.

Or maybe he did, and just didn’t care anymore.

His car chirped as he unlocked it., the soft beep of the unlock chime sounding way too cheery for the chaos inside his head. The glow of the overhead light hit the sharp lines of the car’s body, sleek and perfect—just like everything in his life was supposed to be.

He didn’t even pause before throwing the door open and getting in.

Slam.

And then another—this time, his fist meeting the steering wheel.

Once.

Twice.

A third time before he dropped his forehead against it and let out a slow, jagged breath.

“Fucking hell…” he breathed, the words bleeding into the wheel, into the silence, into himself.

It was pathetic. He knew it. But he didn’t care.

He could replace the steering wheel. The door. The whole damn car if he wanted. He had the money. The bloodline. The name. He could buy a hundred more.

But not you.

His eyes lifted lazily, tired and unfocused, to the rearview mirror—and there it was.

A pair of Chrome Hearts dice dangled from the frame. A stupid little thing. The color a little worn. But he couldn’t bring himself to take it down.

You gave it to him.

Well, Konon gave it to him, with that ridiculous dorky grin on her face. She practically skipped into his room with the box tucked under her arm like it was some national treasure.

“(Y/N) made me smuggle it from Europe,” she said, flipping her hair and rolling her eyes. “Said you wouldn’t accept it if it was from me. Dumbass. Just take it. It’s from her.”

He had. He’d taken it and tried not to smile, tried not to care—but hung it up in his old car anyway. That was four years ago. When you both were fifteen. Before everything went to shit.

Before you left.

Before your family decided to uproot everything and send you to Italy to “represent the brand” or whatever other bullshit they spewed while tearing his best friend away from him.

He hated it.

Hated how your departure was packaged like some prestigious opportunity when it felt like mourning.

Hated how no one—not even his other friends—could fill the space you left behind.

You were gone. For four whole years.

And he was still stuck here, with the memory of the way your laughter used to echo down the hallway before class, the way you always stole bites from his lunch, unapologetically.

And the way you curled up in his passenger seat like you belonged there.

Because you did.

He let his eyes fall shut, fists clenching in his lap.

“I miss you,” he whispered.

But he swore—if there was ever a way to bring you back,

He’d burn every ocean.

Tear down every empire.

Shatter every glass tower that kept you caged.

He didn’t care if it meant razing the legacy his family bled for—didn’t care if it made enemies of kings and heirs and councilmen alike. Ni-ki would take the fire in his chest and scorch the ground with it, would throw gasoline over everything that stood between him and the memory of your voice saying his name like it meant something.

Because the truth was—he never needed an empire.

He just needed you.

And he was willing to burn everything else.

Ni-ki didn’t even remember turning the key in the ignition. He just knew the engine growled beneath him like it shared his grief, his fury. The moment the wheels kissed the concrete, he was off—headlights slicing through the darkness, taillights nothing but angry red flares in the mirror he refused to look into.

The radio was on full blast.

Heavy bass thumped through the leather seats, vibrating in his bones. He wasn’t listening to the lyrics. He just needed noise. Something loud enough to shove your name out of his head for even five damn seconds.

But even with the speakers screaming, all he could hear was you.

The moonlight poured in through the windshield like silver ink, brushing over the sharp angles of his jaw, casting shadows over his eyes. He didn’t blink. He barely breathed. Hands gripped the wheel tight, knuckles white, a vein ticking in his temple as the streetlights flickered across his windshield in rhythmic flashes—light, dark, light, dark—like time was mocking him.

It was already past eight in the evening and the streets were mostly empty.

Just like him.

He hit 80. Then 90. He wasn’t racing, wasn’t aiming for some high. He just didn’t want to stop. Because if he did, if he pulled over, if he let the silence catch up—your memory would gut him all over again.

His foot pressed harder.

It wasn’t until the streets around him began to change—morph into something achingly familiar, that he finally slowed.

The neon signs faded into the distance. Storefronts disappeared. Streetlights thinned. And soon, it was just him, the low hum of the engine, and the long, winding road leading back to the one place that had always been both a cage and a sanctuary.

Home.

He exhaled sharply through his nose as the long stretch of black iron fencing came into view. It ran for what felt like forever: perfectly polished, laced with security cameras, motion sensors, and the weight of old money.

Despite the vastness of the property—despite the multiple houses, endless gardens, koi ponds, and state-of-the-art surveillance—it still felt like home.

He slowed as the sleek black gates came into view, their ornate designs curling like iron vines, expensive and ancient all at once. The embedded sensor flashed once, recognizing his car, and another small panel blinked for biometric scan.

Without thinking, Ni-ki lifted his left hand, thumb pressed lightly to the glowing panel. It scanned. Clicked. Green light. Open sesame.

The gates parted with a soft mechanical hum, sliding inward with slow, ceremonial grace. The moment he started rolling past the line, he gave a lazy two-finger wave to the guards on shift. They stood by the security booth like statues, dressed in crisp black, nodding in perfect sync at their young master’s return.

The driveway stretched endlessly ahead—paved in sleek black stone that glinted faintly under moonlight. Modern lamps lined the path, casting pools of warm golden light over the road. On either side, carefully manicured hedges gave way to pockets of traditional Japanese flora—hydrangeas, plum blossoms, and an entire slope of red camellias, all planted under his mother’s request, nurtured lovingly by his youngest sister.

The contrast of sleek minimalism and delicate, heritage blooms was jarring.

Ni-ki rolled his window down halfway, letting the wind slip through. The air smelled like summer grass, cherry wood, and something cool and clean—something he could never bottle, no matter how hard he tried. He let his fingers brush against the door as he drove, the night air catching on his skin like a balm, easing the edge off his headache.

And then—there it was.

The estate.

Bathed in the soft glow of perfectly placed exterior lights, it looked like something out of a damn magazine. Floor-to-ceiling windows, tall white columns, a flawless mix of stone and wood and marble.

The main house rose up like a monument to status—high ceilings, sharp architecture, glass balconies, and a circular driveway that looked more like a courtyard for royalty.

There were already five cars parked out front.

He recognized all of them immediately.

The sleek white 911 Porsche S Cabriolet sat crooked near the steps, roof lazily half-drawn, clearly abandoned. His.

He was too tired this morning to park it properly—just left it there after pulling in from some errand, not even bothering to toss the keys to a valet. No one touched his cars anyway. Everyone knew better.

He didn’t bother to look at the other cars parked next to his. They were probably his siblings’.

Or some of their friends.

He didn’t care.

Ni-ki coasted to a stop, tires crunching softly over the gravel arc near the front steps. For a moment, he didn’t move. Just sat there, engine still running, hands loose on the steering wheel.

He sat in the stillness for a beat longer than necessary, exhaling once before dragging himself out of the driver’s seat.

The cool night air brushed past him as he lazily lifted a hand, offering a half-wave to one of the guards stationed near the door. The man, used to this kind of greeting, didn’t even blink. Just bowed his head slightly and pushed open the massive black double doors, their weight creaking open against gold hinges.

Ni-ki didn’t wait.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t take off his shoes even though their staff would lose their minds about it later.

Straight through the entrance, past the grand staircase, down the hallway glowing with recessed lights—right to the kitchen.

The fridge clicked as it opened, bright light casting sharp shadows on his face. He grabbed the first bottle of water he saw, cracked it open with one hand, and downed nearly half of it in one go.

Only after swallowing did he finally breathe.

Then, without thinking, he shrugged off his bag and dropped it on the marble counter, the weight of it landing with a dull thud. It slid a little, but he didn’t care enough to fix it.

He blinked at the still-open fridge, the soft hum filling the silence as cool air drifted out. His hand stayed on the water bottle while his eyes scanned the shelves blankly.

Should he cook? Ask one of the chefs—probably holed up in one of the other kitchens? Maybe just order takeout and disappear upstairs again?

He didn’t even know what he was in the mood for.

But he was still staring at a half-sliced lemon cake and a bowl of leftover curry when—

“Riki?”

He tensed, barely.

And then his eyes shifted—just in time to see Misora peeking into the kitchen through the archway.

She was already out of her uniform—dressed in an oversized hoodie, her hair a little messy, socks mismatched. Her cheeks were flushed like she’d been lying face-down on the couch for too long, and there was a faint line across her cheek from her pillow. She must’ve been home for a while already.

Ni-ki blinked, caught off guard again.

Still always surprised when she looked at him like that.

Despite being an Alpha herself, loud and capable and sharp in every way, Misora adored him. Like really adored him. In the way only a younger sibling could: fiercely, unapologetically, and without question.

Before he could say anything, she was already walking over, arms outstretched, expression soft.

“You didn’t say bye this morning,” she mumbled, hugging him around the waist and pressing her face into his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You didn’t wake up,” he muttered back, voice quieter than he expected.

“Still.”

He sighed through his nose. But his hand came up anyway, resting lightly on her back.

“You’re suffocating him.”

Konon.

Still in her uniform—an altered version of his, the same dark navy-blue, but tailored just a bit differently to suit her older year. The blazer sleeves slightly long. A silver pin with their family crest glinting proudly on her chest.

She looked tired.

Like she'd been home for a while now. Maybe an hour. Long enough to drop her bag and pull her hair back, but not enough to actually relax.

Still, a small smile tugged at her lips when she saw the two of them.

“No, I’m not.”

Ni-ki let out a small huff of laughter. The smile tugging at the corner of his lips was quick, barely there, but real.

Eventually, Misora pulled away with a sigh and made her way toward one of the cabinets. She rummaged for a snack—pulling out some dried seaweed, a bag of crackers, and something sweet—and padded out toward the living room without another word.

Konon stayed.

Ni-ki looked down at the bottle in his hand. Unscrewed the cap. Took another sip. Avoided her gaze.

She didn’t move for a moment, simply watching him as he stared into the fridge like it held answers to more than just his next meal. After a few seconds, Konon let out a quiet sigh and leaned her shoulder against the archway, arms loosely crossed.

“Listen,” she began, voice calm but lined with something heavier. “Mom and Dad called.”

That made Ni-ki raise a brow, though he still didn’t meet her eyes. He reached further into the fridge, pretending to examine some leftover salad he wasn’t interested in. “Are they coming back?”

“Yeah,” Konon replied. “In a few days.”

There was a small pause before she added, more carefully, “Mom wants me to help plan this little party with some of our business associates.”

Ni-ki let out a dry, sarcastic huff. “What does that have to do with me?”

As the words left his mouth, he instantly noticed it—Konon’s scent shifted. Normally mellow with notes of cedarwood and soft citrus, it now carried a subtle sharpness. Not angry, just… disappointed.

He shut the fridge door with a quiet thud and exhaled deeply. “Sorry,” he muttered under his breath.

Konon shook her head, brushing it off with a tired smile. Her voice softened, steady. “I need you to oversee the guest list. That’s all. I’ll handle the rest.”

Ni-ki finally looked at her.

There was exhaustion behind her eyes, but not resentment. Just the kind of quiet responsibility she always carried.

And she wasn’t asking because she wanted to dump something on him. Their mom, for all her grace and busy presence, meant well. They both loved her dearly.

“Alright,” he said after a second. “Just the guest list.”

Konon nodded once. “Just the guest list.”

Ni-ki nodded again, the motion slow and quiet, before brushing past his sister with a brief shoulder tap—a silent apology. He didn’t say anything else, didn’t have to. Konon didn’t stop him either.

His footsteps echoed softly against the polished flooring as he padded down the hall, the stillness of the estate wrapping around him like a second skin. The lights were dim in the corridor, casting long, gold-streaked shadows on the walls from the recessed sconces.

He reached the main staircase, the centerpiece of their home: wide, double-curved, with sleek glass rails and dark-stained steps softened by the faintest carpeting. He paused at the top for a second, resting his hand on the railing.

Ni-ki exhaled through his nose. Then, with quiet footsteps, he made his way up.

The sun hung low, golden and lazy across the wide-open school field, casting stretched shadows of bleachers across the grass. There was a steady breeze—enough to tousle hair and rustle the loose pages of someone’s notebook.

They were all scattered, each in their own pocket of comfort, but close enough that their voices overlapped.

Heeseung stood near the side rail of the bleachers, gesturing with one hand as he talked to Jay. His voice was borderline exasperated.

“Coach canceled again. That’s like the third time this month. I swear, if he shows up next week without a solid game plan—”

Jay just shrugged, hands in his pockets, cool and unbothered. “Then we wing it like always. You run, I catch. That’s the only game plan we’ve ever needed.”

Just a few feet away, Jake and Jungwon were lounging in the grass, backs against their bags, tossing small blades of grass in the air.

“I hate citrus,” Jake muttered, eyes squinting up at the sky. “Especially the sharp ones. It just screams 'trying too hard’.”

Jungwon made a face. “That’s literally your scent.”

Jake paused. “…Yeah but it smells different on me.”

“That's what everyone who reeks of citrus says.”

A short distance off, Sunoo and Sunghoon had migrated closer to the center of the field, throwing a football back and forth—not seriously, but with enough force that the occasional grunt escaped them. Sunoo shouted when Sunghoon faked a fast throw.

“Dude! I swear if that hit me—”

“You’d finally wake up,” Sunghoon grinned.

And on the bleachers, laptop balanced neatly on his lap, Ni-ki sat slightly hunched forward, the only one not involved in the chaos. His fingers tapped rhythmically against the keys, checking off names from a growing spreadsheet.

The glow of the screen made his sharp features look even more focused under the soft sunlight. His lips moved as he hummed something quietly under his breath—barely audible unless you were sitting right beside him.

“Mr. Seo… plus one,” he mumbled, eyes narrowing at the screen. “No, wait, didn’t he divorce—oh, right, the new fiancée.” He adjusted the name. “Mrs. Cha… alone. Of course.” Tick. Highlight. Add.

Every now and then, his gaze would flick up—to watch the football fly past Sunoo’s head or to glance briefly at his friends wrestling over which cologne was better—but mostly, he remained quiet. Focused. Efficient.

The laptop’s brightness dimmed slightly in the sunlight, but Ni-ki didn’t seem to care. He just adjusted his posture and kept going, drawing from memory and Konon’s voice notes. He'd been helping piece together the guest list for the upcoming dinner party all morning, and now, with the field as his office and the noise of his friends as background music, he was halfway through finalizing it.

A line from one of Konon's messages played in his head again: "Just make sure to filter out the names Dad wouldn't want near a press leak, and Mom doesn’t want any ex-business partners with grudges. The rest is yours to handle."

He snorted softly at that. As if this was just a simple birthday party and not some socially-loaded minefield.

Still, he worked.

His fingers danced over the trackpad, ticking names off and re-highlighting others. His brows furrowed as he squinted at a particular name and cross-checked it against an old file folder Konon had sent him.

Jay plopped down beside him, legs spread carelessly, half a bottle of sports drink dangling from his hand.

“Still doing work?” he asked, glancing at the screen. His voice held that familiar tone of teasing, but there was a lilt of curiosity too.

Ni-ki sighed, rubbing his temple briefly before nodding.

“Yes. The list isn’t gonna curate itself, and Mom already moved up the RSVP deadline.”

Jay whistled lowly. “Sucks to be born into power.”

“You’d know,” Ni-ki muttered, lips twitching.

They sat in easy silence for a moment—Jay picking at the label on his bottle while Ni-ki scrolled through a segment marked Potential Additions.

Jay leaned over slightly. “You know Mr. Kim from KM Associates?”

Ni-ki’s eyes flicked up. “Uncle Kihyun’s old friend?”

Jay nodded. “Apparently caught in a hush-hush embezzlement scandal three years ago. Didn’t make headlines, but my dad won’t touch anything he's involved in now.”

Ni-ki made a face. “Great. He’s on the maybe list. I’ll flag him.”

“Yeah,” Jay said, almost too casually. “I also heard he tried to pitch a merger to your mom once. She declined and then suddenly his company dropped from top five to top fifteen real quick.”

Ni-ki snorted. “That sounds like Mom.”

Jay laughed, leaning back on his elbows. “Remind me never to get on her bad side.”

Just as Ni-ki was about to ask another question—maybe about the Park family’s current link to the Yamadas, or whether anyone on the board was still secretly beefing with the Sohns—his screen suddenly flickered.

The rows of the guest list glitched—just slightly—and then Konon’s business profile picture appeared in the corner of the Excel sheet, signaling an active collaboration user.

Before he could process it, his phone buzzed against the bleachers.

A call from Konon.

Ni-ki answered, holding the phone loosely to his ear. “Hello?”

Her voice was rushed. Tight. “Riki, I got it handled from here. Thank you.”

He blinked, confused. “What?”

“I said I got it,” she repeated, firmer this time. “From here. Don’t worry about the list anymore.”

Ni-ki’s brows furrowed, his eyes flicking to the screen where her cursor was already jumping through rows—highlighting, deleting, replacing. The box around ‘(L/N) Industries’ was gone.

“Wait—how did you know I was working on it just now?” he asked slowly. “You didn’t even call until a second ago.”

Konon didn’t answer at first.

“I just did. Don’t worry about it, alright?”

He stared down at the moving cursor—her cursor—as she quietly took control of everything he’d been doing for the past hour. Replacing whole columns with new names. Shifting event tags. Editing notes.

Something about it made his stomach tighten.

“You’re removing people,” he said, voice even.

“I’m curating,” she replied, clipped.

“You’re hiding something.”

“Riki—”

He raised a hand in defeat, sighing softly despite knowing she couldn’t see it. “Okay,” he muttered. “Fine. You got it.”

She paused, and for a second he thought she might say something else.

But the line went dead.

And the Excel file returned to static silence, like nothing had happened at all.

Ni-ki closed the laptop slowly, his jaw tightening. Jay was still beside him, half-watching with a furrowed brow, but Ni-ki didn’t say anything.

He just stared out at the field in front of him, where the rest of the boys were laughing over something Sunoo had shouted. But that calm, easy atmosphere didn’t settle in him.

His scent changed—sharply. From the usual cool and clean tang of lime and amberwood to something more bitter. Stiff. Like stormy air clashing with citrus. Jay’s laughter died almost instantly as he straightened up, his nose wrinkling.

“Whoa,” he muttered, looking over. “You good?”

Ni-ki didn’t respond at first. His lips moved, barely a whisper. “Something’s not right.”

Just then, Jungwon jogged up from the field, a bottle of water in his hand, brushing grass off his sweats. “What’s not right?”

Ni-ki rubbed a hand through his hair, frustration building beneath his skin. “Remember the dinner party?” he asked, voice low. “The one we’re all being forced to attend?”

Jungwon exchanged a knowing glance with Jay and nodded. “Yeah. Your mom’s event, right? Big deal, full of shareholders and foreign names.”

“Right,” Ni-ki said, jaw tightening further. “Well, Konon just called. She said she’s taking over the guest list.”

Jay frowned. “Didn’t you already finish, like, half of it?”

“I did,” Ni-ki snapped, more at himself than them. “I was still working on it. Literally in the middle of finalizing groups. Then boom—her cursor pops up on the sheet, and next thing I know, she’s editing everything.”

He blew out a sharp breath and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head hanging low. “She’s never done that before. She doesn’t even touch logistics unless it’s already been approved.”

“What did she say when you asked?” Jungwon asked, slowly sitting beside them.

“That she’s got it handled. That I should drop it.” He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Didn’t even explain how she knew I was working on it in the first place.”

Jay leaned back, arms crossed. “You think she’s hiding something?”

“I don’t know,” Ni-ki muttered. “She sounded… rushed. Panicked. And then she just ended the call like that.”

He snapped his fingers.

“I know Konon. She’s always careful. She doesn’t slip like this. Unless something’s really, really wrong.”

Jungwon tilted his head slightly. “So what now?”

Ni-ki looked up at the horizon, the sunlight fading just enough to cast everything in a soft gold hue. But despite the warmth, the pit in his stomach only grew heavier.

“I don’t know,” he muttered again. “But I’m gonna find out.”

A week flew by like a blur of tension, whispers, and sleepless nights.

Now, just hours before the dinner party was set to begin, Ni-ki sat stiffly in front of the mirror in his luxury hotel room, jaw clenched and eyes sharp as the stylist behind him carefully fixed the last few strands of his hair. The faint scent of hairspray and expensive cologne floated through the room, but it was Ni-ki’s bitter scent that clung to the air the most.

Across the room, Sunghoon caught his glare through the mirror and raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, I already told you—you’re not getting through your sister.”

Ni-ki narrowed his eyes further, lips pressing into a thin line.

“She’s a vault, man,” Sunghoon continued, flopping onto the bed beside Jake who was still in his white shirt, buttoning his cuffs slowly. “You're secretive, sure, but Konon? She’s got, like, emotional security clearance level ten.”

Jake huffed a laugh. “He's not wrong. I’ve never seen someone dodge questions with such elegance.”

“She's been like that since we were kids,” Ni-ki muttered, tugging at the sleeve of his black suit jacket once the stylist stepped away. “But this is different.”

Sunoo wandered in through the open door, already dressed and styled to perfection, twirling a ring on his finger. “Honestly? It’s kind of impressive how tight-lipped she is. You could threaten her with a full media leak and she’d still blink once and walk away.”

Heeseung, who had been lounging by the loveseat with drink in hand, chimed in casually, “Yeah… she scares me sometimes.”

Sunoo turned to him with a teasing grin. “Aren’t you older than her?”

“So?” Heeseung replied with zero shame. “Age has nothing to do with fear. That girl could run an entire war campaign and I’d flee to the next country.”

Jake snorted. “Same, actually.”

Ni-ki rolled his eyes and turned back toward the mirror, adjusting his collar. “I just don’t get it. She said she’d handle the guest list and then locked me out of everything.”

“You think she’s actually hiding something?” Sunghoon asked, more serious now, propping himself up on his elbows.

“I know she is,” Ni-ki said, voice low. “I don’t know if it’s to protect me, Mom, or something else entirely—but it’s not just about business.”

A thick silence settled in the room.

The stylist—clearly sensing the shift in atmosphere—gave a polite cough, bowing slightly. “That’s all, sir. You’re all set.”

Ni-ki didn’t look up. He simply gave a short nod. “Thanks. You can go.”

The man gathered his things and slipped out quickly. The moment the door clicked shut, Ni-ki lifted a hand toward the bodyguard standing by the door, all in black with an earpiece tucked behind one ear.

“Lock it,” he said coolly, voice colder than before.

The second the lock settled, it was like the tension holding Ni-ki together cracked.

He slumped back into the chair with a heavy exhale, shoulders sinking and head tilted back to the ceiling. The Alpha mask he wore so easily, so flawlessly in front of strangers, shattered the moment he was left with people who saw through him.

He groaned suddenly—raw, irritated—dragging both hands down his face, then cursing under his breath. “Fuck this stupid hair,” he muttered bitterly.

He didn’t dare run a hand through it, not with how much gel and effort went into it—but the urge was there. His jaw clenched, and his leg bounced furiously under the table, ticking like a clock ready to explode.

“I can’t do this,” he snapped, more to himself than anyone else. “I can’t do this. I don’t even know what I’m walking into tonight. I don’t know anything—because apparently I’m not important enough to be told.”

The others stayed silent, watching him quietly. No jokes. No teasing. Just serious, soft gazes laced with concern.

“Konon’s shutting me out like I’m some intern. I’m supposed to co-host this dinner and I’ve had zero say since she took over the planning. Not even Mom’s talking about it—Dad’s gone ghost—none of them are saying a word and I’m supposed to just smile and wave?”

He looked up at the ceiling again, biting down hard on his frustration.

“But the part that kills me?” His voice dropped, sharp and shaking. “The part that keeps me up every night?”

He looked at them, and for once, his eyes weren’t hard or calculated—they were haunted.

“It’s been two weeks. Two weeks,” he said, voice cracking ever so slightly. “And I haven’t heard anything from her.”

The room stayed still. He didn’t even have to say your name—they knew who he meant.

“Not a text. Not a call. Not even a ‘saw your name in a magazine.’ Nothing.”

He swallowed hard and forced out a laugh—bitter and broken. “Do you even care about me anymore? Are you even alive? Or did I seriously mess things up so badly you don’t want anything to do with me?”

Sunghoon looked down at the floor, brows knit in quiet empathy.

Jake shifted forward slightly like he wanted to say something, but held his tongue.

Heeseung stared at him like watching someone bleed out and not knowing how to stop it. “Ni-ki…”

But Ni-ki just shook his head.

“I’m supposed to stand there tonight like everything’s fine,” he whispered. “Smile for the cameras. Shake hands with people I don’t trust. And all I keep thinking is… why hasn’t (Y/N) called?”

The silence in the room was no longer thick with tension—but with grief.

Sunoo sat on the edge of the bed, hands laced together as he stared at the carpet. “We’ll figure it out. Tonight, whatever happens, we’ve got you.”

Ni-ki didn’t respond for a second. Then, he gave the smallest nod.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime.

Ni-ki stepped out first, shoulders square and chin held high, his tailored black suit hugging every sharp angle like it was made to command attention. Behind him, the rest followed in step.

They hadn’t even reached the carpeted hallway before the first camera flash exploded from behind the velvet ropes.

“Shit,” Jungwon muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing at the mass of press clustered along the hallway wall. “Already?”

“Of course they are,” Sunoo replied, not breaking his stride. “Half the country’s waiting to see which family screws up first.”

“Keep walking,” Ni-ki said lowly, not even looking their way. His eyes were locked straight ahead on the grand double doors at the end of the corridor. “Let them look.”

Another wave of flashes erupted. Shouts of names followed.

“Jay! Look this way—just a second—”

“Ni-ki, who are you wearing tonight?”

“Lee Heeseung, over here!”

Jungwon lowered his head slightly, pace picking up as he brushed past the rope barrier. “Keep up,” he hissed under his breath, “we are not stopping here.”

The closer they got to the entrance, the quieter it became. The velvet-rope crowd thinned. The air grew heavier. Thicker.

Two tall men in suits stood posted on either side of the grand doors, earpieces in, eyes sharp. One of them held a clipboard. Guestlist in hand.

But as soon as he caught sight of them, he didn’t even lift the pen.

His partner followed without a word, mirroring the motion, eyes down. “Sirs,” one of them murmured, voice strained with barely concealed tension. “Welcome.”

Jay smirked sideways, not even slowing down. “Didn’t even ask for names. Damn.”

“Do they need to?” Heeseung muttered dryly, adjusting his cuffs without a glance. “We’re on a list all our own.”

Sunoo gave a tiny, knowing smile. “Front page, probably.”

The guards stepped aside in perfect sync, each pulling open one of the towering mahogany doors with reverent precision. The gold handles gleamed under the overhead lights.

Every heel in the room stilled.

Every whisper died.

The world hushed itself.

Only the soft swell of classical strings floated in the background, a lonely violin solo echoing across the hall. The chandelier light caught against the marble floors, glass walls glittering with the view of the skyline outside—but no one looked anywhere else.

All eyes were on them.

Heads turned as they passed. Older businessmen stiffened in their chairs, whispering low into their glasses. Women in designer gowns clutched their clutches tighter, posture straightening, eyes trailing their every step with silent calculation.

But no one dared to approach.

Not a single soul.

Their assigned table sat near the center, circular and elevated slightly above the rest. White silk tablecloth. Diamond centerpiece. Seven empty chairs.

Before they could even sit, a quiet shuffle of movement came from the left.

Ni-ki’s head snapped toward it—along with the others.

Konon.

Clad in black satin, with her hair twisted into a sleek bun and silver ear cuffs glinting under the chandelier—commanding as ever, eyes sharp like she'd read the entire room the moment she stepped in.

Sunoo lit up instantly. “I mean, time is relative.”

“You and your excuses,” Konon replied smoothly, smirking at him.

Sunghoon gave her a casual nod. “We blame Jungwon. He needed extra hair spray.”

“Yah!” Jungwon scoffed. “That was Jake, actually.”

Jake blinked in mock offense. “Excuse me? I look like this naturally.”

Heeseung grinned, throwing an arm around Jungwon. “He’s lying. He took forever trying to decide between cufflinks.”

Konon rolled her eyes but there was warmth in it. “You’re all a mess.”

“Well, hi guys,” she added, softer now—one hand briefly resting on Sunoo’s arm before offering a glance toward everyone. Her voice was low but steady, the kind that made people lean in even in a room this loud.

Everyone else was watching—and when Konon greeted them like they were just friends catching up, every conversation in the ballroom died down.

And the people holding their breath finally exhaled.

The tension in the room dissolved into classical music once more.

Konon tilted her head slightly. “Food’s going to be served in a few.”

“Thank God,” Jay muttered, placing a hand over his stomach. “I’m starving.”

“You can go for seconds,” Ni-ki added dryly

“Ha. Ha.” Jay shot back, flipping him off under the tablecloth.

Konon smiled again. This time, it was a little softer. “I’m sitting with your mates a few tables down. They’ve been waiting for you guys, you know.” Then, a wink. “Well… minus Ni-ki.”

“Oh we’re ditching you, sorry,” Heeseung said quickly, already pushing back his chair.

“Don’t wait up!” Jake added with a grin.

“Thanks, Konon!” Sunoo beamed as he gave her a quick side hug and darted off.

As soon as they turned toward the direction she motioned, their eyes lit up. There, at a table bathed in soft light, their mates were already waiting, happily chatting, laughing gently over the little snack dishes already placed at their spots.

Jay’s girl looked up first, her face lighting up the second she spotted him. Sunghoon���s mate waved him over. Sunoo was already jogging halfway there, calling her name softly like he hadn’t seen her in months.

It was warm. Safe. Familiar.

And Ni-ki didn’t move.

The moment the others left, the grin slipped off his face.

He didn’t even bother pretending anymore.

His eyes slowly flicked toward his sister, gaze sharpening like a blade being drawn from its sheath.

He raised a brow, cold and flat. “What do you want?”

Konon let out a soft sigh, folding her arms over her chest. “I’ll say sorry later. Properly. Not when we’re at risk of becoming a headline about dysfunctional siblings at a high-profile dinner.”

Ni-ki scoffed. “Too late for that.”

“I’m being serious,” she said, a bit firmer this time. “Come with me. Please.”

Ni-ki didn’t move.

For a second, he just stared at her like she was speaking a different language. Then, jaw ticking, he exhaled hard through his nose.

“…Fine,” he muttered.

He pushed his chair back, and followed.

They moved through the edges of the ballroom, the golden lighting slowly dimming behind them as they slipped past the heavy doors once again—this time not into flashing cameras or stares, but into a quiet hallway off to the side.

The contrast was immediate.

Soft cream walls. High, arched ceilings. Pale white curtains gently swaying from the open windows, guided by the cool evening breeze. Their shoes made little sound on the carpeted floor, but every step still felt heavy.

Ni-ki walked with his hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched. “So… where exactly are we going? Or are you just kidnapping me now?”

Konon didn’t look at him. “Relax.”

“Are we far enough from people in case we yell at each other?”

She didn’t answer.

Instead, they walked a few more paces in silence. The air between them was awkward, tense. The kind of silence you only get between siblings who haven’t talked in weeks but know exactly what’s waiting once the first real sentence drops.

Ni-ki glanced sideways at her. “You’re walking like you’re about to stage a coup.”

Konon finally let out a breath that almost—almost—sounded like a laugh. “I am the oldest. It’s in my contract.”

He rolled his eyes, but his mouth twitched. Just barely.

The hallway opened up ahead of them, and they came to a stop in front of a pair of tall double doors, dark walnut polished to a perfect gleam. Ornate gold trimming curled across the panels in luxury, and the faintest hum of chatter could be heard behind them.

Two bodyguards stood posted at either side, dressed sharply in black, expressions unreadable, each with an earpiece and that signature stillness of people trained to move only when necessary.

Ni-ki’s brows furrowed slightly. “Where are we?”

Konon didn’t answer right away.

Instead, she stepped a little closer to the guards, who immediately straightened at her approach. One of them reached out to grab the handle—but she held up a hand.

“Give us a second.”

They froze. Nodded. Stepped back.

Konon turned toward Ni-ki again, her eyes serious now. Older sister serious. The kind of serious that meant he wasn’t going to like whatever was about to happen.

“Before we go in,” she said quietly, “you need to know something.”

Ni-ki’s shoulders tensed. “Konon—”

She shook her head, cutting him off with nothing more than a look. “You’re going to get your explanations. I promise. Just… not all at once. Not right now.”

“Why?”

“Because if I told you everything, you’d do something reckless. And I need you to be steady right now.” Her voice dropped just a little. “For her. And for yourself.”

Ni-ki’s eyes narrowed. “Her?”

Konon gave him a tight, unreadable smile. “You’ll see.”

She turned slightly, about to gesture to the guards again—but then paused, her hand hovering mid-air.

“And, Riki…”

He looked at her, something in his chest pulling tighter by the second.

“When we walk through that door… don’t hate me for hiding this from you.”

Ni-ki blinked, heart stuttering.

“What the hell does that mean?” he asked, voice low.

Konon finally dropped her hand, giving a small nod to the bodyguards.

“You’ll understand,” she said. “In time.”

Click.

The door cracked open.

Ni-ki stood frozen for a second, brain scrambling, heart pounding, hands twitching like they didn’t know whether to fight, flee, or brace for impact.

He shot her a look—half confusion, half warning. “Konon—”

“For now,” she said gently, “just… enjoy what’s waiting.”

And with that, she stepped through.

Ni-ki stood there, stuck between twenty questions and a rising wave of something he didn’t yet have the name for.

The room was nothing like he expected. It was quiet, not the kind of silence that echoed, but the kind that was filled with warm low voices and clinking silverware. The chandelier light bathed everything in a soft golden hue, flickering against polished wood, floor-length curtains, and ivory linens.

A single, long table anchored the center of the room. Thick linen tablecloth. Gleaming utensils. Plates already set. The air filled with low murmurs and the gentle clink of silverware.

Ni-ki’s feet slowed the second he saw the people seated around it.

His parents were there. He’d expected that, of course. Their presence was a given. Their names practically built into every invitation and RSVP.

But beside them, seated just as naturally, as though they belonged there—your parents.

Your mother and father. Dressed in formal but relaxed attire, both looking years younger than he remembered. Your dad spoke with his father, voices pitched low, and your mother sat angled toward his, sipping wine with easy familiarity, like they’d done this dinner a hundred times before.

And on the far side of the table was his youngest sister. A soft smile played at her lips as she glanced up at him. She gave him a wave—then turned back down to focus on the neat slice of strawberry cake placed delicately on the small dessert plate in front of her.

Ni-ki blinked.

Something twisted in his stomach.

He flicked a quick, sharp glance toward Konon, who stepped just beside him.

She didn’t even bother looking sheepish this time. Just sighed and pressed her fingers to his back to guide him forward.

Years of training. Pure-blooded polish. His face slid back into a perfect neutral mask, just a notch below warmth, just above unreadable.

“Good evening,” he greeted, bowing his head slightly.

His mother looked up first. A graceful smile bloomed on her face, her pearl earrings catching the light as she leaned back.

“There you are. We were wondering if you’d gotten lost on your way,” she teased.

His father chuckled behind his glass. “Or caught up messing with your friends again.”

Ni-ki only smiled, smooth and thin. “Konon dragged me into something. It took longer than I thought.”

“Sounds about right,” your mother chimed in, eyes twinkling. “She’s always been a bit theatrical, hasn’t she?”

“Occupational hazard,” Konon murmured with a smile of her own as she slid into the chair beside Sora.

Your dad leaned back slightly in his seat, looking Ni-ki over. “You’ve grown,” he remarked, a spark of admiration in his tone. “It’s strange seeing you at this height. I remember when you used to fall asleep under banquet tables.”

Ni-ki let out a short, practiced laugh. “I still might. Just more discreetly now.”

The adults laughed softly—like the gentle hum of politicians mid-negotiation. Measured. Controlled.

He moved toward the empty chair directly across from them, beside Konon, and took a seat as if it didn’t feel like the room was upside down.

He still didn’t know what was happening.

He didn’t know why this was happening.

Why your family—your family—was seated so comfortably with his.

And why the only seat left open was the one directly beside his.

Ni-ki’s knuckles brushed the linen as he adjusted in his chair. The smile on his face hadn’t slipped. His heartbeat had, though—somewhere back at the doorway.

“I heard things have been… tense at the Academy,” your mom began gently, her voice motherly in that way only someone used to veiled questions could manage. “Sunoo mentioned something about new council protocols?”

Ni-ki nodded once, keeping his tone diplomatic. “We’re adjusting. The juniors are more… expressive. That’s all.”

Your dad chuckled. “Means you’ve been cleaning up after them, huh?”

Ni-ki tilted his head with a slight smirk. “Someone has to.”

Sora let out a tiny laugh behind her glass of juice.

Your dad leaned back in his chair, wine glass cradled in one hand as his eyes narrowed slightly—not in suspicion, but with the sharpness of a man who didn’t waste his attention on things that didn’t matter. And right now, Ni-ki mattered.

“How are things going on your end, Riki?” he asked, tone smooth, but firm. “I heard you’ve been sitting in on executive meetings lately. Your father's grooming you for the board, isn’t he?”

He forced a polite nod, the practiced kind that made it look like he was at ease. Like he wasn’t processing the fact that the father of the person he liked was now casually discussing board succession plans with him.

“It’s… a lot,” he said with a short exhale. “But manageable. I’ve been shadowing most of my father’s regional division calls and started reviewing the trade contracts for the Pacific wing.”

“And what about the delegation team?” your father asked. “The ones under you—handling that well?”

Ni-ki tilted his head slightly, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. “They’re responsive. A little rigid, but that’s expected. I’ve been rotating project leads weekly to build adaptability.”

Next to him, Konon raised a brow with a slight smirk—someone’s rehearsed.

“Sounds like you’re doing more than just adjusting,” your dad said, clearly impressed. “You’ve always been sharp, but I didn’t expect you to take on leadership this fast. You’re what, seventeen?”

“Nineteen,” Ni-ki corrected smoothly, hiding the way the compliment made something coil tight in his chest.

Your dad chuckled, setting down his glass. “Could’ve fooled me. You handle yourself like someone already wearing the title.”

“Thank you, sir,” Ni-ki replied, offering a small, respectful smile.

Your mother leaned in with a smile. “It’s good to know the future’s in good hands. I’d trust my stocks with you, Riki.”

Ni-ki gave a gracious nod, even as his thoughts spun.

This wasn’t just dinner.

This was a test.

Ni-ki’s hand hovered over the glass of water he hadn’t touched since he sat down, the polite mask plastered on his face slowly starting to peel beneath the pressure of a question he couldn’t ignore anymore.

He turned slightly toward your father, gathering just enough courage to speak.

“Sir, I was wondering—” he began, voice even, calm, steady—

The doors opened.

It was soft. Barely a sound. But to him, it was a quiet crack of fate.

The low murmur of the room halted. Heads turned. Chairs subtly adjusted.

And then came you.

You stepped in like the room had been waiting on you all night.

Wearing a floor-length black dress that hugged your frame like it had been made from midnight itself. It clung to your waist, dipped along your back, and fell perfectly to your ankles, swaying gently like it knew it was being watched.

Your heels clicked softly against the marble floor. Not loud. Not proud. But with every step, the air felt heavier.

Nishimura Riki’s world stopped.

Your hair was styled effortlessly—every strand in place, cascading over one shoulder like a painting come to life. Your makeup was clean, polished—just enough to make your eyes glow, cheekbones soft yet sharp, lips tinted a shade he swore he had never seen before and yet somehow recognized.

You looked up.

Eyes scanning the table, drifting gently, until they met his.

Ni-ki swore the room fell into silence. Like the gods themselves had pressed a finger to the world and whispered, look.

You blinked, once. Your breath hitched. Not enough for anyone else to notice, but he saw it.

And for a second—just a second—Ni-ki wondered if this was it.

If all those quiet prayers he never spoke aloud had finally been heard.

If the nights he spent staring at his ceiling, aching with something unnamed, something shaped like you, had finally amounted to this moment.

Or if the gods were playing with him again.

Dangling you just close enough to touch, only to remind him that he shouldn’t.

That he couldn’t.

That beautiful things weren’t made for people like him—people who had too many rules stitched into their skin.

You looked at him like you knew something. That pull. That ache. That dangerous softness sitting between you.

He didn’t know whether to scream or beg or fall to his knees and thank the heavens for letting him see you like this, even if it was temporary. Even if it wasn’t real.

His thoughts were spiraling. Heart climbing out of his chest. Voice caught somewhere behind the ache in his throat.

“Sorry I’m late,” you said gently, smile still warm, still so you.

The sound of your voice snapped him back like a whipcrack to the ribs.

Before you could even reach your seat, Ni-ki stood up so quickly it startled his water glass—just barely tipping it before he steadied it with a swift hand.

He cleared his throat. “Let me.”

You paused, just for a moment, your smile faltering into something softer, something more private, before you nodded and whispered, “Thank you.”

Ni-ki reached for the back of your chair, fingers steady despite how fast his pulse was hammering beneath his skin.

He pulled it out, eyes flicking to you once—just once—as you adjusted the hem of your dress and moved to sit. As you leaned slightly forward, a few strands of your perfectly styled hair slipped out of place.

Without thinking—God, he didn’t even think—his hand moved.

Fingers brushing lightly against your temple, he tucked the hair behind your ear.

You blinked up at him.

He just nodded and stepped back, sliding the chair forward gently as you settled as he returned to his seat beside you.

The conversations around the table slowly resumed—your fathers discussing quarterly reports, logistics, and partnership forecasts like this dinner wasn’t completely shifting the axis of Ni-ki’s entire world.

Like you weren’t sitting right there, your scent light and expensive and so achingly familiar it hurt to breathe.

Ni-ki didn’t look at you.

Instead, he glanced across the table and locked eyes with Konon.

And when his eyes narrowed in a glare—sharp, questioning—she only gave him a small, tight smile. One that was smug and kind all at once.

“Hi, Riki,” you said, voice low, just for him.

He closed his eyes briefly.

Just one second. One breath.

And let out a sigh—his nth one that night.

God, he was so tired of holding back. Of pretending he didn’t miss you when you were just a breath away.

But he didn’t meet your gaze, he couldn’t.

So instead, he kept his eyes trained on the table.

“You look…” He trailed off, the word caught somewhere between his lungs and ribs.

Unreal. Divine. Unreachable.

“…nice,” he finished, cursing himself.

Your lips twitched, just barely. “Only nice?”

Ni-ki didn’t answer at first. His gaze flicked down, just once—taking in the curve of your dress, the way the lights kissed your skin, how calm and devastating you looked all at once.

His jaw ticked.

“I really don’t have much to say,” he muttered finally, voice low and clipped. “I mean—” He laughed under his breath, but it was sharp and humorless. “I haven’t heard from you in what? Two weeks? And now here you are. Just…” His eyes flicked to yours, stormy and unreadable. “…sitting next to me like nothing happened.”

Your heart clenched at the sound of his voice—hoarse, rough around the edges, like it had clawed its way through his throat.

He wasn’t yelling. But that made it worse. He was controlling his emotions and that was far more dangerous than him being angry. Controlled Ni-ki meant he’d thought about this. Felt it. Over and over.

“It wasn’t supposed to be like that,” you said quietly, the words tumbling out. “I wasn’t even supposed to leave Italy, Riki. Everything happened so suddenly. I didn’t get a chance to—”

“To what?” he cut in, still soft, still composed, but with the kind of tension that made every syllable burn. “Say hello? Say anything?”

You sucked in a breath. Your hands had gone cold. “I didn’t want to make it worse.”

“Oh, worse?” he echoed with a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah. No, don’t worry. Two weeks of silence and wondering where the hell I stood with you wasn’t worse at all.”

You opened your mouth, but he wasn’t done.

“Do you care about me or not?” he asked, finally looking at you. His voice wasn’t raised—but the weight behind the question was shattering. “Just… answer me. Please.”

The words caught in your throat. You felt his eyes—dark, pained, beautiful—locking you in place like gravity itself was made of him. The room around you blurred, a soft hum of chatter and glasses clinking in the background, but it was like the two of you were sealed in your own bubble of aching silence.

“I do,” you breathed. “I do care.”

He looked away immediately. Like hearing it hurt more than not knowing.

You hated how good he looked tonight—how the curve of his jaw tensed with every emotion he tried to bury, how his broad shoulders shifted beneath that sleek, tailored suit like even his clothes couldn’t cage the storm inside him.

And his scent—warm, smoky, something distinctly Ni-ki—had been wrapping around you slowly, inch by inch, clouding your focus, weakening your walls.

“Riki, I didn’t have a choice.”

“You always do,” he muttered. “You just never choose me.”

You swallowed hard, your throat thick with guilt and longing and all the feelings you’d spent weeks trying to forget. Your hands were trembling under the table.

“Riki, I’m sorry,” you said quietly. “Everything just got… so busy. So fast. I didn’t mean to disappear like that—”

Ni-ki let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. It was sharp, bitter, quiet enough that no one else at the table noticed. His eyes didn’t meet yours.

“Right,” he said. “Too busy.”

You winced. “I wasn’t trying to avoid you.”

“You didn’t try at all.”

The words landed with a weight you weren’t ready for. Your chest tightened. “It wasn’t easy for me either.”

Ni-ki finally turned to you, his gaze steady, unreadable. “Then why didn’t you say something? Anything?”

You hesitated, lips parting, but no words came. Because how were you supposed to say it? That seeing him—being around him—hurt? That every glance, every almost-touch, every night you spent pretending you didn’t wish things were different only made you fall harder for someone you couldn’t have?

“I thought… if I distanced myself,” you whispered, “it would hurt less.”

His eyes narrowed, but his voice stayed low. “For who?”

Your mouth opened, but again—silence.

Ni-ki sat back slightly, still watching you. “You think I haven’t been busy?” he asked. “I’ve had meetings, training, pressure from every side—and I still looked for you. I still waited. I still cared.”

You swallowed hard, throat closing around the emotion building like a wave.

“I care too,” you said, barely audible. “I just—Riki, it was too much. I didn’t know what to do.”

“So you did nothing,” he muttered.

A breath passed between you. His scent was stronger now—wrapping around your lungs until you could barely breathe. Your fingers dug into the linen napkin on your lap, white-knuckled.

Ni-ki ran a hand through his hair, jaw tight. “You didn’t even owe me anything. Just honesty. Just… don’t act like it wasn’t a choice. Because it was.”

“I know,” you said. “I just didn’t think you’d understand—”

“I would’ve tried,” he cut in, and this time his voice cracked just a little.

You hated it. Hated how even now, a part of you just wanted to hold his hand under the table. Say I’m sorry and I miss you. But you also knew that would be cruel—because wanting someone doesn’t erase the damage of walking away.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” you said softly.

“You still did.”

And you both went quiet again. Not because the conversation was over—but because there were too many words now, all crowded between you, fighting to be said at the same time.

Mercifully, your mother spoke.

“So,” she started, tilting her head toward you. “How was Italy, sweetheart? Oh, and are you done planning your transfer back to the academy?”

Your spine straightened instantly. Every eye shifted to you—but one pair, one familiar, dark, piercing pair locked.

Ni-ki didn’t speak. He didn’t interrupt. He just looked at you.

His brows pulled in slightly—not in anger, but in something that made your stomach twist. Quiet confusion. A thousand unspoken questions pressed into a single expression. You could practically hear it:

‘You’re transferring back?’

You hadn’t told him. Of course, you hadn’t. You barely spoke at all.

“I—yeah,” you said, forcing a tight smile toward your mother as you tucked your hair behind your ear, your fingers trembling slightly. “I’m just waiting on one final document from the dean. Everything else is ready.”

“That’s wonderful,” your mom said, pleased. “You’ll be back in time for the new term then. And in the same class and Riki too, I think. I checked the registry.”

You gave a small nod, eyes flickering sideways. Ni-ki still hadn’t said a word—but his gaze hadn’t left your face.

You tried to keep talking, keep it together, like the words might smooth the tension building in your chest. “The paperwork just… took a little longer than I thought. There was a mix-up with the local office in Florence and—well, the emails kept bouncing back and—”

You glanced at Ni-ki. Just for a second.

Apology. That was the only thing in your expression.

Apology in the curve of your brows, in the way your lips parted—like there was more you wanted to say. More you should’ve said long before this moment.

He didn’t blink. Didn’t nod. Just watched you quietly, jaw tight, like he didn’t trust himself to speak without everything else spilling out.

You turned back to your plate. “It all just happened so fast.”

Then, almost too cheerfully, Ni-ki’s mother leaned in slightly from her seat, a sheepish smile curling her lips as she glanced between the two of you.

“Well, honey,” she said with a light laugh, “if you don’t like how fast things are moving, you definitely won’t like what we’re about to say next.”

You blinked—confused, still a little breathless from everything that hadn’t been said just seconds ago.

Ni-ki looked up sharply at his mother, brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

But before she could respond, your eyes met his. For the first time since you sat down, the two of you really held the gaze—no dodging, no guilt-clouded flickers. Just that full-on stare filled with wariness and questions and something dangerously close to hope.

And fear.

That was the thing you both felt most.

Slowly, you and Ni-ki turned toward the adults. Four faces—your parents and his—already waiting, as if they’d been anticipating this moment far longer than the two of you.

Ni-ki’s father sighed, running a hand through his silver-streaked hair. The sound alone made Ni-ki stiffen beside you. His brows furrowed, eyes narrowing slightly, the muscle in his jaw ticking.

“What’s going on?” Ni-ki asked slowly, voice low. Controlled. “Why do I feel like there’s a second dinner I didn’t know I RSVP’d to?”

Your father set down his fork with a soft clink. He leaned forward, fingers laced together, elbows resting on the table like this was just another business meeting.

“Your return wasn’t abrupt,” he said calmly. “It may have seemed that way to you both, but we’ve been planning this for months now.”

Ni-ki’s gaze sharpened. “Planning what, exactly?”

His mother smiled—tightly, like someone trying to keep the peace while walking over glass. “Riki, sweetheart. You and (Y/N)… you’ve known each other since you were in diapers. Our families have always been close. This isn’t out of the blue.”

You stared at your mother, mouth parting just slightly. Somewhere deep down, you knew she was about to say something that would change the shape of the night forever.

She picked up where the others left off. Her tone was soft, motherly, coaxing.

“You two are at the age now,” she said. “The age where marriage isn’t just about love anymore. It’s about legacy. About trust.”

Your breath hitched.

Ni-ki blinked, shoulders tense, not a single inch of him moving.

“And instead of marrying you off into unfamiliar families,” your mother continued, “we thought… why not join two that already love and trust each other?”

It hit you all at once.

You didn’t need her to say the last words, but she did anyway—gently, but firmly.

“We’d like to arrange for the two of you to be married. Eventually.”

Ni-ki let out a sharp breath, something between a scoff and a stunned exhale.

Your lips parted. But no words came.

His mother tried to smooth the atmosphere. She laughed gently, waving her hand as if the tension hadn’t solidified the air.

“It wouldn’t be right away, of course,” she said lightly. “You’re both still young. It’s just… a future arrangement. A promise. Between families. You understand, don’t you?”

“Understand?” Ni-ki’s voice was low. “You’ve been planning this behind our backs and you want us to understand?”

“Riki—” his father warned, but he wasn’t listening.

“No,” he said sharply, still looking at you. “Did you know about this?”

Eyes wide, your gaze dropped, darting toward your lap like it might shield you from the storm brewing across from you. Your pupils blew wide—fear, confusion, guilt—every emotion unraveling all at once, so fast it made your chest tighten.

“I—” You looked back up, desperate. “No. I didn’t. I swear, Riki, I had no idea.”

Something about the way you said it. Shaky. Honest. The panic in your voice—not fear of him, but fear for him. For what he might think, what this would do to him. It made him falter.

His scent spiked suddenly, bitter and sharp, thick with betrayal—and immediately, instinct kicked in.

Your shoulders stiffened, your breathing hitched.

Ni-ki cursed silently, jaw clenching harder as the realization struck him.

You could feel it. His anger. His pain. His pheromones were pushing at your senses, clouding your thoughts, and it wasn't fair—not to you, not when he knew exactly how sensitive you were to his scent.

He exhaled hard through his nose. Lowered his gaze. Swallowed the next thing he wanted to say.

Because as much as he hated this—all of this—he knew you. And no matter how much his heart was a battlefield right now, he also knew one thing: you never lied. Not to him. Not like that.

So he nodded once, slowly. Controlled. Teeth still gritted.

He turned back toward the adults, shoulders squared, face like stone.

“Let me get this straight,” he said, voice tight with restraint. “You didn’t think it was important to tell either of us that our entire lives were being planned?”

“Riki,” your mother began, her voice soft, trying for calm, “we weren’t planning your life. We were securing it.”

“With what? A contract and a shared bloodline?” he snapped. “You really think this is how relationships work?”

“This isn’t just about relationships,” his father cut in. “You two have known each other since you were children. We thought—”

“That that made it yours to decide?” Ni-ki bit, canines flashing slightly as his temper flared again.

His mother placed a calming hand on her husband’s arm. “Riki,” she said, gently now, “no one’s forcing you. But if it’s going to happen one day anyway, wouldn’t you rather it be with someone you trust?”

You blinked at that—and your chest squeezed. Because as terrifying and overwhelming as this all was, the thought of marrying someone else… someone who wasn’t him…

You weren’t sure you could stomach it.

Next to you, Ni-ki exhaled sharply. His hand shot up to rake through his already-messy hair, fingers curling at the roots like he needed to physically stop his thoughts from spinning.

Just sat there, jaw working, eyes on the far end of the table, every breath he took more uneven than the last. Like if he opened his mouth, he might explode.

Then—suddenly—he stood.

Not harshly, not slamming his chair back or anything. But there was urgency in the movement. Unspoken panic beneath his calm exterior. And then—

He reached for you.

Fingers curling softly around your wrist, warm and careful, and when your eyes darted up to his, your breath caught.

“Excuse us,” he said curtly—voice tight, but polite, somehow still managing that final thread of formality, though everyone in the room could hear it fraying.

And no one stopped him.

His grip was still gentle, guiding you just past the doors, down the corridor and away from the sentries posted nearby—until there was finally a stretch of hallway where it was just the two of you.

He let go of your wrist then. Just barely stepped back.

But his hand hovered for a second, like he wasn’t ready to let go of you entirely. Like some part of him wanted to hold onto something—anything—because everything else was crashing down.

Then he breathed. Long and deep.

He stepped forward again, and gently—almost cautiously—pressed you back until your spine met the cold stone wall behind you. You didn’t resist. Couldn’t. Because your heart was in your throat and your legs felt like paper.

Then his arms were around you.

And then—he lowered his chin.

Right onto the crown of your head.

Your breath stuttered. Your hands twitched at your sides, unsure whether to hold him or hold yourself together.

Because what happened to the sharp, bitter alpha from just seconds ago? What happened to the fire, the barbed words, the anger?

Ni-ki was quiet now, almost heartbreakingly so.

His hands moved slowly up your arms, fingertips gliding over your sleeves, rubbing gently—comforting, clinging. His eyes were shut, lashes brushing the top of your hair as he tilted his head forward, resting fully against you.

He inhaled again, slower this time.

That familiar, dizzying blend of strawberries and fresh roses—innocent, soft, utterly you. It clouded his thoughts like a fog he couldn’t fight. It dulled his anger, numbed the sting in his chest, but also made everything hurt more.

Because he wanted this.

God, he wanted this.

“I missed this,” he said, barely above a whisper.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt. “You mean the fights?” you tried to joke—but your voice cracked too much for it to land.

He tightened his hold just a little, like he could mold your body to his, like he could brand you with how much he was feeling without saying it.

“I’m sorry,” you said suddenly. The words spilled before you could stop them. “Riki, I—I swear I didn’t know. I didn’t know they were planning this, and I never meant for you to find out like that—at a dinner table of all places—like it was some kind of business merger or a stock deal or—”

Your voice cracked again, and your breathing started to stutter.

“I don’t want to force this on you either, okay? Hell, I don’t even know if you like me that way, and I would never let them do that to you if I had a choice, I wouldn’t—I mean—”

You were rambling now. Your words tripping over themselves, rushing to explain everything your heart had carried for months.

“I’m sorry I left the way I did. I’m sorry I never wrote. I was so afraid that you’d moved on, or that I was just… something temporary to you when we were kids and—”

“Don’t,” he said, voice sharp—but not unkind. His eyes squeezed shut, his jaw tense, and his forehead dropped back against yours with a low, desperate breath.

You froze.

You hadn’t meant to say that part out loud.

“You keep saying my name like that,” he murmured, eyes still closed. “Riki.”

You blinked, surprised by the change in his voice—how suddenly it sounded so tired, but soft, too. Almost reverent.

“It sounds different coming from you,” he whispered. “It means something. You don’t even know what you do to me when you say it like that.”

Your heart thrashed.

And suddenly, his hands were moving again—back up your arms, over your shoulders, holding you like you were slipping through his fingers and he couldn’t let that happen again.

“Riki,” you whispered again, helplessly. “Please…”

He pulled back just a little, just enough to see your face.

And his eyes—God, his eyes—they flicked over every part of you. Your trembling lip, your glassy eyes, the way your fingers clenched at his shirt like you were seconds from breaking apart.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry I got mad at you. I just—”

His voice cracked, and his next breath came out like a gasp.

“I was scared,” he admitted. “I thought you knew. That you let them plan this and didn’t tell me. That you were coming back because of it—not because you wanted to.”

You shook your head quickly. “I didn’t. I wouldn’t. Not like that.”

He nodded once, slow and shaky.

And then he brought a hand to your cheek, brushing a tear that had escaped—tenderly, carefully, like if he touched too hard you’d vanish.

“You don’t need to force anything,” he said, voice low, trembling, “but if there’s even a part of you that wants this… if you feel even half of what I do when I look at you…”

His eyes locked with yours again.

“I’ll fight for it.”

“I’ll fight them,” he said. “The rules, the arrangement, all of it. I’ll fight to make this ours.”

Your chest caved in on itself. And the weight of it—of everything—suddenly felt unbearable.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered again, voice barely there. “I’m so, so sorry, Riki—”

But he cut you off, gently—pressing a finger to your lips.

“Don’t.” His voice cracked on the word. “Don’t say that.”

You blinked, tears threatening again.

“I’m so fucking stupid,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Lashing out at you like that. Accusing you. Like you were the one who put us in this mess.”

“Riki—”

“No, don’t—don’t say sorry again,” he said, laughing under his breath, dry and bitter. “God, why do you keep apologizing? I was the one who lost it. I was the one who looked at you and doubted you when I know you wouldn’t lie to me. You’ve never lied to me.”

You reached up, fingers brushing through his hair—he leaned into it without hesitation, eyes still closed.

“I got scared,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Everything just… it’s like it was already decided. And I hated it. I hated feeling like I had no control.”

“You’re not the only one,” you whispered back.

His arms wrapped fully around your waist then, pulling you in so close you could feel his heart thudding through his chest.

And you didn’t hesitate—you pressed your face into his chest.

You could hear the slow, uneven rise of his breath. Feel the tension in his shoulders slowly start to unravel. And when his nose dipped into your hair, you realized—he was breathing you in.

You pulled back just a little, tilting your head up to look at him.

His lashes were lowered, lips parted slightly, breath still shallow from all the adrenaline earlier. But his scent had mellowed now—calm, the barest trace of warmth coating the air between you. Gone was the bitter spike from earlier. This was him again.

“Riki,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. “Where do we stand?”

His eyes opened slowly at the question.

And for the first time that night—really for the first time—he smiled.

It wasn’t a smirk, not something half-forced to cover up emotion. It was soft. Real.

“Wherever and whatever you want us to be,” he said quietly, like it was the easiest truth he’d ever spoken. “You name it, I’ll meet you there.”

You blinked up at him, heart catching in your throat.

“I don’t want to force you into something you’re not—”

“You’re not forcing me,” he cut in gently. “You couldn’t. Not with this. Not with you.”

Your hand slid up his chest to rest over his heart. “But everything’s changing.”

“I know,” he nodded, still holding you. “But if I get to change with you? I’ll take it.”

A small laugh broke from your lips—half in relief, half from the swirl of feelings clawing at your ribs.

And Ni-ki leaned down, forehead brushing yours.

“Just stay close, okay?” he whispered. “That’s all I want. Everything else, we’ll figure out together.”

You nodded slowly, your breath catching as you looked up into his eyes.

The storm was gone now. That sharp, ice-edged tension in his gaze had melted into something softer, quieter. His brows relaxed, the harsh lines around his mouth smoothed, and for the first time that night, he looked at you like he wasn’t holding back.

He didn’t say anything for a second.

Because when your eyes met his, wide and unsure, all you could see staring back at you was warmth. Steadiness. Want. The kind of want that didn’t need to be rushed or claimed—just quietly held.

He tilted his head, just a little, brushing his nose against yours. A soft nudge. Barely there. But it made your heart stutter anyway.

His voice was barely audible. “Are you ready?”

“For what?”

Ni-ki pulled back slowly, but not far—just enough to reach down and find your hand. His fingers slipped between yours, and he gave your hand the faintest squeeze.

You felt your inner Omega react immediately—an involuntary hitch in your breath, a soft, near-silent whine curling low in your chest at the sudden loss of contact. But you bit it down. Fought it back.

But when you glanced up at him, his lips curved—he’d heard it.

He just smiled, a little shy, a little crooked. Like he was feeling it too, just under his skin.

“To face the others,” he said gently.

You blinked. “You mean… our friends?”

Ni-ki gave you a tiny nod, lips tugging up the tiniest bit more. “Unfortunately.”

You groaned, dramatic and drawn out, tugging at his hand. “Do I have a choice?”

“No,” he said flatly. “Not really.”

You both laughed—quiet, shared, like it was only yours to keep. And for a second, it felt like the storm from earlier had never touched you.

Your laughter faded slowly, but the smile stayed. It lingered on your lips like a secret. Like something sacred.

And maybe… maybe this didn’t fix everything.

But it felt like a start.

⤷ read part 2 here !

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© 2025 liuhsng — reblogs are highly appreciated and please don’t hesitate to request some fics here if you want me to write anything !

[sturniphone]

── ⌗ older!matt . . . bunny!reader

❛ matt does bunny's skincare even when she's a little bossy ❜

The bathroom is warm with steam, fog curling over the mirror as if even the glass wants to look away and give you both this moment. Soft golden candlelight pools on marble countertops, flickering shadows painting the tile like watercolour. You sit with your legs tucked beneath you on the velvet-cushioned stool, wrapped in one of Matt's old hoodies—faded navy with cracked white lettering. It swallows you, brushing your thighs as you shift between his spread knees, yawning so big your eyes water.

Matt, your impossibly handsome, serious boyfriend older and a CEO; his glasses are always slightly askew watches you like you're the centre of some sleepy universe. He leans forward and kisses the crown of your head.

❝C'mere, bunny,❞ he says, tapping his lap. You giggle and scoot closer, practically crawling into the space between his thighs. Your legs dangle, socked feet swaying, toes painted pale pink.

❝Okay, first the toner. The green one, not the blue. That one stings,❞ you whisper, voice syrupy with sleep. He hums and squints at the bottle, mumbling, ❝Jesus, these labels are microscopic. I'm too old for this.❞

You giggle again, tilting your head to let him dab it on. ❝You're not old. You're vintage.❞ He grins at that. ❝Oh, so I'm collectible now?❞ ❝Mhm. And very expensive.❞ He swipes the pad across your cheeks, and you lean into it like a kitten, sighing deeply, eyes barely open. ❝Mmm... Feels nice. It's cold.❞

❝Cold's good. Closes the pores, remember?❞ You nod solemnly. ❝'Kay. You're so good at this, baby. Like a real spa man.❞ He laughs, warm and soft. ❝A real spa man, huh? That's a new title. CEO by day, spa man by night.❞ He moves onto serum, tapping it in carefully. You mumble your instructions against his shirt.

❝Tap it in. Not rub. Like little bounces. Pat-pat-pat.❞ He follows your sleepy commands without complaint, his big fingers surprisingly gentle for someone who spends all day signing contracts and typing at a keyboard.

❝Bossy little thing when you're tired, huh?❞ ❝'M not bossy. I'm... helpful.❞ That makes him chuckle, kissing your nose. ❝Sure you are, sweetheart.❞ When he gets to the moisturiser, you start giggling uncontrollably.

❝What's so funny?❞ ❝You look like you're defusing a bomb. So serious.❞ He leans in, a smile tugging softly at his lips. ❝That's because you're precious cargo. One wrong move and you melt.❞ He smooths cream along your jaw and kisses your chin. ❝All done, sleepyhead.❞

You blink up at him, lips parted. ❝Wait, wait, lips. Lip balm. Gotta do that part. Can't skip. It's the best.❞ He sighs dramatically. ❝How could I forget the best part?❞ He applies it with his thumb, slowly, then taps your mouth. ❝Press together, bunny.❞ You do, then lean up to peck his lips. ❝Taste test.❞

He chuckles and pulls you into his lap completely. You melt against him, nose tucked under his chin, your whole body soft and pliant. ❝You’re trouble, you know that?❞ he whispers against your hairline, brushing it back with a hand that’s all calluses and love. ❝Sweet, sleepy, bunny trouble.❞

You hum. ❝Yeah, but I’m yours.❞ He rocks you gently in his arms like you're the most delicate treasure, and you drift, heartbeat thudding against his chest. This isn’t just skincare. It’s giggles, whispered orders, forehead kisses and sleepy pouts. It’s Matt loving you in the quietest, gentlest ways he knows how.

This is sugar. This is soft. This is home. And tomorrow night, when your eyes are heavy and the serum's cold, he’ll do it all over again. Because you're his. And because he likes taking care of his little bunny more than anything in the world.

⋆˚꩜｡ lola talks . . . yuh (I love this sm) ive edged you all with finally posting for them !!

── ʚ contacts . . . @chrepsi @ph3ebssturniolo @sturnsxbbyeilish @j21l91 @pip4444chris @mattslutt @sophand4n4 @mattscoquette @mi-co-uk @tezzzzzzzz

⌗ © sturniphone

[jikookncity]

HockeyPlayer!Haechan x FigureSkater!Reader

Haechan is the golden boy with a golden life, he's charming, great at hockey, has the greatest teammates and friends, yet when he goes home at the end of the day he can't help but feel empty. Until he meets the figure skater.

WC: 5.7k, unprotected sex (soft though)

Haechan had it good—at least, that’s what everyone said.

Star winger of the university hockey team. Top ten in his class. Witty as hell, with that dangerous mix of sharp sarcasm and heart-melting charm. Professors liked him. Coaches praised him. The student body practically worshipped him. Girls knew his name, wore his jersey, slid into his DMs with everything from flirty jokes to bold propositions. And yeah, sometimes he said yes.

But no matter how loud the arena got when he scored, no matter how many group selfies or wild parties or post-game hookups came his way… he always went home to silence.

And it lingered. Pressed in at the edges. Like an itch beneath the skin.

He’d scroll through texts and close the app. Watch the ceiling in bed. Lie there in the dark, wondering why the hell am I still feeling this way?

He never found the answer.

So every morning at 6 a.m.—before the world was awake, before the noise and the pressure—he went to the rink.

No fans. No teammates. No coach yelling for speed drills. Just Haechan, a puck, and the echo of his skates scraping the ice.

Until today.

He pushes open the door of the practice rink, stick slung over his shoulder, headphones around his neck. He’s got the usual plan: warm up, fire shots at the empty net, skate till his lungs burn.

But when he steps out onto the cold cement floor and looks through the plexiglass—

He stops.

There’s someone on the ice.

Not just someone. A girl.

She glides like she owns the rink—cutting smooth, elegant shapes into the ice. Her arms stretch like they’re painting music into the air. Her hair, braided and caught by the wind, whips as she spins mid-jump, landing with a soundless grace that makes his breath catch.

She's not wearing headphones. Just completely in tune with the rhythm in her head.

He forgets how to breathe.

Haechan’s seen beautiful girls. Dated a few of them. Flirted with plenty. But this is different.

This is watching art in motion. This is seeing control and freedom at once.

This is the first time his heart stutters for real.

And when she finishes, when she skates toward the bench to grab her water bottle, she notices him—just standing there with his stick and stunned expression.

Their eyes meet through the glass.

She gives a small nod, barely a smile. Polite. Cool.

Haechan lifts a hand in greeting, too casually, like he hasn’t just had his entire soul rocked before 7 a.m.

He’s not sure what just happened, but suddenly, that emptiness in his chest doesn’t feel so heavy.

And all he wants now… is to see her skate again tomorrow.

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

The next morning, he’s there even earlier.

5:45 a.m.

No music in his headphones, no stick in his hands—just a water bottle and the restless need to see her again.

She’s already on the ice.

Of course she is.

This time she’s stretching, balancing one leg behind her on the railing like it’s nothing. She’s in the same fitted jacket, her skates already laced. There’s a thermos next to her bag and a single notebook flipped open on the bench, her handwriting neat and organized.

Haechan lingers by the glass until she looks up, arching an eyebrow like what are you staring at?

He flashes a grin. “Morning.”

“...Morning,” she says. Less cool this time. More curious.

He taps the glass with two fingers. “Didn’t know the rink was booked for angels.”

She doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even smile. She just blinks at him like she’s trying to figure out what kind of guy says that at 6 a.m.

Then, calmly, “I prefer practicing alone.”

He’s thrown off. Okay, cold. But fair.

He shrugs, playing it smooth. “Same. But, y’know… I started coming here first."

She nods like she knows that already. “Then maybe we can ignore each other.”

With that, she steps back onto the ice—clean, poised, focused. Like he didn’t rattle her at all.

But he knows he did.

Because halfway through her routine, she glances toward him again.

He starts coming every morning. Always early. Always quiet. He doesn’t push, doesn’t flirt too much. He just exists beside her, skating on his side of the rink while she floats through hers like a dream.

Eventually, she starts leaving the thermos lid off, steam curling up.

One morning, Haechan gains the courage to formally introduce himself. 

“I’m Haechan.”

“I know.”

“Oh?” He quirks an eyebrow.

“You’re on the hockey team. Everyone knows.”

He’s surprised she didn’t mention his reputation. Most girls do. 

“I don’t know your name,” he says after a beat.

She hesitates. Then, quietly: “Y/N.”

He lets it settle. Tries it out in his head. Y/N.

“You’re a figure skater?”

She glances at him like he’s stupid. “Clearly.”

He laughs. “Okay, cool, we’re doing sarcasm this early.”

She softens—just barely. It’s the first time he sees it, a flicker of a real smile. He stores it like a secret.

They don’t talk much more that day.

But the next morning, when he walks in, there are two thermoses waiting.

One with a pink cap. One with a navy blue one.

He carefully picks up the navy, takes a sip. Hot chocolate.

He smiles, looking over to her across the rink.

“You’re trying to bribe me into leaving, huh?”

Y/N looks up from her laces. “No. I’m trying to make your game less trash.”

He bursts out laughing.

And for the first time in months, the silence that waits for him after practice isn’t heavy at all.

It hums with something new.

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

The morning is quieter than usual. No music. No conversation yet. Just the sharp rhythm of their blades on the ice and the sound of their breaths misting in the cold air.

They’ve been skating together—separately—for a couple of weeks now. Sharing hot drinks. Trading sarcastic quips. Building something silent but sure.

Today, he’s the one who breaks it.

She’s mid-routine, gliding into a graceful spin, arms arched and chin tilted in perfect alignment. He watches from the boards, leaning against his stick. There’s something about the way she moves—like the ice answers to her instead of the other way around.

When she finally slows, coasting toward the wall for a sip of her drink, she hears him speak:

“You move like music.”

She blinks, caught off guard. “What?”

He shrugs like it wasn’t a big deal. “The way you skate. It’s... beautiful.”

Y/N stiffens a little, lowering her thermos. “Is that your thing? Flattering lines at sunrise?”

He grins. “Normally? Yeah. But I mean it this time.”

She raises an eyebrow, skeptical.

He steps closer to the boards, suddenly serious. “When I skate, it’s all speed and force. Slams and bruises. Everything’s about breaking past people, hitting hard, being fast. But you—”

His voice lowers, more thoughtful now.

“You make the ice look soft.”

Y/N blinks again, stunned.

There’s no flirt in his tone. No smirk.

Just truth.

Her fingers tighten around the thermos. She doesn’t know what to say at first. No one’s ever talked about her skating like that. Not coaches. Not her parents. Not even herself. Only scores and technique and corrections.

But Haechan—he’s watching her like he saw something no one else has.

“…Thank you,” she says finally, voice quieter than usual. “That means a lot.”

He nods, still watching her. “Maybe you could teach me sometime.”

She arches an eyebrow. “You? Do a spin?”

“I could be graceful,” he says, striking a ridiculous pose with one hand in the air, one leg kicked out.

She snorts. “You’d tear your groin.”

He laughs loud and full, and she finds herself smiling—truly, this time.

“I’m serious though,” he says, still smiling but more earnest now. “You skate like you feel everything.”

Y/N looks at him for a long second, the quiet of the rink wrapping around them. Then she nods slowly.

“Okay,” she says. “One lesson.”

He lights up. “Hell yeah.”

“But I’m not holding you when you fall.”

“Oh come on,” he grins. “Isn’t that, like, the entire plot of every skating movie?”

She rolls her eyes, but her cheeks are pink.

He can’t stop smiling.

And for the first time, she wonders what it would feel like to let someone into her world—into her rhythm.

Maybe Haechan, with all his speed and spark, could learn to dance on ice after all.

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

They meet earlier than usual. She’s already waiting, lacing up her skates with a smirk.

“You sure about this?” she teases as he steps onto the ice.

“Grace,” Haechan declares, arms wide. “Elegance. Poise. That’s me now.”

She laughs. “We’ll see.”

They start simple—just edge control, nothing fancy. She skates backwards slowly, watching him mirror her steps like a determined, clumsy duckling.

“You’re overthinking it,” she says.

“I’m underprepared for this,” he mutters, wobbling slightly.

She reaches out to adjust his posture, her hands brushing over his arms and shoulders as she moves him into place. He stiffens—not from nerves, but from the warmth that shoots through him when her fingers graze his chest.

Focus, he tells himself.

“Now, try a one-foot glide.”

He does.

And promptly loses balance.

“Sh—!”

Before he can hit the ice, Y/N reacts on instinct—grabbing his sleeve, pulling him toward her to steady him.

Except he’s bigger than she is. Stronger. Off-balance. And she’s on skates too.

They crash hard—both of them tumbling down, skidding slightly.

She lands on top of him, her chest pressed to his, faces barely an inch apart.

The silence after is deafening.

Her hair has fallen into his face. One of his hands instinctively grabs her waist, the other braced against the cold ice. He can feel her breath on his lips. Their bodies flush. Her eyes locked on his.

And for a moment, it aches—with tension, heat, something fragile and new.

Neither of them moves.

Then, with a sharp inhale, Haechan shifts.

He gently pushes her off, careful, hands lingering at her arms as he pulls them both upright again.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low but breathless. “Shit—I didn’t mean to… I wasn’t trying to—”

“I’m fine,” she says quickly, brushing herself off. Her cheeks are very pink.

“Sorry,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “That was… less graceful than I imagined.”

Y/N exhales a shaky laugh, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Could’ve been worse.”

He grins, his eyes flicking to hers again, but this time a bit softer.

“Could’ve been a lot worse,” he says.

Neither of them mentions how long they stayed on the ice.

Or how it suddenly doesn’t feel like just lessons anymore.

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

The fall is behind them. Sort of.

Neither of them mentions how long they lay there. Or how warm it felt, despite the ice. But something has shifted — they’re more aware of each other now, in the quiet pauses and lingering glances.

Practice goes on, smoother than before. Haechan’s trying—really trying—and though he’s nowhere near graceful, she can tell he’s determined.

He skates toward her, panting, cheeks flushed from effort.

“I think I just invented a new move,” he says, breathless. “It’s called ‘accidental dive into the boards.’ Gonna change the sport.”

She laughs, handing him her water. “At least you’re not giving up.”

He takes a sip, then gestures toward the journal sitting on the bench. “So what are you working toward? Competition?”

Her expression shifts.

It’s subtle, but the light in her eyes flickers for a second. She nods slowly. “Nationals. December.”

“Solo?��

She hesitates, "I was supposed to do ice dancing. We qualified together last year.”

“We?”

“My ice-dancing partner.” She sets her water down. “He’s been skating with me since we were five. But he tore a ligament a few months ago. Off the ice permanently.”

“Damn,” Haechan murmurs. “I’m sorry.”

She nods, quietly. “I’ve been trying to rework everything alone. It’s not the same. It’s not what we trained for.”

There’s a sadness there—not just frustration, but loss. Of rhythm. Of history. Of something no one else could replicate.

Haechan watches her. The silence stretches between them, soft and thoughtful.

Then, gently: “So… what if you had a new partner?”

She looks up sharply. “What?”

He shrugs. “Not a real figure skater. But… I’ve got good balance. Decent coordination. And I’ve already proven I fall with style.”

She blinks. “You’re joking.”

He meets her eyes, completely serious. “I’m not. I mean, yeah, I’d need training. But if it’s just to get through the competition—keep you in it—I can try.”

She stares at him, stunned. “Haechan. Ice dancing isn’t just skating side by side. There’s rhythm. Lifts. Footwork. Timing.”

“Okay, yeah,” he says, “but I know how to train hard. I’ve got endurance, muscle memory, and—” he smirks, “a pretty killer smile for the judges.”

She wants to roll her eyes—but she can’t.

Because underneath the joke, he’s sincere. He means it.

She studies him for a long second. “Why would you even want to?”

He hesitates. Then shrugs.

“Because I think you’re incredible,” he says simply. “And you shouldn’t have to give up just because your partner had to quit. It's not fair, people should see your talent and you should be able to show it to them.”

Her breath catches.

And this time, when she looks at him, she sees more than the crowd-favorite hockey player. She sees someone who gets it. The discipline. The disappointment. The pressure to keep going even when it hurts.

She crosses her arms, tilts her head. “You’d actually let me boss you around on the ice every morning?”

He grins. “Kinda into that, actually.”

She smacks his arm lightly, but she’s smiling.

“Fine,” she says. “Trial run. One week. If you can’t keep up, you’re out.”

He salutes. “Yes, coach.”

And for the first time in weeks, she feels something steady rising in her chest again.

Hope.

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

They meet the next morning with new energy.

Y/N has her notebook open, fresh drills outlined with neat little arrows and notes. Haechan’s already sweating before they hit the ice, running through stretches like it’s game day.

“This is nothing,” he says. “Just like practice drills with more… toe pointing.”

“You’re going to regret saying that,” she deadpans.

And he does.

Fifteen minutes in, he’s panting, arms flailing as he tries to mirror her steps in sync. She glides effortlessly—an extension of the music she plays from her little speaker. He, on the other hand, looks like someone trying to moonwalk on a treadmill.

“Okay,” she says, skating toward him. “We need to work on lift position.”

“Lift,” he echoes warily. “Like… pick you up?”

She nods. “Basic ballroom hold, first. I’ll show you the stance.”

She steps closer, guiding his arms with her hands. One around her waist, the other holding hers. Her other hand rests lightly on his shoulder.

It’s the most physical they’ve ever been.

Her body fits against his in a way that immediately short-circuits his thoughts. She smells like vanilla and winter air. Her breath is steady. His? Not so much.

“Don’t grip so tight,” she says, adjusting his hand on her back. “I’m not a hockey stick.”

He chuckles, low and a little flustered. “Right. Soft hands. Got it.”

They hold the pose for a moment. Close. Too close.

Her eyes flick up to meet his. And neither of them moves.

The air shifts—something unspoken curling around the space between their mouths.

Then—

She clears her throat, stepping back like nothing happened.

“Try the lift now,” she says. “I’ll jump into it. You just need to support me and hold steady.”

He nods quickly, desperate to shake off the heat rising in his chest.

She skates away, then glides toward him at full speed. He braces. She jumps.

And for half a second, it works.

Her hands on his shoulders. His hands beneath her thighs. Her legs wrapping slightly as he lifts.

But then—

“Shit—”

His balance tilts.

They tumble down again—him landing on his back, her crashing on top of him.

This time, it's worse.

Her face is inches from his, her legs tangled with his skates, her palm flat against his chest. His hand is still gripping her waist, fingers pressing into her jacket.

They're both breathless.

And this time, neither of them laughs.

Haechan swallows hard. He can feel her heartbeat, fast and frantic, against his chest.

“I—” he starts, but his voice cracks.

She blinks down at him, lips slightly parted, cheeks flushed from cold and maybe something more.

He lets go instantly. “Sorry—shit, are you okay?”

She rolls off awkwardly, sitting up beside him. “I’m fine. You?”

“Yeah,” he says, brushing hair out of his face. “That was... very Olympic of us.”

She finally huffs a laugh, rubbing her palms together. “You didn’t drop me.”

He glances at her. “Like I said… I got you.”

Something flickers in her gaze. Warm. Soft. Vulnerable.

She doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just looks at him like she’s trying to figure him out all over again.

And for the first time, Haechan feels nervous around someone.

Not because he’s worried about what she thinks of him—but because he cares what she thinks of him.

And that’s a dangerous new kind of game.

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

They don’t practice much after the fall.

They skate a little. Talk less. Both shaken—not from injury, but from whatever that moment was on the ice. Neither of them can name it, but it’s been simmering for days, and now it’s just beneath the surface.

After practice, they sit on the bench lacing off their skates. She’s tugging at her laces, unusually quiet. Haechan watches her, brow furrowed.

“You okay?”

She nods without looking up. “Just tired.”

“From skating?” he asks.

She hesitates. Then shakes her head. “From everything.”

He waits, letting the silence invite her in.

Finally, she speaks. “I’ve been working toward Nationals since I was eight. Training before sunrise. Sacrificing everything. And now I’m scrambling to make it work with a brand-new routine, no partner, no coach support. Just... pressure. Expectations. And silence when I go home.”

Her voice cracks, just slightly.

He swallows hard. “That sounds... lonely.”

She nods. “It is.”

His jaw tightens. “I get it.”

Her eyes flick to him, surprised.

“I mean, mine’s different. But yeah. I win games, I’m surrounded by people who cheer for me, who laugh at my jokes, who call me a golden boy—” he pauses, eyes down, “—but I still go home and feel like something’s missing.”

She watches him quietly, her expression softening.

He turns toward her, fully now. “But lately, I don’t feel that way when I’m with you.”

That freezes her.

He’s serious. Not joking. Not smirking. Just... open.

Her lips part, just slightly, unsure what to say.

Haechan’s heart hammers in his chest. He leans forward a little, voice quiet now.

“Can I kiss you?”

She blinks, startled—but not afraid. Her lips twitch into the smallest, shyest smile.

Then she nods.

And he leans in slowly, gently, giving her time to change her mind.

She doesn’t.

Their lips meet, soft and unsure at first. His hand finds her jaw, hers curls lightly around his wrist. It’s delicate, almost hesitant.

Until he tilts his head, kisses her deeper—longer.

Her fingers slip into his hoodie. His other hand finds her waist.

When they finally part, their foreheads rest together, breaths warm between them.

He grins, just barely. “So... does this mean I can ask you on a date?”

She laughs softly, eyes still closed. “You just kissed me. Bit late for formalities.”

He chuckles. “True. But I still want to take you out.”

She opens her eyes, meeting his.

“Okay,” she says. “One date.”

He beams.

“Better make it a good one, hockey boy.”

“Oh,” he whispers, eyes dropping to her lips again, “I intend to.”

And this time, when she kisses him, she doesn’t hesitate.

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

The diner is almost empty when they walk in, that familiar neon buzz lighting up her face in soft pink and blue.

It’s old-school—checkered floors, chrome stools, a jukebox humming in the corner—and she looks at him like he’s insane when he holds the door open with a dramatic bow.

“Only the finest establishment for you, m’lady,” he says with mock grandeur.

She laughs. “You're ridiculous.”

“Hot and ridiculous,” he corrects, pointing to the booth. “After you.”

They slide into the booth across from each other. The menu is sticky and chaotic. She orders a burger. He orders pancakes—at 10 p.m.—and a large strawberry shake with two straws, because he’s cheesy and he knows it.

They talk.

And talk.

They share childhood stories—hers about getting scolded for skating barefoot in the house, his about getting his head stuck in a hockey net twice. She laughs so hard she snorts. He mimics her voice. She flicks a fry at his forehead.

He doesn’t stop smiling the whole night.

Eventually, he slides in beside her, casually throwing his arm over her shoulders.

“You cold?”

She nods, hiding a smile, and lets herself lean into him, her temple tucked under his jaw.

They share fries from the same plate, dipping them into the shake. She makes a face the first time she tries it, but when he gives her a look, she shrugs and goes back for another.

He watches her lick salt off her fingers, and that… that does things to him.

But he behaves. Barely.

They leave close to midnight. It’s cold out, stars spilled across the sky, her breath curling in front of her.

He walks her to her door.

She stops on the porch, turning to face him.

“Thank you,” she says softly. “This was… really nice.”

He smiles, eyes dropping to her lips. “Yeah. It was.”

She bites her lip, hesitant, then looks up through her lashes.

“Will you kiss me again?”

His breath catches.

Then he’s cupping her face, pressing her back gently against the door, kissing her like he’s wanted to all night. Slow at first—sweet, careful—but then she sighs into his mouth and tugs at his hoodie.

And just like that, it ignites.

He groans, pressing closer, her back thudding softly against the door. His hands slide under her shirt, palms skimming warm skin, thumbs teasing at her waist as their mouths move in sync—needy now, deeper, hotter.

Her fingers tangle in his hair, tugging slightly. He gasps against her lips.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “You’re gonna kill me.”

She smiles against his mouth. “You started it.”

He leaves a little kiss on her neck and mouth when she gasps.

They finally pull away, both breathless, lips swollen, cheeks flushed. He rests his forehead against hers.

“Goodnight,” she whispers.

He nods, backing away slowly like he might kiss her again if he lingers.

Then he turns and walks home, floating.

When he walks into the apartment, Mark and Jeno are sprawled on the couch eating cereal and playing Mario Kart.

Mark looks up first. “Yo. Why are you smiling like an idiot?”

Jeno squints. “Did you win something?”

Haechan doesn’t answer.

He just walks to the kitchen, opens the fridge, and stares into it like he just unlocked the secret to happiness.

Mark snorts. “Okay, lover boy.”

Jeno grins. “He definitely got kissed.”

Haechan finally turns, resting his head against the fridge door, the stupidest grin on his face.

“We did kiss” he says, dreamy.

Mark groans. “Oh no. He’s down bad.”

Jeno laughs. “So down bad.”

And Haechan just grins wider, closing his eyes.

Because yeah—he is.

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

The morning after their date, the rink feels different.

Not colder. Not warmer. Just… alive.

She’s already stretching by the boards when Haechan arrives, hoodie hanging loose, hair a mess, and that signature smirk playing on his lips like he knows he’s got her thinking about last night.

“You’re late,” she says, not looking at him.

“I was up all night thinking about fries and that cute little noise you made when I kissed your neck,” he replies casually, setting down his bag.

Her head snaps toward him, scandalized—but her cheeks are pink.

“Stretch,” she says quickly, turning away.

He grins. “Yes, coach.”

The moment they hit the ice, it’s different.

Charged.

His hands on her waist linger longer than needed. Her fingers trail along his neck when she adjusts his stance. Their gazes lock between turns. Their mouths get close in holds, breaths brushing but not quite touching.

It’s… dangerous.

And neither of them is pulling back.

“Ready for the new lift?” she asks.

He nods, already sliding an arm around her, the other beneath her thigh. They move in sync now, less awkward, more fluid. She jumps, he catches her clean, her legs curling around his waist just for stability—obviously.

But neither of them moves after.

His hands are gripping her tight. Her body flush against his chest. Their faces… inches.

Her voice is soft. “You’re not letting go.”

“Do you want me to?”

She swallows. “Practice is over.”

He blinks. “It is?”

She nods slowly, heart pounding.

He doesn’t say a word. Just leans in and kisses her.

It’s nothing like last night. This time, it’s hot. Desperate. Familiar now, but still breathtaking. His hands slide up beneath her jacket, dragging along bare skin. Her fingers are in his hair, tugging. She gasps when he deepens it, and he nearly groans into her mouth.

They break apart just barely, panting.

“Wanna come over?” he asks, voice husky. “I’ll cook for you. We can watch a movie. You can keep distracting me.”

She grins, biting her bottom lip.

“You cook?”

“No,” he says, laughing. “But I order really well. I do this thing where I press a button and it shows up at my door.”

She laughs, breathless, leaning in to brush her lips against his again. “Okay. Dinner and a movie.”

He wraps an arm tighter around her. “And maybe dessert?”

She smirks. “Depends how good the movie is.”

He kisses her again, harder this time, and she melts into him.

Practice is very over.

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

Haechan’s place is cozy, dimly lit, the kind of warm that makes you want to stay. Candles flicker on the kitchen counter. A soft playlist hums in the background—something slow, dreamy. There’s takeout spread across the coffee table, half-eaten because they’ve been talking, laughing, stealing bites from each other’s plates instead of focusing on the food.

She’s curled into the couch, wrapped in one of his hoodies. He’s sitting beside her, one arm thrown over the backrest, eyes only on her.

“You keep looking at me like that,” she says, eyes flicking to his.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re not listening to anything I’m saying.”

He leans closer, voice low. “I’m listening. Just… not with my ears.”

Her cheeks flush. She tries to look away, but his fingers gently tip her chin back toward him.

“I’ve been thinking about kissing you all night.”

She smiles shyly. “Then why haven’t you?”

He doesn’t answer. He just leans in.

The kiss is slow, patient. Not rushed. Like they have all the time in the world. His lips part hers carefully, his hand sliding up to cup her cheek. She sighs softly into him, shifting closer, one hand on his chest, fingers gripping the fabric of his t-shirt.

When they finally break apart, they’re both breathless.

He nods toward the bedroom. “Do you wanna…?”

She looks at him—really looks at him—and sees nothing but warmth and tenderness and heat.

“Yes,” she whispers.

He kisses her again before standing, taking her hand, and leading her through the dark apartment into his room.

---------

The door to Haechan’s bedroom clicks shut behind them.

She doesn’t even make it a full step inside before his hand slides to her waist and he pulls her in, kissing her like he’s been starving.

Soft, careful kisses are long gone.

This one’s hot, open-mouthed, needy. His lips crush into hers, tongue sliding in when she gasps. His hand fists the back of her hoodie, tugging her closer, like he needs her to feel every inch of how much he’s been holding back.

She moans into him, fingers already curling into his shirt.

“Been thinking about this all damn day,” he breathes against her lips. “Your mouth, your body, the way you looked at me on the ice—fuck, I almost lost it.”

He walks her backward, never breaking the kiss, hands sliding under her hoodie and up her bare skin, palms warm, breath hot.

He lifts her—just scoops her right up—making her squeal against his mouth, legs wrapping around his waist, arms around his neck. He carries her like she weighs nothing, grinning into the kiss even as his eyes darken.

He lays her back on his bed, immediately tugging off her hoodie and shirt in one move, eyes drinking her in.

“Jesus,” he murmurs, hovering over her. “You’re so fucking pretty.”

She pulls him down, crashing into another kiss, more desperate now. Their hips grind together, his hands gripping her thighs tight, pressing into the softness there like he’s trying to memorize the feel.

Clothes come off in frantic, messy movements—her bra unhooked with a flick, his shirt stripped off between kisses, pants half-stumbled out of as they fumble and laugh between gasps.

He looks down at her, completely bare beneath him, and stills for a moment, chest heaving.

“You sure?” he asks, voice wrecked.

She nods, eyes glassy with need. “Yes. Please.”

And that’s all he needs.

He kisses her again—slower, deeper, more purposeful—hands roaming her body, mouth trailing down her neck, across her chest, over her stomach. She arches into him, moaning his name when his lips hit just the right spots.

“Fuck, the sounds you make…” he groans, nipping at her collarbone. “Gonna make me cum just from this.”

When he finally slides into her, it’s slow at first, careful, his forehead pressed to hers, their fingers intertwined. Her gasp melts into a moan as he bottoms out, staying still just a moment too long.

Then he pulls back—and thrusts deep.

She cries out.

His rhythm picks up fast, desperate, like he’s been holding back for way too long. Every push of his hips has him groaning her name, mouth hot against her ear.

“Feel so good—so tight—fuck, baby, I’ve been going crazy.”

She moans his name, wrapping her legs tighter around him. “Haechan—oh my god—don’t stop—”

“Not planning to.”

His hand slips between them, thumb brushing fast over her clit, making her jolt, cry out louder. He watches her fall apart beneath him, the way her mouth drops open, the way her nails dig into his back.

“You’re mine now,” he murmurs, forehead pressed to hers. “You know that, right?”

She nods, eyes barely open, lips trembling. “Yours.”

“Say it again.”

“Yours, Haechan—please—I’m yours.”

He kisses her hard, hips slamming into hers faster, messier, both of them chasing it now. She’s gasping, writhing, completely lost to it—and so is he.

When they come, it’s together—loud, breathless, full-body shaking, his name tangled with hers in the dark.

He collapses onto her chest, both of them covered in sweat, hearts racing.

Minutes pass in silence.

Then he lifts his head, eyes dazed but smiling, brushing her hair back.

“Dinner and a movie, huh?”

She lets out a breathless laugh. “You owe me both.”

He grins, leaning in for another kiss—softer now, lazy and sweet. “Round two’s gonna be a rom-com. Promise.”

She hums, pulling him close again. “Only if there’s popcorn.”

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

The sun peeks through the curtains, golden and slow.

Haechan stirs awake, face buried in the crook of her neck, skin warm, bodies tangled under his sheets. Her leg is still draped over his waist. She’s wearing nothing but his oversized hoodie and a sleepy little smile.

He brushes a soft kiss to her collarbone.

She hums. “Morning.”

“Mm. Best one I’ve ever had.”

His phone buzzes somewhere on the floor, followed by a string of pings.

She groans. “Make it stop.”

He grins and leans over, blindly patting for it. “Probably Mark wondering where I am. Morning practice. I forgot.”

She bites her lip. “Oops.”

He chuckles, finally grabbing his phone.

17 missed messages. 3 missed calls. Group chat: ‘Ice Kings 🏒💀’

Haechan winces. “They’re gonna kill me.”

He taps the call button.

“Bro,” Mark’s voice comes through immediately, annoyed and dramatic. “Where are you? Coach’s been asking—are you alive?”

“Barely,” Haechan says, glancing over at the girl beside him, who giggles under the blankets.

There’s a pause.

“Was that a girl?” Jeno chimes in.

“She giggled, bro,” Jaemin adds. “There’s a hoodie-stealing, bed-hogging, toe-curling girl in your bed, isn’t there?”

Haechan laughs, rubbing his face. “Okay, okay—chill. Yeah. I wasn’t just ‘sleeping in.’”

Mark whistles low. “Okay lover boy. Since when?”

“Since…” Haechan glances at her, smiling. “Since I started skating at 6 a.m. with someone who moves like a dream.”

“Wait,” Jaemin says. “Skating? You mean figure skating?”

The line goes silent.

Then chaos.

“Bro what the hell—are you doing twirls now??” “Did you buy tights?” “IS THERE VIDEO—”

“Shut up,” Haechan groans, but he’s grinning. “She’s a figure skater. I’ve been helping her train for a competition. It’s… not just skating anymore.”

Mark’s quiet for a second. “Wait. You’re serious?”

“Yeah.”

Haechan glances down at her again. She’s holding his pillow to her chest, smiling at him like she’s never smiled at anyone else.

“I really like her.”

More silence.

Then Mark says, “That’s actually… really cool, man.”

“Yeah,” Jeno agrees. “I mean, it’s hilarious, but it’s cool. I bet you look majestic.”

“Like a graceful little hockey fairy,” Jaemin teases.

Haechan groans. “I hate all of you.”

“But we love you,” Mark laughs. “Seriously, though. That’s dope. And kinda hot.”

“Tell her she’s got full team approval,” Jeno adds. “And that she’s officially invited to the next party.”

Haechan smirks. “I’ll let her know. But if you weirdos scare her off, I’m body checking every one of you.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Alright, go back to—whatever you were doing,” Jaemin says, snickering. “We’ll tell Coach you pulled a hamstring. Or found religion.”

Haechan hangs up with a laugh, tossing his phone aside.

He rolls back toward her, wrapping an arm around her waist and tugging her close.

“You heard all that?”

She nods, smiling. “Graceful little hockey fairy?”

He groans. “God. You’re never letting that go, are you?”

“Never.”

He kisses her again, deeper now, hand sliding up the back of his hoodie on her body.

“Good. Because I’m not letting you go either.”

Want to read part 2 with the competition, more fluff and smut? Subscribe to my patreon here or read the full story here.

[girly-girlk]

everyone’s watching

older!rafe cameron x younger!reader

summary: people judge you for your relationship with rafe

you feel the stares before you even see them.

whispers buzz behind perfectly manicured hands. judgement clings to every sideways glance, every forced smile you receive as you walk into the country club hand-in-hand with him — rafe cameron.

the man who’s twice your age. the man who pays for your tuition, your rent, your vacations. the man who spoils you like it’s his sole mission in life.

and god, do they hate you for it.

you’re wearing a silky dress he picked out for you — deep red, draping like water over your skin. rafe’s hand rests on the small of your back, possessive and protective. his rolex gleams under the crystal chandeliers.

you catch sight of a few girls your age, girls who knew you back when your car barely started and your shoes had holes. they’re glaring. you can almost hear the mental math — the age gap, the money, the arrangement.

you can feel their thoughts: she’s just using him. he’s disgusting. there’s no way she actually loves him.

but what they don’t see is what rafe does when no one’s watching.

the way he wakes you up gently in the mornings, brushing your hair behind your ear like you’re something fragile. that way he never lets you doubt your worth, never lets you feel replaceable. the way he listens — like your thoughts are worth more than all the gold he wears.

they don’t see how he holds your hand under the table when the whispers get too loud. how he tugs you closer and leans in, murmuring, “let them talk, baby. they don’t know shit about us.”

and you believe him.

because what you have isn’t about money, not really.

it’s about the fact that with him, you’re seen. you’re not just some girl trying to survive — you’re his girl. protected. worshipped. loved.

so when a woman near the bar eyes you and sneers something under her breath — “she must be real talented to get a man like that…” — rafe hears it. and the quiet rage in his eyes is cold and lethal.

he leans down, voice a smooth growl against your ear.

“wanna leave? go somewhere they can’t touch you?”

you nod. because you already know — he’ll take you anywhere.

and maybe the world doesn’t understand. maybe they never will.

but you’re not with rafe for the approval of people who never mattered to begin with.

you’re with him because, despite all odds, in his arms… you finally feel like you belong.