#even ones you think you don’t like. settle in with time!

[reignpage]

Perverted things JJK men do (pre-relationship)

Gojo

He stares up at your skirt when you ascend the stairs. It’s too fun to guess what colour your panties are today. Sometimes they’re lace and sometimes they’re comfortable cotton. All of your panties are equal in his eyes — they’re all just so adorable. Some are polka-dots, some are floral, some are solid colours or have fun little puns on them, and if that’s the case then he likes to work those puns into his conversations with you.

Keeping track of your favourites is a past-time of his. 

Occasionally, you come into school with panties full of holes. It seems to be a comfort thing for you. Gojo’s not very impressed. He really wants to buy you new ones; he thinks he’s got your taste down pat. How could he though?

To do that he’d have to confess he uses his enhanced vision for inappropriate things. Maybe he’ll just have to get a package of the finest panties the world has to offer ‘mistakenly’ delivered to your place without a return address. 

For now, he’ll just have to settle for peering under his blindfold at the frills of your underwear and hope he’ll get to have the pleasure of seeing the cute little bow at the front one day.

Geto

This is something he’ll never admit because he hates himself for it but… 

Once in a while, usually when he’s feeling especially pent up and particularly masochistic, he lets you get banged up by a curse either by dodging just in time for you to get the brunt of a hit or by ‘accidentally’ pushing you in the way. Of course he never lets it get too far; he’d exorcise the curse before it could properly harm you. 

And you might be wondering why it’s masochism rather than sadism but that’s because he loves and hates patching your beat-up body after. Sure, he could take you to Shoko but he does love wiping the blood off your soft skin. He can peel some layers away, look down at your shirt, and see the curves and slopes of your chest. Or he can push your skirt up just a little to inspect the scratches on your thighs.

What he hates is not being able to use said beat-up body to relieve the tent in his pants. He’s had to learn to be content with watching you limp away, adjusting his cock in the shadows and breathing in the sharp smell of iron on the washcloth in his fist. 

Choso

Like a little vampire, he breaks into your home in the dead of night and creeps into your bathroom. But only once a month. Because there’s a special time he anticipates like a child waits for Christmas. Choso loves the smell of your used pads and he suckles the — I’m kidding. 

Choso’s actual perverted hobby is pretending to feel ill. Why?

Because you’re so super duper kind that you always let him rest on your lap. The plush of your thighs is wonderful! 

Truly one of those humanly pleasures he never knew he’d crave but he does. He also loves when you play with his hair and he whimpers when you tug. It makes him imagine how you’ll grip his pigtails when he’s in between your legs rather on top of them. 

He especially loves doing this fraudulent routine after sparring; you’re all sweaty and panting and the sweet but musky scent that’s been brewing at the apex of your thighs is at its strongest. As quietly as possible, he takes long and deep inhales and release murmurs of satisfaction. 

You’ve yet to notice and until you do, he’ll never stop his sham.

Toji

Being an assassin has its perks: the pay is great and the learned skills is even greater. 

He’s been hooked up with fantastic inconspicuous cameras. To test out his hiding skills, he’s obscured a couple in your home. Okay, more than a couple. There’s at least ten in your bedroom. 

Now, don’t judge him too much; he doesn’t spend all day watching you. That’d be crazy. What he does instead is watch you only when he’s bored. That’s reasonable, no?

Whipping his phone out, he watches live footage on his phone. Usually you’re just watching TV, doing chores or napping — you do a lot of that, Christ. But sometimes you do something very, very interesting. 

Toji loves when your hand begins wandering. You could be sitting on the sofa gasping at some shitty soap opera and suddenly that hand is groping your tit, flicking a nipple, before it creeps into your panties. Timing his hand with yours, he jerks off at the same pace as you. 

He even has ongoing competitions where he arbitrarily decides to cum before or after you. And of course, he has a folder for the best cumshots he opens when you’re sleeping and he really needs to cum. 

Nanami

He doesn’t do anything perverted, he’s literally perfect what.

That’s what he wants you to think but no, this man has a repressed side from being a long-time virgin, which you can thank his dumbass emo cut in high school for. 

What Nanami likes to do is spill coffee on your clothes. Well, it doesn’t have to be coffee. It could be anything and it has been many things: ink, soup, tea, paint. You name it, he’s spilt it. 

He always offers to take your clothes for dry cleaning. You used to argue with him about how nice he is but he insists. It’s the least he could do. Now, you know the drill. So you hand over all your layers, which, much to his dismay, excludes your panties and he rushes away and makes a left instead of a right to his home.

Still, he gets to have enough fun with everything else. He does eventually take your clothes to be cleaned but not before, he brings up an item of clothing, whatever his cock craves that day, to his nose and he drowns his senses with the smell of you. 

At his worst, he wraps your pencil skirt around his throbbing cock and jerks it up and down at a loving pace he thinks you’d really enjoy. And when he rips up a shirt or two, he blames it on the careless cleaners who just don’t know how to appreciate fashion. 

Sukuna

Hires incompetent people. 

It combines two things he likes.

Killing

Being a hero…just for you

They trip and spill tea on your clothes? 

Dead. 

They bump into you?

Dead.

They don’t know their place and sasses you?

Super dead. 

Sometimes they’re more competent than they initially appeared and he has to wait for far too long for them to make a mistake. So… he expedites the process, shall we say. 

He’ll push them into you, he whispers foul gossip about your terrible character in their ear, and sometimes, in his thirst for a wrong to be righted, he conjures up an ill-act against you in his delusions— they looked at you in a disrespectful way, they said something about your dress or your hair, and they most certainly were the ones who took your precious hairpin, not him.

The shed blood is for you, like a mural an artist dedicates to their muse. He watches the bodies pile up and one of his four arms finds its way through the complex layers of his clothes, tugging at his heavy balls and imagining its you sucking them into your mouth in gratitude. 

If only you knew how kind the King of Curses truly is. 

[cameronsbabydoll]

“his hands look like that, so mine can look like this”

a/n: inspired by this message — blue collar rafe au

you bring rafe a beer as he lounges back on the couch, his attention flickering between the game on the screen and the way you settle against him. his shirt is soft, worn thin from too many washes, and when you shift, the fabric pulls just enough to let you glimpse the tan line along his forearm—where his skin fades from sun-worn bronze to something lighter beneath the sleeves he always pushes up.

he barely acknowledges the drink at first, just reaching for it, but you hesitate, keeping it just out of his grasp until he looks at you. his eyes flick up, a little lazy, a little expectant, and you smile as you finally let him take it, the condensation slipping between his fingers.

you watch his hand as he takes a sip. the rough patches along his palm, the way his knuckles are still a little red from the week’s work, the small cut at the base of his thumb—probably from some carelessness he hadn’t even registered at the time. your hands don’t look like that. they never have.

without thinking, you reach out, smoothing your fingers over his. you trace along the callouses, pressing your palm against his, noting the difference in size, in texture. he doesn’t react much at first—just a glance, a quiet exhale—but then his fingers twitch, and he flips his hand, trapping yours against his chest.

“quit messin’,” he murmurs, voice rough from the beer. but he doesn’t let go. if anything, his thumb drags lazily along your wrist, holding you there as the game drones on in the background.

you shift a little, still tracing over his skin, feeling the contrast of it—yours soft, his rough, the kind of hands that spoke of work without him ever having to say a word.

“you know,” you murmur, giggling as you stretch your fingers against his again, pressing your palm flat to compare, “our hands are so different. mine’s all girly, and yours is…” you trail off, not quite finding the word, just running your fingertips along the ridges of his knuckles.

rafe huffs out a breath, somewhere between amusement and indifference, his eyes still half on the screen. “worn,” he mutters, like it’s just a fact. then his grip tightens, just enough for you to feel the strength behind it. “and strong enough to do shit so you don’t have to.”

you roll your eyes, but the warmth in your chest betrays you. “i can do things, you know.”

he hums, unconvinced, thumb still brushing against your wrist. “sure ya can, sweetheart.”

you make a face at him, poking at one of the deeper callouses with the tip of your nail, but he barely flinches. instead, he just smirks, finally looking at you full-on, eyes a little darker now.

“somethin’ funny?” he asks, lazy, that cocky tilt to his head.

you bite your lip to keep from grinning. “uhuh”

“mhm.” he watches you for a second, then suddenly flips his hand, trapping yours beneath his palm. you let out a soft, surprised laugh as he squeezes, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you of the difference in strength.

“still girly?” he asks, voice low, teasing.

you nod, wiggling your fingers beneath his hold. “still girly.”

rafe smirks, satisfied, then finally lets go—only to slide his arm around your waist instead, pulling you in until you’re pressed against his chest, the beer still cold against your thigh where he rests it. “good,” he murmurs, eyes flicking back to the screen, but his grip on you stays firm, like he doesn’t want you going anywhere.

and you don’t.

[sturnswiftie]

you and your child come first to baby daddy!chris always.

it’s past midnight when you call. you have the phone pressed against your right ear, sandwiched between your head and your shoulder, while your arms occupy the little life currently miserable after having been up for the last hour or so. you’re fearful of the possibility that the call goes unanswered—you know it’s late—but a breath of relief leaves your mouth when chris picks up on the second ring, his voice groggy but alert.

“she won’t stop crying,” you whisper immediately, skipping a greeting all together in your brewing anxiety. you try to soothe your daughter against your chest, but all it seems to do is muffle her cries. “she’s burning up, chris. i don’t know what to do.”

you feel awful for waking him up, the fear of failing as a mother always lingering just beneath your core, but you’re not too proud to admit when you need help—not when it comes to your child, and not when you know chris would never let you drown alone.

your ex-boyfriend doesn’t hesitate. “i’m coming,” he huffs out.

you hear rustling in the background, a woman’s voice—confused, irritated. “are you serious?” she huffs somewhere in the distance.

chris doesn’t answer her. the line goes dead, and less than twenty minutes later, he’s at your door, his hair damp from a rushed shower, dressed in sweats and a familiar hoodie you think you’ve worn a time or two. his eyes scan your face first, then drop to your daughter, curled up and whimpering in your arms.

“she won’t settle,” you murmur, both fear and guilt seeping into your words as you watch him take her without hesitation, his large hands cradling her small frame as he rocks her gently.

“shh, baby, daddy’s got you.”

and just like that, she melts into him.

once inside, you watch as chris soothes her, his voice a low murmur against her tiny ear, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. when his gaze flickers back to you, there’s something in his expression that you can’t quite read—something unshaken, unmovable. unspoken.

you shift a bit uncomfortably under his gaze, trying to pass it off as though the couch beneath you is causing your sudden discomfort. “you, um... you didn’t have to leave,” you say, even though you know what’ll come from his mouth next.

chris scoffs, settling deeper into the couch with your daughter tucked against his chest. “yes, i did. and i’ll do it again, too. every single time.”

because this is what he does. this is who he is—a father before anything else. your person before anything else. you knew from the moment you told him you were pregnant that he would always be there—even if you aren’t together. even if he spends his nights with other women. his heart—at least, the part that matters—is yours and yours alone.

his words fall over your fears and anxiety like a warm blanket, and you can’t help the way you lean into his side, exhausted and finally able to just let go for a moment. his free arm drapes over your shoulders, holding you close.

“thank you,” you whisper quietly, allowing your eyes to flutter shut.

chris presses a kiss to the top of your head, warm and lingering. “get some sleep, mama. i got her.”

you do.

and months later, when you’re staring at a positive pregnancy test, the second one in four years, you don’t have to pick up the phone and interrupt his night with someone else, because he’s right next to you. always.

©sturnswiftie

divider by; @issysh3ll

[evesbookshop]

𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐧!𝐀𝐔 𝐄𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬. 𝐖𝐡𝐨’𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞

✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿

Elementary Ellie, who all but announced that you were her wife a few weeks into sharing the same first kindergarten class. Who dirties up the overalls Joel spends so much time cleaning just to be on her knees while plucking dandelions during recess to bring to you . And harps on and on to Joel about how he can’t forget food for her wife

Elementary Ellie, who stops calling you her wife around 2nd grade and settles for best friends , but god forbid a boy decide he has a crush on you. And you who talks her down while very sweetly rejecting the seven year old boy in front of you. Because well…you’re practically taken.

Elementary Ellie, who’s in fourth grade the first time kids make fun of her for being so protective of you. Who gets called words a kid shouldn’t be. And who sees you blow your top for the first time since kindergarten, because how dare they. (Joel also has a few choice words for the parents of those kids and slips you a 20 when your parents aren’t looking)

Middle school Ellie, who starts to get a little less possessive after that. Who still gets called names but shrugs it off, and who ignores the odd nauseas feeling she gets when a boy asks you out. And who goes home to cry when you get asked to be someone’s valentine and say yes.

Middle school Ellie, who starts distancing herself when she realizes she has a crush on her best friend. Who in the process absolutely shatters your heart, because why doesn’t she wanna be your friend anymore.

Middle school Ellie, who’s doing a really good job at not bothering you and suppressing whatever she’s got going on until she over hears you ranting to a group of girls about how sad you are. how you miss your best friend , and don’t know what you did wrong. She shows up at your house the next day and pulls some lie out of her ass about why she’s been so distant. Who’s little thirteen year old heart flutters when you give her a hug for the first time in weeks.

High school Ellie, who has come to terms with being in love with you. Who thinks she’s doing a really good job at hiding it but the closet has been glass since elementary. Even you know she’s gay, you just haven’t figured out who she likes.

High school Ellie, who gets her first girlfriend sophomore year. Her name is Dina, she’s an angel, and for some god forsaken reason you can’t brings yourself to like her. You yourself don’t even know why. Not till you all end up hanging out in a group of friends and you see the way Ellie’s hand sits on her waist, or pushed the hair out of her face. That’s when you realize, you wish it was you instead.

High school Ellie, who thinks maybe this is her karma for those few weeks in middle school when you start avoiding her. And she’s the one who wants to know what she’s done, hell her chasing you around got so bad Dina dumped her. And while she’s mildly upset, really doesn’t care as much as she should because she misses you instead.

High school Ellie, who backs you into a corner while you’re walking home, not her best look, and asks you why you’re avoiding her. Who takes great offense when you tell her to go hang out with her girlfriend and corrects you saying Ex immediately followed by a “what the fuck is your problem”. And who blue screens when you grab her face and smash your lips into hers before rebooting and breathing you in like it’s the first gasp of air she’s had in her entire life

College Ellie, who shares an apartment with you , her girlfriend. Who’s still a little nervous around you and blushes when you compliments her. Whose favorite place to kiss you is pressed against the wall because it reminds her of the first time. And who can’t wait to make you her wife, again.

[yujisdreamgirl]

husband!nanami who is also the father of your 2 children. dated for 6 years and married for 3–you couldn’t ask for anything more.

husband!nanami who is visibly confused during a conversation he had with his colleagues.

nanami usually avoids the break room whilst it was crowded. unfortunately, on a rare day that he’s forgotten to pick up his coffee from his favourite café, he had to walk into a break room full of a bunch of his coworkers talking about their children’s birthdays. they immediately turn to nanami who was standing in the corner and involved him in the conversation.

“it’s my daughter’s birthday soon. yeah i’m probably getting her one of those dolls and shit—she’s turning 5.” the suited up man takes a sip out of his coffee.

nanami nods apprehensively, wishing to leave the room already. “that’s nice. what are you getting for your wife?” he asks.

“what?” all four of his coworkers turned to look at him, and suddenly it felt like an episode of The Voice.

“…don’t you get your wife a gift when it’s your children’s birthdays??” the only time nanami is ever confused is when he does crossword puzzles. this.. is a whole different level.

his coworkers laugh at the absurd statement, some scoff and one pats nanami on the back.

—

nanami drives back home from work but he was more quiet than usual. he would typically turn the radio on and tap his fingers on the steering wheel to the beat. the car however was dead silent.

“who doesn’t give their wife a gift..? tch.”

“do these young men even love their wives anymore? eugh.”

“y/n always seems really happy when i give her gifts on the girls’ birthday.. i can’t imagine not giving her any.”

—

he arrives home and parks in the garage, sighing and cracking his back before bursting through the door.

“i’m h—” before he could finish his sentence, his 3-year-old twin girls came running to hug him.

“daddy! daddy! you’re home!” they giggle and cling onto his legs as nanami leans over to place his hand on your back and kiss your lips. “hello my darlings,” he smiles.

“you’re home early.”

“just missed my girls a lot.”

—

it’s 11pm. the kids are asleep and you’ve done your skincare, the night lamp on as you lay in bed with your husband.

as you snuggle under the sheets, you suddenly feel big arms snake around your torso. you giggle and pull them closer to you before deciding to turn around and face the man beside you. you lay your head on his chest and he immediately caresses your back.

“my love?” nanami speaks up.

“yeeeees?” you sing. he holds you tighter now, before uttering: “you know how i give you a gift for the girls’ birthday?”

you smile softly at the memory—how could you forget? every birthday for three years, he always manages to surprise you with a gift. he treasures the day dearly. it’s your daughters’ birthday but it’s your birth-day.

“i just found out that not every father does that. at least.. my coworkers don’t.” you look up at him now, seeing his scrunched eyebrows and solemn pout—you can already tell it bothers him. “it’s absurd, isn’t it? what do you think?”

you hum, your eyes never leaving his expression. “to be honest, i’ve never witnessed someone do what you do. it’s not exactly common practice,”

nanami sighs, “i guess you’re right. i just love you so much, you know? i’ll keep showing my appreciation on the day that means a lot to me, to us. it’s the day we became a family and i.. i want to make sure you know how important you are, too.” his voice is soft, as though he's been carrying this thought for a while. you blink, the weight of his words settling in your chest. he doesn't say it often, but when he does, it’s clear he means every syllable.

a small laugh escapes you, touched by his sincerity. “i know, baby. and i’m thankful for it, for you.”

he presses a kiss to your forehead, his arms tightening around you as if he’s trying to hold on to the moment. “me too, darling. more than you’ll ever know.”

͙͘͡★ dividers by @bernardsbendystraws & @cafekitsune 👔

[gloomwitchwrites]

Hi there! Absolutely love your work, you write 141 so well. I was wondering about putting in a request. Something along the lines of doing self care with the guys- massages, face masks, bubble bath, manicure, pedicure, etc., anything to destress after work. However you want to write it, either the reader is pampering them (I’d want to spoil those 4 so bad), they are pampering reader, or they are just indulging in self care together, I leave it all in your capable, creative hands. After the week I’ve had at work I could go for some self care (reading your fics has been helping me 😊). Take care!

Oh my gosh. This is so cute. I love this. Yes, anon. Absolutely.

Written w/ gn!reader

MDNI for brief suggestive themes

When Price comes home after a long day, the two of you like to spend time in the bath together. The moment the text from John comes in on your phone to tell you he’s heading home, you’re turning on the faucet and running the hot water. Once full, you drop in an aromatic bath bomb and placing towels in the warmer. John loves reclining with you in his arm while the two of you soak. He likes to decompress like this, talking about his day and yours, enjoying the feel of you in his arms. It isn’t until the water turns lukewarm that the two of you get out. With warm towels, the two of you dry each other off, and then massage his sore muscles with lotion. Afterwards it’s cuddles in bed.

Soap always watches you indulge in self-care days but never thinks to participate until you offer to pamper him after work one day. He shrugs, not thinking much of it. You start by having him shower and then putting on a fluffy bathrobe afterward. Next is a facemask while you massage his muscles with a hydrating lotion. Johnny is perfectly content, literal puddy in your hands as you work out those knots. He moans when you manage to undo one in his shoulder. The facemask comes off, and while you want to keep pampering your man, Johnny has other plans. He wants to snuggle, and get those kisses in for a bit.

A self-care day with Gaz happens every Sunday as long as he’s home. It’s not an afternoon snooze or a few hours in the evening. It’s a full day affair. It’s morning coffee and tea in bed before cooking breakfast together and then followed by a shared shower for a bit of intimacy. After that it’s taking turns massaging each other, working lotion or oil into each other’s skin. Kyle likes to spend a bit of time grooming himself, and he insists on doing your grooming too (and that includes shaving.) Reading books or lounging around in your bathrobes in the afternoon might happen, or it might be prepping lots of snacks to settle in for a movie marathon. Either way, it always ends with the two of you disconnecting from the world and enjoying each other’s company.

Self-care and Ghost don’t exist. When Simon is trying to decompress after work, he takes a nap and then immediately orders takeaway upon waking. It’s you introducing him to self-care that changes his perspective. Even though he sighs when you drag him by the arm to the bathroom, Simon goes with you after you promise him lots of kisses and touching. It’s a shower first, the two of you scrubbing each other down, and shampooing each other’s hair. Simon steals kisses between rinses. After emerging, its oversized towels, and Simon stealing even more kisses as you try to towel off. You try to convince him to do a facemask or to trim his toenails, and while he might take some clippers, Simon is collapsing into bed, happy to watch you take care of yourself, dropping little sultry comments just to fluster you.

main masterlist

[luvsicktyun]

Well first and foremost I opened the playlist so I could listen to it while I read this and THIS came on -

HELP. this is going to be so good...Just you wait.

None of it feels like it. Not when he hasn’t said a single word to you since you arrived. It plagues your mind. And all you want to do is kick off the heels that bite into your feet, rip off the tiara that feels like a crown of lead, and run. - a prisoner in your own skin.

It’s the undeniable, unspoken reality that settles into your bones and refuses to leave: Choi Beomgyu doesn’t love you—not the way you love him. - I'm going to cry aren't I

And then there’s you. The second child. Since young, you were conditioned, moulded—not to lead, not to build, but to belong to someone else. To be a wife. One whose marriage would serve a purpose, a bargaining chip in a deal that you have no voice to protest. - this trope is so heartbreakingly underrated. there is so devastating about a woman not being able to make decisions of her own. forced to marry not of love but oof obligation. It is my weakness...raya how did you know.

He raised an eyebrow, unfazed. “Do you want everyone to think you’re ugly?” His words made you pause, his brown eyes studying you with a mix of curiosity and something else—something protective. The way he stood, it was as if he was shielding you from the judgmental eyes around you. “If you keep crying like that, everyone will think you are.” - AWHHH help that's so funny

"Hey, have you heard? Choi Beomgyu and Park Ji-won broke up for the fourth time this semester," Jake, one of your batchmates, announces with a grin, his voice cutting through the chatter of your little group. The names make you freeze mid-conversation. "It’s hilarious, bro. Ji-won was literally stomping her feet like a kid." - JAKE MENTIONED

You chuckle, shaking your head. “I don’t really try to memorize their names, Jake,” you explain, your voice softening. “But when someone puts themselves out there like that—when they go out of their way to do something kind for me—even if I don’t feel the same, the least I can do is acknowledge it. Knowing their name… it’s just part of respecting the effort they made.” - I love this.

You couldn’t explain it fully, this quiet pull you felt toward him. - more core w/ beomgyu

"Beomgyu's sick," she continued, tossing her hair back like it was some grand inconvenience to her. "We went shopping yesterday, and he lent me his umbrella when it rained. Now he's sick. Honestly, such an idiot move." - I have trust issues I'm scared.

You swallowed hard, the sight tugging at something deep inside you. His eyelashes, dark and delicate, brushed against his cheeks, and for a moment, he looked so unguarded, so unlike the version of him you were used to seeing. - ugh I love him. my heart hurts.

It felt like you were leaving your heart with him. - raya please stop

“Oh, yeah—yeah!” she blurts, forcing a bright smile. “Of course, I made it.” - THAT CUNT

The way your eyes scanned every room at social gatherings, always searching for his familiar face in the crowd. The way you couldn’t relax until you caught sight of him or the way your heart jumped whenever you spotted him, even if he didn’t notice you. - MY HEART HURTS

And sometimes, you wished that he would be mean to you, he would shout at you or he would hurt you—at least then, there would be something to feel. You hate that you gave him power over yourself. - wanting a man to hate you just so that he felt something towards you. It's heartbreaking.

It wasn’t gentle—it was desperate, messy, like trying to reclaim something lost. Her body pressed against his, and the sound of her soft moan made him grip her arms. He presses her against the door. Her hands tried to open the front door for them to go inside. It felt like a reunion, a fleeting taste of something they weren’t supposed to have. - STOP. STOP.STOP

“I want to be inside you,” he murmured against your kisses. Fine, you thought. Just this once more—one last time. You placed your hands on his chest, pushing him back gently, turned around and got on all fours. You arched your back, pressing your head onto the mattress. Your ass was in the air, and you were exposed to him. Hearing him move behind you made you close your eyes. - awh my poor baby she deserves better than this...

Even as he continued to move, his pace sloppy and desperate, your quiet sobs filled the room, uncontrollable. Beomgyu stilled above you, his heart twisting painfully at the sound. He hated himself—hated the way he’d reduced you to this. - NO THIS HURTS TOO BAD

Your hand flies to your mouth as you scramble out of bed, your legs barely keeping up as you dart to the bathroom. You made it just in time, collapsing onto your knees as your body seized itself forward. The bitter taste burned your throat, each heave leaving you weaker than the last. You sat there, gripping the cool edge of the toilet, tears slipping silently down your cheeks. - NO NO NO I KNOW WHAT THIS MEANS

His jaw tightens. “He dropped them off here yesterday? Why did—” His words tumble out quickly, too quickly. - FUCK OFF you have NO room to talk

He's painfully beautiful. - sigh. yes he is

“They were together all night,” she said, her words rushed, like she wanted to get them out before she lost her nerve. “And someone… someone saw them. Beomgyu practically carried her into his car. They left together.” - oh how my heart is breaking for her

Ryujin stood abruptly and moved to sit beside you, taking your trembling hands into hers. “Confront him,” she urged. “Find out if it’s true.” She squeezed your hands. “I’m so tired of seeing you like this. Always giving and giving while he takes whatever’s left of you.” Her voice cracked. “Loving him silently. Loving him so hard isn’t going to make him love you back.” - LOVING HIM SILENTLY. LOVING HIM SO HARD ISN'T GOING TO MAKE HIM LOVE YOU BACK. this this this.

"I gave you the benefit of the doubt," Soobin growls. "I thought, at the very least, you’d treat my sister with the respect she deserves. But you—" - soobin now is not the time for you to be so fine

“Congratulations, I guess.” You step closer, each word laced with venom. “But don’t you ever come near me again. If you do, I’ll press charges. It will be really ugly. Do you understand?” - PERIOD PERIOD

“She’s been in an accident,” - no no no no nono

literally me

“She’s…” Soobin’s voice faltered, and that hesitation was enough to send Beomgyu spiraling further. “They’re trying. The doctors are doing everything they can.” - no I rebuke this. I don't accept this.

Beomgyu freezes for half a second before anger flares in his chest, red-hot and uncontrollable. “What the fuck are you talking about?” he shouts, shoving Yeonjun hard enough to make him stumble back a step. “I’m going to see my wife!” - MY WIFEE MY WIFEEEEEEEE

Yeonjun’s shoulders sag, and his voice softens, “You don’t even know,” he says, eyes on the floor. “You don’t know what a fucking queen your wife is.” - FUCK YES DEFEND HER YEONJUN SHE IS A MFK QUEEEN

Yeonjun was in love with you, ever since he first saw you. - I'm not ok. I hate everyone. I hate raya. I hate EVERYONE.

“Baby,” he whispered, the word breaking in his throat. - cant do this

“He?” You raised an eyebrow, a small smirk tugging at your lips as you swallowed. “What makes you so sure it's a boy?” Your hand instinctively brushed over your stomach as a quiet smile softened your face. The thought of your little one—boy or girl—filled you with a warmth you couldn’t quite put into words. - I'm crying. I'm sobbing. 'im throwing up

The nurse and doctor offered their condolences before quietly excusing themselves, leaving you alone with Soobin. Your hands trembled as they instinctively moved to your stomach. “I was pregnant?” Your voice cracked, disbelief and anguish bleeding into every word. "Soobin?" - this is crossed out because it didn't happen. I'm deleting this part from the fic, thank you.

“All of that, Beomgyu… it wasn’t Ji-won,” Sunghoon says carefully, “It was Y/N. Every single one of those things. I know because… she asked me to help her sometimes. She didn’t want you to know. She didn’t do it for recognition or because she wanted anything back. She just cared about you. I even told her once—maybe she should tell you how she felt, and even if you didn’t feel the same, at least it’d help her move on. But she wouldn’t. She told me… her love for you wasn’t about getting something back. It wasn’t about her. It wasn’t selfish.” - FINALLY SOMEONE FUCKING TOLD HIM. THANK GOD FOR SUNGHOON. FUCK

Gone, but forever in our hearts. Moon. Your Moon. The name you gave your baby—a name as delicate and luminous as the child who never got to see the world. You thought long and hard about it. It had to be beautiful, just like him. A name worthy of all the love you poured into his short, fleeting existence. - why would you do this.

The papers are in your hands. Unsigned divorce papers. You tell yourself it’s just paper, just ink, but the trembling in your hands betrays the truth. - BRO.

Two fractured bodies came together, love-making to each other to chase away all the scars and time passed. - HAVE MERCY ON ME PLEEK

So you did. You made the soup—the very first one you’d ever cooked for him back in college. As the soup simmered, Beomgyu started to talk. He told you about Ji-won, about his unexpected interaction with Sunghoon, and how he’d rejected Ji-won long before he even knew the full truth. He spoke with an honesty that left no room for doubt, his words meant only for you. - my heart. the soup.

You’ll be okay. - raya. I hate you and I love you.

I get the hype. I get it so bad. this was amazing. oh my god. I need a second. a minute an hour.

THE SLOW SURRENDER

Pairing: chaebol husband choi beomgyu x wife chaebol fem!reader

summary: The fear that you’re losing something you never truly had. Your own ring, now too heavy in your palm. A ring that should have meant forever.

Your deepest fear. Your husband.

warnings: reader discretion is advised. infidelity, arranged marriage, slow-burn, angst, toxic dynamics, emotional attachment, miscarriage!, misunderstandings, lovelorn, alcohol!consumption, guilt, repentance, rectification, accident, DUI(pls don't), anxiety!, panic-attack, implication of postpartum!depression, used different idols as ocs. if any of the warnings above might be triggering for you, please step back. let me know if I missed anything.

smut-warnings: MDNI, dubcon, explicit!descriptions, different smut-scenes. guilt-ridden!smut,beomgyu begging and crying while doing"it".

wc: 24k — playlist here.

notes: may this story tear you apart, and somehow, when it’s over, stitch you back together piece by piece.

a big thank you to @killa-1009 for beta reading. ilysm.

How is it that your own wedding makes you want to flee?

"To have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part."

His voice is strangely distant—the words belong to someone else, rehearsed and repeated.

The ring slips onto your finger, its cold touch startling against your skin. You can’t tell if it’s the chill of the metal that makes you shiver—or the way his voice carries an indifference that seems to sit deep in your chest, pulling your breath with it.

The wedding dress—tailored from the finest silk, adorned with labyrinthine details—feels like something borrowed. Isn’t this supposed to be every girl’s dream? The happiest day of your life? The moment where everything begins—the start of your own family, your own story?

None of it feels like it. Not when he hasn’t said a single word to you since you arrived. It plagues your mind. And all you want to do is kick off the heels that bite into your feet, rip off the tiara that feels like a crown of lead, and run.

You let out a shaky exhale, the breath trembling in your chest when the ring settles on your finger. Your hands slip from his grasp, falling limply to your sides. The vows are done, the words spoken, but all you feel is an overwhelming urge to escape.

Your head turns, seeking the one person who feels safe. Your unsteady gaze finds Soobin, his worried eyes already fixed on you. He gives you a small, almost imperceptible nod, the kind only he would know how to give. All you want is to fall apart—to let the tears come, to crumble into the silent comfort of his eyes, whispering it’s okay.

The pastor’s voice pulls you back, and your soon-to-be husband cups your face with a tenderness that feels reluctance, almost calculated. Hands warm but the eyes that meet yours, cold.

He leans in, and you close your eyes. His lips brush yours, soft, landing just shy of your bottom lip.

“And now, I pronounce you husband and wife,” the pastor declares, the words echoing hollowly in your ears.

Everyone claps.

It's official.

He is now your husband.

"Can you at least smile?" your mother’s sharp voice cuts, gaze fixed on you with her usual expectation. Her lips press together in disapproval. "I don’t want you embarrassing us, honey," she adds, eyes narrowing.

You force a small, strained smile as another guest offers their congratulations. The words feel hollow, and meaningless.

"Mother." Soobin’s voice interrupts, his equally sharp gaze lands on her, and without waiting for her permission, he steps closer, hand brushing your elbow. "We have friends over there. I’ll take Y/N for a bit."

Your mother opens her mouth, distaste printed on her face. "I could go with her—"

"It’s just our friends, Mother," Soobin interjects, his words clipped but polite enough to stop her in her tracks. "Nothing that requires your attention. Besides, I believe Miss Park was trying to get your attention earlier."

Before she can argue further, Soobin’s hand slips into yours, and he gently tugs you away. The grip is reassuring, steady—something to anchor you in this mess.

The crowd seems endless. More congratulations, more empty smiles. Your eyes wander, scanning the room, searching for the one person who should be at your side. But he isn’t there. He isn't… here.

Your husband is nowhere to be found. He vanished as soon as the ceremony ended.

Soobin doesn’t say anything as he leads you into a quiet, empty room. Once inside, he shuts the door firmly behind you, sealing out the noise of the party.

The second the door clicks, his hands are on your face, cradling you like you might break. And you do.

"Soobin," you choke out, your voice trembling. Hot tears stream down your face, and he pulls you into his chest, his arms wrapping around you protectively.

"Shh," he murmurs, his voice shaky, his hand rubbing gentle circles on your back. "It’s okay. Let it out."

The tears come in waves, carrying with them all the weight you’ve been holding in—every forced smile, every empty thank yous, every aching reminder of your husband. That today isn’t what it should be.

"It hurts me," he says, his voice thick with emotion. "It hurts me that my dearest, sister had to go through with this." His words tremble, just like his hands that hold you tightly.

You can’t bring yourself to reply. Instead, you cling to him, your fingers twisting into the fabric of his jacket—making his heart clench. "Where the fuck is he anyway?" his voice betrays his frustration.

"I don’t—I don’t know," you whisper through your sobs. "How am I supposed to do this, Soobin? He wouldn’t even look at me." And beneath it all, the deeper truth haunts you. It isn’t just his absence or his coldness that hurts.

It’s the undeniable, unspoken reality that settles into your bones and refuses to leave: Choi Beomgyu doesn’t love you—not the way you love him.

The echoes of your wedding vows dance in your ears. For better or worse, you hear. For richer or poorer. In sickness and in health.

Until death do us part.

Three families—known as the Choi Enterprises—dominate the landscape of your country.

Names synonymous with power, wealth, and control. Together, they form an empire that touches nearly every facet of life, businesses towering over the economy like unshakable pillars.

Untouchable.

The first family commands the skies. They own the nation’s largest airline, a fleet that spans lands, with Choi Yeonjun, the celebrated heir, poised to inherit it all.

The second family shapes the skyline with their sprawling malls, and colossal structures that symbolize luxury and excess. Choi Beomgyu, their only son, is the face of it.

And then there’s your family, the architects of indulgence. You own the most prestigious hotels in the country, five-star havens that host the rich, the famous, and the powerful. Your brother, Choi Soobin—the prodigy, the golden child who has been groomed for this role his entire life.

And then there’s you. The second child. Since young, you were conditioned, moulded—not to lead, not to build, but to belong to someone else. To be a wife. One whose marriage would serve a purpose, a bargaining chip in a deal that you have no voice to protest.

Every day since you came of age felt like walking on thin ice, never knowing when it would crack beneath you. You lived with the constant dread that your father could announce your engagement at any last moment. If you were lucky, perhaps it would be someone whose face you recognized, or someone whose name didn’t sound foreign on your lips.

The three families have stood side by side for decades, their ties intertwined by history and convenience. With the heirs of each family so close in age, it was inevitable that you all ended up in the same place: a ridiculously expensive university your families could buy their way into.

It was no surprise that you had known Choi Beomgyu since you were children. And that you've loved him since.

Though you could never quite pinpoint when it began.

Your nine-year-old eyes scanned the room, overwhelmed by the sea of adults towering over you. Too many big, tall people, too many unfamiliar faces. It was the first time your dad had brought you along, always choosing your older brother instead. Never you.

“Would you like something to eat, Y/N?” your nanny asked. You shook your head, distracted. You were trying to find your brother, the one you’d begged to follow today, only to lose him. You had thought this place would be exciting, but now, you would have preferred serving tea to your dolls.

This place wasn’t fun at all.

When your nanny got busy with a conversation, you seized the chance to slip away. You weaved through the crowd, ducking under tables when the adults became too dense. You spotted Soobin ahead, standing with his friend—Yeonja? No, Yeonjun. The one who teased you mercilessly whenever he visited your house. They were too far away.

Giggling with excitement, you ran towards them, eager to finally reach your brother. But your foot caught on the edge of a rug, and you fell hard. “Ow.” You whimpered, face smacking the floor. A sharp, stinging pain in your mouth made your eyes well up. You wiped at your lips and froze when your fingers brushed against something small and hard.

Your front tooth had come out. “No. Soobin, Daddy!” you wailed, embarrassment creeping in as people started to stare. You were about to shout again when a boy appeared, no taller than you, holding out a handkerchief.

“Use this,” he said.

“No,” you mumbled.

“Huh?”

“I said I don’t want it.”

He raised an eyebrow, unfazed. “Do you want everyone to think you’re ugly?” His words made you pause, his brown eyes studying you with a mix of curiosity and something else—something protective. The way he stood, it was as if he was shielding you from the judgmental eyes around you. “If you keep crying like that, everyone will think you are.”

The bluntness startled you, and it worked. Your mommy doesn't like it whenever you're crying anyway. She says it's unsightly. You grabbed the handkerchief, sniffling as you dabbed at your mouth. He watched you stand wobbly, one brow raised in quiet observation.

“Soobin?” he asked, recognizing your brother’s name.

You nodded, surprised that he knew.

He nodded back, taking your pinkie in his small hand and leading you across the yard, toward your brother safely.

That day was the day you first met your husband.

"Hey, have you heard? Choi Beomgyu and Park Ji-won broke up for the fourth time this semester," Jake, one of your batchmates, announces with a grin, his voice cutting through the chatter of your little group. The names make you freeze mid-conversation. "It’s hilarious, bro. Ji-won was literally stomping her feet like a kid."

"You little scandalmonger," Ryu-jin quips from beside you, rolling her eyes. "Why are you so invested in them? They’re a batch ahead of us. We don’t even cross paths with them."

You won’t encounter Choi Beomgyu often. The last time you had a proper, civil conversation—one forced by your parents—was when you were fifteen, and even then, your brother had been there too. That was five years ago.

During your first year, Choi Beomgyu was in the second. He got a girlfriend, Park Ji-won, the queen bee of their batch. Beomgyu was already famous, and their relationship quickly gained a reputation of its own, known for its ups and downs, the drama playing out like a spectacle for everyone to watch.

“Uh, h-hi, Y/N.” A boy stammers nervously in front of you. You look up, surprised to see him holding out a small box of chocolates. “I… I made these for you,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

A soft smile forms on your lips as you reach out to take it. “Thank you, Hanbin.”

The way his name rolls so easily off your tongue catches him off guard. His eyes widen, and his face flushes a deep shade of red. He stammers out something that might be “you’re welcome” before ducking his head in a quick bow and practically fleeing the scene.

As he disappears into the crowd, Ryu-jin lets out a low whistle, her grin mischievous. “Oh-ho, my ever-charming and impossibly kind Y/N,” she teases, pinching your cheek in a way that makes you laugh and bat her hand away.

You hold the box of chocolates out to her, and without missing a beat, she takes it with a delighted, “Don’t mind if I do!”

“Why do you always know everyone’s names?” Jake asks, leaning over to snag a piece of chocolate before Ryu-jin can stop him. He pops it into his mouth, then gives you a mock incredulous look. “There are way too many people trying to win you over. If I were you, I wouldn’t even bother keeping track.”

You chuckle, shaking your head. “I don’t really try to memorize their names, Jake,” you explain, your voice softening. “But when someone puts themselves out there like that—when they go out of their way to do something kind for me—even if I don’t feel the same, the least I can do is acknowledge it. Knowing their name… it’s just part of respecting the effort they made.”

Jake leans back, arms crossed, pretending to look unimpressed. “You’re way too nice for your own good, you know that?”

The rest of the conversation became a blur. The details didn’t matter—they never really did. Choi Beomgyu had gotten back together with her again. That’s how it always went, didn’t it? Still, your mind dawdled on him, as it often did, bonded to a memory from so long ago: the boy with sceptic eyes and a hand who had guided you safely to your brother.

You couldn’t explain it fully, this quiet pull you felt toward him.

Maybe it was the way he kept to himself at gatherings, speaking only when necessary. His words always carried a weight your mother would later describe as "intelligent," her tone laced with rare approval. It could’ve been his eyes, dark and warm, matching the soft chaos of his hair. Or perhaps it was his low voice, that left a faint shiver dancing along your spine without warning.

Life had always been laid out for you, each piece polished and placed neatly on a silver platter. Nothing ever seemed truly exciting, not when you could have anything you wanted with minimal effort. You’d never been particularly interested in dating, either. Why chase something when the pursuit itself felt dull?

Choi Beomgyu was… different. He wasn’t even someone you could simply talk to. Maybe that’s why he fascinated you so much.

He's impossible to ignore.

"He's sick again… ugh."

The words grated on your nerves, cutting through the hallway like nails on a chalkboard. You were at your locker, minding your own business, stacking books into your bag. Ji-won’s loud voice, drew the attention of everyone within earshot.

You were ready to walk away from the nauseating cheap fog of their perfume, when her next words stopped you cold.

"Beomgyu's sick," she continued, tossing her hair back like it was some grand inconvenience to her. "We went shopping yesterday, and he lent me his umbrella when it rained. Now he's sick. Honestly, such an idiot move."

How could she talk about him like that? Here, in front of all these people, where anyone could hear?

"And I told him not to play basketball today," Ji-won added with a careless shrug. "I mean, it's not like some game is more important than my plans."

Some game? The basketball match wasn’t just some game—it was one of the biggest events of the year, something their team had poured weeks of practice into. And she expected him to ditch it for her whims?

The sharp clang of your locker shutting ripped through the air, louder than you intended when you closed it. The hallway fell silent. Ji-won flinched, startled by the sound, then turned, ready to snap at whoever dared interrupt her. But when her eyes met yours, the words died in her throat.

Your stare pinned her in place, unwavering. The entire hallway seemed to hold its breath, watching, waiting. Everyone knew better than to cross you—Choi trinity’s princess.

After a few long seconds, you broke eye contact, turned on your heel and walked away, each step of your Valentino sandals echoing with you.

As much as you wanted to speak, as much as the words burned at the back of your throat, you couldn’t. Because no matter how much Ji-won infuriated you, no matter how carelessly she spoke about him, this wasn’t your battle to fight.

You had no right to.

Beomgyu wasn’t yours to defend.

You body moved without thinking, pulling your phone out to call your driver. Medicine. Ingredients for a recovery soup. You listed everything quickly, your voice brisk to mask the slight shake in it.

Cooking had always been something you loved. There was a comfort in its simplicity—a recipe was just steps to follow, a methodical course that brought things to life. You liked how it could make someone happy, how it could bring warmth, even when words couldn’t.

When the ingredients arrived, you made your way to the university’s cooking room. It was meant for culinary students, but a single request to the club president had granted you access.

You tied your hair back, rolled up your sleeves and got to work. The familiar motions of chopping, stirring, and seasoning steadied you. The savoury aroma filled the room, spilling over into your senses. When the soup was done, you ladled it into a glass container, the warmth radiating through your hands. Perfect for the chilly wind outside.

It's no surprise that he got sick.

You packed it carefully, along with the medicine, into a small bag, and made your way toward his classroom. Sunghoon had told you where Beomgyu’s seat was, promising to keep it quiet. No one could know about this.

Not even Beomgyu himself.

The classroom was empty when you arrived, just as you’d hoped. Rows of desks stretched before you, soaked in the soft, dim light of late afternoon. Your steps faltered when you unexpectedly spotted him. You were about to turn around when you noticed he was asleep.

There he was, slumped over his desk, his head resting on folded arms. His chest rose and fell in slow, steady breaths, his face flushed with fever.

You swallowed hard, the sight tugging at something deep inside you. His eyelashes, dark and delicate, brushed against his cheeks, and for a moment, he looked so unguarded, so unlike the version of him you were used to seeing.

Slowly, you approached, placing the bag on the desk beside him with the utmost care, as if any sound might disturb him. But as much as you tried to stay quiet, the pounding of your heart seemed impossibly loud in the silence.

You stood there longer than you should have, your gaze lingering on the soft lines of his face. His fever-reddened cheeks, his slightly parted lips—he looked so vulnerable, so human in a way that made your chest ache.

Your breath caught as you turned to leave. It was hard to breathe in this room, hard to ignore the charm he had on you, even now. With one last glance at his sleeping form, you turned and walked out.

It felt like you were leaving your heart with him.

Beomgyu stirs awake, his body aching and cold, as if the chill had seeped into his skin. His head feels heavy, but a faint warmth near him pulls him in. He blinks sluggishly, there's—a container of soup resting on his desk. Soup?

Confused but drawn to it, he sits up slowly, the movement making his head spin. His fingers tremble slightly as he uncaps the container, and the smell that greets him is like a hug he didn’t know he needed. His stomach rumbles in response.

His gaze drops to the items beside it: medicine, utensils, carefully placed. Whoever left this thought of everything.

He picks up the spoon, dipping it into the golden broth. Bringing it to his lips, he tastes it. His eyes widen, a soft sound escaping him—surprised. It’s incredible.

It reminds him of his mother’s cooking, back when she still had time to make him meals. A strange fullness settles in his chest as he takes another spoonful, the warmth spreading, chasing away the numbness. He can’t stop eating—it’s too good.

“Babe?”

The sound of Ji-won’s voice snaps him out of his thoughts. He looks up as she walks in, holding two water bottles. Her eyes land on the container in his hands, her expression flickering with something unreadable.

“Oh,” she says casually, stepping closer.

Beomgyu smiles, his lips curving softly, his voice lighter than it’s been all day. “Did you make this?” he asks, hope threading through his tone. “It’s amazing. Seriously, it’s… it’s so good. Fucking delicious.”

Ji-won blinks, startled by his enthusiasm. He was grumpy and on edge all day because of his fever. Who left this? she wonders, panic flickering beneath her composed exterior, her gaze darts to the container again, then back to Beomgyu, who’s looking at her expectantly.

“Oh, yeah—yeah!” she blurts, forcing a bright smile. “Of course, I made it.”

Beomgyu tilts his head, surprised. “I didn’t know you could cook.”

“Anything for my boyfriend,” Ji-won replies, stepping closer as she places the water bottles on his desk. Her smile feels tight, but she pushes through. “That’s how much I love you.”

He chuckles softly, eating a spoonful again. “Well, I love it. Thank you for this. It made me feel so much better.”

That wasn’t the last time.

You told yourself it would be. Swore it, even. No more going out of your way for him. No more small, secret gestures. But every time you thought it was over, you found yourself pulled back in, like some invisible thread tying you to him.

It started with the soup. The day after you left it, you saw him. His face, pale and tired the day before, was flushed with warmth again, life returning to his features. Sunghoon mentioned, almost offhandedly, how Beomgyu wouldn’t stop bragging about the meal, how he raved about it like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted.

And something about that stuck with you.

From then on, it became quite a bad habit. Throughout college, whenever you heard he was sick, you found yourself leaving small comforts behind. A bottle of tea on his desk, sweets slipped into his lockers during a lecture. And it didn’t stop there.

One time, Beomgyu forgot something important—a book, a charger, you don’t even remember now. You lent yours to Sunghoon, pretending you didn’t care, pretending it wasn’t just another way to help Beomgyu without him knowing.

Because you didn't want anything back.

When rumors spread about him sneaking around with his girlfriend, you stepped in before it escalated. His father will be angry about it, so you talked to that person who caught him, not for his sake but for your own, because the thought of his world unraveling in front of him was something you couldn’t bear to witness.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

It wasn’t for him. It couldn’t be.

It was for you.

The way your eyes scanned every room at social gatherings, always searching for his familiar face in the crowd. The way you couldn’t relax until you caught sight of him or the way your heart jumped whenever you spotted him, even if he didn’t notice you.

It was an addiction. One you couldn’t seem to break, no matter how many times you promised yourself you’d let go.

Were you in love with him for those four years? Or was it more than that?

"As you already know, this is Y/N, son," Beomgyu's mother announces, her perfectly manicured hands resting lightly on your shoulders. Beomgyu’s gaze meets yours. His hair is longer now, sitting at the edges of his sharp jawline, almost to his shoulders—much different to how you remember him last, on his graduation day. A whole year has passed since then. And you've graduated now too.

His suit—a dark blue so deep it could pass for black—fits him perfectly, exuding quiet sophistication. In contrast, your white Balmain dress feels almost too bright, too bold, clinging to you in a way that leaves no room for subtlety. You feel exposed under his probing eyes.

This morning, your mother had insisted—no, demanded—that you wear an elegant dress. You hadn’t understood why, but now the reason stands clear.

Beside you, your brother Soobin sits rigid, yet observing. He’s always been offensive, and tonight is no exception.

The two Choi family heads are deep in conversation, their voices low but purposeful, like they’re planning something big. It’s just the two families here tonight, seated at an impossibly long table in an equally expensive restaurant. The grandeur of the setting only amplifies it—the entire floor of this lavish place reserved just for this dinner, the emptiness around you making it feel more like a stage than a private meal.

“Your marriage will take place at the end of the year,” Beomgyu’s father declares. The words snap you out of your daze, and your head jerks toward him in shock. A soft gasp escapes your lips before you can stop it.

“What?” Beomgyu’s voice is sharp. His jaw tightens when he leans forward, composure beginning to crack. “You made me end things with Ji-won last week, and now you’re telling me I’m engaged?” He practically spits the words, hands curl into fists on the table. “To someone I don’t even know?”

Ji-won. You flinch involuntarily, hands dropping to your lap. You start picking at your nailbeds. The air feels thick—too thick to breathe.

“Who is that?” Beomgyu’s father demands, his tone filled with disdain. “I told you not to mention that whore again.” His words are venomous, and you barely have time to register the insult before the sound of Beomgyu’s chair scraping against the polished floor reverberates through the room.

Everyone flinches as he rises, his movements full of suppressed fury. Your heart pounds. He stands there seething, glaring at his father, everyone staring, daring for him to do something before he turns on his heel.

You bite your bottom lip, trying to hold yourself together. The sting in your chest is undeniable. Disappointment wells up, as Beomgyu's actions fill the silence you can’t bear to break, your gaze fixed anywhere but the head table. Soobin’s hand suddenly moves into your line of sight, prying yours apart gently—stopping you from further tormenting your hands. His fingers curl around yours, tight.

Beomgyu's retreating footsteps echo, each one louder than the last, leaving a charged silence in their wake.

The next time you see him is on your wedding day.

You didn’t think it would happen like this. You truly didn’t. You’d clung to the faint hope that he’d at least show up before the ceremony—just once. You went to the fittings alone, picked out the rings by yourself, and stood in bakeries surrounded by couples, as you chose the cake flavour on your own. A conversation, even a brief one, might have eased the unease that had settled in your chest like a stone.

Maybe, when the time comes, you’ll work up the courage to ask him if he can at least try to be casual with you.

But every assurance came from his parents—empty promises that fell on ears too tired to process anymore. Your parents clung to those words, desperate for this union. A necessary marriage, they said. A solution.

None of it reassured you. How could it, when the groom himself was nowhere to be found? You never saw him. It was as though you were preparing to marry a ghost.

When he finally sees you, it’s as you walk down the aisle, dressed in a gown that feels heavier than it should. His gaze lands on you, a one-second glance that’s gone before you can even register it. He doesn’t look at you again. Not during the vows, not during the ceremony, not even as you both stand side by side, bound by words you barely believe.

And now, instead of his arms around you, you find yourself sobbing into your brother’s shoulder. Soobin holds you tightly. The irony was funny—it was Soobin, the whole reason to why Beomgyu was introduced to you all those years ago.

Beomgyu, the boy who returned you safely to your brother that night, the one who left a permanent mark so indelible it stayed for years. The same mark that now hurts you, refusing to fade no matter how many years passed.

It's cruel.

Happy 26th birthday baby girl! xoxo

You smiled faintly at Ryujin's text as you stirred the pancake batter you'd made from scratch. The comforting smell of vanilla and butter filled the kitchen—your kitchen.

As much as you endured your parents' endless whims, you had to admit, you loved the simplicity of domesticity. There was something grounding about it. It made you feel useful, capable—like you could create something perfect, even in a life that often felt far from it.

"Y/N." The sound of your name broke your focus. You looked up, catching Beomgyu standing at the doorway. He was already dressed in his usual impeccably tailored suit, his fingers fiddling with the knot of his tie. "I'm heading to the office early today,"

"Again?" Your voice was softer than you'd intended. "At least have breakfast before you go. I can finish this quickly."

"Thank you," he dismissed, gaze shifting away. Avoiding yours. Reminding you the line that's stretched between you cannot ever cross. "But I'll eat at the office. I don't want to be late. I might be back for dinner later. Maybe."

He adjusted his tie one last time, nodded in your direction, and walked out without another word. The soft click of it closing behind him felt louder than it should have.

You swallowed the lump forming in your throat. It was fine. You were used to this. Not because he left early again, but because it was an important day for you. A day you’d spend, once again, without him. Another day spent in the quiet of this too-big penthouse, with no one but yourself for company.

Two years into your marriage, you had learned to temper your expectations. Love was never meant to be part of the deal, and you had told yourself, over and over, that you didn’t need it. But no amount of reason could stop your heart from aching, from yearning—for Beomgyu to see you. Not as a piece of some agreement or a cog in the machinery of alliances, but as a person. As you.

Maybe even as a friend.

He wasn’t unkind. Not once had he raised his voice or shown you disrespect. But in some ways, his indifference stung more. He was here, yet not here—like a shadow that lived in the same space but never touched yours.

And sometimes, you wished that he would be mean to you, he would shout at you or he would hurt you—at least then, there would be something to feel. You hate that you gave him power over yourself.

You told your mother about it—you never saw your parents love each other, not in a way that felt real, not in front of you. She offered one thing that made sense to you.

Someday, you'll have children, and your child will give you a new purpose. You wanted to push back, to argue, but the next words stopped you cold—“Because if being an invisible wife isn’t enough, your children will see you.” You didn’t want to bring a child into this—into a life painted in shades of grey. An innocent child shouldn’t have to bear it. A child born not out of love? The thought made your chest tighten.

And yet, in the darkest, most desperate corners of your mind, another voice whispered something wicked. A voice that insisted maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

You sighed, finding the courage to pick up the spoon to eat, imagining a child sitting across from you, soft brown eyes mirroring his.

Alone, but somehow, it felt a little less lonely.

"Boss, there's a party later. It's Mr. Yoon's farewell dinner."

Beomgyu glanced up from his laptop, his secretary’s voice pulling him from the post-meeting haze. Mr. Yoon—one of his father’s most loyal employees, someone who had been with the company for years. Letting this occasion go unnoticed wasn’t an option, not for someone like him.

Later that evening, Beomgyu arrived at the resto-bar, the space already alive with the hum of laughter and conversation. As soon as he stepped inside, heads turned. Employees greeted him with a mix of respect and warmth, but his smile, though polite, didn’t reach his eyes. It was business, like always. When someone announced that the night’s tab was on him, a wave of cheers erupted, but Beomgyu barely reacted. He offered only a nod before grabbing a beer and retreating into his thoughts. Are you asleep—

"Omg, Beomgyu?"

The familiar voice jolted him. He turned his head sharply, and there she was—Ji-won. Her platinum blonde bleached hair gleamed under the bar lights, her lips curved into a playful smile. She looked almost the same, except more polished. She hadn’t changed much, down to the way her manicured fingers grazed her cheek as she tucked her hair behind her ears.

"It's you! I haven't seen you in what, two years? Almost?" she said, her tone bright, her lashes fluttering in the way she knew he once liked.

"Yeah," Beomgyu replied curtly, his voice neutral. "Nice to see you here." He grabbed his beer and took a long sip. Her laugh rang out, light and infectious, the same laugh that used to feel like heaven to him. She knew exactly what to do, exactly how to pull him in.

Beomgyu raised his beer and took a long sip again, letting the alcohol burn its way down. He probably should go now. Her friends surrounded them, teasing and nudging, playful comments flying back and forth. He stayed composed, answering in clipped sentences, trying to keep his distance. He just needs to find the time to excuse himself.

But at some point, her friends drifted away, leaving her behind—drunk and alone, leaning heavily against the table. Beomgyu sighed, running a hand through his hair. He could have left her there. Maybe he should have. But instead, he found himself walking over.

"Come on," he said quietly, offering his hand. "Let me take you home."

She looked up at him, her eyes glassy but soft, and smiled. It was a smile that used to mean so much more.

Her warm hands envelop his.

The drive to her address was heavy with silence. Ji-won kept glancing at him, her eyes longing, but Beomgyu stayed focused on the road. Her address glowed faintly from his phone’s GPS. When they arrived, he got out, rounding the car to help her. She wobbled slightly, her drunken state evident, but he steadied her without a word and walked her to her door. She didn’t let go of his arm.

As they reached her doorstep, she turned to him, her voice trembling, raw. “Did you forget all about me already?” she asked, her voice breaking slightly. “Because… because I haven’t. It's still you, Beomgyu. I still love you.”

The words stopped him cold. He looked at her then—really looked at her. The faint blush on her cheeks, the way her hair fell messily over her shoulders, and that familiar scent of her perfume. Memories flashed. The way she’d cried when he said goodbye. The way she’d begged him to stay, her arms wrapped around him like she could keep him forever. He remembered the way he had talked to his father—looking for any chance. Only to be met with a no. A hard, unrelenting no.

It was too much. She's too familiar. He's too close.

And then, she leaned in.

Her lips touched his, soft just like they used to be. He shouldn’t. But when the small of her hands gripped the lapels of his suit, pulling him closer, he kissed her back.

It wasn’t gentle—it was desperate, messy, like trying to reclaim something lost. Her body pressed against his, and the sound of her soft moan made him grip her arms. He presses her against the door. Her hands tried to open the front door for them to go inside. It felt like a reunion, a fleeting taste of something they weren’t supposed to have.

But then she whispered against his lips, “Do you think we’d be married now if your father hadn’t stopped us?”

The word married—hit him, made him open his eyes, freezing in place.

He pulled away, his breath ragged, staring at her. His lips still burned with the sin of hers. What the hell was he doing?

Ji-won stared at him, her expression a mix of confusion and hurt. “Beomgyu—” she started, but he shook his head, taking another step back.

“I… I can’t,” he muttered, more to himself than to her.

Without waiting for her response, he turned and walked away, his steps hurried and uneven. She reached for him—called his name, voice crying, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

All he could see was your face.

At home. Waiting for him. Leaning to the countertop with your stupidly sweet unnecessary smile. The crinkle by your eyes. It flashes over and over, drowning out everyone, and everything else.

Beomgyu gets into his car, his hands trembling as he fumbles with the keys. The engine roars to life with an urgency that matches his racing thoughts.

His grip tightens on the wheel as the image of Ji-won flashes in his mind. Her words. Her touch. The kiss. His stomach churns. What the hell was he thinking? Did he still love her?

The elevator ride to your floor feels agonizingly slow, every second stretching endlessly. He can barely hear his own breathing over the pounding of his heart. When the doors open, he steps out hesitantly, his footsteps dragging as he approaches the front door.

He pauses in the entryway, his eyes scanning the room until they land on you.

He sees you.

You're curled up on the couch, your head resting on a pillow, a blanket draped loosely over your legs. His eyes dart on the kitchen, there sits a plate of untouched food, now cold. Dinner.

His chest tightens. You waited for him. Despite everything—despite the fact that he’d made no promises, despite the countless nights like this—you still waited.

How? he thinks, his mind reeling. How could you wait for him, when he hadn't given you anything to hold on to?

He glances at the clock on the wall. 6 a.m. His jaw clenches. He hadn’t even noticed the time had passed. He’d been so caught up at the party, so lost in the haze of old memories and poor decisions, that he’d forgotten about you entirely.

He steps closer, his gaze softening as it falls on your face. You look peaceful, your breathing even, your features illuminated by the dim light filtering in from the window. There’s something unfamiliar stirring in his chest.

The urge to reach out, to touch you, is overwhelming. But as his eyes fall to your lips, a shameful reminder washes over him—he knows that his lips had been with someone else only minutes ago.

It would be cruel to let it stain the divine of your skin.

“Come here,” Beomgyu spoke, which made you look at him through the mirror for a couple of seconds before seeing him beckon you over. You walked towards him, about to sit on the edge of the bed, when he grabbed your arm and sat you between his thighs.

“What is it?” you asked softly. You felt his arms tighten slightly around you, his fingers brushing the fabric of your robe. He hadn’t spoken to you all day, hadn’t so much as looked at you too. You just got out of your shower when you saw him sitting in your bed. And now, here he was—unexpected, yet demanding this closeness.

He didn’t answer. Instead, his lips pressed against the curve of your shoulder. You could feel his breath, warm against your skin. His hand slid slowly from your waist to your side, tracing the outline of your frame. You swallowed hard, your pulse quickening. You knew what this was. What he wanted. What he was about to do.

This was the pattern you had grown to recognise. The times he came to you like this, seeking the comfort your body could offer. The way his touch made you feel seen. And when morning came, like always, he would retreat—pulling away, storms behind his eye, leaving you to wrestle with the hollow ache in your chest.

Nights like this made it hurt more.

“Nothing.” He says. You felt his hand caress your thigh as he kisses your shoulder. He turns you around. He licked his lips before letting it explore the inside of your mouth, making you moan. He grunts in your mouth as his hand snakes to the inside of your thighs, kneading the soft flesh.

He pushes his clothed crotch to your heat. He removes the top part of your robe, his lips easily finding themselves on your nipple, kissing around it before hungrily latching his mouth on it. The feeling of his wet tongue circling your bead and the growing tent on his pants rubbing on you made your body heat up.

You should push him away.

But then he looked up into your eyes, almost begging. It's soft, glassy which makes you wonder if you're ever going to see it other than like this. At that moment, the truth hit you: this was all he could offer. This collision, the press of his skin against yours—this was all you’d ever have of him. The pain intensified. He goes up and captures your lips again.

“I want to be inside you,” he murmured against your kisses. Fine, you thought. Just this once more—one last time. You placed your hands on his chest, pushing him back gently, turned around and got on all fours. You arched your back, pressing your head onto the mattress. Your ass was in the air, and you were exposed to him. Hearing him move behind you made you close your eyes.

Beomgyu was shocked. For you to offer yourself like this, so quickly, caught him off guard. He blinked, taking in the curve of your back, and the way you presented yourself.

You felt his tip rub against your folds and swollen clit, making you whine. He pulled your legs farther apart before plunging two fingers to make sure you were ready to take him.

You moaned, feeling his long fingers massage your walls. Your wetness trickled on his hand, and it only made him harder. He sucked his fingers when he pulled out. You felt every inch, his cock reaching places that made your body arch instinctively beneath.

It burns, and it burns so good.

“You're always fucking tight.” He kneads your ass cheeks, thrusting slowly at first before gradually increasing in speed. You felt so full as he pushed into you. He reached for your clit as you buried your face into the pillow. “Y/N…” His hard cock reaches the deepest parts of you. Beomgyu flipped your body without warning, and your arm immediately flew to your face. You turned your face away from him, not knowing that he’s been observing you.

You’ve been hiding your face the whole time as much as you can. Seeing his eyes felt unbearable. Because meeting his eyes will make you want him. To want him more than this. Something he will never be able to give.

“Y/N…I want to see your face.” He grabbed your hand to move them away, and Beomgyu felt a pang in his chest when he saw your swollen eyes and tear-stained cheeks. You were sobbing underneath him.

“Please…” Your voice cracked, barely a whisper. “Just make me cum. Okay?”

You were breaking your own heart, chasing his own. And as he stared down at you, his indifference, the wall he’d built so carefully around himself, was killing you.

“What's wrong?” He urges you. His thrusts are unceasing as tears continue to fall down from your eyes. “Y/N…” Your orgasm hits you hard. Your toes curled as you cried out his name. Your walls were squeezing his cock. He grunts at how tight you feel around him. His hands were gripping the back of your knees as his hips stuttered, about to reach his own climax.

Even as he continued to move, his pace sloppy and desperate, your quiet sobs filled the room, uncontrollable. Beomgyu stilled above you, his heart twisting painfully at the sound. He hated himself—hated the way he’d reduced you to this.

You feel his hot cum inside you. When he finally pulled away, he collapsed beside you, the bed dipping under his weight. His unsure eyes drifted to you, curled up in the blankets, your shoulders shaking as you tried to stifle your cries. You moved your whole body under the sheets, clung to the fabric like it was the only thing holding you together.

Hiding. Hiding from the one who was supposed to be your other half.

The sight of you like this made his throat tighten, his chest heavy with something he couldn’t put into words. He had never wanted to hurt you, yet here you were.

That night, Beomgyu lay unable to find sleep, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling of your bedroom walls. You were an angel, one he had broken with his own hands.

You wake up, heart racing.

Your hands instinctively move to your face. It’s that dream again. The same one that’s haunted you night after night. The memory of him. That night. The last time Beomgyu touched you. It’s been just over four weeks.

Even in sleep, he doesn’t let you go.

You blinked, your surroundings blurry in the faint light of your room. How did you get here? You were sure you’d fallen asleep on the couch. The question barely settles before an uneasy twist in your stomach pulls you back to the present. A wave of nausea rushes through you, sharp and sudden.

Your hand flies to your mouth as you scramble out of bed, your legs barely keeping up as you dart to the bathroom. You made it just in time, collapsing onto your knees as your body seized itself forward. The bitter taste burned your throat, each heave leaving you weaker than the last. You sat there, gripping the cool edge of the toilet, tears slipping silently down your cheeks.

You pushed yourself up, legs still shaky, and made your way to the sink. The cold water was a welcome distraction, splashing against your skin and dripping down in rivulets. You scrubbed at your face harder than you needed to, as if the water could somehow rinse away more than just the sweat clinging to your skin.

Grabbing a towel, you patted your face dry, letting your gaze drift to the untouched box of tampons sitting quietly on the shelf.

“Y/N?” The knock on your door startled you. Tossing the towel aside, you stepped out of the small bathroom and crossed the room to open the door.

There he stood, his dark eyes locking onto yours the second the door opened. He scanned your face. “Are… are you okay? I heard a loud thump.” His voice was uneven, like he wasn’t sure he should even be asking.

“I’m fine,” you said quickly. You moved to step past him, but the moment you did, he took a cautious step back, his body shifting as though he couldn’t bear to be too close.

It stung, but you didn’t let it show. “Have you eaten yet?”

“No,” he replies, eyes darting to the vases on the table. “You got flowers?” Beomgyu’s stares on your face. The way your face softens at the mention of them—he notices it instantly. He doesn’t like it—not one bit.

“They were given to me.”

“Two dozen?” he presses, “By who?”

“Soobin,”

“And?” he asks again, though there’s no need. He already knows who.

“Yeonjun,” The name lands heavy between you.

His jaw tightens. “He dropped them off here yesterday? Why did—” His words tumble out quickly, too quickly.

Because it's your birthday.

“He was with Soobin, Beomgyu,” you interrupt, brushing past him toward the refrigerator. Your steps feel heavier than they should Blinking, you try to push the swelling emotions back down. Normally, you’d brush this off. So why does it feel so different today? Why are you getting emotional? You pull out a bottle of water, taking a long sip to steady yourself before asking, “What time did you come home yesterday?”

Silence.

You drink slowly, giving him time to answer, but he doesn’t. The room feels stifling in the stillness, the hum of the refrigerator suddenly too loud. You set your empty glass on the table with a dull thud, your eyes drifting back to him.

He’s standing there in his usual morning look—white shirt hanging loose, black pyjama pants slightly wrinkled. His hair is a mess from sleep, and his skin looks paler in the soft light. There’s something about how vulnerable he looks in the mornings that always catches you off guard.

He's painfully beautiful.

“Around the morning,” He's hesitant. He doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t meet your eyes, and the tightness in your chest only grows. There’s an ugly nagging feeling at the edges of your thoughts.

“I’ll go get ready for work,” he says, shutting the conversation before it even has a chance to go further.

It doesn't surprise you anymore.

You step into the opulent glow of the five-star Skyline Restaurant, the clink of fine china and hushed laughter swirled around. Fingers gripping your white Dior purse, you scan the room, heels clicking against the polished marble floor. Your eyes sweep over faces until a familiar one stops you in your tracks.

“Pretty girl.” Ryujin’s voice called out, smooth and warm. She raises a hand in a poised wave, her lips curling into a small, knowing smile. You mirror her expression, weaving your way toward her. Heads turn as you pass, your perfume—delicate yet potent.

“How are you?” she asks as you reach her, gaze soft yet probing.

“I’m okay,” you reply, sinking into the plush couch across from her. The tension in your shoulders eases, if only slightly. “Thank you for the gifts, by the way. And I’m sorry I couldn’t meet up with you yesterday, like you wanted.”

“I understand.” Her reply is casual, but her eyes betray her. They flicker to the dark crescents under yours, the ones you’ve tried to conceal but can never quite hide. “It’s always him, isn’t it? At the end of the day.”

Your fingers wrap around the porcelain cup in front of you. The tea is hot against your palms, and you take a tentative sip. It tasted faintly of jasmine, soothing and bittersweet. The silence between you stretches.

“Y/N.” Her voice pulls you back, insistent. Your eyes meet hers, and for a moment, you can’t look away. “He’s the reason you’re like this. It doesn't have to be, but he made it this way. You see that, don’t you?”

"I know."

Ryujin’s eyes flickered with hesitation, the way someone falters before delivering a blow. Eyes darting between you and the untouched tea in front of her. “I don’t want you to get hurt,” she began, her voice soft but unsteady. “But I… I heard something.”

Her words made your heart clench. “What is it?”

“I mean, I’m not completely sure, but it came from someone I trust and—”

“Ryujin,” you snapped, sharper than you intended. Your chest tightened as dread crept in. “Tell me.”

She hesitated, her lips parting slightly before closing again. “Did he spend the night with you yesterday?”

You felt the world shift under your feet. You opened your mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Your silence was enough.

He wasn't.

Ryujin’s expression softened, pity creeping into her features, “I—there was a party,” she said, her voice quieter now, hesitant. “One with Beomgyu and Ji-won.”

The name made your stomach drop.

“They were together all night,” she said, her words rushed, like she wanted to get them out before she lost her nerve. “And someone… someone saw them. Beomgyu practically carried her into his car. They left together.”

Your vision blurred for a second, the edges of the room fading as her words registered. You forced yourself to blink, to breathe. “Oh,” you whispered.

Ryujin stood abruptly and moved to sit beside you, taking your trembling hands into hers. “Confront him,” she urged. “Find out if it’s true.” She squeezed your hands. “I’m so tired of seeing you like this. Always giving and giving while he takes whatever’s left of you.” Her voice cracked. “Loving him silently. Loving him so hard isn’t going to make him love you back.”

You didn’t even realise you were crying until the tears started dripping onto your lap, soaking into the fabric of your dress. Ryujin hated it. She remembered you in college—how you laughed so freely, how your eyes sparkled. But now, that light she admired so much was dimming, as if someone had reached inside you and quietly stolen it piece by piece.

Ryujin swallowed hard, blinking back her own tears as she watched yours fall. How hurt must you be to cry like this—without a sound, without even a gasp? Just the quiet, stream of tears slipping down your face, carving paths of pain?

She hated seeing you like this—hated how one person had managed to turn the full-bloomed, radiant version of you into a shadow of yourself, a bud closed off to the world. That someone can easily break you, when you spent years building yourself.

You're waiting.

It's 10 p.m. The hours have crawled by since you drove back here. You look around. This space, where you are supposed to build a family, where love is supposed to be—is nothing but a cold place to you.

You're sitting on the couch, the same couch you’ve spent countless nights on, staring at the clock, waiting for him. Your hands rest in your lap, trembling slightly, though you don’t realise it. With nothing but fear, the fear that you’re losing something you never truly had.

Your phone buzzes again. Two names alternate, calling over and over. You don’t pick up. You don’t even look. You can’t.

Because the truth is, you don’t know if you’ll make it through the night without hearing from him. Your husband.

The elevator dings softly, and Beomgyu steps into the penthouse. His tie hangs loose around his neck, his hair tousled and far from his usual pristine self. He looks tired, distracted—like he’s been anywhere but here. His eyes met yours.

"Why are you still awake—"

"Do you think I don’t know what you’ve done?" Your voice cuts, trembling. You see his eyes widen, just a fraction. It’s so small you almost missed it.

"Ji-won." Her name burns as it leaves your mouth, bitter. His eyes flicker toward you for just a second—a split second, just long enough to know that he heard—but there is nothing in them. Nothing.

He moves with calculated slowness, setting his bag down on the table, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves. Time ticked. He doesn’t even try to explain. Doesn’t even look at you long enough for you to find a trace of the man you once thought you knew. His thumb brushes over his ring like it’s something he’s forgotten. A ring that should have meant forever.

"I can handle it all, Choi Beomgyu," you say, your voice firmer now, though your hands tremble at your sides. "I’ve handled it all, haven’t I? I didn’t say anything when you kept talking about her—days after we got married—on our honeymoon, or right in front of your family."

His back stiffens, his hands gripping the edge of the countertop. Beomgyu swallows the lump in his throat.

"Not once in these two years did I tell you how small you made me feel, how you made me feel like I didn’t belong in your world. Like I was a stranger in my own marriage." Your voice cracks, but you keep going. "I stayed silent, And after all of that—after everything—I stayed. I stayed because I thought… maybe it was enough. And yet, you still chose to cheat on me?"

You’re shaking now, and your voice rises despite your best efforts to keep it steady. "If you had just come to me and said you didn’t want this anymore, I would’ve let you go. I would’ve walked away, Beomgyu. Because everything I’ve done—every single thing—has been for you. For this marriage. For our families."

His head finally lifts, and his eyes meet yours. You hate how you feel small under his gaze, how his silence feels like a condemnation of your own vulnerability.

Beomgyu swallows hard, his jaw tightening. "That’s not what happened, Y/N."

"That you didn’t go home with her? That you weren’t with her on my fucking birthday?"

Your words hit him like a punch, and his eyes widen, the crack in his composure visible now.

"What?"

"You heard me." The burden festering inside you for so long is finally out. It feels small, inadequate even, but you don’t care anymore. You can’t. You can feel his eyes on you, and it's your turn to refuse to meet them. You’re done searching his face for answers that will never come.

You rise from the couch, your movements sharp, fueled by hurt and exhaustion. Steps are quick, your breaths are shallow as you reach your room. The door slams shut behind you with a force that echoes behind. Your hands tremble as you swipe on your phone. Tears blur your vision, falling onto the screen as you scroll, fingers fumbling to find the number you need.

You don’t think. You can’t. The tears are hot and relentless, burning tracks down your cheeks as you press the call button.

The line clicks immediately.

Outside your room, Beomgyu stands in the hallway, pacing back and forth. His footsteps are uneven, restless. The truth is, he doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t even know where to begin. Every time he tries to form the words in his head, they fall apart before they can leave his lips.

How can he explain it? How can he make you understand? He never thought it would come to this—never thought he’d have to say it out loud. He’d always believed he could keep it buried, that you’d never find out.

He presses a hand to his forehead, exhaling sharply. He hasn’t spoken to Ji-won since that night. Not once. She tried to reach out—texts, calls, even showing up unannounced—but he shut it all down. He shut her out.

The irony isn’t lost on him. He, who once was hopelessly in love with her had turned his back on her entirely. What surprised him the most was how easy it was. All it took was thinking of you.

And the sight of your tears now terrifies him.

Beomgyu has always been a confident man. He was raised to be one. It’s who he was taught to be—the man who could command a room, close deals, deliver speeches without a stutter. But none of that matters now. Standing here, in front of your door, he feels small. Helpless. Negotiating with the world is one thing; facing the pain in your eyes is another.

He sighs, dragging his hands through his hair in frustration. His chest feels tight, his mind racing. He should knock. He knows he should try—should say something, anything.

He lifts his hand to knock, but the door swings open before he can. Your eyes meet his—red, swollen, glassy with unshed tears—and it feels like the air is knocked out of him. Beomgyu's chest tightens painfully, and then his gaze falls to the suitcase in your hand,"Where are you going?"

You don’t answer. Instead, you step past him, avoiding even the smallest brush against him. The sound of your suitcase wheels echoes in the hall. His heart stutters, his feet frozen in place.

"Y/N," he pleads, reaching for your wrist. His eyes flicker down to your hand, and the absence of your ring feels like a blow he wasn’t ready for.

"Beomgyu," you say quietly, pulling your hand away from his grasp."I’m going to stay with my brother for a while."

You don’t wait for his response. You can’t. If you stop now—if you meet his eyes again—you might change your mind. You walk toward the elevator, heart pounding, and breaking, but you don’t look back. When he doesn’t follow, when he doesn’t try to stop you, it cracks a little more.

The elevator doors begin to close, you think that’s it.This is the end. But then, his hand darts between the doors, forcing them open. You glance up in surprise. You've never seen him this unsure, or nervous before.

"At least let me see you out," he says softly. "Please,"

He stares at you. You nod, stepping aside to make room for him. Neither of you speaks, and the distance between you feels impossibly wide, even in the small space.

"Call me if you ever want to talk again," he finally breaks the silence, eyes fixed on the ground, "I’ll wait for you," You don’t respond, your throat tightening as you stare straight ahead, willing yourself not to cry.

Perhaps, it is his turn to wait for you.

It’s the longest elevator ride of your life.

In the parking lot, your brother is the first thing you see—tall and imposing, his glasses doing nothing to soften the sharp frown etched across his face. His eyes sweep over you, landing on the suitcase in your hand before darting behind you. The worry darkens instantly into anger when he sees Beomgyu trailing a few steps behind.

"You fucker," Soobin spits, brushing past you to square off with him. His voice is cold and furious. Beomgyu doesn’t flinch, doesn’t back down, even as your brother towers over him.

"I gave you the benefit of the doubt," Soobin growls. "I thought, at the very least, you’d treat my sister with the respect she deserves. But you—"

"Soobin, stop!" You step forward, your hands desperately reaching out to hold your brother’s fists clenched at his sides. "Please, let’s just go."

He hesitates, jaw tightening as he swallows his anger. With a final, scathing glare at Beomgyu, Soobin turns away. He reached for your suitcase, grabbed it without a word and shoved it into the trunk of his car. Then he opens the passenger door, his expression softening ever so slightly as he looks at you. "Get inside."

You slide into the car, your hands trembling as you clutch them in your lap. Soobin slams the door shut behind you, the sound shouting in the empty parking lot like a final warning.

Beomgyu stands there eyes never leaving your form, unmoving, as the car engine roars to life. His chest feels like it’s caving in as he watches Soobin pull away, the tyres screeching against the pavement. It’s almost insulting, the way the sound seems to echo his own turmoil.

His eyes follow the car until it vanishes from sight, leaving nothing but silence and the crushing weight of knowing you’re gone.

Beomgyu steps back, dragging his feet to somehow delay the reality settling in around him. Every few steps, he glances over his shoulder, the faintest flicker of hope burning in his chest. Maybe you’d be there. Maybe you’d come back.

Maybe this was just a nightmare he hadn’t woken up from yet.

But you didn't.

The elevator doors slide open, and he strides inside, his mind blank and racing all at once. He walks, heading straight to the kitchen for water—something to soothe the dryness in his throat, the tightness in his chest. But as he passes the living room, his eyes catch on the portrait hanging above the mantel.

The wedding photo.

It hangs on there, just as it always has, but tonight it feels unbearable. His eyes lock on your face, and he falters. How could he have missed it? The slight redness in your eyes, the way your smile looks stretched too thin. How can a bride look so unhappy? How did it take him this long to realise how beautiful you looked that day—despite everything? How could he have failed to tell you?

How could he have been so blind?

He wasn’t the only one hurting that day. You had to stand there, dressed in white, while he grieved for someone else. On the day that was supposed to be yours, his mind had been somewhere else, tangled in memories of a woman who wasn’t you. And he never talked to you about it—not once. He never told you what you needed to hear. That it wasn’t your fault. That none of it was your fault.

He blinks hard, his vision blurring. The cracks were always there, weren’t they? Small at first, almost invisible, but they spread, creeping through everything until you were barely holding on. And he didn’t see it. He didn’t see you. Now, he stares at the picture like it might give him some kind of answer, some kind of clue to undo it all, but all it does is make the ache in his chest grow sharper.

He wished he had known. He wished he had known that the hurt consuming him would fade. He wished he could’ve said it all sooner, when the chance was still there. To tell you the truth. That he indeed had kissed her. That it was a mistake. He should have fallen to his knees and begged you to forgive him.

Would it have made a difference? Could one moment of honesty, one action, one choice have been enough to hold you here, to make you stay?

"Fuck," His voice was unsteady, tears stinging his eyes—tears he didn’t even know he was capable of. He can’t remember the last time he cried. Maybe he never has. He never cried. His hand moves on instinct, reaching for the cabinet, but instead of a glass, his fingers close around the neck of the whisky bottle. Water won’t cut it tonight. He twists the cap off, letting it fall to the counter with a hollow clink, and takes a long, burning sip.

It doesn't dull anything. Not yet. So he drinks.

It’s only been an hour—barely even that—since you left, but it feels like his world is already collapsing.

You wake up groggy, your head spinning and eyes feeling heavy. You can’t remember when you fell asleep or even how. You shift on the bed—Soobin must have carried you here.

Right. You’re at his place now.

"Y/N, you awake?" your brother’s voice carries down the hall, accompanied by the mouthwatering smell of bacon. Your stomach growls unexpectedly. You drag yourself out of bed, splash water on your face in the bathroom, and head out of the room.

“Good morning,” you mumble, stepping into the kitchen. The sight of Soobin setting down a plate of pancakes and Yeonjun grinning at you makes your chest feel warm.

Yeonjun stands and strides over, wrapping you in a tight hug. His hugs are always the warmest. He’s your brother’s best friend, someone who’s been in your life long enough to feel like family. He's known you since you were children, and you see him as your own brother.

He rests his hands on your shoulders, guiding you to the table as the corners of your lips tug into a soft smile you can’t seem to hold back. You sit down, and Soobin begins piling food onto your plate.

"Do you have any plans today?" Soobin asks casually, his focus still on divvying up breakfast.

“None, really,” you reply, your attention entirely on the bacon in front of you. Your stomach practically growls in anticipation, and without waiting, you dig in.

A little too eagerly, apparently. You choke, coughing as you try to swallow too quickly.

Yeonjun’s reaction is immediate—he’s already filling a glass of water before you even finish coughing. He places it in front of you and grabs a few napkins, sliding them your way with a concerned look. “Slow down, Y/N,” he says, his tone gentle but firm.

“Sorry,” you croak out, taking a sip of water to soothe your throat.

Last night, when you arrived, your brother didn’t ask for explanations. He didn’t push, didn’t pry. Instead, he pulled you into a hug, letting you collapse into him, tears soaking into his shirt as you broke down.

You heard him curse, his voice tight with restrained anger, but he didn’t say anything else. He just let you cry. His hands rested firmly on your back.

He didn’t ask because he knew. He knew that words wouldn’t help—not now. And maybe, he was afraid that asking would only deepen the pain already spreading through you.

It’s the reason Soobin hasn’t married yet. He’s had plenty of offers—proposals that would benefit his business, alliances that would make sense on paper. But none of it feels right. Not when he knows what you’ve endured.

He can't forget the look on your face on the day of your wedding. He keeps his distance, telling himself he has no right to fall in love or build a life of his own. How could he, knowing the choice was never yours? How could he allow himself to stand in the light of his own happiness, knowing it would only cast a longer shadow over you?

It would be unfair. Unfair to chase his own happiness.

He’s afraid. Afraid that loving someone, finding joy in his own marriage, would feel like betrayal or it would mean abandoning you to face your burdens alone.

"How are you?" Yeonjun asks, his gaze lingering on the dark circles under your eyes. His frown deepens.

"I'm… better," you say, the words catching in your throat as you force them out. It’s a lie, and you both know it. You’re far from better. Not when the image of Beomgyu standing in the parking lot, staring at you as you left, keeps haunting you. He looked… You shake your head, forcing the thought away.

You can’t go there—not now.

“There’s a party this weekend,” Yeonjun says, trying to sound lighthearted as he takes a bite of his food. “Some kind of school reunion. I think it’s three batches combined. You should come with us.”

"Yeah," you mumble, poking at your plate. "Ryu-jin’s been bugging me about it. Since Jakey won’t be able to make it—he’s overseas right now."

But the words falter on your lips as the thought you’ve been trying to avoid pushes its way forward. You don’t have to say it out loud; it’s already there, written on your face. Beomgyu. He might be there.

"He won’t be," Soobin says firmly, it's almost as if he read your thoughts. "I made sure of it. And if, by some chance, he shows up, I’ll stick by your side all night."

Your eyes flick over to Yeonjun, and he gives you a slight nod, his expression softening. "I’ll be there too,"

The days pass in a haze, each one blurring into the next, but this time, you’re not navigating them by yourself. You lean on your brother more than you ever thought you would, and somehow, he never seems to mind.

Soobin, who skips work without a second thought, pulling you out of the house when he sees you sinking too deep into yourself. He drags you to museums, to quiet cafés, or even just for drives with no destination.

And then there’s Yeonjun. No matter how busy his life is, he keeps... showing up. When Soobin’s tied up, Yeonjun is there, knocking on your door with his humor pulling reluctant smiles from you when you least expect it.

It’s not perfect—it’s still hard. Some days, you still lock your doors and don't come out no matter how many times they knock. There are days you don't even utter a single word. But they’re there, both of them, holding you up when you can’t do it yourself.

For the first time in two years, you don't feel alone.

“He’s not on the list, don’t worry,” Ryu-jin’s voice crackles through the speaker of your phone. You grip the steering wheel a little tighter, your eyes fixed on the road ahead. Soobin’s car leads in the lane in front of you.

"It's fine," you say, "It's not like I'm going for him, anyway."

"Okay. See you there," Ryu-jin replies before hanging up. You swallow hard, trying to push down yet another nausea rising in your throat. You focus on the road.

When you arrive, you walk alongside Soobin toward the entrance. Heads turn, whispers ripple through the crowd. The two of you—the university’s so-called power siblings—command attention without even trying. People smile, greet you, and their eyes linger on your Dior dress, but you barely notice.

“You’re finally here,” Yeonjun’s familiar voice calls out as he approaches, his warm smile cutting the tension in your chest. He grabs your arm gently, pulling you closer. “I’m glad you came,” he says softly, his eyes holding yours before focusing on Soobin.

"You're early." Soobin exchanges a quick greeting with him, heading off briefly to grab drinks for the three of you.

“Y/N!” Ryu-jin throws her arms around you, grinning as her eyes sweep over you. “Why do you always have to look this good?” she teases playfully. You laugh softly, a flicker of warmth in an otherwise heavy evening. The four of you settle at a table, waiting for the event to begin.

The night feels… okay. Not great, not life-changing, but okay. A simple glimpse of normalcy.

The week leading up to tonight lingers in your mind. Beomgyu’s messages. The flowers left at Soobin’s door. The missed calls that filled your screen, each one a reminder of everything you’ve been trying to forget.

You ignored them all. You had to.

Even now, standing here among friends, the memories creep in when you least expect them. Every time you close your eyes, you see them. You see her. And you see him.

And all the things that could’ve happened between them.

No matter how hard you try, the ghosts cling to you, refusing to let go.

You scrub your hands under the cold stream of water, the scent of soap mingling with the sterile air. The sound of the bathroom door creaking open doesn’t register at first—not until you hear her voice.

“Hi, Y/N.” You freeze, your stomach twisting before you even turn around. Through the mirror, her face appears behind you—Ji-won. The last person you wanted to see.

“What do you want?” Your reflection betrays the tension in your jaw. Your stomach twists violently. You don’t want to do this. Not here. Not now.

“Look, I just… I just wanted to say I’m sorry. About what happened between you and Beomgyu.” Her words falter, her tone weak, as if that soft voice could somehow soften the blow. “I—I didn’t mean for it to happen,” she continues, “It just… it just happened. We didn’t mean it.”

You know what hurts more than being cheated on? It’s the sickening realization that the person they chose is better than you in every way. Prettier. Maybe even smarter. More… everything.

Your throat tightens, but you force yourself to speak, “Stop, Ji-won.” You glance at her through the mirror, your chest tightening painfully. “I get it. I can see why.”

She looks startled, her brows drawing together. “Y/N, I’m really sorry. I know you know we had… unfinished business—”

“Unfinished business?” You spin around to face her, and the words tumble out before you can stop them, “With someone else’s husband?”

“That’s why I came to apologize,”

You laugh bitterly, shaking your head as your chest burns with a mixture of anger and pain. “Well, I don’t need it. Did you expect me to hug you?” You let out another laugh, this one harsher.

“Congratulations, I guess.” You step closer, each word laced with venom. “But don’t you ever come near me again. If you do, I’ll press charges. It will be really ugly. Do you understand?”

Ji-won nods stiffly, her expression crumbling under the weight of your stare. Without another glance, you turn on your heel and walk out of the bathroom, your steps hurried, the adrenaline rushing through your veins.

By the time you’re in the hallway, your breath is coming in short gasps. Your chest feels tight, constricted, like you’re drowning in your own emotions. You press a hand to your chest, forcing yourself to keep walking, but your vision blurs with unshed tears.

You can’t breathe.

The alcohol should’ve been enough. You thought it would drown everything out—the ache, the gnawing in your gut, the weight pressing down on your shoulders. But the pain is relentless, carving its way through you, burning and cold.

It starts in your chest, spreading like wildfire, suffocating your lungs, and crawling up your spine until it feels like you’re being pulled apart from the inside. It’s sharp, chaotic, like a bullet ricocheting through your body, tearing apart every fragile piece it touches.

You hear Ryu-jin’s voice calling your name, faint and distant, but you don’t turn around. You can’t. No. The crowd around you feels stifling, every laugh and every cheer scraping against your raw nerves. You’re barely holding it together, and you know that if you stay even a second longer, you’ll shatter in front of everyone.

You just need to go. To get away. Anywhere but here. Because right now, in the middle of this party, you feel like an open wound, with no place to hide.

“Where the hell did she go?” Ryu-jin muttered under her breath, panic creeping into her voice as she scanned the hallway outside the bathroom. She had only stepped away for a minute, grabbed what she needed, and when she came back—you were gone.

She storms back to the table, her heart racing. “Soobin, did you see Y/N?”

Soobin looked up immediately, concern flashing across his face. “She was with you, wasn’t she?”

“I lost her,” Ryu-jin admits, held up her phone, frustrated. “I’ve been trying to call, but her phone’s not connecting.” The worry on Soobin’s face mirrors her own, and for a moment, neither of them speaks.

“I’ll check outside,” Soobin says, already rising to his feet, his determination written all over his face. Yeonjun appears at the table just as Soobin leaves. “I’ll go with him.”

“Ryu-jin? Hey, long time no see.”

She turned to see Jay standing there, his familiar easygoing smile not quite registering in the chaos of her mind. “Jay,” she said, forcing a tight smile. “Hey. Yeah. Long time.”

Jay tilted his head. “Surprising. Where’s Choi’s golden girl? Isn’t she usually glued to your side?”

Ryu-jin hesitated, her smile faltering. “They… stepped out for a bit,” she lied, tone distracted.

Her gaze drifted across the room, and that’s when she saw her. Ji-won. Sitting with her group of friends, laughing, carefree, as if she hadn’t done enough damage already. The sight of her felt like a slap to the face. “The audacity…” Ryu-jin muttered under her breath.

Jay follows her line of sight, his eyebrows raising when he spots her. “That’s Ji-won, right?” he asks, his tone laced with something between curiosity and disdain. “The one who’s always been weirdly obsessed with Y/N?”

Ryu-jin’s head snapped toward him. “What are you talking about?”

“I mean,” Jay continues, shrugging, “back in college, she had this… thing. Like, she couldn’t stand it whenever someone said Y/N was pretty, which was often. It was kind of insane, honestly. Everyone knew Y/N was the prettiest girl back then, and Ji-won hated it. Like, visibly hated it.”

Ryu-jin chokes on her drink, coughing as she shakes her head in disbelief. Her fingers twitch with the urge to march over to Ji-won and give her a piece of her mind, but before she can act on the intrusive thought, Soobin reappears. His face is pale.

“She’s been in an accident,”

You got into an accident.

Beomgyu was sitting in his office when the call came. Everything around him blurred, the world spinning out of focus. It felt as if time had stopped for him, while the Earth kept spinning mercilessly. His body froze, but his mind was spiralling.

Y/N. Accident. The words replayed on a loop in his head, loud and cruel. He couldn't process them, couldn't let them sink in, because doing so would mean accepting that something terrible had happened to you.

You got into a car accident. Something terrible happened.

His throat tightened as he gripped the phone with trembling hands. "Wh-where… which hospital?" he stammered, his voice cracking under the weight of his fear. His heart pounded so hard it felt like it might shatter.

The answer came, muffled like it was coming from underwater. The call ended before he could fully react. The phone slipped from his hand onto the desk as he staggered to his feet, his legs shaky beneath him.

Somehow, he made it to his car, though he couldn’t remember how. His chest heaved. With shaking fingers, he dialled another number, desperate for more answers.

“Don’t bother coming here, Choi Beomgyu.” Soobin’s voice was sharp and breathless when he answered. It sounded strained, furious even, and it only made Beomgyu’s heart sink further.

“Is she okay?” Beomgyu whispered, his voice barely audible. The question felt like it would break him. His chest felt like it was caving in, the pain clawing at him as he braced himself for the answer. He bit down on his lip, hard enough to draw blood, his free hand digging into his hair as he fought to stay grounded.

“She’s…” Soobin’s voice faltered, and that hesitation was enough to send Beomgyu spiraling further. “They’re trying. The doctors are doing everything they can.”

It wasn’t enough. Those words, those pitiful attempts at reassurance, did nothing to quiet the storm raging inside him. His hands tightened around the steering wheel as panic surged through him. If Soobin couldn’t say you were okay, it meant you weren’t.

Beomgyu floored the gas pedal.

His mind raced as fast as the car, every thought more horrifying than the last. What if he was too late? What if he never got to see you again? His breath hitched at the thought. His hands gripped the wheel tighter, knuckles pale.

He had to see you. Alive. Breathing.

Anything less would destroy him.

Beomgyu bursts into the hospital, his heart pounding so loudly it drowns out the sterile beeping and muffled voices around him. He barely registers the nurse’s directions to your room. All he knows is that he has to see you. His feet carry him faster than his thoughts, and when he spots the door, he doesn’t expect the two familiar figures standing outside.

Ryu-jin sits on a chair, her face buried in her hands as her shoulders shake with sobs. Yeonjun is pacing, his expression tight with worry, his hands clenched into fists.

The moment Yeonjun sees Beomgyu, he stops dead in his tracks. His gaze hardens, sharp and unyielding, as he steps forward and blocks the door with his arm.

“She wouldn’t want to see you,” Yeonjun snaps, his voice low and venomous. “Get the fuck out of here, you piece of shit.”

Beomgyu freezes for half a second before anger flares in his chest, red-hot and uncontrollable. “What the fuck are you talking about?” he shouts, shoving Yeonjun hard enough to make him stumble back a step. “I’m going to see my wife!”

Yeonjun doesn’t back down. If anything, he looks even angrier.

“Stop it! Both of you!” Ryu-jin’s voice cracks as she looks up, mascara streaked down her tear-stained cheeks. She doesn’t bother wiping it away. Her hands tremble as she points at the door. “Visitors aren’t allowed until tomorrow. She’s in surgery, Beomgyu. And it’s not… it’s not a minor one.”

Those words hit him like a freight train. The fight drains out of him, leaving only fear in its place. He stumbles back a step, his hands running through his hair as he struggles to breathe. “Surgery?” he whispers, his voice breaking. “What kind of surgery?”

Yeonjun glares at him, unmoving. “And now you come running,” he spits, his tone bitter. “After all this time? Now you care?”

Beomgyu clenches his jaw, meeting Yeonjun’s fiery gaze but saying nothing. Because he knows Yeonjun’s right.

Yeonjun’s shoulders sag, and his voice softens, “You don’t even know,” he says, eyes on the floor. “You don’t know what a fucking queen your wife is.”

The unexpected shift in tone stops Beomgyu in his tracks. He stares at Yeonjun. His words—they're spoken with such devastation that it leaves him frozen. He sees the sullen look on Yeonjun's face. After all, Yeonjun has always been soft when it comes to you.

So soft that it terrifies Beomgyu.

"Beomgyu." Soobin's voice cuts through the heavy silence, pulling Beomgyu out of his spiralling thoughts. He turns toward him, barely able to focus. "Let's talk here."

Beomgyu nods silently and walks over, his legs feeling heavier with every step. He follows without a word, leaving Yeonjun and Ryu-jin standing alone near the door.

Ryu-jin watches Yeonjun out of the corner of her eye. He hasn’t moved, hasn’t said a single word since his last bitter remark to Beomgyu. He stands there, staring at the floor. His hands clasped together.

The silence stretches uncomfortably, and she can’t help herself. “Yeonjun…” she starts hesitantly. “You’re not… in love with her or something, are you?”

Her words made Yeonjun’s head snap up. His eyes meet hers, and for the first time, Ryu-jin sees it—really sees it. The glassy sheen in his eyes, the way his lips part but no words come out. The heartbreak painted so clearly on his face that it makes her chest ache. “You idiot,” she whispers, her voice soft with pity.

Yeonjun lets out a shaky breath, his gaze dropping again as if he can’t bear the weight of her sympathy. “She’s… my best friend’s little sister,” he murmurs, his voice raw and quiet. “I didn’t think it was possible. Not for me. Not for her.” He doesn’t answer directly. He doesn’t need to. It’s all over his face.

Yeonjun was in love with you, ever since he first saw you.

Beomgyu sat across from Soobin, his hands clenched tightly in his lap as he listened. Soobin’s voice was calm but firm as he explained what the doctors had said—stress was the last thing you could handle right now. “I’ll let you know if it’s okay for you to see her."

The words didn’t settle easily. Beomgyu didn’t understand why no one would tell him anything about your condition, why every detail was kept from him. But knowing you were stable, even for the moment, was enough. He swallowed his frustration and nodded, agreeing to Soobin’s terms.

Still, he couldn’t help himself. As Soobin turned to leave, Beomgyu’s voice cracked, raw with desperation. “Please,” he begged, “Let me see her. Just once… before I go.”

Beomgyu felt like his heart was clawing its way out of his chest, beating so erratically it left him breathless. It begged to escape, just as he begged silently to be allowed into the ICU. His hands trembled, numb and unsteady. He flexed his fingers, forcing a crack to echo through his knuckles, before gripping the cold metal of the doorknob.

On the other side of this door was you—the woman he hurt.

The thought made him pause, the ache in his chest spreading to his throat, tightening it like a noose. He wasn’t sure he could face you—not like this. But he couldn’t stay away, not anymore.

The door creaked softly as it opened, and his heart stuttered at the sight of you. Your face was pale but peaceful, your eyes closed, your breaths slow and steady. The sound of the machines around you was the only thing keeping him grounded.

He stepped closer, each movement hesitant, his guilt weighing heavier with every inch he bridged between you. When he finally reached your bedside, he froze, staring down at your hand—fragile and adorned with IV needles. Slowly, he reached out, his fingers brushing against yours. They were soft. Warm. And just that small, simple touch made him breathe again—really breathe—for the first time in days.

“Baby,” he whispered, the word breaking in his throat.

He sank to his knees beside you, clutching your hand to his face. Tears welled in his eyes, spilling over before he could stop them. They fell onto your skin, warm and unrelenting, a silent apology for every mistake he had made. He pressed his lips to your hand, shoulders shook as he cried.

The past few days without you had been unbearable. If he ever had doubts, or worries, if he ever hesitated—those thoughts were gone now. It's you. He’d thought about every little thing you did that he had taken for granted. All of it. And he realized, how much it all mattered.

How much you mattered to him.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out, whispers to your skin as he continue to kiss your palm. “I’m so sorry. For everything.”

The tears wouldn’t stop, and neither would the words pouring out of him. “You mean everything to me. I didn’t see it before, but I see it now. I love you. God, I love you so much.”

He squeezed your hand, hoping—praying—that somehow you could feel him. That even in this fragile, unconscious state, you could hear the desperate beating of his heart, could feel the truth in his touch. “I’ll do better,” he whispered, “I’ll be better. If you’ll just… if you’ll just give me another chance. Please.”

He didn’t know if you could hear him. He didn’t know if you’d ever forgive him. And he hates himself how it took him this long to figure it out.

Beomgyu’s heart was in his hands now, fully exposed and vulnerable, waiting—you could somehow feel it. He rested his forehead against your hand, tears pooling on the stark white sheets. If you gave him the chance, he’d spend the rest of his life proving that his love is real. He was finally here, standing in the world where you had once stood so heartbreakingly alone. And that his heart was yours, completely yours.

He would spend forever making up for what he had done. Even if it kills him.

“Where were you?” you asked, reaching over to grab the strawberry from the basket on the kitchen table. Beomgyu’s chuckle filled the room. “I went drinking with Taehyun. Just a light drink,” he said casually, his hand brushing your shoulder as he passed behind you to grab a plate.

“Why? Did you miss your husband?” he teased, carefully plating the food before setting it down in front of you. You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “You wish.”

He chuckled, handing you a spoon and fork before moving around the kitchen. A tall glass appeared on the table next to your plate and he poured you water.

“Did he miss me too?” Beomgyu’s voice was soft, almost tentative, drawing your gaze upward. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, you were caught in the tenderness there. It made your heart ache in that way only he could.

“He?” You raised an eyebrow, a small smirk tugging at your lips as you swallowed. “What makes you so sure it's a boy?” Your hand instinctively brushed over your stomach as a quiet smile softened your face. The thought of your little one—boy or girl—filled you with a warmth you couldn’t quite put into words.

“I just feel it,” A small smile flickered across his lips, “What if we get twins?”

You looked down, your thoughts wandering to tiny clothes, little shoes scattered across the floor, and pastel-painted walls filled with light and laughter. “That would be… amazing,” you murmured.

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Beomgyu pulling out the chair beside you. He sat down at first, but then, almost as if drawn closer by some unseen force, he shifted. You felt his gaze before you saw him—soft, unwavering, and filled with a kind of awe that made your chest tighten.

“That sounds nice, two little you running around.” he breathed, his voice almost a whisper. His hand reached out slowly, brushing against your stomach. You set down your utensils, giving him a soft nod as you shifted slightly, allowing him more access.

Beomgyu lowered himself onto his knees in front of you, his large hands resting gently on either side of your growing belly. He glanced up at you, his eyes searching yours for a brief moment before he let out a long, steady breath. Then, with a tenderness that made your throat tighten, he leaned closer, pressing his forehead gently against your stomach.

“Mommy and Daddy love you,” he whispered, his voice so quiet you almost didn’t hear it. He sounded so vulnerable, so small—like all the pain he had been carrying had finally spilled over. His lips pressed softly against your stomach. And then, without a word, he wrapped his arms around your waist and buried his face against you.

Your hand moved instinctively, threading through his soft hair with slow, soothing strokes. He pulled you closer, as though being near you could quiet the storm in his heart. Your fingers trailed down the back of his neck, over his shoulders, and down his back.

And then—it shifted.

In your dream, you were cradling a baby to your chest, its tiny body safe in your arms. Beomgyu leaned down, smiling widely as you do.

You woke up, panting.

You were dreaming. It shattered as reality came rushing back. Pain coursed through you, sharp and unrelenting, pulling a small, involuntary sound from your lips.

The memory hit next, as vivid as the moment it happened. Driving through the night with tears blurring your vision, your hands trembling on the wheel. The sound of your ragged breathing, the pounding of your heart. You were speeding, desperate to outrun the ache inside. Then the impact—another car colliding into yours, the violent spin before your vision went black.

“Hnn,” you whimpered, barely able to get the sound out. Your throat was dry, parched, and every part of you ached. You needed water.

"Y/N," a voice broke through the haze of your awakening. You turned your head to see your brother, Soobin. His face paled as he dropped whatever he was holding and rushed to your side. “I—I—”

“Water. Please,” you rasped, your throat dry and raw.

Soobin nodded quickly, his hands trembling as he reached for the water bottle on the nearby table. He uncapped it, holding it to your lips as you drank. Relief was fleeting; the ache in your chest outweighed the dryness in your throat.

“What happened?” you asked, your voice a little stronger now, though your hands still shook.

“You got into an accident,” he said, settling into the chair beside you. His voice was low, almost fragile. “A surgery was performed. You’ve been unconscious for three days.”

You nodded, trying to process his words, but his silence that followed unsettled you. ou looked at him, noticing the way his eyes darted away from yours, how his lips pressed together like he was holding back something he didn’t know how to say.

“What is it?” you pressed, your chest tightening with dread.

Soobin hesitated, his hands fidgeting in his lap before he reached out to take yours. “Let me call the nurse first, okay?” You nodded, though the fear in his voice made it hard to breathe.

You nodded, your anxiety growing as he stepped out. Moments later, the nurse arrived, and then the doctor, their voices calm and professional as they began explaining the details of your condition. But their words blurred together—a haze of medical jargon that barely registered—until one sentence shattered everything.

“You were in your first trimester when the accident occurred. The baby didn’t survive. I’m so sorry for your loss.” Your world tilted. Your breath caught in your throat, and for a moment, it felt like your heart had stopped.

“A baby?” you whispered, the word foreign and fragile on your lips.

The nurse and doctor offered their condolences before quietly excusing themselves, leaving you alone with Soobin. Your hands trembled as they instinctively moved to your stomach. “I was pregnant?” Your voice cracked, disbelief and anguish bleeding into every word. "Soobin?"

“Y/N…” Soobin’s voice was choked with emotion.

“I mean… they’re saying I was…” You stopped, the reality sinking in with a force so cruel. “Oh.”

“I didn’t even know,” Tears blurred your vision as the enormity of it all crashed down on you. You lost a baby. A life you didn’t even know you were carrying. A piece of you that was gone before you ever had the chance to feel it, to know it, to love it.

Did you have to lose your child too?

The sobs came hard and fast, wracking your body until you could barely breathe. Your hands covered your mouth, trying to hold in the grief that spilled over anyway. “I didn’t even know I was pregnant.” you choked out, your voice breaking. “And now… they’re gone.” Your hands clutched at your stomach as if trying to hold on to something that was no longer there. "It's all my fault."

Soobin wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his chest as your cries tore the room. “I’m so sorry, Y/N,” he whispered, his voice shaking. He held you tightly. The only thing that kept you from falling out.

Your cries grew louder, as the loss consumed you. The one you saw in your dream, so warm in your arms. You had held them, hadn’t you? You could still feel the weight of their tiny body in your arms.

Your baby.

All you could do was mourn for the life that had slipped away before you even knew it existed.

It’s been a week since Soobin made his last call to Beomgyu. A week since you opened your eyes in the hospital. And yet, Beomgyu has heard nothing.

Every day, he drags himself to the hospital. But every time, the answer is the same: no. On the fourth day, he arrived—you’d been discharged. You were gone.

Still, every morning, Beomgyu wakes up with that same aching hope that refuses to let go no matter how much it hurts. He gets through the day somehow, clutching at the thought of seeing your face again. But by night, when the world quiets, he’s left with nothing but his tears, falling asleep with the weight of your absence pressing down on his heart.

He’s distracted, eyes fixed on the same line of text glowing on his computer screen. It’s been minutes, maybe longer, and he still hasn’t moved past the first sentence. His mind is elsewhere—adrift—when a knock on the office door pulls him back.

His secretary peeks in, face filled with cautious expression. “Sir, I’ve been calling your phone. Someone’s here to see you—Park Sunghoon.”

Beomgyu blinked, confused. Sunghoon? His old batchmate, someone he’d shared classes with years ago. They hadn’t talked in forever. He nodded slowly, signalling her to let him in.

The door opens fully, and Sunghoon strides in. His pale complexion contrasts starkly with the black polo shirt he’s wearing, and Beomgyu notices the glasses perched on his nose—something he didn't have before. Sunghoon doesn’t look quite the same as Beomgyu remembers.

“Beomgyu,” Sunghoon said with a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “How’ve you been, man?”

“Sunghoon,” Beomgyu responds, sitting up straighter in his chair. “What brings you here?” He gestures toward the seat across the desk, and Sunghoon takes it. The frown etched into his brow didn’t escape Beomgyu’s notice. “Is everything okay?”

Sunghoon exhales, leaning forward and clasping his hands together on his knees. “You know I’m close with Jay, right?”

Beomgyu narrows his eyes, unsure where this is heading, but he nods. “Yeah. And?”

“Well…” Sunghoon hesitates, the words seemingly heavy in his throat before he finally speaks. “I heard about Y/N. That she got into an accident recently.” The sound of your name halts Beomgyu.

“I couldn’t ignore it anymore,” Sunghoon continues, voice quieter. “I made promises to her, you know? But lately… I don’t know. It’s been eating me alive.”

Beomgyu runs his hand to his hair, "Sunghoon…”

"I didn’t think it was my place to say this," Sunghoon begins, "When I heard you two got married, I thought maybe she’d tell you. Maybe you already know. But I came here personally, just in case. Because you deserve to know. And if I don’t tell you now, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life."

He exhales deeply before continuing. “Do you remember how you used to talk about Ji-won? How you’d brag about her cooking for you, leaving little things for you—sweets, medicine, hot packs. Or the cold water she’d always leave at your bench during those grueling practices under the sun? Do you remember how she saved your ass that time you forgot your assignment, staying up late just to finish it for you? You told us all those things, over and over, like she a gem.” Beomgyu feels his chest tighten as Sunghoon meets his nervous gaze.

“All of that, Beomgyu… it wasn’t Ji-won,” Sunghoon says carefully, “It was Y/N. Every single one of those things. I know because… she asked me to help her sometimes. She didn’t want you to know. She didn’t do it for recognition or because she wanted anything back. She just cared about you. I even told her once—maybe she should tell you how she felt, and even if you didn’t feel the same, at least it’d help her move on. But she wouldn’t. She told me… her love for you wasn’t about getting something back. It wasn’t about her. It wasn’t selfish.”

Beomgyu’s hand trembles under the table, his knuckles white as he clenches his fists. His throat feels tight, each word hitting his ears.

“At first, I couldn’t understand her decision—I even judged her for it, thinking she was only making... things harder on herself,” Sunghoon admits, voice softening. “But over time, I realized—none of us have the right to judge someone else’s pain. You can’t measure someone else’s actions by your own standards. What might seem small or insignificant to one person could be earth-shattering to someone else.”

Beomgyu had been in love with the idea of Ji-won all along.

Those moments—the little gestures, the care, the comfort—they had become the foundation of his attachment to her. How he remembered her. They were the memories he clung to, the ones burned so deeply into his mind that letting her go had felt impossible. She was, in his mind, someone who cared for him. Someone who truly knew him.

But it wasn’t her. It was you. It had been you all along.

He thinks about Ji-won, the girl he once believed was willing to stand by him no matter what. She made him think about defying his parents, about running away from everything—his responsibilities, his future, his entire life. Ji-won was the one who fueled his anger, who stood beside him as he cursed the world and everyone in it.

And then there was you.

You, who never let him go too far. You didn’t encourage his anger—you challenged it. Even when it meant standing against him, because you wanted him to understand—not everything could be run from. It was you who reminded him that his obligations weren’t a prison but a part of him, something he couldn’t just abandon. It was you who helped him rebuild the bridge to his parents when he didn’t even realise it had been burned.

It’s suffocating now, the truth. To realise that the very actions that made him fall for Ji-won—the moments he thought defined her love for him—were never hers. They were yours.

Ji-won had been nothing but a mirror to his rebellion. This truth, made him want to see you more.

“Pour me another,” Beomgyu muttered to the bartender he leaned heavily on his forearm. The man hesitated, his concern written all over his face. Beomgyu noticed but didn’t care. “I said, pour me another one.”

With a reluctant nod, the bartender slid another drink in front of him. Beomgyu downed it in one go, the burn in his throat doing nothing to drown out the ache in his chest. He fumbled for his phone, the screen glaring back at him as he typed out messages he knew you’d never read.

I miss you, baby. Can I see you? Let’s talk, please. Are you not going to see me? Forever? Ok. I understand. I don’t deserve forgiveness. No. Please. Give me a chance. Just one chance to see you. To talk to you, please. I can’t go on another day without you. Please Y/N.

The messages sat there, unanswered.

Stumbling out of the bar, his legs unsteady and his vision blurred, he barely noticed the bartender calling his driver. He collapsed onto the pavement outside, his head in his hands, phone still clutched in his trembling fingers.

As he opened it again, ready to type another desperate plea, his screen lit up with an incoming call. His heart skipped, hope flickering briefly before seeing another unfamiliar number.

“When are you going to stop calling me, Ji-won?” he shouted into the phone, his voice hoarse with frustration and alcohol. “I’ve said it more than once—we don’t need to talk. Not ever again.”

“I just wanted to know how you’re—”

“Please!” he cut her off, his voice breaking as tears streamed freely down his face. He was shaking now, his words spilling out in a desperate sob. “Please, Ji-won… I know everything. I know what you did. You ruined the only good thing I ever had. You… you destroyed it.”

He pressed his palm against his mouth, trying to muffle the sound of his own cries. “Please,” he whispered, the word barely audible through his tears. “Just let me be.”

The line ends.

Ji-won freezes, her fingers trembling as the line goes dead. You ruined the only good thing I ever had. You… you destroyed it.

She exhales shakily, forcing air into her lungs that suddenly feel too tight. Her phone slips from her hand, landing softly on the bedspread. Hot tears well in her eyes, blurring the room around her. She had let herself believe—naively, foolishly—that Choi Beomgyu could still be hers.

Even after everything, she had convinced herself that there was still a piece of him that belonged to her. But now, hearing his words, she knew. She had already lost him.

The tears came harder as her mind betrayed her, pulling her back to the moment it all began. The moment her hatred for you took root.

“Beomgyu,” she had chirped, plopping down beside him on the couch. He had been immersed in a book, his brow furrowed in concentration, but she didn’t care. She wanted his attention, his reassurance. She always did. “There’s this talk going around about… Y/N,” she said, the name leaving a sour taste on her tongue. “People are saying she’s the prettiest girl on campus.” Her voice dropped, tinged with an edge of insecurity.

“But that’s not true, right? She’s not that… pretty.” She trailed off, squeezing his hand, her smile faltering as she waited for the words she longed to hear. She wanted him to say, there was no competition—that she was the most beautiful girl in his eyes.

Beomgyu was half hearing her words because he was engrossed in the book he was reading. So instead, he looked up, his eyes meeting hers with a hint of confusion. “What do you mean?” he asked simply, his tone matter-of-fact. “It's true. I think she’s beautiful.”

It was on that day Ji-won began to hate you with every fiber of her being.

The kind of hatred that wasn’t born overnight, but nurtured by her insecurities, fed by the way you walked through the world without a care—dragging every boy’s eyes in your wake as if it were effortless. And the worst part? You didn’t even seem to notice. You didn’t have to notice.

Jealousy festered in her chest, growing heavier each time she caught a glimpse of you. It didn’t help that you and Beomgyu—her Beomgyu—shared a world she could never truly enter. The Chois. The big families. A legacy. Something she wasn’t, something she could never be.

The announcement of your engagement felt like the final blow. She couldn’t understand how the universe could be so evil. You, the girl she couldn’t stand, were being handed the one thing she clung to the hardest. It wasn’t fair. And as jealousy morphed into bitterness, she let herself simmer in the injustice of it all, until it burned hot enough to ignite a plan.

Ji-won thought of everything. She knew Beomgyu would be there at the party, and she knew what she had to do. She chose the kind of dress he used to love. She styled her hair the way he used to run his fingers through, practised the words he used to adore hearing spill from her lips. She even reached for the used perfume he once said he liked.

It wasn’t an accident. None of it was. Ji-won walked into that room not as a guest, but as someone determined to remind him of what they once had. It didn’t matter that he was married.

You ruined the only good thing I ever had. You destroyed it. Please, just let me be.

She swallows hard, the lump in her throat refusing to go away. The realization settles over her like a heavy fog, a fog that turns clear—she is nothing more than a wall. A futile obstacle standing in the way of two souls who are meant to be together.

She opens her phone, booking a flight—any flight—to anywhere but here.

“It’s here,” Soobin says softly, his hand resting gently on your back as he guides you forward. His finger points to the glass grave in front of you.

Gone, but forever in our hearts. Moon.

Your Moon. The name you gave your baby—a name as delicate and luminous as the child who never got to see the world. You thought long and hard about it. It had to be beautiful, just like him. A name worthy of all the love you poured into his short, fleeting existence.

You pull out your handkerchief, wiping at the thin layer of dust that has settled on the outside of the glass. Your fingers tremble as you do, as though clearing the smudges could make it hurt less. But it doesn’t. It never does. Your brow furrows as you fight the ache swelling in your chest. He’s in there—inside that small, delicate bottle. And this is all you can do for him now.

“Hi, baby,” you whisper, your voice cracking as the words leave your lips. Soobin stands beside you, his smile soft but heavy with sadness. “Do you think I would’ve been a good uncle?” he asks, his voice barely louder than the wind.

You glance at him, your heart aching at the question. He kneels to place the small flowers you’d brought together, arranging them with the utmost care. There's an unfamiliar flower resting beside it. Someone must have wrongly placed it.

“Yes,” you manage to say, your throat tight with emotion. “I think the two of you would’ve been close.” You force a smile, though it wavers, your words choking you as they come out.

He reaches up and smooths your hair, a comforting gesture that almost makes you break. “He’s up there,” Soobin murmurs, his eyes lifting to the sky. “With no pain. Watching over you.”

You nod, swallowing hard, willing your tears to stay back. You can’t cry. Not here. Not now. If you cry, your baby might worry. You’ve convinced yourself of that, even if it doesn’t make sense.

The week after your discharge was unbearable.

You clung to Soobin like a lifeline, your hands gripping his. Your parents moved you back into their house without question, simply knowing you needed them.

Your mother—the strongest woman you’d ever known, the one who never faltered—cried with you when you broke the news. She held you in her arms like you were a child again, her tears falling silently against your hair as you sobbed into her chest. Your father walked with you every day, leading you to the garden where you could sit in the sunlight, as if the warmth could somehow seep into the cracks inside you. They cooked your meals, cleaned your space, and did everything you couldn’t bring yourself to do.

Tonight, you find yourself staring blankly at the walls of your old room.

The quiet feels suffocating, pressing against your chest. Sleep won’t come, and before you even realise it, tears are slipping down your cheeks. You didn’t even notice you were crying until the dampness touches your skin. You sit up abruptly, your chest heaving as if the air refuses to fill your lungs. The stillness of the bed feels unbearable, so you push yourself off it, your feet meeting the cool floor.

Pacing back and forth, you feel the tears come harder now, unchecked and unexplainable. You don’t even know why you’re crying. It’s just there—this ache, this heaviness. You were about to go out, to get Soobin or your parents.

But then your eyes caught the window.

It glows. The moon.

It’s full tonight, impossibly bright, casting a soft, silvery glow across the room. It feels like it’s staring back at you. You stand there, frozen, the phone slipping from your hand. The moon’s reflection shimmers faintly in your tear-filled eyes, and for a moment, you forget the heaviness pressing against your chest. It’s as if the moon is speaking to you, telling you to breathe, to let go, to just be.

Your breathing steadies. You stand there, bathed in its light, feeling the faintest glimmer of peace. And the storm inside you begins to calm.

It’s been six months since you woke up.

Six months since you returned to your parents’ house, where the familiar walls offered some sense of safety. Ryu-jin and Yeonjun visit almost every weekend, their presence a small comfort. Soobin stays, too, refusing to leave your side.

It’s been almost seven months since you last saw Choi Beomgyu.

Seven months since everything fell apart.

Choi Beomgyu, who, for six months now, has spent every single day driving two hours to your parents’ house. He shows up like clockwork, no matter the weather, no matter the time. After work, he makes the trip, arriving at the big gated doors with a bouquet of white roses in his hands. Every single day.

He doesn’t make a scene or beg to be let in. He just waits, bouquet in hand, a fragile hope flickering in his eyes. White roses. Always white roses. They used to be your favourite.

His parents send gifts, too. Packages and handwritten letters arrive, carefully chosen and delicately worded, but you can’t bring yourself to open them.

And every day, you hear the knock at the gate. Every day, you peek from the upstairs window, watching him wait, white roses clutched in his hands like a lifeline. And every day, you stay hidden behind the curtains, your feet stay rooted to the floor, your heart too bruised to carry you to him.

But today is different. Today, it has to be.

The papers are in your hands. Unsigned divorce papers. You tell yourself it’s just paper, just ink, but the trembling in your hands betrays the truth.

You walk to the building you once called home, each step echoing in your chest. The elevator hums softly as you press the button, your reflection in the mirrored doors a stranger to you. When it finally dings open, you step out into the hallway that once smelled of comfort and familiarity. Now it feels like a mausoleum.

Your hand hovers over the doorbell of your home—no, his home. The space you used to share feels distant. The ring in your other hand feels impossibly heavy, its cool metal biting into your palm.

You’ve tried to get rid of it before. Once, you even threw it in the trash, convincing yourself it was the right thing to do. But then came the panic. You tore through the garbage, hands shaking, the stench clinging to you as you clawed through. It didn’t matter that you ruined your clothes or that your mom’s voice cracked as she begged you to stop.

You just couldn’t let it go. Maybe, you should return it properly.

You take a breath and press the button. And then you wait.

When the door swung open, Beomgyu’s eyes met yours, and for a moment, everything froze. His eyes widened in shock, his lips parting as if to speak, but no sound came out. You felt your chest tighten painfully, the sight of him unravelling something inside you. He looked… so different. His hair, longer now, fell to his shoulders in messy waves, unkempt like he hadn’t bothered to comb it. His skin was pale, almost sickly, and his eyes were rimmed with red, like he’d been crying—or hadn’t slept in days.

“Y/N,” he breathed, his voice barely above a whisper. His hand gripped the edge of the door like he needed something to steady him, his heart hammering so loudly he swore you could hear it. Was this real? Were you really standing there? He let his gaze trail over you, taking in your thinner frame, the hollow tiredness etched into your face. He wanted to say something, to invite you in, but the words caught in his throat.

You didn’t say a word. Instead, you stepped past him, the sharp click of your heels against the floor filling the suffocating silence. Each step echoed like a countdown, louder in his ears than it should have been. Beomgyu turned to watch you, his hand hovering uselessly at his side, aching to reach out but too afraid to try.

He closed the door softly behind you.

Your eyes scan the room, and it hits you all at once—everything’s a mess. Clothes are strewn carelessly over the couch, an empty chip bag crumpled on the kitchen counter, dishes piling up in the sink. The air feels heavy, stagnant, like the windows haven’t been opened in weeks.

And then your gaze shifts—to the open door on the right. Your room.

Your breath catches as you take it in. The bed is unmade, the sheets tangled in a way that’s unmistakable.

He’s been sleeping there. Beomgyu. In your room. In your bed.

"Uh," Beomgyu starts awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Sorry, it's… kind of a mess."

You nod stiffly, not meeting his eyes. "It's okay."

The sound of your voice makes him freeze. It’s been so long since he’s heard it—too long. His chest tightens, but before he can savor it, your next words come like a knife to his heart. "I'm not going to be here for long anyway."

His brows furrow, panic flashing across his face. "Wh-why?" he stammers, his voice breaking. "I mean—"

You cut him off, extending the envelope toward him with trembling hands. "Let’s…" You swallow hard, forcing the words out despite the lump in your throat. "Let’s get a divorce."

Beomgyu stares at you, his mind reeling. The hope that had bloomed in his chest when he saw you standing at his door clashes violently with the reality of your words. His lips part, but no sound comes at first. Finally, he whispers, "Why?"

He can’t stop himself. The panic is overwhelming. "I went to your house every day," he says, his voice breaking. "Every single day, Y/N. I wanted to make this work. I—I sent you messages, I tried everything. Do you…" He swallows hard, his throat tight. "Do you not love me anymore?" He knows he sounds pathetic, but he doesn’t care. The speeches he’d rehearsed in his head dissolve into nothing, overtaken by the fright clawing at him.

Your breath hitches, and when you speak, your voice is cold, trembling with barely contained emotion. "I don’t care if I love you, Beomgyu. I don’t care if it feels like my heart is being ripped out of my chest, or if it feels like I’m dying inside." You take a shaky breath, your grip tightening on the envelope. "I want a divorce. And when it’s done, you’ll never see me again."

Beomgyu flinches like you’ve struck him, his knees nearly buckling. He shifts uncomfortably, his hands shaking at his sides. "Is this still about Ji-won?" he asks hesitantly, and the way you flinch answers him before your words can.

He swallows hard, his voice growing more frantic. "It’s true, Y/N. It’s true, that I cheated. I kissed her, but as soon as it happened, I pushed her away." He presses a trembling hand to his chest. "It didn’t mean anything—it was a mistake, a horrible mistake, and I hate myself for it every single day. But please…" His voice cracks, tears spilling down his cheeks. "Please, give me a chance."

You shake your head, a sob breaking free despite how hard you’re trying to hold it together. "It’s too late, Beomgyu," you whisper, your voice trembling as your hands shake. You open your hands, and try to give the ring back. "Too much has happened. We can’t go back."

Beomgyu doesn’t take it. He just stands there, staring at the ring in your palm, tears streaming down his face. He knows. If he takes it, it’s over. If he takes it, you’ll be gone for good, out of his life forever.

"I can’t," he whispers, his voice broken. "I can’t take it."

He won’t take the ring, so he takes your hand and pulled you to him, kissing your lips fervently and enduring the slam of your fists against his body and chest. It was all him; it was all his fault. He is an emotional wreck who doesn’t know what to do and how to contain his feelings.

“Beomgyu—” you gasped, your voice breaking as you pushed at his chest. He didn’t let go, his hands cupping your face, fingers brushing against your jaw like you were something fragile and sacred. His touch was shaky, his breathing uneven as his hands slid to the back of your neck, pulling you impossibly closer.

His movements were hurried, frantic, as if he were afraid you’d disappear if he let go. In one swift motion, he lifted you, his steps unsteady as he carried you to the bedroom. Your bedroom. The air felt heavy as he laid you down on the mattress—his mattress now, the one that carried his scent.

“Wait—,” you said weakly, your hands clutching at his shirt, your voice trembling as much as your resolve. But even as you pushed against him, your lips didn’t stop moving from kissing him back. His hands moved to your shoulders, then slid down to your waist, pulling you to him. You never knew that lips could talk without uttering a word until he declared his love for you through kisses. You let yourself melt under his touch.

Your hands, which had been pushing him away moments before, now found his shoulders for balance as he pressed you back into the bed. The mattress creaked beneath you, and you hated how your body still remembered him—how it responded to him like no time had passed at all.

His breaths were ragged, syncing with your every moan as his tongue tangled with yours, hungry and desperate. You had missed him—every part of him. That truth burned inside you as your fingers tugged at the hem of his shirt, pulling him closer, urging him on. His body pressed against yours, grinding to yours, while his hands roamed over your skin, igniting every nerve he touched. His lips trailed downward, leaving soft kisses that melted into your flesh, a path leading straight to your core.

He stripped you of every barrier, leaving you bare under his gaze. His eyes shimmered with something between adoration and hunger as they traced your body. You hadn’t realized how powerless you were against him until your legs parted, welcoming him. He looked at you like you were sacred, like you were his entire world.

“Don’t leave me…” he whispered between kisses, his voice breaking in a way that made your heart ache. Tears pricked your eyes because you wanted to believe him. You needed to believe him. His hands explored further, his fingers reaching for your clit, pinching softly then roughly, coaxing sounds from your lips that you didn’t know you were capable of. You trembled beneath him, gasping and crying out as he whispered confessions into your skin.

His mouth was poetry, speaking without syllables. His kisses, his touch—every movement of his lips and tongue—proclaimed what he hadn’t said out loud. Your body gave in, melting under the weight of his devotion, your mind consumed by him.

“Don’t leave me again, please,” he murmured as he positioned himself, slowly sliding into you. A low, guttural sound escaped him as he felt you, tight and warm, pulling him deeper. He missed you so much that he's sure he'll come right there and then. His face buried itself in the curve of your neck, and his words spilled out—apologies, regrets.

"Please," His touch was gentle, even as his thrusts inside you grew more desperate. He cradled your head, kissed away your tears, and pressed his lips to your cheek. “I’m in love with you, Y/N,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “It’s always been you.”

“I love you…” he murmured, capturing your lips in a desperate kiss as you both unravelled together, bodies trembling in unison. Your thighs clenched tightly around his waist, and he repeated the words softly into your ear, like a prayer he needed you to hear.

"Beomgyu," You whispered his name and it made tears well up in his eyes. His hand gently pushed the damp strands of hair from your face, and he pressed tender kisses along your cheeks, your temple, and your jaw. When he noticed your tears, he wiped them away without hesitation, his touch careful and soothing.

“Shh, angel,” he whispered, pulling you against his chest, holding you like he was afraid you’d slip away. His lips brushed the crown of your head, and his hand moved in calming strokes up and down your back. “I’m sorry… for everything.”

You had come here to end it. To finally say the words that would close this chapter for good. You’d rehearsed it in your mind, telling yourself you’d leave with your head held high.

But all of that clarity blurred with every kiss he gave you, every whisper of your name that fell from his lips. Every I love you, over and over again, spoken like a spell meant to undo you. And it did. The walls you had worked so hard to build these past seven months—brick by painstaking brick—began to crack and crumble.

And when he pulled you closer, his arms tightening around you like he couldn’t bear to let go, you felt yourself falter completely. Because no matter how much resolve you thought you had, it was never enough when it came to him.

Two fractured bodies came together, love-making to each other to chase away all the scars and time passed.

The papers meant to sever—to declare the ending—lay discarded on the floor, forgotten.

The brightness of the room stings your eyes as they flutter open. You blink, disoriented, your chest tightening with a familiar weight. Panic creeps up, sharp and unforgiving. He must have left. He must have slipped out of bed again, leaving you to wake up alone.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” Beomgyu’s voice is soft, tinged with concern as he gently cradles your face in his hands. He had woken up before you, the morning light spilling across the room, but leaving the bed felt impossible. Not when you were curled so closely against him, your bodies still tangled under the warmth of the sheets.

He stayed, wrapping himself around you, his chest pressed to your back, his arms holding you. He buried his face in your hair, inhaling the faint scent that now feels like home. It was quiet—so quiet—until he felt the faint tremble on your body. His grip tightened instinctively, his voice barely above a whisper as he called out to you again. “Y/N,"

You blinked, his voice pulling you from your thoughts. Turning your head, your eyes met his—heavy-lidded and soft with sleep. His arms tightened around your waist. A shaky breath escaped your lips, your chest tight as tears welled in your eyes. You tried to hold them back, but they came anyway.

Beomgyu’s thumb brushed against your cheek, catching the first tear as it slipped down. He didn’t miss a thing. His gaze traced every flicker of emotion on your face. He opened his mouth, ready to ask what was wrong again, but you spoke first,

“You finally stayed.”

Your words made him froze. Guilt settled heavy in his chest, as he pulled you impossibly closer. His forehead pressed against yours, lips hovered so close to yours.

“I won’t ever leave. Every day, you’ll wake up, and I’ll be here. Right by your side.”

Beomgyu was different—so different it made your heart ache in the best way.

He was there, every single step, helping you out of bed like it was second nature. You had to practically fight for the simple dignity of showering alone, and even then, he lingered just outside the door, making sure you were okay.

And when it was his turn to ask for something, “Please cook for me again,” he’d said, his voice begging.

So you did. You made the soup—the very first one you’d ever cooked for him back in college. As the soup simmered, Beomgyu started to talk. He told you about Ji-won, about his unexpected interaction with Sunghoon, and how he’d rejected Ji-won long before he even knew the full truth. He spoke with an honesty that left no room for doubt, his words meant only for you.

When your mind wandered, when your eyes drifted away, Beomgyu noticed. He always noticed. His fingers would gently close around yours, pulling you back to him. He’d press soft kisses to your palms, his touch saying more than words ever could: Stay with me. I’m here.

“This is too good,” Beomgyu groaned after his first sip of the soup, you know see his face lighting up like what Sunghoon told you about. His hands cradled the bowl, and you couldn’t help but notice the glint of his ring—the one he refused to take off. It made you looked down at your own hand, there it was—your ring, the one Beomgyu fought for last night.

You took a small sip, letting the warmth spread through you. But it did little to settle the weight in your stomach. There was still something left unsaid, something you hadn’t found the courage to tell him yet. “Beomgyu,”

He squeezes your hand—the one he hasn’t let go of, even while eating. His arm stretches across the table to hold yours, his thumb brushing against your skin. “Hmm?” he hums.

“Back in the hospital…” you begin, your voice trembling with of what you’re about to say. You feel his gaze shift to you, “I had a… I had a miscarriage.” You swallow hard, forcing yourself to continue. “I lost our child.”

The silence that follows is unbearable. You can’t bring yourself to look at him, your eyes fixed on the half-eaten soup in front of you. The warmth in his hand disappears, and your heart sinks. When you hear the sound of his chair scraping against the floor, dread floods your chest. He’s walking away.

But then he’s there—beside you. He pulls out the chair next to yours and sits down. When he leans forward to pull you into his arms, it’s like the air returns to your lungs. He guides your face to rest against his shoulder. His arms come around you, holding you close.

“I know,” he whispers, “Soobin told me.”

Your breath catches, and your chest feels both heavy and light at the same time. “I went to him every day, you know,” he continues, his hand running soothing circles on your back. “It’s hard not to. I couldn’t stay away. He… he got me.”

You exhale shakily, your body relaxing into his. The faint memory of flowers on your baby's grave—ones you couldn’t remember bringing yourself—floats to the surface. It all makes sense now. Beomgyu had been there, mourning as you did.

Your hand never leaves Beomgyu’s as he drives.

The road feels both too short and too long, leading you to the place you’ve come to know too well. It’s green here—peaceful and impossibly beautiful in a way that feels both comforting and heartbreaking. He parks the car, steps out, and circles around to open your door. His hand finds yours again as you step out, and together, you walk the path you’ve walked before.

In your other hand, you hold the small bouquet—a gift for the little one who rests here now, your little angel. You kneel gently, placing the flowers at the grave. Beomgyu crouches beside you, his gaze fixed on the name etched into the stone.

Beomgyu’s voice breaks the silence, trembling as he whispers, “Daddy’s here with Mommy now, just like I promised you.” His words catch in his throat, and he pauses, his head bowing slightly as he tries to gather himself. “I told you I could do it,” he continues, his voice shaking, raw with emotion. “Daddy’s so sorry for everything. I promise I’ll take care of your Mommy. I’ll take care of her, I swear. You just play up there, okay? Don’t worry about us. Mommy and Daddy love you more than anything.”

Your heart aches at his words, and you press closer to his side. His arm finds its way around your shoulders, holding you tight. You cling to him just as fiercely, your bodies leaning into one another, trying not to fall apart in front of the greatest what-if of your lives.

I can’t wait to see you, wife. Almost there. I love you.

The corners of your lips tugged into a smile as you read your husband’s text. It had been a week since you decided to reconcile. And in those seven days, he had kept every promise, showing you with quiet consistency that he meant every word.

Reaching for your perfume, you lightly spritzed it onto your pulse points. You glanced at yourself in the mirror, smoothing the fabric of your dress, a small flutter of nerves in your chest.

The past still lingered—it wasn’t something that could just disappear. There were nights you woke up gasping, caught in the grip of nightmares. But the smoke always seemed to lift the moment you heard his voice, the way he whispered comfort like he could chase away the darkness with nothing but his presence. It was a start.

You spent the weekend at your parents’ house. When you told them you were giving your marriage another chance, their eyes had softened, and they gave you their support. And now, here you were, waiting for him—your husband—who was on his way to take you on your first date.

Married for almost three years, and are going out for your first date. The date he’d practically begged for, pouting for hours until you finally agreed, because he said he wanted it.

A beginning.

You make your way down the stairs. When you reach the bottom, your eyes land on Yeonjun, lounging on the couch, his fingers absentmindedly scrolling through his phone. He doesn’t notice you at first, but the moment he does, he sets it down without hesitation.

Walking over to him, you don’t give him a chance to say anything. Your hands gently cup his face, and before he can react, you press a quick kiss to his forehead. “Yeonjun,” you say softly, standing in front of him now, your gaze grateful. “Thank you. For everything.”

Your words seem to light him up. A smile spreads across his face, and he attempts one of his signature winks—a clumsy one at that. It’s so bad it makes you both break into laughter, the sound echoing warmly in the room. “Anything for you, Y/N,” he replies, he stands up and asks for another hug from you.

"Take care, always, okay?" You nod to his shoulders. Grateful to this man who did things for you, without asking anything back.

After saying your goodbyes to Yeonjun, you step outside, your eyes sweeping across the open space in front of the large doors.

Beomgyu leans casually against his sleek black velvet car, the deep color almost absorbing the light, while Soobin stands beside him, mid-conversation. There’s a quiet ease between them, the kind that makes you pause. When they notice you approaching, Soobin pats Beomgyu’s back, their exchange winding down as they mutter their farewells.

They look like... brothers.

The sight tugs at your heart. When you told Soobin about Beomgyu’s promises, you weren’t sure how he’d react, but it felt like he already knew. “He’s the only one who doesn’t realise how much he loves you,” Soobin had said, his voice certain. “I saw it—starting back at the hospital. It was all over his face.”

Now, as you reach him, you throw your arms around his neck, pulling him into a hug that speaks more than words ever could. “I love you, Soobin.” you say, the words soft but full of conviction.

Soobin holds you for a beat longer than usual, his hand resting lightly on your back. He feels nothing but peace in his chest.

Maybe now, he can start chasing his own happiness too.

Beomgyu watches silently as you pull away from Soobin, his gaze never leaving you. When your eyes meet his and a soft smile spreads across your lips, his chest tightens. You’re beautiful. So achingly beautiful that it feels like his heart might splinter under your stare.

When you reach him, he leans down without a word, brushing a quick kiss against your lips. He knows he needs this. He knows he needs you.

Because without you, there’s no him.

The day felt like stepping back in time, a snapshot of a younger, simpler you.

It started with the movies, where Beomgyu would lean in for quick, stolen kisses during the darker scenes, his grin impossible to resist. Then came the arcade—a chaotic mix of flashing lights and laughter. He was relentless in his mission to win you a comically oversized teddy bear, to the point of nearly bribing the poor guy running the booth. When he finally succeeded, he held it up like a trophy, his smile as wide as the bear itself. For a moment, it felt like you were back in college, like this could’ve been one of your carefree dates from those days.

Now, you’re crammed into a photo booth together, squishing shoulder to shoulder as the timer counts down. Two grown, married adults pulling silly faces at the camera like teenagers. The faint hum of the machine is drowned out by your shared giggles, and you can feel the curious stares of actual teenagers nearby. They’re probably imagining your life is perfect, the kind of love they dream about. If only they knew how far from perfect it’s been—how much work it’s taken to get here.

When the photo strip finally slides out, Beomgyu grabs it first, holding it up with a burst of laughter. “Look at you, sweetheart,” he says, pointing to one particularly goofy expression you made. His laughter is infectious, and soon you’re both doubled over, bumping to each other as you cackle uncontrollably.

Beomgyu—who always seems so composed, so maddeningly serious—looks nothing like that version of himself when he laughs. He’s wide-eyed and carefree, his joy as pure as a child’s, and it’s beautiful. It heals you. Every day with him feels like this—a discovery, a new layer to peel back, something new to fall in love with.

“God, I love you,” he says suddenly, making your heart flutter.

“I love you too,” you whisper, the smile on your face softening as he leans in to press a kiss to your cheek. The squeals from the teenagers outside are instant, and you roll your eyes, laughing as you glance at them—your accidental audience, swooning over the two of you like you’re straight out of a rom-com, like they’ve just witnessed something magical.

And maybe they have.

It doesn’t matter if it’s slow, or if it took longer than it should have. Life isn’t perfect, and neither are people. Everyone deserves a second chance—just like the one you gave your marriage. Just like the one it deserved. It may have started off messy in ways you couldn’t imagine fixing, but that didn’t mean it had to end the same way.

The road ahead still feels long, but you’re learning to let go. Of the doubt that whispered you’d never make it. Of the pain. Of the mistakes and the past that clings to you. Even the scars—the ones you thought would never fade. Letting them go is the only way forward, the only way to move on. Only then can you begin again.

You glance at Beomgyu, his fingers laced with yours, his grip gentle as he leads you out of this place. His head tilts slightly as he looks back at you, and there it is—that boyish, cheeky smile that has the power to make your heart skip. All you have to do is surrender.

This surrender—is not in defeat, but in trust. Trust in him. Trust with his promises. Trust in the hope of something better. Trust in yourself.

You’ll be okay.

THE END.

taglist: I love you @beombunni @lovingbeomgyudayone @virtaideen @hyukascampfire @fancypeacepersona @bamgeutori @lilbrorufr @beomieeeeeeeeeeees @soobinbunnie5 @pagelets @yoseicour @baekberrie @blossommi @younbeanz @soohashits @brrytears @shycreationdreamland @notevenheretbh1

[odileeclipse]

In the Presence of Truth {"Sage of Truth" (SMC) x Reader} PT 10

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A/N Early updates are NEVER happening again/j because I just lost a GAJILLION aura uploading the WRONG CHAPTER. anyways my meeting got cancelled so I worked on this instead <3

“You’re absolutely brilliant, you’re good at what you do.” Shadow Milk Cookie raised a brow, but there was a certain satisfaction in his expression, subtle yet undeniable. “If I have managed to make you understand, then the credit lies with your own efforts,” he said smoothly. You shook your head, your grin unwavering. “No way. You’re amazing if you were able to get me to understand this.” You tapped your notebook for emphasis. “I mean, come on, you saw how bad I was at this before.” His golden eyes gleamed with something unreadable, but his tone remained even. “A willingness to learn will always yield results.” You let out a breathy laugh. “Maybe, but let’s be real if I was learning this on my own, it would’ve taken me three times as long. If not longer.” You leaned forward slightly, propping your elbows on the desk. “So yeah, you’re amazing, Sage of Truth. There’s no arguing that.” He tilted his head, and for a moment, you thought he might try. But instead, he merely regarded you with quiet amusement before finally speaking. “I see you are not above using flattery to smooth your path.” You gasped, clutching your chest dramatically. “Me? Flattering you? I would never.” Shadow Milk Cookie gave a slow blink. “Mm.” You laughed again, the sound spilling out before you could stop it. There was something so genuinely fulfilling about the moment. About the fact that, just this once, there were no corrections, no mistakes, only the confirmation that you had done something right. Still smiling, you glanced at his desk. “Do you have the notes for today’s lecture? I want to go over them while I have the chance.” His expression shifted, the faintest hint of approval lingering. “You wish to review so soon?” “Well, yeah. I mean, I’ve got you here, don’t I? No sense wasting the opportunity.” He regarded you for a moment longer before giving a small nod. “Very well.” With a practiced motion, he reached for a neatly stacked set of parchment and slid them toward you. As you took them, you couldn’t help but feel the warmth in your chest the quiet contentment of knowing that, at least for now, you had a place here.

Shadow Milk Cookie had barely set his quill down before you launched into your first question, your voice filled with determination. “Okay, so this part here” you tapped at a particularly dense paragraph in the notes, “I think I get what Professor Almond Custard was saying, but can you explain it in a different way? Because I feel like I’m missing something.” His golden eyes flickered toward the passage, and with a small hum, he leaned back slightly. “This concept hinges on the foundational principle we discussed last week. Recall the framework of magical equilibrium-” You furrowed your brows. “Right, but how does that connect to this specific theory?” And just like that, the questions kept coming. Each time he answered, you found yourself grasping onto something new, yet more uncertainties bubbled up in their place. You weren’t holding back today, determined to leave with no gaps in your understanding. Shadow Milk Cookie, ever patient, answered each one with unwavering precision. He never grew frustrated, never sighed in exasperation. If anything, there was a gleam in his eye that told you he welcomed this exchange his mind always at ease in the presence of questions, as if they were the lifejam of his existence. After what felt like an eternity, you finally sat back, exhaling deeply. “Okay. I think I got it now.” He regarded you with something almost amused. “A thorough interrogation.” You grinned. “You wouldn’t expect anything less, right?” “Certainly not.” With that settled, you reached into your bag and pulled out a neatly folded paper, sliding it across the desk toward him. “By the way… could you take a quick look at this?” Shadow Milk Cookie lifted the paper with a curious glance. “This is not yours.” You shook your head. “It’s Earl Grey Cookie’s. He, uh… kind of slipped it to me earlier and asked if you could look it over. I think he was too nervous to ask you himself.” His fingers brushed over the parchment as he skimmed the first few lines. “A written report.” “Yeah. He worked really hard on it, and I just… I want him to do well, you know?” You hesitated before adding, “You don’t have to, of course! I know you’re busy, and he didn’t want to impose or anything, but I figured…”

 “I will review it.” You blinked. “Wait, really?” Shadow Milk Cookie simply nodded, already flipping through the contents. “If he seeks knowledge, he will receive it.” Something warm settled in your chest. You hadn’t doubted that he’d help, but hearing him say it so simply so naturally made you smile. “You’re the best,” you said before you could stop yourself. He glanced at you briefly, expression unreadable, before returning his focus to the report. “…I am merely doing what is expected of me.” You couldn’t help but think that wasn’t entirely true.

A loud grumble broke the silence. You froze. Shadow Milk Cookie, who had been reviewing Earl Grey Cookie’s report, paused mid-turn of the page. His golden eyes flicked toward you, brow slightly raised. “…You have not eaten.” Your face burned. “I…what? No, I mean, maybe, but it’s fine! I just got busy, that’s all.” His gaze lingered, clearly unconvinced. “You should not make a habit of this.” “It’s not a habit!” you protested, though your stomach loudly disagreed. Shadow Milk Cookie exhaled through his nose something bordering on amusement before reaching into one of the many folds of his robes. With practiced ease, he withdrew a small, neatly wrapped package and set it down in front of you. You blinked at it. Then at him. “…You carry snacks?” He inclined his head slightly. “I account for long hours.” Carefully, you unwrapped the package, revealing a small honeyed pastry, still faintly warm. The scent alone made your stomach tighten with renewed hunger. You hesitated for a moment before glancing at him again. “Are you sure? You don’t have to” “I would not have offered if I were not sure.” Fair point. You took a small bite, the sweetness melting across your tongue. “…Thanks,” you murmured, chewing thoughtfully. Then, unable to suppress your curiosity, you asked, “Do you usually eat in your office, then? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in the dining halls often.” “I dine when it suits my schedule,” he replied simply. You squinted at him. “That doesn’t really answer my question.” A faint, knowing glint flickered in his eyes. “I do not often require the communal setting.” “So you eat alone.” “On occasion.” You huffed, taking another bite of the pastry. “You’re really not one for straight answers, are you?” His lips quirked ever so slightly. “Would you prefer a false one?” You groaned. “That’s not ugh, never mind.” He returned to reviewing the report, but the subtle amusement in his expression remained. Despite yourself, you found that the warmth of the pastry and the unexpected thoughtfulness of the gesture settled something else inside you as well.

Between bites of the pastry, you glanced up at Shadow Milk Cookie, watching as his sharp gaze flicked over Earl Grey Cookie’s report. The room was quiet save for the occasional sound of pages turning, and for a moment, you almost forgot the embarrassment of your stomach’s earlier betrayal. You swallowed the last bite and wiped your hands on a napkin. “So? How is it?” you asked, leaning forward slightly. “I know Earl Grey is brilliant! I mean, one of the smartest cookies I know but did he do as well as I think he did?” Shadow Milk Cookie hummed thoughtfully, his golden eyes scanning the final lines before he set the report down with a quiet tap of his fingers. “His argument is well-reasoned, and his methodology is sound. There is confidence in his approach an admirable trait in any scholar.” You grinned. “I knew it. He always acts like he’s second-guessing himself, but I swear, half the time he’s the one helping me figure things out.” “There is a difference between questioning one’s understanding and lacking it,” Shadow Milk Cookie mused. “Doubt, when harnessed correctly, sharpens the mind.” You nodded, twirling your pen between your fingers. “Yeah… I guess that’s true. Earl Grey always says he’s ‘double-checking,’ but I think he just doesn’t give himself enough credit.”

Shadow Milk Cookie gave a slight nod, sliding the report back toward you. “He has a strong grasp of the material. If he continues refining his work, he will go far.” You couldn’t wait to tell Earl Grey about the praise though knowing him, he’d probably wave it off with a dismissive comment. Still, it felt good to hear it from someone like Shadow Milk Cookie. With a satisfied sigh, you leaned back in your chair, stretching a little. “Well, at least one of us is naturally gifted,” you joked. “Some of us have to work twice as hard just to keep up.” Shadow Milk Cookie raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. “Effort is no lesser virtue than talent. You would do well to remember that.” You blinked at him, caught off guard by the sincerity in his tone. It wasn’t scolding, nor was it mere encouragement it was a truth he simply expected you to accept. “…Right,” you murmured, looking down at your notes. Perhaps you were starting to believe it too.

You slid the copy of Earl Grey Cookie’s report back toward him, tilting your head slightly. “Would you mind writing down a few notes for him? Just, you know, some pointers?” Shadow Milk Cookie’s gaze flicked from you to the document, then back again. “He is more than capable of refining his own work.” “I know that,” you said quickly, shifting in your seat. “But he’d appreciate the feedback. And don’t worry it’s a copy of the original, so you can write on it.” There was a brief pause before Shadow Milk Cookie took up his pen, tapping it lightly against the parchment. “Very well.” You watched as he began writing in the margins, his script elegant and precise. His notes were efficient, no stroke wasted, each remark direct yet constructive. Even in something as simple as this, his intellect was undeniable. You propped your chin on your hand. “I think he’ll actually frame this,” you joked. “A critique from the Sage of Truth? That’s got to be a collector’s item.” Shadow Milk Cookie let out a quiet hum amusement, perhaps? As he finished the last remark. “Then I trust he will make use of it rather than merely admire it.” You chuckled. “Oh, he will. He takes his work seriously, even when he thinks he’s messing up.” Shadow Milk Cookie set the pen down and slid the report back to you. “Then let us hope my insights prove useful.” You took the paper with a grateful smile. “They will. Thanks for this.” He simply nodded, as if such a favor required no thanks at all. You leaned back in your seat, stretching your arms slightly before letting them drop to your lap. “Well, I don’t have any more questions about today’s material,” you said, glancing at the clock. “But it’s not time for dinner yet, so now I’m at an impasse.” Shadow Milk Cookie regarded you with his usual composed expression, his hands folded neatly atop the desk. “An impasse?” You exhaled through your nose, drumming your fingers lightly against the edge of the desk. “Yeah. Too early for dinner, too late to start something new. So, what now?”

He tilted his head slightly. “You ask as if I am meant to provide an answer.” You gave a small, sheepish laugh. “I mean, you usually do.” For a brief moment, his golden eyes glimmered with something unreadable before he leaned back ever so slightly in his chair. “Then, logically, you must consider your available options. You could review past material, seek further clarification, or-” “Okay, okay,” you interrupted with a wave of your hand, grinning. “I meant more like… what do you do when you have time like this?” Shadow Milk Cookie studied you for a moment, as if measuring the weight of your question. “I read. I analyze previous findings. I prepare for upcoming discussions. Time is seldom unoccupied.” You gave him a half-lidded stare. “Of course you do.” A small chuckle left him, soft and brief. “Would you have expected anything else?” You sighed dramatically, slumping slightly in your seat. “No, I guess not.” You glanced at the clock again before propping your chin on your hand. “I don’t know… Maybe I’ll just sit here for a bit until it’s time for dinner.” Shadow Milk Cookie made no move to dismiss you. Instead, he regarded you with quiet amusement. “Then sit,” he said simply. And so you did, letting the comfortable silence settle between you.

You tapped your fingers idly against the desk, staring at the neat stacks of parchment and books arranged in perfect order. The quiet between you wasn’t uncomfortable, but it made your thoughts a little louder in your own head. After a moment, you glanced up at him. “You know,” you started, voice slower, more thoughtful, “I think you probably know a lot more about me than I know about you.” Shadow Milk Cookie raised a brow, but he didn’t interrupt. You shifted slightly in your seat, tapping your fingertips together. “I mean, you know how I think how I approach problems, where I struggle, what I need to work on… but I don’t really know much about you, outside of, well, this.” You gestured vaguely to his desk, to the books, to the very walls of his office that practically radiated his dedication to knowledge. He regarded you with that ever-composed expression, but there was a flicker of curiosity in his gaze. “And what is it you wish to know?” You hesitated, then leaned forward slightly. “What’s your favorite thing to do other than all of this?” You gestured to the papers in front of him. “Like, if you’re not researching or studying or being the Sage of Truth, what do you actually enjoy?” Shadow Milk Cookie looked mildly taken aback. It was subtle just the briefest pause, a slight tilt of his head as if considering the question more deeply than you’d expected. “…I am always learning,” he finally said, but his tone wasn’t dismissive. If anything, it was contemplative. “But if you are asking what I pursue outside of my academic obligations…” He trailed off for a moment before continuing, “I find fulfillment in music. Composition, particularly.”

Your eyes widened slightly. “Wait you compose music?” A small nod. “It is an exercise in structure and interpretation. Patterns and expression in tandem.” You blinked. “Huh. I didn’t expect that.” “And what did you expect?” he asked, amusement threading into his tone. You squinted. “I don’t know. I just figured you spent all your free time unraveling the mysteries of the universe or something.” Shadow Milk Cookie let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “Even the mind must find balance.” You grinned. “So, what kind of music do you compose?” He gave you a knowing look. “Perhaps another time.” You pouted slightly but relented. Still, the thought of him composing music lingered in your mind, shifting something in your perception of him something subtle, yet significant. You leaned forward slightly, resting your elbows on the desk, eyes still alight with curiosity. “Okay, if you won’t tell me about the music itself… can you at least tell me what instrument you play?” Shadow Milk Cookie exhaled softly through his nose something close to a quiet laugh, though far more composed. He studied you for a moment, as if weighing whether he should indulge your curiosity. Then, after a brief pause, he answered, “The harpsichord.” Your eyes widened slightly. “Wait really?” He nodded in confirmation. Somehow, you had expected something more… modern. Or perhaps something more obscure, something you’d never even heard of. But the harpsichord? That was something you could picture something regal and refined, yet intricate in its mechanics.

“That’s…” You trailed off, searching for the right word. “That’s actually really fitting.” Shadow Milk Cookie raised a brow. “Is it?” You nodded. “Yeah. It’s… deliberate. Everything about the way a harpsichord sounds is precise you don’t get the same kind of resonance as a piano, so every note matters. It’s like… the musical equivalent of how you think. Every argument, every conclusion you always get to it with exactness, no wasted movement.” There was a flicker of something in his expression subtle, unreadable, but present. He didn’t respond immediately, instead tapping a thoughtful finger against the desk. “…An interesting perspective,” he finally said, his voice quieter than before. You grinned, satisfied with your analysis. “So, do you perform for people?” His expression returned to something more neutral. “Rarely.” That wasn’t exactly a no, but you could tell you weren’t getting anything else out of him at least not today. Still, the image of him seated at a harpsichord, playing something intricate and masterful, settled in your mind. You found yourself wanting to hear it. The office settled into a comfortable silence, save for the faint scratch of your pen against paper as you reviewed your notes. Shadow Milk Cookie, meanwhile, remained focused on whatever he was examining perhaps his own research, or maybe reviewing another scholar’s work. You weren’t entirely sure, and you didn’t ask.

There was something oddly peaceful about this quiet. No pressure to speak, no lingering embarrassment from your earlier questions just the steady rhythm of work. You underlined a few key points from today’s lecture, then flipped to another page, going over older material to solidify what you’d learned. Every so often, you glanced up, watching the way Shadow Milk Cookie’s eyes moved over the parchment in front of him, how his fingers occasionally tapped against the desk in thought. Before long, the hour passed, and you realized it was time to meet your friends for dinner. You closed your notebook with a soft thud, gathering your things as you stood. Shadow Milk Cookie barely looked up, but you still offered him a polite smile. “I’ll be heading out now. Have a good evening, Sage of Truth.” His quill paused mid-stroke, and for a brief moment, he regarded you before giving a small nod. “You as well.” With that, you slipped out of his office, making your way toward the dining hall. The quiet still lingered in your mind, though you weren’t sure why. You made your way to the dining hall, the familiar hum of conversation and clinking dishes filling the air as you grabbed a hearty meal larger than usual, to make up for skipping lunch. The scent of warm bread, roasted vegetables, and something sweet lingered in the air, making your stomach growl in anticipation.

With your tray balanced carefully in hand, you spotted your usual table and headed toward it, a content look settling on your face. Chai Latte Cookie, Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie, and Earl Grey Cookie were already there, deep in conversation about the latest academic workload. “Finally!” Chai Latte Cookie teased as you sat down. “You took forever! What, were you having another study date with the Sage of Truth?” You rolled your eyes, ignoring her as you set down your tray. Instead, you reached into your bag and pulled out Earl Grey Cookie’s report, sliding it across the table toward him. “Here. He looked over it.” Earl Grey Cookie’s eyes widened slightly, his usual composed demeanor slipping for just a second. “Wait, seriously?” He carefully took the parchment, scanning over the notes that had been added in the margins. “Of course,” you said, picking up your utensils. “I told you I’d ask.” The moment he spotted the first few notes, his brows furrowed, and he leaned in closer, as if absorbing every single mark on the page. Then, after a pause, he let out a small breath. “His handwriting is… incredible.”

You couldn’t help but smirk. “Right? It’s almost unfair. He could write anything, and it’d still look like it belongs in some ancient, prestigious manuscript.” Earl Grey Cookie hummed in agreement, still fixated on the notes. “His feedback is precise but thorough. He even pointed out areas where I could expand my argument instead of just correcting me outright.” “Well, that’s kind of how he teaches,” you said before taking a bite of your food. “He won’t just give you the answer, but he’ll make sure you realize what you’re missing.” Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie chuckled. “You sound like you’re actually enjoying tutoring now.” You paused mid-bite, glancing away with a slight huff. “I never said that.” Chai Latte Cookie smirked knowingly but didn’t push further. Instead, the conversation naturally shifted, and the evening continued with the usual back-and-forth between your friends. Still, even as you ate, your mind drifted back to the precise, elegant strokes of Shadow Milk Cookie’s writing. A reflection of him, in a way structured, refined, and ever so careful with every detail. Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie’s voice cut through your thoughts, pulling you back to the present. “You won’t believe the kind of day I had,” he huffed, setting his utensils down with a little more force than necessary. “I almost had a full-blown argument with Professor Chamomile Truffle Cookie.” That caught everyone’s attention. Earl Grey Cookie raised a brow, Chai Latte Cookie leaned in with immediate interest, and you paused mid-bite. “Wait, what? What happened?” Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “So, we were going over spell refinement techniques in class today, and I made a counterpoint to something he said about the sustainability of layered enchantments. And instead of considering it, he just-he completely dismissed me!” Chai Latte Cookie whistled. “Oof. That bad?” “Oh, it gets worse,” Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie said, clearly still irritated. “I asked him to clarify why my point was invalid, and he just gave me some vague answer about ‘conventional wisdom’ and ‘historical precedent’ instead of actually addressing what I said.” Earl Grey Cookie sighed. “Classic.” You frowned. “But your argument had merit, right?”

“Exactly! I even cited a recent paper on the matter, but he just waved it off like it wasn’t worth discussing.” He crossed his arms, shaking his head. “I respect the guy, but I hate when professors refuse to acknowledge that newer research exists.” You nodded in understanding. “So… did you drop it, or did it actually turn into an argument?” Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie hesitated, then sighed, slumping slightly. “I almost pushed it further, but I stopped myself. Barely. He’s still my professor, and I don’t want to dig myself into a hole just for the sake of proving a point.” “Smart move,” Earl Grey Cookie remarked. “Though I’d argue it’s still worth bringing up again. Maybe outside of class, in a setting where he’s more likely to actually listen.” Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie groaned. “That’s the thing, I don’t know if he ever would. He’s set in his ways, and I doubt he sees me as anything more than just another student with too many opinions.” Chai Latte Cookie patted his arm reassuringly. “Well, we think you’re brilliant. And you’re right just because something has been accepted for a long time doesn’t mean it can’t be challenged.” You nodded. “Yeah. Besides, if you’re really onto something, the research itself will prove it over time. Even if he doesn’t listen now, someone else will.” Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie sighed again, but this time, it was less frustrated. “Yeah… maybe you’re right.” Chai Latte Cookie grinned. “Of course we are. Now, eat your food before you turn this into a whole lecture of your own.” That finally got a chuckle out of him, and just like that, the tension eased, the conversation shifting to lighter topics. You smiled to yourself, relieved to see your friend in better spirits. Even so, a thought lingered in your mind. You had been lucky, your tutor, despite his intimidating presence and overwhelming knowledge, had never dismissed you. He never waved off your questions or belittled your struggles. Even when your progress was slow, he always made space for your thoughts, your learning.

You wondered if Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie had ever wished for that kind of guidance, too. Chai Latte Cookie leaned forward with a mischievous glint in her eye, practically bouncing in her seat. “You will not believe what I saw today.” You blinked, mid-bite. “Is this about them?” “Oh, it absolutely is.” She waggled her brows, eyes gleaming with excitement. Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie groaned. “Stars above, not this again.” Earl Grey Cookie, however, merely sipped his tea. “Go on.” Chai Latte Cookie grinned. “So, I was passing by the faculty greenhouse, right? Minding my own business, being a completely innocent scholar with no intention of overhearing anything-” Earl Grey Cookie raised a brow. “That sounds unlikely.” “Hush. Anyway, I hear voices, so obviously, I investigate.” She paused for effect, then dramatically placed a hand over her heart. “And there they were Professor Star Anise Cookie and Professor Frosted Clementine Cookie, together.” You straightened. “Oh? What happened?” Chai Latte Cookie leaned in conspiratorially. “They were arguing but not in an angry way, more like a ‘we have unresolved feelings but neither of us wants to admit it’ way.” Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie let out a long sigh. “Why do you know what that sounds like?” She ignored him. “I couldn’t catch everything, but I swear I heard something about ‘this isn’t the right time’ and ‘what do you expect me to say?’” She gasped, clutching your arm. “It was so tense! And then! Oh, you’re going to love this he reached for her hand again!” “No way,” you whispered, eyes widening. “Oh, yes way.” Chai Latte Cookie smirked. “But she pulled back. Not in a bad way, though more like she was flustered, but trying to act like she wasn’t.” She placed a hand on her chest, sighing dramatically. “It was so tragic.”

Earl Grey Cookie tilted his head, looking thoughtful. “Professor Clementine is rather reserved. If something is truly going on between them, she may not want it to be public.” “Exactly!” Chai Latte Cookie pointed at him. “Which makes this even more intriguing.” Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie shook his head. “I don’t understand how you all have the energy for this.” “Because we thrive on it,” you said with a grin. Chai Latte Cookie snapped her fingers. “Exactly! Life is exhausting, studies are grueling, but a little mystery and romance? It fuels us.” Earl Grey Cookie smirked. “So, the real question is what happens next?” “Oh, I will find out,” Chai Latte Cookie declared with determination. You laughed, shaking your head. “Of course you will.” As much as you worried about your studies, about everything that lay ahead, moments like this sharing stories, teasing each other, losing yourselves in silly intrigue made it all a little easier. You narrowed your eyes at Chai Latte Cookie, your spoon hovering over your plate. “Wait a minute… You didn’t just happen to pass by the faculty greenhouse, did you?” Chai Latte Cookie gasped, a hand flying to her chest in mock offense. “How dare you imply such a thing?” Earl Grey Cookie smirked, setting his teacup down. “So, you did go looking for them.” Chai Latte Cookie huffed, crossing her arms. “Look, after what someone said yesterday” she gestured dramatically at you “I had to confirm. You can’t just drop a revelation like that and expect me to not investigate.”

You groaned, rubbing your temples. “Chai, I told you that in confidence! You were supposed to just enjoy the information, not go snooping for more!” Chai Latte Cookie grinned unapologetically. “Oh, please. You knew exactly what would happen the moment you told me. Besides, aren’t you glad I did? Now we know there’s something going on!” Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie pinched the bridge of his nose. “You know what? I don’t even have the energy to argue with you anymore.” Chai Latte Cookie wiggled her eyebrows at you. “Admit it you love that I found out more.” You tried to look exasperated, but a small part of you was curious. “…Okay, maybe a little.” “I knew it!” She beamed, victorious. Earl Grey Cookie chuckled. “You are relentless.” Chai Latte Cookie flipped her hair. “Thank you. I try.” You sighed, shaking your head but smiling all the same. “You’re impossible.” Chai Latte Cookie nudged you. “And yet, you’d be lost without me.” Despite yourself, you laughed. She wasn’t wrong. You leaned forward eagerly, unable to hold back your excitement any longer. "Okay, but listen I got all my homework right today. All of it." Chai Latte Cookie gasped, her hands flying to her cheeks. "No way! Not a single mistake?"

You shook your head, beaming. "Not one! He even praised me for it. Said my reasoning was solid and everything!" Earl Grey Cookie raised an eyebrow, impressed. "That’s quite the accomplishment, considering your usual complaints about the assignments." Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie smirked, stirring his tea. "So, what you're saying is… our dear scholar is finally learning?" You huffed, but it was hard to act offended when you were still so overjoyed. "Yes, finally! You guys, I can't even explain it, it just felt so good hearing that I did well. No corrections, no misunderstandings just right." Chai Latte Cookie practically melted, clutching her heart. "Ugh, I love this for you! All that work is finally paying off!" Earl Grey Cookie gave you a small nod of approval. "You should be proud. It’s not easy getting through material at that level without a single error." "I am proud," you admitted, grinning. "I mean, I know I still have a long way to go, but for once, I didn’t feel completely lost." Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie chuckled. "That’s how you know it’s real progress." Chai Latte Cookie leaned in conspiratorially. "So, did he look proud of you?" You blinked, caught off guard. "I mean, he said I did well. And he did smile a little…" She gasped dramatically. "Ohhh, a smile? From him?" Earl Grey Cookie sighed, shaking his head. "Here we go." You groaned, covering your face. "Chai, please" But she was already giggling. "What? I’m just saying, it’s cute!" You shook your head, laughing despite yourself. "I swear, you will find romance in anything." "Of course! It makes life more interesting." Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie rolled his eyes but smiled. "Alright, alright. Let’s not let their achievement get buried under your dramatics." "Thank you," you said pointedly. Chai Latte Cookie stuck her tongue out at him, then turned back to you, squeezing your hand. "Seriously, though. I’m really proud of you. We all are." The warmth in your chest grew, and you gave them all a grateful smile. "Thanks, guys. That means a lot."

It really did. Dinner ended on a high note, laughter lingering in the air even as you parted ways with your friends. The warmth of their encouragement, their easy camaraderie, and the sheer joy of the evening stayed with you as you made your way back to your dorm. The cool night air did little to temper the giddy excitement bubbling in your chest. You did it. For the first time in what felt like forever, you had a moment where everything clicked where you weren’t just barely scraping by but actually succeeding. And tomorrow? Tomorrow was Friday. The last day of classes for the week. Maybe you’d sleep in after that. Maybe you’d allow yourself to just exist for a little while without worrying about coursework or expectations. The thought made you sigh contentedly as you unlocked your door, stepping inside and shutting out the world for the night. For once, things felt good. And you’d let yourself enjoy it. The morning light streamed through your window as you groggily blinked awake, stretching with a lazy yawn. You glanced at the clock far earlier than you usually managed to wake up. Maybe it was the excitement from last night still lingering in your bones. With a sigh, you swung your legs out of bed and prepared for the day, grabbing your things before heading out. That was when you checked your schedule… and stopped dead in your tracks. Professor Almond Cookie had canceled class.

For a moment, you just stood there, blinking at the notification as if rereading it would somehow make it untrue. A free morning? No impending doom of assignments or lectures? Your first instinct was to mope after all, what were you supposed to do now? But then another thought hit you, one much more pressing. Breakfast. Your stomach grumbled as if in agreement, and without a second thought, you took off toward the dining hall. You weren’t about to waste a rare opportunity for a peaceful morning meal. In your pursuit of food, you turned a corner a little too sharply, nearly colliding with someone. You skidded to a stop just in time, breath catching in surprise as you found yourself face-to-face with none other than “Shadow Milk Cookie?” The Sage of Truth blinked at you, clearly caught off guard. But as quickly as the surprise came, it melted into his usual composed demeanor, golden eyes steady as they regarded you. "Such haste this early in the morning?" he mused, crossing his arms with a slight shake of his head. "I would hope you are not fleeing from trouble." You huffed, straightening up. "I am not fleeing from anything," you said, before flashing him a grin. "I’m just excited for breakfast! No class today, so I figured I’d get an early start." Shadow Milk Cookie gave a hum of understanding, though there was still a hint of amusement in his gaze. "A fortunate turn of events, then." "Right?" You rocked on your heels before glancing at him curiously. "Wait, are you headed to breakfast too?" "It would seem so," he admitted, falling into step beside you as you both continued toward the dining hall. You hesitated for a moment, then looked up at him with a small smile. "Would you want to sit with me and my friends? If you're not too busy, I mean."

There was a brief pause as he considered the offer. Then, in a tone just as measured as ever, he replied, "If you would have me, then I suppose I shall accept." You grinned, barely able to contain your excitement. You couldn’t wait to see the look on Chai Latte Cookie’s face when she realized who was joining you all for breakfast. You grabbed a tray and followed Shadow Milk Cookie into the dining hall, scanning the variety of food laid out before you. As you both moved down the line, you found yourself glancing at his choices his plate was neatly arranged with an assortment of nutritious foods grains, fruits, and a balanced portion of protein. It wasn’t anything particularly extravagant, but there was something refined about the way he selected his meal, as if even his breakfast was chosen with careful consideration. You weren’t sure why, but it made you hesitate for a moment when it was your turn. Normally, you might have gone for something simple, maybe something indulgent since you had the time to enjoy it today. But instead, you found yourself reaching for waffles then topping them with an artful arrangement of fruit and a generous dollop of yogurt. Unconsciously, you even made sure to pick a balanced variety, adding a side of nuts for protein, almost as if…You blinked, realizing what you were doing only after your tray was already full. Shadow Milk Cookie, of course, remained oblivious to your internal realization, calmly waiting for you before heading toward the seating area.

You followed, trying to push away the sudden awareness creeping in. It wasn’t like you had done it because of him… right? It was just… breakfast. A normal, completely regular breakfast. At least, that’s what you told yourself as you took your seat beside him. Chai Latte Cookie, Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie, and Earl Grey Cookie hesitantly approached the table, their gazes flickering toward Shadow Milk Cookie before settling on you. You wasted no time addressing them the moment they sat down. "Okay, why did nobody tell me class was canceled?" you demanded, placing your fork down with a huff. "I walked all the way to the lecture hall only to find an empty room! I could’ve just come straight here for breakfast!" Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie raised an eyebrow. "You didn’t check your messages?" You blinked. "There was a message?" Earl Grey Cookie let out a quiet sigh and took a sip of his tea. "Professor Almond sent out an announcement last night. I assume you were too busy with your notes to notice?" Your face heated slightly. Okay, maybe you had been too caught up reviewing your material, but still! "Would’ve been nice if one of you sent me a reminder," you muttered, spearing a piece of fruit with unnecessary force. Chai Latte Cookie grinned, leaning on the table with her chin in her hands. "Oh, but then you wouldn’t have had this lovely little breakfast moment, would you?" Her eyes gleamed with mischief as they flickered between you and Shadow Milk Cookie. You gave her a look. Not now. Shadow Milk Cookie, to his credit, remained composed as ever, merely observing the exchange with mild amusement as he continued eating. Hazelnut Biscotti sighed, shaking his head. "You make it sound like we plotted against them."Chai Latte giggled. "I'm just saying, things worked out pretty well, didn't they?" You rolled your eyes, but despite everything, you couldn't help but smile. Even with the morning mishap, the warmth of familiar company and an unexpectedly pleasant breakfast companion made up for it. Earl Grey Cookie set his teacup down with measured precision, regarding Shadow Milk Cookie with a curious yet respectful gaze. “To what do we owe the pleasure of the Sage of Truth joining us this morning?”

Shadow Milk Cookie, composed as ever, stirred his tea before replying, “A simple convergence of circumstances. Your friend and I happened upon each other on our way to breakfast.” His gaze flickered to you, just barely amused. “With great enthusiasm, I might add.” You bristled slightly. “I was just… walking.” “Hmm.” Shadow Milk Cookie made a soft, knowing sound, but said nothing further. Chai Latte Cookie leaned forward, clearly intrigued. “I didn’t even know you ate breakfast in the dining hall. You must be so busy that we never see you.” Shadow Milk Cookie gave a small, thoughtful nod. “My schedule is… fluid. But when the opportunity arises, I see no reason to forgo a well-balanced meal.” Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie hummed, inspecting the spread on his tray before glancing at yours. “So, is that why they suddenly decided to eat like an actual scholar today?” You blinked, looking down at your plate fresh fruit, yogurt, whole grains all things you had absentmindedly grabbed while walking alongside Shadow Milk. Only now did you realize how closely it resembled his own meal. Chai Latte Cookie grinned. “Ohhh. Interesting.” You hurriedly shoveled a bite of food into your mouth. “I just wanted something healthy!” Earl Grey Cookie smirked. “No need to justify it. Imitation is a form of admiration, after all.” You groaned. “Can we not start this early?” Shadow Milk Cookie, seemingly unbothered by the teasing, merely sipped his tea. “Curiosity is natural. And if it results in a more mindful approach to one’s well-being, I see no reason to object.”

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie snorted. “Translation You got caught copying him, and he’s letting you off the hook.” Chai Latte Cookie laughed. “Hey, at least now we know the Sage of Truth is a good influence.” She then turned her attention back to him. “Speaking of which you’re always buried in books, but what do you actually do for fun?” Shadow Milk Cookie regarded her for a moment before answering in his usual, measured tone. “Truth-seeking is inherently enjoyable.” Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie groaned. “That’s not an answer.” Earl Grey Cookie chuckled. “It’s the answer we should have expected.” You tried to hide your smile behind your teacup, feeling lighter than you had in a while. Breakfast with your friends was always a good way to start the day but having Shadow Milk Cookie here, for once, made it feel… different. Unexpected, but not unwelcome. There was an odd sort of warmth in knowing something about him that no one else at the table did. As the conversation carried on Chai Latte Cookie enthusiastically leading the charge into another round of campus gossip you let yourself sink into your thoughts. The harpsichord. The image of Shadow Milk Cookie, so composed and measured, playing something intricate and beautiful, lingered in your mind. It was almost impossible to picture, yet at the same time, it made perfect sense.

A secret, just for you.Chai Latte Cookie called your name, but the sound barely registered, lost in the hum of conversation around you. Your thoughts had wandered, lingering on the quiet revelation from earlier that Shadow Milk Cookie played the harpsichord. You were still caught up in the quiet satisfaction of knowing something about Shadow Milk Cookie that no one else did…that he played the harpsichord, that there was a piece of him separate from the scholar, the beacon of truth, something personal. It felt almost delicate, like if you dwelled on it too long, it would slip through your fingers. It felt nice, knowing something so small yet personal about him, like a secret meant just for you. He was always a figure of knowledge and composure, admired from afar, but this? This made him feel… real.

A light tap against your wrist jolted you back to the present. "You seem rather lost in thought," Shadow Milk Cookie remarked, his tone even as ever. He had barely moved, his golden eyes steady on you, but there was a quiet insistence to his words. You blinked, realizing the table had gone quiet, all eyes now on you. "Finally," Chai Latte huffed. "I called you like three times!" Earl Grey Cookie raised a curious brow, sipping his tea. "You looked practically entranced." You opened your mouth, scrambling for an excuse, but before you could speak, Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie leaned forward slightly, eyeing you with mock concern. "Did you eat anything questionable in the past twenty-four hours?" he asked, half-joking but still watching you like you might suddenly pass out. "Something expired? A cursed snack, maybe?" You scoffed, rolling your eyes. "No, I’m fine. Just thinking." "About?" Chai Latte pressed, eyes gleaming. "Nothing important," you muttered, reaching for your drink. Hazelnut Biscotti still looked suspicious. "If you suddenly start floating or speaking in tongues, I’m calling an exorcist." You snorted, shaking your head as the conversation moved on. Still, you could feel Shadow Milk Cookie's gaze lingering just a little longer before he, too, returned his focus elsewhere. You suddenly perked up, energy returning to your voice as a thought struck you. "Oh! Speaking of weird things, I actually heard-" You stopped mid-sentence, your mouth hanging slightly open as you quickly reevaluated your words.

Right. Shadow Milk Cookie was here. Your excitement deflated in an instant, and you cleared your throat, waving a hand dismissively. "Ah, never mind. It’s not important." Chai Latte Cookie immediately narrowed her eyes. "Oh, absolutely not. You don’t just get all excited and then drop it like that. Spill." "It’s nothing," you insisted, shoving a spoonful of yogurt-covered waffle into your mouth for good measure. Earl Grey Cookie smirked. "Is it nothing? Or is it something you don’t want to say in present company?" Your eyes darted toward Shadow Milk Cookie, who, to his credit, looked completely unbothered, idly stirring his tea as he listened. "You are under no obligation to filter your words on my account," he said, voice as composed as ever. "However, if it is something you hesitate to share, I will not pry." Which, somehow, only made it worse. "No, no, it’s not that!" you quickly denied, feeling your face heat up. "It’s just… a dumb rumor about a professor I had last semester. Probably baseless, so no point in spreading it." Chai Latte Cookie groaned dramatically. "Ugh, fine. But if I hear it from someone else first, I’m going to be personally offended." Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie gave you a side-eye. "So it is gossip." You let out an exaggerated sigh. "I am not engaging in slander first thing in the morning, thank you very much." "That’s personal growth," Earl Grey Cookie quipped. Chai Latte rolled her eyes. "It’s boring, that’s what it is." Despite yourself, you laughed, the conversation moving forward with ease. Still, as you stole a quick glance at Shadow Milk Cookie, you couldn’t help but wonder did he really not care for gossip? Or was he just exceptionally good at keeping his thoughts to himself?

You huffed, leaning forward on the table. “Alright, since you’re here, you have to contribute something.” Shadow Milk Cookie blinked, clearly amused by your demand. “Oh?” “You’ve been sitting there, listening to our gossip, but you haven’t shared a single thing,” you pointed out, tapping your spoon against the table for emphasis. “That’s unfair.” Chai Latte Cookie gasped dramatically, placing a hand over her chest. “They’re right! The Sage of Truth is holding back the truth? How scandalous!” Earl Grey Cookie smirked, swirling his tea lazily. “A betrayal of principle, truly.” Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie shook his head with a sigh. “You all sound ridiculous.” Shadow Milk Cookie chuckled, his golden eyes glinting with amusement as he rested his chin on his hand. “And what, exactly, do you expect me to share?” You grinned. “I dunno. Something. What’s the most interesting thing you’ve overheard lately?” He hummed, appearing thoughtful. Then, in a calm, deliberate tone, he said, “I did hear an amusing rumor recently… Apparently, a certain group of scholars has been sneaking into the Academy gardens at odd hours to perform what they claim are ‘rituals’ to enhance their studies.” Chai Latte Cookie immediately perked up. “What?!” Earl Grey Cookie quirked a brow. “Rituals?” Shadow Milk Cookie nodded. “Yes. They believe that by studying under the moonlight, they can absorb celestial wisdom and heighten their comprehension.” Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie snorted. “That’s ridiculous.” You, however, were intrigued. “Wait… who even started that rumor?” Shadow Milk Cookie tilted his head slightly, his smile unreadable. “One could say it started with them. Whether or not it holds any truth… well, that is another matter.” Chai Latte Cookie practically vibrated in her seat. “Okay, but who are they?” Shadow Milk Cookie simply sipped his tea. “Now, now. Wouldn’t it be more fun to find out for yourselves?” Earl Grey Cookie sighed. “Of course. We should’ve known he wouldn’t just hand us the answer.” You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head. “Fine, fine. But next time, you owe us actual gossip.” Shadow Milk Cookie smiled knowingly. “We shall see.”

Chai Latte Cookie huffed, leaning back in her seat. “Honestly, I don’t know what I expected. Of course he wouldn’t just spill everything.” Earl Grey Cookie took a measured sip of his tea. “Still, that’s an interesting rumor. I wonder if it’s just a group of eccentric students or if there’s more to it.” Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie, however, looked unimpressed. “There’s nothing to it. Some students just get desperate before exams and do whatever they can to convince themselves they’ll do better.” You snickered. “So, you don’t think the moon is whispering secrets to them?” He shot you a dry look. “Absolutely not.” Chai Latte Cookie leaned forward, eyes glimmering mischievously. “Now, imagine if the Sage of Truth himself did something like that. The entire Academy would go into shock.” You turned to Shadow Milk Cookie, grinning. “Do you have any secret study rituals?” His expression remained composed, but there was a flicker of amusement in his golden eyes. “If I did, I would hardly reveal them now, would I?” Chai Latte Cookie gasped. “So you admit it?” “I admitted nothing.” You shook your head, laughing. “Alright, alright. I won’t press further.” You stretched your arms over your head, letting out a content sigh. “Well, since I have nothing to do now, I might as well tag along with you.” The words left your mouth before you fully processed them, and the moment they did, the atmosphere around the table subtly shifted. You blinked, suddenly hyper-aware of their stares. Had… had you just spoken to Shadow Milk Cookie like that? So casually? You set your fork down, glancing at Shadow Milk Cookie with barely restrained curiosity. Maybe it was the energy from breakfast, or maybe it was just the fact that you were feeling bold after already speaking so casually to him once. Either way, the question left your mouth before you could think twice. “So, what are you doing after this, Shadow Milk Cookie?” A follow up question to test the waters but, the moment his name left your lips, you realized how easily it had slipped out. There was no heavy title, no layers of formality just his name, spoken like you might address any other scholar. And your friends noticed. Earl Grey Cookie’s spoon clinked against his cup, Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie’s gaze flickered toward you, and Chai Latte Cookie, ever so perceptive, shot you a look that practically screamed, Oh? You ignored all of them. “Do you have to teach a class or anything?” you added, trying to make the question sound completely normal, as if you hadn’t just stunned the entire table. Shadow Milk Cookie, to his credit, did not look fazed. If anything, his golden eyes flickered with amusement, as though he were fully aware of the effect your words had on the group but chose not to comment on it.

“I do not have a lecture to give today,” he answered smoothly, setting his teacup down. “My time, for the most part, is dedicated to my research.” That piqued your interest. “What kind of research?” “Various inquiries, as always. But I am currently focused on an ongoing analysis of arcane inscriptions found in the older halls of the Academy.” Your brows raised. That did sound interesting. “Oh, so you’re just going to be reading all day?” Shadow Milk Cookie’s lips curled slightly. “Would that be disappointing?” “No, I just…” You hesitated before leaning forward slightly. “Can I come see?” For the second time that morning, your words seemed to surprise your friends. This time, Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie actually stopped eating to look at you properly, and Chai Latte Cookie made a quiet noise of intrigue. Earl Grey Cookie simply observed, as though waiting to see how Shadow Milk Cookie would respond. And respond he did. “If you are truly that interested,” he said, eyes gleaming, “then you are welcome to accompany me.” You blinked. “Wait… really?” “Did you expect me to refuse?” “Well… maybe.” He let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “Curiosity should not be stifled. If you wish to see what I am working on, I see no reason to deny you.” Chai Latte Cookie made a small movement, crossing her arms with an amused smirk. “Huh.” You did not like that ‘huh.’ But instead of engaging, you focused on Shadow Milk Cookie, feeling a spark of excitement. “Alright then. I’ll come with you.” And just like that, you had agreed to spend the rest of the morning with the Sage of Truth himself.

Your friends bid you farewell, each with their own expressions of intrigue. Chai Latte Cookie gave you a knowing smile, Earl Grey Cookie simply nodded in acknowledgment, and Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie well, he had other plans. Just as you turned to leave, he grabbed your wrist and pulled you aside, lowering his voice so only you could hear. “If you see anything interesting, bring me back a souvenir.” You blinked. “A… souvenir?” Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie shrugged. “I mean, he’s letting you tag along to his research. That counts for something, right? Who knows what you’ll find? Maybe an old scroll, a mysterious trinket” You sighed, shaking your head. “I don’t think it works like that.” “Still,” he said, crossing his arms, “if there is something, I’d appreciate it.” You gave him a skeptical look, but there was no real harm in humoring him. “Fine, if there’s something. No promises.” He smirked, satisfied, before nudging you toward the waiting Shadow Milk Cookie. “Go on, then. Don’t keep him waiting.” With one last glance at your friends, you turned back to the Sage of Truth, who had been waiting patiently, his expression unreadable but amused nonetheless. “Shall we?” he asked, motioning for you to follow. And with that, you walked beside him, ready to see just what kind of research he had in store. As you walked alongside Shadow Milk Cookie, the air felt different lighter, almost surreal. Maybe it was the quiet between you both, or maybe it was just the lingering excitement from being invited into a space most scholars could only dream of.

A/N Nothing happened earlier I never ever reuploaded ch 9 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫 But anyways tomorrow is FRIDAYYY!!!! and everything I was supposed to go this weekend got cancelled bc "Lack of funding" LIKE WHAT I REGISTERED FOR THIS CONFERENCE 2 WEEKS IN ADVANCE WDYMMMM

anyways...

Remember to follow and reblog for more bangers 😎😎😎🔥🔥🔥🔥

<<<Previous Next>>>

[wvyik]

morning snuggles. d.w. ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

dean winchester x fem! reader

summary; some mornings start far too early, but with a sleepy little girl snuggled between you and dean, you wouldn’t have it any other way.

warnings; tooth-rotting fluff, dad! dean being the softest, mentions of a bad dream (but nothing detailed), early-morning cuddles, milf reader lmaoo, and lots of love, dean & reader being disgustingly in love.

notes; prepare to melt into a puddle of mush… sleepy cuddles, tiny hands with stuffed bunnies, and dean being the most adorable dad ever. if you don’t feel warm and fuzzy after this, i’ll owe you a cookie. ૮₍ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ₎ა

words; 898

The room is still wrapped in darkness, the only light spilling in from the rising sun. It paints the walls in a soft, hazy glow, casting shifting patterns over the bed. The hum of passing cars on the highway outside is a distant lullaby, blending with the quiet rhythm of Dean’s breathing.

His arm is a heavy, familiar weight draped over your waist, his chest warm against your back, his presence anchoring you in the kind of peace you never thought you’d get to have.

The world is still, wrapped in the last remnants of sleep; until the quiet patter, patter, patter of tiny feet across the carpet breaks the silence.

There’s a pause, a little sniffle, and then, in the softest, most pitiful voice—

“Daddy?”

Dean doesn’t move at first, just lets out a low, sleepy groan, nuzzling his face deeper into the pillow. His arm tightens around you like he’s trying to block out the early-morning intrusion, his voice a deep, gravelly grumble. “Baby, it’s too early for this.”

You’re already awake, though— mama instincts kicking in the second you hear that sniffle. Blinking the sleep from your eyes, you roll over just in time to see your little girl standing beside the bed, clutching her favorite stuffed bunny to her chest. She’s a mess of sleepy curls, her pink pajama top slightly askew, one tiny shoulder peeking out from the loose fabric. Her bottom lip trembles as she rubs a fist over her puffy eyes, her tiny frame looking impossibly small in the dim light.

“Had a bad dream,” she mumbles, voice wobbly with sleep.

That’s all it takes.

Dean is instantly awake, his grumpiness forgotten in an instant. His eyes crack open, bleary but alert, his body already shifting as he lifts the covers with one arm, making room. “C’mere, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice still thick with sleep but filled with nothing but warmth.

She doesn’t hesitate, scrambling clumsily onto the bed, her little body wiggling between the two of you with all the grace of a sleepy toddler. She’s barely settled before she burrows into Dean’s chest, her tiny hands clutching at the worn fabric of his t-shirt like it’s the only thing keeping her tethered to the world.

Dean lets out a soft exhale, one hand coming up to rub slow, steady circles into her back. “S’just a dream, baby girl,” he soothes, pressing his lips to the top of her curls. “Daddy’s got you.”

She lets out a tiny sigh, her breathing already slowing, her warm little body melting into the safety of his arms. You watch, heart swelling, as her tiny fingers unclench, her grip on him relaxing as sleep starts to pull her back under.

You shift closer, reaching out to smooth a few unruly curls from her face, tucking them gently behind her ear. Her little nose scrunches at the touch, but she doesn’t stir, too warm and safe to even think about waking up again. When you glance up, Dean is already watching both of you, his green eyes softer than you’ve ever seen them, filled with something deep and quiet and endless.

You smile, reaching out to trail your fingers gently over her soft, warm cheek. She makes the tiniest noise at the touch— half-asleep, fully content, and you swear your heart melts right there in your chest.

Dean doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to. It’s all there in the way he looks at you, the way he shifts just enough to pull both of you closer, pressing a slow, lazy kiss to your forehead.

“Think she gets the cuddly stuff from you,” he murmurs, voice low and fond.

You let out a quiet laugh, resting your hand over his on your daughter’s back. “Oh, i think it’s quite the opposite,” you tease, your fingers lacing with his. “It’s funny when you try to deny it, because all I see is dad who turns into a total softie the second his little girl so much as blinks at him..”

Dean huffs but doesn’t even try to argue. Instead, he just sighs, shifting slightly to pull the blanket higher around all three of you, his fingers curling protectively against your back.

For a long moment, it’s just this. The warmth, the steady rise and fall of Dean’s chest, the tiny little puffs of breath from your daughter, safe and sound between you both.

And then, in the tiniest, sleepiest voice;

“I love you, Daddy..”

Dean stills. His breath catches for half a second, so subtle you almost miss it. And then, his grip on her tightens, just a little, as he presses the softest kiss to her forehead.

“Love you more, baby girl.”

You swear you see the smallest, sleepiest little smile cross her face before she drifts off completely.

Dean glances at you then, like he knows. Like he feels it too, that overwhelming, all-consuming love that makes your chest ache in the best way. He leans in, pressing one last kiss to your temple, his lips lingering just a little longer than necessary.

“Go back to sleep, sweetheart,” he murmurs against your skin. “I got my girls.”

And as you let yourself sink into sleep, wrapped in the warmth of Dean’s arms and the soft weight of your daughter between you, you know,

You wouldn’t trade this moment for anything in the world.

taglist; @lieutenantchaos @bejeweledinterludes @ambiguous-avery @mostlymarvelgirl @freeluigihesbae @brutuuallove @impala67rollingthroughtown @multiversefanfics @littlesoulshine @starzify @ladykitana90 @idontwannabehere78 ⊹ ࣪ ˖

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tysm for reading! more works incoming @ library. ⊹₊⟡⋆

[myrleius]

loud and clear — bokuto k.

bokuto k. x deaf fem!reader│word count: 1.1k

synopsis: You want to cheer Bokuto on, but being deaf makes it complicated.

notes: I got inspired after spending time at my sister’s school for disabled kids, where I met many of her deaf classmates. They were so energetic and we bonded over fandoms. This fic is much shorter than my usual since I’m practicing on writing concise one-shots without losing depth. It’s tricky, but I’m learning!

cw/tags: fluff, established relationship

Silence isn’t empty.

It’s full of color, of movement, of the small details that get lost beneath the noise. You don’t need sound to know the world is alive. You see it in the way the wind stirs the trees, in the way laughter shakes someone’s shoulders, in the way excitement brightens a person’s eyes.

And right now, you see it in the way Bokuto plays.

His presence is a roar even if you can’t hear it. He’s larger than life, bursting with a kind of energy that fills every inch of the court. His teammates react to him, the crowd reacts to him, and you—watching from the stands—feel your heart react too.

You want to cheer for him too. You want him to know that you’re here, watching him, proud of him.

But the last time you tried—

You shake the thought away. No. Not today.

Instead, your fingers tighten around the plastic horn in your lap, the one you spent way too long picking out just for this moment. The one you know he’ll hear.

You didn’t expect someone like Bokuto to notice you.

You remember that day clearly—sitting in the library, flipping through a book, when suddenly, a blur of motion appeared in the corner of your eye.

A boy. Grinning. Talking.

Your brain registered the movement of his lips before anything else. He was saying something, long and fast, but you didn’t understand a word.

“Slower,” you signed instinctively, unsure if he’d understand. You pointed at your ear, then shook your head.

Bokuto blinked. Tilted his head.

Then, realization hit.

“Oh,” you could make that out. His lips moved slower this time, more deliberately. Then again, softer, like he was testing the word. “Oh.”

He hadn’t known.

His shoulders stiffened, his hands twitched like he wanted to fix his mistake but didn’t know how. Then, determination settled over his features, and he dug into his bag, pulling out a notebook and pen.

A moment later, he slid the open page toward you.

[HI!! I’M BOKUTO KOUTAROU!!!]

The letters were big, uneven, and written with so much force the pen almost tore the paper. Beneath them, an attempt at a doodle—a little stick figure with spiky hair, arms raised high.

You bit back a laugh.

Reaching for the pen, you wrote your name beside his, adding a small doodle of your own.

And just like that, a new page of your life had begun.

Bokuto never let your deafness be a barrier. If anything, he made it a bridge.

He started learning sign language almost immediately. The first time he tried, it was awful—his fingers tangled together, his expressions were exaggerated to the point of comedy, and you had no idea what he was trying to say.

But he never got discouraged. He practiced, asked questions, made sure he got things right. He still talked a mile a minute, but he started signing alongside his words, his hands always moving to keep you in the conversation.

And he watched you, really watched you. He noticed the little things—how your gaze flickered between people when they spoke, how you relied on vibrations, how you always positioned yourself where you could see everything. He adapted without you needing to ask.

But there were times when doubt crept in.

Dating wasn’t something you thought would be easy for you. There were too many little hurdles, too many things you worried would be too much for someone else to deal with.

And yet, Bokuto never made you feel like you were a burden.

Still, some things were hard. Like the first time you tried cheering for him. You don’t think about it often, but sometimes the memory surfaces, uninvited.

Standing on the sidelines, watching him play, you had wanted to join the crowd, to call his name like everyone else. But you couldn’t hear yourself, didn’t know how loud or strange it might sound.

You tried anyway.

But when people turned to look—some with confusion, some with poorly hidden amusement—your throat closed up.

You never tried again after that.

But Bokuto noticed afterwards. Of course, he did.

Which is probably why he dragged you to a party store one afternoon, an impish grin on his face as he led you straight to a shelf of noisemakers.

“If you don’t wanna cheer with your voice, we’ll find something else!” he signed, eyes bright with determination.

He tested each one with theatrical enthusiasm, laughing when a squeaky horn made the shopkeeper glare at him. But then, he picked up this one—the one in your lap now—and blew into it.

Your eyes tracked his reaction, the way his face lit up at the sound you couldn’t hear but knew he liked.

You bought it without hesitation.

Now, here you are.

The game is intense, the energy in the gym electric. Bokuto stands near the net, focused, determined. You know how much he loves this sport. You know how much he gives to it.

And you want to give back.

Taking a breath, you lift the plastic horn, pressing it to your lips.

You don’t hear the sound it makes, but you don’t need to.

Because Bokuto’s head snaps up immediately. His gaze locks onto you, eyes wide. And then—

A grin. So full of joy it’s nearly blinding.

He pumps a fist in the air, then turns back to the game with renewed energy.

You don’t need sound to tell you what he’s feeling.

You can see it. Feel it.

Silence isn’t empty.

It never was.

Bokuto wiped the sweat off his forehead, still buzzing from the win. The gym was as loud as ever—teammates clapping him on the back, spectators chattering as they filed out—but his ears were tuned to one thing and one thing only.

Honk!

There it was.

That ridiculous little honk! cut through the gym’s chaos like a battle cry, sharp and unmistakable. His grin stretched wide as he peeked over his shoulder.

Yn was standing near the exit now, tucking the plastic horn into her bag. When she caught his gaze, she waved, bright and proud, and his heart did a little somersault.

God, he loved her so much.

But there was a problem.

See, under no circumstances could yn ever find out what that horn actually sounded like.

Not because it was bad! No, no, no! It was perfect, adorable even.

But if she knew how it sounded? She might stop using it. And Bokuto needed that honk. Needed to hear it at every game, needed to pick it out of the crowd and know, without a doubt, that she was there, cheering for him in her own way.

So when Akaashi suddenly appeared beside him, raising an eyebrow, Bokuto panicked.

“That horn—” Akaashi started.

“NOPE!” Bokuto slapped a hand over his mouth. “Nope, nope, nope, don’t say it! I don’t know what it sounds like, you don’t know what it sounds like, nobody knows what it sounds like.”

Akaashi blinked. “But I do know—”

“NO YOU DON’T.”

Akaashi sighed, looking vaguely exhausted, but Bokuto didn’t care. His secret was safe.

Yn would never know her chosen instrument of encouragement made the same sound as a goose.

Note: In case you’re wondering, people still stared when yn blasted that horn—but this time, she didn’t notice. She thought it was just a normal, loud honk.

[spicyschemmenti]

VIRTUAL OBSESSION ➫ emily prentiss

pairing: emily prentiss x fwb!fem!reader

synopsis: you and emily don’t do labels. no titles, no expectations, just casual, intense, no-strings-attached encounters that leave you both craving more. late one night, after a long day, she facetimes you from a hotel room across the country wanting to watch you unravel through the screen

warnings: masturbation over video call, overstimulation, dom!sub!dynamics, swearing, explicit language

word count: 1.5k

MASTERLIST ----- JOIN A TAGLIST

You and Emily have never bothered with labels. No titles. No emotional talks over wine. No “what are we” conversations. You’re not girlfriends, not lovers, not anything serious. You just fuck. That’s the agreement, casual, clean, easy. At least, that’s what you both tell yourselves every time one of you ends up straddling the other in a half-lit apartment at 2AM, dripping and desperate and calling it nothing.

It’s not surprising when she FaceTimes you at almost midnight, fresh out of the shower in some beige hotel room across the country. She looks unfairly hot, even through the shitty camera quality - dark hair damp and curling around her cheekbones, white dress shirt still clinging to her from the steam, buttons left undone just enough to tease. She’s lounging back against crisp hotel pillows like she owns the place, eyes on you already, voice low and knowing when she says, “You’re not wearing anything under that tank, are you?"

You smile, biting your bottom lip as you settle in and open your laptop on the bed. “Wasn’t planning on keeping it on long anyway.” And you can see it in her eyes; how fast the heat kicks in, that flicker of hunger she doesn’t bother hiding. You’re both miles apart, but it doesn’t matter. She still has that grip on you, even from a screen.

“Take it off. I want to see those tits.” Her voice is all command, no question. You peel the tank off and toss it to the floor, heart already racing. Your nipples are already hard, flushed pink, begging for attention and she fucking knows it. You can see the way her pupils dilate when your tits bounce slightly as you shift, how her breathing slows just a little.

You spread your legs, sliding down the bed, angling the laptop so she can see exactly what she’s working with. No underwear. You’re soaked. Actually soaked. Your pussy’s swollen, slick glistening between your folds, your thighs already damp with it. You haven’t even touched yourself yet, but your body’s begging, clit throbbing, cunt fluttering with want.

You reach down and part your folds just to tease her with the view, and the way Emily exhales sharply on the other end makes your stomach clench.

“Jesus,” she murmurs. “That wet for me already? What a good little slut.” Her words hit you low and hot, make your thighs twitch. You start slow by rubbing two fingers over your clit, barely touching, just enough to make yourself gasp.

It’s too much already. You’re too sensitive, too turned on. You reach up with your other hand and cup your breast, rolling your nipple between your fingers, then tugging it hard enough to sting. You moan instantly, the sensation shooting right to your cunt.

“That’s it,” Emily breathes, and she shifts slightly on her end, spreading her legs wider but she still hasn’t touched herself. Not yet. She’s just watching you come undone.

“Keep playing with those tits. Pinch harder. I want to hear you gasp for me.” You obey without thinking. Thumb and forefinger twisting your nipple until your hips jerk, rubbing your clit faster now, slick sounds getting louder, wetter. You can feel yourself dripping, your folds sticky and messy, your whole body tense with need.

You’re whimpering her name under your breath, tugging at your nipple so hard your back arches. Every drag of your fingers on your clit makes your thighs tremble.

It’s messy, overwhelming, filthy. You don’t care. You want her to see you like this—ruined, desperate, soaking your sheets while she watches, completely under her control even from a thousand miles away.

“Don’t cum yet,” she snaps, her voice sharper now. “Not until you beg for it.” You groan, grinding into your hand, so fucking close it hurts. “Please,” you pant, voice wrecked, “Emily, please let me cum, I need it so bad—I’ll do anything, fuck—please—”

Her eyes darken, lips curling into a smirk as she finally, finally slides her hand down, but only to tease herself through the fabric of her panties. “That’s better. Look at you. Dripping for me, whining like a needy little whore. Say it. Tell me whose pussy that is.”

“Yours,” you moan, pushing your fingers faster over your clit, thighs clenching. “It’s yours, Emily—fuck, it’s all yours—”

“Good fucking girl. Cum. Now.”

Your whole body breaks. You fall apart with a loud, desperate cry, pussy clenching around nothing as you come hard—slick gushing out of you, soaking your fingers, dripping down between your thighs and onto the sheets.

Your hand doesn’t stop, even when it gets too much, even when your clit is screaming and you’re gasping for breath. Your other hand is still twisted in your tits, nipples sore and overstimulated, and you can’t stop moaning her name over and over again.

Emily watches the whole thing, eyes locked on your body, biting her bottom lip, her voice low and rough when she finally says, “You make such a fucking mess when I’m not there. Next time, I’m going to tie you up and edge you until you’re begging just like that but with my mouth on your clit, and your nipples clamped so tight you cry.”

You blink at the screen, dazed, cum-soaked and wrecked, still twitching from aftershocks.

And all you can do is grin, eyes heavy.

The aftershocks are still rolling through your body when Emily’s voice cuts through the haze.

“Don’t even think about closing those legs.”

Your breath stutters. Your thighs are trembling, clit still pulsing from the intensity of your orgasm, but you obey because you always do.

Emily shifts on the hotel bed, tilting the phone just enough to give you a better view of her. Her shirt has slipped further off one shoulder, exposing smooth skin and the teasing hint of a black lace bra. She still hasn’t fully touched herself yet. She’s just watching you - ruined, sensitive, soaked and her dark eyes hold nothing but hunger.

“You’re not done yet.” Her voice is slow, deliberate, laced with amusement. “Grab your wand.”

You let out a shaky breath. “Emily—”

“I said,” she interrupts, tone dropping, “grab it.”

Fuck.

Your whole body protests as you reach for the vibrator on your nightstand. Your fingers shake when you flick it on, the low hum already making your oversensitive clit twitch in anticipation. Emily leans in slightly, gaze locked onto yours through the screen, lips just barely curling.

“Put it on your clit.”

You whimper, hips jerking before you even make contact, nerves still raw and tingling. “It’s—fuck, I’m so sensitive—”

“That’s the point, sweetheart.” Her voice is all silk and steel, threading deep into your bones. “You can take it. Be a good girl for me.”

You swallow hard, sucking in a breath before pressing the wand against your swollen, overstimulated clit. The second it touches you, your body jolts like you’ve been electrocuted. A loud, broken moan rips from your throat, hips bucking against the intensity.

“Holy—fuck—”

Emily’s smirk deepens. “Oh, look at you. Already shaking.” She tilts her head, dark eyes eating you up. “Turn it up.”

Your stomach clenches. “Emily, I—”

“Now.”

You bite your lip so hard it nearly bruises, but you obey, clicking the vibrator up a setting. The new intensity slams into you like a freight train, your whole body seizing up. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, your breath hitching as pleasure and overstimulation crash together, making your thighs tremble.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—Emily, I c-can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” she purrs. “You’re going to come for me again. Harder this time.”

You sob out a moan, the pressure building too fast, too sharp. You’re writhing, legs twitching, body trying to escape the sensation while your hips chase it at the same time.

Emily watches you with dark, heated satisfaction. “Look at you. Such a messy, desperate little thing. Your clit’s so puffy—so sensitive, I bet you can barely breathe.”

She’s right. You can’t.

“Please,” you whimper, voice barely coherent, “Emily, please—”

“Aw, baby,” she coos mockingly. “Are you gonna cry?”

Your stomach flips.

She chuckles lowly, finally slipping her hand into her own panties, and you nearly lose it at the sight. “Cum for me,” she commands, voice sharp, hungry. “Cum hard. I want to see you fall apart.”

That’s all it takes.

You shatter.

Your whole body tenses, toes curling, back arching off the bed as your orgasm rips through you, hotter, stronger, almost painful. You’re wailing her name, legs shaking violently, clit throbbing under the relentless vibration. Your slick gushes out in waves, soaking your thighs, your sheets, your hand, everything.

The pleasure is unbearable. Overpowering. A brutal, delicious kind of torture.

Emily groans softly at the sight, her fingers working slow, lazy circles between her own legs. “That’s my girl,” she praises, her voice lower now, breathier. “So fucking pretty when you break for me.”

You can’t think. Can’t move. Can’t do anything but gasp for air and twitch as aftershocks pulse through you, leaving you completely wrecked.

Emily smirks, dragging her fingers out of her panties and sucking them into her mouth, making a show of it.

You groan weakly. “You’re evil.”

She grins. “And you love it.”

You can’t even argue.

[chrrybbmb]

DIRTY CASH

STARRING ... HAEGEUM AU!M. YOONGI X READER

WORD COUNT ... 7.5K

SUMMARY ... when survival means keeping your head down, you make the mistake of looking up.

NOTES/WARNINGS ... slowburn. enemies2lovers. gang!au implied crime. explicit language. cigarette use. alcohol use. mild physical intimidation. reader is stubborn but out of her depth. yoongi is even worse. ft jk.

playlist : dirty cash (stevie v). haegeum (agust d). blood on the dancefloor (michael jackson). god's gonna cut you down (johnny cash). blackout days (phantomgram). you should see me in a crown (billie eilish). castle (halsey). buried in water (dead man's bones). dirty harry (gorillaz).

you try your best to live check by check. you spend your days shopping for necessities at the local market, work a quick closing shift at the drycleaner's, catch the minibus home, unpack your tiny plastic bag's worth of groceries, and then have dinner—which usually consists of a cheap pack of ramyun and whatever fizzy drink was left over at the convenience store.

your nights, much less excitingly, are spent cleaning the bath house beneath your apartment.

you work alone. the bath house is old, and grimy. the kind of place people come to when they have nowhere better to go.

the walls are stained with years of steam and sweat, the grout between the tiles permanently darkened no matter how hard you scrub, and the air is heavy with the scent of damp towels and something chemical. likely whatever cheap cleaner your boss seoyun buys in bulk.

your job is simple. mop the floors. scrub the tiles. empty out the lockers. take out the trash. repeat.

you don’t think much while you work. you can’t afford to. thinking makes the nights feel longer, makes the silence settle too deep in your bones. so you move on autopilot, dragging the mop in slow, steady strokes, watching dirty water pool in the grout before it’s wiped away. you crouch down, scrubbing at a stubborn stain near the edge of the bath, fingernails scraping against the tile.

someone left behind a half-empty cigarette pack in one of the lockers. someone else forgot a wet towel, balled up and sour-smelling.

you throw it all away.

by the time you finish, your hands smell like bleach, your back aches, and your clothes cling to your skin, damp from the lingering heat. it’s late. the city outside hums with a different kind of life—motorcycles revving, laughter echoing down the alleys, glass breaking somewhere in the distance.

you lock up, head upstairs, and try not to think about doing it all again tomorrow.

seoyun herself is nice enough. you only really see her once a week, when she hands you a wad of cash and thanks you for your work. maybe every now and then when she comes in late, bringing in someone else before disappearing into her office.

at some point, you start recognizing a few of the faces. not regulars, not in the way normal bath houses have them. these men don’t come to soak in the water or unwind after a long day. they slip in at odd hours, always in pairs or small groups, always looking over their shoulders before they disappear down the hall.

you offered a wave once, just to be polite. the man had barely looked at you, but seoyun had. she pulled you aside after your shift, voice low and cold, asking if you had a death wish.

“you work here. you don’t see anyone, you don’t speak to anyone, and no one speaks to you.”

the next payday, your envelope was lighter than usual.

you learned your lesson. keep your head down. do your job. don’t ask questions.

it’s easy enough, you tell yourself. you’re not curious. you don’t care what seoyun does behind that office door or who these men are. you just need the cash, and as long as you mind your business, you’ll keep getting it.

so you mop the floors. scrub the tiles. empty the lockers. take out the trash. you get paid, and you go home, just to do it all over again.

you’re not stupid. you know what kind of city you live in. the type of people that roam the streets.

this isn’t the kind of place where people walk home alone at night without looking over their shoulder. it isn’t the kind of place where the police show up when they’re called, either.

you hear things—stories whispered between neighbors, rumors passed down the halls of your apartment building. who got jumped. who went missing. whose body got fished out of the river last week.

this city is not kind. it never has been.

so no, you don’t ask questions. you don’t stare too long at the men who slip in and out of the bathhouse, their faces half-hidden beneath hoods and cigarette smoke. you don’t wonder why seoyun has a new car every few months or why she doesn’t seem the least bit bothered when some of her guests leave blood in the water. you just clean up after them.

but there’s one.

you noticed him because he was different. because unlike the others, he walked in alone. no pair, no group, no low murmured conversation at the door. just him, stepping inside like he belongs there.

seoyun is with him, though. she holds the door open, says something you can’t hear, tilts her head just slightly in his direction.

you should’ve looked away, should’ve gone back to your mopping without a second thought. but for whatever reason, you linger just long enough to catch a glimpse of him.

he’s wearing a shirt you’re almost sure you’ve seen at the dry cleaner’s before, his hands in his pockets and his shoulders relaxed. he’s not big, not particularly imposing, but there’s something about the way he moves—calculated, slow, precise—that makes your stomach tighten. a warning you don’t quite understand.

for a brief, split second, you make eye contact. no more than a flicker. but it’s enough.

you don’t know what you see in his eyes, but your grip tightens around the mop handle. you drop your gaze, focus on the streak of dirty water smeared across the tile, and pretend you never looked at all.

seoyun disappears into her office. the door shuts behind them, and you keep mopping. keep your head down.

but you see him again. and again.

at first, it’s easy to pretend it’s nothing. just another man passing through, another face you shouldn’t recognize. but he comes in more than the others, often enough that you start expecting him. never at the same time, never on a schedule, but always the same way. alone, with that quiet, deliberate ease.

it makes your skin itch.

you don’t know why, exactly. maybe it’s the way he looks without looking, like he sees everything without needing to turn his head. maybe it’s the way seoyun lets him through without a word, without a second glance, whatever business he has clearly above questioning.

whatever it is, you don’t like it.

so you start adjusting. changing your rhythm. shifting the way you clean, where you are, when you’re there.

if you know you have to mop the floors, you do it earlier, long before he might show up. if you have to take out the trash, you drag the bags out back before the bath house even closes. if you hear the front door creak open, you find somewhere else to be. out of sight, out of the way.

it’s not fear, you tell yourself. it’s just caution. just common sense.

you don’t need to be in the same space as him. you don’t need to see whatever it is he does here. and most of all, you don’t need to risk catching his eye again. one glance was already too much.

you manage to avoid him for a while. weeks, maybe. long enough that you start to think your paths won't cross again.

but then, one night, on his way out, he drops something.

you don’t notice at first, too focused on wiping down the front desk. but when the door swings shut behind him, there it is; a pack of cigarettes, scuffed at the edges, half-full.

you hesitate. you could leave it. pretend you never saw. but something about it gnaws at you, a sharp little itch between your ribs. before you can think twice, you grab it and push through the door.

he hasn’t gone far. just a few steps down the alley, hands back in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold. he doesn’t turn when you call out, doesn’t even flinch, but when you catch up, he slows.

you hold out the pack. “you dropped this.”

he looks down at your outstretched hand, then at you. for a second, there's nothing. just the distant hum of the city, the faint burn of smoke in the air.

then, he exhales, shaking his head. “keep it.”

his voice is low, edged with something unreadable. before you can respond, he turns, disappearing around the corner without another word.

you stand there a moment longer, fingers tightening around the pack. then, without really knowing why, you slip it into your pocket and head back inside.

the market is crowded, voices overlapping in a steady hum, the scent of fried food and fresh produce thick in the air. you shift your basket to your other hand, adjusting the phone against your ear.

“so you’re still working there?” jungkook’s voice crackles slightly, the distance stretching the signal thin.

you glance at the vegetables in front of you, turning a tomato over in your hand. too soft. you put it back.

“yeah,” you answer. “still working there.”

he exhales, something caught between a sigh and a laugh. “you always sound like you’re about to quit.”

you don’t respond. instead, you reach for an onion, give it a quick squeeze. firm enough. it goes into your basket.

“you could come here,” jungkook continues. “i could help you out, just until you find something better.”

you switch your phone to the other ear, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “i can’t.”

“why not?”

you don’t have a real answer for that. not one that makes sense. instead, you look down at your basket—onion, one carrot, a single potato. it’s not much. maybe enough for something warm, something that doesn’t come from a packet.

your old plastic bag is tucked under your arm, creased and thin from too many uses. you’ve had it so long the logo is starting to fade, the once-bright letters cracked and peeling.

“i just can’t,” you say finally, adding a head of cabbage to the basket.

jungkook makes a noise, something skeptical, but he doesn’t push. “at least tell me you’re eating properly.”

you pick up another tomato, hesitate, then set it back down. “of course.”

“liar.”

a faint smile tugs at your lips. you don’t bother denying it.

you move to the next stall, phone still pressed to your ear, fingers grazing over vegetables you know you can’t afford in bulk.

“what about your place?” jungkook asks. “your landlord still giving you shit?”

you shake your head, even though he can’t see it. “haven’t seen him in weeks.”

which isn’t necessarily a good thing. rent is still due whether he comes knocking or not.

jungkook hums, unconvinced. you can hear movement on his end, the faint clink of a glass against a table. probably at home, probably somewhere clean and warm, not in a market where the floor is damp and the air is thick with the scent of too many bodies packed close together.

“you sure you don’t need—”

“don’t.”

you hear him sigh. it’s an old conversation, one you’ve had too many times before. he offers. you refuse.

you balance your phone between your shoulder and cheek, reaching for your plastic bag.

“just let me know if that changes,” jungkook says, softer this time. “i mean it.”

you nod, even though he still can’t see you. “i know.”

a pause. “are you safe?”

the question catches you off guard. your fingers tighten around the bag’s handles. “yeah,” you say. “i’m safe.”

you can almost hear him frowning through the phone.

“promise?”

you swallow. glance around the market, the crowded stalls, the hunched shoulders and hurried steps. somewhere, not too far, a siren wails, cutting through the noise.

“promise,” you lie.

you tip the vegetables into your bag, careful not to let the thin plastic stretch too much under their weight. the handles are already weak, the edges fraying where they’ve been knotted and unknotted too many times. one day, it’s going to give out completely.

you push the thought away and pull out your cash.

the vendor barely looks at you as they take the money, dropping your change into your palm with a muttered thanks. you count it quickly, thumb running over the rough edges of the bills. enough for a hotteok.

you glance toward the food stalls, the scent of frying batter thick in the cool air.

“you’re still there, right?” jungkook’s voice pulls you back, staticky in your ear.

“yeah,” you murmur, tucking the remaining cash into your pocket. you step away from the produce stall, weaving through the crowd toward the vendor with the griddle. “just paying.”

jungkook sighs, something slow and drawn out. “you should eat something real.”

“this is real.”

“not when it’s the only thing you’ve had all day.”

you don’t answer that.

the woman at the stall barely glances up as you approach, pressing the hotteok down against the griddle with a flat spatula. the smell is warm, familiar, syrupy-sweet as the sugar caramelizes inside the dough.

“how much?” you ask, already fishing out the bills.

the woman holds up fingers instead of speaking, and you nod, slipping the exact amount onto the counter. she hands you the pastry wrapped in thin wax paper, still hot from the griddle, grease soaking through at the edges.

you step to the side, balancing your phone between your cheek and shoulder as you blow gently on the pastry, trying not to burn your tongue.

“still there?” jungkook asks again, voice softer now.

you swallow down a too-hot bite, sugar sticking to your teeth.

“yeah,” you say. “still here.”

"what about the dry cleaner’s?" jungkook asks, his voice steady but distant over the static.

you chew the inside of your cheek, shifting your bag higher onto your arm as you step away from the food stall. the sun is setting, smearing long shadows across the pavement, tinting everything in dusky orange.

the market’s thinning out now, the hum of conversation dulling as vendors start packing up for the night.

“just finished a shift,” you say, licking sugar from your thumb. “gonna have to pick up extra, though. the ajumma that owns it is sick, and her nephew’s out of town.”

jungkook tuts under his breath. “so you’re overworking again.”

“just for a little while.”

“uh-huh. and how long is ‘a little while’?”

you exhale through your nose, not in the mood to argue. you can already hear the frustration creeping into his voice, the familiar weight of it pressing against your chest.

“until she gets better,” you say, glancing up at the sky. the last bits of sunlight are bleeding out over the buildings, the neon signs flickering on one by one. the bath house won’t be busy yet, but it will be soon.

you shift the hotteok to your other hand, biting off another piece, chewing slow. jungkook doesn’t say anything for a moment, but you know he’s not done.

“you need to take care of yourself,” he says finally, quieter this time.

you don’t have an answer for that, so you don’t give one. just swallow, adjust your grip on your bag, and start heading home.

you finish the hotteok as you walk, tearing off the last piece with your teeth, the caramelized sugar still too hot where it sticks to the roof of your mouth. you lick the grease from your fingers and ball up the wax paper, tossing it into an overflowing trash can on the way.

the usual minibus sits at the curb up ahead, its headlights dim, the driver smoking lazily by the door. you heard it changed hands recently, some back-alley deal that put it under serpent property.

you don’t get on.

even if you had the fare, you wouldn’t. too many rumors. too many things happening to people who ask the wrong questions, take the wrong ride, end up in the wrong place at the wrong time.

instead, you keep walking, already feeling the ache building in the arches of your feet. it’s going to be a long way home.

“you’re quiet,” jungkook says, voice a little fuzzier now, muffled by the wind cutting through the street.

“just tired.”

he doesn’t believe you, but he doesn’t push.

you reach into your pocket, fingers brushing against crumpled bills, old receipts, and then—thin cardboard, edges worn soft from the way you’ve been fidgeting with it.

you pull out the cigarette pack. his cigarette pack.

your other hand dips into your jacket for the lighter you bought on a whim, despite knowing better. you don’t have cigarette money. hell, you barely have grocery money. but you bought the damn lighter anyway.

you shake out a cigarette, tuck it between your lips, flick the lighter once, twice, until the flame catches.

jungkook must hear it through the phone.

“really?”

you take a slow drag, smoke curling out into the cool air, the faint burn of it settling low in your chest.

“i thought you quit.”

you exhale, watching the smoke dissipate. “yeah,” you murmur. “me too.”

the cigarette tastes cheap, bitter on the inhale, but you smoke it anyway. jungkook doesn’t say anything for a while, just listens to the sound of your breath through the phone, the occasional rustle of fabric as you switch hands, tuck the lighter back into your pocket.

you walk past shuttered storefronts, metal grates pulled down tight, neon signs flickering in and out of focus. the bathhouse isn’t far, but your apartment sits just a little higher, up the cracked concrete steps, past the flickering hallway light that never gets fixed.

“when’s your next day off?” jungkook asks, breaking the silence.

you let out a quiet laugh, short and humorless. “what’s a day off?”

“you know that’s not normal, right?”

“maybe not for you.”

you can practically hear him rolling his eyes. “it’s not normal for anyone.”

you don’t argue. what’s the point? this is just how things are. rent doesn’t wait. groceries don’t pay for themselves. you work until you can’t, and then you work some more.

you take another drag, eyes drifting toward the minibus as it idles at the curb. the driver’s still there, flicking ash onto the pavement, his expression unreadable in the low light.

“you sure you’re safe?” jungkook asks again, quieter this time.

you exhale, watching the smoke curl into the night air.

“yeah,” you say, lying through your teeth. “i’m sure.”

the bus doors hiss open. a man steps off, shoulders broad, head tilted slightly downward, dark hair shadowing his face.

you recognize him before you even see his eyes, and you keep walking.

jungkook says something, but the words don’t register, drowned out by the steady click, click, click of boots against pavement behind you.

you don’t speed up. don’t look back.

you just keep moving, cigarette burning down between your fingers, pulse steady, breath even.

long way home, you remind yourself.

you keep your head down, shoulders hunched against the cold, the cigarette burning low between your fingers. the boots behind you are steady, unhurried.

long way home, long way home.

you don’t see the man until it’s too late.

broad shoulders, thick arms, the scent of something sharp and metallic clinging to his clothes. you shove past him too fast, too rough, and his shoulder knocks hard against yours.

your phone slips from your grip, clattering against the pavement.

shit.

you don’t stop.

the cigarette falls from your fingers, embers sparking against the sidewalk. you shove your hands into your pockets, chin tucked low, legs moving before you can think twice.

keep walking. don’t look back.

“hey!” the man calls, voice gruff, irritated.

you don’t stop. don’t slow down. your phone is still on the ground, screen facing up, jungkook’s voice faint through the speaker.

you don’t go back for it. you just keep walking, faster this time.

your feet move before your brain catches up.

the moment you hear the heavy thud of boots against pavement—too fast, too deliberate—you break into a run.

the city blurs around you, neon lights streaking past, the scent of fried food and car exhaust thick in the air. your breath comes fast, uneven. the plastic bag swings against your thigh, the vegetables inside bouncing against each other.

you hear him gaining.

shit. shit. shit.

you take a sharp turn into an alley, hoping to lose him in the maze of side streets, but as soon as you round the corner, you stop.

another man stands at the other end.

not the same one. taller, thinner, but the stance is the same. relaxed, arms hanging loose at his sides, but there's something calculated about it. like he's waiting.

you turn back, but it’s too late.

the first man is there now, closing the distance. not alone anymore.

dark shapes slip out from the shadows, one after another, a slow, deliberate circle forming around you. all dressed the same—dark clothes, quiet movements, faces mostly obscured by the dim light.

trapped.

your heart slams against your ribs. the plastic bag in your grip crinkles under the pressure of your fingers.

“don’t—” your voice is barely steady, your throat too tight, words tumbling out before you can think. “i don’t have anything. if it’s money, i don’t—”

a low chuckle.

“not about money,” one of them says, voice smooth, almost amused.

your stomach twists. you take a step back. your heel scrapes against the pavement, and suddenly it’s real.

you are surrounded, and there is nowhere to go.

the air is thick, pressing down on your chest.

your fingers tighten around the plastic bag, knuckles aching. the vegetables inside shift with every shaky breath you take. useless. not a weapon, not an escape. just something you were stupid enough to care about bringing home.

one of the men steps closer.

you take a step back.

another chuckle, low and lazy. someone mutters something under their breath. someone else shifts their weight, slow and deliberate. they’re in no hurry. it isn’t a question of if, just when.

then, the faint scratch of a lighter. the soft drag of a breath. a flicker of orange glow.

you don’t have to turn to know.

he’s there.

leaning against the mouth of the alley, one foot crossed over the other, cigarette dangling from his lips like he has nowhere better to be. his hands stay in his pockets.

he exhales, smoke curling through the air, eyes flicking over the scene in front of him.

"this really necessary?"

his voice is quiet, but the way the group stiffens tells you everything you need to know.

your pulse slams against your throat, and you don’t dare move.

silence stretches, thick and suffocating. the men don’t move, but you feel the shift, the way their postures tense just slightly. not fear, exactly. not yet. but hesitation.

the cigarette between his lips burns slow, smoke curling lazily into the night air. he doesn’t look at you, doesn’t even glance your way. just stands there, hands in his pockets, his weight still leaned easy against the brick wall like he’s got all the time in the world.

“didn’t realize we had an audience,” one of the men says, voice clipped.

he doesn’t react. just takes another slow drag, then exhales. “didn’t realize you needed a whole group to handle one person,” he says, just as even, just as slow.

someone shifts beside you. you feel it more than you see it. your fingers tighten around the plastic bag again.

one of them—the first one, the one you bumped into—lets out a short laugh, but there’s something forced in it now, something thin.

“this your business?”

he tilts his head slightly, finally flicking his eyes toward the man who spoke. "not really.” a pause. then, cool, measured, “but you know how it is.”

another beat of silence. you don’t breathe. then, just as easily as they appeared, the tension snaps.

someone clicks their tongue. another mutters something under their breath. then, one by one, they step back, peeling away from the circle, slipping back into the shadows of the alley.

the first man lingers the longest, staring him down, something unreadable in his gaze. but eventually, even he turns, and their footsteps fade.

you don’t move. don’t exhale. can't do anything but stand there.

until finally, “you can breathe now.”

your eyes snap to him.

he’s looking at you this time, head tilted slightly, cigarette still perched between his fingers, gaze unreadable.

you swallow, the plastic bag crinkling in your grip.

he doesn’t say anything else. just flicks the cigarette to the ground, snuffs it out with the toe of his shoe, and turns, like it never happened at all.

you know it’s stupid.

you know it the second your mouth opens, before the word even makes it past your lips. “hey.”

he pauses.

just barely, just for a fraction of a second. then he turns his head, the dim light catching on the sharp cut of his features.

your heart is still racing, pulse thick in your throat. your fingers ache from gripping the plastic bag too tight. you swallow. shift your weight.

“your name,” you say, voice quieter than you mean it to be. “what is it?”

his expression doesn’t change, but something in the air does. the weight of it presses down on you, heavy and final.

he exhales, barely audible. “i know where you live.” your breath catches, but his gaze doesn’t waver. "stop being stupid.”

his words are clipped, sharp enough to cut, then he turns. and this time, he doesn’t pause. he just walks away.

you stand there, stomach twisting, mind spinning, watching until his figure disappears into the dark.

long way home. long way home.

you force your feet to move.

you get home later than usual, and as a consequence, you have to skip dinner in order to be somewhat on time for your shift at the bath house.

not that it matters. you weren’t all that hungry anyway.

your apartment is the same as always—too small, too cold, too quiet. the overhead light flickers when you switch it on, the bulb probably on its last leg, but you don’t have time to care. you drop the plastic bag onto the counter, the vegetables inside rolling lazily to one side. they’ll have to wait.

you change quickly, stripping off the clothes you spent the day in, replacing them with something less suffocating. your uniform is just an old t-shirt and sweatpants, clothes that have already been worn thin from too many washes, but they’re good enough for the work you do.

you check the time.

definitely too late to eat.

barely enough time to make it downstairs.

you exhale, shoving your sore feet into your shoes, grab your keys, and step back into the dimly lit hallway.

the building is silent. a few doors down, someone has their TV on, the low drone of news reports seeping through the thin walls. the stairwell smells faintly of cigarette smoke and damp concrete.

you take the stairs two at a time, moving fast, not letting your mind linger too long on what happened earlier.

the bath house is waiting. the floors need mopping. the tiles need scrubbing. the lockers need emptying.

same as always.

and if your hands shake a little as you reach for the keys, if your pulse stutters at the sound of footsteps in the alley beside the building, if the cigarette pack in your pocket feels heavier than it should, well.

that’s nobody’s problem but yours.

seoyun is waiting at the entrance when you arrive, leaning against the frame with her arms crossed, a cigarette smoldering lazily between two fingers. the sight is unusual enough to make your steps falter. she’s never here when you start your shift—never at the front, never waiting.

but tonight, she is. and she’s smiling.

too wide, too friendly. the kind of smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

“there she is,” she says, pushing off the doorframe with an easy stretch. the cigarette dangles from her lips as she gestures for you to come in. “was starting to think you weren’t gonna show.”

you don’t know what to say to that, so you just step inside, brushing past her. the scent of smoke clings to the warm, humid air, mixing with the ever-present tang of chlorine and damp towels.

seoyun flicks ash onto the ground, watching you with something unreadable in her expression.

“long day?” she asks, too casual.

you don’t like this. don’t like the way she’s looking at you, don’t like the way her tone is just a little too light, too knowing.

your fingers tighten around your keys as you shove them into your pocket.

“same as always,” you say.

seoyun hums, dragging another slow pull from her cigarette. “right,” she says, exhaling. the smoke curls up toward the ceiling, lazy and slow. “same as always.”

something in your stomach knots.

you force your feet to move, heading toward the supply closet, keeping your face blank, your steps steady. behind you, seoyun chuckles under her breath, amused.

you don’t ask what’s so funny. you don’t want to know. you’ve barely made it three steps when seoyun calls after you.

“oh—someone left something in the back,” she says, flicking the cigarette to the ground and grinding it out with the toe of her shoe. “be a doll and grab it for me, would you?”

you pause, turning slightly. “what is it?”

seoyun waves a hand, already distracted. “just a bag. nothing heavy.”

her tone is airy, but something about the way she says it makes your skin itch. still, you nod. “sure.”

you turn back toward the hallway, but curiosity gnaws at you, the weight of the day pressing in, making you reckless. before you can stop yourself, the question slips out.

“who are you waiting for?”

seoyun doesn’t even blink. “investor.”

it comes so easily, so smoothly, that you almost believe it.

almost.

but then she shifts, adjusting the hem of her blouse, smoothing it down with practiced ease, and that’s when you know. she’s lying.

you don’t push. you just nod, keep your head down, and make your way to the back.

the hallway stretches long and dim, the overhead bulbs buzzing faintly. you reach the back door, fingers brushing against the cool metal handle. it’s unlocked, cracked open just enough to let the night seep in. you push the door open.

the duffel bag sits just outside, slumped against the frame. black, unmarked, zipper pulled shut.

you crouch down, fingers curling around the straps. the material is rough beneath your skin, edges worn from too much use. then,you lift.

too heavy.

your breath catches. too heavy.

your mind moves too fast, filling in blanks you don’t want to see. you’ve taken out the trash before. you’ve carried bags that sagged in the middle, that smelled of iron, that weren’t meant to be opened. you know what heavy means.

your grip falters. the bag slips, nearly dragging from your hands before you catch it. your pulse stutters, cold fear lacing through your ribs.

don’t ask. don’t look.

you inhale slow, steady, force your hands to hold firm. it’s just a bag. just a bag...

with effort, you lift it fully, shifting the weight onto your shoulder, muscles burning under the strain. you swallow hard and step back inside.

you barely make it two steps inside before you hear voices at the front. he’s here. you know it before you see him. the weight of the duffel bag is still solid on your shoulder, but now it feels secondary, something you can barely focus on amisdt the slow churn in your stomach.

you step back into the hallway, adjusting the strap, keeping your head down, hoping—stupidly—that you can slip past unnoticed.

of course, no such luck.

“ah, perfect timing.” seoyun. her voice rings out, light, too amused.

you glance up. and there he is.

leaning against the counter, that same easy posture, hands in his pockets, his gaze flicking up just enough to acknowledge you before shifting away again.

seoyun gestures between you both, as though presenting something far funnier than it is. “you’ve probably seen each other before,” she says, feigning innocence. “our little night shift worker here is very good at keeping her head down, but i’m sure you’ve noticed her around.”

your stomach twists.

oh, you’ve noticed each other.

you keep your expression blank, fingers tightening around the duffel strap. 

he says nothing. doesn’t react, doesn’t acknowledge seoyun’s prodding. just exhales, gaze unreadable, and flicks his eyes back toward her instead.

which would be a relief, if it weren’t so damn frustrating. all that effort. weeks spent avoiding him at work, shifting your schedule, moving quietly enough to never share space with him longer than necessary.

and now this.

“lucky you,” seoyun muses, still grinning, watching the whole thing unfold with far too much enjoyment.

lucky. yeah, you don’t feel very lucky. 

you shift the weight of the bag on your shoulder. “where do you want this?” you ask, voice clipped, pointedly ignoring everything else.

seoyun waves a hand, dismissive. “just put it in my office.”

you nod, turn on your heel, and leave. as you move past him, you swear you feel his eyes flick toward you. brief, unreadable, nothing at all.

but you don’t check to be sure.

the night drags.

you mop, same as always. push the handle forward, pull it back, watch the water smear across the tiles before it settles into the grout.

the meeting—or whatever it was—is over. seoyun left not long after, a lazy wave and a hum on her lips, disappearing back into her office.

he didn’t. he’s still here.

you don’t know when you noticed. a few minutes ago, maybe more. but the weight of his stare is impossible to ignore now, sitting heavy at the nape of your neck, settling deep in your ribs.

you keep mopping. push forward, pull back. the wet slosh of the mop head against tile fills the silence.

then, “are you dumb, suicidal, or both?”

you stop. the words land low, devoid of real curiosity. as though he’s already decided the answer and is just waiting to see if you’ll admit it.

slowly, you straighten. the mop handle stays gripped in your hands, and you turn.

he’s leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, one ankle hooked over the other. the picture of ease, like he belongs here. like he’s got all the time in the world.

but his eyes, his eyes aren’t lazy. they’re sharp. settled on you in a way that makes your pulse jump, makes you suddenly aware of every single choice you’ve made tonight.

the duffel bag. the alley. the cigarette pack.

you swallow. shift your grip. “excuse me?”

he tilts his head, considering. “which is it?”

you blink. “what the hell are you talking about?”

his gaze doesn’t waver. “if you’re dumb, suicidal, or both.”

your fingers tighten around the mop handle. something slow claws its way up your throat. you are tired. you are sore. you are done.

and this man—who you have gone out of your way to avoid, who you didn’t ask to get involved with, who you didn’t ask anything from—is standing here asking you that? your jaw ticks.

“neither,” you say.

his brows lift slightly, the barest flicker of something unreadable in his expression. “funny,” he murmurs, low, amused. “that’s not what it looks like.”

you click your tongue, annoyed, and turn back to the mop. push forward, pull back.

if he wants to talk, let him talk. you don’t owe him anything—not a response, not an explanation, not a damn thing.

but he doesn’t stop. “why’d you walk home?”

your grip tightens. you don’t answer. 

“you heard about the minibus, didn’t you?” he continues, voice even, too casual for the words coming out of his mouth. “knew it wasn’t safe, so you avoided it. smart enough for that.”

your jaw locks. 

“but not smart enough to notice when a bunch of guys are clocking you from a mile away.”

the mop sloshes against the tile, bristles scraping rough. your shoulders ache from tension, from exhaustion, from everything.

“is your situational awareness always that bad, or were you just in the mood to die tonight?”

you suck in a breath, sharp and slow, force your pulse to steady.

he exhales, and when he speaks again, his tone shifts. mocking now, biting. “seriously. you have the survival instinct of an infant.”

push forward. pull back.

your knuckles are white against the mop handle, fingers aching. you are tired. you are hungry. you are angry. but most of all, you are not doing this. so you keep your head down, keep your mouth shut, and you mop.

because if you stop, if you look at him, if you give him what he wants, you’re not sure what will come out.

the mop barely moves before he does.

one step. that’s all it takes. one step forward, one hand reaching out, fingers catching under your chin before you can pull away.

your breath stalls.

his grip isn’t hard, but it’s firm, unyielding, enough to tip your face up, enough to make you meet his gaze. you don’t want to, but he leaves you no choice.

his eyes are steady, dark, unreadable. up close, the lines of his face are sharper—tired, calculating, not a single ounce of softness in them.

“one day,” he murmurs, voice low, deliberate, “you’re gonna end up just another body on the news.”

the words settle, cold and final, crawling under your skin. you don’t flinch, don’t look away. don’t give him the reaction he’s waiting for.

you don’t give him anything.

his thumb lingers against your jaw for half a second longer. then, he lets go.

the absence of his touch is immediate, leaving behind nothing but the dull, lingering pressure where his fingers had been. he steps back, like he was never there at all.

you swallow down the lump in your throat, force your fingers to unclench from the mop handle, force your feet to stay planted even when every single instinct tells you to run. but you don’t.

you stay, and you go back to mopping.

he’s still there when you leave.

you don’t know why. don’t want to know.

but when seoyun hands you your pay—wad of cash thicker than usual, edges crisp, heavier in your palm—he’s lingering by the counter, hands in his pockets, watching.

you don’t ask about the extra. seoyun doesn’t explain it. she just smiles, too sweet, too amused, blowing out a slow curl of smoke before slipping a glance toward him. “get home safe,” she says, voice teasing, a joke only she understands.

you don’t respond. just tuck the cash into your pocket, nod stiffly, and turn for the door.

he doesn’t stop you, doesn’t say anything. but as you step out into the night, the weight of his gaze follows.

by the time you make it upstairs, you’re ridiculously hungry.

the kind of hunger that makes your stomach feel hollow, makes your limbs feel heavier than they should. you kick off your shoes at the door, not even bothering to turn on the overhead light, just moving on autopilot.

the plastic bag sits where you left it, slumped on the counter, vegetables still inside. you should cook something. throw something together, make use of what little you have.

but your feet ache. your back aches. your head aches. so instead, you reach inside and pull out the carrot.

it’s pathetic, really. sitting at the counter, dim glow from the streetlights filtering through the window, gnawing at a raw carrot like some starved animal.

you don’t care.

it’s food. it’s easy. it’s something.

the fridge hums as you open it, cold air curling around your skin. inside, not much. half a carton of eggs. a leftover rice container you don’t remember putting there. a can of something pushed all the way to the back.

and beer.

you hate beer.

but you need something.

you grab the half-drunk can, lukewarm now—you’d unplugged your fridge a while ago to save on electricity—condensation long gone. the tab is already pulled, so you just bring it to your lips, tipping back a shallow gulp.

it’s just as bad as you remember. bitter, stale. something that settles uncomfortably in your stomach.

you drink anyway.

the beer is awful. the carrot is dry. neither do much to fix the ache in your stomach, but you keep going anyway—small bites, slow sips, filling the silence with something, anything.

your thoughts drift, sluggish from exhaustion.

you need a new phone.

it’s the first thing that comes to mind, the most obvious. jungkook probably lost his mind when you didn’t call back. you should’ve gone back for it, but you didn’t, and now it’s gone. broken, lying face down in the street with a cracked screen and your last conversation still open.

you sigh, tapping a fingernail against the beer can. you need groceries, too. real ones. something you can actually cook with instead of whatever scraps you manage to buy in passing.

you need sleep. a real night’s sleep. one where you don’t wake up to the sound of footsteps in the hall, to the distant whine of sirens, to the feeling that you’re being watched even when you know there’s no one there.

you need a lot of things.

but mostly, you need out.

out of this routine, out of this job, out of this place.

you take another sip, let the bitterness sit on your tongue, let the thought settle.

then you shake it off.

yoongi leans against the counter, cigarette burning low between his fingers, watching as seoyun flips through a neat stack of bills.

“she’s gonna be a problem,” he says, voice even.

seoyun doesn’t look up. “she’s an employee.”

“she’s a liability.”

that makes her laugh. short, amused. “you’re dramatic.”

yoongi exhales smoke, watching the way it curls through the air before disappearing. “she’s in the middle of shit she doesn’t even realize.”

seoyun hums, fingers running over the crisp edges of the cash before tucking it into the register. “not everyone’s as paranoid as you, you know.”

yoongi doesn’t react. just taps ash from his cigarette, watching as it scatters across the counter. “she’s going to be a problem,” he repeats.

seoyun finally glances up, tilting her head in that lazy way of hers, the corner of her mouth twitching. “and what?” she muses. “it’s not like you to get distracted.”

yoongi raises a brow. nothing about this is distraction. this is inconvenience. this is an unnecessary loose end in a situation that doesn’t need one.

“nothing’s stopping this deal from pulling through,” he says, flicking the cigarette into the ashtray. the embers smolder before dying out completely. “not even a baby deer insistnent on running in front of freight trucks.”

seoyun snorts. “colorful.”

“accurate.”

her nails tap against the counter once, twice. “is the deal really that important?”

yoongi doesn’t answer immediately. just levels her with a look, slow and pointed, exhaling as he settles back against the counter.

seoyun watches him, eyes sharp. then she hums. “guess it is.”

seoyun props her elbow on the counter, chin resting against her palm as she watches him, expression unreadable.

“you really think the fangs are gonna accept your offer?”

yoongi doesn’t hesitate. “they need to.”

seoyun hums again, not quite agreement, not quite doubt. just considering. she’s always been good at that. watching, waiting, choosing the side that makes the most sense for her.

“big gamble,” she muses.

yoongi doesn’t react. just watches as she straightens, smoothing down the hem of her blouse, adjusting the cash register like she’s closing shop for the night, and not discussing the kind of business that could get them both killed.

“you’ll have the crows on your back,” she says, tilting her head slightly, watching for his reaction. “for as long as it’s convenient, anyway.”

yoongi exhales, slow. “i know.”

seoyun’s lips curl at the edges, just slightly. “then let’s hope convenience lasts.”

she taps her fingers once against the counter, then turns, already moving toward the back. already done with this conversation.

yoongi stays where he is for a moment longer, watching the cash register, the stack of bills, the empty space she left behind. 

then, finally, he pushes off the counter and heads for the door.

taglist : @rpwprpwprpwprw @haru-jiminn @glossdebut @mimi1097 @angellekookie @yooniivrse

[verstappenverse]

Yours in Ink

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Max has always claimed you as his, now it’s written in ink.

Masterlist

You don’t tell him. Not at first.

You tell yourself it’s because it’s a surprise, because you want to see his reaction firsthand. But deep down, you know it’s more than that. It’s the weight of what it means, the commitment, the quiet devotion etched into your skin in a way that feels irreversible.

Max has always been intense about love. About you. It’s in the way his hands linger on your skin when he thinks you’re asleep, in the way his voice tightens when another man so much as looks in your direction. It’s in the way he watches you, like he’s constantly committing you to memory you in case you vanish.

So you don’t tell him about the tattoo. Not yet.

You do it one evening in Monaco while he’s away, sitting in a quiet, dimly lit studio, the scent of antiseptic and ink filling the space. The artist, discreet, professional, nonjudgmental works quickly. The pain is sharp but bearable, a slow burn as the needle hums against your skin.

It’s small, delicate. MV/33. A secret tucked away where only Max will see.

You don’t regret it.

But that doesn’t mean you aren’t nervous.

You don’t plan on showing him immediately, but plans rarely survive Max Verstappen.

He’s been gone for five days, which is apparently too long because the second he gets home he’s on you. His grip firm, his kisses desperate. He’s always been like this after time apart unable to stand the distance a second longer than necessary.

"Five days," he mutters against your skin, voice rough, hands slipping under your hoodie to find the bare skin of your waist.

You laugh, fingers tangling in his hair. "You act like it’s been months."

He groans, pressing you back against the edge of the bed. "Feels like it." His lips trail lower, teeth scraping over your collarbone. "You smell different."

You stiffen and stumble before you can stop yourself. His head lifts immediately, eyes narrowing. "What?"

"Nothing," you say too quickly.

He leans back, studying you. Max is impossible to lie to and you should’ve known better, he has an infuriating ability to read you like a book.

"Liebling." His voice drops, accent thicker, rougher. "What are you hiding?"

You exhale, heart racing. "Okay, but don’t freak out."

His expression sharpens instantly. "That is the worst way to start a sentence."

You stretch up, pulling your hoodie over your head, leaving you in just your bra. His gaze flickers, but he’s too focused on whatever secret you’re about to unveil to be distracted.

Then you shift slightly, pulling down the waistband of your shorts just enough to expose the ink on your hipbone.

MV/33. Small. Black. Permanent.

Max stares.

You watch the exact moment he realizes what he’s looking at. His lips part slightly, the muscles in his jaw tightening, his breathing slow and deliberate.

"Max?"

He swallows hard. "You—" He stops, drags a hand through his hair, then looks at you like he’s trying to figure out if you’re real. "You got a tattoo?"

You nod. "For you."

There’s a beat of silence where the weight of the moment settles, heavy and charged. Then he moves. One second you’re standing there vulnerable and waiting, and the next you’re flat on your back, Max hovering over you mouth crushing against yours in a kiss that is all teeth and desperation.

"Fuck," he murmurs, pulling back just enough to look at you. His fingers brush over the ink, worshipping, almost disbelieving. "You got this for me?"

You nod again, breathless.

His eyes are dark, filled with something you can’t quite name. "You’re insane," he whispers, but there’s no anger, just something raw and overwhelming. "You let someone put my number...my name on your skin?"

"Only where you can see it."

That does something to him. His grip tightens, his jaw clenches, and his breathing turns uneven. He doesn’t speak for a moment, just drags his thumb over the tattoo like he’s memorising the feel of it.

Then he presses his lips to it.

A shiver runs down your spine as he kisses over the ink, slow and deliberate. His mouth lingers, tongue flicking against your skin, making you gasp.

"You have no idea," he breathes against your hip, voice hoarse, "what this does to me."

You smile, threading your fingers through his hair. "I think I do."

His head lifts, and the look in his eyes is enough to steal your breath away. There’s something wild about it, something possessive and adoring all at once.

"This means something," he says, serious now, fingers still tracing the ink. "You know that right?"

"I wouldn’t have done it if it didn’t."

His exhale is shaky. "I don’t deserve you."

"Shut up," you murmur, tugging him closer. "You deserve everything."

Max kisses you then, slow and deep, and when his hand slides down, his fingers brushing just beside the tattoo, you know he won’t let you forget what you’ve done.

Not now. Not ever. And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

[hyunjincanraptoo]

hii could i ask for #11 please? 🫶🏼 ur prompts are amazingg

Hi, anon, ofc!! Thank you 🫶 I really wanted to make something different from the prompts I see out there, I'm glad you liked 💜

(this one is another I'm feeling tempted to write part 2 👀)

This is from my prompt list. Pick a number and send it to my asks.

Warnings: smut, blowjob

Word count: 1.1k

Alexa, play Casual by Chappell Roan

Car sex (I know isn't exactly sex but it's what I felt writing)

The night had been full of laughter, clinking glasses, and the kind of tipsy conversations that came with too many drinks. You had a great time, but now, in the passenger seat of Hyunjin’s car, things felt different. Your energy was starting to settle, leaving you with a sense of desire that was beginning to overtake your mind.

Hyunjin, however, wasn’t in the same mood. His hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, his jaw clenched as he focused on the road ahead. He hadn’t said much since you both left the bar. His eyes, though, flickered to you from time to time, and you could tell he wasn’t exactly happy with the way the night had gone.

“I told you not to drink so much, didn’t I?”, he muttered, his voice tight, his usual cool demeanor replaced with irritation, “You always do this, Yn. You don’t think when you’re drunk”. You could tell he was trying to keep his cool, but the annoyance was evident. The way his lips pressed into a thin line, the way he kept his eyes on the road, not letting you distract him.

You leaned closer, your breath warm against his neck, “I’m fine”, you muttered softly, “I was just having fun. Don’t be so serious…”. It was then that your hand slipped, slowly at first, fingers brushing over his thigh. The motion was subtle, but it didn't take long before you were gently rubbing him through his pants. You could feel his muscles tense under your touch, the heat of his body responding to you, and it only made your pulse quicken.

“Yn, what are you doing?”, his voice was lower now, as he glanced over at you for a fraction of second. His grip on the wheel tightened again, knuckles pale. He was trying to stay focused, but you could tell how badly you were distracting him.

"I just want to make you feel good, Hyunie", you murmured, your fingers moving a little bolder, putting even more pressure. His cock twitched under your touch, and you smiled at the effect you were having on him. The alcohol in your system made everything feel so much more intense— the need to touch, to feel, to drive him crazy.

You slid your hand higher, brushing against his growing arousal, and that’s when he snapped. “Stop. Right now.” His voice was hard, commanding, but you could hear the breathlessness beneath it. His heart was racing, “You’re gonna get us both killed”. But your drunk neurons didn't care. The need for him, the way his body reacted to your touch, it drove you wild, got you intoxicated even. You needed him, and you needed him now.

Before he could scold you again, you moved faster, leaning forward to whisper in his ear, your lips brushing against the soft skin of his neck. “You’re too stressed”, you said, your breath hot, “Just let go, Hyunjin. Let me help you relax”.

He swore under his breath, hands shaking now as he brought the car to the side of the road, pulling over sharply, “This is dangerous”, he said, his voice low, shaky, as his gaze locked onto yours. He was so clearly fighting with himself, wanting you, but knowing how reckless it was to be doing this in the car while driving.

You couldn't care less. Your hand slid down to the waistband of his jeans, opening with practiced ease, your fingers brushing his hard member. Hyunjin’s eyes closed, a quiet moan escaping his lips. He bit his lip, looking like he was holding himself together by a thread.

“Yn…”, his voice was a mix of frustration and desperation, but you didn’t notice. You were already sliding your hand inside, finally feeling the warmth of him— his thick length already leaking. The sensation sent a jolt of pleasure through your own body. You could feel him twitching against your palm, his breath coming in shallow bursts.

“You’re so hard”, you whispered, your voice heavy with desire as you stroked him gently, teasingly. The car was now completely still, the only sounds were the quiet hum of the engine and the soft rustling of your movements. You leaned over, never breaking eye contact with him. His gaze was a mix of disbelief and hunger as you slowly took him into your mouth.

The first swirl of your tongue made him gasp, his hands clutching the steering wheel as he tried to hold on to the little control he had left. You moved slowly at first, savoring the taste of him, the way he trembled under your touch, the way his hands tugged at your hair. He was trying to keep it together, but the more you took him in, the more he lost himself in the pleasure you were giving him.

“Fuck, Yn”, he groaned, his head thrown back as you took him deeper, your hands working the parts of him your mouth couldn’t reach. You could feel the tension building in his body, the way his chest was rising and falling with every breath, how he gripped the seat in an attempt to anchor himself. His voice, low and broken, cut though the silence, “If you don’t stop… I’m not gonna last much longer”.

Well, that was the point. You moved faster, your mouth sucking him with purpose, with all the desire you felt. You wanted him so badly, wanted to take him as deep into your throat as you could. He was close, you could feel it, and you wanted to bring him to the edge, make him come undone in your mouth.

With a low, guttural groan, he finally reached his peak, his cock twitching as he released into your mouth. You swallowed, taking it all, your body still trembling. Hyunjin’s breath came in ragged gasps as he leaned back against the seat, trying to pull himself together. You smiled softly, wiping your mouth as you sat back up, the silence between you both heavy. “You’re insane”, he said, his voice still shaky. He ran a hand through his hair, looking at you with a mix of exhaustion and satisfaction, “You can’t just do that when I’m driving, babe. You know that, right?”

You smirked, leaning in to kiss him softly on the lips, “I couldn’t help it. You make me want you all the time”. His hand cupped your face gently, his thumb brushing over your lips, “We’ll talk about it later”, he muttered, but there was a small smile tugging at his lips. “You’re lucky I can't resist to you as well”. You just laughed, feeling the tension between you two ease, knowing that no matter how reckless the moment was, you both couldn’t deny how good it felt.

If you enjoyed it please consider liking and reblogging. Feedbacks, loves notes and requests are very much appreciated 😊

[inthelibrarybtw]

you want me to pretend | six

SERIES MASTERLIST

pairing: college!basketball!captain!rafe x college!student!reader content: fluff, college au, smau/irl, cursing, inaccurate basketball talk

summary: You were trying to make one problem disappear. You were tired, so you lied. That small lie led you to contact the last person you wanted to ask for help. It wasn’t that you didn’t like Rafe; only that you didn’t want to deal with his constant teasing more than you already did. Also, you two weren't that close, but this one lie was going to bring you two closer and maybe help some truths come to light.

word count:

authors note: oops! anyways I won't be posting until saturday or sunday, I love this fic as much as you but I need to lock in for college. taglist is still open so let me know.

05 | 06 | 07

Today

Economics hadn’t been your favorite class during high school, but college had given you a new perspective. More like, you actually understood it this time, so you enjoyed it. This class was one of the others you shared with Rafe. He was the only one there you could consider a friend, so when the professor paired everyone up and he called out his name and yours together, it was a relief. You knew how to work with him, and he knew how to work with you.

“I think the universe is forcing us together,” he joked, sitting next to you.  

“Oh, so you believe in the forces of the universe now?” you replied with a soft smile.  

“I think there is a bigger power that is pushing us together. This is the second presentation slash project we have to do together, and it’s the third class we share.”  

“It’s just coincidence.”  

“Is it now?” he smirked.  

“Let’s just decide what we are going to do with this, and we can work through it during the week.”  

“Whatever you say.”  

“Thursday, let’s get together. Now that you’ve been to my house, we can work there.”  

“Is this just an excuse to get me to play your boyfriend again?” he smirked. “Because if you want that, just say so.”  

“Oh, screw you! Not everything is about that,” you rolled your eyes. “I prefer working at my house, but if you don’t want to, let’s do it somewhere else.”  

“I never said I didn’t want to,” he chuckled. “I’ll be there at five?”  

“Yeah, okay.”  

After that, class was over, and you said goodbye to each other. You made your way to your car to drive back home while Rafe walked toward the basketball court.  

“Oh, captain, my captain,” JJ teased, and the rest joined in.  

“You need to stop doing that shit.”  

“And not piss you off? That’s not happening.”  

He was about to leave for the dressing room, but the coach called them.  

“We have a home game on Thursday, so tomorrow you need to clear your schedules. I’ll write a letter for you guys to send to your professors. Tomorrow is full basketball; I don’t accept no’s. So no practice today, and you guys have the afternoon to prepare.”  

A part of him was relieved he didn’t have to practice today, but he knew he had to cancel on you. That wasn’t going to work, so he grabbed his things and left the gym, headed straight to his car, and texted you.

At 2:40 PM, he arrived at your house. You didn't even have time to protest because he was already on his way when he texted you. You welcomed him into your home with Coco, the dog you were dog-sitting that week. Your neighbors had gone on a work trip, and they knew you loved dogs and that Coco loved you, so she was at your house.

Coco was a friendly dog, and the moment Rafe set foot in your home, she threw herself at him. You knew Rafe liked dogs, but you had never seen him with one. You noticed how he smiled and sat on the floor with Coco. She didn’t waste a second and lay down between his legs.

You both settled to work in your living room, sitting on the floor because, according to him, if not, Coco would feel too alone. You didn’t debate him on that because you didn’t care where you were as long as you got things done. While starting to work on the presentation, you both were on your phones texting people until finally, you both put them down. You continued chatting about what to do, and then silence fell. You hated working in silence.

“I will play some music,” you said.  

“Yeah, go ahead.”  

“Just a heads up, there’s probably going to be a lot of Taylor Swift,” you smiled.  

“I figured as much,” he chuckled.

You hummed along with some of the songs or silently sang them. Rafe didn’t mention it. You were so focused, and he was trying his best to accomplish what he needed to do. He was struggling to concentrate, but your soft hums and quiet singing were making it impossible. Don’t get him wrong; it’s not that he found it annoying; it was actually the opposite. He was enjoying it a lot more than he would ever admit to himself.

After a while, both your phones pinged at the same time; it was the BeReal notification. You just looked at him, and he nodded, silently communicating that he was okay with showing up in yours. You both took it and then continued working on the presentation, now talking a bit more about anything that came to mind at that moment.

You lost track of time, and the door opening along with your mom’s voice asking you a question brought you back to the moment. It was five o’clock.  

“Honey, whose car is that?” she said, walking in, and the answer to her question had Coco on his lap. “Oh! Rafe, hi! I didn’t know you were coming today.”  

“Hello, Mrs.—”  

“Don’t Mrs. me; call me Laura,” she smiled at Rafe. “Looks like Coco likes you… Anyway, honey, I brought you the ingredients to try that new cookie recipe.”  

“Oh, thanks, Mom,” I smiled at her, helping her with the items and bringing them to the kitchen. 

You didn’t hear, but Rafe had walked right behind you. While your mom was putting some things in the fridge and you were taking out the ingredients, he hugged you from behind. You tensed up a bit at the sudden motion but then relaxed.  

“Are you baking something now?” he asked, his face right next to your ear. You hated the effect he was having on you.  

“Maybe; do you want to help?”  

“Yes, I would very much like to,” he kissed your temple and took a step back. You couldn’t stop yourself from thinking back to sophomore year; if this had happened back then, you would’ve died.  

“You two are so cute,” your mom said before leaving the kitchen.  

You took a deep breath and started preparing all the things you needed.  

“I think you deserve to play music now,” you said to Rafe, and he chuckled.  

“I’m honored.”  

The cookie-baking session had gone well. You had laughed a lot, and having Rafe in your house didn’t feel weird anymore, even though it hadn’t been that long since he first set foot in. You knew he had taken a picture of you, so you made a mental note to ask for it later.  

You were cleaning up the kitchen when "Carnival" by Kanye started playing.  

“Rafe, can I change the song?”  

“Yes, princess; my phone is on the counter,” he said from the living room, where he was picking up his stuff.

You could swear your heart stopped after seeing that notification. Was he dating someone? Why had he said yes then? Was this considered cheating? Did she know? You changed the song and set the phone back on the counter. 

The sound of your dad’s voice mixed with Rafe’s brought you back to reality. Rafe walked back into the kitchen, continuing his conversation with your dad. Your head was elsewhere, and he seemed to notice your expression. 

“You okay?” 

“Yeah, yeah, I think I’m just tired.” You tried to sound convincing; he wasn’t convinced, but he didn’t want to push your boundaries. 

“Okay,” he said, kissing your cheek a few times before returning to talk to your dad. You grabbed your phone, opening the chat with the only person you could talk to at that moment.

He stayed for another forty minutes. You were hardly there anymore; you were aware you needed to keep up the act since your parents were around, but the anxiety just grew more as the minutes kept passing by. You took a deep breath and decided you would deal with this later because again, you didn’t even know how to start the conversation. 

Before he left, you packed some cookies for him to take back to his house. You walked him out of your house, and after that, you went to your room. On the bright side, the presentation was done for next week. You played the same song over and over again until you decided to grab a book to think about something else.

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[aryadelvich]

Hii, Could you please write one about a Jealous and Possessive Luigi when his cousin is flirting with you during a family gathering.🥰

Hii!! Thank you for your request 🫶 Here it is !!!

If you’re looking for more of my work here’s an Updated Masterlist

I don’t like the way he’s looking at you - Luigi Mangione

Reminder : Someone acting like this is not normal. It’s a fiction. If this happens to you in real life you have to make decision to leave. Jealousy is not a justification for bad behaviors.

Everyone was smiling, laughing, and chatting. You were surrounded by Luigi’s big Italian family, meeting what felt like a never-ending list of relatives.

It was the first time he had ever brought a girlfriend to a family event—his first serious relationship. His sisters, his mother, and his father had welcomed you with open arms, treating you like one of their own. Now, you were meeting the rest—his uncles, aunts, grandparents, cousins… So many cousins.

As you poured yourself a drink, a man walked up beside you. He was tall, dark-haired, and undeniably Italian—bearing an uncanny resemblance to Luigi.

"Hey," he greeted smoothly.

"Hey," you replied flatly.

"So, you’re Luigi’s girl? Never thought I’d see the day he brought someone home. You must be special."

"If you’ll excuse me." You turned to walk away, but before you could, he grabbed your arm.

"Hey, slow down. You haven’t even told me your name."

He pulled you a little closer, his hand settling on your waist. A cold wave of disgust rolled through you.

"Hey Nino!"

Luigi’s voice cut through the air like a blade. Before you could react, he stormed over and shoved Nino back so hard that he stumbled into a nearby table, knocking it over with a loud crash. Conversations died, and suddenly, all eyes were on the scene unfolding.

"Don’t touch her," Luigi snapped, his tone sharp enough to slice through steel.

You had never seen him like this before. Luigi was always calm, always kind. But now? He looked ready to kill.

Nino raised his hands in mock surrender. "Relax, Lulu, I was just being friendly."

"Find someone else to be friendly with," Luigi shot back, his voice dangerously low.

His mother rushed over, eyes wide with concern. "Luigi, what’s the problem ?"

"I lost my temper. But he was out of line."

He didn’t wait for a response. Instead, he grabbed your hand and pulled you away from the crowd, leading you toward a quiet corner of the house.

"YN, I told you not to talk to other guys."

You yanked your hand back, frowning. "I wasn’t talking to him. He came to me."

"It’s the same thing! It’s like last time I told you, if you don’t want me to lose it, you need to stay away from guys like him."

You folded your arms, frustration bubbling up. "Do you even hear yourself? You just caused a scene in front of your entire family!"

Luigi exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening. “You’re defending him ?”

You frowned. “I’m not defending him! I’m just saying you didn’t have to react like that.”

He let out a low, humorless chuckle, shaking his head. “Right. So now I’m the bad guy, and Nino’s just some innocent guy making conversation?”

“That’s not what I said—”

He stepped closer, his voice quieter but dripping with jealousy. “Keep this up, and I’m gonna start thinking you actually want him.”

Your eyes widened. “Are you serious right now?”

“I don’t know, am I?” His gaze locked onto yours, dark and unreadable. “Because from where I’m standing, you’re more upset about me putting him in his place than the fact that he touched you.”

“That’s not true!”

“Then say it.” His grip on your waist tightened slightly. “Say that you didn’t like it. Say that you don’t want him.”

You scoffed, pushing at his chest. “Obviously, I don’t want him, Luigi. What kind of question is that?”

He studied you for a moment, with a serious face. “Good. Because if I ever get the feeling that you do… I won’t be nearly as nice next time.”

"Do you even care how I feel? You can’t just act like you own me, Luigi."

His expression softened—just a little. He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair.

"You don’t get it, do you?" he murmured.

"Get what?"

He stepped closer, his hands finding your waist, holding you gently but firmly.

"I’m yours. Completely. I have been since the beginning."

Your heart clenched.

"Then why do you act like this?" you whispered.

He hesitated for a second, then sighed. "Because the thought of someone else touching you—hell, even looking at you—drives me insane. I don’t want to share you, not even for a second."

His fingers brushed against your cheek, his touch far softer than his words.

"But I need to trust you, Luigi. I need to know you won’t just explode every time another guy so much as breathes in my direction."

He nodded slowly, his eyes locked onto yours.

"You can trust me. But what I feel for you—it’s not something I can just turn down. I belong to you, YN. Every look, every word, every damn heartbeat. I’m always thinking about you, worried about you."

You bit your lip, torn between staying mad and just giving in.

"You’re obsessed," you muttered.

That familiar smirk ghosted his lips. "Isn’t the point ? Yeah I’m obsessed, so what ?."

You rolled your eyes, but he caught the tiny smile you tried to hide. And that was all he needed.