#for fear of having written these stories wrong

[enjakey]

Light Switch in the Dark

Or, the train to Paris that led to Shanghai

Pairing: architect!Sunghoon x author!fem!reader

TWN | (30k) | strangers to lovers, right person wrong time | a single perfect night could change the course of everything | so much yearning | angst, suicide, blood, mental health issues, loneliness, loss of partners, reader gets Alzheimer’s | not your average happy story and very sad ending ig | written into five distinct parts, each framing a significant point in their lives | heavily inspired by HIMYM and Grey's Anatomy and this reel.

Summary: two strangers travelling on the same path with different journeys in mind meet on a train to France. They spend a night of adventure, only to part ways the next morning. A decade later, they cross paths again in a book store in Shanghai. They’re both different people now, obviously, with so much life under their belts- success, loss, age. But the spark of the train still flickered between them. Did that mean the pair would live happily ever after or would they still have to struggle the curveballs thrown at them- Alzheimer’s, depression and utter fear of mortality?

i. The Train to France

The train was part of an old European railway network- one that spanned four countries, took three days, and moved like it was in no rush to arrive. Neither were the passengers. Most people opted for this train because it was slow and tranquil, because it was built for expansive journeys and for people that wanted a break, an escape from their lives.

Outside the window, the world blurred in gentle motion. Some places looked untouched with rolling pastures dotted with wildflowers, sleepy cottages tucked into hillsides and rivers that stitched their way across valleys like threads of silver. Occasionally, the train slipped by cities, glass buildings flickering in the reflection of early afternoon sun or passed small towns where the houses were still painted in vibrant pinks and yellows and bougainvillea grew like wild weed. Sometimes, the train passed through forgotten stations where no one ever boarded and no one wanted to get off.

Inside the train, things were quiet. It wasn’t the quiet that hushed like peace but the kind that vibrated with restrained life. Babies cooed or cried in soft bursts, children were coaxed to sleep, tourists tried to speak over headphone wires to gesture at maps (that were far beyond folding back) with crooked fingers and somewhere in the coach, there was an old married couple who started off with affectionate intent but ended up in an argument their son was trying to fix. There was also an old man with wiry hair that was asleep, his walking stick clutched between his knees like a weapon- so one saw him eat or drink water or even wake up, but the steady rise and fall of his chest indicated his life.

There were families with matching suitcases, travel groups with heavy coats and light eyes and lovers who couldn’t stop touching each other and then there were people like Y/N who boarded in Istanbul alone and waited for their destination in France alone.

She sat by the window with a modest stack of books beside her- books she tended to read again and books she had never read before, waiting to be explored. She told herself that in the three day train ride, she would finish reading them- but honestly, she was far from it. Some were underlined and dog-eared, others held paper scraps as bookmarks that no longer made sense. It was easy to get distracted in that train, as surprising as it was. Watching the scenery would immediately have her hand itching towards her pen to fill her notebook- her notebook that now lay open in front of her, nearly every page covered in scattered handwriting and ink-smudged sketches of things she noticed. People, trees, buildings, the flow of the rivers. And not all the words in her notebook made sense. Some were quotes she found and forgot to cite, some were just scribbles that looked like Russian cursive- absentminded movements of a restless hand.

There was an empty coffee cup tipped slightly on its side, leaving a pale brown ring on the edge of a page. When she grew bored of writing or reading, Y/N dipped her fingertips into the puddled remains of it, painting quick strokes in the margins- little trees, the silhouette of a bird mid-flight, a sketch of a mountain that might have been a memory or a dream.

That was all she really did in the first two days of the trip- read, wrote, watched the world move backwards from the glass. Sometimes, she liked to pretend like she was leaving things behind to start a new life, to create a new identity as the eccentric traveler. But Y/N could never be that- she was too quiet, too grounded into her reality. And perhaps, that was where her loneliness stemmed from. She felt lonely- not in the heavy, aching sense that people seemed to love succumbing to. This was the loneliness she had grown immune to- a dull companion that hummed in the background but never really asked for attention. 

Now, at twenty-five, Y/N was content with it. She grew accustomed to the quiet. She liked that her days were filled with Greek and Latin literature and academia while her nights were stolen by books and philosophical texts to analyse. She liked that she needed no one- this was enough.

Outside, the sky had begun to change- the golden wash of the late afternoon slipped into a cooler blue, edges softened by lavender. Towns gave way to sharper silhouettes of buildings and the world wasn’t moving backwards anymore, slowly catching up to Y/N’s pace. The train began to slow down as it curved the edges of a waking city.

Y/N looked up as the wheels beneath her softened into a screeching halt. The platform signs were in German now. People were beginning to stir, stretch and gather their things- people who left were replaced by new passengers. Her fingers were still damp with coffee. She wiped them on the inside of her sleeve and closed her notebook with a sigh, head leaning against the window again.

Zurich.

She wasn’t getting off here, but the brief lull in motion always felt significant- like the story might shift if you paid close enough attention.

And it did.

Because somewhere amidst the movement of passengers, the hiss of doors, and the tired shuffle of new bodies settling into old seats, someone slipped into the space across from her. No suitcase, no coat- ust a tall cup of coffee, a phone, and a man with dark eyes and an expression that said very little.

He didn’t ask if the seat was taken- he didn’t need to. For the first time since Y/N got on the train, the seat across from her had been claimed. It was out of pure luck, she thought, that no one wanted to occupy it- there were either enough seats or not enough passengers. Perhaps, this time, it was that there were no more seats left to occupy but the seat in front of her.

The man just looked at her, nodded once like they were already acquainted and turned to face the window. And just like that, the table she had thought was hers alone- her sanctuary of scribbles and silence- was now shared. And Y/N, for the first time in two days, found herself watching something other than the world outside.

Y/N tried not to stare, she really did. 

But there was something curious about him- this stranger who came bearing nothing but a steaming drink and a phone he hadn’t looked at once since sitting down. He leaned back against the seat like he’d done this before, like he belonged to this train more than the tracks did. His eyes moved slowly across the scenery as if he were trying to memorize the shapes of things. He looked so fresh, so bright despite the scowl look of his resting face- sharp eyes and eyebrows, a clenched jaw.

He didn’t look out of place. But he definitely didn’t look like he was a local either. His hoodie, navy in color and looking stiff, gave it away- it was brand new, most likely bought in account for a trip.

She returned to her notebook, flipping to a clean page. The tips of her fingers were still stained with coffee. Without thinking, she began painting again- small birds, crooked rooftops, the tracks the very train moved on.

He noticed.

“You draw with coffee?” he asked, his voice low, lined with amusement.

Y/N blinked. It was the first time anyone had spoken to her on this train. She glanced up. “Only when I run out of ink.” It felt new to even be talking. It felt like she hadn’t heard her own voice in eternity- she almost sounded foreign to herself.

He smiled at that, and it softened him. “Seems inefficient.”

“Only slightly,” she said. “But I like the color. Feels more honest than black ink.”

He nodded thoughtfully and sipped his coffee. “That’s poetic.”

“I’m a writer,” she said, as if it explained everything.

“Ah,” he gestured to the pile of books beside her. “I figured you were either that or a librarian on the run.”

A small laugh slipped out of her before she could stop it. “Wouldn’t that be something?”

“Depends. Did you commit a literary crime?”

She leaned forward slightly, propping her chin on her hand. “I guess I stole too many endings that weren’t mine.”

Something shifted in his expression, a flicker of interest deeper than casual banter. “Then maybe we’re both criminals.”

She raised a brow. “You’re a writer too?”

He shook his head. “Architect. I steal pieces of cities and try to turn them into buildings.”

“That sounds noble,” she said, tilting her head. “Or maybe romantic.”

“It’s mostly just paperwork and disappointment,” he admitted. “But maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll get to build something that stays.”

Y/N fell quiet at that, because she knew exactly what he meant.

“So,” he said, tapping his cup lightly against the table, “how does this work? Do we exchange names now, or do we pretend we’re ghosts passing through each other’s lives?”

She studied him a moment longer, then extended her hand across the table.

“Y/N.”

He took it, his grip warm and firm. “Sunghoon.”

And just like that, the train began to move again, slowly at first, then with a growing rhythm.

The scenery shifted once more. But the air between them was different now- thinner, sparking. Something had changed. Not loudly, not all at once. But enough for Y/N to realize that loneliness had finally taken a step back. And someone else had taken its seat.

The train hummed like a lullaby beneath their feet as Europe unfolded around them under moonlight. Seats hummed with quiet life, arranged in open clusters with personal tables- no compartments, no doors to close behind. Just people and stories and the soft flicker of overhead lights as the train curved gently around valleys and mountains alike. In the corner of it all was Y/N and Sunghoon, listening to each other share life stories- two attractive strangers, staring into each other's eyes like this was permanent. 

Y/N told him about her degree in Greek literature and how her parents were against it when she first announced her decision. Their distaste towards her academic goal was understandable- what kind of living would their daughter make out of such a fickle degree? And truth be told, Y/N was struggling. After graduating, she barely made a living through small writing gigs and coffee shop jobs as a barista. Now, she was on the hunt for a story to hopefully write her first book- hence her lonesome presence on a three day train, from Istanbul to France. 

“Oh, you haven’t published yet?”

“That’s why I call myself a writer. Not an author yet,” she grinned, hiding her embarrassment. 

“There’s a difference?” Sunghoon’s brows raised.

“It’s clear how much you don’t read.”

Sunghoon listened with the kind of attention that didn't feel performative. His gaze didn’t waver, but it didn’t press either. Just there… with his warm curiosity towards this new person he met.

And when Y/N finally asked him to speak about himself, he started ranting about his architecture career- twenty-seven years in the making, since the day he was born. Apparently, when he was born, his parents went to an astrologer who said that Sunghoon would grow up to be an architect. And the gola never changed, only manifested deeper into him as he grew up- from stacking legos that stood taller than his body as a kid to his professors adoring his models in college. 

“I just want to contribute to a skyline,” he said. “Doesn’t matter which city. Doesn’t even have to be famous. I just… I want people to look up and feel something.” His voice grew softer. “My boss doesn’t get it. He’s just… numbers and deadlines and grey rectangles.”

There was something oddly touching in that, a boyish idealism that had somehow survived into adulthood. He wasn’t jaded- not fully.

“Is he a brutalist?” Y/N asked.

“No, he’s just… boring. And brutalist architecture isn’t boring.”

He explained he’d been on a trip across Europe with his two best friends- a plan they’d made years ago, when life was still about university cafeterias and late-night dreams. But he’d broken off from the group for a detour to Zurich, to see his younger sister, now studying there. It had been a short, sweet visit. Familiar in the way only siblings could be- awkward hugs, sarcasm, shared complaints about their mother’s relentless texts. Now, he was rejoining his friends in Paris. “They’ve probably eaten their way through half the restaurants by now,” he grinned. “And argued over where to go next.”

“They’re all architects?”

“No, just me,” Sunghoon nodded, proudly. “But, one’s studying to be a lawyer. The other is gonna be an intern for surgery soon.”

Their conversation melted into the sound of the train wheels against the track. Their conversation didn’t feel like two strangers getting to know each other. It felt like slipping into a rhythm that had always existed, like picking up a thread from a story that had already begun. There were no awkward pauses, no searching for the right words- just an easy back-and-forth that felt strangely familiar. Like they were old friends who had somehow forgotten they were old friends. Like this was a reunion, not a first meeting.

At some point, he coaxed her up, dragging her down the aisle with a mischievous “You can’t sit still forever, writer girl.”

She resisted at first, rejecting his grip on her wrist with a hesitant gaze of her eyes. But he was too persistent- that sharp smile of his, was too persistent. And shyly, almost awkwardly, she stood up and followed him. And that would be the first time Y/N got up for reasons other than using the washroom or finding a meal to eat.

The train during the night was more alive than it was in the morning. That’s just the way it was with things like this- when a group of strangers came together to travel across borders. It was a silent promise of haven, of comfort. They walked past the soft flicker of reading lamps, the faint rustle of pages and whispered exchanges in many languages. They passed a woman knitting tiny socks with blue yarn, a man asleep with his head tipped back and opera music playing from his phone, a child pressing glow-in-the-dark stars against the window.

In the lounge coach, someone was playing the harmonica. The sound was low and imperfect, but so achingly human that it felt like a story in itself. 

“This is definitely something I want to write about.”

Sunghoon looked at her, confused. He couldn’t see the expression on her face, he was towering over her to get a glimpse of her hair that was hidden by her hair. But by her voice alone, he could hear the sparkle in her eyes.

“Yeah?” Sunghoon said. “What can you say? It’s just a guy playing a harmonica. Incorrectly, at that.”

“But do you hear the history in it?”

Somewhere near the middle of the train, tucked into a dimly lit dining car, was a makeshift poker table- though it wasn’t official, and the chips were mostly replaced by foreign coins, buttons, and old candy wrappers. A group of old men sat around it, the air thick with the scent of tobacco that no one was actually smoking, and laughter that came in easy bursts like waves hitting a dock. They sang as they played- old folk songs in accented English and native tongues, clapping along to choruses only they knew. One had a flute he’d chime in with between rounds; another drummed his fingers rhythmically on the edge of the table like it was a snare.

Sunghoon was the first to slow his steps, then Y/N. Something about the scene pulled them in- the warmth of it, the chaos, the openness of strangers too old to care who joined as long as they knew how to smile. The invitation came with a gesture- a crooking finger, a grin, a gap-toothed nod toward the table. They didn’t resist.

They slid into the seats like they’d always belonged there, excited smiles and palms rubbed together. A few coins from Y/N’s pocket, some spare notes from Sunghoon’s wallet- it wasn’t about winning. The old men were ruthless and charming, teasing them in thick accents, telling them the rules only after they'd broken them. Sunghoon forgot which suit beat what, and Y/N mistook her hand for something stronger than it was. They lost every round, but they laughed harder each time. It was never about the cards. It was about the way joy could travel across decades, across languages and lives, and land right there between two young people on a midnight train.

One of the men told a story about a girl he almost married in Portugal after two drinks too many, another about a time he danced barefoot in a rainstorm on the German border. One told the story of how he lost his arm during the war- Y/N and Sunghoon didn’t know which one, but were too scared to ask. Their words stitched across the table like quiltwork- melancholy in parts, hilarious in others, but always rich. Y/N listened with wide eyes, mentally bookmarking characters she hadn’t even written yet. Sunghoon leaned back in his chair, one arm resting behind her, the other fiddling with a useless hand of cards. Every now and then, they’d glance at each other and grin- caught in a secret moment neither of them could explain.

By the end of it, they had lighter wallets and heavier hearts, full of names they’d forget by morning (Sunghoon would forget, not Y/N) and faces they’d remember forever. When the group eventually dispersed, the men wished them luck- at life, at love, at whatever came next. And then the dining car emptied slowly, leaving Y/N and Sunghoon alone at the table with empty glasses and leftover laughter.

For a long time, they just sat there. But Sunghoon dragged her up again, like he was impatient on what he would find next. 

They reached the back of the train. The stars were louder there, with no glass to filter them- sharp and endless, scattered above the moving world like they’d been nailed into the fabric of the night. The wind whipped fast and gentle all at once, lifting their hair in small chaotic dances- Sunghoon’s dark strands tousled back like the wind was styling him on purpose, while Y/N’s hair tangled and curled around her face, occasionally catching on her lips, on the collar of her coat, in the crook of Sunghoon’s arm when they stood too close.

The railings were rusted, chipping with time and weather, flecked with the stories of thousands of travelers before them. They leaned on it anyway- elbows pressed into the cool metal, fingers curling over the edge, palms warming the cold. It groaned slightly beneath them, like it remembered what it meant to hold someone’s weight.

The air smelled like the wild- earthy and crisp, threaded with something that felt like memory. Below them, the world blurred in soft motion- dark forests, sleeping towns, rivers that shimmered like liquid glass beneath the stars. Above them, constellations took their time- Orion with his quiet confidence, Cassiopeia lounging in her eternal curve. Neither Y/N nor Sunghoon said anything for a while. 

There was a stillness in that speed- a paradox only night trains seemed to understand. The kind where time slowed down just long enough to notice the way his knuckles grazed hers on the railing, or the way her eyes reflected stars like she’d been born from them.

And then Sunghoon said, quietly, like he was saying it to himself, “I feel like I’m running out of time.”

Y/N didn’t look at him, but she listened. You could tell she was listening by the way her breath caught a little, and how her fingers curled tighter around the metal bar.

“I’m twenty-seven. I know that’s not old,” he continued, “but it’s not exactly new either. And there’s this pressure- this... noise in my head that says I should’ve done something big by now. Left a mark, built something that outlasts me.”

The train curved then, slow and smooth, and the stars tilted slightly in the sky. Y/N still said nothing.

“I feel like no one gets it,” he added, half-laughing, but it was a bitter kind of sound. “I feel like no one understands why it’s so important to build something beautiful. All everyone seems to care about these days is money and loopholes.”

She looked at him then, finally. Just a glance, soft and brief.

He looked over at her. “But you get it, right?”

Y/N nodded, then turned back to the night. “Yeah,” she said. “I do.” Her voice was quiet, not in a sad way but in the way Sunghoon understood that she was feeling it too- his plight. “When I say I want to write a book, I don’t mean just anything. I mean… I want to leave a mark, I want my work to be talked about. I want to be as great as Clarice Lispector or Kazuo Ishiguro.”

Sunghoon said nothing, mostly because he didn’t know the authors she’d just mentioned. He just watched her speak.

“But lately... I don’t know. I feel like I’m borrowing other people’s words. Like I haven’t lived enough to write anything worth reading.” Her fingers brushed the railing again. “My parents still think I should’ve picked something safer. Like business or economics or something. And maybe they’re right.”

“No, they’re not,” he said, too quickly. “You need to live to write. You can’t just… watch life through windows and call it enough.”

“I know,” Y/N’s eyes were welling with tears at that point. But she convinced herself that it was the wind hitting her eyes and not the weight against her heart. “I think I’m just scared.”

“Of what?”

“Living,” she said, almost laughing. “Living, experiencing everything right- only to ultimately fail and write something unforgettable. It’s so stupid. Sometimes I feel like writing is so stupid.”

“It’s not,” Sunghoon shook his head. He stared straight ahead, crossing his arms on the railing. “You know how they say every artist hates their own work? I’m sure Louis Sullivan hated his first building. But it didn’t stop him from completing it.”

Y/N tilted her head, blinking away the burn behind her eyes. “Who’s Louis Sullivan?” she asked.

Sunghoon smiled faintly. “Architect. They call him the father of skyscrapers.” He hesitated, then added, “His buildings didn’t even get much attention when he was alive. It all came later. But still, he kept going. Even when it felt like no one cared.”

“I’m assuming with your career, you learnt a lot about architects,” she chuckled.

“I’ve got a whole archive of information,” he grinned proudly.

Y/N looked away again, the wind catching the edge of her jacket and lifting it gently behind her. The rusted railing creaked softly beneath their weight, but they didn’t move. There was something sacred about the discomfort- like they owed it to the moment to stay right where they were.

“Do you think it’s worth it?” she asked eventually. “Giving your life to something that might never be seen?”

“I’d like to think it’s better than not trying at all,” he said. “But sometimes, I don’t get it. When I saw my sister, she was thriving- university and all that. But I’m still figuring shit out. It’s like I always have been.”

“You’re not alone in that,” Y/N said. “I don’t think anyone really figures it out. Some of us are just better at pretending.”

He smiled. Not a big one, just enough.

“I used to sit on my roof as a kid,” he said. “Stare at the stars and make wishes even though I didn’t believe in them.”

Y/N tilted her head, curious. “What did you wish for?”

“A lot of things,” he shrugged. “Toys, lenient parents, a sibling… and I eventually got a sister. Then eventually, I stopped believing in it.”

She didn’t respond. Just leaned into the railing a little deeper. 

“The stars remind me of myths,” she said after a while. “The ones I studied. Greek tragedies, gods turning into animals, lovers becoming constellations just to be together.”

“You believe in that?” he asked.

She paused, then smiled. “No. But I like that someone once did.”

And in that space between them, something invisible and delicate bloomed. Not love, not yet. But something heavy and soft, rooted in the chest. The kind of connection that only happens at the back of a moving train, with stars sharp above and wind in your teeth, and a stranger who suddenly isn’t one anymore- something permanent, even if they were not.

Eventually, they made their way back through the softly dimmed train- past the poker table now quiet and empty, past sleeping passengers curled beneath jackets and scarves- to their seats. The overhead lights buzzed gently above, their little corner of the train wrapped in a hushed stillness.

Y/N pulled out a pen from her tote and tore a napkin into squares. “Tic-tac-toe?” she asked, already drawing the grid.

Sunghoon grinned. “Prepare to lose.”

She tore the corner of an old train pamphlet and started scribbling grids. Tic-tac-toe. Then hangman. Then the dumbest drawing contest either of them had ever participated in. She dared him to draw a duck and he came up with a lopsided blob with antennae. She laughed so hard her eyes watered. He laughed too, head tossed back, his knees pressed into the seat in front of him, body curled like it was trying to hold the joy in.

They spoke less as the hours dragged on. There was no need to fill the silence. The kind of quiet they shared wasn’t awkward- it was warm, stretched like a blanket over the two of them. They sipped from a tiny carton of orange juice they found buried in her tote and whispered about the most useless superpowers they’d want to have. (He said being able to always know which lane moved fastest in a grocery store. She said being able to taste colors.)

Eventually, her eyelids drooped. She laid her head on her folded arms, right there on the tiny table between them. Her hair spilled over like ink, her breathing evened out, and her mouth twitched slightly in sleep- like she was smiling at something in a dream she wouldn't remember.

Sunghoon didn’t move.

He watched her for a long while. Not in a creepy way. Just… in awe. At how still she was- how peaceful. There was something about the way the moonlight through the window painted across her face that made him feel like this moment was borrowed- like time had paused and he’d been given a glimpse into something sacred, like an old Victorian painting.

He turned to the window. The stars were fading now, washed thin by the first hints of dawn. He pressed his palm against the glass and felt the faint thrum of motion beneath it.

And he thought- about how fleeting everything felt lately. About how moments like this- ones that sneaked up on you and made you feel deeply human- never lasted long enough. He thought about the future, about buildings he hadn’t yet sketched, about lines and edges and spaces that could become something living. He thought about asking her for her number, how he’d even phrase it, how not to make it weird.

He thought about what kind of book she would write- maybe something strange and wandering, the kind of story that didn’t apologize for taking its time. He thought about how her characters would probably be like her: observant, quiet, a little brave without realizing it.

The train kept moving.

And then… morning came. It wasn’t loud- just a slow blooming of gold across the sky. The clouds turned soft and lilac at the edges, and the air began to shift. The train started to slow. The brakes hissed, metal groaned.

They were in Paris.

The station was already awake- blurred voices, hurried footsteps, the distant beep of announcements he couldn’t quite make out. But inside their little cabin, everything still felt untouched.

Sunghoon looked at Y/N. She was still sleeping, arm tucked under her head, breath warm against her sleeve.

And for a moment- just one- he didn’t want to wake her.

He let the idea wash over him like a wave. What if they stayed on? Just didn’t get off. Let the train roll again, take them to another city, maybe even another country- Vienna, Lyon, wherever. Just so he could sit beside her a little longer. Just so he could hold onto this stillness.

But reality was patient. And it always catches up.

So he reached out, gently pressing his fingers to her shoulder. “Y/N,” he said, voice low, almost apologetic. “We’re here.”

She stirred slowly, blinking against the light. “Huh?”

“Paris,” he said.

Her eyes widened. She sat up, sleep still clinging to her limbs, disoriented but already reaching beneath her seat for her suitcase. Her hair was tousled, face creased slightly from her nap, and she looked so real (he didn’t even know how to explain it, it was the fact that she wasn’t his imagination, that she was a person, had a life, outside of the night they had together) in that moment that Sunghoon’s chest ached.

He stood too, grabbing her bag and guiding her to the exit. The train doors hissed open with a kind of finality that neither of them were ready for.

They stepped onto the platform.

It was colder here than he expected- a sharp, Parisian morning air. It was the kind that carried the scent of fresh bread and motion. People hurried past them with cameras and coats and open maps, but the two of them just stood there- still holding their luggage, still close enough to touch but too far to say anything meaningful.

And then it hit her.

That this was it.

This was goodbye.

She looked at him, like, really looked. Not like someone she met on a train, not like a stranger. But like someone whose existence, however brief in her story, left a ripple.

“I guess this is…” she began, then trailed off.

“Yeah,” Sunghoon said, swallowing. His adams apple bounced. “It is.”

His attention, however, was ripped towards the opposite direction- Sunghoon heard them before he saw them.

“SUNGHOON! LET’S GO!”

Jake’s voice echoed across the platform, followed by Jay dramatically flailing his arms like he was about to take flight. “WE'RE GONNA GET CHARGED AN EXTRA HOUR FOR PARKING!”

They were standing near the exit, beside a wheezing rental car with an uneven paint job and too much luggage crammed into its trunk. They looked like they belonged in a different world, one that hadn’t just stood still all night; one that hadn’t just sat across from someone and quietly fallen into a version of affection that didn’t need time to grow- it bloomed instantly, and painfully.

Sunghoon looked at them.

Then… looked away.

He turned back to Y/N.

She was already pulling her suitcase handle upright, her face composed, wearing that brave expression that people wear when they know the goodbye will hurt but they’re choosing dignity over drama. Her eyes were a little puffy from sleep- or maybe it was emotion. He didn’t ask.- he would never know.

“Guess that’s your ride,” she said, the smile on her lips not quite reaching her eyes.

He didn’t reply. He wanted to say something- anything- but every sentence that formed in his throat felt too small, too stupid or too late. His emotions didn’t make sense to him anymore. His heart skipping a beat at the way the sunlight hit her eyes didn’t make sense anymore.

Y/N took a small step forward and stuck her hand out between them. Her fingers were steady, her voice wasn’t.

“Maybe we’ll meet again,” she said, smiling softly. “But for now… goodbye, Sunghoon.” It could’ve ended there. But she blinked- just once- and added, quieter: “Thank you for making the night a little less lonely.”

And just like that, he was ruined.

Sunghoon took her hand, firm, certain- like that moment deserved at least that much clarity. And maybe that was the saddest part of it all- how their story ended the same way it began: with a handshake.

Two people. One shared night. A lifetime’s worth of unanswered questions.

He held on for a beat longer than he should have. Then he let go reluctantly. Then stepped back with a nod, his eyes memorizing the shape of her one last time. And without another word ((he didn’t even find it in him to reciprocate a goodbye), he turned and jogged toward his waiting friends, who were still dramatically yelling about the parking ticket.

Behind him, Y/N turned in the opposite direction, hoping to hail a taxi to her hotel.

She didn’t look back. Neither did he.

When Sunghoon finally caught up with them, breath uneven and head a little too full, Jay and Jake didn’t waste a second. They manhandled him into the backseat like he was carry-on luggage.

“We’ve been waiting for hours,” Jake exaggerated from the passenger side, twisting halfway around to stare at him. “You better have a Nobel-worthy reason for making us risk another parking fine. How’s your sister, mate?”

Jay, hands on the wheel, sunglasses on even though it was barely sunrise, shot a look at Sunghoon through the rearview mirror.

“Fuck that,” he said. “Who was the girl?”

Sunghoon groaned, dropped his head back against the seat, crossed his arms over his chest like a sulky teenager. Suddenly, the night that had felt so luminous, so important, shrunk down into this weird, private ache. The kind that couldn’t be explained without sounding stupid. Because how do you tell your best friends that one night on a train with a stranger made you question everything you thought you wanted? Made you feel more than you had in months?

Sunghoon just stared out the window as the city passed in a blur and tried not to think about how fast it was all slipping away. Jake and Jay didn’t wait for an answer. Of course not- they were already in full chaos mode, cooking up scenarios like they were writing for a shitty soap-opera.

“You sat beside her?”

“Made a new friend?”

“Fucked the new friend, perhaps?” Jake added with a dramatic gasp, clapping once. “Train version of the mile-high club, huh?”

“In the bathroom?” Jay asked, feigning shock. “Dude, gross. Those toilets flush like portals to hell.”

“Oh, wait-” Jake snapped his fingers, “you kissed her. That’s it. You kissed her and then cried about it while looking out the window like you’re in a sad indie film.”

Sunghoon inhaled slowly and closed his eyes. “You guys,” he said, voice low and deadly calm, “are disgusting.”

Jake and Jay erupted into laughter.

“Which means,” Jay said smugly, tapping the steering wheel, “something definitely happened.”

Sunghoon didn’t reply. He just leaned his head against the window, the cold glass pressing into his skin. The city of Paris unfolded outside, but he wasn’t really seeing it. Not the cafés, or the early risers with fresh bread tucked under their arms, or the old men reading newspapers on benches.

He was still on the train. Still in that quiet, starlit space. Still listening to her say thank you for making the night a little less lonely.

ii. Ten Years Too Lonely

When Y/N was young, her parents used to tell her about how they met. Her bedtime stories weren’t made up of dragons or fairies, but of reckless youth, of laughter echoing in tiny bars that no longer existed, of impossible nights that somehow still lived on in memory. Her parents had lived like people in novels- messy, brave, complicated. They told her stories filled with bad decisions that made great memories, spontaneous road trips, heartbreaks that healed over time, and a small group of friends who stayed, who always stayed.

Those friends were still around- her honorary uncles and aunts. They showed up for the big moments: the day she was born, the major birthdays, and all her graduations. They were the ones who took her out for her first legal drink, who called her kiddo even when she was twenty, who looked at her like she belonged. And maybe it was only around them that she ever felt like she did. Like she was part of something bigger, warmer, something permanent.

But outside those rare, glowing reunions, Y/N felt like a ghost of a person. Like she hadn’t been fully written yet. Like her edges were blurry, her voice a little too quiet, her presence too easy to miss. She used to think that one day, she’d grow into herself. That she’d wake up and suddenly feel whole. But the days kept ending and nothing changed.

She’d always been unlucky with friendships. People liked her, sure- they said she was nice, called her sweet. But no one stayed. No one ever fought to keep her close. She was the kind of person you texted when you were bored, not when your world was falling apart. She was always the one listening, nodding, comforting. Rarely the one being held. She didn’t know what she did wrong- maybe she didn’t shine enough. Maybe she was just forgettable. She tried to tell herself that wasn’t true, that she mattered, that someone would one day see her the way she longed to be seen. But most days, the silence was louder than any hope she tried to build.

Relationships? Those were worse. Crushes that never looked her way, dates that fizzled before they even began, almost-loves that ended in vague texts and unreturned calls. She couldn’t even be mad at them. She understood. Why would anyone stay with someone who didn’t really stand out? She wasn’t the bold, flirty girl with a spark in her eyes. She wasn’t magnetic, or mysterious, or even particularly witty. She was just… there, easy to walk away from.

And that was the thing that hurt the most- the thought that people would forget her. That she could pass through someone’s life and leave no mark at all. That years from now, someone she once shared a laugh with wouldn’t even remember her name. That she was the kind of person you had to try to remember. Not because she was unpleasant. But because she was just so easy to overlook.

She hated that. She hated how much it bothered her. She hated that she wanted to be seen so badly, wanted to matter to someone- anyone- just for a little while. And more than anything, she hated that she’d let life pass her by. That she hadn’t been brave enough to chase the moments she dreamed about. The semester abroad she kept telling herself she’d apply to. The marine research internship near the beach she’d bookmarked five times but never actually submitted an application for. The universities she never left her hometown to attend. She watched opportunities drift by like trains she couldn’t get herself to board.

And every time she missed one, she told herself it was fine. That there would be another. That she was just waiting for the right time. But deep down, she knew. She knew she wasn’t waiting. She was hiding. From the possibility of failing. From the pain of not being enough. From the crushing weight of trying her best and still falling short.

But the thing is… her parents had always known that Y/N would make a life for herself. From the day she was born to the day she graduated and began the daunting task of job hunting, they’d looked at her with a kind of certainty that Y/N never really understood. “It’s just that your life hasn’t begun yet,” they would repeat to her like a prophecy.

And for a long time, she believed them. Or at least she tried to. She clung to the hope that one day, her plight would mean something, that she'd wake up and suddenly become the person she was always supposed to be. But that hope wore thin. Especially in the years that followed graduation- years where nothing really happened. Where she lived at home again, working part-time jobs she never talked about at family dinners, feeling more and more like she was treading water in a pool where everyone else was learning how to swim laps.

Eventually, she couldn’t take it anymore- the guilt of still living under her parents' roof, the quiet shame of watching life pass by like a train she kept missing. So, in a burst of desperation or courage or maybe both, she booked a trip to Europe with the savings she’d been hoarding for no particular reason. She drained her bank account in one impulsive night of scrolling and airfare. And just like that, she was gone.

And suddenly- suddenly- her degree in Greek Literature didn’t feel so useless anymore. Not when she was exploring a three-day train with a stranger. Not when she was wandering through the streets of Athens, tracing the ruins her textbooks used to speak of in dusty academic tones. Not when she stood beneath the Parthenon at sunset with a backpack and a journal and no plans for the next day. And just like that, her life started to change.

In the month she spent abroad, she felt herself unfold. Like some slow, patient blooming. She talked to strangers without rehearsing the conversation beforehand. She danced at rooftop bars in Lisbon with people whose names she barely caught. She took a spontaneous night bus to Prague with a pair of Finnish siblings she met in a museum café. She broke down crying in a quiet alley in Florence and was comforted by a woman named Elif from Istanbul, who shared her gelato and told her heartbreak was a sign of living. In Barcelona, she accidentally joined a group of traveling circus performers for three days because they mistook her for someone else and she was too embarrassed to correct them- until she wasn’t. She even kissed someone under a broken street lamp in Amsterdam, someone whose name she still remembers but whose face is already fading in her mind.

There were so many stories. Wild, unthinkable, movie-scene type stories. But perhaps the most unbelievable part was how alive she felt. For the first time in her life, she didn’t feel like a background character. She didn’t feel like someone waiting for something to happen to her. She was the happening.

She met people. She lived with them. She cooked pasta in tiny hostel kitchens, shared beds with near strangers, drank cheap wine in public parks, danced barefoot, and got lost more times than she could count. She met Luca, a Sicilian med student who taught her how to flirt in Italian; Josie, a Canadian street artist who carried a notebook filled with secrets from people she met; and Santiago, a chef from Buenos Aires who taught her to make empanadas while talking about love like it was a religion.

They were fleeting people. But they mattered.

And she kept in touch with most of them- at least for a while. They exchanged numbers, promised to visit, sent postcards and songs and memes across time zones. Luca sent her a blurry photo of his med school graduation. Josie invited her to a pop-up art show in Toronto that she couldn’t attend. Santiago messaged her every few months just to ask how she was, calling her mi poeta.

But life moved on. As it always does.

Y/N came back home, and things had changed, but she wasn’t quite sure if she had. She floated through a string of jobs- proofreading textbooks, writing content for lifestyle blogs, tutoring high school students in Greek mythology. Nothing ever stuck. Nothing ever felt like hers. Until one day, almost on a dare to herself, she sat down and started writing again- not for money, not for work, but for herself.

The book came quietly. No agents, no fanfare. A small indie publisher picked it up. And somehow, her first novel resonated with enough people to warrant a tiny book signing tour. She visited three cities. Five bookstores. Signed a hundred copies with her slightly messy, unsure signature.

And still… She felt alone.

As the years passed, the messages from her travel friends became less frequent. The jokes grew stale, the memories stopped coming up in conversation and eventually, keeping in touch became just liking each other’s Instagram posts or sending the occasional emoji reply to a story. 

When she moved to Shanghai to teach English at a small local university, she barely told anyone. She packed her life into two suitcases, boarded the flight alone, and arrived in a city where no one knew her name. The loneliness there was quieter, less sharp. It didn’t ache the way it used to. Because in times like this, feeling lonely was inevitable and she didn’t beat herself up for it. Because this was going to be her new life, her new norm.

She taught classes, went to the market, and drank tea by her apartment window. Life was simple. She liked it. And she realised how her age was catching up to her, that she was yearning for the peaceful moments in her life rather than late night travel trips.

And yet, some nights, when she couldn’t sleep, she’d scroll through old photos- grainy hostel selfies, street corners, sunset skies she had once sworn she’d never forget. She would look at those faces and wonder if any of them remembered her too, if she’d been as temporary to them as they were eternal to her.

Because the truth about Y/N was that no matter how much she saw, how many stories she collected, or how far she ran, she still came out of it alone. Not broken, not bitter- just… still waiting. Still wondering if her life had really begun yet, or if she was still standing on the edge of something bigger, too afraid to take the leap.

Though some nights, the memories haunted her, most days, Y/N kept moving. She walked the same narrow streets from her apartment to the university, nodded politely at the same old man who sold dough strips by the metro station, and let her world stay predictable and repetitive.

But it was on a rainy Sunday- one of those Shanghai afternoons where the air hung heavy with the scent of wet concrete and jasmine- that things would change again.

She’d been wandering aimlessly, an umbrella tucked under her arm, letting the drizzle kiss her skin as she browsed street vendors and quiet alleys she hadn’t taken the time to explore before. She wasn’t even looking for anything in particular when she ducked into the tiny bookstore nestled between a tea shop and a dry cleaner, a place so unobtrusive she’d passed it a dozen times and never noticed it.

Inside, the lighting was dim and golden, the smell of old paper and incense wrapping around her like a blanket. There was jazz playing faintly from a record player near the counter. A cat slept on a stool in the poetry aisle. And for the first time in weeks, she exhaled without even realizing she’d been holding her breath.

She wandered through the shelves slowly, fingers brushing over cracked spines and titles in Mandarin, English, French. It reminded her of a place she visited in Lisbon, one she never thought she’d think of again.

She turned the corner of the aisle, absently reaching for a poetry collection when her eyes landed on him.

At first, she only saw the profile- the clean lines of his face, the sharp curve of his nose, the way his hair fell slightly over his forehead- and for a heartbeat, her mind couldn’t quite place it. Her body stilled before her brain caught up.

Then he turned slightly, lifting his head toward the Popular Picks display by the counter, a stack of three books balanced in his arms, one tucked awkwardly beneath his chin.

And she knew. She just did.

The recognition crashed into her like a wave she hadn’t braced for.

Sunghoon.

Just like that, the bookstore shifted from quiet nostalgia to something surreal. Her fingertips curled slightly around the spine of the book she was holding, as if steadying herself. Her breath caught somewhere between a laugh and disbelief. And suddenly,she was naive and twenty-five again, sitting in a train with a stranger to entertain.

And as if he felt her gaze, Sunghoon looked up- eyes landing on hers instantly.

The air between them was still. The jazz in the background faded. So did the cat, the incense, the muffled rain tapping at the windows.

He blinked, almost like he didn’t trust what he was seeing. Then slowly, the corners of his mouth turned upward- not quite a smile yet, just the beginning of one.

They just stared at each other for a second too long. Not out of awkwardness- but because neither of them wanted to be the first to break whatever this was.

Then Sunghoon shifted, took one step forward.

And that was her cue.

Y/N slipped her book back onto the shelf and walked toward him, steps careful, like she was still half-convinced he might disappear if she moved too fast.

“Hey,” she said, voice quieter than she expected. “I wasn’t sure it was you.”

Sunghoon let out a soft breath, the ghost of a laugh caught in his throat. “I wasn’t sure you were real.”

They both smiled- wide and full this time- the tension breaking like light through overcast skies.

Y/N blinked, still grounding herself in the impossible fact that it was him. “What are you doing here?” She asked, her voice barely above a whisper, as if saying it too loudly would break the spell.

Sunghoon gave a soft breath of disbelief, almost a laugh, like he wasn’t quite sure how this moment existed. “I live here now… I’ve been living here for three years.”

Y/N gave a half-smile. “Five years for me.”

And that was the moment it hit him. Five years. They’d been orbiting the same city, breathing the same air, living maybe a handful of metro stops apart- and somehow, they never crossed paths until now. It felt like too much of a coincidence to be a coincidence. Like the universe had deliberately waited, held its breath, timed this to some impossible rhythm only it understood.

“I teach at the public university,” she offered before he could ask. “English. But I publish sometimes as well.”

Of course it was her. The name had been bothering him ever since he picked up that book, strung together in a delicate serif font on the spine- a first name and a last name that brushed up against something familiar in his memory, but not enough to sound the alarms. He’d held it in his hands, flipped through the pages, even lingered on the blurb wondering why it made his chest ache a little. But he hadn’t made the connection. Not until she was standing in front of him, telling him, almost offhandedly, that she wrote now- had published a few books. And then it hit him like cold water: that book. The one he’d nearly bought before settling on something else. He almost felt guilty now, absurdly so, for not choosing hers. As if picking another novel over hers had been some kind of betrayal- to her, to that night, to the unspoken space they’d both carried all these years.

He nodded slowly, his chest tightening. “Still an architect,” he said, then glanced at her with something just shy of a smile. “I think you’d be proud of me.”

It was a soft, unassuming statement, but it hung between them heavily. He was thinking of that night- the train, the way her words had stayed with him long after the lights of the station faded. Ten years ago. Ten full years. He didn’t know if she remembered.

But Y/N’s expression shifted in that subtle way that told him she did. Of course she did.

“Yeah?” she asked, eyes bright.

“Yeah,” he looked down for a second before meeting her gaze again. “I’m glad you finally published.”

And he meant it. Beneath the sincerity sat his quiet guilt- one he wasn’t going to admit just yet. He hadn’t searched for her name. Not once. Not online, not on bookshelves. And now that he knew, now that he held the knowledge of what she'd gone on to do, it felt like an ache. Because he had thought of her- more often than he let himself admit. He’d bring her up sometimes when he was drunk, recalling that weird night on the train, the girl who talked about words like they were living things. But he hadn’t done anything more. 

And now here she was.

“This feels insane,” he murmured, voice softening.

He was staring at her- not just with disbelief, but with the kind of quiet reverence reserved for things once lost and now unexpectedly found. And as he stood there, barely hearing the rustle of pages or the distant hum of jazz, a thought rose, unbidden and almost embarrassing in its honesty- this was the girl who had changed him.

In one night- a single stretch of hours between train stations and tangled conversations- she had shifted something fundamental inside him. He’d started reading not long after that. Nothing big at first- just a book she’d mentioned, something he'd scribbled down on a receipt in his wallet. But it became a habit, then a hunger. Because of her. Because of how she spoke about stories, about words like they were holy. Because of how she saw the world- like it was both tragic and beautiful and worth telling anyway.

And now, a decade later, here she was. Not a memory, not a story he told his friends after two beers. But real and alive, standing in front of him again- older, softer in some ways, sharper in others. Still her, always her.

And all he could think was: I can’t believe it’s you.

Sunghoon arrived at the café early. Of course he did. He always did that when he was nervous- pretending it was about punctuality, about professionalism, about making a good impression. But really, it was about control, about giving himself a moment to settle the way his heart had been stammering in his chest for days.

Since that day in the bookstore, he hadn’t stopped thinking about her- Y/N- her voice, her eyes, the way the rain had traced soft lines down the bookstore’s fogged windows while they talked. He hadn’t said it out loud, but as soon as they’d agreed to meet again, he’d gone home and done something impulsive- something a younger Sunghoon might’ve laughed at. He bought all of her books. Every single one. Three novels, each with a cover so delicate and so deliberate, he almost didn’t want to crack the spines.

But he did. In fact, he devoured them. He read like he was chasing something. Like he was trying to catch up on a decade of her life that he hadn’t been a part of.

Her writing stunned him. It was raw and strange and poetic and painfully observant. But it wasn’t just that. It was familiar. Not in the stories themselves- they were nothing like him, nothing like the night they’d shared- but in the details, in the quiet gestures of a supporting character, or the rhythm of someone’s speech, or the offhand way a man in his late twenties scratched the back of his neck when he was uncomfortable.

That was him. That was 27-year-old Sunghoon. He remembered doing that on the train, mid-conversation, when she’d asked him about the kind of buildings he wanted to design someday. There was a character in her first book who did the same thing- and that character had a way of seeing cities like they were made of feelings, not steel. It was him, even if it wasn’t.

He hadn’t known she’d remembered him. Not like that. He’d told himself it was just one night. A good night. But fleeting. Something the world would blur out with time. And yet… she had remembered. She made it permanent on ink- she eternalized him.

And here he was- in Shanghai, of all places.

Sometimes he still couldn’t believe it. He’d said yes to the opportunity three years ago- an architecture firm in Seoul was invited to pitch a design for a mixed-use skyscraper, and he’d poured himself into it with the hunger of a man who needed to be consumed by something. It was his vision that won. A sinuous, glass-and-steel tower that mimicked the ripple of the Huangpu River, with an atrium shaped like a lantern- part office space, part museum, part observation deck, a living homage to old Shanghai meeting the new. 

The project had saved him. Or maybe it had given him something to hold onto after everything else fell apart.

Nora.

Even now, her name carried the weight of a thousand sharp edges- soft at first, then all at once like glass. He met her at a work party, back when his firm was still small and barely making a name for itself. It had been hosted in a high-rise lounge, the kind where conversations floated over clinking glasses and low jazz murmured beneath everything. He remembered spotting Nora by the bar, laughing with a group of journalists, her voice rising and falling like it belonged to the room. She was magnetic- self-assured in a way that didn’t demand attention but still received it, effortlessly. She had this grin, this unmistakable fire behind her eyes, and when she asked what he did, she looked at him like she actually cared about the answer.

They started seeing each other after that night- cautiously, at first. She was always busy, always moving between studios and press conferences and flights to cover some political chaos. But she made time. For him, she made time. She’d wait for him at his office sometimes with takeout, wearing heels and an oversized coat, telling him that he worked too much and kissed too little.

They dated for two years. Two golden years that felt too good to be real. There were lazy Sundays with her head on his chest, whispered fights over whose turn it was to do the laundry, travel plans never taken, and endless conversations about buildings and breaking news and what it meant to chase something until you caught it.

He proposed on a rainy night in Busan, when they’d gone for a vacation and spent the evening ice skating in a mall. She was trying to keep up with him, giggling while finding her balance. And just like that, he glided towards her on one knee and revealed the ring and he just… said it. Marry me. And she had said yes like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

They were married for four years. Four whole years of learning each other in all the quiet, invisible ways- the morning rituals, the favorite side of the bed, the type of silence that felt warm instead of cold. He’d never known that kind of peace. Even with her career constantly pulling her toward chaos, even when they were barely passing each other at home- it still felt like they were orbiting something steady. 

And then, one morning, she left for work like she always did. Hair still damp from the shower, still brushing lip balm onto her mouth as she stepped into her heels, grinning at him like she had some scandalous news she couldn’t wait to share after her segment.

She never made it to the station.

The accident happened in a flash. A truck ran a red light on the Olympic-daero. Witnesses said the rain had made it hard to see. She was gone before the ambulance even arrived, but they tried. Jake tried.

He remembered Jake’s call- the way his voice cracked over the line. "Come to the hospital. Now."

Sunghoon remembered sprinting through corridors, his hands cold, his lungs burning, shirt and tie astray with wide eyes and matted hair. And then- Jake, his closest friend and one of Seoul’s top trauma surgeons, standing outside the trauma unit, drenched in blood that wasn’t his, eyes hollow, surgical mask hanging off one ear. No words- just a slow, agonizing shake of the head.

Sunghoon collapsed.

The days after were a blur of numbness, sirens and screaming silence. There was no funeral that could contain that kind of grief, no eulogy that could articulate how deeply broken the world had become in just one moment. He couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t look at the chair she used to sit in. Her mug sat untouched for months. He buried himself in work until even the blueprints started to blur, until the only thing that snapped him back was his other best friend, Jay- who took one look at him and told him to press charges.

The man who caused the accident had been drunk. Slightly below the legal limit, but enough to impair judgment. Jay, relentless in a courtroom, helped Sunghoon file lawsuits that dragged on for nearly two years. They won. But it didn’t bring her back- nothing would, nothing did.

And then came the offer, an international firm asking him the chance to design a tower in Shanghai- something iconic, something bold. He said yes without thinking. He needed to go, to leave, to start over, to breathe somewhere else.

And now here he was, four years later. Sitting in a sunlit café in Shanghai, about to see the only other person who had ever made him feel like the future might be a story worth reading.

He wasn’t sure how he managed to tell her all of it- the job offer, the building, the wife, the accident, the ache. But he knew one thing: telling her all of this, over coffee, across a tiny round table in a quiet café… it felt oneiric. Like time had folded in on itself and handed him a second chance he hadn’t dared hope for.

Y/N listened like she always had- with stillness, with presence, with that rare ability to make silence feel like safety. When he spoke about the building, her face lifted, just slightly. Her eyes softened, like she was genuinely happy for him- not surprised, not performative- just quietly proud. 

But when he said Nora’s name, something shifted. The subtle tension in her brow, the way her fingers paused mid-motion on the coffee cup’s handle, the sudden stillness in her breathing- it all changed. She didn’t interrupt nor did she didn’t look away. She just let it wash over her, the grief, the enormity of it. Her eyes, when they met his again, held something solemn and full- not sympathy, not pity, but that unspoken understanding of loss. And for a moment, Sunghoon wondered if that’s what had drawn them together again- not fate, not coincidence, but the quiet ache of having both learned how to live after breaking.

“I lost someone, too,” she nodded. “My uncle- well, technically, one of my parents’ best friends. But we were close. He was my godfather.”

Then she told him, how her godfather had taken his own life just months before she made the move to Shanghai. Y/N had been in the middle of her own upheaval, getting ready for the transition that would take her to this city, to this life. But before she could even leave, she had to contend with the shock of losing him in the most horrific way. His death was nothing like the natural rhythm of loss that people often prepare for. No, this was the kind of pain that tore through the fabric of life with no warning, no sense. She never had the chance to say goodbye, never had the chance to make sense of it- her parents never let her read the suicide note.

Y/N’s aunt had found him, face-down in the bathtub, the water around him turning crimson. The image of it must have haunted her even now. Sunghoon could imagine the cold shock that must have flooded her godmother’s body as she found him there- her best friend, her partner in life, lifeless in a way that made the world seem unreal. The knife had slipped from his hand, the weight of it barely more than a detail in the aftermath. But the emptiness in his eyes, that was what stayed with her. 

It didn’t make sense, the way Y/N described it, the way the world just seemed to stop making sense after that. Her godfather had always been a constant, someone everyone relied on, someone who had always been there. And yet, just like that, he was gone, leaving behind an ocean of unanswered questions. His kids, her honorary cousins, had been the most affected. They had been too young to grasp the weight of what had happened, but in their confusion, they’d come to resent him. They couldn’t understand why he had chosen this moment, why he had left them without a second thought. It was that kind of loss that tore at the edges of families, that strained relationships with no answers to make it right.

Y/N’s parents had struggled too. In the wake of his death, they didn’t know what to do. They didn’t know how to explain it or how to handle the grief that had flooded their lives. So, in an attempt to do something, they set up a fund in his name. The money went to children in need, a small part of it allocated to his family to keep them afloat, to provide for them until they could get back on their feet. But in truth, nothing really ever settled. The ache never fully left, and the questions remained unanswered.

Y/N never spoke of the details, the parts of it that were too horrific to describe, the part of the story that would stay locked away, untold. But Sunghoon could feel the weight of it all. The pain, the loss, the confusion. The fragility of life, of the people we think will always be there, and how suddenly that certainty could be ripped away. 

Both of them had experienced it- the kind of loss that reshaped everything, that left scars that didn’t heal. It marked them, carried their loss, holding it within them, even now. 

"Okay, so... all of that," she started, hesitating before looking for something to shift the conversation. "Tell me more about your building. How far along is it… considering," She trailed off, smiling a little. "I’d love to hear more about it."

Sunghoon exhaled slowly, his hand instinctively reaching into his jacket pocket. He pulled out his phone, unlocking it and swiping to the photos he’d been saving. The sleek, minimalistic sketches of the building, fuzzy early shots of its half-constructed frame, and the sweeping views from the construction site filled the screen. He held the phone up for her to see, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he watched her reaction.

"It... it’s still a work in progress. Probably gonna take a couple more years- there were a lot of legal constraints to worry about in the beginning," he admitted. "The final designs are much more refined, but this is the stage we’re at right now,” he scrolled through the images, showing her various angles of the building, the steel beams twisting upward like a forest of metal. "It’s supposed to be a mixed-use space- office floors at the top, public space at the bottom, some retail. It’s going to contribute to the skyline, be one of those landmarks that people would look at and think, 'Yeah, that's part of the city now.'"

Y/N leaned forward slightly, peering at the screen. She nodded appreciatively, her eyes scanning the images with curiosity. "It looks amazing," she said, her voice a little lighter now. "I’m proud of you, Sunghoon."

She was proud of him- not just for the building, but because this was the man he’d dreamed of becoming, the path he’d mapped out for himself on that train ten years ago, now finally real and unfolding in front of her.

Sunghoon grinned, but there was something in his eyes- an edge of quiet pride. 

Sunghoon’s voice broke through the gentle quiet that had settled over their table. “How have you been, Y/N?” he asked, not like a casual question, but something deeper. Something closer to how did the world shape you, after we parted ways? “How was Europe… after that train ride?”

Y/N smiled, and it was the kind of smile stitched with memory. She set her coffee down and reached for her phone, unlocking it with ease, swiping through the familiar glow of her gallery. “Messy,” she said, almost laughing. “But good.”

She turned the screen toward him, letting the photos tell the story. Blurry hostel mirrors, cobbled streets washed in soft morning light, a half-eaten croissant on a balcony in Lisbon, a tiny annotated map with a coffee stain in the corner, a carousel in Florence, a dog she didn’t know the name of but still remembered.

“This one,” she said, pausing on a photo of her standing by a stone archway in Athens, sunlight catching her cheek, “was taken the day I finally got the courage to walk up to a stranger and ask for directions.”

Sunghoon leaned in, quietly taking it all in- not just the images, but her voice, the tone of it, how alive she’d become in those moments. He watched the way her thumb lingered over some pictures longer than others, how her smile flickered when she reached one taken in the rain. He didn’t ask what it meant. He just listened.

“It was everything I hoped it would be,” she said. “And nothing like I imagined.”

And Sunghoon nodded, because he understood that too well. Maybe not for the same reasons as her, but he understood it, at least, to an extent. 

She went on, showing him more- strangers who became friends, books scribbled with notes in the margins, sunsets over rooftops that looked like paintings. There was something sacred in how she shared it, like she was letting him hold a decade of her life in the palm of his hand, one swipe at a time.

Most people, when they finally receive the thing they long for, the thing they had built up in their heads, carried in the quiet pockets of their hearts- don’t really know how to sit with it.

At first, it felt surreal, like handling porcelain so fine you were afraid it might break just by looking at it wrong. They moved carefully around the edges of it, half-believing, half-doubting, waiting for the catch, the sudden hand that would snatch it all away. And then, slowly, imperceptibly, it shifted. The dream stopped feeling like a dream. It became ordinary. The extraordinary blurred into everyday life the way sunrise blends into morning- so gradual you didn’t even realize it was happening until you looked up and found yourself living inside what you once thought was impossible.

Because when something becomes real- when you brush your teeth beside the person you once thought was lost to time, when you argue about laundry or grocery lists, when you kiss them goodnight without even thinking about it- that’s when you know it’s yours.

Not a moment snatched from fate. Not a miracle about to be undone.

Just yours.

That’s what it was like for Y/N and Sunghoon.

They didn’t crash into each other the way they had once imagined, all desperate declarations and sweeping promises. No, they folded into each other the way dusk folds into night- quietly, inevitably, without needing anyone to announce it had happened.

Their days together began quietly. The café became a second home- tucked between two stone buildings in YuYuan Garden, its windows fogged with steam and stories. They always met at the same table near the back, beside the bookshelf that tilted slightly to the left. When Sunghoon wasn’t at site meetings and Y/N wasn’t buried under red-marked essays, they sat across from each other. Sometimes they spoke, other times they didn’t have to.

Sunghoon would talk about things like glass density and foundational anchoring- things Y/N barely understood but always found beautiful in the way he described them. And she, in return, would read out loud lines from her students’ essays, shaking her head in disbelief, saying, “even I wouldn’t have thought of something so beautiful.”

Eventually, coffee dates gave way to quiet afternoons in the city. The café wasn’t enough anymore. It was Sunghoon who suggested they meet somewhere else. “Just a change of pace,” he said, “we don’t have to talk,” he said it like he always did- casually, softly, like he didn’t want to scare away whatever fragile thread was stretching between them.

Their first outing was to the art museum. A safe place, one where quiet was expected. They walked side by side through galleries washed in cold white light, pausing before each painting with the solemnity of churchgoers. Y/N liked watching Sunghoon look at art- the way he tilted his head, narrowed his eyes. She wondered if he’d always observed the world like that.

Then, from there, the places they’d visit became less quiet, but somehow even more intimate- an afternoon at the aquarium, a stroll through the zoo, then a trip to Shanghai’s architectural icons- the Pearl Tower, the Shanghai Tower, and finally the World Financial Center.

When Sunghoon pointed up at the tower’s iconic trapezoidal aperture and told her, with absolute conviction, “A plane could fly through that,” Y/N laughed and promptly named it the keychain tower because, well, it did look like a keychain. He didn't even argue. He just smiled like someone who had been waiting a long time to be teased like that.

Eventually, their meetings moved indoors.

Y/N invited him to dinner one night. She made a strange mix of Italian and Chinese dishes- spaghetti with a recipe learned from an old Roman chef who once told her that Italians lived without regret through their pasta, and mala tofu with stir-fried bok choy, a dish she had perfected alone in her Shanghai kitchen which they had with a small bowl of sticky rice.

They ate slowly, in no rush, their conversation trailing between bites. Sunghoon leaned his forearms on the table as she told him stories about the Roman chef who had taken her under his wing for a week after she accidentally helped him carry groceries through cobbled streets. He laughed harder than he had in weeks, his mouth full of overcooked noodles and his heart unexpectedly light.

After dinner, they opened a bottle of red wine Y/N had been saving for a "meaningful occasion"- the label long peeled off, the cork slightly stubborn. They sat on the floor, backs against the couch, wine glasses in hand. She asked him about his time in university, about what he had been like before architecture turned into a career and not just a dream. He asked her about the books she didn’t publish, the ones she kept hidden in folders titled things like maybe one day and this one’s a mess. She didn’t deny it- just sipped her wine and smirked into the glass.

Later, Y/N reached behind the couch and pulled out an old, mismatched box of Jenga, the kind where a few pieces had pencil doodles and one was mysteriously chipped at the corner. “No pressure,” she said. “But I haven’t lost a game since college.”

Sunghoon narrowed his eyes. “You wrote your thesis on Greek tragedy, and now you’re challenging me at Jenga?”

“Exactly,” she grinned. “I’m well-versed in watching things fall apart.”

They played three rounds. She won two. The third collapsed in a drunken fit of laughter when Sunghoon accidentally sneezed and nudged the table, knocking the whole tower down.

It was one of those nights- quiet, unassuming, the kind you don’t realize is special until much later. Nothing big happened- there were no confessions, no kisses. But the air between them had changed by the time they stood at the door. There was something gentler in the way she leaned against the frame, something softer in the way he adjusted his coat before stepping into the cold.

He didn’t stay over.

He called a taxi, waited with his hands in his pockets, and when the headlights turned onto the street, he looked back at her- just once. She was still standing there, arms crossed, a half-smile tugging at her mouth. Not asking him to stay, not pushing him away. Just there, like always.

When Sunghoon invited her over for the first time, it wasn’t for dinner. It wasn’t even for coffee or idle conversation. He had something he wanted to show her- something that felt almost too private, too close to the part of himself he rarely let anyone touch.

The original blueprints.

He had spent years sketching versions of this building in the margins of notebooks, on napkins, on the backs of receipts. Rough ideas first, then refined ones- layer after layer of graphite and ink until they became something almost real. And now, sprawled across his living room floor, they looked delicate, almost fragile, like pieces that belonged in a museum archive.

Y/N knelt beside him without hesitation, legs folded underneath her, her hands moving carefully across the pages as if they were ancient ruins of history. She didn’t speak at first. She just traced the lines with the tip of her finger, pausing now and then to tilt her head, her brows knitting together in thoughtful concentration.

Sunghoon watched her more than he watched the drawings. The way her eyes scanned the layers of floor plans and elevation sketches, how her mouth twitched upward at the little handwritten notes he’d left for himself in the margins: rethink lobby entrance, sunlight angles too harsh?, find better material for glass- don't cheap out.

“This,” she finally said, looking up at him with something shining in her expression- not awe exactly, but something heavier, something fuller- “is incredible.”

They spent hours like that, sprawled across the floor, Y/N asking questions, Sunghoon explaining the angles of support beams and the challenges of balancing beauty with function. At some point, he realized he was rambling, getting too technical, but she never once looked bored. She just listened, the way she always had, like every word mattered.

At some point, night swallowed the city outside. The only light in the room came from a single dim lamp near the window, casting everything in a warm, golden haze. And when she finally left, long after midnight, he felt a strange ache in his chest- the kind that only comes when you realize you’ve just given someone a piece of yourself you can’t take back.

The next morning, he brought her to the construction site.

It wasn’t glamorous. The building was barely a skeleton of what it would become- exposed steel frames reaching skyward, the floors still raw and unfinished, the air thick with dust and the scent of wet concrete. Workers moved around them like ants, shouting instructions in Mandarin, the noise of drills and hammers clattering through the cool morning air.

He didn’t know why he brought her there. Maybe because part of him wanted her to see it- not the polished, finished dream, but the messy, imperfect beginning. Maybe because part of him wanted her to understand that this wasn’t just work. It was a piece of him, standing stubborn and half-built against the skyline.

She wore a bright yellow hard hat that was slightly too big, the strap loose against her chin, and an oversized reflective vest that swallowed her frame. She looked ridiculous, she looked adorable.

Sunghoon pulled out his phone and snapped a picture without thinking.

In the photo, she was smiling- not a big, posed grin, but a small, shy one, the kind of smile you give when you’re proud of something, even if it’s not yours. Behind her, the skeleton of the future loomed, all raw beams and silent promises.

He would keep that photo tucked away for years. Through the good days and the unbearable ones. Through everything that would come after.

Their friendship blurred, slowly. It didn’t surprise either of them. Somewhere, in the back of their minds, they had always known it wouldn’t stay platonic forever. From the moment they met on the train ten years ago, there had been something- not chemistry, not even longing. Just... inevitability.

It was the way their silences folded easily into each other. The way their glances lingered a beat too long, not searching, just... settling. It wasn’t some great romance that unfolded with fireworks and declarations. It was subtler than that. Quieter, like the way you reach for a light switch in the dark- it was instinctive, without needing to think.

There was no single moment when the line between them vanished. It just stopped mattering. It was in the way Sunghoon started buying her favorite kind of breakfast without asking. In how Y/N started showing up at the café with a book tucked under her arm, one she thought he might like even though he rarely read. It was her making him lunch boxes when he needed to go to the construction site. It was in the pauses between conversations- the way they both leaned in just a little, without meaning to.

They didn’t talk about it, they didn’t really need to. There was no confession, no careful declaration of feelings. It was all already there, hanging between them in the air, in every shared look, in the quiet comfort of knowing that somehow, inexplicably, you had ended up in the same place as the one person who once felt like a fleeting moment.

It wasn’t falling, it was remembering.

Remembering that even if they’d only spent a single night together on a train a decade ago, it had never truly ended when she said goodbye. That night had only paused and carried itself across years, across cities, across grief and growth- just to arrive here. And now, sitting across from each other again, it finally resumed. Like picking up a song mid-verse. Like they were simply continuing something that had never really finished.

Sunghoon told his friends about her not long after. It was during one of their three way calls that occurred once a few months, when they could accommodate the time difference and their busy schedules. And when Sunghoon told them that he was seeing someone, that it was getting serious, Jake and Jay hollered for him like they were in a football locker room. Despite their age and the sophistication that was expected by their professions, when they were around each other, they were still the weird trio from university that seemingly did everything together.

“It’s the girl from the train,” Sunghoon said. “Y/N, the girl from the train.”

And the call reached a ceasing silence. It stayed like that for a second, so quiet that Sunghoon couldn’t even hear them breathing.

He pulled his brows together in confusion. “Hello?”

“Sunghoon,” Jake finally said. “What are you saying?”

In all the nights Jay and Jake had stayed up with a drunk Sunghoon- back when they were younger, when heartbreak still looked like bruises instead of scars- they listened to him whine about a girl he met on a train. Mystery Train Girl, they called her, even though Sunghoon had told them her real name a dozen times. It became a running joke between the three of them, a sort of coping mechanism, maybe. Naming her made her feel less dangerous, less real- just another lost figure from a hazy, romanticized past.

But it wasn’t really a joke, not when Sunghoon would sometimes, in the thick of too much whiskey, talk about her like she had been a fixed point in his life. Like somehow, even though they’d only spent a single night together, she had left fingerprints on his ribs.

The stories didn’t stop even when Sunghoon met Nora- even when he fell in love again, even when he married.

They didn’t come often- only sometimes, in the quiet hours between drinks, when Nora was asleep and the weight of old memories pressed too heavily against his chest. But when they did, the fact that he still spoke about Y/N at all said more than Sunghoon probably meant it to. Jake and Jay never pointed it out. Some things didn’t need pointing out.

After Nora died, Sunghoon stopped speaking about love altogether.

He didn’t date, he didn’t flirt, he didn’t even look at anyone the same way anymore. After Nora died, the idea of opening himself up again felt unbearable. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in love- he did. He had lived it, fully, with Nora. She had been his real love story, the one he thought would carry him to the end of his days. And losing her had carved something hollow inside him, something too fragile to risk breaking again. It wasn’t about moving on and it wasn’t about forgetting. It was fear- plain and sharp- the fear that if he let himself love again, he would have to survive losing it again too. And he wasn’t sure he could.

It wasn’t until Sunghoon first relocated to Shanghai- when his career finally cracked open and handed him everything he had worked for- that the two friends acted on a thought they had laughed about for years. One night, after too many beers and too much unsaid worry, they pulled out Jake’s laptop and typed her name into the search bar.

And there she was.

Older, yes- different, a little. But still unmistakably the girl Sunghoon had described with a kind of reverence no drunkenness could dull. Her picture stared back at them- in a small university profile, smiling faintly, hair tucked behind her ear.

She had published three books by then. She taught English at a local university in Shanghai. She was real. And terrifyingly close.

Jake and Jay stared at the screen for a long time, the silence between them heavier than either of them expected. They could have told him. They could have shown him. But something about it felt wrong- like opening a door Sunghoon had already chosen to leave closed.

So they didn’t say anything. They closed the laptop, and the next morning, neither brought it up again. And if there was a trace of guilt that lingered between them when they saw Sunghoon staring too long out of windows, lost in thought, or smiling a little too sadly at passing strangers- well, they buried it. Along with the rest of the secrets you keep out of love.

“Mystery Train Girl?” Jay gasped and they could imagine that his eyes were widening. “You’re joking. Y/N?”

“Yeah,” Sunghoon nodded, pressing his phone closer to his ear as he chuckled. “Can you believe it? I found her. Y/N- Mystery Train Girl.”

“That’s…” Jay trailed off, not knowing what to say.

“That’s incredible, Sunghoon,” Jake said, firmly, as if he was answering for both of them. “I’m happy for you, mate. Are you happy?”

“Unbelievably, so,” Sunghoon breathed, and they could hear the smile on his face- the smile that highlighted his pointy teeth and made his eyes squint.

Jay and Jake didn’t comment much after that, only listened as Sunghoon recalled the story of how they found each other again in a tiny book store. And while listening, they were bracing for the impact of Nora’s name falling out of his mouth- that maybe he would mention her again, maybe he would break down over his first love, his dead wife. But it never came. And it sounded like Sunghoon was happy again. And his two friends didn’t have to worry about him feeling alone in another country.

A month later, Jay announced he was taking a weekend trip to Shanghai. He said it was for business, something about meeting international colleagues. Sunghoon didn’t ask many questions and simply offered him the guest bedroom, knowing it would be Jay’s first time visiting the city. It was usually Sunghoon who made the trip back to Korea, although he preferred not to. The last time he had gone back was for Christmas Eve the year before. This year, he planned to stay in Shanghai and spend the holidays with Y/N.

Sunghoon picked him up from the airport. He had booked a driver to meet them; living in a foreign country didn’t leave him much reason to own a car, and most foreigners in Shanghai got by without one anyway.

When they finally reunited at arrivals, Jay hugged him like a brother lost to time, gripping him tightly and nuzzling his head into Sunghoon’s shoulder with a dramatic sigh. Sunghoon laughed, patting his back with more affection than he realized he still carried.

On the drive back, as the city blurred past the window in streaks of neon and rain, Sunghoon casually mentioned that Y/N had prepared dinner for them. Jay blinked, the words settling slower than they should have. For a moment, he didn’t say anything- just stared out the window, watching the city streak by in blurs of gold and gray.

“Y/N,” he repeated eventually, like he was trying the name on his tongue, reminding himself it was real.

Sunghoon didn’t notice the way Jay’s fingers tightened slightly around the strap of his bag, or how his chest rose just a little sharper with the next breath. He just kept talking- about the dinner she was cooking, about how it wasn’t anything fancy, how she insisted it was "just empanadas" even though she spent all morning preparing it.

Jay nodded, smiling faintly, his throat too tight for much else. And inside, he told himself he wouldn’t ruin this. He wouldn’t say a word about the night he and Jake had found her online, sitting in some Seoul bar with Wi-Fi sticky and regret thicker. He wouldn’t tell Sunghoon that he had almost reached out once, almost booked a flight years earlier just to shove him toward her.

No.

This was Sunghoon’s story now. Finally, it was finding its way back.

Jay leaned his head against the cool glass and closed his eyes briefly, letting the city rush by.

Maybe some things were meant to take the long way around.

Jay was normal again by the time they reached Sunghoon’s apartment. It didn’t take much- just a lot of conviction and slipping back into his usual cocky persona, the one he wore like a second skin. Most lawyers had it; Jay had perfected it. Still, as they crossed the threshold, something in him braced without meaning to. His eyes swept the room instinctively, looking for proof, for her. For a second, it felt absurd- this quiet desperation to confirm that she wasn’t just another ghost Sunghoon had built out of grief and old memories. That she was still real after all these years.

And there she was. Y/N. Sitting at the dinner table, mid-bite, blinking up at them with a startled, awkward little smile that somehow made Jay’s chest tighten.

“So you’re the girl Sunghoon’s been unbelievably happy with,” Jay said, smiling.

His voice was easy, his posture relaxed- all charm, all mischief- and he didn’t mean any harm by it. This was his way of showing acceptance- approval, gratitude.

Sunghoon groaned, already dragging a hand down his face. “She doesn’t need to know I talk about her to you.”

Jay stepped forward and pulled Y/N into a quick hug- a brief, casual squeeze that made them acquaintances, allies, something realer than strangers but not yet friends. More importantly, it let Jay swallow the last of his disbelief, let him anchor himself to the fact that this girl was real. That Sunghoon had found her again. He couldn’t wait to talk to Jake about this.

He pulled back with an easy grin. “Don’t worry, all good things,” he said.

“I sure hope so,” Y/N laughed, soft and easy, wiping her hands on her jeans. “It’s really nice to meet you.”

As she turned toward the kitchen to check on dinner, Sunghoon called over his shoulder, “By the way, Jay. When’s the business meeting or whatever?”

Jay flashed a mischievous grin, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Not really a business meeting,” Sunghoon immediately understood what Jay meant. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard that line. He knew Jay well enough to know that when he said he needed a break, it wasn’t from work, but from the suffocating life at home. “Just needed to get away from the wife and kids for a while,” Jay continued, as if it was nothing more than a simple errand.

It wasn’t the fact that Jay was going out to a club, or that he’d been doing it for years now. What gnawed at Sunghoon wasn’t even the affairs. It was the contradiction that Jay had become. Jay, the man who could charm anyone, the man who always knew how to treat his friends with unwavering loyalty and kindness. Jay, who would never let his mother lift a finger, who’d drop everything for a friend in need, who was the first to volunteer to help anyone. He was the perfect son, the perfect friend. He was the kind of man you’d want your daughter to marry. And he was an amazing father to his kids, too. His son adored him; his daughter looked up to him with the kind of love only a child could give.

But as a husband? It was a different story.

Sunghoon had tried to make sense of it. He’d never been one to pry, but he’d known something was off for a while now. There were the fights, the tension that seemed to hang in the air when Jay spoke of Emma, his wife. The woman who, on the surface, was everything Jay needed- beautiful, intelligent, and ambitious. But beneath that exterior, there was something darker. Something... volatile. Emma was a storm, and Jay was constantly caught in the eye of it. She never seemed to be satisfied, always complaining, always accusing him of neglect. It wasn’t the life he had envisioned when they first married.

Sunghoon had learned the truth two years ago, though. It had been over the phone, after another one of Jay’s “business trips” that seemed to stretch on longer than necessary. Jay had been in Spain, hiding away from his reality. The phone call had come late at night, the words slurred, his voice raw with emotion and shame. Jay had admitted it then, between half-chuckles and half-sighs: his marriage wasn’t just falling apart- it had already shattered.

Jay had been cheating. Not just once, but over and over again. The guilt was written all over his face when he finally confessed, his eyes avoiding Sunghoon’s. It was an open secret now, something neither of them could pretend didn’t exist. 

But Jay asked one thing: that Sunghoon not tell Jake. Jake was too pure for this, too innocent to understand. Jay’s words stuck with Sunghoon, gnawing at him every time he saw his friend. Jake, who was the embodiment of what every relationship should strive for. He was the one who would never hurt anyone, let alone his wife, not intentionally.

Jake was probably the happiest in his marriage out of all three of them. He and his wife had built a life together, with shared goals, trust, and respect. He was everything Jay had once wanted to be, before everything fell apart. Jake wouldn’t get it. Jay knew it, Sunghoon knew it. If Jake found out, it would disgust him.

“Guys, dinner’s ready,” Y/N called from the kitchen, unbeknownst to the stare Sunghoon and Jay were sharing, her voice casual but a little shy at the edges.

The table wasn’t grand- just a small spread of empanadas glistening under the soft kitchen lights, bowls of salad thrown together with whatever they had left in the fridge, a bottle of cheap red wine breathing in the center. But it felt like a feast anyway because Jay was in Sunghoon’s city for the first time and it was celebration enough.

They gathered around with clattering feet. Jay joked that he hadn't had a home-cooked meal since his kids started insisting chicken nuggets were a food group, and Sunghoon rolled his eyes, already grabbing a plate like he belonged here, like they all did.

The conversation started simple- work, weather, flights, cities. Jay filled the gaps easily, weaving stories with the kind of natural charm only a seasoned lawyer could pull off. He talked about his firm back in Seoul, how his youngest daughter had tried to draw on his legal documents with crayons, how his son still teased him for losing an argument to a four-year-old. Y/N laughed, head tipped back slightly, that kind of laugh that warmed the room more than the radiator ever could.

Eventually, the stories shifted and, predictably, they turned toward Sunghoon.

Jay grinned around a mouthful of salad as he launched into tales Y/N had never heard- how Sunghoon, back in college, once pulled three consecutive all-nighters trying to finish a model for an architecture competition, only to sleep through the final submission. How he once broke his wrist during a drunken dare to skateboard down the steepest hill on campus, and still showed up to class the next day with his notes balanced on the cast. How he used to draw intricate skylines in the margins of every notebook, even in classes that had nothing to do with architecture.

And of course, Jay couldn’t resist mentioning the infamous Europe trip- the one that changed everything without them realizing it at the time. He talked about how Sunghoon had been so annoyingly hopeful during that summer, so convinced that life was about to open itself up to him in some grand, cinematic way. How he came back different after that trip- quieter, a little more weighted- but never explained why.

Y/N listened closely, soaking in every word.

There was something almost reverent in the way she paid attention- like she was piecing together the missing years of a story she had unknowingly starred in for far too long. She laughed at the right moments, gasped in mock horror when Jay described the skateboard incident, shook her head when he revealed how Sunghoon had once nearly gotten arrested in Barcelona for accidentally trespassing on a historical site he was “admiring too closely.”

Sunghoon mostly kept quiet, nursing his wine, his gaze flickering between his best friend and the woman sitting beside him. He didn’t mind being the subject tonight. If anything, he liked it- liked the way Y/N looked at him with that half-smiling curiosity, like every ridiculous thing Jay said only made him more real to her.

“You know, on that train?” Sunghoon started, looking between Jay and Y/N. “We played cards with this group of old men. And before leaving, they wished us all the best for the future and for love.”

“I remember that,” Y/N’s smile spread softly as she recollected the memory.

“Isn’t it insane? How things worked out.”

Eventually, the night wound down. The dishes were cleared, the wine finished, the laughter tapering into that familiar, comfortable tiredness that only comes after a good meal shared between people who no longer feel like strangers.

Y/N stood and grabbed her bag, pulling out her phone to book a cab. She moved easily, like she had done this a hundred times before. But Jay frowned, watching her from his place on the couch, a sliver of unease threading through his expression.

“How’s it alright,” he muttered under his breath “for a woman to travel alone this late?”

Before he could say more, Sunghoon cut in, already waving him off. “It's safe here,” he said simply. “Safer than Seoul, honestly. She’s done this a million times.”

Jay didn’t argue further. He just pressed his lips into a tight line, nodded once, and disappeared into the guest room, trust stitched into the quiet way he left the conversation.

Sunghoon pulled on his jacket and walked Y/N down to the road where her taxi was waiting, the night wrapped heavy and slow around them. The city had quieted into a low hum, the air thick with the smell of rain and petrol, streetlights buzzing overhead like tired lullabies. They didn’t speak as they walked. There was no need to fill the space between them; the silence had its own kind of gravity, pulling them closer with every step.

At the curb, they paused. Y/N fiddled with the strap of her bag, glancing at the taxi, then back at him. The cab’s engine purred in the background, patient. Sunghoon stood there, watching her, a hundred words building and crumbling behind his teeth. He didn’t want her to go, not again, not even for the night. Without giving himself the time to overthink it- without giving the fear room to grow- he leaned down and kissed her like he did most nights they were parting ways to go to their respective homes. It was a ritual, an agreement that this was how they chose to end their days, some sort of contact, some form of affection.

She smiled at him, softly, like how she always did, her doe eyes staring back at him. He was sleepy, she could tell by his droopy eyes and ruffled brows.

“Move in with me,” he said, his voice low, almost too casual for the weight of what he was asking.

“What?” she whispered, frowning slightly as if she hadn’t heard him right.

“Move in with me,” Sunghoon repeated, steadier this time. “You basically live here anyway. Half your stuff is already here- your books, your sweaters, your coffee cups...” He gave a small, helpless laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Might as well make it official.”

For a long second, she just stood there, caught between him and the waiting cab, the night buzzing softly around them. And then, slowly, impossibly, she smiled and kissed his cheek, her free hand softly cradling his face. She didn’t explicitly say yes, she didn’t have to. She just climbed into the cab with a lingering glance over her shoulder, the answer shining in her eyes before she even closed the door.

And as the taxi pulled away into the night, Sunghoon stood there for a moment longer, jacket hanging open, hands shoved into his pockets, feeling like maybe- finally- he had stopped running.

They found an apartment tucked between Y/N’s university and Sunghoon’s office- a green building at the edge of a sleepy, semi-gated community, where the sidewalks were cracked but clean, and trees arched overhead like old, patient guardians, their branches laced together like clasped hands. Stray cats wandered the streets freely, their coats dusty and proud, weaving between parked bicycles and the crooked legs of plastic chairs.

The building itself was four stories high, its walls covered in creeping ivy that turned gold in the autumn, burgundy in the winter. The paint was chipped in places. The elevator creaked every time it climbed past the second floor. But it was homey in a way most new constructions weren’t- a place that had been lived in, softened at the edges by years of small, ordinary lives.

Their unit was on the third floor, just high enough to catch the breeze but low enough to hear the neighbor’s piano practice in the evenings. The windows were tall and stubborn to open, framed by old iron grilles that let the light scatter across the walls in slanted, golden bars. The living room was small but bright, with just enough space for a second hand couch they picked out together and a low coffee table cluttered with books, half-finished crossword puzzles, and Sunghoon’s abandoned sketches.

The kitchen was recyangular, a single counter running along one wall, stained and scratched from a dozen past tenants. The stove clicked stubbornly before lighting. The fridge leaned slightly to the left. But still, it became a place where pasta boiled over and dumplings burned slightly on the bottom, where mugs clinked in the morning quiet, where grocery lists were scribbled on sticky notes and slapped onto the fridge door.

Their bedroom was tucked into the farthest corner, modest, almost shy. A narrow balcony stretched out from it, barely wide enough for two chairs and a crooked table where they sometimes sat on humid nights, sipping beer or eating cheap ice cream, watching the street lights flicker like tired fireflies.

Downstairs, the community buzzed with a life of its own. There was an old woman who sold baozi from a folding table near the gate every morning, always shouting friendly scolds when Sunghoon forgot his wallet. There was a florist who only opened his shop at odd hours and once gave Y/N a wilting rose for free, just because she said she liked the smell. There were children who played soccer in the narrow lanes, their laughter bouncing off the weathered stone walls, and a retired artist who painted landscapes on the sidewalk with chalk, only to watch them wash away with the next rain.

Inside, they built a life that settled into a rhythm almost without them realizing. Mornings meant fumbling around the kitchen together, half-asleep and heavy-limbed, passing mugs back and forth with clumsy hands and sleepy smiles. Sunghoon usually made the coffee- strong and bitter- while Y/N hovered near the stove, pretending to help but mostly just getting in the way, stealing sips from his cup before her own was ready. Their jokes were softer in the mornings, murmured around yawns, laughter curling lazily into the sunlight pooling across the tiled floor.

Evenings were a little louder, a little messier. Dinner at the small wooden table by the window became a ritual neither of them ever bothered to question. Sometimes it was takeout- greasy dumplings or cold noodles in plastic boxes- and sometimes it was whatever Y/N could cobble together from the fridge after her classes: one-pot pastas, stir-fries that set off the smoke alarm more often than not. Afterward, they curled into each other on the sagging couch, the city flickering outside the window. Y/N would read aloud from whatever novel had captured her that week, her voice threading gently through the room, while Sunghoon rested his head against her shoulder, letting the sound of her fill in all the tired spaces inside him.

Sometimes it was him doing the talking instead- late-night ramblings about impossible project managers, bureaucratic nightmares, steel orders delayed yet again. He would pace the living room in frustration, tossing out architectural jargon, until Y/N tugged him back down beside her and told him, simply, stubbornly, that he was brilliant. And somehow, the knots inside his chest always loosened a little when she said it.

They argued, too- like all real couples did. Sometimes about big things, but mostly about nothing at all. Y/N wanted a pet- a dog, a cat, even a bunny, she said once, her face half-buried in a blanket, grinning. She wanted something living and soft and theirs. Sunghoon resisted, citing their long hours, their unpredictable travel, the fear of leaving something small and trusting behind. Neither of them ever won those arguments outright, but somehow they circled back to it again and again, a low-burning want that never fully left the room.

The balcony plants were another battleground. They had bought them in a fit of optimism one spring- small pots of basil, rosemary, a lemon tree that Y/N insisted would one day bear fruit- but between Sunghoon’s site visits and Y/N’s grading marathons, the poor things wilted and browned faster than they could save them. Every time a plant shriveled into nothing, they pointed fingers half-jokingly at each other, sparring over who was supposed to water them that week.

Some nights, they bickered over movies, scrolling endlessly through the options, each rejecting the other's picks with increasingly absurd excuses. In the end, they usually gave up and flipped to whatever Chinese drama happened to be airing on local TV- always badly acted, always wildly over-the-top, full of improbable plots about secret twin siblings and dramatic amnesia. They would sit side by side on the couch, trading sarcastic commentary, laughing until they couldn’t breathe, until the night felt stitched together with something stronger than just habit.

And just like that, three years had slipped by since they reunited in that quiet Shanghai bookshop, and two years since they moved into their creaky, stubborn apartment- the one with the ivy-covered walls, the third-floor balcony, the kitchen that never fully heated up in winter but somehow became the warmest place they knew. Their home had filled itself over time- birthdays celebrated with mismatched streamers taped hastily to the walls, cooking disasters they cleaned up side by side, little wins toasted with cheap wine until they laughed themselves breathless on the worn-out couch. The walls bore witness to it all- Y/N’s cluttered shelves of trinkets, Sunghoon’s architecture sketches pinned in loose, sprawling lines across the living room, the hum of music on lazy Sundays, the clink of coffee mugs in the mornings, and the quiet, sacred moments of intimacy that didn't need words.

And now, it was time to mark the next chapter. 

Sunghoon’s building- the one he had sketched and dreamed and fought for- was finally complete. His name was folded into the skyline of Shanghai, stitched into concrete and glass, visible only to those who knew where to look. He'd done it- he finally did it.

To celebrate, his company hosted a grand opening, a party far more extravagant than anything Sunghoon would have thrown for himself. It was held in the top floor of the building where the champagne flowed, velvet ropes cordoned off the important people, and unfamiliar faces mingled under bright lights. It was supposed to be about his achievement, his vision made real- but to Sunghoon, it felt heavier, more personal. It felt like surviving. It felt like standing on the other side of everything that should have broken him.

Jay and Jake flew in from Seoul for the event, carrying the kind of chaos and heart only old friends could bring. Jay, with his reckless grin and booming voice, immediately made enemies with the event staff over "no kids running" rules. And the tension between him and his wife didn’t go unnoted. Jake arrived with Minji and their two children, presenting Sunghoon with an aged bottle of whiskey so expensive he almost dropped it in shock. 

When asked what gift Jay had brought, he slapped Sunghoon hard on the back and joked, "Who do you think is gonna be your lawyer when the lawsuits come in?" But later, when the crowd thinned slightly, Jay leaned in and muttered that the real gift- a carved jade vase picked out for him and Y/N- was waiting in his hotel room, too fragile to be dragged through the crowd.

As Sunghoon was swept away by a crowd of people- clients, architects, and reporters, all eager to speak with him, interview him, and congratulate him on the success of his building- Y/N found herself momentarily adrift, the hum of conversations around her blending into a distant background. But before she could get lost in the noise of it all, Jay’s voice broke through, pulling her from her thoughts.

“Y/N,” he called with a warm smile, one that seemed to soften the usual edge in his eyes. “Come meet everyone.”

He introduced her first to Emma, who gave her a polite, though reserved, handshake. Emma’s eyes were kind, but there was something guarded about her smile, as if she were measuring Y/N before deciding how much to let in. Next, Jay introduced her to his children. His son, a bright-eyed eight-year-old, immediately started chatting about his favorite cartoons, while his daughter, a few years younger, shyly held out a hand for a quick shake before retreating to her mother’s side.

Y/N smiled warmly, watching the kids interact with Jake’s, whose boisterous laughter seemed to fill the air as they played together like long-lost friends.

And then, Jake’s family appeared, standing close behind them with easy smiles and a regal air about them, as if their wealth and poise were as much a part of their DNA as their names. Minji, Jake’s wife, stood confidently beside him, her hands full with the impeccable, expensive gift they had brought. She, too, offered Y/N a warm handshake and a glance of approval, one that spoke volumes about the quiet power she held within their circle.

“Your boyfriend’s quite the star tonight,” Jake grinned and raised his wine glass, scanning his eyes across the crowd.

Sunghoon stepped up to the mic, his hand briefly adjusting the collar of his shirt as the room fell silent. A soft clink of silver against glass echoed through the space, signaling the beginning of his speech. He looked out over the crowd, his gaze finding familiar faces among the sea of guests. He looked nervous, his friends could tell by the smile tugging at the corner of his lips and his squinted eyes. Y/N chuckled, clasping her hands together and coaxing him.

"Thank you all for being here tonight," he began, his voice steady but filled with gratitude. "This building has been a lifelong dream of mine, something that’s been in the making for years. I’ve been dreaming about this since I was a kid, when I was still playing with LEGO.”

The crowd lulled at him. 

"This moment wouldn’t be possible without the support of my family, my friends, and everyone who believed in me. I’m especially grateful to my parents, who have always been my foundation, and to my friends- Jay, Jake, and everyone who’s been by my side through thick and thin."

He paused for a moment, his gaze softening as it landed on Y/N. A small smile tugged at his lips.

"And to Y/N, my wonderful girlfriend who never stopped believing in me- for fifteen years, you’ve always been patient and supporting me. In your own, quiet ways." The room was quiet, everyone’s attention rapt, as Sunghoon continued. "This building- this achievement- it's as much as all of yours as it is mine. So, thank you, all of you, for helping me get here."

The crowd erupted in applause. 

He raised his glass slightly. "Here’s to many more moments like this."

The crowd cheered, and the applause filled the room, but Sunghoon’s eyes stayed on Y/N, his heart full.

The applause still echoed in the room, but Sunghoon barely noticed. His heart was pounding, the noise of the crowd fading into the background as his feet moved instinctively toward her. His eyes locked on Y/N, standing at the edge of the room, her smile brighter than he’d ever seen it before.

He could feel the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside him- the pride of the night, the weight of the years of work, and the absolute certainty that in this moment, in this life, all that mattered was her. Everything else- every achievement, every challenge- had led to this.

Without thinking, he jogged towards her, ignored everyone that reached towards him, the excitement in his chest pushing him forward. He took her hands in his, the warmth of her touch grounding him in a way nothing else could. The world felt distant, muted, as if the room had shrunk down to just the two of them, standing in a bubble of their own.

Y/N’s wide, surprised eyes met his, her lips curling into a smile as she looked up at him, unsure of what was coming. Sunghoon didn’t let the moment slip.

"Marry me," he said, his voice low but certain, no hesitation, no ring, no preparation. Just the raw sincerity of what he felt.

Y/N stared at him, stunned, the question hanging between them like a breath neither of them could take. For a second, the whole room seemed to still- the lights, the music, the people- all blurring into the background. All that was left was him, and her, and the weight of everything they had built without ever daring to name it.

"Sunghoon?" Her voice was soft, unsure, like she couldn’t quite believe what he was asking.

"Marry me, Y/N," he repeated, the words tumbling out with all the confidence he had in her, in them, in the life they’d built together. "Make me yours. Marry me,” he looked at her like she’d written his life, like she hung the stars that his building touched. His hair fell on his forehead, eyes sparkling under the white light of the room, his pointy teeth peeking under his lips.

The room continued to buzz around them, but all he could hear was the beating of his heart and the way her hands tightened in his. It was as if everything had led to this point- every smile they’d shared, every quiet moment, every fight, every laugh. It was all right here, and in that one moment, all of it felt like it was finally falling into place.

Y/N’s eyes were searching his face, taking in the rawness of his plea, her breath catching in her throat as her heart caught up with what he was saying. For a beat, it felt like the world had paused. The future, their future, stretched out ahead of them, and for the first time, it didn’t seem so uncertain.

“Yes,” she whispered, fighting the smile that inevitably spread across her face, her eyes beaming. “I’ll marry you, yes.”

That night, their apartment was filled with the kind of laughter that wrapped around the walls and stuck there, soaked into the wood and the floorboards and the worn fabric of the couch. Jay and Jake’s families crowded into the small living room, balancing wine glasses and plates of leftovers, their kids weaving between legs and couch cushions, building forts out of pillows and throwing giggling fits that made even the neighbors downstairs stomp once on their ceiling in protest.

The celebration wasn’t just for the building- although Jake made a big, showy toast about Sunghoon “finally putting something other than Legos together.” It wasn’t just for the engagement, either- although Jay yelled loud enough for the entire floor to hear when Y/N showed off the temporary ring Sunghoon had bought from a street vendor just to make it official. It was for everything- for the survival, the endurance, the blind faith it had taken to get here.

The whiskey Jake had brought from Korea was uncorked, its rich, smoky scent curling through the apartment, mixing with the smells of cheap takeout and someone's abandoned lavender hand lotion. They drank too much and laughed too hard and retold old stories, the ones that had been dragged out a hundred times before but still hit just as hard. They toasted to love, to family, to new beginnings that had been a long time coming.

At the center of it all was Y/N and Sunghoon, pressed into each other on the couch, still a little dazed, still blinking like they couldn’t quite believe their luck. Sunghoon leaned into her, his forehead bumping against hers, their hands tangled loosely in the space between them. Y/N laughed at something Jay said across the room, the sound spilling over Sunghoon’s shoulder like warm water. He looked at her the way you look at something you know you’re going to spend the rest of your life memorizing.

The next morning arrived heavy and slow. The hall smelt of whiskey and cold takeout with sunlight slanting lazily across the messy apartment floor. Jay and Jake groaned their way out of the guest room, looking like they'd aged a decade overnight. The kids and the wives were still sleeping, Y/N still locked in the room with her head buried in pillows. While Sunghoon, somehow, had the audacity to be chipper, already showered and dressed, pacing the living room with a cup of coffee in hand.

"Let’s go," he said brightly, nudging Jake with his foot where he slumped on the couch.

"Go where?" Jake grunted, rubbing his face.

Sunghoon just grinned and said, "You’ll see."

Half an hour later, they were standing in front of a jewelry store in downtown Shanghai, still half-hungover, blinking against the polished glass and diamond shine like they’d stumbled into a parallel universe. Jake muttered something about needing sunglasses. Jay just stood there with his hands in his pockets, squinting at the window displays like they personally offended him.

When they went inside, it didn’t take long for chaos to start.

"I’m telling you, oval cut is the way to go," Jake said, leaning dramatically over the glass counter, pointing at a delicate, glittering ring.

Jay scoffed. "Oval is boring. Get her a princess cut. Classic. Clean. Also sounds badass- princess cut."

Jake rolled his eyes. "You're a lawyer, not a jeweler. Stay in your lane."

"And you’re a surgeon, not a stylist. What do you know about jewelry?"

“I know more about cuts than you!”

They kept going, arguing louder and louder, drawing a few raised eyebrows from the staff, while Sunghoon- unnoticed- had already chosen. The moment he saw it, he knew. Simple and elegant, a solitaire diamond, set low in a slender band of platinum. Not too flashy, not too plain.

Exactly Y/N- exactly her in every way that mattered.

Without saying a word, Sunghoon pulled out his card, signed the receipt, and slipped the velvet box into his jacket pocket. By the time Jake and Jay turned around, still bickering over cushion cuts versus marquise cuts, Sunghoon was already walking out the door.

"Wait- did you pick one?" Jay called after him, confused.

Sunghoon didn’t even slow down. He just tossed a grin over his shoulder and said, "Already done. Keep arguing if you want, though. Maybe you can pick your own next time."

“Excuse me, next time?”Jake looked at Jay, comical confusion on his face. But they ignored him and dragged him to a restaurant for lunch.

iii. When The Lights Start to Flicker

They'd been married a little over a year now, still living in the same apartment. The place had become a reflection of them- a small, sunlit sanctuary amid the constant rush of Shanghai. Sunghoon had started designing a house for them to build one day, a place they could call their own. He envisioned a space with wide windows to catch the morning light, a garden with space for their future children to play, and maybe even a little patch of grass where they could set up a swing. The plan was to settle in Shanghai, to raise their family here, to grow old together and, eventually, die here. Shanghai had become their city, their home.

Above their bed hung their only wedding photo- a courthouse wedding they had to have in Hong Kong. They hadn’t had time to plan something big, but the simplicity of it made it feel real in a way nothing else could. Their faces were flushed from laughter, hair messily styled from the winds on the ferry, clothes wrinkled and etched, eyes bright and full of hope- a stark contrast to the quiet mornings that followed.

The jade vase Jay had gifted them for their wedding day now sat on their balcony, a tiny lemon tree growing from it, its leaves stubborn and green despite the occasional gusts of wind. It was one of those small symbols of their life together- not perfect, not always flourishing, but resilient. Framed pictures dotted the apartment- photos from holidays with their families, snapshots from trips they’d taken with Jake and Jay’s families, and spontaneous polaroids of the two of them in various places, their smiles as wide and unguarded as the moments in which they were taken. 

Jay and Emma were divorced now, but they still kept in touch, if only for the sake of the kids. Jake’s children were growing fast, entering middle school now, a milestone Sunghoon couldn’t quite wrap his head around, hearing them yell “Samchon Sunghoon” over the phone all the time. Sometimes, they’d talk about their plans for the future- whether it was dinners at the new restaurant in Shanghai or weekend trips to the coast- always something to look forward to, always an excuse to keep moving forward, to keep adding to the timeline of their life.

Life seemed good. No- life was good. Better than Sunghoon had ever dared hope for. In the mornings, Y/N would make coffee while he sat at the kitchen counter, scrolling through his sketches for the house, and they’d talk about their day- trivial things at first: what they’d have for dinner, what he should wear to the meeting later. Then, there were the deeper conversations, the ones where they talked about their future, the one they were building together, like they were planting seeds for something that would last a lifetime.

Evenings were quiet. After dinner, they’d curl up on the couch, wrapped in soft blankets, watching old movies or the latest series they had gotten hooked on. Y/N liked to talk about their plans as if they were already there- as if the house was already standing, the kids already laughing in the garden. It felt like a dream Sunghoon was terrified to wake up from. There were nights he lay awake beside her, her steady breathing grounding him, his mind racing with the fear that it could all be taken away with a single misstep, a wrong decision. He felt too lucky, too undeserving of all of this. He couldn’t help but wonder, sometimes, if this was just a dream, one that he would wake up from at any moment- a dream that, apparently, was their life.

There were small moments, too- the way Y/N would smile when he’d finish a long day at work, the way she hummed a quiet tune while tending to the plants in their living room, the soft rustling of pages as she read before bed. Little things, but they were the rhythm of their life, the foundation of something they had both worked for and built from scratch.

Yeah. Life was great.

Until the night he came home and found her sobbing on the couch.

The sound cracked through the apartment like a whip, stopping him in his tracks. His bag slid forgotten from his shoulder as he rushed to her side, crouching in front of her, reaching out without even knowing what he would say. Y/N was folded into herself, shaking, the kind of sobs that came from somewhere deeper than just grief. It took long, fumbling minutes to piece the story together through her broken words.

“Do you remember my uncle John?” Y/N asked between sobs. “The one who…”

Killed himself?

“Yeah,” Sunghoon nodded, his hand gripping hers and holding her against her chest. 

“His daughter,” she sobbed. “His daughter hung herself.”

Her cousin- the eldest daughter of her late uncle- was gone. A suicide, barely days away from earning her PhD. She had flown home under the pretense of rest and family- and instead had left a note explaining she had come to say goodbye.

Sunghoon’s arms wrapped around her instantly, pulling her against him, shielding her from the world with nothing but his own helpless warmth. He listened as she cried out memories, old guilt, new grief, her voice cracking apart in ways he didn’t know how to fix. He stayed with her through the night, through the tremors of her heart breaking open again, whispering comfort into her hair even though he knew it couldn’t patch the hole now yawning wide inside her.

The days that followed blurred together. Y/N couldn’t sleep. She wandered the apartment like a ghost, curling into Sunghoon at odd hours, talking in tangled loops about death, about missing signs, about how unfair it all was. Sunghoon held her through it, steady as he could be, biting down his own helplessness because what else was there to do?

And then, one night, it shifted into something worse.

She sat on the couch again, curled up in her favorite worn sweatshirt, the fabric soaked with tears. But this time, when she spoke, the names were wrong. The story was wrong. She wasn’t talking about her cousin anymore- she was talking about her uncle. About the bathtub, the blood, the knife slipping from his hand. Events that had happened years ago, long before they met. Like all of that was happening now.

Sunghoon’s heart stopped cold.

He knelt in front of her, his hands cupping her tear-streaked face, his voice shaking as he tried to pull her back. “Y/N,” he said softly, urgently, "that was... years ago. Not now. Not this time. It's your cousin, remember?"

For a long moment, she just stared at him like she didn’t know where she was, like he was speaking a language she couldn’t quite catch. And then, slowly, she blinked, wiped her face with trembling fingers, and whispered, “Sunghoon? Right. Right… years ago.”

Sunghoon didn’t think much of it- he chalked it up to exhaustion. In all the time she spent crying and juggling work and keeping herself alive, it could easily have been her brain trying to keep up. The stress of grief, the late nights spent tossing and turning, and the constant pressure to appear okay- it all had to take its toll somewhere. He convinced himself it was just a phase, something temporary that would eventually pass. But deep down, there was a quiet, nagging feeling he couldn't quite shake.

Because one day, when she woke up beside him, Sunghoon felt it in the air before she even opened her eyes. She stared at him like she had never seen him before, like a stranger had slipped into their bed overnight. The seconds stretched and cracked, her gaze flickering with confusion, then panic. And in a heartbeat, she was scrambling out of bed, shouting “Bloody Mary!” like some kind of primal instinct had taken hold of her.

“Who are you?” She demanded, voice breaking, hands shaking, frantic. “How did you get in here?”

Sunghoon’s heart sank, raw and painful, as he sat frozen for a moment, the silence between them suffocating. He couldn’t breathe. He slowly got out of bed, each step toward her feeling like a weight around his chest, every word that left his mouth laced with fear.

“Y/N, it’s just me. It’s me- Sunghoon,” he whispered, his voice shaking, as if trying to pull her back from some invisible abyss. She froze, eyes wide, unblinking, but she wasn’t seeing him. Not really.

It took minutes- long, painful minutes- before her eyes cleared, and she blinked slowly, the pieces clicking back into place. She looked at him as if waking from a nightmare, and the moment she realized it, she crumpled into him, sobbing uncontrollably.

He didn’t leave her side that day. She didn’t go to work. She didn’t even get out of bed. Her body seemed to collapse in on itself, the weight of her confusion pressing down on her, and he held her tighter, as if that might make the pieces fit again.

There were other days, too, small moments that cut through him like a knife. She’d stand in front of the fridge, staring at it like she had no idea what it was for, no idea what she was looking for. He'd ask if she needed anything, and she’d shake her head with a small, distant smile, as if she were trying to remember the question.

And then there was the train.

The train ride that had started it all- the one that had sparked their first conversation, the first connection, the first laughter. Sunghoon would bring it up from time to time, a simple, warm memory to anchor them both. But Y/N would look at him, eyes soft and unfocused, and tilt her head.

“Train?” she’d ask, brow furrowing. “What train?”

He would try again, his voice gentle, coaxing. “Y/N, our train. Sixteen years ago, when we met. In Europe. You remember? We talked for hours.”

“Europe?” Her voice was small, uncertain, as if the word was a strange, unfamiliar sound in her mouth.

Sunghoon’s heart would crack a little more every time, and he’d blink back tears, trying to hold it together. She wasn’t her in those moments. The woman who had laughed with him for hours, who had stolen his heart on that train ride, seemed to slip farther away with each passing day.

He'd search her face for something- anything- that resembled the woman he knew. But all he’d find was a faint trace of recognition, a distant look in her eyes, as though she was staring at him from the other side of a foggy glass.

“I... I don’t remember, Sunghoon,” she’d say softly, a frown pulling at her lips. “I’m sorry.”

“How did we meet, Y/N? When was the first time we met?”

Y/N broke down in tears again because she, in fact, could not recall.

But then, the memory lapses seemed to fade. As she began to come to terms with her cousin’s death- after the funeral, after the guilt, after the crushing waves of grief- she seemed lighter, steadier. The moments of confusion slipped into the background, infrequent enough to feel like grief-induced fog rather than something concerning. And Sunghoon, so desperate to believe that everything was okay, let himself believe it too. He didn’t tell anyone. Not Jake, not Jay, not even her family. He pushed it away like a bad dream, convinced that maybe it had all just been stress, and that maybe, just maybe, they were fine again.

Until one day, when Y/N was on her way to the metro station for work and called him in full-blown panic. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” she whispered into the phone, breath sharp and uneven. “I don’t know where I’m going, Sunghoon. I don’t know why I left.”

He ran out of the apartment, sprinting down the streets near the station, his heart thudding so hard it made his ears ring. When he found her, she was sitting on the sidewalk by the flower vendor, her knees pulled to her chest, hands trembling. And when she looked up at him, her eyes flooded with relief. “Hoon,” she gasped, like she had been holding her breath the whole time. He dropped to his knees and pulled her into his arms right there on the pavement. And at least she still remembered him. That was something- that was everything.

But the small incidents began piling up like dominoes. One evening after dinner with friends, she fumbled through her purse for the house keys, her anxiety rising with every second. “They're gone, I can’t find them, I must’ve lost them.” Her voice cracked with panic- until Sunghoon gently took her hand and unfolded her fingers to reveal the keys she’d been clutching all along. Another day, she left the stove on while boiling eggs and stepped out for groceries. The fire alarm screamed through the building, and Sunghoon came home to the smell of scorched metal and neighbors in the hallway, shaken.

Then there were the names- she’d start stories and stall mid-sentence, unable to remember who she was talking about. She began confusing days of the week, missed appointments she’d never forget before, and sometimes called objects by the wrong name- a toothbrush was a “face stick,” a clock was a “time circle.” She started repeating herself too- asking if they had milk three times in ten minutes. Sunghoon would answer each time like it was the first, but the silence that followed hurt worse than anything else.

Eventually, with a shaking hand and dread thick in his throat, Sunghoon called Jake.

“She’s forgetting things, Jake,” he said, voice low and broken. “Not just little things. Big things. She gets scared. She’s getting words wrong, she’s leaving the stove on. She called me from the metro station and didn’t know why she was there. And... it’s happening more and more often.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line, and then Jake’s voice came through, steady but grave. “Sunghoon… She's showing signs of dementia. It sounds like she’s on her way to Alzheimer’s. You need to find out if anyone in her family has a history of it. Now.”

Turns out, after a gentle, seemingly harmless conversation Sunghoon started one afternoon while folding laundry beside her- “Hey, do you know if anyone in your family ever had memory problems?”- he found out that Y/N’s maternal grandmother had died of Alzheimer’s. It happened in a way her family never really talked about it. It had been brushed off as “old age,” but the signs were there, Y/N’s mother admitted later. She had forgotten her children’s names in the final years. She couldn’t even recognize her husband.

And from then on, it was like the truth became impossible to ignore.

Y/N’s memory declined like the last embers of a dying fire- slow at first, barely visible, but then suddenly collapsing inwards. She’d forget what room she was walking into, or why she was holding a spoon in the bathroom. She began writing notes on post-its and sticking them everywhere- Keys are on the hook. Your uncle and cousin are dead. You’re married to Sunghoon. Sometimes, even she couldn't read her own handwriting.

She stopped cooking. She’d forget she had started, then come back hours later to find uncooked rice soaking or wilted vegetables on the counter. Sometimes she’d call Sunghoon in tears because she couldn’t find the phone she was calling from. Her mood began to swing without warning. Sweet one moment, then suddenly furious, accusing Sunghoon of hiding things, or worse- cheating on her.

She’d wake up in the middle of the night and scream because she didn’t recognize their bedroom. There were days she wouldn’t even let him touch her, claiming he was an impersonator. “Where’s my husband?” She’d cry. “Sunghoon would never keep me here.” And then, as if a switch had flipped, she’d melt into his arms and sob.

Eventually, she quit her job and stopped working on her next book. She couldn’t remember her passwords, couldn’t keep up with deadlines, and once left her office because she got scared that the people there were “pretending” to know her. Sunghoon stopped going into the studio too. He asked to work remotely, spending most of his time beside her, trying to anchor her to the present. But she started living almost entirely in the past.

The outbursts became violent. She once threw a mug across the kitchen. She started locking herself in the bathroom, refusing to come out. Jake and Y/N’s family began to insist gently- and then firmly- that Sunghoon consider long-term care. That he couldn’t do this alone, that she was slipping away and needed help.

Sunghoon didn’t want to let her go. He couldn’t imagine a day without her- her real, true self, even if she only appeared in flickers now. But after one especially bad night- Y/N screaming and crying, hitting herself, convinced her dead uncle was still alive and had just called her- he brought it up.

“I think maybe…” he whispered, kneeling beside her where she was curled up in the hallway, “maybe we should find a place. Somewhere safe. Somewhere with people who know how to help you.”

Her eyes blazed. “You want to lock me up?” She spat. “You think I’m crazy?”

“No- no, baby, that’s not-”

“Then why are you doing this to me?” she shrieked. “I’m not leaving. I’m not going anywhere! You’re not taking me!”

They tried again later. Her mother came, and Jake, and even her old colleague from the university. But each time, Y/N fought like a wild animal. She screamed and sobbed and clung to Sunghoon like a drowning woman. And each time, they had to remind her- again and again- You’re in the future. You have dementia. You don’t remember because your brain is forgetting things. You have Alzheimer’s.

Some mornings, she’d dress up in old college hoodies and ask what time her environmental psychology class was. She’d talk about a boy named Henry- someone she dated when she was 19- and wonder why he hadn’t called. Once, she set the table for dinner and asked if her uncle was coming. Another time, she stood by the window for hours waiting for her cousin to come pick her up.

Worst of all were the moments when her eyes would light up, recognition blooming, and she'd talk to Sunghoon like she remembered everything- only to forget his name halfway through the conversation.

One afternoon, they were walking back from a small bakery, when she wandered toward a street vendor selling baozi. She smiled warmly at the woman and launched into fluent French. The seller blinked, confused, and Sunghoon gently placed a hand on Y/N’s back.

“She thinks she’s in Marseille,” he whispered, forcing a smile.

Y/N turned to him, delighted. “Can you believe this aunty sells baozi in France?”

Sunghoon didn’t correct her. He just nodded, voice tight, “Yeah, baby. That’s wild.”

Because sometimes, lying was the kindest thing he could do.

And then… Y/N wasn’t lucid anymore. Not even for a moment, not even in the in-betweens. The disease had taken everything- her memories, her language, her personality. It stripped her of everything that made her her- and what remained was just a flickering ghost, a body that moved and blinked and sometimes smiled at nothing. A shell. Breathing, yes, but not alive- not really.

Sunghoon wasn’t her husband anymore. He was a kind man who brought her food and gently wiped drool from her chin. A stranger who helped her get dressed when she stared blankly at her hands like they didn’t belong to her. A shadow in her life that didn’t mean anything to her anymore, though to him- God, to him- she was still everything.

He couldn’t remember the last time she’d been truly there with him.

Was it months ago? When they went to that new Chinese film- the one they’d talked about for weeks? He remembered holding her hand in the theatre, feeling the tremble in her fingers, how she laughed at a joke five seconds after everyone else. Or maybe it was more recent- last week, maybe? When he was cooking dinner, she wandered in, looked at him for a long, glassy-eyed second, then slowly wrapped her arms around his waist. She just held him. No words, no explanation- just a small human miracle.

But that was gone now. Completely, utterly gone. 

She stared through windows like she was waiting for someone who would never arrive. She whispered to herself, nonsense words, phrases from decades ago. She forgot how to use the bathroom. Forgot how to chew. She didn’t recognize mirrors, or her own name.

And her eyes- those beautiful, sharp, sparkling eyes- were just fog now. Pale glass. Empty, like a house with all the lights turned off.

Sunghoon sat beside her every night and read the books they used to love. Even though she didn’t respond. Even though she didn’t blink. He combed her hair. He played her favorite music. He held her hand until she pulled away like he was nothing but static.

Jake flew in from China after a call with her doctors, something urgent in his voice. He couldn’t stand the silence on the other end of the updates anymore. Couldn’t stand the breaking in Sunghoon’s voice- the exhaustion, the hollowness. He met with every doctor, every specialist, brought files and reports and records. But they all said the same thing, their eyes filled with pity:

“She’s in the final stage.”

Jake stood in the cold hallway outside Y/N’s room that night, phone to his ear, as he talked to Jay back home. His voice was low, cracked.

“I don’t think Sunghoon can live through this,” Jake said. “Not this time. He loses Y/N, we lose him too.”

Jay didn’t respond for a long time. When he did, his voice was barely a whisper.

“There’s no cure for Alzheimer’s… is there?”

Jake’s silence was answer enough.

There was a long, bitter breath. The kind you let out when there’s nothing else to say.

“He’s dying in pieces,” Jake finally said. “Watching her fade day after day- he’s dying with her. But slower. Crueler.”

And it was true.

Sunghoon hadn’t been sleeping. He hadn’t been eating right. His eyes were rimmed red all the time, the edges of his mouth permanently turned down like someone grieving something invisible. He sat beside Y/N’s bed for hours, watching her blink at the ceiling or hum some broken tune from childhood. He whispered her name so many times it stopped sounding like a real word.

And sometimes, just sometimes, she would glance his way. Not with recognition. Not with warmth. Just the barest flicker. A look that said: You seem kind. But not: You’re mine. You’re the man I loved. The life I chose.

That had died a long time ago.

“No, no, don’t touch me!” Y/N screamed, thrashing her arms violently, knocking over the bedside lamp.

“Y/N, please- please, it’s me,” Sunghoon pleaded, hands hovering midair, helpless. “It’s me. It’s Sunghoon.”

“Don’t say my name like you know me!” She howled, eyes wide and wild, spit flying from her lips. “Where’s my Uncle?! Where’s my cousin? What did you do to them?!”

“Y/N, they’re not-” He couldn’t even say it. Not dead. Not gone. Not again.

She stumbled back into the dresser, knocking down her perfume bottles. The crash made her scream louder. “You kidnapped me! You sick bastard, get away from me!”

His legs gave way and he knelt on the floor, arms limp. The weight in his chest felt like drowning, like suffocating underwater and knowing no air was coming.

His Y/N, who once kissed him under the rain in Prague. Who held his hand through every storm. Who made burnt toast every morning and danced barefoot in the kitchen when she thought he wasn’t looking.

That woman was gone. And this… this terrified creature screaming at shadows- was what remained.

He watched her curl into a ball near the window, sobbing into her knees, whispering names of people who hadn’t existed in years. Her cousin. Her uncle. All dead. Yet in her head, they were just in the next room.

His lungs burned. He hadn’t even realized he was holding his breath.

She’s dying.

Not fast, not clean. But slow and fucking torturous- like a sun going cold over weeks, months, years. He couldn’t even scream. The pain was too heavy for sound.

He crawled toward her, barely able to speak. “You’re safe, Y/N. You’re safe. I would never hurt you.”

She flinched from him like he was a monster.

And it broke him. God, it broke him in a way no words could hold.

He wanted to tear his skin off. Rip out his heart and offer it to her like: Here. Take it. If it means you remember me again for just one minute- take it.

“I love you,” he whispered, voice hollow. “Even if you don’t know who I am anymore. Even if this- if this is all that’s left of us.”

She just kept sobbing.

And Sunghoon sat beside her like a ghost in his own home, rocking slightly, eyes glazed with tears that would never stop falling.

He was losing her. Just like before.

But this time… this time, it wasn’t death that took her.

It was forgetting.

And that was worse.

Because now, he had to wake up every single day… to watch the woman he loved disappear right in front of him.

Over and over again.

Until there was nothing left.

iv. The Bath Water Was Cold

Y/N was lucid.

For the first time in weeks- maybe months- her mind was still. No fog, no missing names, no confusion. Just unbearable, crystalline clarity.

She sat on the edge of the bed in her nightgown, trembling, knowing that something was wrong. The moonlight streaked across the wooden floors like ghostlight, pale and haunting. The house was quiet. Too quiet, like it was already mourning her. Sunghoon was asleep beside her, his face serene like the past few years weren’t filled with the torture Y/N had brought upon him- she’d become a burden, she knew it.

The walls no longer combined into a collage of framed pictures, Sunghoon’s sketches and movie posters anymore- they were sticky notes, all small reminders of Y/N’s life and what it really was- the real version, not the jumbled memory version. The house was messy with ripped pillows, strewn blankets, a shattered mug in the corner of the kitchen, a broken window- she didn’t know what happened to cause it. But she knew it was probably because of her.

In the mirror, she saw herself.

Not the version Sunghoon kept insisting still existed- the brave, curious woman who once dove off boats and kissed him under stars. Not the woman who used to teach English, who quoted Greek philosophy, who went on a spontaneous Europe trip alone. No. This version was frail, hollowed, yes sunken, lips pale, skin dull. She looked like someone halfway to the other side already.

Her fingers gripped the edge of the sink, nails digging into the ceramic. She thought of her cousin, of her uncle, of the smell of her old childhood home, of France, of baozi, of the train ride with Sunghoon, of the moment she fell in love with him, of the night he asked her to marry him. But she couldn’t remember what had been happening for the past couple of years- she didn’t remember how Sunghoon was killing himself to take care of her, she didn’t remember the pain her condition brought upon her family- she just knew, like it was some sort of gut feeling.

She thought of what would happen tomorrow when she woke up. The blank stares, the panic, the shaking, the way Sunghoon’s voice cracked every time he had to explain who he was again. Like carving a wound into his chest, again and again, daily.

She couldn’t do that to him. She couldn’t be a monster in his story and he couldn't be the martyr to her story. She wouldn’t allow it.

So she ran a bath. Not hot. Not warm. Cold- the kind of cold where you hissed at the contact of water. And she wanted to feel it- wanted it to shock her back into herself, wanted the bite of it to remind her that she was alive- right now.

She stepped in slowly, like stepping into a grave. The porcelain shivered beneath her as she slid down, letting her head rest back.

And then, she slipped under.

No gasping. No flailing. Just… silence.

The last thought that crossed her mind was of Sunghoon’s face when she first kissed him. How his eyes fluttered shut, how gentle he was, how scared he was to fall in love. And how he did it anyway.

I love you. I’m sorry. I love you.

And just like that, Y/N was alone- ceasing to exist. The shadow she thought she’d gotten rid of had returned in a form much more permanent, much more numbing.

Sunghoon woke up to cold sheets.

That was the first sign. Y/N was always up early, but she always tucked herself back in, wrapped herself around him like ivy. The second sign was the silence. No kitchen clatter, no soft footsteps, no humming of French lullabies. The third sign was the open bathroom door.

“Y/N?” he called softly, walking barefoot across the wood.

Nothing.

He stepped into the bathroom and saw her.

At first, he didn’t understand. He blinked, trying to make sense of what he was looking at. Then it hit him like a train. Her body, limp in the tub. Water still, blue, like glass around her. Her face turned slightly to the side, lips pale, eyes closed. So still, too still.

“No,” he breathed, and the world cracked.

He fell to his knees, the sound that escaped him not even human. It was raw, unhinged, guttural. He plunged his arms into the water, ice biting his skin, and pulled her out with all the strength he had left. Her body was heavier than he remembered. Deadweight. Dead. Dead. He screamed her name, pressed his ear to her chest, shook her, slapped her face gently, kissed her cold lips, sobbed into her skin.

“Come on,” he begged, voice hoarse. “Please, wake up, Y/N. Please. Baby. Just one more time.”

He tried CPR. He screamed until his throat bled. He called the ambulance. He called the police. He called Jake. He called her mother. Called his mother. He called anyone and everyone. But she was already gone- had been for hours.

He lay on the bathroom floor with her cradled against him, soaking wet, rocking back and forth like a man possessed. When the paramedics arrived, they had to pry her from his arms. He fought them. He kicked and screamed. He cursed God. He cursed the mirror. He cursed himself for not waking up earlier. For not sleeping with one eye open. For not knowing.

Jake arrived just as they were wheeling her body out. He caught sight of Sunghoon- barefoot, drenched, shaking like a leaf, bloodshot eyes, face a ruin of grief.

“I should’ve known,” Sunghoon rasped, collapsing into Jake’s arms.

Jake couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. Just held him as Sunghoon shattered.

In the days that followed, Sunghoon stopped eating. Not out of protest, not out of some conscious decision to spiral- but because food simply didn’t make sense anymore. The smell of it nauseated him. His stomach didn’t growl; his body didn’t ask. It was like it too had given up, echoing his refusal to accept the world without her in it. He didn't move from their bedroom, except to use the bathroom or stare blankly out of the balcony where the lemon tree still stood tall in the jade vase Jay had gifted them, now with one yellowing leaf curling at its edge. The rest of the apartment felt like an unfamiliar museum of their life together- every framed photo now a relic, every memory preserved in glass. He sat curled up on her side of the bed for hours at a time, her old scarf clutched between his hands, threadbare and faded but still faintly warm with her scent. He would press it to his face, over and over, inhaling until his chest hurt- like if he could just breathe deep enough, she’d come back to him. But with each passing hour, the scent faded, and so did his hope.

The funeral happened without him. He couldn’t bear it- the thought of standing before a coffin and admitting aloud that it contained her. That the girl who once ran barefoot through summer rain with him, who cried watching terrible documentaries, who held his face and told him she would love him forever- was now a cold, still body in a box. He didn’t want the last time he saw her to be like that. He wanted to remember her in motion- laughing, crying, living. So when her parents and Jake pleaded with him to come, when Jay sent messages begging him to say goodbye properly, all he could do was shake his head and whisper, “I already did.”

People came and went- friends from university, colleagues from work. Emma and Minji came by with a bouquet and left it in silence. Jake and Jay stayed. They cooked, cleaned, and took calls when Sunghoon couldn’t answer them. They spoke in hushed tones with her family, organized papers, and cleared out her drawer of medications. Once, Jake heard Sunghoon crying softly in the kitchen, trying not to be heard, and for a split second, he wanted to go to him, to lean on someone. But he didn’t, he couldn’t. Because the only person he had ever learned to lean on was gone. And in her place was just this howling emptiness that threatened to swallow him whole.

He whispered into the silence at night, curling into himself on the cold mattress. “I love you. Come back.” He said it like a prayer, like a mantra, like a spell. Over and over. Sometimes it was a whisper, sometimes it was a scream into the hollow dark. But she never did. There was no sign. No dream, no flicker in the corner of the room that maybe, just maybe, she was still around. The scarf didn’t smell like her anymore. The lemon tree began to wilt. And one afternoon, he caught a glimpse of their wedding photo, and it felt like looking at strangers- a man and a woman in love, two people he no longer recognized. Because who was he now? What was left of her, other than ashes in an urn and silence in the house they were supposed to grow old in?

The bathwater was cold. He remembered the moment he found her like it was still unfolding in slow motion- the door ajar, the silence unnatural, the steam long gone, and her body submerged- pale, still, floating like she belonged to another world. He remembered the sound of his own scream. The way he’d collapsed to his knees and tried to lift her out- how heavy she was, like her spirit had left her behind, leaving only a shell. He remembered slipping in the water and choking on sobs, calling her name, begging, pleading, wailing until the neighbors banged on the door and Jake had to pry him away from her lifeless body.

She was gone. No coma. No miracle. No bargaining with God. No gentle goodbye. Just gone. And he had no one but himself to blame. 

And now all he had was this echoing ache, a grief too big to fit inside his ribs. He wished she had left a note. Something-  anything- to make sense of why she chose to leave like that. But maybe she didn’t need to explain. Maybe knowing her mind was unraveling was enough explanation. Maybe she didn’t want him to have to see her forget again. Maybe she thought she was saving him.

How ironic- how utterly, grotesquely hilarious- that the universe seemed to have written his life as a tragedy with no intermission. He had lost his first wife in the kind of grief that rots you quietly, only to stumble into Y/N’s love like it was salvation. But now she was gone too, and in her place was nothing. No redemption, no closure- just silence and rot. He had lost his first wife to find Y/N. He had lost Y/N to lose himself. It was as if love had only ever existed to teach him the shape of absence; as if love was nothing but a punishment wearing a beautiful face.

v. Epilogue: The Lightswitch 

When Sunghoon told people that he’d been married twice- that had been widowed twice, people looked at him with disbelief. As if someone with such an attractive face and impeccable talent as an architect could not possibly receive such punishment from the universe. And usually, it was the young women that reacted this way, the ones who had daddy issues and looked at him like he could fix them for the night. And to these girls, his loss and grief and brooding past was more attractive.

Sunghoon was old now. In another world, he would have been a grandfather by now- if life went according to his plan, if no one had passed away and if no one walked away like idiots and luck was on his side. And with age- since a young age, actually- Sunghoon had attended a plethora of funerals. He knew funerals the way he knew an old friend- always there in the back of his mind, stored with random information, but not knowing where to let that information go.

The first funeral he attended was when he was a kid. It was his grandfather’s funeral. And after his, more of his grandparents passed away and his life circled around grieving parents, white flowers hung around framed pictures of the deceased and rituals that he didn't understand the need for performance but since his parents dragged him to it, he had no choice. The funeral he attended as an adult- the first true loss he faced- was of his first wife’s. He was the one that organized her funeral- through tears and pain and weight he couldn’t carry himself but did anyway. Because as a husband, he was responsible for it. And because he respected her too much and loved her too much.

And the funeral after that? It was of his second wife’s- Y/N’s. And he didn’t exactly attend the funeral, nor did he play a part in organizing it. His friends and Y/N’s parents had taken full responsibility, letting Sunghoon grieve over the love of his life- because she truly was, Y/N. The girl he met on a train, the girl he reunited with in a random coffee shop in a random city and the girl who let him rediscover himself. And she was gone too fast, too soon. Sometimes he'd wonder how many good years they had together- four years? Maybe five? Before her cousin had passed away- he still remembered the date.

There was a piece of her in everything he did- his building in Shanghai, the rest of the buildings he’d ever design, the clothes he bought for himself now (he’d only buy clothes in colors Y/N liked) and the food he cooked for himself. Usually it was her spaghetti recipe or her mala tofu recipe. And everytime he cooked one of Y/N’s recipes, he’d cry while eating the food. 

Sunghoon even wrote a book, in the memory of Y/N. He’d dedicated it to her and also his first wife, his friends, and his family. The book was a collection of short stories that revolved around two characters- two characters who met in a train and chose to adventure through life together, who explored themes of love, grief and all the other complicated emotions Sunghoon never got to confront until writing that book. And when publishing it (with the help of Jay’s connections), he’d included his favourite picture of Y/N in the back page- it was of her standing in front of the skeleton of his Shanghai building wearing a bright yellow hard hat and ridiculously large reflective vest. He even had that picture framed on his desk.

The funerals that would follow felt more natural that the previous two. His parents passed away with old age, his dog (who he adopted a few months after Y/N’s death) passed away due to cancer and more older people he knew- Jake’s parents, Jay’s parents, Y/N’s parents… one by one, they all passed away. But Sunghoon wondered why he was still alive. He wondered why the universe had taken away everyone from him but refused to take him instead. 

Sometime after Y/N’s passing, he moved back to Korea. And he lived with Jay for the time being- both bachelors (but Jay had his kids over a lot), both focusing on their careers and both holding onto each other for support. Some nights, they went to Jake’s house where they would play with his kids and eat the dinner Minji cooked. And other nights, they would both be buried in their work, not a word exchanged between them. 

He didn’t intend on visiting Shanghai, not even to see his building. He was too afraid, too weak to look at the building and not remember the glow on Y/N’s face when he asked her to marry him. It was too personal, too obvious. Sometimes, a picture of his building would show up on the paper or on social media would bring an ache to his chest. And he tried moving on, to replace the memories, but somehow, everything that was his had also been hers. 

Eventually, living in Korea felt like a burden, too. And so he relocated to Paris, where he got a job with double the pay and where his company provided him with accommodation in a fancy apartment. He went to France because it was the country Y/N spoke about the most during her last few days- always recalling the Eiffel tower, always spewing in the little French she knew and always calling baozi baguettes. When he reminisced, Sunghoon was able to chuckle at those moments now.

Her death still defined him- it still defined how he lived his life and the choices he made, like he was running again. But it wasn’t negative anymore. Sunghoon was able to live on and he was able to do it contently. When asked if he was happy, he didn’t really know what to say. Or, to be precise, he never understood the question. Because during moments where he was watching some of his and Y/N’s favourite shows, when he was reading one of her favourite books, when he was working and designing buildings and houses that he knew were going to be used and when he found himself laughing in certain fleeting moments, he thought he was happy. There would be a spark, a heat, in his chest that came from the brief thawing of his heart.

But then, there were the nights Sunghoon would stare at one of herold pictures and feel his chest clench- like, physically feel his heart contract. There were the nights when he would look at himself in the mirror, old now with a slight stubble and a permanent weight in his brows, and wonder where his life was leading to, what he was planning on doing next. There were nights where he would come home to an empty house and realise that he was… empty. Truly, empty.

To his friends, Jake and Jay, he was hanging onto life. He was living his life, day by day, working and eating French food and going to operas and plays with his colleagues and drinking expensive French wine. And it wasn’t a bad life, not at all. Most people would dream to have his life. But Sunghoon dreamed of sharing this life with Y/N. Because, somehow, he knew she was the only person who could appreciate it like he did- he knew only she could brighten his days filled with wine and food and art.

He wouldn’t call himself suicidal, but Sunghoon had thought about it a few times- during lonely nights where the cold wrapped him and he wished it was water instead, or during days he had to cook meals for himself and he wished the knife was slicing through his wrists instead of fresh tomatoes. They were intrusive thoughts, really- thoughts that emerged when he was tired and exhausted. 

To save himself from his thoughts, Sunghoon adopted a bunny. A grey, fluffy thing that hopped around his apartment and followed his feet, batted her ears and nibbled on carrots when he gave them to her. She also liked napping near his jade vase that stood in his balcony- the one that Jay gifted them all those years ago- which now potted a mint tree instead of a lemon tree. She was quiet, gave him company and made him smile with how dumb she was sometimes- knocking over pencils, jumping on counters to reach him and wiggling her tail to get his attention. In many ways, the bunny reminded him of Y/N- that she was quiet but always around him, always filling his space when he didn’t know he needed it. 

Y/N did used to say she wanted a bunny- especially during the first few years of their marriage. She wanted all sorts of animals- cats, dogs, bunnies, hamsters, birds, fish. Sunghoon had always refused- not because he hated animals but because he feared he had no time to care for one. He’d already gotten a dog, one that eventually died due to cancer. So the next best thing was this bunny, who he named after Y/N’s favourite color- Red.

She used to say red was her favourite color because Sunghoon’s favourite sweater was red in color. And also because the train they had met in, the one in Europe, was also painted in red. She used to tell him that a lot- well, until her dementia kicked in and she forgot she even had a favourite color. 

It was Sunghoon and his pet bunny against the world. It was odd, telling his colleagues and friends that he adopted one- a man so old who should have been worried more about taxes and acquiring property was more concerned over pets. But Sunghoon didn’t mind it. He liked that a pet was all he had to worry about- a pet that reminded him of her. And he’d send folders and folders of pictures of Red to Jake and Jay and they’d always make fun of him, but eventually admitted that they loved the bunny too.

Jake and his family even took a trip to Paris once and the kids got to play with Red. They loved feeding her and by the time they left, Red was a bit chubby and overweight for her size. 

When Jay finally visited him in Paris, they had spent a weekend exploring parts of the town Sunghoon didn’t have the heart to go alone. He finally got to eat at restaurants and cafes that seemed too posh to dine alone in and he finally went to museums that were the hotspot for tourists. 

And sometimes, during times like this when he was reminded that he had a support system who were willing to travel across borders to come see him, he didn’t feel as lonely anymore. He didn’t feel the need to feel sad, to feed into his depressive cycle, to wonder what would happen next. Because Sunghoon had lived- he’d lived enough to make himself proud, to make Y/N proud. And he’d lived enough to honour his first marriage- the fact that he didn’t give up then. 

Sunghoon, until his last breath, lived for the girl who gave him a second chance, in remembrance of the girl who taught him how to hope again. Because it wasn’t the end of the world- not yet. And it wouldn’t be for a long time. And he realised that even though Y/N might have been the lightswitch, Sunghoon had been his own bulb the whole time.

END CREDITS

It was one of those slow, golden evenings in Shanghai, the kind that curled into your bones and made you believe that maybe- just maybe- life could stay gentle forever. The sky blushed a deep rose, and the warm autumn breeze carried the scent of sweet osmanthus from the trees below. On the balcony of their little third-floor apartment, Y/N and Sunghoon sat cross-legged, sharing ice cream mooncakes from an artisan cafe, laughing at each other’s messy eating habits.

Y/N had a smear of ice cream sauce on her cheek, and when Sunghoon pointed it out, she’d stuck her tongue out at him in defiance. He leaned over to kiss it away instead of wiping it, and she’d giggled like she was twenty and in love for the first time.

Inside, the record player spun something old and scratchy- an Ella Fitzgerald vinyl she insisted she didn’t buy just for the aesthetic. The music floated around them like a lullaby, soft and warm. They hummed along, pretending to know the lyrics, pretending the world wasn’t hurling toward something unknowable.

But outside, the real magic was happening.

It was the Mid-Autumn Festival. Lanterns, thousands of them, were drifting up into the night sky, glowing softly like heartbeats in the dark. From their rooftop, they had a perfect view. Lights rising like dreams, weightless, fearless. The entire city felt like it had collectively exhaled.

Y/N, eyes wide and glittering, rummaged under the deck chair and pulled out a little paper lantern of their own. It was handmade- clumsily folded, leaning slightly to the left, the soft red tissue already creased from too many attempts. She held it out to him with both hands like it was sacred.

“Write something,” she said, handing him a pen.

Sunghoon quirked an eyebrow. “What are we, teenagers?”

“Obviously,” she replied, grinning. “But it has to be a secret. Fold it up, tuck it inside the lantern, and then we’ll let it go.”

He hesitated- but the look in her eyes disarmed him. That look always did.

So they wrote.

Y/N sat quietly for a long time, chewing her lip, as if she were trying to write something that might change the trajectory of the universe. When she was done, she folded the paper twice, kissed it once, and slid it into the lantern.

Sunghoon finished his in half the time but held onto the paper longer, staring down at the ink as if the words might disappear if he blinked too long. Then he, too, folded it gently and tucked it inside.

They lit the flame together. And as the lantern began to rise, fragile and glowing, Y/N turned to him, her voice softer than the wind. “Let’s promise each other something.”

He looked at her, not the lantern. Always her.

“What?”

“Let’s promise to grow old together. Really old. Wrinkled and annoying. Still dancing in the kitchen at 80, still calling each other stupid names. I want to be the weird couple yelling at pigeons in the park. You and me, always.”

He chuckled, a sound from deep in his chest. “Okay,” he said quietly, hand finding hers. “Promise.”

She leaned into him, her head on his shoulder like she’d done a thousand times before. “Even if I forget everything one day,” she whispered, almost too softly, “promise you’ll remind me.”

His heart ached without knowing why. He tucked his fingers into her hair, breathed her in.

“Every day,” he murmured. “I’ll remind you every damn day.”

The lantern floated higher, a red star against the indigo sky.

Later- too much later- he would find the tiny notes tucked inside the lantern box. Burnt at the edges from the heat of the flame but still legible.

Y/N’s said: “I hope I never forget how it feels to love you. But if I do- please love me loud enough that I remember.”

Sunghoon’s said: “Please let this last forever. Let time be kind to us. Let her be happy.”

They stood on the balcony long after the lantern disappeared from view, hands entwined, the city alive around them. Time, for once, pausing just long enough to let them exist in peace. And in that single, suspended moment, it felt like nothing could ever touch them. That their love, reckless and tender, would outrun everything. 

Even memory. Even death.

[dirty-dirty-muggle]

First, much love to those that comment on smutty fics! You are so appreciated, and you @fafodill.

I do want to expand on the “self-revealing” part though because I think it’s a good discussion and a lot of times I think smut isn’t self-revealing in the way people think it is.

A lot of the reason I enjoy writing smut has nothing to do with the specific acts I’m portraying. To me, smut is a great way to explore humanity, society, and relationships in a deeply intimate way. Sex is a ripe ground to dig into things like power dynamics, shame, views on sex, relationships, and individual psychology. Even when I am writing straight-up porn, I never focus just on the sexual acts. The interesting parts are the characters, their feelings, their desires, their fears and kinks and boundaries, their reasons for having sex with the other character in the first place.

I’ve used smut as a vehicle to explore awful things like misogyny, victimization, rape-culture, and grooming, and sometimes I am deeply uncomfortable while I write it. Sometimes I want to explore the line of where does it go from arousing and consensual to wrong and not, what structures influence how we make those decisions and why people make bad choices or go along with things they don’t like. The fact that I’m doing it with hot kinky sex with my OTP doesn’t mean I’m not thinking about those things or that there isn’t a deeper meaning behind them.

I also think there’s danger in believing smut authors are automatically turned on by the specific acts they depict (which inevitably leads to believing they would do so in real life if they could). Is it sometimes for the purposes of arousal? Yes. Do I think people could figure out some of my kinks from my fics? Yes. But it might not be the ones they assume, for the reasons they assume. I definitely like reading/writing things I’d never do in real life to see how they’d work, or because thematically there’s similarities to other things that are the real thing I want to explore or use as catharsis, or just because I’ve never written a certain sex act before and think it would be fun to do. But it gets problematic too quickly assuming all authors are wanking themselves behind their words, and leans into puritan culture and misogyny, so think it would be better if people didn’t go there.

(Maybe that’s why I sometimes play with the fact readers expect smutty stories to be for the purpose of eroticism and arousal, and use it as a sort of distraction to hide bigger, deeper things until I want to reveal them. I love the idea of subverting readers’ expectations that way and giving readers surprise feelings.)

(I am also bringing all this up as discussion, not insinuating anyone in particular believes things one way or another)

Not sure if you know this but your willingness to comment on smut truly is a gift among fandom. Lots of times the comments drop off sharply for smut chapters. It's understandable people are a little embarrassed sometimes but it just means every little comment they do leave means even more.

Smut is an art form!!!

Smut is SO hard to write!!!

Smut deserves the reviews!!!

I love smut. I always have. I'm a slut for smut.

I can totally understand why people may not be comfortable reviewing it - it's a bit self-revealing isn't it? (though I find it much worse when I try to write smut, I feel utterly naked to everyone hahaha like here, have all these specifics scenarios and words that I clearly personally like and find arousing, xoxo) I have a lot of respect for the people who write it, there's something so honest and human in it.

'Here, I really wanted to bang this character so I put them on their knees for my own pleasure. Have it as well.'

'I feel strongly that these two characters need to hate-fuck so hard one will cry in pleasure at the end because they need it so bad.'

'I need these three characters to have a 9 chapter long fuck week where they will rediscover their love for one another and heal their trauma wounds in a healthy way.'

Smut is amazing. Smut is therapy. Smut is self-indulgence. Smut is exploration. Smut is happiness.

All hail the smut.

Comment on the smut. ❤️‍🔥 The authors deserve it. They're putting themselves out here, they're sharing the urge. They put the sexy words together. They're so nice.

All hail smut authors.

We need you.

And I love you.

But to answer your ask more directly, thank you for telling me this. It's very rewarding and I actually wasn't really aware of the difference in reviews in smut work/chapters because to me, this is always the part I'm excited for, so I may project my own enthusiasm on other people.

[seraphirism]

Hello! I hope you’re having a good day and just wanted to let you know that your explanation of chapter 4 was amazing!! If you don’t mind me asking though, who exactly is Falin? Or rather what’s her big schtick? Cause I liked her in the chapter but couldn’t really understand why she is who she is.

hii and thank you so much for liking it (*≧∀≦*)💞!! I go on a tangent when I’m speaking/writing so everything ends up all over the place?

also, I don’t mind at all, in fact, thank you for asking about Falin \(//∇//)\!! I wanted to talk about her so bad (and I decided I was going to make long post about her pretty soon! seeing your ask made me so happy, cause now I have a reason to talk about her!)

[also, anon, I kinda had one thing in my head and it turned into another so I feel like I deviated from what you wanted and turned it into something else? I apologise in advance if this was not what you meant. please let me know if this is what you meant or something else :D!]

spoilers for main story chapter 4, part 4 and 5 are below and trigger warning for breeding, captivity and human trafficking (technically not human but it still applies i guess?)

now, for people who have not read the story or don’t remember it clearly, I’ll briefly go over what happened in the main story revolving asking her, before jumping to what we know about her character and some of my own theories + things I’ve noted about her. unfortunately, we do not have information for why she turned into such a twisted character but I think that might be revealed in the coming chapter since the case of Seiran family has not been wrapped up yet; the investigation is still going on since the Master of the Seiran family is still alive.

her actions, leading up to her death:

this is meant for those who have not read or do not remember the events revolving her; I’ll wrap it up quickly! in case you have not read my previous explanation about chapter 4 (part 3-5) and are confused, please give it a read!

it begins when the butlers (+muu!) were taking shifts at night in various places inside the Seiran’s palace (doing their guarding duties) when they hear the maids calling out to each other that “she went into labour” or “the child is about to be born, grab [insert necessity]!”

[note: for child, the word used in Japanese by the maids is 子/ko which does not only mean the child of a person but could be the child of an animal too. that was one of the assumptions of the butlers; that the child was a cat/dog’s baby OR that the child could be of another possible (hidden) mistress of the head of the Seiran family.]

but it becomes strange when this happens again, and then again. now, the butlers were suspicious, especially when Falin reacted in an unusual manner, saying she had not heard the maids act like that before heading back quickly, avoiding the subject.

now everything comes to light when:

[this is after the Master of the Seiran family had been kidnapped by mr elf, and Fennesz and Haures were away searching for the Master of the Seiran family.].

Ammon, Boschi, Aruji with Falin at their side are confronted by the sight of elf guy interrogating the Master of the Seiran family.

[note: elf guy’s people (their kind as a whole) are from the West (specifically from the valley regions.). they are governed by Elboa, the green headed elf looking guy with a hood.].

there it’s revealed that the Seiran family had kidnapped the people of elf guy (people of the valley.). Boschi assumed it was for experimentation, like the Sardis family did. In response, when Boschi, in a repulsed manner, makes this remark out loud, Falin says this, gazing at elf guy with fascination:

“Oh my, how rude! I have no interest in such trivialities. Look…(gesturing to elf guy)….at that crystalline skin…those blue eyes…those elegantly shaped ears.”

“I want to keep beautiful things close to me…increase them in number…and share them with others…isn’t that human nature?”

she was the main culprit behind the kidnapping and unlike what the butlers were assuming, it was not for experimentation purposes (like the Sardis) but her desire to possess beautiful “things” and share them with others. not only does she keep the people of mr elf (locked up for her viewing) BUT she wanted to increase their number. now, what was the best way to do that?

breeding. she forced the really beautiful male and female captives to have children together, to produce even more beautiful children for they would be “more desired by clients”. now it’s kinda ambiguous whether she sold only the children or the adults too; but she did have the elf’s people sold to nobles for high prices. that’s the reason for the children being born mysteriously each night but never being seen or heard of.

(we don’t have information about who the nobles were but it could very well be to nobles anywhere. I don’t think their clients were majorly from the East since that would be risky for them. anyhow, i feel like information about who the nobles were will be revealed soon since investigation is still going on into the business.).

that’s how the Seiran family became so rich and influential in the first place (by human trafficking) so much so that even during the (current) wars that plagued the Eastern lands, the people governed by the Seiran family were always doing well, financially, were not impacted by the unsettlement in the East and were extremely fond of the Seiran family and grateful for their rule.

[the scene where Falin is waving and greeting the grateful civilians in carriage with Aruji and Muu becomes kind of unsettling when you think about it; the reason why the civilians could relish in security (financial + food + otherwise) was due to the money the Seiran family earned from trafficking. ]

[note: Seiran family’s “human trafficking” likely started when Falin married into the family (though we don’t know for sure from the main story.). I’m not negating Seiran family’s wealth in any way since they were nobility even 300 years ago, but their sudden wealth in the current years has been likely due to this business.]

after being exposed, the elf guy demands them to hand over his people but Falin says she had all of the “products” burnt on the orders of her husband.

[earlier, Falin’s husband told her in private that he wanted to discontinue this “business” of theirs now because now they had established their power and their kingdom was rich. so he wanted all evidence of their business destroyed. he was especially afraid now, after the Sardis family was exposed, stripped of their titles and now regarded as criminals.]

Aruji confirms that there had been no fire (they would have smelled the scent of such a huge fire or seen evidence of it), proving to elf guy that Falin was lying. She admits after giggling that she would never have her “products” harmed; she merely sent the products with her maids to her parent’s home.

[long story short; elf guy then threatens Falin in an attempt to make her show him where his people were, the huge bell rings (the one signaling angels arrival) and Falin leaves in the heat of the moment. elf guy runs after her, hot on her tail.]

she runs back to her castle, where she sees Seraphim and Cherubim. she is instantly entranced by their appearance, especially after they kill some of her men with their “light powers”.

she asks them to kill her; her ephemeral life was going to come to end someday, hence she’d rather it come to end with her last sight and the manner of her death both being beautiful. [her words, roughly.]

[note: she wanted to die by their light powers.]

Seraphim (after being weirded out 😭) agrees with a smirk. then he proceeds to stab her fatally (because he deemed her impertinent and arrogant for talking this way to an angel 😭). she slowly bleeds out as Seraphim and Cherubim leave with the cage full of elf guy’s people with them.

[elf’s people were seen being taken by the maids of Falin (by Cherubim and Seraphim above). after they saw the cage being transported, they killed her maids and men, and took the captives (the elf’s people) who offered no resistance since all the time in captivity had made them apathetic and out-of-it. Cherubim will likely use the captives for experimentation :(]

there, elf guy arrives; he had been waiting behind in the shadows, unable to step out because he knew the intelligent angels were stronger than the average angels and he wasn’t sure he could win in a fight against them. there, he sees Falin, lying in a pool of her blood, her face pointing to a mirror in the room, gazing at herself (covered in blood.).

elf guy (almost pitying her because he planned on killing her in a quick manner, not in the torturous way she was currently dying) asks her to look into his eyes. she looks at him before he kills her with one quick attack of his sword.

[he also almost pitied her for the fact her last sight was herself covered in blood and not something beautiful; beautiful things were something she had dedicated herself to, all her life. that’s why he asked her to look at him so her last sight could be him (someone she called extremely beautiful and showed a desire to possess), fulfilling her last wish.].

that’s how she dies, her last sight being “something” beautiful, right as she desired all this time.

now, with this out of the way, I’ll only be focusing on her.

Falin; her character and all the known information about her.

so Falin or ファリン was the Mistess of the Seiran family: the wife of the Master of the Seiran family. she was originally a noble woman from a small aristocratic family located in a mountainous region in the East; her family did not have much influence and it’s not known how she ended up marrying the Head of the Seiran family.

the first thing we learn about Falin, comes when Boschi notices her and remarks, in complete horror that she looks exactly like his mother. he goes further to add that even her voice was exactly like his mother’s; only her personality differed as his mother was timid by personality.

[you can just imagine the extent of how similar they looked for Boschi to feel so uncomfortable in her presence; unfortunately we have no description of how Boschi’s mother looked like to pin down Falin’s appearance. all we know is that Boschi’s mother’s hair had a beautiful lustre to it and was likely long. Boschi’s hair colour is something he inherited from his father so Falin’s hair colour isn’t blue. we can also guess since Boschi’s mother had a frail physique, Falin also had a similar one; she was also likely not too tall either and had a slim/skinny build.]

she married into the Seiran family. she is a descendant of a relative of Boschi’s mother; (Boschi said so himself). while his mother did die in the fire, she had relatives remaining in her village. Falin is a descendant of one such relative — this would explain her eerie similarity to his mother.

she was initially fascinated by Boschi’s appearance because “he is beautiful like Fubuki” — both are cold, strong and have one eye. [this made me crack up 😭 I’m sorry.]. we later learn from Finley that there were rumours that she had actually proposed to Fubuki a long time ago (to marry him) but was rejected by him.

there comes my next point! i think most fans got the impression that she was really young (like I did), being around the age of 25–30 but I believe this is wrong. we know from her interaction with Aruji and Muu (where she was amused when Muu called her young) that she is a bit older (not calling her old 😭) but her age may be (from the way she recalls her past experiences as the time she was “young”) around 30-45. I want to push it further from 30 but with the current canon content, I want to be careful just in case i end up wrong.

[also Boschi saw his mother for the first time when she was around her 40’s; I doubt someone in their 20’s could look so startling alike to someone in their 40’s. Boschi would have then added then that Falin looked like a more younger version of his mother: but he didn’t.

he said that their face, builds and voices were exactly the same; he could have added the age part too.]

A bit of background about East:

now i want to focus on East a bit and the standing women have/had:

women of the noble families in the East are regarded with little to no importance. they’re merely seen important for their ability to bear a potential male heir. Boschi further explained that they have no power or influence, live in seclusion, make no public appearance and have no political power (despite being mistresses of powerful noble families.).

an example of this is Bosci’s own mother. she was the third wife of his father, had no political power or influence and till her death lived in complete seclusion. because she hid the fact that she had a son, so a child-less wife was not important.

[the first wife killed the third wife and her son, after news of her son being born came out. the reason why the first wife had so much power to begin either is because she had a son earlier than the other wives and wasn’t willing for the other wives to have a chance for their son/s to be potential heirs.]

so for power, the women in noble families could and would sink pretty low.

now, with this in mind, let’s proceed!

Falin’s role and how she stood out:

Falin breaks many of the stereotypes that we have of the Eastern noble women in akuneko.

first of all, she’s the first and only wife of the master of the Seiran family (from what we know).

that’s extremely strange, especially considering the noble men from the east so far have been depicted to have more than one wife. [polygamy was common; Boschi says so himself. monogamy, on the other hand, was uncommon.]

what’s also strange is that she has no known children. she’s been married to the head of the Seiran family for quite a while yet from their interaction, the topic of children never came up. [keep in mind, this is set in a land and time where women are only regarded important for bearing a potential male heir. wars are still rampant and there are new noble families attempting to rise to power. if she couldn’t have children, her husband would have another wife already. but there’s a split chance her husband cannot have children, but that fact could have been used to oust him from power by a relative of his, from the Seiran family already.].

[so it’s unknown why they don’t have children or aren’t seeking to have them in a war struck region where male heirs are absolutely necessary for power.]

secondly, she had more authority/power (not on first glance) than her husband, the actual head of the family.

we know she (very likely) started the business of human trafficking; from how attached she was to it and how reluctant she was of letting go of it. she likely posed the business to her husband as a means of securing more influence and power in the Eastern lands (which is plagued by wars for power) but in actuality it was for her own twisted desire for “beautiful things”.

her husband acquiesced to her whims very easily. this can be seen by when brought up the subject of ending the business and destroying the “evidence”, she quickly managed to dissuade him with a little assuaging.

she even admitted in front of Aruji, Boschi, Ammon, her husband and elf guy that she manipulated her husband to follow her whims in this business.]

one other incident, which proves this is, when the butlers were told not to guard the master and mistress of the Seiran family (new guards of their own were assigned), she immediately went up to her husband and subtly hinted that she was “afraid” the new guards would not be able to protect her husband as well as the devil butlers (who have quite a reputation for their strength).

in actuality, she was not concerned about his safety (or even her own, to be honest.). she wanted the butlers by her side so she can gaze at their “beautiful faces “ while she went about her day. she did end up accomplishing that as her husband had the devil butlers reassigned only for her protection.

her influence over her husband can also be seen in when she manages to rope him into allowing her to dine with Aruji [instead of dining with him], in hopes of seeing the butlers from close enough (as they would be guarding Aruji right in their room) since she wasn’t getting enough opportunities to see them from close enough.

[it’s also interesting that her husband said that the devil butlers were invited to the Seiran’s residence because he was concerned for her safety, not his. he says this as a reminder to Falin, in one instance, (I guess trying to keep her in check because he was a bit suspicious of her and her intentions.).

so did she possibly manipulate her husband into inviting the butlers? it’s canon (in aknk’s story), that the devil butlers (while they are detested by people all around the world) are well known for both their beauty and strength. since we know she wasn’t concerned for her own life, could it be she invited them after hearing talks of their looks?]

moreover, unlike the noble women of her time, she was extremely confident and sly (in all matters, with all people, even strangers.).

ignoring her husband now and focusing on her interaction with the other characters:

when she saw Boschi for the first time, she approached him confidently, even inquiring about how he received the injury on his arm and eye. his attempts to reject her questions (rudely too) only brought her satisfaction and made her even more curious and him.

in the incident where she dined with Aruji, she had managed to convince Haures too, into allowing her to go inside Aruji’s room without informing them prior. and Haures genuinely seemed unable to deal with Falin and her persistent personality.

she switches her approach too, depending on who she’s dealing with: with her husband, it’s gentle, concerned and complacent; with the butlers, it’s persistent and clever.

even when she was revealed to be carrying out that business, she was calm and amused by Ammon and Boschi regarding her with hatred. even after that, she made one last further request to Aruji to capture elf guy in return for anything Aruji wanted (which they rejected.).

Extra:

I want to talk about one more incident where I loved the writer’s subtlety in showing Falin’s character:

it was when she wanted to have breakfast with Aruji instead of her husband; the reason she states for this was: that being surrounded by fully armed, “faceless men” (the guards) would make her not enjoy her breakfast. and that’s when she remembered the “faces of the butlers” (with whom she would be able to enjoy her food, since she liked their faces).

she could have said she wanted the company of Aruji or the butlers over the guards, or remembered them because she likes spending time with them or that they’re more amusing; any excuse could have passed. but she said she remembered the faces of the butlers and thought she would enjoy her food better with them in her presence.

[by the way, this was after the head of the guards was changed because the original one was injured; the temporary head of the guards made it a rule to wear armour that covered their faces as well i think?].

Lastly, it’s interesting how Falin, a mere mistress of the Seiran family has a name (despite the eastern noble women being put down in terms of power and influence) yet her husband was only “Master of the Seiran Family” throughout the story — all in all, to show how irrelevant he was and how he had no power or a role in the story, besides his title.

my own thoughts:

I mentioned in my previous post that I would like it if the writers could give more focus to the Seiran family, in particular, Falin.

how did a woman from a small aristocratic family end up marrying the master of a (relatively) bigger noble family and rope the master into following her desires? (if she did start the business of human trafficking) how did she convince the master of Seiran family?

also, what started her obsession with beauty? considering how rooted it is in her, did it start from her childhood? did her parents engrain it in her? [I can come up with loose reasons for almost every question in my mind but my mind goes blank for why Falin could have been so obsessed with beautiful people. she didn’t show much regard for riches either so why beauty of all subjects?]

(another thought that’s been on my mind) is that the killing of Boschi’s family was something well known in the aknk world; Berrien affirms this as well. so it’s unlikely that Falin’s ancestor (the one related to Boschi’s mother) did not know of the killing of Boschi’s mother.

how were Falin’s family okay with her marrying into the Seiran family when they were responsible for killing her family just 300 years ago? it’s unlikely they have forgotten it because (call me delusional) but I think they do keep records of everything (since the Eastern lands in aknk are loosely based off feudal japan.)

Or wait ✨! what if they (Falin’s parents) made her marry the Master of Seiran family because they believed it would be a good proposal for her (Seiran family being rich) and they could benefit from Seiran family’s riches too if Falin marries into them (their past bad blood be damned)?

and Falin knew of what the Seiran family did to hers years ago, which is why she doesn’t love or show any regard for the Master of the Seiran family ✨?

[I’ll shut up; these were mostly my own thoughts from what canon content I could scavenge. but I think even if this isn’t the truth (what I’ve proposed), it’s pretty close the truth. so I’ll settle with that.]

anyway, that’s it! i’ll pipe down now but that’s what I could piece together. please let me know if i got a fact wrong (as the length of the story does make it easy to confuse parts of it.)

i hope we learn more about Falin, her childhood and what led to her character becoming the way it is! if they don’t, I’m coming for studio wasabi ✨! have a wonderful day, anon (*^▽^*)!! i hope this was a good read!

and if there’s something you all want to add into what I’ve said, propose an alternative idea to what I’ve said, or correct me in something I said, please comment below or send me an ask. i don’t wish for incorrect information to be passed around, especially from my own mouth.

have a good day everyone! I love discussing the story content of aknk so feel free to send me asks anytime (*^▽^*)! please pray for me, (if you’re someone that prays) because my exam result is coming out tomorrow morning 😭)

[robotsdeservebetter]

All the Rape of Persephone retellings that turn the mother, who defies the patriarchal system to save her daughter, into an abusive monster just to make the rapist into a compelling love interest 👹 Feminist retelling, my ass

"Nobody gave a voice to these Greek Mythology female characters."

Euripides after writing Andromache, Andromeda, Antigone, Danaë, Electra, Hecuba, Helen, Iphigenia in Aulis, Iphigenia in Tauris, Medea, Merope, Wise Melanippe, Captive Melanippe, Peliades, The Phoenician Women, The Trojan Women etc.

[punkshort]

Them or Us

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: Let's rewrite Joel's story together, shall we?

Warnings: language, graphic violence, character death (not Joel or Ellie), blood, guns, knives, angst, guilt, reader is a badass

A/N: if you are an Abby fan, I suggest skipping this one.

"Ellie! This way!" you shout over the howling wind. She twists around in her saddle and yanks on the reins, steering Shimmer towards you through the blistering snow.

You point towards the ground — horse tracks, two sets — that head up the mountain.

"Maybe they found shelter there!" she yells, pointing towards an abandoned ski lodge. Years ago you remember clearing it of infected but it isn't part of your usual patrol routes. You nod and dig your heels into the sides of your horse, urging the poor thing through the blizzard and up the treacherous terrain.

You ride the rest of the way in silence. Not that you could hear her anyway, but you both seem to have the same heavy pit in your stomach. You haven't checked out this place in a long time. Anything or anybody could be in there. But Joel and Dina might be in trouble. You had to go.

When you approach the lodge, you bring your horses inside. It's quiet when you slide down from your horse. You exchange glances with Ellie and jut your chin upwards.

"They'd go up high," you say softly. "So they could get a good look at the land."

She nods in agreement before equipping herself with her rifle. You each check that your guns are loaded — long range and side arms — and double check your knives are still hidden in your boots and belts before advancing towards the massive staircase.

Foolishly, you allow yourself to think everything is fine. That they just came in to warm themselves up and wait out the storm. But as you approach the double doors, you hear voices. Ones you don't recognize.

You look at Ellie once again and she shoulders her rifle. You press a finger against your lips and she nods as you creep quietly over the ancient floorboards. Holding your ear up to the door, you listen.

"Because it doesn't matter if you have a code like me, or you're a lawless piece of shit like you," you hear a woman's voice say. You swallow nervously and grip your revolver tighter in your hand.

"There are just some things everyone agrees are just fucking wrong."

You hear footsteps slowly cross the room. It sounds like they are heading in your direction, towards the doors. Your heart slams loudly against your ribs but you are laser focused. The adrenaline in your body sharpens your senses and it's like you can practically see through the doors. You can imagine whoever this is stopping near something by the wall, just feet away from the door where you stand ready on the other side.

You give Ellie one more nod, confirming you're both ready to do what it takes to save the ones you love, and you take a deep breath.

Ellie is first. She kicks the door in and almost immediately gets knocked down by some man standing guard, but somehow you know it's fine. She's not hurt, she just got the wind knocked out of her.

You don't even see Joel or Dina yet. You only see the girl in a grey henley shirt, tucked into her oversized khaki pants, standing in front of a set of golf clubs.

She swivels around in surprise and you lock eyes for one devastating moment. She seems to understand her fate before you. Maybe she sees the pure rage and anger written on your face, one that she herself harbored for five years. Maybe she always knew it would end this way, same as her father.

You raise your revolver and slide one eye shut. It feels like it takes an eternity but it's really only a split second. The girl in front of you no older than Ellie holds her breath. You see fear and helplessness flicker across her eyes before your finger curls around the trigger and a loud bang echos through the vast, open ski lodge.

Blood sprays everywhere and her body drops to the floor with a thud. It seems to have shocked the other four members of the group because there's a moment of hesitation. A small hole burns right between her eyes and thick, sticky blood begins to pool underneath her braid. Her eyes remain open, staring lifelessly at the ceiling.

Ellie is still on the floor, but the man who knocked her down isn't paying attention. You shoot him in the knee and step into the room. Behind you, the man shouts and drops to the floor. You hear the sickening sound of Ellie's switchblade sink wetly into his ear, then the yelling stops.

It feels like you're on autopilot. Like you are barely aware of what you're doing. You feel shockingly calm. Looking back on it, you chalk it up to some primal, baser instinct. You've always heard people are capable of doing impossible things when they are under extreme duress.

This was one of those times.

Ellie clambers to her feet behind you. You can hear her fumbling with her gun, but you pay it no mind.

Three people left.

There's a woman with no hair reaching for a gun leaning against the fireplace. You exhale steadily and take aim — another loud blast, dark red blood sprays the light stone wall, and another heavy body hits the floor.

The last remaining man and woman begin to scream.

The girl with the black hair and bangs charges you with a knife. You turn, expression blank, and raise your gun, but Ellie gets there first.

A bullet lodges itself into the side of her head. You see her face go slack and her eyes roll back before she crumples to the ground. Warm mist sprays you, covers your face and neck, but you don't care.

You swivel on your heel when you hear footsteps running towards the door. The last man. He kind of looked like Tommy, you notice idly. You roll your shoulder, loosening it up, and raise your gun.

You feel completely at peace when you pull the trigger and your bullet sails through the final man's cheek. He yelps and falls to the ground. He stays alive for about thirty seconds, howling in pain, until finally his body stills and silence fills the room.

It was done. Not what you expected to do today, but it's what you trained for — the unexpected. To do what it takes to save your own.

"Oh, shit," Ellie says, holstering her gun and rushing across the room. You turn, heart rate spiking when you snap out of your haze. Ellie is crouching over Joel on the floor. She is hovering over his leg and it's only then when you notice blood pooling underneath him.

"Joel!" you cry out, dropping your gun to rush to his side. With an indescribable amount of relief, you notice aside from the fucking shotgun that blew a hole in his knee, he's otherwise untouched.

"They— they wrapped it up," he stammers. You look and see the belt wrapped tightly around his leg for the first time. You frown, confused, but shake it off.

"Okay," you breathe, "can you walk?"

He nods but his face is prickled with sweat and he looks pale.

"We got the horses downstairs. We- you can ride back with me. We'll be alright," you assure him with a small smile. Next to you, Ellie jumps up. She rushes over to Dina and begins to shake her shoulders, yelling her name.

"She's gonna be out for a bit," Joel grits. You lean down and offer him your shoulder. He wraps an arm around you and you hook your own arms under his to pull him up with a loud groan. He makes a pained sound but he finally is able to stand, leaning against you with his wounded leg hovering in the air.

"They sedated her," Joel explained when Ellie shot him a panicked look. Dina looked pale too, but she was breathing.

"Why?" Ellie asked. Joel shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut.

"Can we talk 'bout this later?"

"Ellie, help me get him down to the horses," you say. She begrudgingly stands and gives Dina one more look. "We'll get him on mine and then come back for Dina," you assure her. She nods and ducks underneath Joel's other arm, supporting his weight as all three of you slowly make your way down the stairs to the horses.

It takes a while, but when you have both of them ready, you finally are ready to leave behind the nightmare you almost walked into.

"Jackson," Joel says weakly behind you. You're leading your horse down the mountain, towards the town currently engulfed in flames. You swallow and square your shoulders.

"Tommy's there," you say confidently, "he knows what to do. I'm— I'm sure it's fine."

Half a mile passes in the worst blizzard you've seen in years before Joel speaks again.

"You saved me."

You stiffen but otherwise remain silent, focused on the trail ahead. So he speaks again.

"She was gonna kill me," he continues. Tears well in your eyes and you shake your head.

"But she didn't."

His grip around your middle tightens.

"I killed her father," he adds solemnly. You shrug.

"We've all killed people."

A beat passes between you.

"Her father was— was the doctor."

It takes you a moment, but you connect the dots. You remember what Joel told you about that day in Salt Lake City. What he did to save Ellie. What he swore he would do again, if given the chance. A decision you agreed with and still do.

"Well," you sigh, "it was either them or us."

"I deserved it," he says firmly. You nearly turn around a deck him, but you stop yourself.

"Shut the fuck up, Joel."

"It's true," he urges.

"I don't give a shit," you seethe over your shoulder. "We all do bad shit to save the ones we love. It's the world we live in now. Anyone in your position would have done the same thing."

Joel goes quiet again and you glance to the side. Ellie is nearby but the wind is too loud. She can't hear you. Besides, she's too worried about Dina to care.

"Would you have done it?"

"What?" you scoff, "kill whoever stood in my way to protect the one I love?"

You feel him nod against your back.

"Isn't that what I just did?"

You steer your horse through the trees. You're about halfway to Jackson now. The fires have almost been put out. Whatever happened is coming to an end. The next few months will require a lot of work, a lot of rebuilding. Your lives are all once again forever changed, but you've been through worse.

Everything will be fine.

"C'mon," you say to Joel, "let's get you home."

[stylesispunk]

"Blind Faith" | part i

Priest!Joel Miller x nightclub dancer!reader

masterlist | next chapter

summary: Running away from your home, you found a small town to stay. Once there, you met people and the priest, Joel.

wc: 5,2 k

warnings: age gap (Joel is in his late 40s, reader in her late 20s), religious conflict, a crisis of faith, temptation, forbidden attraction, forbidden romance, eventual smut, social expectations, nightlife themes, the contrast between joel's and your world, protests, mentions of exile, mention of politics. For clarification, reader is Latina on this one.

a/n: Hello. I wanted this story to be something beyond a forbidden romance between two people, after reading books and watching things I wanted to recall that reader's background comes from her being an activist. I want to approach all the topics with all due respect and I hope you do too, nevertheless, those are not going to be the main center of the story.

Happy reading and please tell me what are your thoughts about this one.

You had built a life most people only dreamed of. A life filled with passion, purpose, and the kind of joy that comes from doing what you love. You were surrounded by friends who understood you, a family you cherished with every fiber of your being, and a career that made waking up every morning feel like stepping into a dream.

You had studied dance at university, dedicating years to perfecting your craft until movement became your language, your art, your very identity. But you didn’t see yourself just as an artist, you were educated. You had spent your life asking questions, seeking answers, and standing for what was right. Politics fascinated you, not as a distant game played by men in suits, but as something alive, something that shaped the world around you. You were drawn to justice, to fairness, to the fight for those whose voices were drowned out by oppression.

Protests became as much a part of your life as well as performances. You had stood in the streets, chanting until your voice was hoarse, raising signs, raising awareness, raising hell when it was necessary. You believed in change, in the power of people united. But belief alone was never enough to stop what came next.

The illusion of safety shattered the moment power fell into the wrong hands. The men who took control of your country did not tolerate opposition. They did not welcome free thought or voices that questioned their authority. People like you, the educated, the artists, the teachers, all who had seek justice, were dangerous but because you couldn’t be controlled. Because you saw through their lies.

You remember the night your world collapsed. The hurried whispers in the dark. The fear in your mother’s eyes. The way your brother’s hands shook as he cut your hair, disguising you in a desperate attempt to buy you time.  

He drove you to the airport as your heart pounded, then, you boarded that plane, leaving behind everything you had ever known. Your home. Your family. The life you had built.

And that is why you ended up here, in a bus driving to a foreign city located in California. The bus rattled as it rolled into town, the low hum of the engine filling the silence of the nearly empty cabin. You sat near the window, watching the Californian sun stretch across the dry fields, golden and endless, nothing like the dense, humid air of home.

 Home.

The word sat heavy in your chest, a place you could no longer name without feeling the weight of exile pressing against your ribs.

This town was small, quieter than you expected, but that was good. You needed a quiet, a place to disappear, to become no one, to not be recognized. You stepped off the bus with only a battered leather suitcase and a name written on a slip of paper.

The paradise, a nightclub where a friend of a friend had said you might find work.

You pulled your coat tighter around you, though the air was warm. You must have learned to move carefully, to keep your eyes down, to not be recognized. But you couldn't help glancing up at the church as you stepped off the bus.  

That’s when you saw him.

He was standing on the steps, speaking to a woman holding a little baby in her arms. There was, a priest, dressed in black, with tired eyes and a kindness in the way he bent his head to listen. He looked up, meeting your gaze for the first, just for a fleeting second. Then, his gaze left your eyes, leaving you with a weird feeling, warmth rising up to your cheeks.

You pulled the slip of paper from your pocket, staring at the name scrawled in fading ink staring at the name scrawled in fading ink. The paradise.  

When you lifted your gaze again, the priest wasn't there anymore.

You sighed and adjusted the trap of your suitcase over your shoulder, feeling anxious creeping upon your skin as you try to picture your life in a foreign place.

You looked towards the church in the front of the street, where the priest had stood minutes before, perhaps trying to look and answer to your questions. You weren't a religious person, but you did believe in calls, and you felt the pulling thread forcing you to walk towards the church, as if something were calling you, perhaps someone.

Your feet found their way to the old church at the edge of town, its stone walls worn and cracked from years of standing against the wind. It loomed tall and hollow, the kind of place that had seen more sorrow than joy. You hesitated at the entrance, your heart beating faster than you liked.

Why am I even here? you thought. But the pull wouldn’t let you turn away.

You stepped inside.

The stained glass cast soft, fractured colors onto the worn wooden pews, painting the empty space in hues of crimson, gold, and deep blue. The scent of burning wax and old books filled your senses, grounding you in a place that felt both foreign and strangely familiar.

Your footsteps echoed as you moved deeper inside, the vast silence of the church swallowing every sound. You weren’t sure what you were looking for, an answer, a sign, something to tell you that coming here wasn’t a mistake.

The priest where nowhere to be found, so you took seat in one of the wooden benches, perhaps waiting, perhaps resting.

You got yourself comfortable, the sleep catching upon you. Your body felt heavy, exhaustion creeping into your bones the moment you allowed yourself to rest. The weight of the suitcase by your side, the long journey that had brought you here, it all pressed down on you at once. The church, with its quiet stillness, felt like the safest place you’d been in weeks.

That was where Joel Miller found you.

On a quiet evening when the chapel was empty, save for the flickering candlelight and the faint scent of incense clinging to the air. You were curled up on one of the wooden pews, arms folded beneath your head, chest rising and falling in the steady rhythm of sleep.

He cleared his throat, but you didn’t stir. He hesitated before reaching out, tapping your shoulder. “Miss?” His voice came softer than he expected. “You can’t sleep here.”

"Father, do you always wake up strangers like this?"

Your voice was thick with sleep, eyes blinking against the dim glow of the chapel’s candlelight. The air smelled of old wood, wax, and something faintly metallic, like rain on stone. You looked young like this, your face soft, but Joel knew better. You shouldn't be older than thirty.

"You can’t sleep here," he repeated.

You smirked, rubbing your eyes. "Didn’t know God kicked people out."

Joel exhaled sharply. The world outside was changing, rock ‘n’ roll, free love, protests, women in miniskirts. But in this town, in this chapel, things were supposed to stay the same.

This town hadn’t met those changes.

Joel stood over you, stiff-backed, his fingers still hovering near your shoulder from where he’d tapped you awake. He shouldn’t have noticed the way your legs stretched across the pew, the way your blouse, too low-cut for a place like this, shifted as you moved, leaving no place to imagination.

Joel exhaled sharply. Lord, give me patience.

"This isn’t a shelter," he said. "If you need a place—"

"I'm not homeless" Your tone was firm and final, as if you were done, but there was something else in your voice too, something he couldn’t quite place, but it hinted sadness. "I just got into town," you admitted after a beat, glancing toward the stained-glass windows, dark now with the night. "Didn’t know where else to go. At least not tonight."

Joel studied you, his chest tightening."Are you in trouble?"

A small, humorless laugh left you. "Depends on what you call trouble."

Silence filled the chapel, thick and unmoving. The rain had stopped, leaving only the distant hum of the highway beyond the hills.

"You shouldn’t be here," he said finally. But his voice had lost its authority, had softened just enough that he felt the weight of it settle in his own bones.

“Why?” You asked

Joel exhaled slowly, shifting on his feet. He looked down at you, his expression unreadable, but there was something in the way his jaw tensed, something he was holding back.

"You can’t stay here," he said again, voice firm but not unkind.

You sat up properly this time, stretching your legs out in front of you, your boots scraping against the floor. His eyes flicked to them, brief, barely noticeable, you caught it, but you chose not to say anything.

"Didn’t mean to cause a problem," you said, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.

"You’re not a problem," he said, then hesitated. "But this isn’t a place for…"

You arched a brow. “For what? For a woman like me?”

For someone wearing boots and a blouse that clung a little too tight, a skirt that rode too high when you stretched out.

He didn’t utter that the sentence. Instead, he sighed, raking a hand through his hair.

"Where you planning on staying tonight?" he asked.

You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. "Haven’t figured that part out yet."

Joel frowned. "You got family here?"

"No father, I don’t."

"Friends?"

"No."

His gaze flickered, something unreadable passing through it. So, you’re alone.

You weren’t sure if that unsettled him or if it was something else.

He shifted again, exhaling through his nose like he was about to say something he’d regret.

"There’s a place near the church," he finally said. "A small guesthouse. Church used to use it for traveling pastors, but it’s empty now. You can stay there tonight."

You studied him. "Why?"

His brow furrowed. "What do you mean, why?"

"I mean, why help me? You don’t know me."

Joel was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was quieter. "That doesn’t mean I should turn you away."

You held his gaze, searching for something in it—hesitation, reluctance. But there was only conviction.

And yet you could feel something else there, buried beneath all that righteousness behind his clothes.

Something you hadn’t named yet.

"Alright, Father," you said finally, standing up. "Lead the way."

He hesitated, just for a second. Then, he turned, stepping toward the chapel doors, and you followed.

Back at his house behind the church, Joel lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling. The wooden beams above cast long shadows in the dim glow of the lamp beside his bed. He should’ve been sleeping, his body was tired enough for I, but his mind refused to settle. It was noisier than ever.

His thoughts kept drifting back to something else, to you. To the way you’d looked at him when you stood up from that pew, like you already knew he wasn’t as correct as he pretended to be.

To your voice, husky with sleep, the way you stretched without a care in the world. To your legs.

Joel shut his eyes. Lord, give me strength.

It had been a passing glance, barely a flicker of a thought, but now it gnawed at him.

He had seen a lot of things in his years as a priest. A lot of people in need, a lot of wandering souls. But he wasn’t blind. He could recognize beauty when it was right in front of him. And tonight, for the first time in a long time, it wasn’t just his faith speaking.

It was something else. It felt dangerous.

He turned onto his side, sighing through his nose. This was just another test. He’d seen men struggle with temptation, had guided them through it. This was no different.

You were just a woman in need. That’s all. That’s all.

And yet, sleep never came easy that night.

The early sun cast long golden beams through the chapel windows as Joel made his way to the guesthouse. He carried a small plate of toast and eggs, as a gesture of hospitality. He thought about last night, on how he hadn’t offered food or a cup of tea.

He wanted to show kindness, but the second he stepped inside, he knew.

The bed was made, the blanket neatly folded. No sign of anyone.

And on the small wooden table by the window, a note.

Joel set the plate down and picked it up, his fingers tightening around the paper.

"Thank you for your help, Father."

That was it. No name, no explanation. Just a quiet departure, as if you’d never been there at all.

Joel exhaled slowly, staring at the empty room.

Something settled deep in his chest, something that felt too much like disappointment.

He was afraid of the fleeting feelings coming to him. Because last night, he’d told himself you were just passing through. But now, standing here, he wasn’t sure he believed it.

You were strong and brave enough this day. When you found yourself in the front of the paradise, the neon light flickered weakly in the daylight, music pulsed behind the doors, muffled but steady, a heartbeat beneath the night.

You inhale deeply, pushing the door behind.

The club smelled of sweat, perfume, and cigarette smoke. It wasn’t alive as you expected to be during the day, but there were men in tight pants, women in flowing skirts, people who existed somewhere in between, all shining under the low, colored lights of the place.

This wasn’t the kind of stage you were used to. But it was something.

Behind the bar, a broad-shouldered man with a neatly trimmed beard was pouring whiskey into a glass, his gold rings catching the light. He spotted you instantly, eyes narrowing slightly before softening.

“You must be the new girl,” he said, voice thick with an accent she couldn’t place.

You hesitated for a moment, but then you nodded.

The man wiped his hands on a towel, then leaned over the counter, studying you.

“You dance?” He asked.

You lifted your chin. “Yes.”

He smirked. “We’ll see about that.”

A warm hand touched your back.

Your turned to find a woman at your side, tall, dark-skinned, with a shimmering dress that clung to her curves. Her lipstick was deep red, her eyes lined in black.

“Come on, cariño,” the woman purred. “Let’s get you ready.”

You swallowed, but you followed her backstage.

Backstage was a blur of colors, perfume, and laughter. The other dancers moved around you effortlessly, adjusting their costumes, fixing their makeup, teasing each other in rapid-fire whispers. You stood still, taking it all in. People here were wild, free and beautiful, and you smiled at that.

The woman who had led you back, Carmen, handed you a black slip dress. It was simple, barely more than a tiny thing of fabric, with thin straps that draped off your shoulders.

“You need shoes?” Carmen asked, watching as you slipped it over your head.

You shook your head “I’ll dance barefoot.”

Carmen raised a perfectly sculpted brow but didn’t argue. “Suit yourself.”

The music outside shifted, growing louder. Your stomach tightened.

You had danced for crowds a thousand times before, but never like this. This wasn’t a stage with velvet curtains, with polished floors and orchestrated movements. This was something raw and new for you, something meant to be felt rather than admired.

You exhaled slowly.

You’ve already lost everything. What’s left to be afraid of?

A hand touched your shoulder. She turned to find Carmen smiling. “You’re up next, estrella.”

The lights were dim when you stepped onto the small, elevated platform.

The club wasn’t packed, but there were enough people to make the air thick with murmurs and expectation. A few heads turned, eyes gliding over you as you took your place.

You closed your eyes.

The music started, a slow, sultry rhythm, deep bass vibrating through your bones.

And then you moved. At first, it was instinct. The slow bend of your knees, the gentle sway of your hips. You let the music guide you, feeling it the way you once had in the studio, back when you were still the dancer, before you became the fugitive.

Your arms lifted, fluid and controlled, your body following in careful, deliberate motions.

And then you forgot to be careful. You turned, arching into a spin, the hem of your dress fluttering around your thighs. You let your feet move the way they had been trained to—pointed toes, precise steps, every motion a whisper of the ballerina you once were.

A gasp rippled through the crowd.

Someone murmured, “Mierda… she can dance.”

You barely heard them. For the first time in months, you felt like yourself again. Not a girl running, not a girl hiding, but a girl who had been born to dance.

You let yourself go. By the time the music ended, a hush had fallen over the club.

And then—applause. You stood there, breathing hard, your skin glowing under the soft red lights.

When you stepped down from the platform, Carmen was waiting, grinning.

“Dios mío,” she said, shaking her head. “Where the hell did you come from?”

You just smiled. You didn’t have an answer for that. But for the first time since you had arrived, you felt like you had found a piece of home to stay in.

The night air was warmer as you made your way back to the church, the scent of warm pastries wrapped in cloth filling your hands. The applause from the club still echoed in your ears, the feeling of movement still lingering in your limbs. You felt light. For the first time in what felt like forever, you felt less lonely.

You paused at the entrance, looking up at the towering stone structure, its stained glass barely illuminated by the sunlight. The contrast was almost laughable.

The dancer and the priest. A contradiction in itself.

With a breath, you stepped inside.

He was there, seated at one of the pews, his back turned to you. His posture was stiff, as if he’d been deep in thought, or perhaps in prayer.

“Father.”

He turned sharply at your voice, his dark eyes immediately landing on you. For a moment, he said nothing, just studying you as if trying to figure out why you had come back.

You held up the bundle in your hands. “I brought you something.”

His gaze flickered to the wrapped pastries before settling back on your face. Slowly, he stood, walking toward you with careful, deliberate steps. When he got close, the faint scent of smoke and candle wax clung to him.

“You didn’t have to,” he muttered, but he still took them from you. His fingers brushed yours briefly, warm, rough, calloused. The hands of a man who had worked long before he had ever been a priest.

You shrugged. “It’s a thank-you. For helping me yesterday.”

He watched you for a beat before nodding. “Did you find a place to stay?”

“I did.”

He didn’t ask where. He just looked at you, waiting. Maybe he wanted to know. Maybe he already had an idea.

You weren’t going to tell him either.  Instead, you smiled. “Don’t eat them all at once, Father.”

Joel’s eyes flickered down, lingering for a second longer than they should have. You noticed.

It was brief, so brief you might have convinced yourself you imagined it. But you didn’t. His gaze had traced over the curve of your waist, the way the fabric of your blouse rested against your skin, the gentle swell of your collarbones. The flicker of something unreadable in his expression disappeared just as quickly as it had come.

He cleared his throat, shifting his weight. “Do you—” He hesitated. “Would you like to talk?”

You raised a brow. “Talk?”

He nodded, tilting his head toward one of the wooden pews. “If you want.”

A small part of you wanted to tease him, ask if priests usually invited strange women to talk in dimly lit churches. But you swallowed the thought.

Instead, you sighed, walking past him and settling onto the worn wooden bench. You crossed one leg over the other, tapping your fingers idly on the surface. Joel sat beside you, close, but not too close.

The silence stretched between you, heavy but not uncomfortable.

“Is this the part where I have to confess my sins?” you asked, breaking the quiet.

Joel exhaled through his nose, almost like a quiet laugh. “Only if you want to.”

You studied him for a moment. The way his hands rested on his lap; fingers curled slightly as if he wasn’t quite at ease. The tension in his shoulders, the quiet restraint in his posture.

You tilted your head. “What about you, Father?”

His gaze lifted to meet yours.

“What do you believe in?” you asked.

Joel didn’t answer. His jaw clenched, something shifting in his expression. He looked away, staring at the rows of empty pews, at the altar beyond. Instead, he let out a slow breath, his fingers drumming idly against his knee. Then, without looking at you, he asked, “Why’d you come here?”

You blinked at him. “Here? To the church?”

He nodded. “Last night”

You considered lying. It would be easier. But something about the way he was looking at the altar, like it held answers he wasn’t sure he wanted, made you tell the truth.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “I just… felt like I had to. Like, something just called me, you know?”

His gaze flicked to you then, studying, searching. “You’re not religious.” It wasn’t a question.

You smirked. “Is it that obvious?”

Joel didn’t return the smile. He just kept watching you, unreadable. “Then what are you looking for?”

That was a harder question. Peace? A sense of belonging? A place to rest? You weren’t sure.

You hesitated, then shrugged. “Something different. A fresh start.”

Joel hummed, thoughtful. He leaned back slightly, stretching his legs out in front of him. “And you think you’ll find that here?”

You sighed, tilting your head toward him. “What’s with the interrogation, Father? Trying to save my soul?”

This time, he did smile. Barely. Just a flicker of amusement in his expression. “I think your soul is doing just fine on its own.”

That shouldn’t have made your heart stutter the way it did.

Joel shifted, bracing his elbows on his knees. His voice was quieter when he spoke again. “You got people looking for you?”

Your breath caught. There it was. The question you’d been dreading.

You glanced away, suddenly very interested in the cracks in the wooden pew beneath you. “No,” you said eventually. “No one’s looking.”

Joel didn’t press. He just nodded slowly, like he had believed you.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The church was silent except for the occasional creak of wood settling, the distant sound of footsteps from somewhere outside.

Then Joel inhaled, shifting beside you. “You should be careful.”

You turned to him, frowning. “Why?”

His jaw tightened. He hesitated, then sighed. “This town—it’s small. People notice things.”

Your chest tightened, but you forced yourself to keep your expression neutral. “And what have they noticed about me?”

Joel didn’t answer right away. His gaze dropped to your hands resting in your lap, then back up to your face.

“Nothing,” he said finally. “Yet.”

The word lingered between you, heavier than the silence that followed.

“What about?” you asked, “What do you notice about me?”

Joel didn’t answer at first. He just looked at you, eyes unreadable, something working behind them, something you couldn’t quite place.

You held his gaze, waiting, heartbeat steady but slow.

Then, he exhaled through his nose, tilting his head slightly. “I noticed you don’t like talking about yourself.”

Your lips quirked. “Maybe I just don’t like talking to priests.”

That got the barest huff of amusement from him. “Could be.” His fingers tapped lightly against his knee before he added, “But I think it’s more than that.”

You arched a brow. “Oh?”

Joel nodded, his voice quieter when he spoke again. “I think you’ve been running from something”

That made your stomach tighten.

Your first instinct was to deny it, to smirk, roll your eyes, brush it off like he was just another man who thought he had you figured out. But Joel wasn’t just another man. And the way he was looking at you, like he could see past whatever mask you were wearing, made it harder to lie.

Your fingers curled slightly against your lap. “And what makes you think that?”

Joel leaned back slightly, stretching one arm along the pew. His eyes didn’t leave yours. “The way you don’t settle,” he said simply. “Not even when you’re sitting still.”

The words sent something sharp through your chest.

You swallowed, looking away, suddenly feeling too seen, too exposed. “Maybe I just don’t like these wooden benches.”

Joel hummed, like he wasn’t convinced. But he didn’t push, instead he smiled at you.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The dim glow of candlelight flickered against the stone walls, casting long shadows across the empty church.

Then, finally, Joel shifted beside you. “Did you eat?”

The abrupt change caught you off guard. You blinked, glancing at him. “What?”

His expression was unreadable again, but his voice was casual when he repeated, “Did you eat?”

You frowned. “Why?”

Joel sighed, shaking his head. “Because if you haven’t, I got food in the back.”

You tilted your head, a small smirk playing at your lips. “Are you asking me if I want to eat these pastries with you, Father?”

Joel huffed, shaking his head as he glanced down at the bag of pastries still resting between you. “You brought them” he said gruffly. “Seems only fair.”

You pretended to consider it, tapping a finger against your knee. “Well, I supposed I must take you for a man who shares.”

He shot you a look, one that might’ve been stern if not for the flicker of something else in his eyes. Amusement, maybe. Or something deeper, something you weren’t ready to name.

“Don’t make me take it back,” he muttered.

You bit back a grin, shrugging as you reached for the bag. “Well, if you insist.”

Joel stood, nodding his head toward the back of the church. “Come on. I’m not going sit out here and eat in the dark like some kind of—” he gestured vaguely before shaking his head. “Just come on.”

You followed, the sound of your footsteps echoing against the stone floors. The air was warmer in the back rooms, less hollow than the empty church.

Joel pulled out a chair for you at a small wooden table, and you sat, watching as he grabbed a couple of plates and a knife.

“Tea?” he asked.

You arched a brow. “Didn’t take you for a tea drinker.”

Joel shot you another look. “Or coffee. Pick one.”

You hummed, pretending to consider. “Tea.”

He nodded, setting a teapot on the stove before sitting across from you. The candlelight flickered between you, soft and warm.

You broke off a piece of pastry, popping it into your mouth. “Not bad,” you admitted.

Joel took a bite himself, chewing slowly. Then, he glanced at you,

You weren’t looking at him, too focused on the pastry in your hands, the way the flaky crust crumbled against your fingers. But he was looking at you.

He hadn’t meant to, not like this, not for this long. But there was something about the way you sat there, elbows on the table, the candlelight casting soft golden hues over your skin. Something about the curve of your lips as you chewed thoughtfully, the way your lashes lowered when you focused.

You were different. A fresh breath in a town that had long gone stale, where faces blurred together, where days passed without change. But you—

You weren’t part of this place. Not yet. And maybe that was what drew him in.

His gaze flickered lower, just for a second. The delicate slope of your collarbones, the soft neckline of your blouse that dipped just enough to hint at what lay beneath. He swallowed, jaw tensing, and forced himself to look away, to focus on something else, the flickering candle, the steam rising from the kettle.

“You’re quiet,” you murmured, your voice pulling him back.

Joel cleared his throat. “Just thinking.”

You tilted your head, studying him now, those sharp eyes of yours peeling away layers he hadn’t realized were there. “About what?”

He could’ve lied. Could’ve told you something simple, something easy.

Instead, he exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “Nothing important.”

A small smile tugged at your lips. You didn’t push, just took another bite of pastry.

And Joel? Joel tried not to look at your lips when you did.

The teapot whistled, breaking the silence. Joel pushed back his chair, a little too fast, the legs scraping against the wooden floor. He muttered something under his breath, maybe a curse, maybe just an exhale—as he stood and turned toward the stove.

You watched him, chin resting in your hand, fingers tapping absently against your cheek.

He moved with quiet fast, pouring the hot water into two mismatched mugs, the steam curling up between you like an unspoken thought.

“Sugar?” he asked.

You hummed, pretending to think. “Do you have honey?”

Joel shot you a dry look but opened a small cupboard, rummaging until he found a half-used jar. He set it down in front of you, his fingers brushing the edge of your mug as he did.

You wrapped your hands around the warm ceramic, taking a slow sip.

Joel sat back down, quieter this time, his elbows resting on the worn wooden table.

You tilted your head. “So, do priests always offer tea and pastries to strangers passing by?”

A corner of his mouth twitched, almost a smile. “No.”

You raised a brow. “Just me, then?”

Joel held your gaze, something unreadable flickering in the depths of his brown eyes. Then he looked away, took a slow sip of his own tea.

“Yeah,” he said. “Just you.”

You set your cup down gently, the porcelain clinking softly against the table. "Thanks for being so kind to me." you said, your voice low, more than just for the tea and pastries. It was for the quiet, for the refuge, for something you couldn't quite explain.

Joel didn’t respond right away, but you saw the faintest shift in his posture, the tightness in his shoulders easing just a little. His eyes flickered back to yours, and there was something different about the way he looked at you now, less guarded, almost as if he’d let a small part of himself slip into the space between you.

He nodded, almost imperceptibly, then reached for the teapot, his fingers brushing the warm ceramic. "You don't have to thank me," he said quietly. "It's... it’s nothing."

But you both knew it wasn’t nothing. It never was.

Behind his intentions there was always kindness, but now something new flickered.

A temptation threatening his faith, like the world had set on fire the moment you glances met for the first time and he wanted the flames to catch him to be saved by you.

tags: if you want to be removed, you're free to tell me.

@jasminedragoon @mandaloriankait @jellybeanxc @spencercmlover @lilac-boo @myownwholewildworld @disco-fairy75 @correapunk @existentialdreadofhumanity @secretcheesecakenacho @laliceee @exzidss @missladym1981

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@iamtoriasworld @priincehoseok @luunarr0

[running-with-kn1ves]

Wrong place, Wrong Person

A/N: This is kind of written as needing a part 2, but I haven’t thought much farther ahead lmao. Its origin story is from the grad student shuffle when chris says ‘get hard when your professor bums a cigarette off you.”

TW: Power imbalance, smoking, implied stalking. 

Synopsis: In an attempt to calm your nerves after class, the stoic and hardened face of your professor finds you, his attitude oddly different from that in class. 

“Got one more?"

The familiar, rough voice of authority almost made you jump, twinges of fear crawling up your neck as you shrink around the item between your fingers. guarding it out of view.

Your professor stood with an anxious frown towards the billowing smoke leaving your lips, the bags under his eyes creasing as he looked from you, down to the cigarette longingly.

The habit of hiding whenever you smoked was almost instinctual. What were you-- fourteen again? You were a grown adult slaving beneath capitalism and working toward a profitless degree, living with two asshole roommates who made the whole house rot with the stench of weed. There were no adults here to scold you.

"Oh, yeah, sure." You fumble in your backpack for the new packet of Marlboro Lights, fingers tugging on several cigarettes by accident. Dropping one back in, you held the other out to your professor with an unceremonious grip at the filter.

He sighed --with either relief or dismay, you couldn’t tell-- plucking it from you with a skillful, steady hand. The professor rummaged around in his blazer pocket, coming up empty handed and moved down to pat around on his pants. 

The pack of smokes hung from out of your heavy bag in a crumpled, unorganized fashion as you tried to hide them from any more prying eyes. The sound of crunching tobacco made you wince as you zipped up the bag. Hoping he didn’t see you make a mess of yourself, it seemed you hardly were noticed at all as he continued to search his back pockets, getting more aggravated by the second. 

"Say, you don't happen to have a lighter?" He suspired, almost exhausted by speaking. 

Wordlessly you feel around for the beaten blue lighter with a cigarette in your hand, quickly putting it to rest in your mouth to free up your fingers. Mistakenly, you inhale thickly as its tip glows bright orange with one hand on your bag and the other deep in your pocket.

The smoke immediately pours down your throat, biting your gums and causing a wretched blaze in your chest like that of a burning dumpster fire. It rises from out your nose, along with a long, croaky sound within your throat.

"Look at you, practically a pro." He gruffly chuckles, holding his unlit cigarette with patience unbecoming of his usual swift, booming lectures. 

"...yeah." You squeak, trying not to fall into a coughing fit as your eyes begin to water. 

Seeing the desired lighter in your twitching palm, the professor gets close to hold out his newfound cigarette. He looks up expectantly, waiting for you to light it. 

You attempt to flick it a few times, palms sweaty as you try not to pay attention to how close he is, close enough to cast a shadow that engulfs you entirely, hiding you from the voices on the other side of the stairs. Your thumb slips again and the small spark dies. 

"Dammit," Surrounding the lighter with your palm, you try to get it to flame.

"There's no rush now, you'll get it." He encourages, awfully kind for how much his foot is tapping in anticipation.

The soft masculinity of his voice made you sweat, finding it even harder to light the lighter. 

"I swear, it was just working a few minutes ago," You laugh, keeping your voice down as another wave of students walk down the stairs you're hiding beneath, their voices echoing into the night. "Must be karma for this kind of vice." 

You try to sound nonchalant with the joke, but fail once a flame pops from the hot iron of the lighter, you can’t stop the victorious “aha!” from leaving your mouth.

The professor just looks at you, a small, polite grin spreading on his face. He looks mildly amused, raising an eyebrow at your small win.

He leans down to puff on the cigarette, his head of chestnut wavy curls clouding your view and wafting cedarwood and cypress. In a class of just over one-hundred students, you hadn't gotten a chance to speak with him one-on-one over the past semester, let alone witness that he’s got a better hair care routine than you. 

 The leftover scent of library books rests on his blazer, a tangy aftershave layered on his throat and jaw despite looking as if he hasn't shaved in a few days-- oddly neat for the dark grown-out stubble. It took slightly burning your thumb for you to remember the task at hand. 

Your fingers shake to light the tip of his cigarette as he puffs a few times, stepping away once it began to properly smoke. 

The look of exhaustion on both your faces seems to calm as he takes a long, thin inhale from the cigarette.

A part of you feels envy, both for the smoke between his smooth, downturned lips, and for the relaxation he seemed to get just from smoking. For you, it's become a nervous habit that rarely gives you any ease, just a bad taste in your mouth and the stench of ash on your jacket.

“Tonight was a poor excuse of a lecture. Barely half the class showed up.” His husky voice was somehow smoother with the smoke coming from his frowning mouth. The dead look was slow to shift into a small coy smile, a glint flickering behind his glasses. “Good thing my star student decided to show up though; I think hope truly would’ve been lost if you weren’t there.”

“You… actually recognize me?” You gave him an incredulous look. “I mean, I barely remember the faces of who I sit next to, I can’t imagine you have it much easier.”

“Of course I do, how could I not-- you’re the only one ever taking notes.” He scoffs a little, peering over to look at the notebook sticking out of your bag.“Though, I’d say you’re failing where the rest of your classmates are excelling; hand-written notes are not as time-efficient as typing, especially considering I don’t naturally repeat myself when I teach.”

“I remember better when I write.” You say sheepishly, shifting on your feet as his gaze seems to travel all over you, contemplating.

He never seemed to make eye contact with anyone while lecturing, fully focused on his laptop or glaring at the clock; so to feel his eyes bore into you now, without anyone else around in the basking of a lamppost and a cloud of nauseating fumes, was awfully unnerving. 

Your professor goes quiet, taking another long drag. 

Following suit you puff on your own cigarette, starting to get sick of the taste. It felt good to smoke when you were alone, but now each breath felt like a heavy cloud in your lungs, burning your chest.

“S’bad for you, you know.” He stares straight ahead, seeing through the three-story building across the university courtyard with a neutral kind of exhaustion.

“We’re out of school hours, you don’t have to lecture me.” 

At that, he smiles. 

“Sorry, habit. Seems like I know all about the bad ones,” He adjusts his glasses, brushing back a curl tugging at his cheek. “Though coming from someone who’s been smoking a pack a day for the past decade, I think I have a right to say something.” 

Giving one good puff from the smoke, you look at it for a moment. It seemed so large in your hands, so small in his. 

Dramatically you drop the cigarette. It barely smolders as it hits the ground, the dying embers of ash snuffed into nothing but sand as your foot grinds it into the sidewalk. 

“Voilá, oh wise one,” You look at him expectantly, pointing to your handiwork. “In exchange, can you give me an A for the midterm due Friday?”

You half expect him to greet you with a reprimanding grimace, but something else comes out instead. Hidden behind his bitten bottom lip, the sound makes you do a double take; are the noises coming out of his serious, permanently-scowling mouth, laughs?

The professor covers his face with the cigarette between his fingers, hiding his low chuckle.  

“You should listen to your elders without expecting anything in return; didn’t anyone ever teach you good manners?”

The smile in his voice created a small grin of surprise on your face, wondering how something so foolish could get him to break his ‘life is an inescapable prison’ disposition.

“I don’t think ‘elder’ is the right word to describe you,” You chirped with a confident grin, looking at the man that barely had a decade over you. “And, is that a nooo?” 

His dark, oaky eyes peered into you, almost with a playful scolding. 

“Let’s leave it up to the content in the paper.”

“Damn.”

You looked away and sighed, pulling from the unwavering gaze he held to your eyes. 

Under the stairs, in the cover of the stars, you felt safe; tonight was a slight chill for late March, but greatly welcomed. Save for the occasional nipping breeze rustling the magnolia trees, the campus fell completely silent. It had a tender spot in your heart when no one else was here, and you could sit --usually alone--undisturbed. 

“Ah, look over here for a second.” 

His voice breaking the silence once again, caught you off guard. You never knew if you’d get used to him sounding this way-- calm and deep, a kind of transformation he had undergone the second a lit cigarette touched his lips. 

A cold hand and the scent of burnt tobacco came to graze below your cheek. Your professor was trained in on something beside your lip, his eyes squinting at it. 

Gently, his thumb scraped a small fleck tainting the smooth valleys of your skin. You stood impossibly still, wondering what kind of large bug or blemish had risen. The grey spot was smothered between his fingers as he let it fall to the concrete floor. 

“You had some ash on your cheek.” 

The professor looked down at his hand softly, eyes almost becoming gentle.

“Oh.” A warm buzzing of where his thumb once sat pulsed against your skin. “Thanks.”

Standing beside the wall, you tried to think of something else to say, to get your brain working again. The professor seemed closer than he was before, or maybe you were just now noticing it; his body leaned against the concrete wall behind you in an elegant slump, right shoulder nearly touching your own. An essence of relaxation made him appear more human than you had ever seen, smoking his cigarette, unbothered. 

He puffed a few times, letting smoke leave through his half-parted mouth. His drags were slower. Shorter than before. Savouring. 

The cigarette was nearly down to its filter, at the part where inhaling became a painful chore and most would rather light a new one. 

“I guess I should probably go home.” You say, feeling a little wobbly and nervous now that nothing was further being said; now that he had touched, and gotten closer to you in the past few minutes than he had all semester. “Gotta start working on that paper.”

“Right.” He’s quick to stand up straight, flicking away the butt of his cigarette. 

“See you next class.” You wave shortly, turning before the tense moment could grow any worse.

The idea of sitting up front with a full view of him next Monday made you want to curl into a ball; you could handle group projects and public speaking if desperation called for it, but you could not handle an awkward, uncomfortable tension which seemed to cling to the air. There was still so much left of the semester, too much was riding on him at least writing you a letter of recommendation for this to be the end. 

“Wait,” The sound of your professor’s ‘lecturing voice’ blurted out, as if you were leaving without picking up that week’s notes. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

Picking up the black briefcase he left against the wall, he strode forward to meet you. Walking past, he led the way for you to your vehicle.

A part of you feels relieved, seeing the tension diminish as his usual hardened glare returned; maybe he’s just a normal guy after all-- just used to putting students in awkward situations and bumming cigarettes off of them occasionally.

 But another part wonders how he made the accurate guess of where your car is. 

[esoteric-goblin]

on worldbuilding, and what people think is going on

there is one facet of fantasy worldbuilding that is, to me, the most interesting and essential but i don't see it come up in worldbuilding guides or writing prompts or anything, and that is the question of:

what do the inhabitants of your world believe about how the world works, and how are they wrong? a lot of fantasy media will set up their cosmology, gods, magic systems, planar systems, concepts of the afterlife, &c., and proceed as though the inhabitants of the world know and understand them.

from someone whose entire academic career is focused on studying human culture in various regions and time periods, with a focus on belief systems (religion, occultism, mythology, folklore): that sort of worldbuilding is unrealistic and missing out on so much fun.

people are always seeking new understanding about how the world works, and they are mostly wrong. how many models of the solar system were proposed before we reached our current one? look at the long, turbulent history of medicine and our various bizarre models for understanding the human body and how to fix it. so many religions and occult/magical traditions arise from people disagreeing with or adapting various models of the world based on new ideas, methods, technologies. many of them are wrong, but all of them are interesting and reflect a lot about the culture, beliefs, values, and fears of the people creating/practising them.

there is so much more to the story of what people believe about the world than just what is true.

to be clear: i think it's fine and important for the author to have a coherent explanation for where magic comes from or who the gods are, so they can maintain consistency in their story. but they should also be asking what people in the world (especially different people, in different regions/nations and different times) think is happening when they do magic, or say a prayer, or practise medicine, or grieve their dead. it is a rich vein for conflict between individuals and nations alike when two models of the world disagree. it is fascinating how different magic systems might develop according to different underlying beliefs.

personally, i think it is the most fun to spawn many diverse models of the world, but give none of them the 'right' answer.

(bonus points if you also have a thriving academic system in the world with its own theory, research, and discourse between factions! as an academic, it is very fun to imagine fictional academic debate over the topics i'm worldbuilding. sometimes i will be working out details for some underlying mechanic of the world and start imagining the papers being written by scholars researching it)

[lilianne-tarot]

PICK A CARD: Which Artist Wrote Your Future Spouse? ✮⋆˙

I. II. III.

˖ ݁ 𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁ 𖥔 ݁˖ ˖ ݁ 𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁ 𖥔 ݁ ˖

How to Pick Your Pile: Take a deep breath, clear your mind, and look at the images below. Which one pulls you in the most? Trust your gut! Once you choose the image, The number below your chosen image is your pile. If more than one catches your eye, that just means there’s extra tea for you, go ahead and read both!

If you enjoyed this reading, get your own personalized paid reading here! it would really help me out!😊🦋

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MY MASTERLIST

˖ ݁ 𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁ 𖥔 ݁˖ ˖ ݁ 𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁ 𖥔 ݁ ˖

♬⋆.˚Pile l

Ooooh, okay, let’s get into this. You pulled The Magician, Page of Wands, and Ten of Swords, and lemme just say, this is already giving "main character energy meets redemption arc with a spicy twist". Like, your future spouse’s vibe is bold, restless, charmingly reckless at times, but also carrying some deep emotional baggage. So now, let’s spill the tea on which two singers could’ve written their essence into existence.This person has a very "put-together" look, almost effortlessly charismatic and stylish. they might look younger than their actual age or just have that playful, adventurous glow. (seriously, you’ll catch yourself staring for too long)

The Singers:

1. Bruno Mars – Because tell me why this person screams "Grenade" and "Talking to the Moon" energy while also somehow being the embodiment of "24K Magic"? Like, The Magician + Page of Wands together? This is someone who can literally manifest whatever they want and also a very smooth talker😉

2. Shawn Mendes – WELL I TOLD YOU the tortured yet idealistic lover-boy energy is STRONG. This person is the type to run headfirst into love, say all the right things, and make your heart melt, but (and it’s a big BUT) they also struggle with self-doubt and the fear of not being enough because of their bad past perhaps. They have that youthful, adventurous spirit, probably love travel or trying new things, and are always looking for their "great love story" moment.

What This Says About Their Personality:

this person is a natural at commanding attention. They know how to use their charm, words, and presence to get what they want (lowkey, they probably flirt without realizing it, you might have to tell them to chill sometimes. BABY, they love with their whole chest (WHY DOES THIS PERSON SOUND LIKE A KDRAMA 2ND MALE LEAD😭). But the downside? They might have a history of falling for the wrong people or giving their all too quickly, leading to major emotional crashes. Although This person has had their fair share of heartbreaks or betrayals, but instead of staying down, they come back stronger. One thing about them which i see is, They HATR feeling stuck. Whether it's their career, love life, or personal growth, they need movement. Stagnation = death to them. Tbh, they might have commitment issues at first, not because they don’t love deeply, but because they fear getting stuck in the wrong thing again. They believe in deep, soulful connections, but they’re also witty, a bit cheeky, and have a playful side.

Overall they have that mix of "boy-next-door but also lowkey a heartbreaker." Like they could be the flirty lead in a rom-com but also have that deep, emotional intensity. If they walk into a room, you’d definitely notice them, even if they’re not trying to stand out.

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˖ ݁ 𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁ 𖥔 ݁˖ ˖ ݁ 𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁ 𖥔 ݁ ˖

�� ݁₊ .Pile ll

OHHH, okay, i should say this, this spread is givinga "rich daddy aesthetic but also a secret softie" and I am OBSESSED. This person is so layered, so multi-dimensional that you’re not just getting a future spouse, babe you’re getting an experience😭. Now, let’s talk about singers.

The Singers:

1. Lana Del Rey – LISTEN. The High Priestess + The World combo SCREAMS "mysterious, poetic, and possibly on a higher spiritual plane than the rest of us." Your future spouse embody a WHOLE DAMN aesthetic. They have depth and an "I know something you don’t" energy that makes people naturally drawn to them. But oh, honey, this is someone who isn’t just vibing in They give off a "tragically beautiful but also rich and successful" vibe. SO LANA CODED.

Althtough i feel like this person has that hardcore LANA aesthetic and i wasn’t going for any other singer for this pile but i am also hearing hoizer???? Cuz look, This is the type of person who might have everything, money, status, power, but they’re still searching for something deeper, and if that ain’t this spread’s energy, I don’t know what is.

What This Says About Their Personality:

This person does NOT spill their secrets easily. They’re the type to just stare at you for five seconds, and you feel like they know all your past lives. It’s giving "intimidatingly intuitive," like you can’t lie to them even if you tried. Probably has a strong work ethic, maybe even runs their own business or is at the top of their field. But here’s the thing—they’re not flashy. They’re rich in a "quiet luxury" way rather than a "LOOK AT MY GOLD CHAIN" way. (Omg i feel like i am writing a wattpad fanfic😭) . they’ve been through enough life experiences to be WISE AS HELL. So that means, ther standards? High. This isn’t someone who jumps into relationships impulsively, they observe, and they only commit when it’s real. This person doesn’t do loud, over-the-top gestures Their love language is probably acts of service and deep conversations over wine while jazz plays in the background. They have a very ‘If You Know, You Know’ Aesthetic (lana reference again💅) They have this untouchable aura. Not everyone gets to see their soft, romantic side, but the few who do? Game over. People are either intimidated by them or completely mesmerized.

So overall, They might seem reserved or intimidating at first, but once they let you in, you’ll realize they’re the kind of person who loves profoundly, protects fiercely, and builds an empire while contemplating the universe. Good luck handling this one, bestie. They’re not for the weak.😀

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˖ ݁ 𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁ 𖥔 ݁˖ ˖ ݁ 𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁ 𖥔 ݁ ˖

✶⋆.˚Pile III

Your future spouse isn’t just built different—they’re built for the grind, the patience, and the long game. This is someone who knows struggle, doesn’t quit easily, and is out here crafting their legacy.

The singers:

1. Taylor Swift – I mean, COME ON. The Nine of Wands + 7 & 8 of Pentacles? This is someone who has been through battles, faced major setbacks, and STILL got back up every time. Your future spouse has that same relentless work ethic, they’re not the type to sit back and wait for things to happen; they MAKE them happen, even if it takes years. This person has had doubts, failures, maybe even moments where they felt like giving up, but they’re still here, still pushing, still thriving.

2. The Weeknd – Okay, hear me out. This person is obsessed with mastery. They aren’t just working hard for the sake of it—they want to be THE BEST at what they do. This energy is very ‘work now, enjoy later’, like they probably spent their younger years hustling, learning, and leveling up, while other people were out partying. They have discipline, ambition, and an almost obsessive drive to perfect their skills.

What This Says About Their Personality:

This person has been through hell, taken hits, and STILL keeps going. They’ve probably had moments of exhaustion, burnout, or self-doubt, but instead of quitting, they just rest, re-strategize, and come back even stronger. They’re like that one character in a movie who’s bruised, bleeding, and still smirking like ‘That all you got?’ Babe, this person is MARRIED to their work. Like, actually(you’re the third wheel) . They probably live and breathe their career or passion. Late nights, early mornings, constantly improving, never satisfied, this is someone who values progress over comfort. (Have they ever heard of a vacation? Probably not.) So by this you just know, if they are going on dates with you, giving their time to you, you’re the ONE FOR THEM🫠. This person doesn’t half-ass anything. If they’re going to do it, they’re going to do it RIGHT. They have high standards for themselves and expect the same from others. Translation: If you’re slacking, they will side-eye you.

I also see, your future spouse is strategic as hell. They’re not impulsive or reckless—they think ahead, invest wisely, and understand that real success takes TIME. (Financially stable king/queen? Love that for you.) So when they propose you, just know each of their actions were planned weeks before LOL.

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˖ ݁ 𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁ 𖥔 ݁˖ ˖ ݁ 𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁ 𖥔 ݁ ˖

Thank you so much for reading till here! I hope my reading resonated with you and you had a good time reading it! Let me know what pile did you choose and i love hearing your feedbacks of my readings♡

Note: tarot cards provide guidance and possible insights into what could happen based on current energies, thoughts, and actions. the cards can highlight potential paths or outcomes, but they do not predict the future in a fixed way. this is a general reading so take what resonates!

[rainssocks]

in your arms.

pairing: bf!seungcheol x barista!reader

you were stressed after the never ending rush at work, and the movie you watched with seungcheol was initially exciting, thrilling even. until it wasn't. but with him around, everything would be okay.

genre: romance, fluff, established relationship

au: non-idol

warnings: mentions of gore, a little bit of trauma (reader's), fluff, comedy?, cheol babying reader, reader between cheol's legs

word count: 0.86k

a/n: wait my first actual post?? this is kinda crazy... this is probably the only story out of the 4 that i've written that i might have developed enough to be satisfactory... anyw pls enjoy the story hehe

on a cozy rainy night, you and seungcheol had your usual sunday movie date where you two would be all snuggled up on the bed together watching all kinds of shows that gained traction online within that week.

work had been extra tough that day. as a barista, you will always hate the morning rush, and even more so on weekends. weekends sucked, because even lunch hour would be hectic, and your precious break time would be cut short. you'd be forced to be on your feet all day, getting lashed out by picky customers that nitpick at every single thing you do, even if by textbook it was all within reasonable standards. whether it be your attitude, or their coffee being the wrong temperature, or how their name would be spelt wrong, or how you would be moving so slowly when there would be tsunamis of customers crashing the store for a good cup of coffee, and really, all these things had you running on thin patience the entire day. truth be told, your muscles ached like there was no tomorrow and you wished that you had a massage chair that could do miracles to relieve your aches and stresses and body pain and-

a scream. one that yelled bloody murder.

an ear-piercing screech came from the tv. the woman in the movie had been stabbed repetitively by the ghoulish monster that sought nothing but death. there was the dread in her bloodshot eyes with those pathetic tears that flowed down her face. such a scene that was filled with so much gore, was met with sudden silence. you snapped out of the trance you were caught up in.

“oh my god. no.” you thought to yourself. all this was starting to feel a little too familiar.

you had been so lost in your own thoughts and yet so engrossed in the show that you yourself felt the terror shivering throughout your entire body. you turned to hide your face in the crook of seungcheol's neck in fear, clinging onto him for dear life as if you were about to treacherously detach off a zipline and fall to your death. you felt him tense up behind you from your sudden movement of hiding into him. the large muscular arms that once rested on your thighs were now wrapped around your waist. he saw the fear that had enveloped you to find a safe space to seek shelter in written all over your face as he lifted your head to see the tears that fell from being so petrified.

"awh, you poor thing…"

his eyes widened at the realisation of what was happening, and it hit him like a trainwreck of just how exactly you were feeling, and what you have gone through. yet, his face softened at the sight of you being so frightened like a little puppy, which only made him want to baby you more. one hand reached up to your head to ruffle your freshly dried hair, and the other still tightly gripped around your torso, his thumb caressing your back to soothe out the nerves.

you sniffled as you childishly scolded him for ever choosing this film.

"cheollie... why'd you pick this show..." you whined in protest of his film choice, blaming him for ever letting you watch it.

your tears turned into sobs which only became more uncontrollable, and it was like seungcheol could feel his heart breaking along with yours.

in his embrace, your tears soaked his shirt and you felt the low rumble of his chest as he gave you the much needed reassurance to calm you down.

"baby, i would have never picked this show if i had known it was this scary for you. its all because of that darned yoon jeonghan..."

he didn't mention it, but he could feel the guilt creeping into him and eating him inside out. however, that didn't matter much now. he continued to complain about how everything was jeonghan's fault for ever recommending this show to him and how he was verbally bashing jeonghan behind his back. after all, his main priority was to cheer you up.

of course, this silly act in front had you start calming down in almost an instant. seungcheol had turned the tv off to shut out whatever had caused your momentary panicked breakdown, and all that was left was only you, him, the warm blanket that had been kicked off in the moment and the sound of the pattering rain on the windowsill.

this intimate moment was so precious to both of you, even if you hadn't realised it yet.

the nice strong arms that wrapped around you gave the right amount of protection that you needed, the nice smelling man that was rambling on about how dumb his best friend was, and just how secure you felt in his arms.

in the moment, the flash of vulnerability that you showed him only proved one thing. seungcheol loves you and will always be the support pillar that you can always lean on. the night was cold, yet you only felt warm and safe right there in his arms.

[thebaldursmouthgazette]

I think a huge factor in people not being able to understand this game is that the game as a whole relies on understanding Solas’ character as written, and people are refusing to understand it

Solas is, and has been since his first appearance, an egotistical, hubristic, racist, manipulative, abusive and condescending asshole who regularly commits atrocities and pretends that being sad about them is enough penance. He is a terrible person who insists he’s actually the hero of the story. He is a liar and a manipulator, and he lies to himself as well. He uses other people like chess pieces and sacrifices them for his cause without much of a thought, and without them even knowing they are being used.

This is who he is. This is who he was always written to be. And veilguard is almost entirely about deconstructing that. Every member of the veilguard is a foil to solas. They are all who he pretends he is, and his false hero fantasy falls apart when you put them next to him.

Every single companion storyline is about that character successfully doing something that Solas is incapable of, but would be capable of if he wasn’t such a terrible person. And they all face a dark reflection of themselves and come out the other side mostly unscathed by that, aware that this dark reflection is not them because they are not actually like that.

Solas faces many of the same challenges the companions do, and fails each and every one of them, because, unlike them, he is not actually a hero. He is not a good person. He does not learn to accept that just because something is broken doesn’t mean there aren’t parts of it worth saving. He does not learn to accept the harsh truths and move forward. He does not accept that he is responsible for his own actions, even if someone else orders them. He fails every time.

Solas faces not one but two dark reflections of himself, Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain, the prideful god who always thinks he’s right no matter the consequences, and the servant and lover of another god whose atrocities are not justified by having been pushed by their lover and mistress, but does not come out the other side unscathed because it turns out he IS actually like them. His reflections are accurate, they’re real parts of himself that he pretends don’t exist, not just twisted versions of their fears like they are for the companions. At the end of the game he even admits that yes, he is very similar to Elgar’nan.

Pretty much the entirety of veilguard is a very careful and deliberate deconstruction of Solas’ character and self image. We go through, in elaborate detail, all of his crimes, all of his mistakes, all of the reasons why he is wrong, why his actions are unjustifiable, why his regret doesn’t absolve him of responsibility, how he thinks it does anyway.

We completely tear down every single aspect of the image he has constructed for himself. We destroy every single excuse with clear examples showing that that was not how things had to go. Every justification. Every insistence it’s okay because he’s sorry. Every time he insists he knows best and we should leave him to it. Every single illusion that he is a good person is shattered. By the end of it there is absolutely nothing left, and his repeated attempts to keep up the facade come off as pathetic and ridiculous. In all his banters with companions he tries to use his usual tricks, pretty excuses, belittling comments, fake niceties and every time he’s completely shut down.

He tries to imply Davrin has a biased view of him from stories about the dread wolf, Davrin responds with evidence the truth is even worse. He tries to apologise to Harding, she comes back with a list of all the terrible things he’s done that an apology can’t cover. He tries to appeal to spite, spite points out he hurt Rook so why should he trust him. He comes up with excuses for killing Varric and Neve points out that there’s no pretty excuse for using blood magic on Rook in such a cruel way afterwards. The illusion is shattered. That’s what the entire game has been building up to. And it makes his last attempt at betrayal seem embarrassing, because we now see through the facade and know that he was too obsessed with himself to even consider we’d see it coming.

But the thing is a lot of people refuse to see this. This is where his characters been heading since the beginning. This is who he’s always been. But a lot of people ignore any and every negative thing about him, and then complain the game doesn’t make sense. Of course it doesn’t make sense. You’ve ignored every single theme, plot point, and piece of characterisation to make up a version of Solas in your head and that’s not the Solas the game is about. It makes complete sense when you see Solas as he truly is, as he was written to be. It’s such a good bit of writing when you actually let yourself experience it as it is and allow yourself to be open to the idea that the guy who is trying to commit his second genocide might be a bad person.

[hanniebaeee]

The Wedding Night

Hyunjin x fem!reader

Warnings: psychotic family rituals, use of weapons (guns, knives, crossbows), threats, some blood, chasing MDNI

Genre: established relationship, thriller/romance

Summary: You and Hyunjin get married, and on your wedding night, you play a deadly game with his eccentric family - his seven brothers.

a/n: Written after watching 'Ready or not'. The plot is not exactly the same, but very similar. I absolutely love horror thriller movies and this one has such a strange gothic vibe to it that I love hehe! Please feel free to skip if any of the warnings bother you. But also remember this is just a story! Thank you!

The storm outside the sprawling mansion mirrored the turbulence Hyunjin felt in his chest as he watched you adjust your dress. Hyunjin’s arms snaked around your waist from behind, his touch gentle. He pressed a lingering kiss to your neck, his lips warm against your skin.

“What's wrong Jinnie? You look nervous.” You said, you hand cupping his cheek as his eyes met yours in the mirror.

“No, I'm good…just don't feel like sharing you tonight,” he murmured, his voice low, sultry.

“It's tradition, right?” you asked, turning to face him.

His long, dark hair fell in soft waves, framing his face like he was a gothic prince from a fairy tale.

“Right. Tradition.” His gaze flicked to the clock above the fireplace. Just about half an hour to midnight.

“Hyunjin… what’s going on?” You were worried now. Hyunjin has been on the edge the whole day, and you'd thought that he was just nervous - it was his wedding after all.

But now? It was starting to get to you.

His hesitation sent a ripple of unease through you. His family had been off from the moment you met them. Apart from his mother and twin sister, Yeji, they were all men. His brothers - Jisung, Felix and Jeongin. His cousins - Chan, Minho, Chanbin and Seungmin.

They moved like shadows through the halls, their smiles never reaching their eyes. But none of that mattered because you loved Hyunjin. You married him knowing that he came with this… oddness.

And now, on the night of your wedding, they’d insisted on a "family tradition" - a game to welcome you into the fold.

Hyunjin’s hand cupped your face, his thumb brushing your cheek.

“I need you to trust me,” he said, his tone urgent. “No matter what happens tonight, I will keep you safe.”

Before you could ask what that meant, there was a knock on the door.

“It’s time.” Minho's voice came from the other side of the door, and Hyunjin’s grip on you tightened.

---

The family was gathered in the dimly lit dining room around a massive oak table, all still dressed in their elaborate, somewhat gothic outfits from the wedding. Hyunjin’s father sat at the head.

“Tradition binds us,” he said, his voice echoing through the room. “Tonight, the newest member of our family will prove their worth.”

Jeongin, Hyunjin's youngest sibling, placed an antique box before you, its surface etched with intricate symbols. Hyunjin's mother opened the box and inside, you found cards.

Are you playing cards?

Hyunjin’s hand found yours beneath the table, squeezing tightly. His expression was unreadable, but the tremor in his fingers betrayed his fear.

“Draw a card,” his father commanded.

You hesitated, your heart pounding as you glanced at Hyunjin before reaching into the box, and pulling out a card.

It bore a single word: Run.

Gasps rippled through the room. Yeji gave you a look that was borderline smothered with pity, and she looked away quickly. So did his mother.

“Oh, this will be fun,” Minho purred, his grin sharp.

Hyunjin shot to his feet, as he said “No. We’re not doing this.”

“Sit down, son,” his father growled, his tone laced with authority.

“She’s my wife!” Hyunjin said, his voice way too loud to be friendly, and you glanced around the room to find all eyes on you.

“And now, she’s the game,” Chan said, his smile chilling.

You didn’t have time to process what was happening before Hyunjin pulled you to your feet.

“Run,” he whispered urgently.

“What?”

“Run!”

He had pushed you out the door so hard that you nearly collided with the wall on the other side. But you did as you were told. You ran.

The manor was a labyrinth of dark twisted corridors and hallways as you fled. You could hear them behind you - their laughter, and the clang of metal.

What the hell was happening? What was this game?

You almost screamed as Hyunjin burst out through a door in front of you, his breathing ragged.

“We need to get you out-” he said, pulling you into a dimly lit hallway, but you yanked your hand back, making him stop on his tracks.

“Hyunjin, what the hell is going on?” you demanded, your voice shaking.

“Baby there's no time-”

“HYUNJIN, STOP FUCKING WITH ME!”

“My family… this tradition, it's been in my family for ages. Only the strongest gets to be part of it. To carry the bloodline forward. It's sick, I know. Baby you picked the wrong card. You picked the worst, oh God. ”

“Hyunjin, what the actual fuck are you saying right now?! What is this game?!”

“It's not a game…it's a hunt. And if you're caught before sunrise-”

You stared at him like he was actually insane. Like you couldn't believe the words that were coming out of his mouth.

“Babe, you -”

“I know!” He cupped your face, his dark eyes shining with desperation. “But I swear, I’ll get you out of this. I’ll die before I let them hurt you.”

Your heart pounded as you ran, your shoes kicked off long ago because it made way too much noise on the wooden floor. The distant, mocking laughter of Hyunjin’s brothers echoed through the halls, growing closer.

“I can hear you, sweetheart!” Jisung’s sing-song voice reverberated somewhere behind you, unsettlingly cheerful.

Hyunjin’s grip on your hand was iron-tight as he led you down a narrow, hidden staircase.

“They’ll split up soon,” he hissed. “It’s how they always do this - divide and conquer.”

“You've been part of this?” you asked, horrified.

Hyunjin hesitated, but said, “It doesn’t matter. What matters is keeping you alive.”

---

The first time you truly noticed Seungmin was at the wedding dinner. Quiet and poised, he seemed like the least likely person in the room to partake in the family’s macabre rituals. He had sipped his wine with a detached air, his sharp eyes watching everyone with an almost clinical curiosity.

So when you found yourself face-to-face with him during the game, it was… unsettling. Especially so, with Hyunjin not at your side - he'd taken a different route to take Chan off your path.

You were sprinting through the east wing’s library when his voice floated out from the shadows.

“You know,” he began, his tone casual like this was a normal conversation, “I root for you.”

Your heart stopped. He was there, perched casually in one of the high-backed chairs, legs crossed, holding a long rifle. And looking totally chill.

“Seungmin,” you breathed, backing away slowly. “I don’t want to hurt you-”

“Oh, I’m sure you don’t,” he interrupted, standing smoothly and taking a few steps towards you. “But I have a job to do, Y/N. Family obligations and all that.”

He raised the rifle, aiming it directly at you.

“Let’s make this quick. No hard feelings?”

You ducked just as the shot rang out, the bullet whizzing past your head and shattering the glass of an antique vase. You scrambled for cover behind a massive oak desk, your heart pounding so loudly it literally masked any other sounds in the room.

“Do you know why I like this game?” Seungmin’s voice floated closer as his footsteps echoed against the hardwood floor. “Strategy. Planning. Timing.”

You peeked around the desk just in time to see him reloading his rifle like a pro. Desperate, you scanned the room. Your eyes landed on a shelf of heavy leather-bound books.

“Seungmin!” you said, trying not to let the fear in you bleed into your voice as you carefully moved behind the shelf. “Can't we talk about this?”

“What's there to talk about?” he replied, circling toward you. “It's just survival of the fittest.”

Just as he turned the corner, you book one of the heavy books and threw it right at him. It hit him right in the chest and he looked surprised even though he pointed his rifle right at you. Ok, maybe a book at a time wont help.

Mustering all your strength, you shoved the entire bookcase toward him. It was quite the task but thankfully it toppled with a deafening crash - a cascade of books and wood slamming down where he stood.

For a moment, you thought you’d won. Just for a moment. But then, from beneath the wreckage, came his low laughter.

The rubble shifted as Seungmin emerged, his pristine shirt now streaked with dust and a thin cut tainting the flawless skin of his cheek. And he looked eerily calm.

“Well played,” he admitted, brushing himself off. “Very resourceful.”

Then, he lifted the rifle again. And just like that another shot rang out as you bolted for the door. You ducked into a side hallway, your bare feet slipping on the polished floors.

“Ah, sister-in-law, cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once.” Oh damn him and his damn calm voice that had the skin on the back of your neck prickling.

“Seriously?!” you yelled, running as fast as you could in your dress. “You’re quoting Julius Caesar right now?”

“Context is everything, don’t you think?” he called back, the sound of his footsteps growing louder.

He was close, really close and you glance around frantically for something you could use. And your eyes fell on a spear embedded on the wall.

Who used spears as wall decorations? Oh, rich people, apparently. Your hands fumbled as you yanked it off the clips holding it up.

You gripped it tightly, moving carefully until you found a little space in the wall. You waited, Seungmin's footsteps now way too close.

“Peek-a-boo,” he whispered, stepping in front of you, and before you could swing the spear at him, someone grabbed him.

You screamed, until you came face-to-face with your husband, who was now tackling Seungmin onto the ground.

“Oh my God,” You groaned, breathing heavily as another shot was fired, this time creating a hole on the ceiling.

“Run!! GO!” Hyunjin was shooing you away, and you did, straight for the window that was partially open, and not thinking twice before slipping right out.

It was so silent. The storm had reduced to a drizzle, and the moon was out. And there was no one around. Or so you thought.

You stumbled into the mansion’s greenhouse, hoping you could hide here till Hyunjin found his way to you. Your lungs burned, and your legs felt like they might give out.

The greenhouse was eerie with the moonlight streaming through the stained panes. The air smelled of damp earth and flowers.

You were catching your breath when you heard it: the unmistakable twang of a crossbow. A bolt shot past your head, embedding itself into a wooden post.

“Oh, damn, I missed,” came Felix’s deep voice, the sound somehow both casual and unhinged all at once.

“For fucks sake,” You muttered under your breath, turning around slowly.

Felix and Jeongin stood near the greenhouse entrance, their crossbows glinting menacingly in the moonlight.

“Hyung said to keep it clean,” Jeongin muttered, ready to fire.

Felix chuckled, stretching dramatically. You took a step back.

“Yeah, but where’s the fun in clean? Besides…” His sharp gaze landed on you as you pressed yourself further into the shadows. “She looks ready for some fun.”

Before you could even think about running, Felix raised his crossbow and fired. You dropped to the ground, the bolt whizzing past and snapping through a pot behind you.

“Nice move!” Felix called out, as if this were some casual game of tag.

“She’s scared,” Jeongin said, stepping closer. He was aiming at you now too, his aim steady. “They all panic eventually.”

Your heart raced as they moved closer, their steps slow and deliberate, like predators circling prey.

“Hyunjin did really well, finding you,” Felix mused, his tone flirty. “But I don’t think he told you everything, did he? Like how the odds of surviving this game are… slim.”

You gritted your teeth, your eyes darting around the greenhouse.

“Oh, she’s thinking,” Jeongin said with a grin. “What’s the plan, sister-in-law? Gonna throw a cactus at us?”

You didn’t wait for them to make the next move. Instead, you bolted deeper into the greenhouse, weaving through the labyrinth of plants and tables.

Another bolt zipped past your ear, shattering the glass on one of the panes.

“Stop running!” Jeongin called, his voice echoing through the space. “You’re just making it harder on yourself.”

“Let her run, Innie,” Felix drawled, his voice teasing. “We’ll still find you, love. We always win.”

You ducked behind a massive planter, your breath coming in short, panicked gasps. You could hear their footsteps closing in.

“You take left,” Felix said, his tone annoyingly confident.

“Got it,” Jeongin replied.

As they split up, you spotted your opportunity - a shelf lined with gardening supplies. Biting back your fear, you grabbed a metal rake.

Just then Jeongin appeared in front of you, grinning. And you've had just about enough of it, as you used the back of the rake, running it straight into his abdomen.

Jeongin looked thoroughly shocked as he lost his balance as fell back, the impact sending everything crashing down - pots, a bag of fertilizer - all of it raining down on Jeongin.

“Shit!” he yelled, his crossbow clattering to the floor as he tried to fend off the avalanche of gardening supplies.

Felix whipped around, his smirk vanishing as he realized what had happened. “Jeongin!”

Before he could react further, you grabbed the nearest object - a heavy watering can - and swung it at him. The impact caught him off guard, and he stumbled.

You didn’t wait for them to recover. Grabbing Jeongin’s fallen crossbow, you sprinted toward the greenhouse exit, your pulse pounding in your ears.

Behind you, Felix’s voice rang out, furious now, “Oh, you’re dead, Y/N! Do you hear me? Dead!”

“Can you help me, hyung?”Jeongin groaned, still half-buried under the pile of tools.

“You’re useless!” Felix snapped, though his irritation seemed directed more at himself than his younger brother.

As you burst out of the greenhouse and into the cool night air, you noticed that you'd ripped your beautiful dress. Now it hung awkwardly, and you felt a pang deep inside you. But you couldn’t help but let out a shaky laugh.

Somewhere in the distance, you heard Hyunjin calling your name.

“Hold on my love,” you whispered to yourself, gripping the stolen crossbow tighter. “I'm gonna fucking kill you.”

You were starting to think you might actually make it. You were trying to follow Hyunjin’s voice, but you knew stepping back into the house was a poor move. Because as you moved into the billiards room - you felt something was terribly off. Well, more off than the current situation.

The soft glow of a fireplace lit the room, casting shadows that danced across the green pool table. You leaned against it, catching your breath, but your grip on the crossbow was still tight.

And then, from behind you, came the sound of slow, deliberate clapping.

“Well, well, well. Look who’s made it this far,” a voice drawled, smooth and dripping with amusement.

You spun around, raising the crossbow instinctively, only to come face-to-face with Chan. He leaned casually against the doorframe, a sleek black pistol twirling lazily in his fingers. His shirt was slightly unbuttoned, and his dark eyes sparkled with mischief.

“Put that thing down, sweetheart,” he said, smirking. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

“Stay back,” you warned, keeping the crossbow aimed at him despite the tremble in your hands.

He raised his free hand in mock surrender, the pistol still balanced in his other.

“Whoa, easy there. I’m just here to chat. Family tradition and all, you know how it is.”

“Chat?” you scoffed. “You’re holding a gun.”

“And you’re holding a crossbow. We’re even.” Chan tilted his head, his grin widening.

He took a step closer, his gaze locked on yours.

“I have to admit, Y/N, you’ve done better than most. Usually, they don’t make it past Felix.”

You stepped back, your back hitting the pool table.

“But you…” he continued, his tone low, “…you’re different. Smart. Quick.”

Your grip on the crossbow tightened as you said, “If you think flirting is going to stop me from shooting you, you’re out of your mind.”

“Oh, sweetheart, I’m not trying to stop you.” Chan chuckled.

With a flick of his wrist, he aimed the pistol directly at your chest, his playful demeanor not faltering for a second.

“Let’s play a little game, hmm? I’ll put mine down if you put yours down.”

“Why would I trust you?” You swallowed hard.

“Because you don’t have much of a choice,” he replied smoothly, stepping closer. “And because I like you, Y/N. I almost want you to win.”

“Almost?”

“Well…” He shrugged, his smirk growing darker. “It’s nothing personal. Family is… family.”

Before he could get another word out, you grabbed the nearest billiard ball from the table and hurled it at him.

“Whoa!” Chan ducked, laughing as the ball narrowly missed his head and cracked against the wall behind him. “Feisty! I like that!”

You didn’t wait for him to recover. Grabbing a cue stick, you swung it at him, forcing him to stumble back.

Chan, ever the showman (or show off), twirled his pistol and aimed again. But you jabbed stick towards him and the shot went off, shattering a whiskey decanter on the bar.

“Damn it,” he muttered, sidestepping as you swung again. “That was expensive!”

“You’re insane!” you yelled, as he grabbed the stick mid swing and tossed it aside. But you moved again, using the crossbow to slap the pistol off his hand. It fell to the floor with a clatter, and skidded away from Chan's reach.

“You’re incredible my love,” he said, and now mere inches apart.

Chan grinned at you, unapologetically, his chest rising and falling with exertion, his eyes flicking to your lips before meeting your gaze again.

“You know,” he murmured, voice soft and teasing, “if things were different, I’d marry you myself.”

You glared at him aiming the crossbow at him, “Too bad you’re a lunatic.”

“Guilty as charged.” he said, raising his hands as you got ready to take a shot. “Not bad, Y/N. Not bad at all.”

He watched as you backed toward the door, keeping the crossbow trained on him.

“Tell your family I’m not dying tonight.” you said, and he just smiled, and it looked way too genuine for someone who was trying to kill you.

“Oh, they’ll figure it out,” he replied in an infuriatingly calm tone. “Don't miss me too much, ok?”

You snorted. “Not in a million years.”

“We’ll see about that, sweetheart. We’ll see.” Chan’s laugh followed you as you slipped out of the room, your heart pounding in your chest.

You hadn’t seen anyone for a while now. You sat hidden behind the kitchen counter, the crossbow still in your hands. You wondered where Hyunjin was. And even though you were so mad at him, you worried if he was safe.

Then you heard it.

The rhythmic tap-tap-tap of a blade dragging along the steel counters.

“Y/N…” Minho’s voice sang out, eerily calm and lilting.

Your stomach dropped as you froze in place, listening. It was such a shame really, when Hyunjin had first introduced you to his cousins, you'd thought Minho was absolutely gorgeous. His soft voice and his smile. Huh what a waste.

Tap-tap-tap.

“Come on, Y/N,” he called, his tone laced with mock sweetness. “Let’s not make this harder than it needs to be. You know how this ends.”

The blade scraped again, sending a metallic screech through the air.

Keep moving, you told yourself. Don’t freeze. You crept along the counter, your bare feet barely making a sound against the tiled floor.

Your breath hitched as you caught sight of him through the narrow gap between the counters. Minho was toying with a massive butcher’s knife, the blade glinting under the yellow lights. His dark hair fell into his eyes as he smiled, the kind of smile that sent shivers down your spine.

You stayed low, gripping the crossbow in your hand, though your palms were slick with sweat.

“I know you’re in here, Y/N,” Minho continued, his voice teasing.

He stopped suddenly, tilting his head like a predator sniffing the air. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he plunged the knife into the nearest wall, the sound of it sinking into wood reverberating through the room.

Your heart nearly stopped. He was close. Too close.

“You know what’s funny?” he mused, pulling the knife free and resuming his casual walk. “Hyunjin thinks he can save you. He really believes that. But I’m not so sure. You've got him wrapped around your finger haven't you? Making him fight us for you?”

You clenched your teeth, anger flaring in your chest. How dare he!

“He’s twice the man you’ll ever be,” you whispered under your breath, more to steady yourself than anything else.

Unfortunately, Minho heard. His steps halted abruptly.

“Oh?” he said softly. “You do have a mouth on you. Let’s see if you can back that up.”

You didn’t wait for him to find you. Taking a deep breath, you leapt out from your hiding spot, aiming the crossbow directly at him.

“Tsk, tsk,” Minho chided, lunging toward you with the knife. “Is that Innie's?”

You barely ducked in time, his blade slicing through the air where your neck had been moments before. Scrambling backward, you grabbed a cast-iron skillet from the counter and swung it at him.

The clang of metal meeting metal rang out as he deflected your attack with his knife, his grin widening. “Oh, this is fun!”

“Glad you’re enjoying yourself,” you snapped, dodging as he lunged again.

The two of you danced around the kitchen in a deadly game of cat and mouse. Minho was relentless, his movements fluid like that of a dancer, while you were running purely on adrenaline. And you hissed in pain as he managed to slice the knife over your arm, drawing blood.

Minho backed you into a corner as you lost focus on seeing blood, the knife glinting dangerously as he raised it.

“Any last words?” he asked, tilting his head with a mock pout.

You were almost ready to accept your fate when a head popped in through the door, and you nearly wanted to cry when you saw Hyunjin stepping in quietly, grabbing a pan from the counter.

“Yes actually,” you said, your voice shaking but defiant.

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Let’s hear it.”

“Watch out.”

Before he could react, Hyunjin had swung the pan right at him, catching the side of his head in a dull clang. The impact sent Minho staggering back and dropping his knife, looking absolutely pissed.

Hyunjin jumped at the opportunity to grab the knife from and used his other hand to grab you before pulling you out the door.

“See you later, butcher boy,” you taunted, hearing Minho’s laughter loud and clear as you two fled.

You both slowed down as you reached a dark quiet corridor, and Hyunjin dropped the knife, and cupped your face with his hands.

You froze, torn between throwing yourself into his arms and wanting to use that knife on him.

“Don’t you dare -” you started, but Hyunjin ignored your warning, pulling you into his chest so tightly you could barely breathe.

“Thank God,” he whispered against your hair, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re okay. I was so scared -”

You shoved him back with enough force to make him stumble, glaring at him with all the fury you could muster.

“Okay? Are you insane? Your family is trying to kill me, Hyunjin! You’re all insane! If I survive this, I’m going to kill you myself!”

He winced, running a hand through his disheveled hair.

“I know, baby, I know. I’m trying to fix it, I swear.” he said, his voice as soft as ever. Fuck, this man won't let you hate him.

“You better fix it faster,” you hissed, jabbing a finger into his chest. “Because if someone kills me tonight, I'm gonna haunt your sorry ass forever!”

Hyunjin’s lips quirked into a faint smile despite everything

“You’re terrifying when you’re angry. It’s… kind of hot.”

“Shut up!” Before you could say more, a low whistle interrupted you.

“Well, isn’t this touching,” Felix’s smooth voice cut through the hallway.

You and Hyunjin turned to see him casually strolling toward you, crossbow slung over one shoulder. His hair was wild, streaks of blood on his cheek, and yet he somehow still managed to look annoyingly composed.

Behind him, Jisung followed, twirling a machete in one hand and his grin? Unsettlingly cheerful.

“What do you think, Lix?” Jisung asked, glancing between you and Hyunjin. “Do we give them a few more minutes, or do we get this over with?”

Felix tilted his head, as if considering it.

“Hmm… I think we’ve waited long enough.” he said, his eyes fixed on you.

Hyunjin immediately stepped in front of you, shielding you with his body.

“Don’t even think about it.” he bit out.

“Hyunie,” Felix said, his voice taking on a wheedling tone. “You’ll let me have her won't you? I’m your favorite brother!”

Hyunjin’s jaw tightened, his tone dangerously low. “Felix, I swear to God-”

“That’s hurtful,” Jisung interjected, his grin faltering as he clutched his chest dramatically. “What about me? I’m your brother too, you know.”

This was getting absolutely crazy, when the loud, unmistakable click of a shotgun echoed through the hallway.

“Looks like we’re just in time,” Yeji’s voice rang out, dripping with sarcasm. “Are we talking about favorites?”

All four of you turned to see her standing at the end of the hall, her ponytail swaying as she cocked the shotgun. Behind her, Changbin appeared, hefting an axe with ease.

“Oh, come on.” Felix groaned audibly.

“Go away Yeji!” Jisung whined. “This was just getting good!”

Yeji smirked, aiming her gun right at Felix.

“Lixie, I told you if you tried to go after them, I’d take you out myself.” she scolded, as if Felix was a toddler.

Changbin grinned, resting the axe on Jisung’s shoulder. “And I’ll help.”

“Fine. Whatever. Is this a twin thing? Is that what this is?” Felix sighed dramatically, lowering his crossbow.

“Call it whatever you want.” Yeji said, her gun pressing against his chest. “Walk away, Lixie. I'd hate to choose between my brothers. And I'm sure you'd hate it more.”

“I doubt it,” Hyunjin muttered under his breath.

“You’re all such buzzkills,” Jisung complained, dragging his machete as he followed Felix, though he paused briefly to glance at Hyunjin. “And I am a good brother, you jerk.”

“Jisung!” Hyunjin barked, exasperated.

---

As Felix and Jisung disappeared down the corridor, Yeji and Changbin walked up to you.

Yeji reached out to take a look at the wound on your arm, but smiled and said, “You’re tougher than you look.”

“Yeah, she’s cool. Let’s keep her alive.” Changbin nodded, grinning.

“Uh… thanks?” You blinked at them, still trying to process the whirlwind of events.

Hyunjin sighed, pulling you close again. “I told you I’d keep you safe.”

You shot him a glare and said, “I still want to kill you.”

His lips twitched into a small smile, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I love you, baby.”

“I'm not saying it back.”

Yeji cleared her throat.

“Alright, lovebirds, let’s keep moving. I haven't seen Channie or Minho, so -” Yeji fell silent as you rounded a corner, and walked right into them.

Minho and Chan.

Both of them stood with smug grins plastered on their faces, completely relaxed, as though they hadn’t just spent the last few hours hunting you down.

“She really made it this far,” Chan said, his voice dripping with a playful menace, his beloved pistol back in his hand.

Minho’s eyes narrowed in amusement as he approached you. “Not bad, but I'm afraid this is where it ends, Y/N,” he said, his voice low and teasing.

You bristled, hating how amused they seemed.

“Are you seriously enjoying this?” you snapped, stepping toward Minho, as Hyunjin grabbed you back into his chest.

Minho cocked his head, his lips curving up into a smile.

“Oh, darling. I don’t know about the killing part. But yes I am enjoying watching you fight for your life.” His eyes flicked over to Hyunjin. “Both of you, really. It’s a beautiful thing to witness.”

Hyunjin held you tight so that you didn't do anything stupid.

Chan, on the other hand, was casually strolling toward you, eyes full of mischief.

“You know, Hyunjin,” he said with a chuckle. “You’ve got the perfect wife. She’s tough, strong-willed, and just as deadly as you are. But…”

Yeji had her gun aimed at Chan, and Changbin was ready to attack, when the first rays of sunlight broke through the grand windows, casting golden light over the hall.

It was dawn. The game was over.

Chan and Minho’s expressions shifted instantly. The tension drained from their faces, and their smiles, previously so sinister, softening.

“Well, shit,” Minho muttered, tossing the knife aside.

Chan let out a long breath, also dropping his weapon.

“Congratulations love, it's finally over.” he said with a smile so genuine, you were thoroughly confused. “You won.”

Hyunjin let out a sigh (or a sob) of relief, before he hugged you tighter and almost tackled you into a kiss. He couldn't speak at all, like he was processing it all. It was over.

Before you could say anything, the sound of more footsteps echoed through the corridor. You turned to see Seungmin, Jeongin, Felix and Jisung approaching, looking equally exhausted but with visible relief in their eyes.

“Oh thank god,” Jisung breathed, a grin breaking out across his face. “I know what we discussed, but I couldn't help but feel like one of you would break-”

“Well, everyone's still breathing. That’s a win.” Felix clapped his hands, clearly relieved.

Hyunjin stood there, quietly surveying the group around him. His brothers - his family - had all stepped back, looking less like the men who had been hunting you down for hours, and more like… well, like they’d just wrapped up an intense game of tag.

Felix gave him a quick wink, his ever-present cocky grin on his face as he nodded toward you and Hyunjin. But there was something in his eyes, something that only Hyunjin knew - they’d all been sparing you two.

Minho, standing just behind Felix, let out a soft laugh and patting him on the back.

“Welcome to the family, sister-in-law,” he said in his trademark deadpan voice.

“What the fuck is going on here?!” you blurted, the realization hitting you real hard. “You…you didn’t want to kill me? This whole time?”

Hyunjin’s eyes flicked over to Yeji, who was watching the exchange with a bemused expression.

She knew. She had to have known.

“They didn’t,” Yeji confirmed, her voice a soft whisper. “None of them did. This was all for show.”

Her eyes locked onto Hyunjin’s for a moment, giving him a smile. She stepped forward, taking your hand in hers.

“We had to make it look real. The elders would have interfered if they thought we weren't doing it right.” She said. "They have cameras everywhere."

You blinked, your head spinning as everything began to make sense.

“But… but why? You could've given us a hint-”

“We couldn't,” Minho interjected smoothly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “If we hadn’t done this right, the old man would’ve figured something was up. They don’t exactly trust Hyunjin, he's been the softie since day one. Or Yeji for that matter. But if we wanted to give you a chance, it had to be like this.”

You just looked at him with a blank look on your face and his eyes fell on your bleeding hand.

"And I'm sorry about that. Someone had to do it, and none of these pussies would-"

"MINHO!" Yeji hissed.

“And that's cos we wouldn't do it to Hyun...” Seungmin said, giving you a smile. “Besides, I was actually glad to finally have someone who had good taste in books, I wasn't gonna let you die-”

“Oh wow Seungmin, that was heart touching-” Hyunjin scoffed.

“Family…” You echoed, your voice shaky.

“Baby, I'm so sorry I dragged you into this. I knew the minute I told you the truth, you'd run for your life and I'd lose you forever. I… I never wanted you to go through this, baby. I will do anything it takes to win your trust again.”

You nodded, still not sure how you felt about all this.

“But you’re lucky, Hyunie.” Felix said, grinning at Hyunjin. “She’s a keeper. We'll be here for you both, always. No ones gonna do anything.”

“You're finally free, Hyunjin, take your girl and go live your life. You passed their fucking test. They won't come after you.” Yeji said, giving him a nod.

Hyunjin’s hand tightened on your shoulder, and he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your temple.

“You can walk out right now if you want, baby. I won't stop you. But if you decide to give me a chance, I need you to know that no matter what, I’ll always keep you safe.”

You nodded slowly, a knot in your chest loosening as you processed his words. The night had been a mess, yes, and you will probably never forget everything that has happened. But you also know Hyunjin was genuine.

“Let me sleep on it, maybe I'll give you a chance after all. If one of your siblings don't kill me in my sleep.”

Divider: @saradika-graphics

Tags: @moonchild9350 @velvetmoonlght @eastjonowhere @pixie-felix @sailor--sun

[kazwritesthings]

your smile

peeta mellark x fem! reader

summary: peeta mellark has been your best friend for as long as you can remember. yet not once has he ever mentioned the dark haired girl he is now claiming to be in love with. did you read his signals wrong? did he not trust you enough to tell you about his crush? more importantly, why do some of the stories he’s telling about her sound… oddly familiar?

word count: 8.1k (yikes)

(note: hello!! i haven’t written in yearssss so please be nice about any spelling or grammar errors you find lol)

_________________

you've had three near death experiences in your lifetime.

the first was when peeta's older brother, jayce, had taken you out to the lake not too far from the edge of district 12. he had been bragging about how beautiful the ice looked early in the morning to try and make little peeta jealous since he wasn't allowed to go see it. being the stubborn thing you were, you bribed him to take you and peeta with him one morning. you were only tiny, barely 6 years old, so even though he caught you before you fell completely through a cracked section of the ice, it was enough to soak you up to your waist. you developed a terrible fever that you only survived because your mother sold most of her belongings to pay for the best doctor she could.

the second near death experience you had was when you were a little older. when you were 11, you had wanted to explore the woods past the fence on the outskirts of 12. you'd tried to convince peeta to come with you, but he did want to get in trouble. you didn't make it very far anyway since you fell backwards when you tried to climb the first tree you came across . your head landed inches away from a large rock which definitely would have caved your skull in had you landed on it. luckily you escaped with a bruised butt and even more bruised ego.

as for the third near death experience... you're living through it now

"the male tribute for the 74th hunger games is... peeta mellark!"

physically, you’re fine. your name wasn’t called; you get to go home once this is all over. but your soul. your other half isn’t so lucky.

hot tears stream down your face as you watch peeta make his way through the crowd of boys. you look around at his brothers, praying above anything that one of them would volunteer for him, take his place like the female tribute had done for her sister moments ago. but when you see them, their faces are solum, staring at the floor as peeta walks past their rows.

peeta looks as shellshocked as you feel as he walks up the stairs and stands next to the woman with the crazy outfit and weird hat. his eyes dart around the crowd of girls until they land on you. you’ve never seen him look so scared before, and it causes you to cry harder.

“go on! shake hands!” the crazy capitol lady says, moving out the way so peeta and the other girl, katniss, can do as she says. peeta is barely able to rip his eyes off you when he does, still staring out into the crowd when he takes katniss’ calloused hand into his own.

you don’t really register what happens next, your brain foggy with the hellish news that’s just been forced upon you. before you know it, your stood outside a room in the town hall, waiting for peeta’s family to say goodbye. the heat of anger you had directed at his brothers has cooled to an almost debilitating fear. all you can taste is blood from biting the inside of your cheek to try and calm yourself - it doesn’t work.

after five minuets, the peacekeeper next to the door opens it and calls that their time with peeta is up. he then turns to you and nods his head towards the door. you push past his mother in your rush to get to him, making her curse at you under her breath. she never liked you, calling you a bad influence on peeta, but you never really cared.

you stand across the room from him, waiting until the door shuts behind you and you can finally be alone. peetas eyes are red as if he has been crying, yet his face is dry. it’s clear he’s been holding back his tears, letting them build up like a dam moments from bursting. the damn breaks the second he sees you.

“y/n,” peeta mutters, his entire body collapsing in on itself. he would have fallen to the floor if you hadn’t ran to him in time. your arms wrap around his waist to hold him up while his loop around your neck, pulling you to him faster and closer than he ever has before. his tears are hot against your neck, soaking into your one nice shirt. you don’t care.

“oh god… this isn’t fair” you cry into his neck, trying your best to hold yourself together. one of you needs to be strong, and it definitely shouldn’t be peeta right now.

and yet it is. he pulls away and takes you by the shoulders. his big brown eyes, always so warm and full of life, have grown sad and watery. you hate it.

“you’ll be okay. i made my brothers swear that they’ll look after you and your mom when i’m gone, discounted bread and everything. mother wasn’t happy about it but i made it my dying request” his chuckle has your blood boiling because of how calm he sounds. how accepting he sounds.

you slap him gently on the shoulder, glaring up at him with a look that usually has him taking back his teasing jokes. “shut the fuck up, peeta. you’re not dying in there. you’re strong, the strongest person i know,” you hiss, slapping him again when he rolls his eyes.

“y/n it’s no use-” he starts, but you’re quick to cut him off.

“yes it is! you’re strong, so you could wrestle any of the other tributes if it comes to it. you’re charming, so you can win sponsors before you go in and make allies with other strong tributes. and i’ll work my ass off out here so i can send you things when you need,” you ramble, squeezing his hands on your shoulder as you try to think.

“y/n i’m not making it out,” peeta tries to cut you off, which is what finally pushes you off the edge.

“STOP SAYING THAT!” you yell, cutting off his depressing words. he stares at you, surprised. you very rarely raise your voice, let alone at him. “you can’t give up before you’ve gone in! you can’t…” your voice cracks before it trails off. you begin to cry again, leaning your forehead against his shoulder as you hold onto him again. “i can’t lose you.”

the room is silent for a moment, the only sound being the muffled voices coming from next door where you can only assume katniss is saying goodbye to her family. it is broken again by peeta’s gentle voice.

“did i ever tell you how beautiful you are?” he mutters against your ear, sending shockwaves down your spine. your head shoots back to look him in the eyes, your mind suddenly blank.

“w…what?” you stutter breathlessly, not sure you heard him right.

peeta gives you a smile you’ve only ever seen him aim at you. it’s fond and warm, with an unspoken, uncertain glint in his eyes. he opens his mouth, to repeat himself or explain himself you don’t get to find out. the peacekeeper that was outside barges in and storms across the room faster than you can think.

his hand roughly grips your arm and drags you away from peeta. panic floods you as you yell and reach out for peeta. “no! no! i need more time! please!” you scream, your fingers barely linked in peeta’s before you’re violently pulled apart.

“hey! let her go,” peeta tries to run after you, yelling at the peacekeeper who is dragging you across the room, but is stopped by another peacekeeper grabbing his shoulder and throwing him backwards.

everything is happening too fast. there was so much more you had to say to him, do with him. this was never the way you wanted to tell him, yet this may be the last chance you will ever have.

“peeta! peeta i love you!” you call as the peacekeeper gives you one final push and throws you out of the room. you stumble into the chest of one of his brothers, and quickly spin around to get one final look at him.

for a moment, the colour is back in his face. his eyes are bright in the way they used to be, crinkled in the corner as he smiles at you again.

“y/n i-” a door slams in your face, cutting peeta off and leaving you a husk of your former self.

——————

the following days are agony. peeta’s brothers kept their word, checking in on you once a day with a loaf of your favourite bread. you mainily spent your days helping your mother at her stall in the hob or picking up little jobs wherever you can to put towards helping peeta.

the only time you felt any semblance or relief was when peeta was on the television. your heart soared when you saw him in the chariot during the opening ceremony. he looked so different: his usually messy hair slicked back, dark makeup around his eyes and a black suit that’s literally on fire making you wince out of nervousness for him. he looks incredible. and so does katniss next to him.

you can’t help but frown when you see him reach for her hand and hold them in the air. it’s stupid to be possessive over him at a time like this, yet you can’t help it. its a gross, sticky sensation that claws at your chest and stops you from fully filling your lungs with air. and it only gets worse with time.

you don’t see peeta for a while since the tributes have started their training, so you continue working in the hob. people give you saddened looks when you walk past them in the streets, since anyone who had visited the bakery at least once would have known how close the two of you are. it is probably why you’ve been able to find so many tasks and errands to do over the past few days. people pity you.

you and your mother watch the training scores together, cheering out of joy when you see peeta receive an 8. it’s high enough that sponsors will notice him yet low enough for the careers to not see him as a threat. it takes the weight off your shoulders for a moment.

the days continue to drag by until it’s the day before the games begin, meaning it’s interview day. the only thing that’s been keeping you going is the fact that you get to hear his voice, see him properly speak today. there aren’t enough words in the english language to describe how difficult it is to go from being with the person you love all day, every day, to not being able to see him at all.

your skin tingles with nerves as you take a seat at your kitchen table and turn on the interviews. most go by slowly, the tributes all doing their best to make themselves stand out and more likeable. your heart bleeds for the young girl from district 11, rue.

katniss does amazing in her interview. while she is very clearly nervous, she’s able to make people laugh at her accidental jokes, cry at her love for her sister and awe at her beautiful dress that bursts into flames. you had only briefly spoken to her before, a word or two when you would buy game from her. still, you are proud of her for doing well.

peeta does even better. he’s just as charming as you knew he would be, maybe even more. he cracks jokes left and right making you grin.

when laughter calms down, the host ceaser flickerman, gives him a serious look that he jokingly mimics.

“now peeta, tell me. is there a special girl waiting for you at home?” ceaser asks. my heart pounds in my chest as i wait for his answer.

peeta opens his mouth to speak when he pauses. a look of sadness appears on his face for a moment and disappears even faster. the only reason why you’re able to catch it is because you’ve spent years analysing every face he’s ever made.

“well… there’s this one girl that i’ve had a crush on forever,” peeta says shyly.

your breath hitches. could he be talking about you? he looked happy when you said you loved him. you bite your lip anxiously, curling your legs into your chest.

ceaser grins, showing off his overly white teeth. “ahh… i’ll tell you what, peeta. you go out there and you win this thing. when you get home she’ll have to go out with you”

once again, peeta’s face changes for a fraction of a second. for just a moment, he smiles. he smiles your smile. the one he reserves for you and you only. it makes you heart lurch and a smile appear on your face.

your smile disappears off his face as fast as it came, and your nerves return.

“thanks, but i don’t think winnings gonna help me at all” he mutters, looking away from ceaser and the audience.

ceaser frowns, his tanned skin folding until it looks like crumpled orange peel. “why not?”

peeta takes a deep breath before speaking.

“because she came here with me.”

oh

you feel like the floor has disappeared underneath you, and you’re free falling into darkness. your chest burns with every breath you take. there’s a ringing in your hears that you’ve never heard before, and all you can think about is… how?

is there any way that you could have missed that? not once had peeta ever spoken about katniss, in the romantic sense or otherwise. sure, he’d come with you to buy game from her occasionally, but that’s the only time you’d ever seen them interact. could it be possible that he just didn’t tell you?

you don’t even realise that you’re crying until your mom reaches over and wipes your tears. you choke back a sob as your grip the table tightly, blurry vision fixed on the screen. you need to know more.

the look ceaser gives him makes my skin crawl. a look of pity that’s clear to anyone who has eyes. “ahh. well that’s bad luck.”

peeta nods, and looks back at ceaser. “yea it is. i’ve liked her for as long as i can remember,” he smiles fondly, a far off look in his eyes. it makes you want to scream.

“would you mind telling me when you first started liking her?” ceaser asks, leaning closer to peeta as he begins to push the conversation further than you want to hear.

another micro expression that only you could see flashes on his face. panic.

he quickly covers it and nods, sitting up in the chair uncomfortably. “uh yea. we were both in school together. one time in class our teacher asked if anyone knew the valley song, and she raised her hand so fast,” he laughs, covering his face slightly to hide a blush that was slowly growing on his cheeks.

ceaser laughs in a way that you can’t tell his happy or sad. “and i’m guessing that this girl,” he looks knowingly at the audience, “was a good singer, no?”

“the best,” peeta nods, the blush reaching up to his ears and down his neck now. “i’ve gotta admit something kinda weird. i watched her go home every day after that. i was desperate to get closer to her.”

that’s throws your for a loop and sends your mind spinning even more. you and peeta walked home together every day since you first began school. there is no way you could have missed him watching her, right? your head throbs with unanswered questions and more emotions than you can comprehend. you shut off interview when you realise that peeta is finished, walking past your mom to your bedroom.

you cry yourself to sleep that night. not just because of what you witnessed today, but because it may just be the last night that the love of your life is also alive.

——————

you could count on one hand the amount of times that you have watched the hunger games from start to finish. you’d never had much of a stomach for violence in the first place, but you had to stomach it to make sure that peeta was still alive.

it was easy to push down your messed up feelings about peeta and katniss when all you were focusing on whether he was alive or not. you watched as peeta joined the careers, only to betray them and get attacked by cato. you were nearly inconsolable when he was injured and forced to hide out by the river. you were so scared for him that you didn’t sleep until they finally showed him being reunited with katniss.

you had never been so relieved when they announced that two victors from the same district could win. katniss obviously was attached to peeta, so she’d do anything to keep him alive so that they could win together.

you were grateful beyond words to her for looking after him. she cleaned his wound to the best of her ability and hid him in a cave. however, this is when it started to become harder to ignore the ache in your chest when you see them together.

the longer they spent together the more your heart hurt. you tried to distract yourself by working, yet you couldn’t get the image of them in the cave out of your mind. the only good thing that came about because of your work is that you finally had made enough to send peeta some medicine.

after collecting all the money you had, you ran to the town centre. you quickly filled out the application on what you wanted to send him and gave them everything you had. originally you had been saving the money to one day buy a cow that you could sell milk with. peeta was more important than that.

when you arrive at the section of the form that allows you to write a message to your chosen tribute, you feel slightly stumped. this may be the last thing you get the chance to say to him. you wrack your brain for something to say, but all that comes to your head is the lyrics to your favourite song. it makes you smile. they sum up how you feel about him perfectly, so you scribble down the words as quickly as you can.

once you finished the form and handed him the money the peacekeeper said that the medicine should be sent shortly, so you rush back home as fast as you can.

you arrive back just in time to see a parachute land just outside of the cave. katniss walks over and opens it, frowning when she sees the message that you had written for peeta inside. anger bubbles up inside you when she frowns. what the hell is her problem?

you watch as she walks inside and holds out the pot.

“someone sent you medicine,” she tells him, kneeling by his side.

“oh really? who?” peeta shuffles to sit up slightly, wincing as the pain flares in his leg.

you sit with baited breath, waiting for her to tell him the truth.

“haymitch,” is all she says as she begins to gently apply it to his leg.

the anger from before simmers up into a white hot rage. how fucking dare she. who the fuck does she think she is? katniss must recognise your name, she has to know how close you two are. why wouldn’t she tell him?

you smack the table in front of you, tears flooding your vision as someone else takes credit for your effort. however you pause when you look back at the screen, your bottom lip wobbling. the relief that spreads across peeta’s face forces you to take a deep breath. he got the help that he needed, and you were able to give that to him. that’s all that matters.

a few tears escape from your eyes as you watch the two of them. there’s an aching in your chest that you can’t seem to escape from, one that’s separate from the jealousy you’re feeling. a nagging sensation, like you’re missing something.

“why are you doing this?” peeta asks, staring up at her with his big eyes that make you swoon every time you see them, and he knows that. you hate that he’s using them on her.

“you helped me once,” katniss responds.

a silence lingers over them for a moment before peeta practically bursts to life. “i think about that day all the time how i tossed you that bread.”

“peeta,” katniss sighs.

“i should have gone to you. i should have just gone out in the rain and…” he trails off, using those big eyes of his to wear down her defences. and it works. she leans down and kisses him softly, cupping his face in her hands.

you hate how you look away from the screen. the amazing mic quality picks up on the sound of their lips locking together so there’s no escaping what they’re doing in front of the entire country.

everything makes sense now. you remember peeta telling you about the time that he burnt bread to feed katniss. he never mentioned it again, so you assumed at the time that it didn’t mean anything. how wrong you were.

when she pulls away from him, peeta begins to mumble. “i remember one time i followed you into the woods. i was terrified of getting in trouble, but i was so desperate to keep an eye on you. i watched as you climbed a tree not too far from the edge, then watched as you fell like fifteen feet to the ground when one of the branches snapped. i was so scared for you… but you stood up and carried on like nothing had happened. that’s the first time i saw how strong you are,” he smiles softly up at her.

you frown again, a small voice nagging in the back of your mind. he followed her to the woods. the only time you went, you had begged him to come with you and he had refused. yet he went with her? it made bile rise to your throat. when you finally look back at the screen, what you see breaks you.

your smile. being aimed at her.

you turn the screen off and it stays off for the rest of the night.

——————

“attention. attention, tributes. there has been a slight rule change. the previous revision, allowing for two victors from the same district, has been revoked. only one victor may be crowned. good luck. and may the odds be ever in your favour.”

only moments ago you had been crying tears of joy. peeta and katniss had made it. they were coming home. he was coming home.

not anymore it seems.

a terrifying sound echoes throughout your kitchen, and it takes a moment for you to realise that the sound is coming from you. desperate, wet sobs wrack your body as you dig your nails into your wooden table in front to ground yourself. you watch, horrified, as katniss takes out the nightlock berries from earlier. are you really about to see the love of your life kill himself on live television, just so that he doesn't have to live without the love of his?

your body is numb, eyes glassy, tears and snot running down your face as you watch them stand inches from each other, raising the poison to their lips. you don't realise it but your mother is gently running her hands along your back to try and calm you, it clearly having no effect.

you look at those eyes. that smile that he has on his face as he raises the berries. it's your smile again. it makes you wonder, just for a moment, if you could be his last thought.

"stop! stop! ladies and gentlemen, may I present the winners of the of the 74th annual hunger games," a voice booms loud and clear over the speaker.

air floods your lungs once more, and you can breath again. he's coming home. your peeta is coming home.

you choke out a laugh, reaching over to hug your mom tighter than you ever have before. the two of you laugh and scream in delight, and everything is right in the world again.

when you finally let go, you turn back to look at the screen. peeta and katniss are locked in an embrace similar to the one the two of you had shared just before he had left. and once again, your smile is on his face, aimed at her.

he is coming home. but he might not be yours anymore.

——————

its another week of interviews and celebrations before peeta and katniss are finally on their way home. on the way to the capitol, peeta couldn't really pay attention to much other than the look on your face when you told him that you loved him. he wasted so many years being terrified that you didn't feel the same way, only to find out days before he died that he had a chance after all.

now that he's on his way home, he doesn't plan on wasting anymore time.

he has to admit, his idea was a stroke of genius. when he first brought up the idea of pretending to be in love to receive sponsors, katniss had laughed in his face. she refused to be seen as weak, and didn't want to spend what could be her last days alive pretending to be someone she wasn't. haymitch, on the other hand, loved it.

as much as he hates to admit it, pretending to be in love with katniss came to him easier than he was expecting it to be. it was a thousand times easier since he was already in love. with you.

every time he had to talk to her, about her; when he had to hold her or kiss her, he was always picturing you. even the stories he told, the ones about the woods and the valley song. they were some of his favourite memories with you.

he had warned katniss before they went in how he felt about you, and she was more than happy to be a place for him to project his feelings for you as long as it kept them both alive. and it did.

he had just hoped that you had been able to see through the stories he was telling and understand that none of it was real, that it was all an illusion to keep them alive. and he'd never forget the sense of relief he felt what katniss showed him the message you had sent him along with the medicine.

"roses are red, love, violets are blue. birds in the heavens know i love you." - y/n

it was the lyrics to your favourite song. the valley song. you knew he was waiting for you.

——————

you waited with baited breath as the train pulls into the station. the crowd of people surrounding waiting with you are honestly pissing you off. they didn't care about peeta before they left for the games, so why are you having to fight your way through strangers to get to him now?

it's only when the doors to the train open and he finally steps onto the platform that you feel alive again. he looks the same as he did the day he left you, and it takes your breath away. the crowd erupts in applause as he takes katniss' hand and holds it in the air, the same way that he did in the opening ceremony. your breath hitches when you remember that he isn't yours anymore. it has slipped your mind in the excitement of getting to see him. a deep heat spreads from your chest down to your stomach, and you feel like you might throw up.

that's when your eyes meet his. and time stands still. for the first time in what feels like a lifetime, he smiles at you. he gives you your katniss' smile, and for a moment everything is okay again.

peeta and katniss are ushered off the platform before you get a chance to do more than stare at him. as they rush off you begin to push your way out of the crowd. you push past katniss' family, prim and her mother and her best friend gale. they give you a small smile as you pass, one that you return tenfold. nothing can bring you down in this moment. despite the fact that peeta isn't yours anymore, he's alive. it will take some time to adjust, but you can learn to live with that. as long as he's okay.

——————

scratch that. this fucking sucks.

not once have you ever been nervous to see peeta. despite the fact that you're hopelessly in love with him, talking to him always came easy. but now that you're stood here in front of him, who you can only assume his girlfriend stood feet away, and it's like you fell out of that tree all over again. you're winded despite the fact that nothing hit you. you can't catch your breath despite how hard you inhale.

you don't even know how you got here. one moment you were at home, the next peeta's brother was dragging you here, throwing you in and shutting the door behind him with a smile on your face that you completely didn't trust.

you try to focus on him and this moment, but all you can see is the room you're in. peeta's new house in victors village is more grand than anywhere you've been before. the each of the rooms are at least the size of your entire house with enough space to fit everything from your mothers stall at the hob tenfold. you wonder what peeta is going to use the space for since he doesn't have many possessions.

you're able to snap out of it seconds before he reaches you. everything feels like its stuck in fast-forward as his arms loop around your waist and pull you straight into his chest. despite his jokes in the interviews before the games, he smells the same. somehow he still smells like flour and that scent that you can't place that's just so him.

"hey," he whispers in your ear, and it feels like you are hearing his voice for the first time ever. it breaks something inside of you that has your knees buckling and your eyes watering.

"i told you you could win," you whisper back, seconds away from breaking down. he barks a laugh that has you choking back a sob. your hands shake as you grip onto his shirt, desperate to pull him closer to you. he's here. he's really here.

"you're really going to have the first thing you say to me be 'i told you so?'" peeta laughs, pulling back so he can look you in the eyes. he holds your cheek in his hand as he scans your face. you feel exposed in a way you never have before, and it makes you blush.

someone else in the room laughs at his joke too, and you're instantly aware of how bad this looks. you pull out of his grasp as fast as he pulled you into it, your eyes flickering to where the laughter came from. of course, it was his girlfriend.

you've never felt so embarrassed in your life. here you are getting all touchy feely with him when his girlfriend, the reason he is still alive, is standing right next to you. you cough awkwardly, scratching the back of your neck as you let out a nervous laugh.

"yea, well you know me. i'd never pass up a chance to say it, especially since you're always wrong" you laugh, looking anywhere but him. if you had been you would have seen the confusion, and the hurt, written on his face as clear as day.

you turn to katniss and fight back anger rising when you remember how she had hid the message you had sent him with the medicine. she had let their mentor take credit for your entire life savings. but she had also looked after him and saved his life more times than you can count. it's a debt you'll never be able to repay.

as quickly as peeta ran to you, you ran to her. you hugged her tightly, surprising everyone in the room.

"thank you for keeping him alive," you say, surprising her even more.

katniss hesitantly wraps her arms around you in response. she's clearly confused, though you're not too sure why. "y-you're welcome. he saved me too," she responds and you fight back a wince.

once you let her go, you look back and forth between the two. you suppose there is a way that you can repay the debt you owe her. you can let him go.

you sniffle and wipe your eyes with the back of your sleeve. "i suppose i should let you two get comfortable in your new house! it's really nice," you look around the room, avoiding not only peeta's gaze, but katniss' as well.

quickly, you walk back over and give him another hug. "i've got to get back to work, but i'll see you later, okay?" the smile you give him doesn't reach your eyes, and he can see that.

"hey, wait-" peeta goes to call after you, but it's too late. you're already out the door and off into the cool evening air of district 12.

——————

why are you doing this?

you'd spent every waking moment while he was in the capitol wishing that peeta was by your side. yet here you are, running between your mother's stall and your home just to avoid seeing him. every time you start to question yourself, you get a flash of them in the cave. he deserves to be happy, and if katniss makes him happy, then you'll step back.

it's pathetic honestly. running between houses, hiding behind walls every time you go out just so you won't accidentally run into him. the only time you've ever been grateful for how small your house is was the other day when you jumped out the window to avoid him when he dropped by to see you. you hid by the the side of the house until you saw him walk away and deemed it safe to climb back inside.

your mother isn't happy with you. she says your punishing him for something that wasn't his fault. but you're not punishing him. you're trying to help him.

you press yourself against the cool painted wall of one of the buildings near the hob. the good thing about peeta being famous now is that wherever he goes, chatter follows him, which is usually enough to warn you that he's nearby.

it's not enough today though. just as you're about to make a run for it to the next building, a firm hand grips your upper forearm. without looking you know who it is, and you flinch. there is no way you can possibly talk your way out of this.

you slowly turn to face peeta. the look on his face stops your heart and kills any excuses you had on your tongue. he looks just as pale as the day that his name was called on that stage. his brows are furrowed, and a heartbreaking frown pulls down his face. he looks older like this, so much like his mother that it puts you on edge more than you already had been.

"hey peet. what's wrong?" you ask once you finally get your breath back.

without a word, peeta turns and pulls you off of the wall and down the street the way that you had just came from. anxiety builds in your stomach. part of the reason why you'd avoided him for as long as you have was to put off the conversation on why you're avoiding him in the first place. the urge to rip your arm out of his grasp and flee to the woods and spend the rest of your days living in a tree consumes you. but he deserves more than that.

by the time you arrive at peeta's new house in victors village, the humiliation that comes with your recent actions had finally sunk in. you walk into his house with your head hanging low; if you had a tail it defiantly would be between your legs.

the two of you stop in his kitchen. its uncomfortably quiet since victors village is so separate from the rest of the district. you're not used to this level of silence, especially when your with peeta.

"peet?" you hesitantly call his name. he's not facing you. instead, he's bent over a table, his palms pressed flat against the wood with his back facing you.

"i don't understand," his voice comes out quiet, hoarse. has he been crying?

you take a hesitant step towards him, your hand hanging in the air as you debate reaching out to touch his back. "you don't understand what?"

your words seem to have woken something in him. he spins around so fast scares you. he doesn't look like his mother anymore, but the doesn't mean he looks any less angry.

"i don't understand you. i don't get it. you tell me you love me, then you ignore me for a week?" he hisses. you'd heard peeta get angry before, but it had never been aimed at you. you flinch when he yells, but then you register what he said.

"i thought i was helping you adjust to your new life," you frown, chewing at the inside of your cheek as you look at him. you knew he would be angry at you for avoiding him, but you didn't think he'd bring up what you said before he went to the games.

peeta scoffs and leans back against the table. "how the hell would that help me? and what do you mean my new life?"

"your new life with katniss," you say like its the most obvious thing in the world.

that is clearly not what he was expecting. it's almost like his body does a full reset. his face relaxes into neutral and his body relaxes so he's sat on the table.

"what does katniss have to this?" he asks, confused.

you tilt your head at his question. "well... i assume that you and katniss are going to be together now, and i thought that you would't want to be around someone who has a crush... who is in love with you while you have a girlfriend. so i gave you some space," you explain.

just like his first ever interview, micro expressions flash across his face, except this time they pass too fast for you to clearly work out what they are. he falls back to neutral, but this time his eyes are softer.

"i thought you understood... the parachute letter..." he trails off.

it's your turn to be surprised now. "you knew about that? i thought katniss told you haymitch sent the medicine."

peeta lets out a laugh, and you swear your knees could give in there and then. the atmosphere in the room is different now and you can't place it. its not as soft as it was when he first told you that you were beautiful, nor is it as tense as it was when you were reunited.

"that was just for the camera's, she showed me the card later. haymitch said that it wouldn't be a good idea to let the capitol know that i had someone waiting at home for me when i'm supposed to be in love with my fellow tribute," peeta takes a step towards you, a fond smile spreading across his face.

his words make you pause as you look at him confused. you blink slowly as you try to absorb what he just said.

"wait... what do you mean 'supposed to be?'" you breath out.

peeta pulls a face that this time you recognise, mainly because you've been on the receiving end more times than you would like to admit. it's a fond look, one that you would give a cat runs into a wall while playing with a laser or a child when it falls over doing something you told it not to do. it's his nice way of telling you that you're being an idiot.

he slowly reaches up and tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear. "did you really think that after hearing the girl i've hopelessly pined over for my entire life say that she loves me i would turn around and date someone else? let alone someone who i'd interactd with maybe three times maximum."

his touch sends a spark that shoots through the rest of your body, setting you ablaze. you're still confused beyond belief, but your heart feels like it might burst. did you really hear that right?

"y... you what? your whole life?" you sound no better than a toddler learning to speak, and it makes peeta laugh once again.

you shake your head in attempt to clear your mind and get your thoughts in order. "i don't understand. you told those stories about when you first saw katniss and when you started liking her? the bread, peeta! i remember you telling me about the bread!" you ramble, stepping back slightly to get a better look at him. you're so all over the place that you barely hear his reponse.

"well, yes. the bread thing actually happened. so did everything else, to be completely truthful. but they didn't happen with katniss. i was talking about you," he grins, taking another step closer and reaching out to take your hand in his. "i mean seriously. how did you not realise i was talking about you? do you not remember singing the valley song when we were little? and when i said i watched 'her'," he uses air quotes around the word, "walk home every day after that. i did! i watched you walk home because i would walk you to your house! every single time i had to kiss her, touch her, god even just look at her... i was thinking of you," he sounds exasperated by the time he finishes.

you feel like smacking yourself in the face. that's why the story felt so familiar and why you had that nagging feeling in the back of your mind. you remember it so clearly now you feel like you could scream. your first day of the first grade. you had been incredibly nervous up until the moment that the teacher asked if anyone knew the valley song. it was your fathers favourite song to sing to you before he passed away, so your hand immediately shot up. singing your father's favourite song instantly calmed you down, and it had been your favourite ever since. you used to sing it to peeta when he would come to you crying after an especially harsh beating from his mother.

your entire body slumps as the embarrassment you were feeling returns tenfold. "oh."

peeta grins at you and it's so bright you can hardly stand to look at it. "oh," he repeats. he gives you a few more moments to collect your thoughts before he continues. "i though you had realised that i was talking about you when you sent me the lyrics to the valley song with the medicine."

the urge to slap yourself silly comes back so hard that your hand twitches at your side. "oh," you say again, closing your eyes and grimace.

"why did you send the lyrics then? it's clear now that you didn't catch on to what i was trying to say, so why?"

your silence has peeta taking another step towards you. he slowly reaches up to cup your cheek and gently nudge your face up to look at him. his brows are raised curiously, but his eyes are as patent as always. and that smile. that fucking smile. he gave it to katniss so many times in the arena because he was thinking about you. it was never hers, in the same was he wasn't. the thought alone has your knees moments away from buckling. almost as if he can tell, his free arm snakes around your waist and pulls you against him. his grip is featherlight, yet you've never felt so secure.

you lean into his touch as you speak, relaxing in his hold for the first time since before his name was reaped.

"i didn't know what to say at first. it felt like the only right thing to say. it's what i would sing to you when you were in pain, and i can't even begin to imagine the amount of pain you were in when you were in the arena. also, the lyrics summarise how i feel about you pretty well," you trail off at the end, suddenly feeling shy once more. your eyes wander away from him, only for peeta to draw them straight back by guiding your face once more.

he looks moments away from crying, bottom lip trembling as he leans his forehead down against yours. the two of you stand there for a moment, bodies pressed against each other so hard that each can feel the others heartbeat pounding against their chest. your hands hesitantly trail up until one is holding the hand against your face and the other rests on his arm.

“you know, i never actually heard your response to me telling you that i love you,” you mutter, your eyes darting back and forth between his eyes and his lips. the tension in the room is so thick you are about to choke on it.

a tear slip from from his eye as he lets out a wet laugh. “if you think there is any way that you could say things like that and i wouldn’t fall head over heels in love with you then you’re crazy. i love you y/n,” the words flow out of him so smoothly that it’s almost like he’s told you this a million times before. it feels so right that it pushes you to do something you have always wanted to; always been to scared to do.

it’s horrifyingly cliche, but the moment you push forward and press your lips to his, fireworks explode throughout your body, setting you alight like peeta had been in the opening ceremony. he pushes back against you just as intensely, the desperation he's feeling as clear through the kiss.

time slips away as you kiss your best friend, the two of you only parting when you run out of air. you pull away slowly, heart leaping when peeta's lips chase yours to give you another short kiss before backing away.

you both stand still, foreheads pressed against one another as you process what just happened. a breathy laugh escapes peeta as he gently rub a thumb against your cheek.

"we could have done that a week ago if you hadn't been so insistent with avoiding me," he laughs. you groan and shake your head.

"i was upset! i thought you had gone after another girl days after i told you that i loved you!" you whine.

"i had to do it! it save my life, didn't it?"

"i guess so, but-" you go to joke back, but peeta shuts you up with a kiss that wipes your mind of anything you were about to say.

when he pulls back he laughs at the stunned look on your face. "i'm going to look forward to shutting you up like that," he teases, snapping you out of the trance he had put you in enough for you to slap his arm.

"shut up!"

he laughs again, pulling you into a tight hug. the two of you rock back and forth. a peace that you have never felt before fills you, and for a moment you wonder if you're dreaming.

"what are you and katniss going to do about the capitol? they believe you're in love," you speak before you think, and you're terrified that you've broken the bubble that the two of had been living in. peeta tenses for a moment before leaning his head against yours.

"i don't know. but whatever happens, i'm not leaving you. never again," he whispers, his breath tingling across your forehead. you can feel his lips against your skin, and without even looking you can tell he's smiling your smile.

you relax back into him, smiling harder than you ever have before. your peeta made it home. and he'd never going to leave you again.

——————

thank you so much for reading!! i can't work out if i like the ending or not, but still i'm pretty happy with this considering i haven't written in years!!

[aurorawritestoescape]

HARDER THAN YOU THINK

Boss!Joel Miller x f!reader || 4,7k

Written together with @milla-frenchy

Summary: It’s your first day at work and you feel nervous. But what can go wrong if your boss is your dad’s best friend, a person you’ve known and trusted for years?

Tw: 18+ mdni, smut, DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, NON CON, Dbf!Joel, boss!Joel, dark!Joel, power imbalance, blackmail, age gap (reader is in her early 20s, Joel is in his late 40s), oral (f), pussy slapping, use of a sex toy, degradation, unprotected piv, gangbang, creampies. Reader wears a skirt.

A/n: @milla-frenchy and I wrote this story for @romanarose ‘s Dead Dove December. Thank you for this event, celebrating dark fic, Roman❤️ Milla, baby, it’s always a pleasure to write with you! ILYSM🫂💖

Heed the warnings! If any of this makes you uncomfortable, do not pursue reading. We are not responsible for the content you consume. This is not for everyone and that's okay. We don't condone the actions of the characters.

MILLA’S MASTERLIST || KATE’S MASTERLIST

Day one at your first job started horribly. You overslept, got in a traffic jam and arrived at the office panting and apologizing. Fortunately, your boss, Mr Miller, didn’t tell you off for your tardiness. Instead he greeted you with a wide, most charming smile. You��ve known him for a few years, him being your dad’s good friend and his employer as well as yours now.

Mr Miller was a successful businessman and your parents owed everything to his generosity and kindness. He helped your father out when your family was about to lose the house and your dad always talked highly of his ‘best bud’. You’ve been calling him Joel all these years, but wishing to show respect at the workplace, you decided to call him Mr Miller.

Now you’re attending a company meeting in a spacious conference room, taking bullet points of the discussion on your tablet. Mr Miller is sitting at the head of the desk, leaning comfortably in his chair, his thick thighs spread, piercing eyes narrowed. His perfectly tailored blue suit which probably costs more than your future year salary accentuates his broad powerful frame. Throwing glances at him from time to time, you can’t help but admire the way the fabric stretches over his arms and shoulders. You’ve never thought about Joel like that, he was much older than you, but it was hard to deny how handsome he was.

Joel is listening to an employee’s report, pouting his lips from time to time. Knowing him quite well, you read his face easily, so it’s evident to you that he’s not pleased with what she’s telling him. Joel’s always been nice and kind to you and your parents, but right now you feel like a volcano is about to erupt.

“Are you happy with all this, sweet cheeks?” He asks but doesn’t let the woman reply. "I’m definitely not. I hope I won't hear these numbers ever again. Or you're gonna lose your job in a heartbeat. I doubt your family will be happy with you getting fired. You just had a baby, right?”

The woman swallows loudly and nods.

“Get your shit together!” Joel barks and the employee looks terrified. You feel bad for her. You’ve never seen Joel be so mean before but that's probably part of the character trait that goes with his job.

When the meeting is over, some people leave but three men stay behind with Joel, still chatting to each other. You get up, ready to sneak out, but your boss stops you at the door, calling your name.

“Sorry, I thought the meeting’s over”, you explain, coming up to him with an apologetic smile.

“Yeah, the main part’s done but we have something extra on our agenda today.”

Joel gets up and walks over to one of the cabinets. He takes something out of a drawer and puts it in the pocket of his suit pants. You raise your brows with a silent question and he turns his face to the managers,

“Gentlemen! Today is this young lady’s first day at our company and I’d like you to give her a warm welcome.”

You feel overwhelmed when all the attention is focused on you but, fearing to seem rude or disrespectful, you turn to the men and smile nervously, fumbling with your fingers. You wonder what Joel put in his pocket. You didn't expect to receive a gift on your first day, and you don’t know how to thank him properly.

The men hum approvingly but soon you feel uneasy noticing their eyes slide down your body and take you in with something more than simple curiosity. One of them smirks and your face falls. Fortunately, Joel steps up to you and his wide smile relaxes you a little. Knowing him for so long, you feel that he has your back. He takes your hand and holds it in his big warm palm.

“Sweetheart, we have a tradition in our company. We call it “Initiation”.

“W—What is it?” you mumble, smiling and blinking at him with confusion, while your stomach churns. You hope he won’t ask you to give a speech of some kind. You’d die of stage fright.

Joel explains, “Some of us gather here to celebrate our new employee and I’m happy that today it is you.“

Joel inches closer and you instinctively take a step back but he pulls you to him gently yet with unyielding determination.

“Usually one of our top managers does it, but of course, with you it had to be me. Also some of these gentlemen sent me messages during the meeting… Seems that they want to take part, now that they saw you.”

His face is inches from yours and he lowers his voice to tell you, “to be specific, we all are going to celebrate you and your body. Teach you some new things while we’re at it, too.”

Your gaze darts between his darkening eyes as you open and close your mouth like a fish out of water. You can’t comprehend what he’s saying but your instinct is screaming for you to run.

Joel gently cups your cheek and turns to the other men in the room, “she’s adorable.” With that he places his hands on your hips, and mumbling “c’mon”, moves you to the head of the desk.

“Joel, what are you…?” Your voice is shaky, your palms placed on his broad chest push him off you but he’s too strong and soon your ass is perched up on the surface, your back turned to the other men.

“Joel, please, what are you doing?” you mumble as panic rises in your chest.

“Shh, we’re just gonna have some fun, you and me at first, then I'll let the others join us.”

He looks behind you, and you hear the other men react.

“Fuck yeah.”

“I think I will.”

“Give it to her, boss.”

You hear their words and you start to understand what’s happening. Or rather, you start realizing what your dissociated mind was trying to hide.

“Joel… You’re scaring me…” you stammer, eyes wide.

“Fear is a good thing. It means I'm in control. And I want control over you."

Now you feel Joel’s hands rubbing your thighs, covered by tights, slithering up and under the hem of your skirt, while his gaze is set on your chest.

“No, Joel, please,” you plead, searching for his eyes, hoping to keep his attention on you, break the spell that turned these people into wild animals, turned this office into a cage that you can’t escape from. Trying to make him come back to his senses and remind him that it's you, the person he's known for so long, that he is your father's friend, who you thought would protect you from all dangers, if he had to.

But his eyes remain black, cold. The more you beg, the brighter an unhealthy spark shines in them. As if he likes it, likes you begging.

“You’re my dad’s friend, don’t do this to me,” you whine, overwhelmed by his big body caging yours against the desk, terrified to your core at the realization of what he’s about to do to you.

“Yes, you’re right,” he stops, giving you a glimpse of hope, and looks into your eyes. “Your dad’s a great guy but he has a big flaw. He has this pretty little thing for a daughter.”

Your heart breaks when you hear him, your hope is dead.

Joel leans closer and you pull away but he grabs the back of your neck and holds you still, brushing your lips with his.

“If he only knew how much I want to stretch your little holes. And you know me, baby,” he pecks your lips and whispers, “I always get what I want.”

The men behind you chuckle, loving this display of power. The smell of Joel’s perfume hits your nose and your head spins for a second as part of you still struggles to understand what’s happening. You feel tears well up in your eyes.

Your new boss, a man you’ve known for years, wants to fuck you in front of other people on your first day here. You try to make your mind work, get you out of the situation.

“I’ll tell my dad. I’ll tell everyone,” you cry out, making your voice firmer, but Joel just laughs, enveloping you in his tight embrace. To your horror you hear the sound of the chairs moving behind you and then footsteps. You’re surrounded now.

“If you start yapping, sweetie, you and your dad will lose your jobs in a second and I’ll make sure no one ever hires you both.”

His voice is calm, his breathing steady, as if he were telling you the most mundane things in the world, and you shiver.

“Besides, your dad owes me a lot of money. Your family will lose everything.” He searches for your widened eyes and whispers, “you work for me now so it means I own you.”

Suddenly his lips latch onto your neck. His hold is too tight but the kiss is slow and gentle.

“No, no,” you start sobbing and Joel pulls away and takes your face between his big hands.

“Honey, calm down, imagine there’s only you and me here. No one else, uh?” His eyes are obsidian and full of lust and you understand that you won’t get out of this. He will have you.

“Please, Joel, I don’t want to…“

“But you do, baby, you want me,” he kisses your cheek. “You want my big cock in your little pussy. I’m gonna make you feel so good, baby.”

He drags his stubble over your cheek and you whimper when his hand snakes between your thighs.

“You really think I haven't noticed the way you look at me, the clothes you wear, when I have lunch at your parents’?”

“What? No!!”

“Shh…” he cuts you, brushing your lips with his finger. “You wanna get fucked by a man older than you. A man who will give it to you good.”

Through the material of your tights and panties you feel his hand caress your folds and you close your eyes shut, trying to escape the horror of the situation.

"Girls your age want that. A mature man,” he adds.

You mewl a quiet “no” again and he uses the moment to kiss you and push his tongue past your lips. With one hand keeping you close and the other gently massaging your pussy, Joel claims your mouth, licking into it, swallowing your soft cries.

As soon as he parts from you, your hands push him away but his strong physique overpowers you in seconds. He grabs your wrists and makes you lie down on the desk. You’re pressed to the wooden surface by his heavy body as his breath fans your cheek when he growls, “Don’t fight it. It’ll be my way or bad way, baby. Choose wisely.”

In your peripheral vision you notice the men next to the desk, one on the left and two on the right. Like hyenas they are waiting for their turn when the main predator is done with the prey.

You begin thrashing around on the desk and Joel slightly lifts his torso but holds you down with his hand wrapped around your neck. You freeze as panic grips your heart. He’s not squeezing it but the threat is swimming in his blown out eyes.

He smirks when you stop moving. “Good girl. Made the right choice.”

Joel straightens up, his figure looming over you, and then starts pulling up your skirt. You try to stop his hands but in vain.

“Let’s see what we have here. White lace. Fuck, it’s hot, baby. Innocence looks good on you. I know you’re not a virgin though,” he laughs and continues, “I remember a boy used to come to your bedroom all the time. Your old man was scared that you’d get pregnant. Fuck, I wanted to kill that little shit for touching you.“

You take a sharp breath, terrified of how long his obsession with you has lasted.

“I know you’re single now. It’s good. Now you have me. I’ll fulfill all your needs, baby. And will fill all your holes.”

With that he rips your tights between your legs, and you squeal scared to death. You try to slide off the desk but he presses his forearm over your belly, not letting you move away.

You hear the murmur of the others, watching you sob and fight the man twice bigger than you like it’s some twisted show.

When Joel grabs your hips to keep you in place, you turn your head, pleading eyes darting between the men but their expressions scare you. There’s not a trace of sympathy on their faces, not a chance that this vile group will help you.

With tears streaming down your cheeks you look back between your spread legs and find Joel’s hungry gaze there. He’s sneering at you, noticing your fruitless attempt to seek assistance from his employees.

“What’s that, baby? Looking for anyone to call an HR? He’s over there. Say hi, Steve.”

You hear a gruff voice somewhere from behind you.

“Hi, sweetie.”

“Aww, isn’t he nice?” Joel mocks and dread spreads in your chest. There’s no way out. You’re trapped. Your only hope is the man you thought to be a friend.

“Please, Joel. Stop. I won’t tell anyone. Let me go.” Your voice is barely audible, you sound pathetic, and Joel’s face softens. His brows knit together as he looks between your legs and talks while his fingers slowly pull your panties to the side.

“I think I’ve made a mistake.”

You gasp when his fingers graze your exposed folds and try to close your legs but he’s holding you securely.

“I haven’t explained your position in this company yet. It will help you to understand what’s happening and accept it.” His fingers stroke your seam and then push inside between your folds, leaving you shocked and breathless.

“From now on you’re my office whore. I tell you to suck, you suck, I tell you to bend over - you do exactly that.”

His voice is gruff and cold, eyes focused on the place where his fingers swirl around your hardening clit and you squeeze your eyes closed, fighting the fire in your core that’s burning brighter with every second of his caress.

“She loves it, your pretty pussy,” Joel smiles, looking up at you, “do you hear how wet she’s getting for me? You should relax, and let your body take what it wants. Stop fighting it, baby.”

He sinks two thick digits into your soft hole and you tighten your muscles, eyes wide, surprised by a heat spreading through your body.

You hear it too. When Joel begins pumping his fingers in and out of you, lewd squelching noises reach your ears, the sign of your body surrendering to his horrible act. A moan crawls up your throat and you muffle it with the back of your hand.

A sharp flick of Joel’s fingers lands on your clit and you cry out.

“Don’t. Don’t hide it. Wanna hear you enjoying it, little slut. I wouldn’t make my cock wait if I didn’t wanna hear some sweet moans from you.”

His hands leave your pussy and he places his palms on your inner thighs, spreading them wider.

“Now— Let’s have a taste.”

You watch him lower his head to your cunt and he licks a stripe between your wet folds from your clenching hole to your sensitive clit and sucks on it for a few seconds. Your back arches involuntarily.

“Delicious,” he mumbles, wet lips against your folds, and the vibrations send shivers down your spine.

You want to hate the sensation his mouth is giving you, but your whole body treacherously buzzes when his hot tongue laps away your slick. Joel kisses your pussy, his gentleness is a striking contrast to the situation. He’s eating you out to make you come, hungry to claim your pleasure as well, and you grit your teeth, fighting it with all your being.

He feels you holding back and growls before focusing all of his attention on your puffy clit, flicking it and rubbing it with his tongue, sucking it in between his teeth, and you can’t help but explode under his ministrations. You begin shaking against the desk, and through the sound of your heart pounding in your ears you hear cheers and clapping from the heartless audience.

“Good job, boss!”

“What a slut!”

“You’re the man!”

Their reaction makes your heart shutter into pieces.

Joel gives his employees his million dollar smile, pride lighting up his dark eyes, and absentmindedly rubs his hands over your thighs still partially covered by tights, ripped at the crotch.

He gets up from the chair and when you try to close your legs, he yanks you to the edge again, pushing his hips between your thighs.

Joel slowly unbuckles his belt with one hand and unzips his suit pants, talking to you, “I thought about asking you out on a date, honey. Making you my girlfriend.”

He chuckles and pulls his boxers down.

“Could be nice. You, waiting for me at home.”

His cock springs free and you feel even more scared if it’s even possible. His manhood is huge, long and thick, bigger than your ex boyfriend’s for sure. He holds it at the base and continues, “you’d greet me with a home-cooked meal and a wet pussy.”

You know what he’s about to do and all your being rises in protest so you slap his hand off and slide off the desk in a fast motion.

“Hold her!” Joel barks and a few pairs of hands grab you and push you down. Your back hits the desk and someone’s holding your wrists over your head, their hands keeping you still, at the same time gliding over exposed parts of your body - your neck, your chest, a slither of your naked belly.

Joel doesn’t stop them. His eyes are fixed on your bare cunt, glistening with the signs of your body’s betrayal.

A sharp slap lands on your mound and sends a bolt of pain through your body, and you squeal.

“Don’t do it again, naughty girl. Or I’ll let these heathens fuck your ass raw.”

You sob, trying to ease the steel grip on your wrists. Through tears in your eyes, you see Joel bring the head of his stiff cock to your pussy and in a second you feel him push it in, slowly, but not for the sake of your comfort. Only for his enjoyment.

His head falls back and he groans, “fuckk, she’s tight. You can’t find a pussy like that in an escort.”

Joel looks down at you with a hazy smile and you plead for him to stop but he ignores you and thrusts into your core. He takes out what’s in his pocket and brings his hand close to your stuffed cunt. You hear a “buzz”, when he turns on a bullet vibe.

“No, Joel, please…” you cry.

“I want you to come on my cock too. And with this little helper, I’m sure you will, baby.”

He begins rolling his hips, pushing his fat cock in and out of your dripping pussy. You whine, feeling your walls spread around his girthy member and your belly is heaving with a mixture of fear and arousal. Meanwhile Joel starts fucking you faster, talking to you like there’s no one else in the room.

“Your dad would mind if we started going out but who gives a shit? I could just throw some money his way. Money can buy everything.”

He winks at you and you sob, sliding up and down the desk with each mighty thrust.

“But — It’s not the main problem. I spend most of the time here. I work hard—Aahhh— and it’s nice to fuck someone between the meetings, right, guys?”

You hear sounds of agreement around you and squeeze your eyes shut, scared to see the faces of the monsters around you.

Joel’s cock is rhythmically brushing your g spot and you hate that behind the horror there’s pleasure, nauseating and terrifying, but pleasure nonetheless. Joel tilts his hips and you cry out when he grazes something ecstatic inside your core.

“You gonna come again, honey?” he coos at you and the pet name he used so many times before, visiting your father, cuts your heart with a sharp blade.

A river of fresh tears rolls down your face but your misery is not noticed by Joel who explains, after a loud grunt, “office affairs take too much time and effort. But you. You’d be perfect as my pretty cum dumpster.”

With that he grabs your sides, nails digging into your soft skin, and starts snapping his hips into you, violating your pussy with his fat cock.

“Fuck, gonna come soon. Pussy’s too good. I’m gonna have so much fun with you.”

The men around you cheer again. Joel presses the vibrator to your clit and you whine, your walls clamp around his manhood and it sends him over the edge. With a loud grunt he begins spilling his hot cum into your pulsating pussy, pumping you more and more, pushing his cock deeper, while holding you with the iron grip of his hands.

You start sobbing again feeling the warmth spread deep in your core and it freezes your heart with another terror. You’re not on the pill.

Joel stays buried inside you for some time. You are so shocked that you don't react. You ignore his cock pulsating inside you. Ignore its last twitches. Until reality hits you and you cry harder. Your body betrayed you. Joel betrayed you.

“Joel, please… let me go.”

He finally pulls out and you feel some of his cum slide to your ass. You try to sit up but he grabs your wrists in his hands, keeping you down on the desk, leaning over you. His hazy gaze fixed on yours.

“Not so fast baby… we’re not gonna waste all this cum, are we? I want these men to remember who you belong to and fuck it back into you.”

You realize with shock that he really intends to throw you to them.

“Steve? You worked so hard this month. Enjoy your reward.”

Looking down at you, he adds, “come on, baby, be a good girl. Steve deserves it. And we already know you're a little slut. You clenched so hard on my cock, mmm?” He wipes away a tear running down your cheek with his thumb and steps away.

You try to close your legs but Joel clicks his tongue.

“No, no, no. I made myself clear, didn't I? Jim, didn’t I make myself clear?”

“Yes, boss, very clear.”

“If you're difficult, your father can say goodbye to his income. To his job. Your parents almost got divorced that time, didn't they?” His dark eyes are fixed on you. Even colder than before. There’s no hesitation or remorse in him. “So if you don't want your father to end up under a bridge, and your mother to whore around with her slutty daughter, you're gonna stop whining.”

He points his finger at you. You remember the meeting earlier. How cold he was, how sorry you felt for that woman. But now, it’s you who is facing this terrible side of him.

“And you’re gonna let them take their turn. Final warning.”

You suppress a sob, even when Steve settles between your legs and places one hand on your thigh and the other around his cock.

“Go on Steve, give her a good fuck.”

You hear the men cheer when Joel's employee pushes his tip in your already sore hole.

“Come on man, give it to her good!”

“Fuck that bitch!”

He thrusts in, grunting. Excited by the cheers of the other men. He fucks you hard as soon as he grabs your thighs and buries his length in you. You keep your eyes closed, unable to meet his gaze, and unwilling to give them any more of yourself by letting them see your frightened eyes.

“Well damn, Steve, you got great moves!”

The man puts his hands on your hips for a better leverage, jerking you forward with each thrust.

“Fuck, she's tight…”

“Yeah? Tighter than your wife?”

They all laugh, and you feel nauseous.

“Come on, Steve. Shoot your load. Don't enjoy it too much. I just lent her to you.”

Steve obeys and comes in your cunt, mixing his cum with Joel's.

Then Jim uses you.

And finally, Paul. He turns you around and bends you over to thrust into you from behind. He’s already groaning, when Joel’s phone rings.

“Oh!” he chuckles when he sees the name on the screen. He picks up and, looking at you, brings his index finger to his mouth, ordering you to be quiet.

“Hey, man! Calling to check on your daughter?” He walks around the desk to sit at your side and starts jerking his cock as he watches you getting fucked by the third man.

You can’t hear what your dad is saying, and your mind dissociates again.

“It’s going great. She’s already showing some serious skills!”

Joel smiles in response to what your father’s saying, his hand still fucking his shaft.

“No, sorry, she’s with Paul. He’s showing her some new procedures, they will be very useful to me soon.”

Paul is growling, rutting into you, and you hear Joel say, “Yeah sure, I’ll tell her you called.”

Paul spreads your ass cheeks and spits on your ring.

“No!” Joel gruffs in a low, menacing voice, after hanging up. “No one fucks her ass.”

“Sorry, boss, she takes it so good, I got carried away.”

“Don’t forget your place. Fill her up, and then get out, all of you. She’s mine, got it? We all… welcomed her, but now she belongs only to me.”

After using you like a fuck doll, the three men leave the office chatting happily.

Joel gets up, his hand working his fat cock.

“Gotta fill you again, baby. I can’t stay like this, with a hard-on, it’s painful, you know?”

You can’t believe he’s telling you this.

“Pussy’s already ruined, anyway,” he says as he thrusts in and fucks you hard and fast in all men’s cum, until he sends his load into your owerflowing core for a second time.

You’re lying on the desk, not even realizing they all left, that Joel has pulled out, until you feel a jacket covering you. Joel pulls down your skirt back over your thighs and grabs your arm to help you up. He fixes your shirt and looks at your face, your makeup smudged, mascara running down your cheeks.

“You’re gonna need some rest, baby. Come back next week. I’ll be the only one playing with you, from now on. Don’t forget - a pretty girl like you needs a man like me.”

You shiver. His voice pulls you out from the depths of your mind, that is lying to you that none of this has happened.

“Are you on birth control?”

You shake your head, eyes empty.

“I’m gonna give you an after pill, I don’t want you knocked up by one of the guys. You’re too precious for me. Now get your stuff and go home. And don’t think of telling anyone. No one will believe you anyway.”

As you grab the handle, he adds “Oh, before you leave. Add to my calendar, tomorrow, ‘a barbecue at your parents’, at noon. Your dad’s just invited me. It’s gonna be great, baby. Can’t wait to pay you a visit in your bedroom.”

Thank you for reading! Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated <3

Other fics by @milla-frenchy and me

Keep on your mean side - Joel x f!reader - dark fic

The Burglary -Joel x f!reader x Tommy - dead dove, noncon

Bad Girl - Joel x f reader x Tommy - dubcon

The hounds of hell - Series - Javier Peña x fem reader x Steve Murphy

MILLA’S MASTERLIST || KATE’S MASTERLIST

Tagging some lovely people who showed interest in the wips: @koshkaj-blog @604to647 @megangovier @tateypots @sunshineispunk @thundermartini @pedge-page @mountainsandmayhem @iamasaddie @schnarfer @mermaidgirl30 @evolnoomym @fruityreads @itwasntimethatdidit40

[ffxivtranslations]

Why did Haurchefant have to die? Interview Translation

I translated part of an interview with Yoshi-P and the two main scenario writers of HW, Ishikawa and Oda. It's about Haurchefant's character arc and why he had to be sacrificed. At least Oda tried to save him, bless his heart!

Interviewer: In 2.x, Haurchefant appeared to be a cheerful character, but in 3.0 his role takes a serious turn. What was the reason for this change?

Ishikawa: In the 2.x series I was in charge of his dialogue as the Character Concept designer, but in 2.55 I felt I had properly written down his important points and position in society, so I could hand him over to Oda and Maehiro for 3.0. Because of this I don’t think anything changed about him from the start; how he cares about his friend, or his essence as a knight.

Oda: I agonised over Haurchefant’s fate right until the very end… over and over I suggested plots in which he might somehow survive.

Yoshi-P: Those plots were too contrived; I couldn’t approve them! LOL In depicting this war between humans and dragons, I thought it was wrong to only have the dragons’ side experience loss after loss and not have the humans make any sacrifices. So that’s why I told them to properly decide the fate of every character. The fate of every character should have been decided early in the development phase of Patch 2.3. So Haurchefant’s fate was decided by then too, right?

Oda: Yes, that’s right. That’s why in Patch 2.4 and 2.5, when I wrote all his un-voiced lines, I was already doing so conscious of the fact that he would die later on.

Yoshi-P: Haurchefant is a character that is not just loved by players, but also loved by the development team. But since we decided on the plot twist where he would become the Warrior of Light's shield, we were prepared for the worst. Because of that we were able to write the Patch 2.5 scene, in the Falling Snows, where he reaches out to the Warrior of Light in his time of need. I think that such a long build-up led to the deep emotional impact of Haurchefant’s final moments. In that way, I think the deciding his fate early on was connected to how much importance he had to the story.

Oda: However, seeing how warmly players reacted to him, I feared that having Haurchefant lose his life would cause some players to quit the game forever, and fought desperately against it to the end…

Yoshi-P: He kept giving me re-takes of the plot where Haurchefant is able to come back to life, and eventually I remember getting quite mad at him. At one point, the 3.0 ending ceremony scene had Haurchefant appear in a wheelchair and I yelled “Hey, isn’t that the same as Thancred in ARR?!”. I’m pretty sure I shouted at him LOL

[coralinnii]

Congrats on reaching the 2.7 K followers milestone!! If it's okay to ask why specifically 2.7 K?

anyways I heard you were taking requests so I'll request something to celebrate with you :-D

I was wondering if you could do one where Idia, Kalim, Azul, Riddle rejects Fem!reader but ends up falling for reader after that, how would they react when they need to reject her and when the realization of them liking her back hits? (I tried to come up with an og idea but idrk if this one is actually good enough writing material :'-D)

 ‧₊˚✧ Waking up Too Late ‧₊˚✧

↳ Realizing their feelings for fem!reader after rejecting you 

feat: Idia ❋ Kalim ❋ Azul ❋ Riddle genre: slight hurt/comfort, open ending note: no pronouns were used but reader is written as a female in mind, reader can be interpreted as Yuu!reader, 

Question: Why specifically 2.7K? Well... I wanted to do something when I reached 2k but by the time I finished my initial wave of requests and WIPs, it already reached 2.7K ^_^" There wasn't a real rhyme or reason... I was just really late to the game

extra note: the joke in the start of Azul’s section doesn’t mean anything bad about him in general. It’s just Azul reminds me too much of myself during my younger days and I wasn't the biggest fan of myself back then.

Also, if anyone is wondering... I haven't stopped writing. I was just unable to find time for myself during the last 3 months because my classes and work didn't leave me time to do much outside of that. Seriously, I had assignments due on weekdays AND weekends! If none of you know who I am or didn't even realize I was gone... ignore me and have a good day ^_^

2.7K Followers Writing Event 2023

The Big Ooff

Regardless of Idia’s feelings before or after the confession, he rejected you in fear of change. He was content with the way things are, where he doesn’t have to worry about things like romance and relationships. 

Idia can’t imagine being the main protagonist for anything. He’s not the cool main hero or the handsome prince that gets the pretty girl. That's for the extroverts with high charm specs (a.k.a not him). Afterall, when does the NPC ever win? 

So when you, his friend and confidant, his solace and only exception, told him that you held feelings more than friendship…well, his system short-circuited. 

While the two of you said it wouldn’t change your friendship, you still wanted time away from him to heal the hurt. Idia agreed that the risky emotional roll dealt some real backlash to both of you.

The Realization

Idia tried to deny it, but he started imagining an alternative universe where he did accept your confession that fateful day. 

If he were to zone out during his level grinding sessions, he would vaguely envision himself in the same position, but perhaps with you lying next to him or even running your fingers through his flames. These daydreams would surprise him literally off the bed, his aforementioned flames burning a cute pinkish hue.

Some days when he’s browsing around online shops, he would occasionally encounter items that remind him of you.

Now, that in itself is not new but rather it was when he imagined how cute you would be if he got these items for you. Instead of your usual pleasantly surprised thank you, would you lovingly embrace him, maybe even kiss-! 

Ortho was startled to see his brother suddenly falling off his gaming chair, with his hands suspiciously covering his face. 

Crap, not only did he realize his feelings for you (which in hindsight probably was not surprising in the least), but he actually would like to be in a stupid lovey-dovey relationship with you. 

His Next Moves?

Continues to deny everything. So what if he wants a relationship with you? He can’t handle this new step even with these newly realized emotions. Plus, he was the one who blew his own shot by rejecting you the first time. 

So, he falls to his coping mechanism which is to deny everything and that he’s perfectly fine the way things are. 

When the two of you returned to your typical routine, he tried to keep things the way it used to be, as the same with you. 

Except it’s not quite the same. 

You weren’t sure if you were being conscious or that it’s been a while since you two hung out, but you felt that Idia was slightly more…attentive you could say?

He would give you first bids of the better controller before picking anything himself. If you seemed the slightest bit uncomfortable while sitting, the blue-flamed senior would offer you a comfier spot on his bed and a blanket if you wanted, before sputtering that he meant nothing weird about it.

He says he’s fine, but Idia’s is in no way the usual closed-off, sometimes cocky genius you knew before. He’s jittery, more prone to shriek and burst into pink flames to any of your gestures, and according to his little brother his heartbeat is slightly faster than usual. 

It’s weird…it’s like he actually acknowledges you as a woman…

Oh.

“Ahh, I seriously chose the wrong choice option. The story path…I wonder if I could still salvage a good ending…”

The Big Ooff

Kalim’s overly friendly nature, while harmless, is somewhat misleading and confusing to those around him. I mean, if someone threw a grand luxurious party for you, it’s easy to assume that you were someone special. Unfortunately, Kalim is simply just…too friendly. He would do this and more for just about anyone, no matter how special they may or may not be.

Nonetheless, you still wanted to tell him your feelings. You wanted to tell him how his smile and laugh hastens your heartbeat as you smile back. That you feel butterflies every time he extends his hands to you, coaxing you to dance with the boisterous Housewarden of Scarabia. 

To everyone’s genuine surprise, the snow-haired student sincerely apologized to you, not able to return your feelings the same way. All of your friends and also Scarabia was so sure that their Housewarden thought differently of you, but news quickly spread that Kalim never thought about being more than friends with you.

The Realization

To clarify, Kalim never thought about being more than friends with anyone. He’s happy to have so many friends, what more could he possibly want?

But your words did shake him mentally. He never realized that you would feel this way for him. On days when he can’t keep track of the lessons at hand, his mind would doze off and wander back to your confession. 

“Hastening heartbeat, feelings of butterflies, always wanting to smile when you do…”

The more he thinks about your love symptoms, he’s realizing how similar those feelings were to his own when he’s around you. It was why he would always try to find you in a crowd, or why he wanted to be your dance partner on any occasion. Sure, he’s happy to be around everyone, but he feels especially good when it's you.

The pieces are connecting, the clogs are aligning, and soon…

“JAMIL, I THINK I’M IN LOVE TOO!” 

“IS YOUR LACK OF INTROSPECTION THIS BAD?!”

His Next Moves?

Man is now a fool in love. He has this goofy smile on his boyish face at the slightest mention of you. Everytime he thinks about you, he keeps attempting to buy one or two grand bouquets of flowers for you, each flower as beautiful as you, much to Jamil’s chagrin as the vice-Housewarden has to keep reminding him of a crucial fact. 

“You two aren’t dating. Actually worse considering your prior actions.” 

Jamil’s brutal but accurate words brought Kalim back to harsh reality as he realized his mistake in not realizing his feelings soon enough. But not one to wallow in the past, Kalim sought to tell you his feelings just as you bravely did before. 

Whether I personally think if that’s a smart move is irrelevant

Whatever your response is to him, Kalim would fully respect your choice, prioritizing your comfort and feelings over his newly uncovered ones. Despite his well intentions and honest feelings before the realization, his carelessness hurt you and he needed to consider your healing process. 

Kalim would still act like a love-sick fool, however. Buying beautiful trinkets because he thought of you but won’t push them onto you if you couldn’t handle the heavy sentiment (thank Jamil for that). 

Though a little more sheepishly, he would still extend his hand to you hoping for a dance, small little gestures to make you smile even the slightest bit brighter…all this and more because “I like you” and nothing else.

Just because he’s slow in figuring things out, his feelings won’t change so easily. This special feeling of happiness, of love… he’s grateful that you taught him this whole new world.

"I’m a little much? Haha, sorry. I get really happy when I see you...It feels nice being in love with you.”

The Big Ooff

Please reconsider 

Ahem. Azul has grown accustomed to your presence. Perhaps even look forward to it throughout his daily routine, even assisting you in whatever trouble you always seem to get involved in. Some would accuse him of favoritism, but Azul argued that he was simply a gentleman treating a lady right.

He’s too observant to not notice that these sentiments are somewhat mutual. He thought of you as too kind and generous as to spend your spare time helping him around the lounge or to keep him company when the Leech twins get a little much. 

But he was surprised to learn that your feelings were deeper than he initially predicted. There was such sincerity in your voice as you confess your feelings that it shook Azul to his core and turned his human legs weak. 

However, he still had so many aspirations he hasn’t reached yet, opportunities he can’t miss. He can’t afford to split his time for something like romance, something that didn't register to him as urgent in the first place. Love is all well and good, but success is better and more tangible.

He’s careful with his words, gratefully thanking you for your confession and complimenting you with a list of traits he admired about you. 

But you should know Azul by now. He’s hyping you up before ultimately giving you crushing news. Like a company recruiter telling you weren’t chosen despite your apparent talents. 

You knew this, but it still hurts to have your dynamic treated equivalent to that of a business relation. 

The Realization

Azul understood you needed time away. Certain things were said that can’t be taken back and it’ll be a while before you two could feel comfortable around each other again. 

During this time though, the Housewarden truly felt your absence. He feels it when someone else takes a seat in his office where you usually occupy, when his mealtime feels less fulfilling because you weren’t there to enjoy it with him, when his headaches get worse from stress and you weren’t there to lend a comforting hand. 

This sense of void was like a stream of cold water slowly trickling into his body and mind until he felt heavy and almost drowning. What an odd sensation for a deep-sea merman. 

His mind became cluttered. He can’t focus on his work when all he could think about is where you might be and what you were doing. 

He reached his limit when he realized that he couldn’t even hide this internal conflict from Jade or Floyd when their keen eyes pick on every moment of his loss of focus, and they have an inkling as to the cause. 

…Dear Sevens, he might have made a great miscalculation on his own feelings.

His Next Moves?

First off, he’s going to spend some time in his pot. He needs some personal time reflecting over his own obliviousness and self-sabotage. 

Once that’s over, he now has to figure out how to remedy this. A plan to get back into your good graces after the blunder. 

He is a greedy merman. If he’s going to do something, he wants the best outcome possible, which is you forgiving him and accepting him while forgetting the past even happened.  

He’s read through countless relationship books, advice found online, and personal intel that his schoolmates were forced to generous enough to offer under an NDA. 

He’ll use the knowledge he remembered from your confession to his advantage, highlighting the parts of himself that he knew you liked about him. He shows off his good side in hopes to reignite what attracted you to him. 

If there’s anything to expose his intent with you, it’s the flush of his pale skin when you finally thanked him with that sweet smile he missed so much.

"I’m not one to lose an opportunity when within my reach. However long it takes, I’ll earn back what I’ve foolishly lost.”

The Big Ooff

Riddle was, in all seriousness, taken aback by your confession.

The studious Housewarden of Heartslabyul is definitely smart, but he’s just slightly lacking in the people-reading department. 

To him, you were simply a very loving person. He thought perhaps you were on the shyer side but always worrying about his well-being, making sure he’s taken breaks and to enjoy himself between his duties.

You were still a little rambunctious as lately you seem at odds with Ace as you’re quick to smack and silence the mischievous redhead who seems to snicker more often than usual as of late. 

Frankly, you left him stunned, his face similar to a deer in headlights. No textbook or lecture has prepared him to reply back to your sincere confession. 

In the end, he rejected you while giving his full honesty. Silly things like love and relationships were subjects he never thought to consider in depth, and he wasn’t sure it was something he wanted at the moment. 

He tried to explain the best he could, but you couldn't stop the aching feeling of your heart breaking. 

The Realization

Your relationship with Riddle took a blow but it was not destroyed. Albeit some awkwardness here and there, life flows relentlessly as usual. 

But that fateful day would occasionally sneak its way into Riddle’s mind during his spare moments to himself, recalling your determined face, coupled with his memories of your beautiful, clear eyes.

Nowadays, his heart would tighten, his throat would feel dry, and his breathing would be shallower whenever his thoughts sway towards you. 

Spurred by these odd symptoms, he finally looked more into the topic of love. The more he delved into talks on relationships, seminars on emotional attraction, and even tropes from novels, the more it feels as though he’s going down a rabbit hole of new emotional discoveries. 

For a while, the Heartslabyul dorm was on edge as they feared for their necks every time their terrifying Housewarden suddenly turned franticly scarlet out of nowhere.

Alone in Riddle’s room, surrounded by articles and books littered on his once pristine desk, Riddle found his conclusion; he’s in love too

His Next Moves?

Riddle isn’t actually sure how to approach you anymore. This whole “in love” experience is all too new to him. He couldn’t bring up this embarrassing topic with any of his peers, and much less with his mother (Sevens knows he doesn’t exactly want to replicate a relationship like his parents). 

But he couldn’t handle the sudden sensations of nerves that occur every time he’s close to you. He can’t keep up constantly chastising himself internally for flinching every time he passes a tart or a teacup to you during Unbirthday parties. 

He can no longer focus during his study sessions with you as he’s now fighting with himself as he dreams to hold your free hand or to brush a stray lock of hair from your endearing face. 

Was it as difficult to deal with as it was for you? Was this the reason you decided to confess to him? But the thought of speaking to you about something so intimate invokes nerves in him that he couldn’t understand.

No, he should learn from your example. If the natural progression of his feelings should be clear communication between those involved, then he will face this challenge as confidently as he does with any other. 

Prepare yourself, the stubborn Riddle has made a goal for himself. 

“I admit my inexperience has hurt those I cherish. Next time, I will respond to your bravery in kind.”