#how could wade control himself? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

leejenowrld · 2 months ago

Text

back to you — nine

pairing - lee jeno x reader

word count - 72k words… yikes

genre - smut, fluff, angst, enemies to lovers

synopsis — the wedding day finally arrives, lavish and luminous, yet beneath every shimmering surface lies the unshakable shadow of past heartbreak and unresolved longing. you and Jeno stand together amid the elegance, outwardly composed, but internally haunted by ghosts of choices left unspoken and wounds never healed. tension simmers dangerously between you both, manifesting in lingering gazes and heated silences, culminating in an intense encounter that shatters the facade of control, blurring the line between love and loss. but as night descends, a chilling event fractures the celebrations, forcing you both to confront not only your desires but also the painful secrets and betrayals buried beneath the day’s shimmering veneer.

chapter warnings — post college au, small town vibes, explicit language, explicit sexual content(18+), explicit themes, one tree hill inspired, early 2000s vibe, power play, dom reader/sub jeno dynamics (both switches tbh), rough sex, explicit language, this chapter is fucking huge, i have to warn you guys there’s a major character death in this chapter, i can’t tell you anymore but please read with care !!!, y/n and jeno will probably confuse you this chapter, huge scenes between them, communication (finally), hard truths and feelings, dom!jeno, choking, spitting, daddy kink, riding like always, you meet y/n’s in this!, her two older sisters and her parents, y/n and mark bestie scene, there’s a story with jeno and one of y/n’s sister but don’t take that plot too seriously !!, it’s just fun, more serious things happen this chapter <3 guys be prepared, put on the playlist and get some tissues cos you need it. this chapter is a whirlwind. y/n goes bridezilla in this (lol she’s not even the one getting married), and if you feel like certain characters become too silent/feel irrelevant this chapter mind your own business !! (jk, it’s all for a reason, trust the process)

also this isn’t proofread so don’t be that annoying person and point out any mistakes to me, i probably won’t care !!!

listen to 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 whilst reading <3

𝐅𝐈𝐂 𝐌𝐋

The altar breathes like an old god in sleep, heavy with the scent of bruised gardenias and salt dragged up from the cliffs below, the blooms wilting under the weight of a night too thick, too swollen with unsaid things. The floral arch creaks as the sea wind tugs at it, loosening petals that fall like bruised stars onto the stone, soft against your bare feet, the chill of the ground climbing your skin in slow, merciless kisses you barely feel. White chairs sit scattered like abandoned prayers, one toppled sideways, another sagging under the memory of bodies that haven’t yet come. A lace fan lies forgotten beneath a chair, fluttering once as the breeze catches it, then stilling like the last beat of a dying heart. Everything smells of salt, wilt, and endings, the air so humid and thick it feels like wading through the aftermath of something that has already broken.

You’re wearing Yangyang’s hoodie, drowning in it, sleeves swallowing your fingers, the hem skimming the tops of your bare thighs where your tiny shorts cling, damp with the ocean’s breath. You’re not dressed for reverence, or even for longing — you’re dressed like you ran from something, fled it in the middle of a heartbeat, and forgot to bring anything soft to catch you when you fell. You remember the way Yangyang hovered over you, the warmth of his body, the way his hips settled between yours as he pushed your knees apart and fumbled to line himself up. You remember how you tried to want it, tried to believe the weight of him could crush the grief out of your chest, but the second you felt the head of his cock nudge against your entrance, everything in you recoiled. It was wrong. It was so wrong, a scream curled up tight inside your ribs. You stammered an excuse — something about being tired, about not feeling right — and peeled yourself out from underneath him with a mumbled apology you barely heard yourself say. You left the room so fast your heart forgot to keep up, bare feet slapping the villa tiles, dragging his hoodie over your half-naked body like a shield.

The ground itself seems to pulse, a second heartbeat hammering low and slow beneath the soles of your feet, tugging you forward, tying you to something older than memory. You don’t move so much as drift, carried by the montage still burning itself across the backs of your eyelids—your laugh tangled with Jeno’s against the champagne-slick air, the rough clasp of his hand around your wrist after the win, the look he gave you when he thought no one else could see, like you were already his and he would burn down the world just to make it true. The projector’s light might have died but the images don’t fade, carved too deep into your chest now, dragging you step by step toward a finish line you were never going to outrun. Every breath feels wrong in your lungs, like you’re breathing in endings, like you’re walking into the mouth of something that’s been waiting open for you all along.

You are not clean. You are not holy. You are standing on sacred ground with another boy’s scent clinging to your skin, but none of it matters — none of it has ever mattered because when you lift your eyes, he is already there, as if he has been waiting for you through every mistake, every wrong turn, every time you tried to run from the only thing that could ever hurt you enough to feel real. There’s no noise or warning, just the terrifying certainty of gravity, of tide, of stars plotted years before you were ever born. Jeno stands at the altar like he was grown there, like the stone and the salt and the shuddering breath of the cliffs shaped themselves into the boy you have always been hurtling toward. His head is bowed slightly, hair ruffled by the ocean wind, the dark strands catching the silver light so he looks half-sculpture, half-ruin. His hands flex once at his sides, the slow, unconscious clench and release that only comes when someone is fighting themselves and losing. He’s beautiful the way shipwrecks are beautiful—devastating, inevitable, carved out of the violence of something larger than himself. The moon ropes a cold glow over his shoulders, pooling in the hollow of his throat, kissing the tense line of his jaw, catching in lashes that flicker once like the beat of wings when he lifts his gaze.

And when he lifts it, when those dark, bruised eyes find you across the stone—there is no surprise there, no confusion, no question. Just the awful, breathtaking knowing of it all. He looks at you like he’s been standing here through every lifetime you didn’t remember, waiting for this one moment to snap everything into place. You feel it in your marrow, the inevitability of it, the way the altar thrums louder now, the way the air crushes closer, how even the stars seem to hold their breath. This was always where it would end. You were never walking to meet him. You were being dragged back to him, reeled in by every choice you ever thought was yours.

And Jeno—standing there in the wreckage of the night, in the cradle of salt and bone and memory—waits for you like he has all the time in the world. You linger there for a moment, bare feet pressing into the cold stone, the oversized sleeves of Yangyang’s hoodie swallowing your hands, the hem fluttering around the tops of your bare thighs. The wind breathes heavily through the broken aisle, dragging the scent of salt and fading gardenias against your skin, but you don’t move until he does. Jeno stands ahead of you, framed by the crooked altar, the white wood groaning in the wind. Without speaking, his hand lifts in a slow, careless arc, palm open, fingers stretched in a gesture so effortless it tears through the thick ache in your chest. It’s the kind of gesture that says he knew it would be you. He knew it would always be you. Your body moves before your mind catches up, feet crossing the stone in small, certain steps, and you fit your hand into his like there was never meant to be any space between.

The warmth of him bleeds up your arm, rough and steady where his calloused fingers close around yours. You don’t stop. Some part of you breaks free, surging forward, tucking yourself into his side with a shivering breath you don’t release. He lets you in without hesitation, without question, wrapping an arm around your waist and pressing you into the thick line of his body. He dips his head, mouth brushing the crown of your hair, and murmurs against your temple, “Take it off, baby. You’re freezing.” His voice rolls low through your bones, dragging shivers up your spine that have nothing to do with the morning cold.

You hesitate for only a second, standing small inside the heavy drape of his body, but Jeno is already peeling the hoodie from your frame. His jacket is thick, lined with fleece, still carrying the warmth of his body, and he swings it off his own shoulders with a firm, protective tug. Yangyang’s hoodie crumples forgotten to the stones. You are left in nothing but your tiny shorts, skin bare to the moonlight, and Jeno shifts automatically, standing broad and strong between you and the altar, between you and the cold. You pull the jacket around yourself with clumsy fingers, drowning in it, the weight of him anchoring you where you stand. His hands don’t leave you. He catches the zipper, pulling it up slowly, his knuckles grazing the soft skin at the base of your throat. His breath fans across your cheek when he leans closer, shielding you from the ocean wind, from the emptiness yawning all around. He towers over you now, t-shirt stretched tight across his chest, muscles shifting under skin golden in the heavy moonlight.

The air inside the jacket is warm, thick with the scent of him, and for the first time since you stepped into the night, you can breathe without breaking apart.

Jeno speaks first, his voice low but thick with something molten, like he’s trying not to shatter the fragile tenderness strung between you, his words curling through the cool night air softer than breath, “Shotaro really dug that clip out,” and when you glance over at him he’s already looking at you, eyes heavy-lidded and dreamy, warm in a way that feels too private for the open sky, too deliberate, too devastating, and it makes your ribs ache.

Your hands fumble for the frayed seam of the hoodie you dragged on without thinking, needing something to ground you as you murmur, “I hadn’t seen it since that night,” and your voice is barely a whisper, not because you’re afraid but because anything louder might break the way he’s looking at you, like you’re a memory he never learned how to let go of.

He hums under his breath, not a laugh but something softer, something that brushes the air like velvet, his hand shifting just slightly across the stone so his knuckles graze yours, his thigh pressing closer to yours in a way that feels more like an invitation than an accident, and his mouth curves up at the corner when he says, “You looked happy,” the words carrying a weight that has nothing to do with observation and everything to do with yearning.

You swallow around the thickness in your throat, tilting your head toward him just enough to breathe him in, answering with a smile that trembles even as it blooms, “I was,” because you were, you remember it in the marrow of you, the champagne fizzing behind your teeth, the way his arms found you in the crush of bodies, the way his mouth had found your temple like instinct, like need.

For a moment you just sit there, the altar rising empty behind you, the stars smudging themselves across the sky, his gaze never once leaving yours, not once flickering away like he’s tethering himself to you now because he’s too afraid that if he lets go, he won’t find you again, and when he finally speaks, his voice is a murmur dragged rough across the edges of hope, “I wasn’t supposed to kiss you there, not in front of everyone,” and his hand shifts, fingertips brushing the side of your pinky in a gesture so deliberate it makes your chest constrict.

You let out a soft breath, a laugh caught somewhere between nostalgia and ache, saying, “You did anyway,” and it’s impossible not to smile when he does, a lazy, crooked thing that melts his whole face into something boyish, something breathtaking.

Jeno hums under his breath, not a laugh but something softer, something rough-edged and vulnerable, his gaze dropping to your mouth for half a second before dragging back up like it costs him to look away, and when he speaks, his voice scrapes low across the small space between you, “Couldn’t help it,” he says, but he doesn’t stop there, doesn’t leave it at that, his hand shifting on the stone until his fingers brush yours deliberately, tender and trembling with how badly he wants to touch more, wants to touch everything, “You looked so fucking beautiful that night, you know that?” his voice breaks a little, warm and ragged, “I couldn’t believe it… I still can’t,” and he smiles then, this soft, wrecked thing, like he’s marveling at you even now, even after everything.

“You were laughing like you didn’t know anyone was watching,” Jeno murmurs, thumb tracing a small, almost apologetic circle against your knuckle, “You were just… happy. Fuck, I wanted to bottle that version of you, keep it just for me,” he laughs under his breath, shaking his head, cheeks flushed with how naked the confession feels, “You looked so bright it hurt to look away, and I didn’t want anyone else seeing you like that, I didn’t want to share it, I didn’t want to pretend I wasn’t already yours,” his voice drops even lower, his eyes locking onto yours, heavy and molten, “I think I kissed you because if I didn’t, I was gonna lose my fucking mind.”

You lean in without thinking, like the space between you has grown too charged to survive untouched, your voice softer now, thinner around the edges, the question tumbling out almost shyly, “Do you remember what you said after?”

Jeno chuckles under his breath, the sound rough, not really a laugh at all but something that scrapes the air between you raw, breaking a little like it still catches in his chest even now when he answers, “Yeah… ‘Don’t tell anyone, but I think I love you. Wasn’t the first time I said it though.”

The words hit you harder than you expect, a sharp, shuddering thing ripping through your ribs, your lungs squeezing too tight for air, and when you manage to breathe again your voice wobbles, whispering out so soft it almost gets lost, “I never forgot,” and then even quieter, the admission curling into the space between your bodies like smoke, “You sounded so scared.”

Jeno smiles at that, but it’s not the kind of smile meant for happiness, it’s sad, stitched together from the splinters he still carries under his skin, his head tilting slightly, eyes gleaming under the weight of old wounds as he murmurs, “I was. I’d never said it to anyone before, only to Areum but it never mattered.” When he nudges your knee with his, it’s gentle, grounding, a small point of contact that feels bigger than it should, heavier, and then he says it, his voice softer now too, “You didn’t say it back… you never have,” and the words don’t come out accusing, don’t come out cruel, but they land heavy anyway, and something inside you seizes up because it’s true, it’s always been true, and the shame rushes up your throat before you can choke it back.

You gulp hard, audible in the thick quiet between you, your fingers tightening in the hem of your jacket like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth, and Jeno sees it, of course he sees it, his eyes darken, flicker to your mouth, your hands, the way your whole body shrinks in around itself like you’re bracing for impact, but he doesn’t ask, doesn’t push, just watches you with that same unbearably soft patience that makes you want to cry harder because he could hurt you so easily and he never does, he never has.

Instead, you do the only thing your throat can manage, the only thing your heart can push past your lips, you change the subject too fast, voice small and cracking. You swallow again, hard, and when you finally lift your eyes to his, there’s no shield left between you, nothing but the aching sincerity that’s been gathering behind your ribs for longer than you want to admit, and when you speak, your voice is low but sure, the words slow and trembling but clear, “I’m sorry,” you start, and for a second it’s not enough, it’s not nearly enough, so you take a breath, press your palm flat to your thigh like you’re grounding yourself, and you go on, “I’m sorry for how I broke things between us… I’m sorry for how I handled the distance… for how I pulled away every time you reached out… for how I left you clinging to nothing but unanswered messages and crossed wires and hope you shouldn’t have had to hold by yourself. I’m sorry for prioritising my work over you.”

Your throat thickens but you push through it, leaning a little closer, needing him to feel the words in the air between you, needing them to be real, “I’m sorry I made you feel like loving me was a burden, like your wanting me was a weight I couldn’t bear. I’m sorry for every time I made you second-guess yourself, every time I kissed you and let you think it meant forever when I was already halfway out the door in my own head,” you shake your head, hating the memory of how careless you were with things that should have been sacred, “I’m sorry I left without saying goodbye the way you deserved. I’m sorry I let silence do my dirty work instead of being brave enough to tell you the truth face to face. I’m sorry I fucked him only an hour after I left.”

You can feel it now, how much you’ve carried, how much you’ve owed him, how much you still do, the weight of it pressing into your ribs, into your tongue, but you keep going, your voice steady even as your fingers tremble slightly where they clutch your own knee, “You didn’t make it easy, Jeno, and I’m not pretending you did,” you murmur, not looking away, not blinking, letting the honesty split you open, “You made me feel alone even when you were right there, you made me wonder if I was ever enough for the version of you that only existed in your dreams, but even then—” you cut yourself off, breathing hard, fighting for the right words, and when you find them they pour out thick and cracked and real, “Even then, I should’ve fought for us, I should have stayed, I should have let myself be angry at you and still loved you anyway. I should have trusted that we were worth the mess.”

The wind shifts against the altar, cool across your damp cheeks, and still you don’t stop, your voice soft but cutting through the night with every syllable, “I’m sorry I let fear decide for me, sorry I let the past write our ending instead of fighting for a new one, sorry for every time I touched you like you were mine and then left you like you weren’t,” your hand moves without thinking, reaching out, brushing your fingertips against the back of his, light as breath, desperate for an anchor, “I’m sorry for the nights you stayed awake waiting for me to change my mind, and for the mornings you woke up alone anyway.”

You draw in a breath that trembles in your lungs but tastes like relief when you finally let it out, “I should have been stronger,” you whisper, the words heavy but not cruel, not to him, not to yourself, “I should have believed we were stronger.” And you finish, not with a plea, not with shame, but with the truth folded raw into your hands, “I’m sorry I made you doubt what we had. I’m sorry I made you doubt me but I never doubted you, not really, not where it mattered.”

You open your mouth to say more, to spill out another apology, something about the way you pulled away too early, about the nights you locked your phone and your heart at the same time, about how you never learned how to stay when it mattered, but Jeno doesn’t let you, he shakes his head once, slow and firm, his hands cradling your face tighter like he’s physically holding the words back, his forehead pressing harder against yours, his breath catching when he says, “That’s enough, this isn’t all on you,” and his voice is so certain, so wrecked and reverent, it steals the breath right out of your chest.

He cups your face in both hands like he’s terrified you’ll vanish if he stops touching you, his thumbs stroking slow grounding circles along your jaw, forehead pressing soft against yours until your breathing syncs, and when he finally speaks, his voice is low and cracked and steady like the only thing he has left to give you is the truth, “I’m sorry I made you feel alone when you needed me most,” he murmurs, the words warm and raw against your skin, “I’m sorry I pulled away when I should’ve pulled you closer, sorry I made you carry all the weight of us while I pretended I was too busy to notice you were slipping through my fingers.”

He leans in closer, breathing you in like the only prayer he knows, voice trembling as he presses a kiss to your forehead before continuing, “I’m sorry I let the distance turn me cold, sorry I let the calls go unanswered, the texts pile up, the days stretch long enough that it was easier for you to believe I didn’t care,” he pulls back just enough to see your face, his hands still cradling you with such aching reverence it breaks something inside you, “I’m sorry I made you doubt where you stood with me, made you feel like an afterthought when you were the only thing that ever mattered more than the game, more than the noise, more than any of it.”

His breathing stumbles, but he pushes through it, voice breaking but full of certainty, “I’m sorry I kissed that girl in New York,” he says, voice cracking harder now, eyes locked on yours, no flinching, no pretending, “I’m sorry I let myself get drunk and stupid and lost enough to let someone else put their mouth on mine a day after we broke up like it didn’t mean anything, like you didn’t mean everything, I’m sorry I let it be seen, I’m sorry you had to see it all over the headlines, that I let it stain everything we built, that I gave you that humiliation to carry on top of everything else.”

His breathing stumbles, but he pushes through it, voice breaking but full of certainty, “You didn’t make it easy, and you know that, but I should’ve fought harder anyway, I should’ve known when you were pulling away it was because you needed me to chase you, not let you go,” he tilts his forehead back against yours, the smallest tremor running through him, “I thought giving you space was the right thing, that staying silent was noble, but all I did was leave you to bleed alone while I waited for you to fix what I helped break.”

He strokes his thumb along your cheekbone again, so tender it makes your chest hurt, and he whispers, “I’m sorry for the mornings you woke up angry and aching and found nothing but an empty phone, sorry for every time you reached out and I made you feel like loving me was asking too much, sorry for kissing you like you were my future and holding you like you were temporary,” his voice shakes harder now, and he doesn’t hide it, doesn’t pretend it’s anything but grief, “I’m sorry for letting pride speak louder than love, for thinking if I stayed away long enough the wanting would stop, when all it ever did was grow teeth.”

When you open your mouth to speak he only shakes his head, firm but careful, pressing another kiss against your temple like he’s sealing the apology into your skin, his hands tightening at your jaw as if daring you to argue, his voice steadier now as he finishes, “I’m sorry I forgot to tell you you were already my home before you even knew you could be,” and you shudder under it, because it feels like being laid bare in the softest, sharpest way, like every wall you built crumbling all at once without a sound.

You move closer without meaning to, chasing the heat of him, pressing your body into his until there’s nothing left between you but the shaky drag of your breath and the solid thud of your hearts slamming against each other, your forehead still pressed to his, your hands sliding up into the hair at the back of his head just to stay tethered, and the silence that swells up around you is thick enough to drown in, heavy with everything you both said and didn’t, clinging to your skin and your ribs and your throat like smoke.

It eats at you, slow and aching, every second stretching until you think it might tear you in half, until Jeno finally cuts through it, low and rough and certain, his mouth brushing yours without kissing you yet, his voice scraping against your lips when he says it, “I forgive you,” and it isn’t soft, it isn’t questioning, it’s dominant and sure, a fact he decided before you ever sat down together tonight, a thing he carved into himself with blood and breath and every stupid, stubborn thing he still feels for you.

You close your eyes, feeling the heat of him against your mouth, the way his thumbs still brush your jaw, and you breathe out just as soft, “I forgive you too,” and you mean it, even if it scares you, even if it feels like stepping back onto cracked ground you already fell through once.

Neither of you says what’s obvious — that it’s easy to say sorry when you miss someone so much it guts you from the inside out, that forgiveness feels good but it doesn’t dig out the rot that’s already taken root between you, it doesn’t unsay the cruel things screamed across cracked phone lines or erase the cold nights spent pretending you didn’t care, and it sure as hell doesn’t erase the way you both let each other drown without throwing a rope, without even looking back. But you stay there anyway, forehead to forehead, clinging tighter because neither of you knows how to leave without setting yourselves on fire first, holding onto each other like two people trying to rebuild a house already burnt down to the foundation, like maybe if you press hard enough into each other’s skin you can rewrite what broke, maybe if you just don’t let go this time it’ll be enough to fool fate into giving you a second chance.

“I don’t want words anymore,” you whisper, your hands sliding up into his hair, fisting there gently like you’re scared he’ll pull away, “I need more than that,” and his breath shudders when he nods, eyes fluttering shut like he feels the same tight pull under his ribs.

“Actions,” he says against your mouth, not a vow, just something worn and raw and necessary, and when he says it he squeezes your hand like he’s anchoring himself too.

You don’t promise anything. You don’t ask him to. You just hold onto him a little tighter, feeling the sharp press of your teeth against the inside of your mouth, the familiar ache of hope trying to crawl out of a body that doesn’t know if it can stand another fall. “This has to be different,” you say quietly, not because you don’t want him but because you do, so badly it tastes like blood in your mouth, and he nods again, pressing his forehead harder to yours like he’s willing to believe it even if it’s foolish.

“I know,” he says, and you both hear the catch in his voice, the part of him that’s still afraid he’ll mess it up again.

You lean into him, soft and sure but shaking underneath it, your nose brushing his, your mouth barely skimming his like you’re both too afraid of breaking whatever this is before it even forms, breathing the same bruised thing between you because words are useless here, they always were, and neither of you has to say it — you’re giving each other a third chance, the one that’s supposed to be charmed, supposed to stick, supposed to be luck finally finding its way home, but even as your fingers tangle into the back of his shirt and his hands clutch your waist like he’s drowning, you both feel it, the crack already spider webbing under your feet, the familiar weight of history crouching low behind your teeth, and for now it’s enough, for now it’s everything, even if you can already taste how easily it might all fall apart again.

You can’t lie here. The altar is a mouth pried open to swallow every half-truth and false hope, a place where deceit rots before it can take root, where confessions bleed like water and ruin carves itself into something that almost looks like grace. Your bodies are already too close, thighs brushing, hands twisted into the fabric of his shirt like you’re bracing yourself against gravity, like the air between you doesn’t exist anymore, and when he tilts his head down, your mouth catches his without warning, a slow drag of lips breathing into each other, not crashing but collapsing, like a house folding into its own foundations, like a surrender pulled from somewhere deeper than thought. You lean in instinctively, weight tipping forward in small, helpless increments, your hands slipping higher into his hair without meaning to, your hips nudging toward his like your body’s already answering a question he hasn’t asked aloud, and Jeno feels it, feels the slow unravel, the way your grip falters just enough for him to take, and he does, steady and sure, his hands sliding low over your waist, guiding you into the curve of him without hurry, without question, like he always knew you would fold if he just waited long enough for you to remember how.

Jeno feels it, the way your hands twitch, the way your hips hesitate just barely above his, and he makes the decision for you — firm, inevitable, natural — his hands sliding down your waist with a surety that makes your breath catch, guiding you with steady pressure until you’re straddling his lap fully, knees pressing into the cold stone on either side of his hips, your body lined up against his like a match already struck. His mouth doesn’t leave yours, just deepens, taking more, giving nothing back until you’re gasping against his lips, your fingers clawing at his shoulders like you forgot how to breathe without him.

The second your hips settle down he groans low and filthy into your mouth, hands gripping your ass and dragging you hard against him, grinding you down onto the thick, aching length trapped between you. He’s already so hard it feels brutal, punishing, the heavy ridge of him pressing tight to your pussy through the thin layers left between you, and you whimper, half in relief, half in shock, nails digging into his back as he rolls his hips up slow but relentless, making you feel every fucking inch.

“Fuck, baby,” Jeno rasps into your mouth, voice thick and shaking, his hands branding your hips like he’s scared someone else might try to take you if he doesn’t leave fingerprints, “you’re already soaking for me, made for me, you know that?” and it doesn’t sound like a question, not when he says it like it’s bone-deep truth, not when his hips grind up so hard into you that the seam of your panties drags right over your clit, rough and perfect and maddening, his mouth dragging down your jaw, breathing you in like he’s trying to drink you straight out of your skin.

Your whole body shudders against him, a broken sound tearing loose from your throat, high and helpless, and your hands scrabble against his shoulders, pulling him closer, anchoring yourself against the wreckage he’s dragging out of you, and your voice stumbles out in a breathless, pleading whimper, “missed you… missed the way you touch me, the way you ruin me, nobody else—” and the words die against his mouth when he thrusts up again, slow and merciless, and your panties catch harder, sending you reeling, grinding down on him like it’s instinct, like it’s need carved into bone, your cunt throbbing so hard you swear he can feel the slick heat through every ragged breath between you.

Your moans slip out faster now, breathy and high and ruined, hips stuttering against his, thighs clenching tighter around his waist, and he laughs under his breath, dark and low, tightening his grip until you can’t lift off him even if you wanted to, forcing you to take every slow, filthy grind exactly the way he wants you to. “That’s it,” he mutters against your jaw, mouth dragging wet kisses down to your throat, “show me how bad you need it, pretty girl, show me how fucking empty you’ve been without me.”

You’re crying into his mouth now, little gasps and sobs mixing with your broken moans, hands buried in his hair, yanking him closer, because it’s not enough, it’s never enough, it’s been too long, too much space and too much silence and too many bodies that never touched you like this, never made you forget how to stand. Your pussy throbs against him, slick and desperate, grinding against the bulge in his sweats until you’re sure he can feel every pulse of your cunt through the thin layers, until he’s cursing into your throat, hips jerking up harder without meaning to.

Jeno drags you higher by the hips, brute and precise, lifting you without effort and slamming your back flat against the cold stone of the altar, the shock of it ripping a gasp out of you that he swallows with his mouth, kissing you filthy and desperate, tongue sliding deep, hands bruising your waist as he locks you in place, grinding his hips into the cradle of yours like he’s trying to carve himself into the altar too. Your legs cinch tighter around his waist, ankles locking at the small of his back, your dress shoved up around your hips, panties twisted and soaked between you, every rough drag of his cock against your dripping pussy sending pressure spiraling up your spine until your fingers are scrambling for something, anything, slamming back against the stone just to keep from shattering apart.

He kisses you like he’s starving for the taste of your throat, your lips, your whimpering breath, devouring every noise you make as you rock harder against him, hips slamming, pelvises grinding so brutal you can feel the slick squelch of your cunt against his sweats, the fabric soaked and clinging to the curve of his cock as he mutters against your mouth, “Look at you, baby… fucking ruined for me, always mine, always dripping for me like this,” and the altar takes it all, the sweat, the stuttered gasps, the filthy desperate clash of bodies too hungry to be holy, the pale stone gleaming under the moonlight like it was built for this, like it was waiting all this time for you to fuck the memories back into each other here, where nothing could be hidden, where every grind and moan and shuddered kiss would echo into the night like worship and sin stitched together by skin and heat.

“Fuck— you feel that?” Jeno rasps against your throat, voice thick and shuddering, grinding his cock slow and heavy against your cunt until you whimper, the thick heat of him dragging over your soaked panties, obscene and messy, every slow rut making you feel the full length and weight of him straining against the fabric. “So fucking wet for me… can feel you through everything,” he breathes, mouth hot against your jaw, teeth grazing your skin, “fuck, baby, I missed this, missed you,” and he shifts his hips rougher, dragging the head of his cock right against the slick mess of your pussy, like he can’t stand even that small barrier between you. He pulls back just enough to look at you, panting, wild, his hands locking tighter on your hips as he grinds you down harder, forehead pressing into yours, and he mutters low and wrecked, “nobody else ever felt like this, nobody else ever fucking mattered.”

He kisses you like he’s trying to crawl inside you, mouth messy and open over yours, teeth scraping your lip, tongue claiming every broken gasp you give him, grinding his cock so slow and thick against your pussy that you can’t stop the wrecked, breathless moans spilling into his mouth, your hips rocking hard and desperate without shame, without thought, just filthy need crashing through your bloodstream like heat. Your hands tangle in his hair, yanking him closer every time he tries to pull back for breath, your thighs locked around his waist, grinding yourself down onto him harder, wetter, the slick squelch of your soaked panties dragging against his cock every time he ruts up into you, slow enough to hurt, dirty enough to brand. The altar takes it all — your stuttering gasps, the brutal slap of hips grinding through layers of ruined fabric, the wet kiss of sweat against stone and the marble gleams under you like it has been waiting years for this wreckage, for this ruin, for the way you shatter into each other like prayer dressed in sweat and sex and breath that never learned how to let go.

Jeno shoves your hoodie higher up your waist, rough and hungry, his mouth trailing down your jaw, your throat, biting into the frantic pulse hammering under your skin until you gasp, tugging blindly at his shirt, desperate to get him bare against you, desperate to feel the heat of his body after too many nights lying to yourself you had ever moved on. His skin is burning against yours, salt and sweat and the kind of touch that makes your whole body sing with need, and when your hips grind down into him again, the thick line of his cock grinds back even harder, riding up against your soaked panties so rough you cry out into his mouth, broken and high, your nails clawing at his shoulders like you’ll drown if you let him go.

He kisses you rougher for that, hips rutting up once, brutal and hungry, and then he growls into your ear, low and slick, “Let me take you back to my room, baby, want you spread out on my bed, want you loud for me,” and it’s so filthy and sweet you almost come undone right there, laughing into his mouth, dazed and breathless and high on him, scraping your nails down his spine, trying to shove his shirt off his shoulders until he catches your wrists, panting against your lips as he mutters, “Not against the fucking altar my uncle’s getting married at tomorrow, baby, have a little fucking mercy,” and then softer, hungrier, he drags your hands back to his chest, kissing you again like he can’t breathe without it, “I said I’d take you to my room, let’s go.”

You pant, “oh, and should we fuck with Nahyun passed out two feet away? Real romantic,” and he huffs a sharp laugh against your throat, grinding up harder, like the idea of it almost makes him lose control.

You shake your head, giggling breathlessly, grabbing his jaw and pulling his mouth back to yours, biting his lower lip before murmuring against it, “There’s a few empty guest rooms, pretty boy, if you’re that desperate,” and he curses low under his breath, slamming your hips harder against his cock like he cannot stand one more second without being inside you, the heavy thick pressure of him rutting against you over your panties enough to leave you soaked, ruined, throbbing.

You barely remember how you got here, barely remember why you thought you could survive on anyone else’s touch when your whole body remembers his so perfectly it hurts, the way your hips rock down into him like muscle memory, the way he catches your moans with his mouth, rough and wet and endless. Nothing else matters. Not the mouths that touched you after. Not the hands that tried to make you forget. They are shadows, faded photographs, thin paper ghosts compared to this brutal, messy, aching reality of him grinding between your legs, of your panties sticking slick and filthy to your cunt, of his hands locking you to him like he’s scared the stone under you will crack before he lets you go.

You moan his name again, high and desperate, and Jeno groans against your jaw, voice breaking into something low and filthy and shaken, muttering, “Mine,” kissing the word into the corner of your mouth, “Always,” biting it into your throat, hips grinding rougher, harder, like he could fuse your bodies together if he just ruts deep enough.

Jeno leans back just enough to see you, his palms still firm at your waist, holding you steady against the altar like if he lets go you might disappear, and for a moment he does nothing but look, breathing you in slow and reverent, his lashes low and heavy over his wrecked eyes, the corners of his mouth curving soft with something more dangerous than lust, something older, something that feels like home after a lifetime in exile. His gaze roams you slow, hungrily, over your parted lips, the wet shine of your mouth where he kissed you breathless, over your flushed cheeks and the wild tangle of your hair, down the lines of your throat where his mouth had bitten earlier, and the look on his face is so unguarded, so raw, you feel it hit your chest like a blow.

He murmurs into the tiny spaces between you, voice thick and low, almost too soft for the air to carry, praises bleeding out of him like prayer, “So fucking beautiful,” he breathes against your temple, kissing it once, twice, three times, short, desperate kisses like he’s afraid you’ll vanish before he can map you back into his memory, “Missed you, missed this face, missed looking at you,” and every kiss he drags across your skin, your hairline, your cheeks, feels like a promise stitched in breath instead of thread. His hands run up your sides, under your hoodie, warm and possessive, coaxing little trembles out of you with every stroke, every brush of his fingertips over ribs and waist and hip.

You shiver, flushing under the intensity of it, under the way he worships you so quietly, like you’re some precious relic he’s terrified of shattering, and your fingers clench at his shirt, overwhelmed, dizzy from the way he never stops touching you, kissing you, breathing you in like every second without you has been some long slow death. His forehead nudges yours again, soft and firm, and he hums low into your skin, “Missed my girl.”

His hands trail up your sides again, slow and steady, like he needs to feel every part of you mapped under his palms, his mouth catching your jaw, the corner of your mouth, your temple, again and again in short desperate kisses that make your whole body ache, and he keeps murmuring it between breaths, between touches, voice wrecked and shaking with something too big to name, “Missed your mouth,” kiss, “missed your hands,” kiss, “missed the way you fucking look at me like you see right through me,” kiss, kiss, kiss, until you are trembling against him, your chest heaving with how heavy it feels to be wanted like this, to be claimed so tenderly you almost break under the weight of it.

You try to laugh, but it hitches in your throat, and you clutch at his shoulders harder, burying your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling him deep like you could breathe him into the cracks he left behind, and your voice slips out small and shaking against his skin, “You still feel like home,” and you don’t mean to sound so broken but you do, you do, and you feel the way his arms lock tighter around you like he can hear it too, like he needed to.

You barely notice it at first, the way his hand finds yours, tangling your fingers together, the way he shifts you closer against him like you’re something precious he has to cradle even now, his mouth still brushing wet kisses along your jaw and temple, lips dragging slow across your flushed skin as if he’s memorizing you back into him. You gasp when you feel it, something cool and smooth sliding over your ring finger, a kiss of metal against overheated skin and your breath hitches sharp against his mouth. He chuckles low, almost shy, and pulls back just enough to nudge your forehead with his, murmuring rough against your lips, “Look, baby.”

Your eyes fall to your hand, and the world narrows to the quiet gleam wrapped around your finger — a thick silver band, matte instead of shining, the surface brushed soft like velvet under the broken moonlight. It sits heavy against your skin, heavier than you expect, molded to fit you without digging, the weight of it a quiet pressure, like a thumb pressing reassurance into your pulse. The edges are smooth, rounded just enough to catch the light without flashing it, and the thickness of it makes it feel deliberate, intentional, made to be worn not just today but every day after, and the longer you look at it, the more it feels like it was never missing from you, like your hand has been waiting for this weight all along.

“You know it’s not like the others,” Jeno says, voice low and steady as he kisses just beneath your ear, his hand cradling yours like it’s something sacred, thumb sweeping slow, rhythmic circles over your knuckles, and you lean closer without even thinking, breathing him in, feeling the weight of the moment fold over you.

You tilt your head into his and whisper, soft and a little breathless, “How, baby?”

He lifts your hand higher, lets the moonlight kiss the ring wrapped snug around your finger, and when he speaks again it’s softer, more deliberate, like he needs you to understand every piece of it. “The ones for Areum and the other girls… they’re pure platinum. clean cuts, polished bright, meant to shine for the pictures, meant to survive the wedding, but nothing more than that but yours…” he leans in, kisses the inside of your wrist, feels your pulse stutter against his lips, “it had to last longer than a day.”

His free hand slides over your waist, slow and careful, anchoring you to him without pulling you closer, just keeping you steady, and he keeps talking, voice growing rough at the edges. “I made it from a blend — platinum, palladium, and a little iridium to hold the structure together better over time. Took forever to get the alloy right. I had to melt and rework the cast twice because the first one was too soft and the second cracked when it cooled. I had to heat-treat the last version at a lower temperature so it wouldn’t get brittle, so it would flex a little with your skin, not against it.”

Jeno keeps your hand lifted between you, his thumb brushing soft strokes against your fingers like he cannot stop touching you, and his mouth tips closer again, voice dropping into something that makes your whole body light-headed. “I thought I knew what it would look like,” he murmurs, kissing your knuckles one by one, his lips dragging slow over your skin, “spent weeks trying to picture it… how it would sit, how it would feel.” He glances up at you then, eyes burning warm and wicked and full of something older than lust, and smiles a little against your hand, breath catching. “But, baby, I didn’t even come close.”

You blink at him, breath stuttering, heart ricocheting around your chest, and he leans in, brushing his nose along your cheekbone, laughing under his breath like he cannot believe it either. “You make it look so much better,” he whispers, voice catching, “fuck, you’re so beautiful it hurts to look at you sometimes.”

You shiver, flushed to the roots of your hair, and Jeno only smiles softer, kissing the corner of your mouth, nudging his forehead against yours. “Could’ve made a ring out of paper and it still would’ve been perfect on you,” he teases low, his voice curling around your ribs like a ribbon, “but I wanted it to be good enough. You deserve good, baby. You always did.”

He kisses your lips once, slow and sure, then kisses your nose, then your temple, and every press of his mouth makes you melt deeper against him, your free hand fisting his shirt like you cannot keep yourself steady otherwise. Your face burns so hot you are sure he can feel it radiating between you, but he only holds you tighter, only keeps brushing tiny, reverent kisses across your face like you are something he is scared to lose again. “You’re mine,” he whispers against the corner of your mouth, so soft you barely catch it, “you’re my girl. Always were.”

Your body betrays you before your mind can even catch up, hands clutching the front of his shirt, head tipping forward until your forehead presses hard into the curve of his shoulder, your chest hitching in violent, uneven sobs. It feels like the air has been knocked out of you and filled with something sweeter, heavier, like breathing him in hurts more than it heals, and still you cannot stop. You’re laughing too, soft and breathless against his neck, your nails curling into the fabric of his shirt because you cannot seem to hold on hard enough. Jeno cups the back of your head, presses his mouth to your hairline, kisses you slow and reverent like he’s trying to seal you back together, and you feel him shaking too, his own laughter threading wet through his breaths as he kisses your temples, your cheeks, your jaw, like he’s grateful for every place his mouth can find.

You pull back just enough to see him, your hands trembling as you wipe the tears from his cheeks with your thumbs, and he catches your wrist before you can pull away, pressing a kiss into your palm so fiercely it makes you shudder. “Baby,” he breathes, voice hoarse and broken, “look at me.” You do, blinking up at him through a blur of tears, your lips parting helplessly, and he smiles so wide, so wrecked, so beautiful that your heart twists sideways in your chest.

“I never stopped,” you whisper, your voice cracking hard over the confession. “I never stopped wearing you. Carrying you.” The words catch in your throat, thick and burning, but you don’t have to finish them because your hands are already moving, tugging your sleeve up with clumsy urgency, revealing the worn silver charm bracelet still looped around your wrist, the tiny chain glinting soft under the broken moonlight. His eyes catch on it instantly, wide and stunned, his breath stalling in his chest like he forgot how to use it, and you’re laughing through the tears now, soft and gasping, pressing your face into the warm line of his neck as you breathe against his skin, “I never took you off.”

Before you can even think, you’re tugging your shirt up too, turning slightly, your hands clumsy at the waistband of your shorts as you push them down just enough to bare the small inky ‘23’ etched low over the dip of your spine, and you feel him freeze against you, his fingers tightening where they grip your waist like he can’t breathe around it, and you laugh again, shakier this time, pressing your forehead to his shoulder as you whisper, “Never got it covered. Never wanted to.”

“Fuck,” Jeno breathes, and his hands are on you before you can even brace for it, tracing the ink with his thumbs, kissing down the slope of your spine like he’s memorizing every inch, and you’re trembling so hard you can barely stand. “You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters against your skin, his voice cracking open with something too big to name, and when he straightens up again, his eyes are wet and wild and full of something so raw it makes your knees threaten to give out, but his arms are already there, already wrapping you in, already holding you like you’re something he refuses to ever let slip through his fingers again.

You’re crying again without meaning to, laughing too, gasping against his mouth like you forgot how to survive without him, and he’s kissing your face in frantic, desperate bursts, your cheeks, your nose, your eyelids, anywhere he can reach like he’s trying to kiss you back into his life piece by piece. “No one’s ever made me feel like this,” you manage to gasp out, broken and breathless and drowning in him, “no one’s ever made me feel this seen, this wanted, this—” you shake your head helplessly, the tears slipping down your throat as you bury your face in his neck, “this fucking chosen.”

“I didn’t know how to stay without breaking you,” Jeno says against your hair, his voice rough and scraped raw, his arms locking even tighter around your shaking frame like he’s terrified the universe might rip you from him if he lets you go for even a second. “But fuck, baby, I’m staying now. Let’s start again.”

You laugh then, watery and wrecked, the sound tipping out of you before you can stop it, and you pull back just enough to cup his face in your hands, your thumbs brushing the tears off his cheeks even as your own spill free, your nose bumping his as you whisper, “Until we break again?” not with bitterness, not with fear, but with the kind of battered hope only he ever taught you how to have.

“No,” he breathes, and he kisses you hard, sure, shattering the words between your teeth, his forehead pressing against yours, his hands shaking in your hair. “No, baby. Until it’s different.”

The ring presses heavy and warm against your finger where he holds your hand between both of his, your breaths tangled and messy between you, your bodies trembling like you’ve been stitched back together with nothing but spit and prayer. Maybe it will hurt. Maybe it will ruin you. Maybe you will destroy each other all over again. But tonight, here, now, it feels inevitable, it feels holy, it feels like the only future you were ever meant to burn toward, no matter how many times you fall apart.

You kiss him once more, longer this time, sinking into him like breath, like gravity, like the only thing left worth believing in when the world never made it easy and never once gave a fuck about how hard you fought to find your way back to each other anyway.

The sound comes first, slow and scraping, the lazy drag of leather against stone, not loud enough to startle but steady enough to unsettle, a rhythm that feels too certain, too sure of the fear it leaves in its wake. You freeze mid-breath, your mouth still caught open against Jeno’s, your fingers curling tight into the fabric of his shirt without thought, your lungs refusing to fill as the air thickens around you. Jeno stiffens too, a slow locking of his body against yours, not sudden but sinking, like a tide pulling out before a storm.

There’s a flicker then, a flash of something dark moving across the edge of your vision, and the hairs on the back of your neck rise before you even turn your head. The shadow stretches long before it reveals its source, reaching across the altar like a hand dragging itself over grave dirt. When he steps fully into view, it almost feels anticlimactic — Lee Taeyong, standing under the broken spill of moonlight, suit immaculate, expression indifferent, looking every inch the man who has seen too much rot to flinch at the sight of it anymore.

The light catches wrong around him, bending oily and slick, slipping off the sharp planes of his body without ever quite touching, while the air above you and Jeno remains harsh and clear, slicing straight through to the bone. It feels personal, the way the night itself recoils from him. The altar seems to sag under the shift, the white flowers draped along the stones wilting at the edges, bowing their heads like they recognize something unclean threading itself into the air, like even the dead things know better than to welcome a liar among them. The hush that falls isn’t peaceful. It’s the sucking quiet of a room holding its breath before the blow lands.

The altar hums beneath your feet, low and furious, the vibration threading through the stones like blood forced through a clenched fist, and it remembers every vow that was ever swallowed in fear, every kiss that turned bitter before it bruised the mouth, every promise that rotted before it reached the air. Tonight it recognizes the scent of ruin before the words even fully take shape, stiffening underfoot, not passive but coiling tighter with every breath you dare take, the flowers shuddering on their stems, the stones flexing like ribs bracing against an inevitable blow. It doesn’t wait for the lie to be spoken. It already feels it in the air, in the warping of the moonlight, in the souring of the breeze, and it braces the way living things do when they know they’re about to be broken open again.

“Didn’t know this place came with a reunion package,” Taeyong says, and the words curl into the air like smoke that clings too deep to be washed clean. His gaze slides over Jeno, lingers, then sharpens when it lands on you, a scalpel’s edge hidden inside a velvet glove.

Jeno’s hand leaves your waist, a slow unspooling you feel in your bones, and you have to catch yourself against the altar for half a second, the air colder where he used to be. He moves forward, arms unfolding, and embraces his father without hesitation, but it is clipped, practiced, the kind of affection that wears a threadbare smile stitched together with old nerves.

“You’re late,” Jeno says, his voice warm but pulled thin at the edges, and you hear how much effort it costs him to make it sound easy.

Taeyong claps his son’s back once, twice, the sound sharp against the hush. “Business,” he says, smooth as the night leaking under the door, his hand lingering a little too long before he steps back. “Things that couldn’t be left unfinished.”

The way he says it twists something deep in your stomach, something cold and wrong, but no one else reacts, the practiced smoothness of it sliding too easily into the night, too polished to disturb the surface. The altar tightens beneath your feet as if bracing itself, the flowers draped across the stones bowing lower in the thickening air, and the night itself seems to sharpen, pulling at the edges of the world like a hand dragging a blade slow across fabric.

Jeno smiles, small and tired, the kind of smile you would have missed if you were not watching him so closely. “Glad you made it.”

Taeyong’s eyes gleam as he steps slightly to the side, letting his gaze catch you again, slower this time, like he is turning over something fragile in his palm, wondering how best to break it without making too much noise. And even though Jeno is already shifting back toward you, reaching for you again without hesitation, you still feel it — the weight of being left alone even for those few seconds, the hollow space carved into the air where his protection should have been. Jeno’s palm finds your waist again, warm and sure, pulling you closer, shielding you once more without a word.

The altar remembers. It hums low under your feet, humming with the weight of every broken vow it ever bore witness to, every love story that curdled before it could survive. When Jeno shifts subtly, shielding you with the line of his body, you feel it — the altar tightening, a living thing recoiling, bristling, then anchoring itself heavier beneath your soles like it’s choosing sides.

“Didn’t know this place came with a reunion package,” Taeyong says, and the words slip out too smooth, too amused, warping the night even further, making the cold stick harder to the inside of your ribs.

Jeno rises immediately, his body cutting cleanly between you and the man who carved half the ruins in his chest. He says, “Dad,” voice flat, unreadable, and they hug — brief, stiff, the kind of embrace given to witnesses, not to fathers. You don’t move. You can’t. Every inch of your skin feels exposed, burning, like you’ve been dropped back into a memory you spent years trying to claw your way out of.

Taeyong’s eyes flick toward you next, a sharp glint of recognition in them, and you feel it before it happens — Jeno shifting again, subtle but surgical, stepping in without hesitation, so Taeyong would have to physically brush past him just to reach you. It’s almost casual if you don’t know what to look for. It’s a barricade if you do.

His hand settles against the back of your hip, not possessive, not pushing, just anchored there, a silent brand, a steady weight reminding you without words: I’m here. I see you. I’m not moving. His thumb strokes once over the fabric of your dress, grounding you, slow and deliberate. He doesn’t look at you. He doesn’t need to. His body speaks it all — shielding your line of sight, blocking out the man who made you small, building a wall you didn’t have to ask for.

The altar seems to breathe around you, drinking the tension into its stones, holding its breath like it knows what you know — that not all ghosts need to be dead to haunt you. And for the first time in a long time, you realize you’re not facing this one alone.

Taeyong steps back just enough to look at you, and the weight of it is instant, curling tight under your skin like a hook sinking in slowly. He doesn’t glance. He studies. He peels you apart with his gaze, stripping you to nerve and breath and silence, cataloguing every fault like a man assessing damage he already knows he caused. It isn’t hunger that coils behind his gaze; it’s something colder, something that still wants to leave fingerprints on you just to prove he was there first. It’s the kind of gaze that brands itself onto your ribs, that sinks past skin and settles in the marrow, the kind that says I know what you are, and I’m not impressed.

Your fingers spasm once in Jeno’s jacket before locking rigid, your breath catching wrong, your chest tightening into a cold, raw knot. You can’t stop the way you tilt into Jeno, can’t stop the way your spine curves slightly toward him like a body bracing for a fall it’s already too late to catch. Jeno notices everything — the faltering line of your shoulders, the shallow drag of your breath, the tremor in your grip so he slides closer, his hand tightening around your waist with a quiet certainty that says without words that you’re not alone.

Taeyong’s gaze doesn’t settle on you. It settles on Jeno instead, on the way he tilts toward you without thinking, on the way his hand curves protectively around your waist like instinct, like loyalty already misplaced. His mouth quirks faintly, almost like amusement, almost like pity, and when he speaks, the words are tossed into the heavy night air like crumbs he has no intention of picking back up. “Some things always seem to come back looking heavier than when they left,” he muses, his voice smooth as oil sliding over broken glass.

The altar hums under your feet, low and warning, the scent of the flowers thickening into something too sweet, almost rotten. There’s a pause — one beat, two — and then Taeyong tips his head slightly, murmuring almost to himself, almost to the dark, “Sometimes,” he adds, voice softer now, silkier, the venom hidden so cleanly you could almost miss it if you weren’t already choking on it, “it’s easier to leave them behind altogether.”

There’s a sound that splits the thick quiet, not from Taeyong but from somewhere behind him, and it creeps slow across the altar stones like something spilled wrong, a dry chuckle curling into the air without a mouth you can see. You flinch without meaning to, your grip tightening reflexively in Jeno’s jacket, the cold sharpening along your ribs, and you blink hard, once, twice, but it’s already too late. The fear lodges deep. It blinds. It holds you too tight. It buries you in the way prey freezes before it knows it’s been marked.

You didn’t notice him because you couldn’t. You see him now, though, half-swallowed by the dark, standing just behind Taeyong where the light refuses to cling. Not a figure. Not a man. Something still enough to unmake the air around him, the faint glint of a ring on one hand the only thing catching the moonlight, the rest of him a silence shaped into flesh. He doesn’t move like the living. He doesn’t breathe like something that needs air. His stillness is not patient. It is certain. Certain that he is here for a reason and that you’re not it.

Your body goes colder than the wind moving through the white-draped altar. Your heart claws hard against your chest, too fast, too weak, and the altar seems to groan low under your feet, bracing itself as the weight of the night tips wrong again. You don’t know his name. You don’t know his purpose but the knowledge of him is immediate and complete — a wrong note vibrating through your blood, a thing dressed in borrowed skin, a shadow that is not a shadow at all but something older, something made from the rot that creeps into holy places when no one is left to pray against it.

And when you tear your gaze back to Taeyong, he’s smiling, soft and polite, like he doesn’t notice the corpse standing behind him or the way the altar itself has started to sink under the curse he brought with him. The flowers droop lower. The stones tremble under your soles. And the night holds its breath again, this time waiting for something it already knows it cannot stop.

Taeyong shifts first, the slow movement of his hand slicing through the thick night as he gestures lightly toward the figure beside him. His voice rolls out too easy, too polished. “You know Mr. Kim,” he says, soft enough to slide under your skin, “Nahyun’s father.”

Mr. Kim steps forward fully now, letting the space between you shrink in a way that feels deliberate. His suit fits too sharp across the shoulders, like a blade dressed in silk, and when his gaze drags over you, it feels less like looking and more like weighing something cheap. His mouth twists into something that might have been called a smile once, if it held any warmth at all.

“Supposed to be celebrating my daughter’s future this weekend,” he says, his voice cool and lazy, the words coiled with contempt, “but here you are with someone else, hands on someone else.” His eyes skim over your body like you are a bruise he can’t believe anyone would bother covering. “Guess some boys can’t tell the difference between a prize and a placeholder.”

The silence after it feels physical, pressing in around your lungs, stealing air, stealing the steady beat of the night itself. Jeno doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch. He only shifts closer to you, his hand flattening fully across your waist now, fingers curling, a quiet claim written in touch before words even come. His voice, when it slices through the space between them, is low and precise, so steady it almost aches. “Maybe that’s why I didn’t want yours,” he says, soft and cutting, the words humming under his breath like something sacred.

Mr. Kim’s eyes narrow slightly, the weight of his stare dragging over you again as if recalculating something he didn’t like. His mouth curves, not quite a sneer, but something colder, more dismissive. “And who are you?” he asks, the question lazy on his tongue, as if he already knows the answer won’t matter. “What family do you belong to?”

Your pulse stutters once, hard, but you steady yourself, lifting your chin slightly. You tell him your name, your family name, clearly, steadily, without apology. No embellishments. No titles you don’t have.

Mr. Kim’s mouth twitches — not surprise, not offense — just that thin curl of distaste that says enough. “Ah,” he says, the syllable falling like a cracked glass onto stone. “No wonder I didn’t recognize it.”

Taeyong steps into the silence like he was always going to, his voice soft and careless, each word cleanly designed to bruise. “One of Mark’s little friends,” he says, almost a hum, almost a sigh, “attached herself to Jeno somewhere along the way.” His glance brushes across you like dust he doesn’t intend to clean up.

You feel Jeno tense at your side, his whole body tightening like a wire pulled too sharp. His hand firms against your waist, a silent brace, and you catch the flicker of movement as he half-turns toward them, shoulders squaring, breath shifting — the beginning of a confrontation he clearly wants to have. His jaw is set hard, tight enough you can see it from the corner of your eye, and for one thick, humming second, you know he is ready to step between you and the weight pressing in from Taeyong and Mr. Kim. Ready to throw himself into the line of fire before a single word could bruise you.

But then his gaze cuts down to you — sharp, fast, searching — and he stops. He sees you breathe in once, slow and deep. He sees the way your fingers loosen slightly instead of clenching. He sees the set of your jaw, the calm behind your fear, the line you are choosing to draw for yourself and so he lets you. Not because he doubts the danger, not because he isn’t furious, but because he knows you are stronger than they will ever believe. Because he knows you have survived worse than their names and their glances, and you don’t need him to cut them down when you are already holding the blade yourself.

Still, his hand stays at your waist, solid and sure, the quiet promise built into his skin — if you stumble, if you break, he will be there before you can fall. You step forward with his warmth at your back, steadying you, not shielding you. You smile — not wide, not mocking, just steady, just sure.

You breathe in slow, feeling Jeno’s steadiness anchored into your side, and you meet Mr. Kim’s gaze without blinking. “I curated the Seoul Exhibition a year ago,” you say, your voice clean and level, leaving no space for interruption, “the first under-thirty to design it in a decade.” You don’t stop. You don’t flinch. “The feature installation was based on a research project in performance theory and emotional design — one I developed and built alongside Jeno, alongside the Seoul Ravens basketball division. The same one that was piloted during the State Championships and later adopted into two separate national programs.”

The air sharpens slightly, like it knows the weight of what you’re laying down. “I have pieces archived in the National Design Archives,” you continue, voice steady and soft, “including the concept work from the Apex x NTU initiative.” Your hand brushes against Jeno’s briefly, a tether, a breath. “I published two essays last year on the integration of performance science into public installation spaces. I was invited to present the ‘Seoul Athletic Art Fusion Project’ at Milan Design Week this spring.” You let the words land where they may, smooth and unforced, cutting without needing to lift your voice.

“I co-designed the Sensory Translation Installations at the River Court Restoration site,” you say, voice low but unwavering. “I worked on Apex’s first Global Mobility Capsule Launch, integrating emotional durability into modular performance gear. I consulted on two independent case studies for the International Athletic Narrative Symposium in New York. I’m shortlisted for the Darwin Design Fellowship in London. I collaborated with the Seoul Civic Commission to embed emotional performance markers into public athletic spaces, creating frameworks for rehabilitation programs. I contributed research to the National Policy Forum on Sport Equity, proposing reforms for post-career athlete transition programs.”

“And,” you say, quiet but clear, feeling Jeno’s thumb graze slow against your hip, “I built my name. Without needing to inherit it. Without needing it handed to me.”

For the first time, Mr. Kim’s gaze flickers — almost imperceptibly, but it does, a tiny muscle in his jaw tightening like he’s tasted something he wasn’t expecting. He smiles, but it’s a thin thing, brittle at the edges. “Impressive,” he says, but the word doesn’t land clean — it hangs crooked in the air, tilted by the weight of what he doesn’t say. “Hard work is admirable. Especially when there’s no name to fall back on.” His voice is smooth, practiced, shaped to bruise without showing a mark.

Taeyong only smiles wider, the kind of smile that belongs to men who believe gravity can be mocked until it drags you down too. He exhales a soft sound, almost a chuckle, and says, “Well, some people have to build their futures by hand. Others are born with the foundation already laid.” His gaze flickers lazily over you, slow enough to feel like a blade sliding under your skin. “Both roads are valid but some hold up better than others when the storms come.”

You feel Jeno’s body shift before you hear him speak. A small movement, precise, cutting the air between you and them just slightly tighter, just slightly sharper. His voice when it comes is low, even, deliberate. “She built more with her own hands than most people inherit their whole lives,” he says, not looking at either of them, looking only at you, like he’s reminding you too. “And it’s standing a hell of a lot stronger than whatever foundations you think matter.”

Taeyong tilts his head slightly, studying Jeno the way a man might study something he once thought was a tool but realizes too late has teeth. His smile doesn’t falter, but it folds into something cooler, something thinner. “You always were talented at carving your own path,” he says lightly, but there’s an edge to it now, something too smooth to be safe. “Just remember, son — not every trail leads to the league.” You feel the warning in it before you understand all of it — the quiet hand tightening around Jeno’s future, the leash still coiled no matter how far he ran. You see Jeno catch it too. His mouth hardens and his spine straightens but he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t look away. His hand stays locked around yours, thumb brushing slow across your knuckles like a promise he won’t let them shake loose.

The words curl around the altar stones like a slow sickness but Jeno’s hand tightens around yours, steady and sure, and when he speaks again it is a blow honed too fine to miss, “Good,” he says, voice low and final, “I wasn’t ever playing for you anyway,” and it lands so cleanly the altar itself seems to flinch. He doesn’t wait for their reactions, he doesn’t offer anything more, just draws you closer with a quiet, dominant touch and steers you away from them without a word, every step he takes pressed full of tension and loyalty, a silent shield built from the parts of him that chose you and will never unchoose you again.

Taeyong hums low, the sound almost thoughtful, almost amused, sliding into the air like a knife tucked beneath velvet, “Some things aren’t built to last, no matter how pretty they look the night before,” he says, gaze heavy with meaning, voice soft enough that it feels more dangerous than if he had raised it.

You feel Jeno’s hand slip from your waist to your fingers, lacing them tight, anchoring you to him like a vow, and before Taeyong can sink the hook deeper, Jeno cuts him off, clean and final, “We were just heading out,” he says, voice clipped sharp enough to crack bone, “We’ll see you both at the wedding tomorrow.” He tugs you gently, decisive, already turning you both toward the path back to the villa. You can feel the heat of him still bristling, the way his body folds around yours without touching you more than he has to, already drawing you out of reach, out of danger.

But Taeyong steps forward a fraction, enough to catch it, to catch him, and says smoothly, almost like a father would ask a favor, “We need to walk, son. You know what about.” The words drop like iron into the space between them, poisoning the air you were almost breathing again.

Jeno goes still for a beat. His grip tightens on your hand before he releases it slowly, every inch of him screaming restraint he can barely afford. His jaw flexes once, his shoulders pulling tighter, but he doesn’t look back at you yet. He looks at Taeyong, bleeding loyalty and bitterness at the same time. “We’ll talk later,” Jeno says, the words gritted out low enough that you barely catch them, but Taeyong does — you can see it in the slight raise of his brow, the almost-smirk he doesn’t hide.

And then Mr. Kim laughs lightly, stepping in like smoke filling the cracks, his voice oiled and thin. “Don’t be too long, Jeno,” he says, pointedly casual. “Nahyun’s been wondering where her date disappeared to.”

The jab lands clean — cruel, masked, precise.

You see Jeno’s knuckles whiten at his sides, the muscle in his jaw twitching once, hard, but he doesn’t bite. He doesn’t glance back. He just threads his hand back through yours again and leads you away without a word, his body shielding yours until the night swallows the sound behind you. The altar doesn’t soften or sigh when you leave its reach, it tightens under the weight you carved into it, holding the bruises like new veins stitched through stone, and even when the night swallows you and Jeno whole, it stays ready, still thrumming under the wilting flowers, still waiting for the rot it knows hasn’t finished growing.

The room glows with a gold too soft to trust, like light filtered through old honey, lazy and low, thickening the air rather than clearing it. The sheets lie untouched and freshly folded across the mattress, smoothed tight at the corners, waiting for something that hasn’t happened yet. A lace slip hangs off the back of a chair like a ghost mid-undress. The air carries the faint sting of salt, sea-wind curling in from the cracked window, brushing damp fingers along your bare thighs. It clings to your skin like a memory you can’t rinse off, like sweat trapped under shame. Jeno shoves the door open with the same hand that’s been clenched since the altar, his palm thudding against wood like it’s the only way to quiet the noise inside him. The door shuts behind you with a quiet, mechanical click — the lock sliding into place with the soft finality of a match blown out before the flame ever had a chance to catch.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just stands there, eyes scanning the room like instinct, gaze flicking over corners, shadows, the little details no one else would check. Not because he’s scared, but because he still doesn’t know how to turn off the need to protect you. His hand hovers behind your back for a beat, like he forgot it was there, and when it drops it’s only to rake through his hair before finding its place again — firm at your waist, grounding. You haven’t moved past the doorway yet. Your fingers twitch once at your side, then rise to graze your throat, light and unthinking. A memory, not a motion. You don’t want to be pitied. You want him to see you. You want him to hold what’s left.

Jeno doesn’t ask right away. He just looks at you for a moment, long enough that it presses into your ribs, his brow creasing slightly like his heart’s caught there, like he’s reading every inch of your silence before deciding what to say. Then he lets out a soft huff — not quite a laugh, more like a breath trying not to break — and shakes his head with that small, boyish smile he never gives anyone else. “Hey,” he says, voice low, warm, carrying just a flicker of that roughness that always makes your spine ache. “Come here.”

You go instantly, too tired to pretend otherwise. Your hands find his shoulders, your body folding into the space he opens for you like your chest’s been waiting for it for months. He wraps you up slow, steady, like he’s not rushing anything — like he’ll hold you for as long as it takes for your heart to settle.

Jeno’s mouth finds your temple, barely a kiss, just the softest breath of skin on skin, his hands steady where they cradle your back and your jaw, and he doesn’t ask again, doesn’t press or prod, just rests there — warm, sure, unmovable — like he’s telling you with every slow stroke of his thumb against your spine that he’s not going anywhere, that you don’t have to speak if it hurts too much, that he’ll still be here when you do. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, voice low and steady against your hair, “You don’t have to say anything yet. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. You can take your time, baby. I’ve got you.”

You shake your head once, barely moving. “Didn’t want you to see me like this.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes searching, thumb already brushing beneath your eye though the tear hasn’t fully fallen. “Like what?” he murmurs, voice soft, teasing at the corners. “Like a person with actual feelings? Shocking.” He offers the smallest smile, tilted and hopeful, and the lightness in it tugs something loose in your chest. You let out a breath that’s halfway between a laugh and a sob, and he grins just slightly, brushing his nose against yours. “There she is,” he whispers, arms tightening around your waist. “You really think I don’t want to be here for this part? I’ve been waiting, baby. Not just for the best of you.” He kisses your cheek gently, right where the tear finally falls, and adds, quiet but sure, “I’m standing right here now. You don’t have to run.”

Your breath catches, lips parting around the start of a protest that doesn’t make it past your throat, and you shake your head, cheeks hot, eyes blinking fast. “You make it sound easy,” you mumble, voice thin with disbelief, with the kind of hope that’s been kicked in the ribs too many times to stand steady. Your fingers tighten in the fabric at his back, clinging without meaning to. “I didn’t want to look pathetic.” You glance down for a second, your voice softer now, smaller. “Didn’t want to ruin this. Us. Whatever this is tonight.” But his hands don’t move, don’t flinch. He just holds you firmer, steadier, like your worst could never scare him off. And when you finally look up again, your lashes wet, breath hitching, he’s still smiling — not big, not smug, but real. Still here. Still yours.

“You don’t need to worry about that,” he murmurs, eyes warm. “You don’t have to hide from me.” You sniff, trying to look away, but he tilts your face back to his gently, his palm wide against your cheek. “It’s okay,” he says, softer now, smiling like it’s just the two of you in the world. “You don’t have to act tough, not with me.” He grins as your mouth twitches, and his voice dips playfully, “I’ve seen you cry over burnt toast and that one animated dog commercial, remember?” His thumb smooths the corner of your mouth. “This? This I can handle.” He pulls you closer again, forehead to yours, voice low and sure. “That’s better,” he whispers, teasing but reverent, “I like when you let me hold you like this.”

You shake your head slowly, blinking through tears, voice barely more than a whisper as you murmur, “You’ve never seen me cry like this.” There’s a nervous laugh tucked inside it, soft and small, like you’re trying to make light of something too big to hold steady, like you’re embarrassed to be falling apart in front of him now after holding it together for so long. “I always made sure you didn’t.”

“I just—” your voice cracks, your whole face folding inward as you try to explain something you don’t know how to name. “I didn’t think it’d still hurt this much.”

Jeno doesn’t let the moment slip. His hands, still resting warm at your waist, shift slightly — firmer now, more certain — and you feel the gentle tug before you register the movement. He’s walking you backwards, slow and careful, eyes never leaving yours, until the backs of your knees catch the edge of the mattress. The soft gold light spills across the bed in gentle pools, sheets smooth and untouched, waiting.

He sits first, gaze still locked on you, then leans back onto his elbows like he’s offering a place — a promise — and without thinking, you follow. Your knees slide either side of his hips as you climb onto him, slow and quiet, your breath hitching as the warmth of his body meets yours fully, chest to chest. His hands settle on your thighs, thumbs dragging slow lines over bare skin, grounding you there, tethering you to this exact moment.

You hover just a little, your mouth hovering above his, your breaths brushing in soft rhythm. It’s not urgent. It’s not desperate. It’s just soft. Steady. Yours. You tilt your head and kiss him — slow, breathy, lips brushing his like a question and an answer all at once. He exhales into it, his fingers flexing against your skin, and when he kisses you back, it’s the kind of kiss that feels like a homecoming, like forgiveness tucked between every soft press of mouths, like the only thing that ever mattered was this.

He breathes into your mouth once, then again, softer this time, until your lips part naturally, until your chest melts down into his like you’re letting go of something bigger than the night. Your hands press into the fabric stretched over his shoulders, his collarbone, your fingertips tracing idly along his throat like they’re afraid to lose contact even for a second. The kiss quiets, slows, your foreheads tipping together again as breath eases between you, and you both stay like that — still, silent, warm — until the hush starts to feel like it needs words.

Jeno speaks first, voice low and threaded tight through his ribs. “I didn’t know he was coming tonight.” His hands on your thighs pause. “He wasn’t supposed to show until morning.”

You nod once against his temple, cheek brushing his softly. “I figured. The way you stood in front of me… it didn’t look planned.”

He lets out a slow breath, not quite a sigh, more like something measured. “Did I do enough?” His fingers squeeze gently, grounding. “Back there. Did I make it clear?”

You nod again, then lean back slightly just to see him. “Yeah. You did.” Your voice doesn’t shake, but it’s quiet, like the words are still soft from the altar’s shadow. “You always know when I’m not okay and you didn’t let him near me.”

“I wanted to do more,” he says finally, and it’s not guilt — not quite — but something close. “I just didn’t know what would’ve made it worse.”

Your fingers twitch against the fabric at his shoulders. “You didn’t make it worse.”

He clears his throat once, the sound low, rough, not embarrassed but trying to break through the weight that’s still clinging to the air. His hands stay on your waist, steady and warm, but his eyes flick to your mouth like he’s afraid if he meets your gaze it’ll land too hard. “For the record,” he mutters, voice quieter now, “none of what they said… about your name, your work—any of that—was true.”

You watch him, lips parting slightly, your breath catching somewhere in the middle of your chest—not because you needed to hear it, but because of how much it sounds like a confession. He keeps going anyway, softer, more certain. “You don’t need a legacy to be better than every single person in that room. And I know they were trying to—” he hesitates, huffs a tired laugh that doesn’t quite lift. “—make you feel small but baby, they couldn’t even reach you if they tried.”

Your throat tightens, but you nod. Slow. Sure. Your fingers curl gently around the back of his neck, thumb stroking the nape like it’s muscle memory. “I know,” you say, voice barely above a breath, but it lands solid. True. “I never doubted that. Not for a second.”

You shift just slightly on top of him, the weight of your body still folded into his chest, but your fingers twitch against his collar. “What are you gonna tell Nahyun?”

Jeno doesn’t answer right away. His thumb keeps tracing the small of your back, slow, absent, almost like he’s ignoring the question. Then, flatly, “I don’t know. I don’t think it matters.”

You curl into his chest more fully, your cheek pressed against the stretch of his shoulder, voice muffled just enough to feel like a confession. “Still can’t believe you actually dated her.”

Jeno shifts beneath you, his voice low and edged with a dry kind of honesty as his fingers slide slowly across the top of your thigh, anchoring you there like he needs the touch to keep the words steady. “It just happened,” he mutters, gaze flicking toward the ceiling like he’s trying to track the timeline in the plaster. “She was just always there,” Jeno says, voice low, almost annoyed with himself, like he’s admitting something he doesn’t respect. “Everywhere I went — training, events, even the hotel lobby — it’s like she was already waiting. I didn’t even get a chance to think about it, let alone stop it. It felt easier to let it happen than deal with what I was actually feeling.” He glances at you then, the side of his mouth twitching like he’s about to smile but doesn’t. “Didn’t mean anything. Just felt like there wasn’t a choice.”

Jeno exhales through his nose, his thumb tracing slow, absent circles against your hip. “And for the record,” he says, voice low but steady, “we were never official.” He looks at you then, serious now, no teasing in the set of his jaw. “She tried, once or twice. Asked what we were. I told her no every time.” His gaze doesn’t waver. “Didn’t even let her leave a toothbrush.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, eyebrows lifting. “You looked pretty fucking comfortable at her birthday dinner.”

He gives you a flat look. “You clearly saw the footage she posted on her page. I looked like a hostage.”

You smirk. “A hostage in Balenciaga.”

Jeno snorts, a rough sound in the back of his throat, dragging his hand slowly up the back of your thigh, settling just beneath your ass with a squeeze that makes your breath stutter. “Okay, maybe I liked the jacket,” he murmurs, then lifts a brow, voice slipping into something lower, something edged with something else. “What about you and Yangyang, huh? You’ve been cosying up to him lately.” His hand moves again, firmer now. “Does he get to touch you like this too?”

You try not to stiffen, but your silence betrays you. You swallow. “He already knows, he knows I’m with you right now.”

His brow lifts, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. “You told him?”

You shake your head. “Didn’t have to. He’s not stupid.”

Jeno hums low under his breath. “Guess that makes one of us.”

You roll your eyes and swat his chest, firm enough to make him grunt, not enough to move him. “Be serious. You need to talk to Nahyun tomorrow,” you say, your voice soft but pointed, thumb grazing his collarbone like a threat dressed in care. “I’m gonna be focused on the wedding, and I don’t need her fake-crying near the aisle like she’s the jilted bride in some low-budget drama.” You pause, then add under your breath, “She already looks like she’s one missed meal away from fainting for attention.”

Jeno huffs a laugh against your throat, his breath warm and smug as his hands slide lower over your hips. “That’s brutal,” he murmurs, grinning into your skin, “but not inaccurate.” He presses a slow kiss just beneath your jaw, voice dipping darker. “I’ll talk to her. First thing. Before she gets any ideas about throwing herself at the altar or me.” He pulls back slightly to glance at you, one brow raised. “Unless you want her to watch when I put my hands on you instead.”

Your smile falters, just a little, enough for him to catch it. Jeno’s hand stills at your waist, thumb brushing slow and thoughtful as his eyes flick up to meet yours, something softer settling in the heat between you. You exhale, tilting your head to rest against his, voice lower now, quieter. “Her dad’s intense, Jeno,” you murmur, the words slipping out before you can talk yourself out of them. “Like really intense. That man’s not here to play nice.”

Jeno hums, not dismissive but not rattled either, his voice lazy but clipped as he mutters, “You don’t need to be scared of him.”

You pull back slightly, eyes narrowing. “I’m not scared of him. I’m scared of you acting like none of this matters. Her father, and yours, could destroy someone’s reputation with a look. Don’t give them a reason to try.”

His jaw ticks. “I won’t. I’m not stupid. I know what men like them are like.”

You nod once, a small breath slipping through your teeth. “Good. Because I don’t want to have to clean up any mess tomorrow while I’m also making sure this wedding doesn’t implode.”

He smirks, eyes dipping to your mouth, voice low and deliberate. “Guess I’ll have to behave then.” His fingers flex against your hips, his smile a little dangerous. “But not tonight.”

You don’t respond right away — just watch the flicker behind his eyes, the way his mouth curls at the edges with that trademark smirk, lazy and teasing like always, but you know what it really is. It’s bravado, a shield he’s learned to sharpen into humor, something to soften the way men like his father and Mr. Kim carve the world into things they can own or ruin. You can feel the tension underneath it, the subtle clench of his jaw when he thinks you aren’t looking, the way his hands linger longer on your waist now, like he’s already planning how to keep you safe without saying it out loud. There’s a part of him that won’t let himself show the panic, the worry, because to do that would mean admitting they still have power over him — over you. So instead, he jokes. He flirts. He acts like none of it rattles him, because pretending it doesn’t hurt is the only way he knows how to hold the blade without bleeding.

You’re still in his lap, straddling him like you never left, but the air between you shifts. His hand has stopped moving, paused just under the hem of your jacket, fingers warm and splayed against your lower back like a placeholder he hasn’t figured out how to lift. He’s watching you, close, gaze flicking between your mouth and your eyes, his breathing steady but not relaxed, and you know he can feel it — the way your pulse changed under his thumb, the way your hands have flattened against his chest now, not to push him away, but to hold him still. Something in you’s pulling tight again, something deeper than nerves or hesitation, and it hums inside you like a live wire behind the ribs.

He doesn’t speak, not right away. Doesn’t kiss you again either. Just waits. The quiet between you buzzes with what you’re not saying yet. Finally, he tilts his head a little, searching your face. “What?” he murmurs, voice low and warm, not impatient but tuned to you, tuned like a wire stretched just tight enough to hold tension without snapping. His fingers twitch slightly where they rest on your back, thumb grazing side to side like he’s grounding both of you, and the intimacy of it makes your chest ache.

You swallow, throat tight, eyes flicking past him toward the closed bedroom door, even though you know it’s locked, even though there’s nothing on the other side but silence and moonlight and a hallway that smells like gardenias and salt. “I just…” you start, then stop. You’re not even sure what you’re trying to say yet, but your mouth is dry and your heart is loud and your body feels like it’s trying to climb out of itself. You shift a little on top of him, not away, just… recalibrating. Your knees dig harder into the mattress on either side of his hips, and his hands steady you automatically, but you don’t miss the way his grip stiffens. He’s alert now. He’s listening closer. “I think we should talk.”

The words come out smaller than you meant. He stills under you completely. A pause follows, long enough to sting, short enough to keep you locked in place and then he shifts, slightly, just his shoulders, but it feels like the entire room tilts with it. “Talk about what?” His voice is quieter now. The space between your faces feels thinner than it did a moment ago, like if you breathe wrong, something will tip.

You pull in a breath that drags. “Your dad.”

He goes still again. No dramatic reaction, no sharp intake of breath or flinch — just a flick of his eyes, a tightening in the corners of his jaw, the sudden cold of a breath he doesn’t fully release. The softness that was warming his gaze seconds ago fades beneath the flatness that slips in. “What about him?”

You don’t answer at first. You’re watching him too now — the way he shifts subtly beneath you, the way the muscle in his cheek tightens like he already knows he’s not going to like this. You try again, quieter. “I just— I don’t think he has your best interests at heart.”

This time the reaction isn’t subtle. He exhales, fast and dry, a humorless breath of sound that doesn’t reach his mouth. Not a laugh. Not disbelief. Just… resistance. “Okay,” he says, and it’s clipped, like the word costs him to say. Like he’s already closing the door on whatever you were about to open.

You hesitate, not because you’re unsure, but because you know he’s already decided what he’ll allow himself to hear. “Did he say something to you?” he asks, and his tone doesn’t change — still low, still even, but there’s an edge under it now, a barely concealed coil of something bitter tightening in his voice. “What happened?”

You should tell him. You should. You know it, you should tell him about the blackmail but your mouth opens, and the lie is already there, waiting, warm and familiar like it’s always been part of you. “I’m fine.” You look down, not because you’re ashamed, but because the truth feels too big to carry between your eyes and his.

His voice sharpens, a crack barely visible. “Y/N.”

“He didn’t do anything.” The lie hits the room like a dropped knife — sharp, loud, deliberate. He hears it. You both do. You say it again, too fast. “He didn’t.”

The silence stretches thick between your thighs, heavier than it should be, like a curtain that doesn’t part even when touched. Jeno’s hands stay at your hips but they don’t tighten, don’t claim, just rest there with a kind of pressure that feels more like holding breath than holding you. He doesn’t ask again, doesn’t move, doesn’t blink too long, like if he lets anything shift he’ll miss what you’re not saying. You sit still in his lap, jacket half-unzipped, his shirt warm against your bare legs, and it should feel easy but it doesn’t. His chest rises under yours and you feel the gap now, the one between the rhythm of his breath and yours, like you’re not syncing this time and maybe he knows it too.

You keep your gaze low, lashes wet but not from crying, throat tight for reasons you haven’t named yet, and when you say it again — “I’m fine” — it’s not soft, it’s sharp, clipped at the edges and full of things that don’t belong in this room. Jeno doesn’t flinch but his jaw ticks once and you know he’s heard it, knows exactly what kind of lie it is. Your fingers twitch once where they rest against his collarbone but you don’t follow through, don’t kiss him, don’t collapse like you want to because the truth still tastes like someone else’s voice in your mouth, someone else’s hand in the dark, and you don’t know how to bring that into the light without it burning both of you.

Jeno exhales through his nose, slow and uneven, the kind of breath that sounds like it’s holding back teeth. His fingers flex once at your hips before going still again, his gaze dropping from your eyes to your mouth, to the collar of your jacket, to the floor. “You’re not telling me the truth, after everything and you’re still hiding things,” he says quietly, not cruel, not angry — just certain, like he’s known you too long to fall for anything else.

Jeno’s jaw tics once, his voice coming low and bitter at the edges. “If you don’t want to tell me, then fine. I’m not gonna drag it out of you.” He leans back slightly, just enough to put space where there wasn’t any before, his eyes scanning your face like he’s still hoping you’ll change your mind. “But don’t expect me to pretend I don’t see it.” His hand tightens at your hip — not harsh, just tense. “And don’t think I’ll be calm if I ever find out someone laid a fucking hand on you.”

He nods once, almost to himself, jaw tight. “If something happened—” he stops, then shakes his head, chuckles low, bitter under his breath. “If something ever happens and you don’t want to tell me then fine, I won’t ask for details. I’ll just handle it.” His eyes flick back up to yours, slow and heavy, and there’s nothing soft in them now. “You know that, right?” A pause. Then, quieter, darker — but not less loving. “You know I’ll lose my fucking mind for you.”

Your breath catches hard in your throat, heat rushing low in your stomach before you can stop it, your thighs tightening just slightly where they straddle his lap. His hand stays locked at your hip — strong, claiming, burning hot through the fabric — and the moment his fingers tighten, a jolt shoots through you so violently it makes your stomach clench and your teeth sink into your bottom lip just to keep the moan from slipping out. You shift instinctively, just the smallest roll of your hips against the hard muscle of his thigh, chasing the friction like your body’s betraying you, like it always does around him. The edge in his voice, the steel under the softness, the way he looks at you like he’d burn the world down if you asked — it makes your spine arch just slightly, makes your nipples harden beneath the thin fabric of your top, makes everything ache in that desperate, throbbing way you can’t mask.

You try to look away, but your eyes drag back to his mouth — pink, parted, still tense — and it makes something break loose inside you, molten and needy. “You’re really—” you start, then falter, voice thinner than you mean for it to be. You swallow, eyes flicking up to meet his. “You’re really hot when you say shit like that.” It slips out before you can filter it, and his brow lifts just barely, his grip flexing on your hip, and the pressure makes your breath stutter again. “Not the point, I know,” you mutter, trying and failing not to squirm. “But fuck, Jeno. You say one thing like that and I’m—” You break off, shifting against him again, your core throbbing, panties damp now with how fast your body gave in. “I’m not made of stone.”

Jeno’s jaw ticks once, his mouth curling into that slow, confident smirk that doesn’t quite touch his eyes — all male heat and knowing cruelty. “Yeah?” he murmurs, voice low and thick, hand tightening on your hip like he’s testing how far he can push. His thumb drags slowly toward the waistband of your shorts, a whisper of pressure that makes your breath stutter, and his gaze drops — to your mouth, your throat, the flush spreading down your chest. “Didn’t think you’d get this worked up from me telling you not to lie.” His tongue swipes over his bottom lip, slow and deliberate, and when he tilts his head, it’s with all the ease of a man who already knows what you’ll admit if he just keeps looking at you like that. “That why you’re squirming, baby?” he breathes, his hand sliding up your thigh, rough and lazy. “You like me a little mean?”

He watches the shiver run through you and grins — darker now, sharp and unhurried, his fingers flexing against your hip like he’s reminding you exactly who has you. “Fuck,” he mutters, almost to himself, the sound wrecked with heat, “you’re turned on from that?” His voice drips over your skin like syrup and ash, and his thumb strokes just beneath your waistband, slow and grounding. “You get wet every time I lose my temper, or just when it’s for you?” His nose brushes your cheek, lips grazing your jaw. “You act so tough,” he murmurs, his tone all velvet threat, “but the second I talk like I’d ruin someone for even looking at you—” he pauses, breath catching — “you melt like you want me to be the one to do it.” He leans back just far enough to meet your eyes, his own burning through you, and whispers, “Tell me I’m wrong.”

Your laugh comes out soft and breathy, barely a sound, more of a sigh that catches on your lips as you shift in his lap, slow and deliberate, grinding down just enough for him to feel how wet you already are. “You’re not wrong,” you whisper, and your voice is low and sinful, your mouth grazing his but never giving in, letting your breath fan across his lips as you smile against them. “I want you rough. I want you pissed. I want you when your hands are shaking because you’re trying not to fuck me right there against the wall.” You rock your hips again, a little sharper this time, watching his jaw tighten as his hands clamp down on your thighs, and you let the tease drip straight from your tongue. “I want you when you’re done pretending to be good.”

Jeno’s groan hits the back of your throat before you even kiss him, low and choked and primal, and that’s when you pull his shirt off, all nails and urgency, your breath catching when you feel the flex of muscle beneath your palms. “Take these off,” you murmur, tugging at the waistband of your shorts, voice turned molten and dark, “Take everything off. I want your mouth on me before I come in these fucking panties.”

Jeno doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. His hands are already on your waistband, rough and deliberate, fingers hooking into the sides of your shorts with a grip that says ‘mine’ more than any word ever could. You barely breathe before he’s dragging them down your thighs, slow enough to make you feel the fabric peel away from your skin, fast enough to leave your pulse skittering. He doesn’t even look up. His gaze is fixed on the sight of you — panties damp, clinging, your thighs trembling just a little as the cool air brushes against heat. He lets the shorts fall. He leaves them forgotten, like nothing that ever covered you mattered.

He mouths at your neck the whole way, kissing and sucking like he wants to mark every inch of you he’s missed. Your bras gone before you notice his hand moving, and he pulls one nipple into his mouth without warning, sucking slow and rough until you cry out, grinding down harder on his thigh. His free hand slips between your legs, fingers dragging through the wet heat of your cunt through soaked fabric, and he moans into your chest like he’s the one being touched.

You kiss him like your ribs are splintering from the inside out, like something is breaking loose beneath your skin and leaking straight into his mouth, the press of your lips slow and trembling, not for passion but for memory, for need, for the ache of having something so precious in your hands again you’re scared to crush it. Your nose brushes his, soft and clumsy, and your thumbs stroke gently over his cheekbones as you tilt into him, breath stuttering once, then again, caught behind the knot in your chest. His mouth moves with yours like it remembers this rhythm too well to unlearn — like it’s been dreaming of this softness all year, the kind that doesn’t ask for anything but closeness, but presence. There’s no urgency. No rush. Just the slow burn of something that was supposed to die and didn’t. His hands don’t roam. They just hold you steady at the waist, thumbs anchoring you in the space between inhale and goodbye.

You feel the sigh catch low in his throat when you pull back, not a sound of protest but of surrender, like he knows not to chase you yet, like he knows this version of you is not one he can press too hard. Your fingers stay curled at the curve of his jaw, trailing down slowly, tracing the line of his neck like a goodbye folded into reverence. You lean your forehead to his, eyes closed, breathing him in through the spaces where you once left all your bruises, and your mouth hovers just above his like a secret. “Goodnight,” you whisper, and it comes out like an apology, like a promise you wish you could keep, your voice barely stronger than the tremble in your lip. You don’t mean to shiver when you say it, but you do. He feels it. And his hands press tighter, wrapping around your ribs like he’s trying to hold the words inside you just a little longer.

You shift to move — just enough to slide off his lap, just enough to slip free of the weight between you, but his hands find your hips before you make it far, palms warm and steady, not yanking you back, just anchoring you there like he can’t bear the space yet. His touch trembles slightly, not with anger, not with restraint, but with need, the kind that sits in the back of his throat and burns slow when he swallows it down. You pause, breath stalling as you glance down at him, and he’s already looking up, eyes dark and hooded, mouth parted just slightly, the ghost of a smirk there but it’s lazy, crooked, too intimate to be cocky, too hungry to be amused.

He leans in, voice low and frayed at the edges, dragging heat straight down your spine as he whispers against your skin, “Don’t go yet, baby… just stay right here a little longer.” His mouth brushes your collarbone, lips soft and open, like he’s already tasting the places he wants to worship. “You can’t kiss me like that and expect me to let you sleep,” he murmurs, hands tightening just enough to make you feel how bad he wants it, “I need to feel you again, need you under me… I’ll make it quick if you want, slow if you don’t… but fuck, baby, don’t walk away when I’m already aching for you.”

Your chest tightens, not with fear, not with hesitation, but with the ache of knowing he’s right. You were never leaving, not really. Not with his hands on your hips like that, not with his mouth already chasing your skin like he forgot how to breathe without it. You swallow hard, breathless and trembling as your fingers twist tighter into his shirt, clutching the heat of him. “We can’t,” you whisper, but it’s barely a protest, more like a whimper. “If we start now…” You shake your head, voice dipping softer, “I won’t stop. We won’t sleep. I need to be awake for tomorrow. I need energy for the wedding. I need to charge before the whole world sees us again.” But even as you say it, you’re leaning in, lips brushing the corner of his jaw, your thighs pressing tighter around his hips like you’re already betraying every word.

Jeno doesn’t tease. He doesn’t scoff or play coy. He looks at you like he already knows how this ends — like your breath will stutter the second his mouth finds the right part of you and your body will follow without question. His hands slide slowly over your waist, palms heavy and warm, dragging over the dip of your sides until his thumbs settle just under the swell of your ribs. “You don’t have to explain anything, just let me help” he murmurs, voice low and thick, each word a stroke against your skin. “You just have to let me do what I’m good at.” He doesn’t ask or wait. He just watches you unravel for him, already halfway there with nothing but the sound of his voice.

You exhale, unsteady and sharp, and your body moves without permission, hips pressing forward just enough to drag your cunt over the bulge in his sweats and it hits like a bolt straight through both of you. Your thighs tighten, breath catching hard in your chest, and his jaw locks instantly, hands freezing at your waist like he’s holding you down just to survive it. “Fuck,” Jeno breathes, his voice dark and reverent, a growl under his breath as he leans in closer, lips brushing your jaw. “You’re so tight, baby. So pent up I can feel it in every fucking muscle.” His fingers flex, grounding you, steadying you. “Let me pull you open. Let me fuck the noise out until your body forgets how to hold it in.”

His hands stay on your hips like he’s waiting—waiting for you to move again, waiting for you to take him in deep and raw and ruin both of you. You shift, just enough to feel the heat of his cock drag along the mess between your thighs, your panties clinging to you like second skin, soaked through and bunched to the side. You roll your hips, slow and deliberate, grinding your cunt along his shaft while your teeth scrape his jaw, breath warm against his neck, and he groans low, a threat and a plea tangled into one. His hands twitch, like he wants to flip you, pin you, fuck into you so hard the villa shakes, but you keep control, keep him there, trembling beneath you while you slide forward again, letting the thick press of his cockhead catch at your clit with every pass. His stomach tightens beneath your palms, abs flexing like he’s holding back from begging.

You ease forward until your chest grazes his, your breasts brushing his skin with every breath, and the shiver it pulls from him is silent but deep. He’s still underneath you, barely moving now, like he knows he’s not allowed to. Your hips roll again, slower, lazier, the drag of your slick folds over his cock making everything between your thighs throb. You tilt your head, lips brushing the shell of his ear, and exhale soft enough to make him twitch beneath you. “You’ve thought about this,” you murmur, your voice all smoke and syrup, “about how I’d take you.” You kiss just below his ear, your mouth trailing down until your teeth scrape the edge of his jaw, your fingers sliding into his hair like you’re re-learning every inch of him with your hands. “How wet I’d be. How I’d moan when your cock pressed right here—” your hips shift, angle cruel, grinding his tip along your clit until your breath hitches and his jaw clenches tight.

He groans low, almost choked, trying to lift into it, to push for more, and your hand meets his chest, flat and commanding. His abs tense under your palm, his breath jagged, and you keep your weight steady, keep him grounded, pinned beneath you while your hips move just enough to keep him suffering. “Don’t,” you whisper, letting your lips brush the corner of his mouth but never kissing him. “You don’t get to fuck me yet.” You roll forward again, slower this time, letting your soaked panties drag over the length of him so slowly it feels like punishment. “You’re gonna lie there and feel it. Every second you spent not touching me.”

His brows pull together, hands gripping your waist like he’s scared you’ll vanish, like it’s a nightmare, and you only smile, slow and sharp and sweet, pressing one last kiss to his parted lips before slipping off his lap. “I need a shower,” you say, calm and cruel, like you’re not soaked and trembling and dripping down your own thighs. He groans, head falling back, chest heaving, and when you look at him, it’s deliberate—your gaze drops to his cock, flushed and twitching, resting heavy against the cut planes of his stomach, a single vein running thick along the shaft. His thighs are spread, tense, all muscle and restraint, and his abs twitch when you drag your eyes up slow. Every line of him is heat and tension, chest rising fast, sweat making his skin gleam, and he looks so good like this—needy and wrecked and ready to break for you.

You take a step away, then stop at the edge of the bed. You should walk. You should leave him there, hard and aching but when you turn back, the sight punches the air from your lungs. His tongue runs across his bottom lip like he’s trying to taste the memory of you still clinging to his mouth. You move before you can think, crawling back onto the mattress with a hunger that feels ancient, falling onto him with your knees spread and your mouth open, and he groans like salvation when your lips meet his again—rushed, open, filthy—as you grind down hard, panties shoved aside, cock pinned perfectly between your folds, hot and slick and already sliding. You kiss him like it’s war, like if you stop now the world will split open, and he moans into your mouth as your fingers grip the base of his cock and guide him right where he belongs, right back inside.

“You’ve thought about this,” you murmur, voice thick with heat as your fingers slide into his hair, slow and possessive. “How slow I’d grind on you. How wet I’d be. How easy you’d give in if I just sat down and took it like this.” Your hips shift, dragging his cock along your soaked panties with enough pressure to make you gasp, and the tip catches right on your clit—sharp, perfect, a jolt that makes your whole body tighten. “You missed me?” you whisper into his jaw, licking over the bone before nipping just below his ear. “Missed being underneath me, hard and quiet, while I fucked myself stupid on your cock?”

He groans, deep and desperate, hands flying to your waist like instinct, like he forgot he ever lived without the weight of your hips in his palms, and you feel it—how tightly he holds you, how recklessly his body pushes up into yours, how the heat between your legs goes molten the second his thigh flexes beneath you. You grab his jaw, hold it firm, tilt his face toward yours and kiss him again, harder, sloppier, tongues tangling as you roll your hips down mercilessly, dragging his cock against your soaked centre with nothing separating you but ruined lace. You can feel how hard he is already, can feel how close he is to snapping, and you haven’t even taken your fucking panties off yet, haven’t even let him inside you, haven’t even started. You rock again, slower this time, the wet drag of your cunt slicking over his shaft until your thighs shake from how close it is, your breath hitching right as you whisper into his mouth, “You said you’d help.”

His hands grip tighter, fingertips pressing bruises into your ass as he surges up to meet your next grind, his cock dragging hot and thick against your folds and catching right where it makes you whimper. “So help,” you hiss, voice wrecked and trembling, and when you shift back to tug your ruined panties aside and reach between your bodies to line him up—your fingers sticky with how desperate you are for him—his eyes lock on yours like he’s about to lose his fucking mind. His mouth opens like he wants to say something, maybe a warning, maybe a plea, but you don’t give him the chance.

You sink down onto him in one brutal thrust, cunt stretching around him with a slick, obscene pull that rips a cry from your throat and a curse from his, your hand gripping his shoulder tight as you slam your hips down to seat him fully inside you, the angle sharp and punishing. His head falls back, chest heaving, and he moans so loud it vibrates through your spine, but you don’t stop, don’t pause to let him adjust, you just start bouncing—fast, messy, desperate—your thighs clapping against his as your cunt grips him tight, like your body never forgot the exact shape of him, like it’s been aching for this. His hands scramble over your back, fists greedy and clumsy, and as your hips slam down again, your tits bounce free—bare and flushed, swinging with every rough grind—and he catches one in his mouth without thinking, sucking like he’s starving, his teeth grazing your nipple right as your body jolts and your vision threatens to go white.

You ride him like you’re trying to burn the whole year off your skin—hips snapping down, tits bouncing, your breath catching every time his cock hits that spot that makes your knees give out. Your moans spill against his mouth, wet and messy, and when you kiss him, it’s nothing careful—just teeth and tongue, heads knocking, mouths clashing like neither of you can stand the space between. He’s so deep it hurts, the stretch relentless, your cunt dragging around him with every bounce, and the slap of skin is sharp now, echoing off the villa walls. Your nails carve down his chest, and you breathe against his mouth, voice all fucked-out rasp, “You don’t get to fuck me.”

Your thighs grind harder. Your hand grips his jaw. “You just lie there and let me fuck it out of you.” Another drop. Another slap. Your lips brush his, mouth still open. “The stress. The wedding. Your father and Mr. Fucking Kim. This fucking pressure. It was smart—letting me do this.” Your pace doesn’t slow. Your voice cracks. “You needed this. I needed this.”

He tries to obey. He really does but his hips twitch every time your ass hits his thighs, every time your cunt squeezes around him too tight. “Shit—” he gasps, too breathless to speak.

You cut him off with a slap—sharp and hot across his cheek, just enough to make his head jolt and his eyes fly open, glassy and wrecked as they lock onto yours. “Stay the fuck still.” Your hand slides up his throat, claiming it, your fingers curling hard around his neck as you ride him rougher, your hips snapping in tight, punishing circles. You grind your clit right against the base of his cock, wet and swollen and pulsing, the friction so sharp it makes you bite your lip to keep from moaning. He groans under you, body twitching, cock thick and pinned deep inside your cunt like it belongs there, and you keep fucking down on him like he’s yours to ruin.

You lean in, forehead smashing into his, both of you panting into each other’s mouths, teeth scraping, lips brushing. Your nose knocks against his as you whisper it, voice shredded, low, filthy—“Right fucking there.” Your hips keep grinding, cunt fluttering, slick dripping down to his balls with every twist of your waist. “That’s where I’m gonna cum. Don’t you fucking move. Don’t even breathe unless I say so.”

You fuck him like revenge, like a prayer, like if you go fast enough you’ll erase every month he didn’t touch you, every fucking day he went silent. Your hands are everywhere—his shoulders, his throat, tugging his head up so you can spit into his mouth and kiss him after, sloppy and breathless, while you keep fucking yourself on his cock like it’s the only way you’ll ever feel whole again. He groans every time you drop, helpless, wrecked, his hands struggling to keep pace with how rough you ride him, how greedy you are for every inch, for the stretch, for the burn. You grind in circles now, teasing and cruel, and when his fingers slip between your bodies to rub your clit, you flinch, biting into his shoulder to stop from screaming, your moans now shattered pieces against his throat.

“Fucking—Jesus—” he rasps, voice torn open, cracked and ragged as your pace turns merciless. You laugh into his neck, breath searing across his skin, and keep going—harder now, filthier, faster, until the headboard slams the villa wall with every bounce, until the sheets are a mess beneath you, soaked with sweat and slick and the way your bodies crash together over and over again.

Your thighs tremble, slick dripping down the backs of them as you bounce harder, faster, cunt twitching every time he throbs deep inside you. Your rhythm’s breaking apart at the edges now, more grind than drop, more drag than control, and you can feel it building sharp behind your ribs—tight and relentless, the kind that rips straight through your spine when it hits. Your nails rake down his chest, carving heat into his skin, and your voice spills out cracked and breathless, “You feel that? How deep you are?” Another bounce, another sharp clench around the base of his cock. “Yeah—keep it there. Don’t say anything unless you’re gonna moan my fucking name.”

He groans something broken, hands bruising your waist now as he thrusts up into you, brutal and hungry, his cock spearing deep with each hit, the stretch sharp and perfect and unrelenting. You ride him through it, bouncing with no rhythm now, just need, just raw, animal want, your moans spilling into his mouth as he pants against your skin. Your bodies slap together loud and wet, his cock fucking up into your cunt so hard you see stars, and every time you drop, he pulses inside you like he’s about to explode. “Take it,” you whisper, teeth scraping his jaw, voice cracked and soaked. “Fucking take it. Give me everything.”

You don’t slow. You don’t let up. You fuck him until you can barely breathe, until your bodies are soaked and shaking, until your lipgloss is smeared across his jaw and your sweat runs down his chest in rivers. Your cunt stretches around him, raw and aching and perfect, milking him with every clench, every grind, and when his hands slide to your throat, holding you steady, you meet his eyes again—wide and wrecked and gone—and it undoes you completely. You break in his hands, your body locking up, your moan ripped straight from your lungs as your orgasm tears through you, full-body, spine-arching, hips jolting and mouth gasping as you clamp down around him, shaking through every second of it.

He’s glassy-eyed and gone, arms stretched tight above his head, fists twisting in the sheets like he’s one second from breaking, from grabbing you and slamming you down harder. You lean in, tongue dragging over his nipple before your teeth sink in—just enough to make him jerk—and the gasp that rips out of him, desperate and ruined, makes your cunt clamp around his cock so tight you moan through your teeth. “You like this?” you whisper, voice low and cruel, dragging your mouth along his chest. “Being used like this—nothing but a cock to bounce on?” You slam down again, slow and punishing, the drag wet and loud, and his abs twitch under your palms. “Fucked dumb by the pussy you spent a year dreaming about.” Your nails rake down his ribs, and you don’t wait for him to speak. “Say it. Say you’re my little toy, say you’ll take it like the pathetic, cock-hungry mess you are.”

“Fuck—yes,” he groans, breath hitching. “Please—please just keep using me. I don’t care—do whatever you want—just ride me, ride me ‘til I can’t think—‘til I forget everything but you.” His voice breaks open mid-sentence, jaw slack, eyes wild. “Make me your fucking toy.”

You sit up on him like he’s a throne, spine arched, tits bouncing slick and high with every brutal slap of your hips down, your hands splayed over his chest to hold him in place while you fuck him deeper. He chokes when you slam down harder, the kind of bounce that forces the breath from his lungs and makes his cock twitch so violently inside you it feels like a warning. You grind after it—slow and mean—letting your clit drag along the base of him with every roll, and his moan tears out loud, ragged, wrecked. “You hear that?” you murmur, hips moving side to side, your cunt so wet it’s slapping slick across his cock. “That’s your fault. That’s what your dick does to me.” His body jolts beneath you like he can’t take it. “Deep as you are? You should be grateful I haven’t kept you in here all fucking year.”

“Fuck—please—” he pants, voice dissolving as he watches you ride him, eyes stuck to the place where your bodies meet. “I want it. I want all of it. Keep leaking on me. Fuck my cock until you break it—I don’t care—just don’t fucking stop.”

You laugh, low and breathless, cunt tightening around him as you lean back on his thighs and slap your own clit with one hand, just to watch the way his eyes roll. “Desperate little thing,” you whisper, tilting your hips and bouncing shallow now, filthy little thrusts that drag just the head of his cock in and out of your soaked pussy. “You’re hard even when you’re empty. You’d fuck me with your last breath if I let you.”

He nods, chest rising fast, skin flushed all the way down. “I would. I swear to God, I would.”

Your smirk deepens. You roll your hips slower this time, smoother, watching the way his stomach twitches when your cunt squeezes around him again, teasing the overstimulation right back into hunger. “Good,” you say, dragging your fingers down your own stomach to where you’re still stretched open around him. “Because we’re nowhere near done.”

Your pace turns brutal. No more teasing, no rhythm—just raw, punishing drops that drive his cock so deep you swear you feel it hit your ribs. Your thighs slap down hard, soaking him, drenching the sheets, and the noise is so loud, so slick, it sounds like filth. Your cunt flutters, squeezes, then drags up his length just to slam back down again, and he’s a fucking mess underneath you—red-faced, jaw slack, panting like he’s trying to keep up but failing with every bounce.

“You feel that?” you growl, voice sharp and low, your fingers pressing into his chest as your clit grinds down again, over and over. “You feel how fucking close I am?” You ride him faster, harder, and his moans spill out ragged and wet, his cock twitching like he’s right there, begging for permission. “Say it, baby,” you whisper, nails raking down his stomach. “Say you want baby to squirt all over your cock.”

“Yes—fuck, yes, mommy—please,” he gasps, wrecked and shaking. “Please cum on me—want to feel it, want to watch you make a mess of me—please, fuck, let me be your toy—let me make you cum, baby, let me feel you fucking drench me.”

Your eyes roll back as it hits, your hips slamming down one last time before your whole body locks. Your orgasm tears through you, violent and uncontrollable, a loud, raw moan ripping from your throat as your cunt clenches so tight around his cock he jerks hard beneath you. And then it gushes out of you, hot and fast, a full-body squirt that spills over his cock, down his balls, soaking everything between your thighs as you grind through it with a scream. Your hands dig into his chest, holding him down as your slick pours over him, pulsing in waves while your cunt milks every drop from him.

He cums with a broken cry, cock throbbing, hips twitching helplessly as he empties inside you again, his cum hot and thick as it mixes with yours, his whole body spasming under you while you keep rocking, dragging him through it. You don’t let up. You ride every last second of it, cunt fluttering, slick dripping, your thighs soaked and shaking as you moan low and breathless, “Good fucking boy.”

You wake up to the weight of him still inside you, thick, heavy and twitching like he dreamt about staying there, like your cunt is the only place his body remembers how to rest. The sheets are wrecked, soaked with sweat and breath and everything you didn’t say last night, and your thighs ache from how long you stayed on top of him, grinding until your spine locked and your voice went hoarse. Jeno’s hand is on your waist, fingers pressing slowly, palm wide and grounding, like he already knows you’re going to try to bolt and he’s trying to delay it. His cock is hard again. The room is too quiet and too still, and when you lift your head, hair clinging to your temple, you can see it — the villa gleaming too clean for morning, golden light bleeding across the marble like it’s been staged for a photograph, like the day’s already lying to you and you haven’t even stood up yet.

Linens drape over the balcony like surrender, white and shapeless, while the orchids bloom with surgical symmetry, mouths open like they’re mid-scream and trying not to be heard. The breakfast table looks like an altar, untouched, polished, waiting for something to go wrong and it does in tiny increments — the air too sweet, the quiet too controlled, the smell of citrus masking something sour underneath. You’ve been up for hours, dressed in silk that clings like it resents you, robe slipping down your shoulder and left that way on purpose because there’s no time to fix it, no point pretending it matters. Your clipboard slaps against your leg like a weapon you haven’t used yet and every step you take sounds like a countdown.

You don’t walk, you carve through the hallway like something cracked open and given direction, silk trailing like smoke behind you, heels sharp as if they could slice the day in half if they needed to. Every motion is loaded, edged, heavy with the kind of energy that makes people part when you pass, the kind that doesn’t yell to be heard — it drags its own gravity behind it, a kind of silence that curdles the air. The checklist in your hand is bruising where your grip won’t ease, names ticked with such pressure the pen nearly splits, pages turned like they’re skin being torn free. A server breathes too loud, moves too slow, and you fix the tray in her hands without looking at her, an act so instinctive it feels predatory. The tray crashes a second later but you don’t stop, don’t even blink as the sound echoes back through the corridor like a warning.

Behind you, Jeno trails in greyscale, all soft black and damp skin, the heat of the shower still clinging to him like steam, eyes low, steps quiet, tethered to your storm like he was born to navigate it. “Baby, breathe,” he says, voice gentle but not afraid, and you don’t turn, don’t flinch, don’t even acknowledge him — “I am breathing,” you say instead, sharp as silk cut with glass, a sound that doesn’t rise, only pierces.

You turn a corner. Donghyuck’s voice erupts from the wrong speaker in a burst of sound so shrill it almost scrapes, and your head doesn’t even move. Chenle rolls by with the champagne tower, two glasses already fractured at the rim, laughter trailing behind him like smoke from a fire that hasn’t caught yet. Your eyes flick once. They both freeze.

Jaemin opens his mouth and a silver spoon slams into the wall two inches from his head, thrown without looking, thrown like instinct, thrown like punctuation. He ducks with a yell. Karina doesn’t blink. She lounges on the couch in champagne silk like a queen watching a bloodsport, sips her coffee slow, legs crossed, murmuring something about last time and a near-castration and it barely registers. You’ve already moved on. The flowers are wrong. The violins too slow. The altar too pale, too empty, like it’s waiting to be stained with something honest. Ningning’s straightening table cards that were already perfect and when you see her hand move again your breath breaks out of your chest in a sound you don’t recognize. You don’t stop. You never stop. The seams of the tablecloth are crooked and your hand smooths them with enough pressure to bruise.

The air smells wrong, too bright with citrus and something deeper rotting beneath it, like a body hiding under perfume, and your jaw is clenched so tight the pop of bone clicks loud in your ears. It’s not the wedding. It’s not the guests. It’s not even the fact that you had sex with Jeno before sunrise and you’re still shaking from it — it’s the sense that something’s coming, something is off, and no one else can see it yet. The bouquet is gone. The orchids are too open. Your chest is tight and your arms feel wired and you haven’t sat down since dawn, haven’t stopped moving, haven’t stopped correcting and adjusting and controlling because if you pause, even for one second, something inside you might collapse. Jeno doesn’t speak again. He’s watching. Waiting. He knows what this is. He’s seen you like this before.

You walk out of the room with nothing soft in your step, silk robe open just enough to expose the outline of your ribs and the mark he left at your throat, the air dragging along your skin like static. Linens hang from the villa’s balconies like surrendered flags, limp and pale in the gold-drenched morning light, and the orchids—sharp, perfect, screaming into the silence with their mouths wide open—glare down at the table below like they know exactly what kind of day it is. The breakfast table’s laid out like a last supper, white and sterile and waiting to be ruined, silver cutlery gleaming too clean, the smell of citrus sliced too thin to hide the sourness underneath. You move like a problem given legs, silk clinging to the sweat between your thighs, still damp from riding Jeno until your hips locked, until your voice broke, and even now as your clipboard slaps against your bare thigh with every step, you feel it—his cum drying on your skin, your body still open from it, your core tight from the stretch.

Your heels hit the hallway tile like you’re calling something forward, each step deliberate, surgical, carved with the intent to cut through anything that gets in your way, and everything in your posture says this day will belong to you or it will burn. The silk belt tied loose around your waist trails behind you like a noose you haven’t fastened yet, fluttering with each movement as your clipboard bruises against your palm from how tightly you’re holding it. Every name ticked off the list is marked with a pressure like you’re trying to split the paper in half, every flipped page sounds like a skin being stripped from bone, and still it’s not enough. A server passes on the left and her tray’s angled wrong, balance off, too much ice in the mimosas—your hand reaches out, corrects it without a glance, and she nods like she’s grateful not to be executed. Ten seconds later, it crashes behind you. You don’t look back.

Behind you, Jeno follows with the patience of a man who’s already had you once this morning and knows it won’t be the last. His black tee clings to his chest, damp at the collarbone where you kissed it half an hour ago, and his sweats hang low on his hips, skin still warm from the shower he took while you redid the seating chart with your nails biting into the pen. His eyes track you with that lazy hunger he never bothers to hide, the kind that looks like he’s remembering the way you gasped when he stuffed his fingers in your mouth before you even opened your eyes. “Baby, breathe,” he murmurs, low and close, the edge of amusement tucked in the corner of his voice like a blade.

You don’t turn, don’t flinch, don’t break stride. “I am breathing,” you snap, voice light and soft and cold as sugar gone stale, too sweet to be trusted, too sharp to ignore. Behind you, Jeno doesn’t reply, just watches the sway of your hips as you slice through the hallway like you were sent ahead of the forecast, silk still sticking to the inside of your thighs from earlier, clipboard thudding once against your leg like a warning to the world that the storm’s already here. The moment you push the terrace door open, the air shifts — golden and glazed and suspiciously still, like the villa woke up and knew better than to exhale wrong.

The table is long and sun-soaked, laid out under a gauzy canopy that trembles slightly in the breeze, the kind that feels bought, staged, too careful to be natural. Everything gleams — the fruit bowls with their waxy sheen, the eggs soft-poached into quiet obedience, the butter carved into rosettes that sweat against porcelain and it smells like sugar and citrus and nerves, like brunch dressed up as a peace treaty. Mark is already seated, flipping a sugar packet between his fingers like a coin, brow raised but saying nothing. Karina and Ningning are tucked side by side near the head of the table, coffee cups steaming between them, one heel tapping and the other already halfway into her third critique of the croissant layers. Jaemin’s chair is crooked, his plate untouched, mimosa sweating onto the tablecloth, while Chenle and Donghyuck are mid-argument over which of them forgot the welcome speech. Yangyang hasn’t spoken since he sat down. You clock it all in five seconds flat.

Your heels scrape as you pull out your chair, and every head lifts — subtle, automatic, synchronised like birds startled from a wire. You feel the weight of it settle around you, but you don’t speak yet. You slide your clipboard onto the table, pick up your fork like it might be a weapon, and stare down your plate like it’s insulted you. Jeno takes the seat beside you with the ease of someone who’s earned it, hair still damp from the shower, the scent of your skin still caught at the collar. His knee brushes yours under the table. You don’t react, but Karina’s smirk twitches. Jaemin blinks. Shotaro blinks slower. The silence stretches.

You and Jeno eat in silence for two full minutes. Nothing is said. Not a glance is exchanged. The only sound is the scrape of cutlery and the sharp tick of your fork hitting porcelain, steady and deliberate like you’re trying to communicate something through Morse code. Everyone else just watches like you’re a live wire and he’s the match. Jeno spreads butter across his toast with focus, his sleeves pushed up, his jaw sharp, the scratch you left on his neck glowing red against his skin. Your robe’s slipped from one shoulder and stays there. Your legs are crossed, your clipboard resting against your thigh like a loaded gun, and your silence is the kind that tastes like threat.

“She’s chewing with intent,” Chenle mutters, barely moving his lips.

“That’s tactical chewing,” Ningning whispers, dead serious.

“She hasn’t blinked in at least a minute,” Jaemin adds, trying not to look directly at you. “It’s getting clinical.”

Karina sighs into her coffee. “Someone thinks Jeno’s cock solves things.”

“I’m sitting right here,” Jeno says smoothly, without even looking up. His voice is calm, a little amused. He takes a bite of toast like he’s earned it.

“And yet the tension remains,” Karina murmurs, unbothered, swirling her drink.

Donghyuck inhales to speak, but Chenle elbows him hard enough to shake the mimosa glass beside him, and whatever joke was loading dies instantly behind his teeth. Shotaro clears his throat, attempts a brave pivot to safer territory—something about honeymoon destinations, tropical or domestic—but chokes halfway through the sentence, orange juice catching sharp in his throat, and he barely manages a watery smile before going quiet. Your knife moves with mechanical precision, slicing through a strawberry like it said something unforgivable, the red pulp bleeding across porcelain while your other hand flips through the itinerary as if this table isn’t one dumb remark away from war. The silence creaks. The sun glints off your fork like it’s been waiting to be flung. Then you glance up—no smirk, no warning—voice smooth, surgical, and cold enough to still the wind. “Yes, we had sex last night, now please stop staring.”

The silence after your words doesn’t just land — it lingers, swells, takes up space like smoke in the lungs. The terrace doesn’t move. Forks stay suspended mid-air, mimosa bubbles slow like they’ve forgotten how to rise. Karina’s coffee cools in her untouched cup. Ningning blinks but doesn’t sip. Even the breeze seems to pause, unsure if it should stick around. You don’t look up, don’t blink, don’t do anything but cross your legs under the table as Jeno spreads his palm across your thigh, a quiet press of heat and ownership that settles low behind your ribs. He chews. You sip. The table waits. Until —

“I knew it,” Chenle says, slapping the table like he’s just solved a murder case, “You owe me twenty, Shotaro.”

Shotaro groans like he’s been wronged on a spiritual level. “Unreal. I really thought Y/N would wait until after the reception.”

Donghyuck nearly chokes on his drink laughing. “You lost because you believed in dignity. Rookie mistake.”

Then you turn. “Excuse me? You bet on us?”

“We didn’t bet if,” Chenle says, wounded that you’d even ask. “We all knew you’d end up on top eventually.”

Jeno doesn’t look up from his plate. “She didn’t. Not for long.”

Your eyes flick to him, jaw tight. “You wanna try that again with your teeth still in?”

He hums, slow and low. “Still sore, baby?”

“The bet was when,” Donghyuck adds, pointing a fork at Shotaro. “This idiot had faith.”

Shotaro shrugs, solemn. “I believed in your self-control.”

Jaemin clinks his glass against his own forehead. “That’s on you.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Where’s the orange juice?”

Chenle lifts his glass with zero shame. “Right here. I brought the wrong one just to see if you’d twitch.” You glare at him, eyes sharp enough to slice through glass, and your hand twitches like you might throw the juice in his face just to prove the point. He blinks once, mutters something about chaos being a lifestyle, and wisely leans out of reach.

You sink back into your chair with a groan that’s half-moan, half-murder, rubbing your temples like the breakfast table personally offended you. “They used the fucking wrong chair ties. Again. And the champagne flutes aren’t symmetrical. And who the hell approved the grapefruit glaze?” Your voice rises with every word, until it shatters the air like porcelain dropped on marble. Your clipboard lands on the table with a thud. Karina leans back, muttering something under her breath about war crimes.

Jeno’s fingers find your shoulders before anyone else dares to speak. Broad and sure, pressing into the knots of tension that have wound themselves tight beneath your skin since before the sun rose. “Baby,” he says low, too close to your ear, voice like hot syrup. “You’re gonna give yourself a stroke before vows even start.” His thumbs knead slow and firm, tracing over muscle with the ease of someone who’s done this before. You inhale once. A little softer. You tip your head back just slightly and let yourself exist in the space he makes for you, just for a moment, just long enough to think you might survive this.

Then you glance up and across the table.

Yangyang hasn’t said a word. He hasn’t smiled. Hasn’t even touched his breakfast. His eyes meet yours once, unreadable, then drop again. And just like that, the warmth drains from your spine. Jeno’s touch is still there, anchoring, steady, but your stomach coils tight again. You shift forward with a huff, pick up your pen, and go back to circling names on the guest list like you’re planning a heist instead of a wedding.

You’re chewing through another crisis with a pen between your teeth and murder in your eyes, mumbling about chair symmetry and shade angles while your fingers stab at the clipboard like it personally wronged you. There’s a misplaced sprig of thyme on one of the breakfast plates, and it’s throwing off your entire sense of balance. You mutter something about getting on a flight and never coming back, and Jeno—sitting right beside you, one arm stretched behind your chair, the other steady on your thigh—leans in and massages your shoulder like he’s trying to coax the fury out of your bones. “Baby,” he murmurs low enough only you can hear. “I need you to relax before you start categorising threats by knife size.”

Your lips twitch, slow and reluctant, the kind of reaction you don’t let him see, but the weight of his palm makes your shoulder ache a little less and the heat of his breath settles against your neck like something you could let in if you weren’t already full to the brim. He doesn’t say anything else, just keeps tracing soft circles into the muscle there, coaxing you to loosen the tension you’ve been holding since before sunrise, and for a second—just that—your posture shifts without you noticing, jaw unclenching, fingers easing off the napkin in your lap, the impossible list of tasks thinning at the corners in your mind even if it’s only temporary. Your head tilts slightly toward him, your eyes closing for the span of one breath, and you nearly forget the speaker cables still haven’t arrived, the aisle flowers aren’t sorted, Irene’s refusing to wear heels, and someone’s definitely spilled something sticky near the dessert tent because the air’s turned sweet and sharp with bees swarming the edge of the buffet.

Jaemin’s voice cuts across the table with too much brightness, dragging the attention with it as he lifts his glass and slurs something about the mimosas being suspiciously bottomless, the kind of line that wants to be clever but lands too loud against the white tablecloth, and then someone else—Shotaro—throws in a comment about the catering staff looking like they’re fresh out of prison, and the laughter that follows is jagged, mismatched, just a little too sharp to be natural. The moment you had is gone before you can cling to it, slipping through your fingers like the raspberry glaze that didn’t set right this morning, and you reach forward without thinking, aiming for the fruit tongs even though your focus is off and your hand moves too fast, catching the tray instead of the handle, your second attempt just as useless because your grip keeps sliding and your patience is already running thinner than the silk overlay that’s still not pinned on the welcome table.

Karina doesn’t say anything at first, just shifts in her chair with slow, languid grace, legs crossed under the table and her sunglasses too dark for the hour, her champagne flute swaying slightly between two fingers like it’s weightless, her attention drifting until it lands on you with precision and the kind of smug timing that feels earned. She taps the glass once, then again, her mouth curving as if the thought came to her naturally, and when she finally speaks it’s smooth as syrup, her voice low and too casual, like a dagger wrapped in lace as she leans back and lets the words spill easy. “I mean—” she pauses just long enough to sip and smile, “—you’d think someone who got absolutely wrecked last night would be a little more relaxed at breakfast.”

Karina doesn’t let up, just shifts in her seat with that slow, luxurious ease like she’s got all the time in the world and not a single thing to prove, she eyes Jeno with the kind of amusement that means she’s already lined up her next shot, and when she speaks again it’s too casual to be kind, her voice syrup-smooth and stretched with mock concern. “No, because now I’m worried,” she says, glancing at you just once before looking back at him like she’s genuinely puzzled. “If she’s still this stressed after whatever you did last night,” Karina says, propping her chin on her hand with a half-smile that’s all teeth, “then your dick clearly didn’t do its job.”

Jaemin makes a strangled sound, one hand slamming the table like he’s about to start praying, Shotaro chokes mid-bite and starts coughing into a napkin, and Mark just stands, muttering ‘I’m not emotionally equipped for this breakfast’ as he walks away without context, while Jeno doesn’t even blink, just shifts a little closer like none of this is worth the effort of a real reaction, arm heavy across the back of your chair as he exhales slow and says, voice low and even, “My cock works just fine but thank you for the concern.”

The laughter is still echoing when something shifts with enough to pull you out of it, like a pressure drop in the room you didn’t notice until it already sank under your skin. Chenle’s the first to feel it, mid-laugh, hand halfway to his glass before his fingers pause just over the rim. His gaze sharpens, brow twitching faintly, and the smile on his face falters, like something unfamiliar just touched the edges of his vision. Jaemin catches it too, though he doesn’t freeze — just chuckles under his breath, low and crooked, like he already knows what’s coming and can’t wait for the fallout. “Oh, he’s here,” he mutters, tipping his glass back without looking away, “this is gonna be great.”

Your eyes snap up at that, head turning just as Jeno’s fingers shift under the table, curling tighter around yours without warning, like his body clocked the arrival before his eyes did. The pressure is subtle, steady, his palm anchoring yours with a tension that doesn’t need explanation, and when you follow the direction of their stares, breath already caught in your chest, the air around you folds in on itself.

There’s something about the way the light slices across the terrace arch, that clean white drapery fluttering in the breeze like it’s been waiting for this moment, like it’s part of the entrance itself. You see movement first — two shadows cresting the path from the villa’s inner corridor, framed by the stark stone steps and manicured shrubs. And then they appear. Taeyong walks with a stiff kind of authority, shoulders squared under a fitted navy blazer, sunglasses tucked one-finger loose into the open collar like he wants to be casual, like he wants to be noticed but also wants it to look accidental. Mr. Kim follows, two steps behind, nodding along to something you know isn’t being said — just business-face smiles and small talk posture, rehearsed and meaningless. And then Nahyun steps forward.

The light hits her first — that soft halo glow that makes silk look more expensive, that makes her skin look powdered and cooled, her movements slowed like a camera’s watching. Her dress is a pale blush ivory, barely pink, cut in soft angles that whisper over her hips and skim her legs like they don’t dare cling too close. Her makeup’s perfect, her hair half-pinned, the type of effortless beauty that only comes from calculation and cruelty. But it’s her stillness that sharpens everything — the way she walks like she’s gliding, like her feet never touch the ground, like emotion doesn’t stick to her unless she lets it. She looks breathtaking. She looks blank. Like she’s here out of spite, not warmth, and every step she takes is for control.

She sees you. Her eyes sweep past the table with lazy indifference, but the moment they land on you and Jeno — the two of you tucked in close, his arm stretched behind your chair like he belongs there — something shifts in her face, subtle but deliberate. Her gaze settles on yours like she’s bored of what she’s seeing, like your presence is a smudge on the glass she hasn’t bothered to wipe. Her chin tips up a touch too high, lashes falling just enough to sharpen the shape of her stare, and then her mouth twitches with a flicker of something mean, something smug, like she’s looking at a mistake she already knew someone would make. She drags her eyes down your body once, slow and precise, then back up again like she’s assessing damage. Like she’s thinking that? really? and deciding she doesn’t need to say it out loud because it’s already written all over your dress.

Jeno leans in, voice caught just behind your ear, breath warm like he’s about to make a quiet comment, maybe about Nahyun’s glare, maybe about the death grip you’ve unknowingly kept on his hand under the table, but the moment dissolves before it can land. There’s a shift near the west lawn, just beyond the hedge-lined path that curves toward the outer terrace, and the atmosphere pulls tight as heads begin to turn. A soft clatter breaks the murmur — a tray slipping, a server stalling — and suddenly, all movement narrows toward the walkway where Taeyong has just stepped forward, posture tall, expression calm, the kind of calm that’s engineered.

Mark sees him instantly. His back pulls tighter, chest stilling mid-breath, but his face stays unreadable, eyes locked on the man approaching like the space between them carries weight he’s trained himself to carry without showing it. Taeyong walks with that quiet, deliberate control that always seems designed to impress someone, steps steady, expression relaxed in the way only performance allows, and when he lifts his hand in a light, practiced gesture, there’s no hesitation in the words that follow. “Mark,” he says, tone smooth with a shallow warmth that masks whatever he’s really thinking, “you look well.”

Mark doesn’t respond. His jaw tenses, his eyes stay fixed, but there’s a flicker of something behind them, a quiet, simmering resistance that tightens the air between them. From the corner of your eye, you catch Areum starting to move, subtle but swift, her hand clutching the edge of her seat, fingers curling around the strap of her purse, body angling like she’s ready to step in before the silence breaks too sharply. Taeyong pauses just short of the table, tilting his head with a faint smile that doesn’t quite settle, his voice dipped in something meant to sound sincere but sharpened at the edges like he’s enjoying the tension too much to hide it. “I’m glad you agreed to have me here,” he says, smooth and measured, every word a deliberate push. “It matters to me — being part of this day, standing with family. Especially since it’s such a rare thing now, getting your blessing.” The weight of it hangs heavy between them, stretched thin by the fact that they both know no such blessing was ever given.

Mark’s head tilts just slightly, lips parting around a breath that tastes like restraint until it doesn’t. His eyes lift, slow and sharp, and when he finally speaks, the words slide out low and bitter, laced with that brand of anger that’s gone too quiet to burn out. “Don’t act like this was your invitation to accept,” he says, tone clean, cut with steel, voice pitched just low enough that it doesn’t need to rise. “You weren’t wanted. You were tolerated. There’s a difference.” He shifts his weight forward, jaw flexing once, and his stare locks hard onto Taeyong’s, unwavering, lethal in its calm. “You showing up like this doesn’t make you part of anything — it just proves you still don’t know where the fuck you stand.”

Taeyong breathes out a soft chuckle, lips curving in that familiar, polished way — the kind that never quite reaches his eyes, the kind that always feels rehearsed. He folds his hands neatly in front of him like he’s entertaining a tantrum in a boardroom, head tilting as if he’s listening patiently when every inch of his expression says he’s already decided this isn’t worth his energy. “There he is,” he murmurs, almost fond, drawing the words out like he’s watching a performance he commissioned. “Always so good with language, I should’ve pushed you toward law school.” His smile widens just slightly, sharp enough now to reveal the edge beneath the courtesy. “You know, with how invested you are in family matters these days, maybe you should’ve gone into family law.” And then, as if delivering a punchline, he adds, “Still, it’s touching that you care enough to make a scene… son.” The word lands soft but loaded, slipped in like an afterthought and dropped like a match.

Mark doesn’t laugh this time. He steps in instead, slow and deliberate, gaze locked like a blade already drawn, voice low enough to force silence around it. “You love pretending this is all mutual,” he says, words crisp, carved clean. “That you’re here because you were invited, that you’re part of this because anyone actually wanted you near it.” He doesn’t blink, doesn’t flinch, just leans in half a breath closer. “You weren’t. You’re here because someone always covers for the mess you leave behind — in business, in family, in whatever image you keep polishing to distract from how fucking hollow it is.” His tone drops, final and precise. “You failed as a father, a husband, a brother, and now you’re failing as a man trying to prove he ever mattered outside a title someone else handed him.”

Your fingers tremble against the base of your glass, several thoughts stacking too high behind your eyes, one slipping over the next like glass ready to crack. The toast you haven’t sipped, the breath you haven’t taken and the wedding that’s meant to be everything — beautiful, unforgettable, yet all you feel is the air pulling tight around your ribs like it knows something you don’t. You lean in, slowly, like it costs something. Your shoulder brushes his bicep first, then your arm folds softly under his, head tipping until your temple rests against his shoulder, steam from the morning still woven into his clothes, his hand already finding your thigh again like he knew you’d need anchoring before you even asked.

“I get it,” you murmur, voice so low it’s barely sound, just breath and confession. “Why Mark’s on edge. Makes sense, honestly — every time Taeyong opens his mouth it feels like he’s trying to prove something that isn’t even his, but this was supposed to be—” you pause, jaw tight, voice folding inward. “It’s meant to be a good day. I don’t know why it feels like something’s about to go wrong.”

Jeno doesn’t say anything at first. His palm slides higher, over your leg, thumb smoothing against the inside of your thigh just once before he draws small circles there — steady, warm, slow. His other hand comes up to cup your jaw with infinite care, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth like he’s memorising the place your voice faltered. He leans in, his breath warm as it slips across your cheek, lips brushing so close to your temple it feels like prayer.

“Nothing’s going wrong,” he says softly, but with weight. “Not today. Not if I can help it.”

You close your eyes, just for a second. Let yourself believe him. When you open them again, you glance across the terrace — past the guests, the flowers, the perfect sunlight you no longer trust. Your eyes find Nahyun first. Then the man standing behind her.

You stiffen. Your voice is tight when it comes. “Why is her dad even here?” Your gaze flicks toward Nahyun again and you manage to swallow the eye-roll that fights its way up your throat. “I get why she’s here — fine. Whatever. But her father?” You shake your head, a bitter little laugh twisting at your lips. “He doesn’t even pretend to like anyone, the way he spoke to me yesterday was disgusting and so disrespectful, I’m tired.”

Jeno watches your face closely. His thumb keeps moving. His voice stays gentle. “Do you want me to walk over?” he asks, and the softness in it is real — no posturing, no ego, just the offer to protect. To intercept. To absorb whatever you shouldn’t have to.

You lift your face just enough to find his, your nose brushing his cheek before your mouth does. You kiss him once, soft and slow, like it’s a thank you you don’t know how to phrase, and then you kiss him again just to feel his breath catch against yours. Your smile ghosts across his lips as you whisper “Jeno,” low and close, like it’s only meant to exist in that inch of space between you. You shake your head, barely, your hand curling around his forearm beneath the table like you’re holding onto steadiness itself, and your voice breaks through quieter now, worn soft at the edges. “No. Just stay here. I don’t need you to fix it. I just need you to keep looking at me like that.”

Jeno watches your face the whole time. His thumb never stops moving. His eyes don’t stray once. When he speaks again, it’s not a question anymore — it’s a promise wrapped in calm. “Okay.”

Jeno leans in, lips hovering just over yours, his breath warm and slow and familiar as the sun you used to pray for. He tilts his head, nose brushing yours, voice barely a rumble when it spills across your skin. “Let’s disappear for a while,” he murmurs, the syllables folding like silk between your mouths, “just you and me… anywhere quiet.” His hand moves higher on your thigh, thumb stroking once, steady and coaxing like he already knows you’ll say yes.

You’re about to. You’re already halfway there — mouth parted, breath catching, lashes lowering — when your eyes drift past him and lock onto hers. Nahyun. Leaning back in her chair like she owns the view, posture perfect, smile absent. She’s watching you the way predators study movement. Like she’s choosing where to bite first. Her gaze doesn’t blink or break, it carves. Cold and surgical and if looks could flay, you’d already be skinless. She doesn’t glare, she just dissects.

Your body stills, lips hovering just shy of Jeno’s. Your breath tightens against your ribs, and you don’t even bother with a smile as you whisper, “You need to talk to Nahyun.” Then lower, quieter, dry as salt rimmed on a glass: “Before she decides to end me with her bare hands and a butter knife.”

You know he has to talk to her. Not because she’s owed anything, not because she’ll make it easy but because if he doesn’t, she’ll turn this day into a scene, and neither of you will be able to walk away clean. Her silence already feels like a blade. Her eyes haven’t left your face since the moment she sat down. She doesn’t want an answer, she wants control, and you know exactly how she works — all sweet-lipped venom and timing sharpened to ruin. If he doesn’t go to her first, she’ll come to you

The air turns heavier when Mr. Kim is near—like the light bends wrong around him, like the space around his presence forgets how to breathe. It’s not fear, not exactly. It’s the weight of things unspoken. The kind of history that never needed to be written down because it was stitched into bloodlines and balanced on consequences. He didn’t come for the wedding. He came because Taeyong did. And Taeyong never arrives without a reason. Their names on the guest list read like terms of an agreement, not invitations. A performance dressed in formalwear. A transaction disguised as support. No toast would come from either of them without strings coiled beneath it, and whatever they’ve come to witness—it isn’t the vows. Somewhere deep in your gut, past logic, past language, you feel it. Jeno is the collateral, not a groom or a guest. Just a name inherited, a silence expected. Held in place by the weight of men who build dynasties from debt.

Jeno’s hand slips from your thigh to your jaw, calloused fingers grazing soft beneath your chin as he leans in without needing permission, his mouth brushing yours once, then again—slower this time, more deliberate, like he’s trying to press something steady into your bones before stepping away. His lips taste like citrus and breathless quiet, a lingering imprint that settles deep, and when he pulls back it’s only enough to breathe the words into your mouth. “I’ll find you after,” he murmurs, voice low and warm, a promise sealed beneath restraint, the kind you don’t ask questions about because you already know it’s real. You nod once, the movement barely there, and your hand brushes his wrist as he draws away, watching the shift settle over his face—how every softness tucks back behind his eyes, how the air around him sharpens into something precise, something he only wears when he knows what he’s walking into won’t be easy.

He crosses the terrace without ceremony, steps measured and composed, the clean glide of someone raised to move through tension without cracking. Nahyun stands several paces away, posture etched in glass, spine drawn tight beneath the silk of her dress, arms folded like she’s barricading herself from even the idea of intimacy. She turns when he nears but only just, her chin tilting in the smallest motion, her gaze sliding sideways instead of meeting his directly, like she’s assessing something not worth her full attention. They speak, but the words vanish beneath the soft clang of breakfast silver, the murmur of wind under the canopy, the hush that falls whenever two people too aware of their audience try to make war look like dialogue.

You watch the shape of it unfold from across the terrace, their silhouettes carved in tension, framed by the soft blur of morning light that doesn’t forgive anything, every movement between them deliberate in its distance, like restraint is the only language either of them still understands, like closeness would cost more than they’re willing to pay. Her arms stay folded too high to be casual and his hands stay buried too deep to be comfort, and even as they speak, nothing in their bodies bends, no gesture breaks the choreography of this unspoken war, this inherited detente that lives between them like second skin. There’s a moment where his gaze drops to the tiles, and she shifts her weight in the same breath, like the air passing between them has already reached its expiry, like every word exchanged is proof that peace was never an option in the first place.

You turn before it finishes, legs already moving before your thoughts catch up, carried by something deeper than logic — something older, almost muscle memory — because your body knows exactly where to go when things start breaking from the inside out, and without checking your phone or calling his name, you slip down the narrow corridor that runs along the villa’s west wing, shoes gripped in one hand, the other still clutching your clipboard like it might tether you to purpose, even though you haven’t looked at the schedule in over fifteen minutes and probably won’t for fifteen more. The lemon trees bloom too bright to the left, citrus sharp in the air, their branches filtering the sun into lines across your arms and shoulders as you pass under them, the path narrowing into quiet as the distant sounds of cutlery and laughter fade behind you, replaced by something softer — not silence exactly, but stillness that doesn’t ask anything of you.

The western balcony doesn’t belong to anyone, but everything about it screams Mark, the way the breeze moves without needing permission, the way the light lands softer here, like it knows when to back off. No one else ever comes this far during chaos, no one else disappears into quiet like it’s something they earned. You walk past the citrus trees, through the cool arch, barefoot across the stone because if there’s one place he’d be, it’s here.. You need to see him, for reassurance, for comfort — you just need someone who doesn’t ask anything from you, someone whose silence doesn’t feel like judgment. You need Mark because this place fits him like a second skin, and right now, everything else feels borrowed.

You reach the edge of the railing, fingers brushing its cool curve as you glance across the horizon, cliffs stretching out into soft golds and distant whitecaps, the kind of view that usually calms you, that used to feel like exhale when things were too tight to name. You scan the alcoves, the corners, the shaded stone ledges tucked behind the vines, but he isn’t there — no shape, no shadow, no weight where you thought there’d be someone who could see through you without asking questions. You whisper his name once, too soft to carry, maybe just to test the air, maybe just to remind yourself that it still exists outside your chest, and when nothing answers, you let out a breath that falls out of you like defeat, like a sound you didn’t mean to make, and you press your lips together because you won’t cry, not here, not yet.

You turn to leave, slow and reluctant, your body heavier than before, breath still caught somewhere shallow, and then you feel it — that shift in air, that flicker at the edge of your spine, that unmistakable stillness that means someone’s watching you, that someone is already here. You look up and he’s there, framed in the archway you just passed through, the light behind him too clean to feel warm, casting him in sharp relief against the white stone, every line of his body composed like something frozen in the exact moment before it cuts. His hands are behind his back, posture still as sculpture, expression neutral in that way that masks calculation as calm, and for a split second you can’t move, can’t speak, because this isn’t who you came for, and he knows that.

Taeyong doesn’t speak first, but he doesn’t have to — his presence alone rewrites the air around him, too curated to be casual, too purposeful to be chance, and you can feel the dread rising in your stomach before your brain even catches up to it, a low-tide kind of fear that doesn’t scream but tightens your throat, the kind of dread that doesn’t come from danger but from familiarity, from knowing this man doesn’t walk into rooms without an agenda, doesn’t offer kindness unless it serves a function, doesn’t appear at the end of a path unless he’s sure he can weaponise what’s waiting at the other side.

When he finally speaks, the words slide from his tongue like a blade slipping from a sheath lined with velvet, too smooth to hear coming until they’re already at your throat. “You’re a brave girl,” he murmurs, like it’s meant to sound gentle, like he’s admiring something rare, though the weight behind it coils with condescension, with expectation, with heat that wants to brand. “Still circling my son like he’s your salvation, even after I made it very clear that the smart choice would’ve been distance.” His voice doesn’t echo — it doesn’t need to. It coils. It wraps itself around your ribs, a serpent made of civility and control, one that has sunk fangs into generations before you. “That kind of courage,” he continues, stepping one pace closer like the distance means nothing, “only ever comes from ignorance or obsession.”

You turn then and the light catches across your features just enough to frame you in clarity. “You think I’m still here because of him,” you say, voice low and measured, every syllable drawn clean from somewhere deeper than breath, “like I stayed out of love, or need, or some weakness you can use later.” His expression shifts at the corners, something between amusement and calculation, a glint that looks too much like approval to be anything but dangerous. You hold his gaze like a blade held still in your palm. “But maybe I’m still here because it bothers you that I didn’t leave when you told me to.”

Taeyong’s eyes shine too brightly under the balcony shade, but the gleam doesn’t belong to life — it belongs to polished decay, to things preserved in glass for appearances but hollow underneath. He adjusts the cuff of his shirt with delicate precision, like the gesture will erase the way his hand trembled a moment before, and when he speaks again, the warmth in his voice has turned stale. “You remind me of people I used to respect,” he says, voice low like a hymn sung in a church he burnt down, “people who knew how to use stillness. It’s always the quiet ones who end up closest to power. You’ve placed yourself well. Right between the wreckage and the ones I tried to keep untouched.”

Your grip on the railing doesn’t shift, but something in your chest does — not fear, not defiance, something quieter. Something that knows him too well to pretend this is about flattery. “I didn’t place myself anywhere,” you say, and your voice stays even, but the edge of it scrapes clean. “I just kept showing up in the places where people like you stopped looking.” The breeze hits your jaw, cool and sharp, and still, you don’t step back.

He watches you like you’re a story that might turn tragic if left unsupervised, but his face is slipping — just slightly — the shadows under his eyes darker than you remember, the gleam of sweat on his collarbone absorbed too quickly by the linen. He inhales once and something falters at the edge of it, a beat too slow, a tremor in his chest masked by a gesture too perfect. “Time used to serve me,” he says, almost with humour, though the smile that follows looks carved instead of worn. “Now it just observes.”

You stare at him — this god rotting inside a temple he built from broken sons and rewritten bloodlines — and you tilt your head slightly, just enough to let the light catch the coolness in your expression. “Maybe it’s watching to see how you fall,” you murmur, tone light, words shaped like silk drawn across a blade. “And who steps over you when you do.”

Taeyong smiles, but it’s thin, too clean, like it’s been sterilised of meaning before it ever reached his mouth. “Careful,” he says, voice light as prayer, almost kind if you weren’t listening. “There’s a difference between surviving a fall and being forgotten at the bottom of it.” He looks at you like he’s still weighing something — your loyalty, your usefulness, your silence — then adds, softer, like a parent reminding a child what not to touch: “Power doesn’t care who’s right, sweetheart. It remembers who lasted.”

You stare at him, this god rotting inside a temple he built from fractured bloodlines and boys he thought he could bend into monuments, and your head tilts slightly, just enough to let the sun slide along your jaw like a blade too clean to dull. “You look at Jeno and see softness you couldn’t beat out of him,” you say, voice low, not cruel but cutting in its clarity, “but I’ve seen what he does when the mask slips. You built him in your image, but you forgot to make him empty enough to survive it.” You shift, a slow step forward, nothing defensive in your stance, only control, the kind born from proximity to fire, not distance from it. “You want to scare me because you know he listens to me,” you murmur, chin lifted, voice silk-still. “But I’ve lived with worse than you. I’ve survived versions of myself you couldn’t stomach.” You pause, smiling softly and dangerously. “And you don’t intimidate me, Taeyong. You just look like a man choking on his own legacy.”

You don’t hear him at first. It’s the shift in atmosphere that gives him away — not the scrape of steps, not the click of the balcony threshold, just the sudden tilt of the air like the space itself recognised him first. You’ve just finished speaking. Taeyong still hasn’t moved. His words still hang in the air like poisoned incense curling too close to your throat, and you feel the weight of someone watching, but this time it doesn’t choke. It grounds. You turn slowly, unsure what you’ll find and that’s when you see Mark.

He stands in the archway with his spine drawn tight and his shoulders squared like he’s just walked into something he wasn’t prepared for but will never back away from, and the light behind him throws long shadows across the marble that stretch between you like smoke made of memory. He doesn’t move right away and he doesn’t speak, but the tension in his jaw and the slow rise of his chest say more than any greeting ever could. His eyes pass over Taeyong first and then find you, steady and unreadable, and it’s only then that the air shifts sharp enough to make your skin sting.

Taeyong doesn’t turn toward him, only lifts his chin slightly as if the sound has confirmed something he already predicted and his voice curls outward like it’s been waiting for a stage to perform on. “Ah,” he murmurs, soft and sweet like rotting fruit left too long in silver bowls, “the second son arrives.” His smile is tight and clean, a gesture with no affection behind it, and when he speaks again it’s slower and sharper. “You always did have a gift for walking into moments you were never meant to witness. So much hunger to be part of something that never needed you.” He adjusts the line of his cuff like your presence has made the room untidy and unworthy of hosting itself.

Mark doesn’t flinch and he doesn’t answer right away, only steps further into the light until the air thickens around him like the space is trying to swallow him whole. His voice is low and quiet, barely louder than the wind curling around the pillars, but it lands in the marble and in your chest like a nail pressed into soft wood. He doesn’t raise his head, doesn’t lift his gaze, just breathes the words like they’ve been waiting for years to be spoken aloud. “I’m gonna kill him.”

Taeyong exhales slowly, as if the idea amuses him, as if it’s a familiar song he’s heard before but never bothered to finish. His eyes shine too much under the light and his mouth pulls with something close to indulgence as he speaks. “Wouldn’t be the first time one of you tried,” he says, and his smile curls lazy and unbothered like he’s already seen how the story ends and didn’t think much of it. “Just make sure the paperwork’s cleaner than your last apology.”

Mark tilts his head slightly, eyes hard and jaw set, and the breath that leaves him doesn’t shake. “This time I won’t leave enough of you to file one.”

Mark moves now, not toward him and not toward you, but forward, each step slow and deliberate like he’s counting the weight of every inch that separates power from truth. He stops at the centre of the balcony where the light shifts from warm to clinical and stands there like the floor belongs to no one else, still silent, still taut, and then finally he speaks with a voice that is low but precise. “You weren’t invited. I will never stop reminding you that, I will ensure that this wedding is a living hell for you.” The words aren’t raised and they aren’t rushed, but they hit like a blade held flat to the skin.

Taeyong watches you for a moment longer before dragging his gaze back to his son, his expression clean as polished bone. “Forgiveness,” he hums, almost amused, “it is in fashion this season and I thought it polite to see how the family conducts itself now that everyone is so determined to rewrite its rules. Does that not make any sense?” He brushes a crease from his sleeve as if it offends him.

Mark’s laugh breaks the air but it doesn’t sound like anything you’d mistake for joy. “You don’t get to say family,” he replies, eyes locked onto his father’s like they’re dissecting something long dead, “when all you ever did was ruin it from the inside. You weren’t invited. You never are so why are you here? Why are you bothering Y/N?” His voice is level but the edge of it cuts so clean it feels surgical.

That flickers something in Taeyong’s mouth, not surprise but something close to curiosity. “I could say the same of you,” he replies, his voice coiling like steam off steel. “Hovering around whatever’s broken, always trying to shape it into something worth protecting. You think posture and proximity count for devotion but all I see is a boy who never learned when to let something die.” He pauses, then smiles again, this time soft and venomous. “You always did know how to make the smallest scenes feel so unnecessarily important.”

Mark doesn’t respond at first and when he does, his voice drops even lower, like what he’s saying was meant to be delivered between teeth. “I understand you better than anyone ever wanted to. That’s why I’m still standing here. You think showing up makes you real, that presence means something, but presence isn’t power. It’s exposure. You’re only visible now because no one’s scared enough to look away anymore.” His hands don’t move and his breath stays even, but the ground under your feet feels like it just leaned toward him.

Taeyong shifts his weight and inhales too sharply, the sound catching just beneath his collarbone before he smooths it away with a flick of his wrist, stepping forward with a hand raised like he might touch your shoulder in some mockery of affection, some staged moment of authority that never belonged to him in the first place. His fingers stretch forward, slow and rehearsed, but they never make it. Mark moves faster than thought, planting himself between you like he was born to be a wall, rolling his sleeves up with one fluid motion that drags the tension higher, arms flexed and jaw locked as he squares his stance with all the calm of a man who’s been waiting for this exact confrontation to come.

“Try that again,” Mark says, voice flat and sharp like metal pressed against bone, “and see how fast I make you regret it.” He steps closer until there’s no air left between them, eyes hard and unblinking, and when he speaks again it’s quieter, but it carries all the weight of a man who no longer needs permission to be dangerous. “I’m not that little boy you broke down for sport. I’m not the one who kept waiting for approval you didn’t have the spine to give. I don’t need a father anymore, Taeyong. I can face you now. I’m stronger than you ever were.”

Taeyong stills, then realigns his jacket, brushing something from the sleeve with clinical grace. “Son,” he says softly, as if the word still belongs to him, “you always did love playing guard dog. But be careful. People forget to feed the ones who bark too much, and the ones who bite without direction don’t get to live long enough to learn manners.” His eyes glint, but the light in them is hollow.

Mark leans forward slightly, enough for his shadow to cut across the tiles between them. “Say one more word,” he says, his voice impossibly quiet, “and I will bury whatever name you’re still holding onto like it means something. I will salt the ground it grew from and make sure nothing carries it again.”

The silence that settles between them is dense and sick with the scent of old power rotting in fresh air. Taeyong steps back once, adjusting his sleeve like it’s ceremony, then lets his smile return with the ease of someone who no longer cares if it looks real. “Charming,” he murmurs, gaze sliding lazily to you. “You’ve inherited your mother’s mouth and her poor taste in what’s worth protecting.” His breath escapes in a quiet sound that only pretends to be laughter. “I’ll leave you both to your delusions.”

He walks away like nothing that just happened was worth carrying with him, his footsteps soft across the marble as if retreat could ever be elegant, and the air doesn’t shift when he’s gone, it only thickens, tighter around your ribs like the space still remembers where he stood and refuses to release it. You don’t breathe again until Mark turns toward you and when he does, he is still furious, still quiet, and still waiting for the world to make sense around you again.

He remains still even after the echo of Taeyong’s footsteps vanish beyond the stone, his hands curved tightly by his sides and his gaze unreadable, fixed on the marble like he could carve through it just by looking long enough. The light bleeds across his shoulders and the air hangs heavy between you, thick with a silence that came from something deeper than words, like a storm’s breath still caught in the mouth of the sky. Your voice breaks through quietly, a lifeline woven in casual softness, a thread you’ve always known how to cast when his body coils too tightly to move. “Wanna go throw rocks in the water?” you murmur, tone light, eyes steady, each syllable a memory offered without weight. “Like the old times.” When he finally meets your eyes, something clicks into place, quiet and slow and warm, and he nods once, not to humour you but because something about the invitation feels right.

Your hand curls around his arm with the ease of someone who’s always known where to reach when the world splinters, and he doesn’t hesitate, falling into step beside you as the two of you move away from the carved perfection of the villa, down toward the edge where beauty begins to fray into something older. The cobbled path gives way to untamed stone quickly, its symmetry dissolving underfoot, each step rougher than the last, overgrown roots clawing through gaps like the earth wants to reclaim what was paved too cleanly. There are no railings here, no signs, no guards — only silence thick with memory, as if this place was never meant to be found again, and the cliffs stretch downward in jagged ribs, ancient and deliberate, their pattern too sharp to be anything but dangerous, their descent a careful seduction masked as a view. The water below gleams like a promise held in the palm of something cruel, deep blue and glass-still from this height, but there’s nothing soft in the way it waits.

Mark moves just behind you, one hand always near your waist, the other catching your elbow when your heel skims a loose edge, and the way he watches your steps is less habit and more devotion. “These cliffs are a death trap,” he mutters, not loud, but dry and real, voice curling close behind your ear as he steadies you past a drop so sharp it feels theatrical. “This is so unsafe.”

You glance back with a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes, pupils bright under the golden light, and tilt your head just slightly, feet bare, breath slow, heart humming like it’s already halfway over the ledge. “We could always jump,” you say sweetly, like the thought is charming instead of catastrophic. “Go out pretty. Two birds, one plunge.” His laugh is short, startled, a huff punched through the quiet, and you hear him murmur something that sounds like you’re insane but his grip only steadies further, fingers brushing your lower back as you keep walking forward like the cliff’s never asked for anything it didn’t already intend to take.

The wind thickens the closer you get to the edge, pulling at your hair and filling your lungs with cold salt, and when the path narrows, he shifts beside you, hand brushing near the small of your back with just enough weight to keep your balance upright. No words pass between you but everything about the way he walks is a conversation, every small movement an answer to something unspoken, and when your foot grazes a loose rock near the ledge, his fingers graze your wrist to catch it gently before you can slip. You keep walking, and so does he, until the path opens onto a flat stretch of cliffside that sits just above the drop, stone pale and sun-warmed beneath your feet, the sea roaring quietly below like something ancient breathing through its sleep. You crouch down near the edge and he lowers beside you, arms resting on his knees, his gaze calm for the first time in hours, and the air here feels cooler than the rest of the estate, like the ocean itself is pressing against your skin to soothe what fire still lives inside you.

You pick up a small rock and pass it to him, the gesture easy, familiar, and he takes it without pause, fingers closing around it with care. His arm moves in one smooth motion, the stone cutting through air before disappearing into the waves without sound, and he doesn’t react when it sinks, just reaches for another, hand slow and measured. The rhythm begins to settle around you, both of you moving in silence, the world falling away until it’s only wind and water and the steady roll of grief reshaped into something soft. When you glance over, his face is turned toward the horizon, mouth relaxed, jaw looser than it has been all morning, and when your head leans gently against his shoulder, his body curves into yours without resistance. The silence that follows carries weight, but not the kind that hurts, and the light spilling across his face makes him look younger, not in years but in spirit, as if this moment has peeled back something older than time and reminded him that stillness can be healing too.

The breath you let out isn’t heavy but it folds inward, the kind that leaves the ribs sore without ever making sound. His arm curves instinctively closer like he wants to wrap it around you but isn’t sure if it’s the right time, and his eyes flick toward your face as your head sinks gently into the crook of his neck, the weight of it fitting there like it’s always belonged. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t ask if you’re okay because he already knows how you hate that question, how it makes the ache in your chest feel exposed and clinical, and instead he just watches the ocean with you, hoping quietly, fiercely, that whatever’s hurting you eases with time or wind or warmth. You breathe in again, a little steadier, then smile faintly against his shoulder.

“What did you wish for?” you ask, voice low and curved like the wind around the rocks. It’s not a serious question, not really, but the moment asks for honesty and Mark always answers softly when it comes from you.

He turns to glance at you then, the corner of his mouth pulling into something so real and so sure it doesn’t need explanation. “Nothing,” he says, and his voice is gentler than you’ve heard it all day. “I have everything I’ve ever asked for. I’ve got Areum. I’ve got a life that feels like mine. I’ve got people around me who know how to love without turning it into leverage.” He exhales through his nose, quiet. “Even with everything. The HCM, the years I thought I wouldn’t make it past twenty-five, the noise in my head that used to tell me I wasn’t built for this… I’ve got her. I’ve got peace, I’ve got stability. I’ve got joy that actually wants to stay.” He shifts his hand near yours without touching it, like the feeling is already enough. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted. That’s all I’d ask for again.”

He shifts slightly, fingers playing with a pebble like it might help him find the right words. “We were in Tokyo the week before we flew out here. Just the two of us. No schedule, no work, just late trains and corner ramen and staying in bed for too long. I think we ate ten different versions of the same mochi and got lost three times a day and didn’t even care. She found this temple tucked behind a bookstore and made us light a candle for good luck.” He smiles, really smiles now, that soft-boy grin that lives in the dimples and doesn’t care who sees it. “She’s been shooting weddings back to back this year and she’s still obsessed with them. Keeps facetiming me from flower shops and asking if this shade of peony feels too obvious.”

You lean closer into him, cheek pressing fully into his shoulder, and he lets out a quiet chuckle before continuing. “Watching her at this one though, it’s killing me, man. She keeps pretending she’s just focused on lighting or angles but I see the way she looks at the vows, the way her lip twitches when someone says something real. She keeps whispering shit like ‘that’s such a pretty venue’ like she’s not collecting ideas in a mental binder.”

He pauses, then exhales, soft. “I think I’m gonna do it. I think I’m gonna ask. I’ve been carrying the ring for months and every time I think I’ll wait for a better moment, I end up watching her laugh at something stupid and wondering what the hell I’m waiting for.” His thumb brushes the inside of his palm, nerves and excitement twined together like old threads. “I used to think I’d be too broken to love someone right. That I’d die young or ruin it before it even started but Areum doesn’t let me think like that. She holds my hand like I’m going to stay.”

He glances down at you, and there’s that same soft shimmer in his eyes, that sense of light held steady even after everything has tried to snuff it out. “So yeah,” he says with a quiet smile, “I didn’t wish for anything. I already have it.”

Your smile comes slow, wide, unguarded, the kind that starts in your chest and climbs all the way to your cheeks before you can catch it. It spreads with the kind of ease that only comes when happiness feels earned—not yours, but his, and that’s what makes it fuller. You lean in closer, shoulder pressed to his with more weight than before, the kind of touch that says I’m here, the kind that means I miss when we were younger, and when you speak, your voice carries that same warmth, unfiltered and steady.

“I’m really happy for you, Mark.” Your eyes don’t leave his, and your voice doesn’t shake, because there’s no space for envy in something this pure. “Like—actually, genuinely happy. You deserve all of it.” You let out a soft huff of breath, a laugh caught somewhere between pride and relief. “The peace, the love, the stupid flowers she keeps dragging you into. All of it. I mean, God, you’ve fought through so much shit to get here. It makes me feel lighter just knowing you’re okay.” Your hand brushes his arm and stays there, fingers resting warm against the fabric. “You’re glowing. It suits you.” You pause, glance at him again, your grin tugging playful. “Still think you’re insane if you let her talk you into peonies though.”

You reach down without really thinking, fingers curling around a flat stone nestled near your feet, and you toss it out into the open water with one smooth flick. It skips once, twice, then disappears into the swell, the sound barely audible beneath the wind. Mark watches it go, eyes flicking over the distance it covered, then back to you. There’s a glint in his gaze that’s equal parts fond and knowing.

“What’d you wish for?” he asks, even though he already knows you’re not going to say.

You smirk, leaning your head back against his shoulder again with a teasing shake of your head. “I’m not telling you.”

He laughs, soft and low, like he expected that answer before the words even left your mouth. “You never tell me,” he murmurs, glancing out toward the horizon like it might remind him of all the other times this scene has played out, all the other versions of you and him that have stood in different corners of Seoul and tossed wishes into moving water like prayer.

“You remember the Han River?” he says suddenly, voice quieter, more thoughtful now. “The summer I quit the little league team. You dragged me out there with a carton of banana milk and made me sit by the bank until sunset. You used to be bossy, still are.”

You glance at him, eyes narrowing slightly as your grin grows. “You mean when you swore off basketball and said you were gonna become a magician instead?”

He laughs again, nudging you lightly with his shoulder. “I was dramatic, okay. Twelve-year-old dreams don’t come with realism. But I remember you sitting there all serious, holding your rock like it was cursed, and then you threw it so far I thought it was gonna hit a boat.” His voice softens, dipping into something more reflective. “I asked you what you wished for, and you told me to mind my business.”

“Still valid,” you say lightly, and he snorts.

“Yeah,” he hums, “but I knew even back then. You wished that I would go back or make my own team. Something like that.” You don’t answer. You’ve never confirmed it, not even once but he’s right. That wish was for him, just like most of them have been. When you throw stones, you think of the people you love. You think of them before they ever think of themselves. He’s always known that.

He sighs, a quiet breath pulled from somewhere deep, and then he turns to you, hand lifting to brush a piece of hair behind your ear before pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. The kind that lingers, the kind that doesn’t need ceremony to mean something. “You always wish for other people,” he says, barely above a whisper. “That’s the part that breaks my heart and makes me love you more at the same time.” You don’t say anything. You just rest there beside him, cheek against his shoulder, the sea breathing beneath you, and the stone still warm under your heel like it’s memorised the shape of your standing.

He stays quiet for a moment after, still close, still steady, his eyes following the water like he’s reading something hidden in the waves. Then he exhales, slower this time, and you can feel it before he even speaks—the shift in his weight, the way his hand grazes yours like it’s lining up for something real. “I do love you, you know?” he says gently, the words easy but never careless. “You’re my best friend. Ever since you punched that kid who made fun of me and then dragged me to the bench by the slide and gave me your whole lunch because you felt bad I didn’t have enough.” He glances at you with a soft grin, voice dipping just enough to hold the weight of it. “And then you did it every single day that year like it wasn’t a big deal. Like sharing with me was normal.” He laughs under his breath, a sound more gratitude than humour.

“You’ve been looking out for me longer than anyone else has and I’ll never forget that, longer than Areum, longer than Jeno,” he says, voice lower now, not out of shame but out of respect, like some things deserve stillness around them when spoken. “It’s different, you know? What I have with them is real, it’s love, it’s strong and Areum is my entire life and my beating heart. But what I have with you—what we’ve been through, what you’ve done for me when no one else even noticed I needed it—that’s something else entirely. You were there before I knew how to ask for help, before I knew how to carry anything alone, and you gave without ever making me feel small for needing.” He exhales again, slowly. “That kind of love changes you. Makes you brave in quiet ways.”

You blink once, then scrunch your nose and jab him in the side with your elbow, just enough to make him flinch. “God, you’re such a sap,” you mutter, but your grin’s too wide to hide. He laughs under his breath, swatting half-heartedly at your hand, and you shake your head like it’ll cool your face down, even though the warmth’s already climbing to your ears. “I love you too, Mark Lee,” you say, mock-exasperated, dragging out his name like it’s a dramatic punchline. “Even if your idea of a good time is throwing rocks and trauma-dumping next to a potential murder cliff.”

He snorts, eyes crinkling, and picks up another stone just to lob it into the water with no real aim. “Speak for yourself, I’m taking Areum here after and then I’m gonna fuck her,” he mutters, tone dry and so casually inappropriate it makes you let out a sharp laugh before you can catch it.

“Not if I take Jeno here first.” You both pause. Then, in perfect sync, with matching sighs and just a trace of fondness, you both say it together without even looking at each other. “He’d be bitching about the salt in his hair.”

Mark bursts out laughing first, shaking his head like the image of it is too clear, and you’re already covering your mouth with your hand to keep from choking on your own laugh. “He’d literally walk five steps, wipe his palms on his pants like he’s been through war, and demand a towel.” You snort, eyes shining now, and Mark nods solemnly. “Then try to kiss you and pretend he’s not still pouting.” You lean back again, laugh softening as it fades, and the moment stretches quiet but full, like the water caught something between your voices and decided to hold it there.

Your laugh fades slowly, like it wants to stay longer than it should. He exhales through his nose, slow, thoughtful, like he’s deciding how to word it without knocking the calm off your skin. “I knew something would happen between you two this trip,” he says finally, his voice quiet, easy, but not careless. “I knew it when I saw you with him again. You weren’t trying to stay away and he—he didn’t even know how to act normal around you. It was only a matter of time.”

Mark leans back on his hands again, elbows brushing the stone, and his voice comes slower this time, like it’s tugged from somewhere he doesn’t usually reach for. “I’m not saying this to lecture you,” he says finally, quiet and steady, “but I remember how you were last time. When it all fell apart. When he left.”

You don’t move. You don’t breathe. His words are careful now, the way someone touches a bruise they know by heart. “You didn’t just cry,” he continues, staring out across the water like it’s safer than looking at you. “You stopped eating. You stopped speaking unless someone dragged words out of you. I had to sit in your room for six hours just to get you to drink water. Do you remember that?” His tone isn’t cruel. It’s painful. Honest. “You cut off half the people who loved you, and I don’t think you even realised you were doing it. You looked right through me for weeks. Like you weren’t in your body anymore.”

He pauses, and you feel the weight of that silence like a bruise that never healed clean. The cliffs are too quiet, too open, too exposed. “I’m not bringing it up to guilt you,” he says after a long breath, “but because I don’t ever want to see you like that again. You don’t deserve to feel that small. I just need you to know I’ll be here. No matter what happens.”

“At least you’re calm now,” he mutters with a soft smile, eyes squinting at the horizon. “You were chewing through people like bones an hour ago.” You let out a low hum, eyes still on the sea. You don’t argue. You don’t laugh. Mark doesn’t know it yet but the calm was never going to last.

There’s a shift behind you. The kind that enters gently but rearranges the entire atmosphere. Not footsteps. Not movement. Just presence — warm and rooted and familiar in a way nothing else in this villa has been. The silence adjusts around it. Your breath catches somewhere shallow before your mind even registers what’s changed. And then: “What’d I say about sulking where cliffs can hear you?” The voice lands light and worn, carried by the wind like it’s always known how to find you. It’s gravel-edged, sun-creased, touched with humour that doesn’t ask for attention, just offers it. The second it hits you, your whole body stills.

You twist around so fast your robe slips sideways across your waist, feet scraping against the stone, and for a second everything blurs. But he’s already there. Standing half a slope above the lower terraces, hands in his pockets, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow, slacks creased with the kind of care that says he dressed fast but still wanted to show up looking right. His hair’s brushed neatly, but streaks of grey cut through the black like something time folded in when no one was looking, and a single curl has escaped against the edge of his forehead from the drive. There’s a fine line of sweat along his collar — no performance here, just proof he came straight from work.

The car he arrived in still hums unevenly down on the gravel, parked in a crooked angle that makes it look like it skidded to a stop. It’s the same car he’s had since you were sixteen. The same one he tuned himself, door panel screwed back in after you broke it with your cleats that one summer. He’s late because he runs a loading yard two cities over. Twelve-hour shifts that start before sunrise, no foreman to cover for him, no fancy title to excuse an early leave. He spent the last week making sure all dispatches were cleared so he could close just long enough to be here, then drove the whole way in silence because your mother was still packing sandwiches in the backseat. He doesn’t speak again, just watches you with soft, serious eyes that don’t miss a thing.

You scream his name before you even know you’ve said it. “Appa!” The sound comes out high, bursting from your chest like it’s been locked there for too long. Your legs move first. Mark calls your name but you’re already gone, bare feet catching on the warm stone as you run, robe flying behind you in strips of cream and sunlight. You collide into his chest without slowing, arms thrown around his shoulders, hands fisting into the back of his shirt, and he catches you like it’s muscle memory, like your weight has always been part of his balance. His arms close around your waist, strong and steady, lifting you off the ground just enough to make you feel held, really held, in a way that doesn’t demand anything from you.

“Hi, baby,” he murmurs into your hair, voice low and even. “Still taking the whole world on by yourself?” You don’t answer. You just nod against his shoulder and hold him tighter. You can feel the tears pressing up against your eyes, not from pain but from relief, from the safety of having someone here who came for you and only you, no ulterior motives, no veiled control, no poison under the surface. Just love. Just arrival. Just your dad.

He pulls back slightly to look at you, brushing your cheek with the back of his knuckle. “You’ve been crying,” he says quietly. You open your mouth to deny it, but the breath doesn’t come, and he already knows. “We came as soon as I could lock the yard,” he adds, glancing down the path. “Didn’t even stop for coffee. Your mom made me drink hers instead.” Your mother’s voice calls out a second later, yelling for your sisters to stop dragging the luggage through the gravel, and the bickering that follows is so bright, so loud, so them that it fills the entire cliff with sound like the tide came rushing in behind you.

Mark’s already standing now, watching from the ledge with a smile that doesn’t leave his mouth, soft at the corners like it’s been pulled from something old and fond. Your dad spots him, smile tugging wider as he lifts a hand and calls out, “Mark!” The name lands bright, familiar, and full of affection. “Come here, son.” Mark’s already moving before the sentence ends, grin crooked as he steps forward, and your dad pulls him in without hesitation, clapping a hand to his back and drawing him into a hug like it’s second nature. The embrace is brief but full, steady and warm and real, the kind that tells you exactly what kind of man your father is.

“Good to see you, kid,” he says, pulling back just enough to look him in the eye. “You’ve grown into yourself. I’m proud of you.”

Your father presses a kiss to the top of your head, firm and steady, the kind of kiss that knows exactly where you’ve been carrying the weight. He lets you go just enough to see your face, then tucks you right back against his side, arm wrapping fully around your shoulders like he’s locking you in. His voice comes quiet, but sure, threaded with warmth and pride that doesn’t need to announce itself.

“Irene told me you planned everything,” he says, eyes on the view, on the colour coordination across the hill, on the linen folds and floral scatter and wine glasses placed at angles only you would’ve checked twice. “This entire wedding. The layout. The decorations. Every detail.” He exhales through his nose and pulls you in just slightly tighter. “It’s so beautiful, baby. What can’t you do, huh?”

Your throat tightens immediately, lips pushing out in a soft pout before you even realise you’re doing it. You sniff once, nose wrinkling, trying to bite back the smile rising on your face. “You’re just saying that,” you mumble, half-hiding your cheek against his chest, but your voice has already gone wobbly around the edges, and he feels it.

“Don’t start with that,” he says, a low chuckle vibrating through his ribs. “You know I mean it. I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”

You look up at him, eyes wide, lip still jutted just a little. “Say it again.”

He laughs now, hand rubbing your arm. “What part? The ‘beautiful’ or the ‘what can’t you do’?”

“All of it,” you whisper, and your giggle slips out right after like a hiccup of joy you couldn’t hold in. “Word for word. Come on, Appa, I need it.”

He grins down at you and sighs like he’s giving in to something he’d always give in to. “Fine,” he says, voice lowering like he’s about to recite scripture. “You planned this entire wedding. The layout. The decorations. Every detail. And it’s so beautiful, baby. What can’t you do?”

You bury your face in his chest to hide the tears that almost come, your giggles muffled into the fabric of his shirt, and he just smiles like you’ve been his whole heart since day one.

Your father keeps an arm around your shoulders even as you begin walking, his gait slower than yours, like he’s making sure your feet don’t catch on the uneven steps. Mark stays close behind, a few paces back, quiet again but lighter now, like the weight of that cliffside has finally loosened its grip on his chest. The three of you pass beneath the shaded archway of the lower terrace — the one that opens into what the villa calls the ‘garden parlour,’ though there’s more stone than greenery, and most of the guests use it as a pitstop between champagne and heatstroke. The air inside is cooler, sweet with something citrus and something floral, and the noise of distant laughter hums through the arches like a party still learning how to breathe.

You spot her immediately — your mother, framed by the tall white columns near the wine bar, posture relaxed but never idle, one hand curled around a crystal glass, the other painting the air mid-sentence. She’s leaning toward Karina and Areum, saying something with that amused arch in her brow, the kind of line that sounds like a compliment until you look closer. Her blouse is tucked like it was steamed with intention, her lipstick unmoved, and her earrings catch the light like small, deliberate suns. When she turns and sees you, something in her face shifts, gentle and unguarded, like a candle catching light. Her smile deepens slow and sure, pride rising in her eyes before anything else, and for a moment she just looks at you — really looks — like she’s tracing every piece of you back to something she once held in her arms and never quite let go. Her gaze lingers head to toe, not to judge but to memorise, to marvel, like she’s cataloguing proof that her daughter grew into something extraordinary.

You grin instinctively and rush toward her, slipping out from under your father’s arm and straight into her space. She smiles wide as you approach, all teeth and cheekbones, and plants a kiss on either side of your face like she’s greeting a guest instead of a daughter. “You finally made it inside,” she says, brushing a wrinkle from your sleeve. “I was starting to think you were hiding out there to avoid me.”

You snort. “Maybe I was.”

She taps your wrist. “Don’t push your luck.”

Mark doesn’t hesitate. The moment he sees Areum, he’s already crossing the stone with a smile half-formed and a kind of softness in his chest that belongs only to her. He moves like gravity doesn’t apply, like the space between them never had a chance, and she meets him with that glow she gets whenever he’s near — eyes crinkled, cheeks flushed, hand already reaching. He kisses her before she even finishes laughing, mouth pressed gently to the side of hers, then again near her jaw, her cheekbone, her nose. You hear the way his voice drops as he leans in, murmuring something low and sweet just for her, something that makes her laugh even harder and slap at his chest like she doesn’t want to smile this much in front of company. They stay wrapped in that orbit for another few seconds before slipping away into the shadows of the back corridor like waves curling back into the tide, vanishing before anyone can tell them to behave. Your mother watches the exit and takes a long sip of her drink.

“God, the way he follows her around like a love-sick poet, I can’t believe that’s the same Mark Lee I watched you grow up with, I always assumed he’d have commitment issues.” She says under her breath, glancing at you and Karina with a smirk blooming slow at the edge of her lips, “you’d think he invented romance the way he looks at her.” Then she tilts her head, eyes glinting, tone silkier than necessary.

“And here I was worried you were the dramatic one.” Karina snorts into her glass. You roll your eyes, but it’s useless — your mother’s already moved on, her gaze chasing something across the room, satisfied like she’s won a game nobody else knew they were playing.

“Where are Sohee and Nari?” you ask, scanning for heels and high-pitched voices, but your mom just giggles, low, sly, a sound that makes something in your stomach twist.

“They’re talking to your boyfriend,” she says casually, like she’s talking about a florist or a waiter. You freeze. Karina nearly chokes on her drink. Your arm shoots out and jabs her in the side, but she yelps and waves her hand violently.

“I didn’t say anything!” Karina hisses. “I swear to God.”

Your mother hums as she sips her drink, tilting her head just enough to signal something sharper behind the ease. “Please. I know who Jeno is.” She says his name like it’s been rehearsed, like it’s come up in conversation before, though never to your face. “Mark’s brother. The one who answered the door when I came to see you. Covered in marks, wearing your blanket, hair damp like he’d just come out the shower he shouldn’t have been in.” Her tone is sweet enough to sting. “Didn’t even blink when he said you were asleep.”

You spin toward her, accusation already in your tone. “Well you visited without telling me!”

“It was a surprise,” she replies, smiling into her glass. “You used to love those.”

Your dad coughs behind you, but the sound’s suspiciously close to a laugh. Then his hand settles on your back, warm and steady, as he looks between the two of you like he’s catching up in real time. “Wait,” he says, brows pulling in, voice rising like an old fuse re-igniting. “Lee Jeno? Mark’s bitch-ass brother? The one you used to call a cautionary tale in Nikes? That’s your boyfriend?” He says the word like it personally offends him, hand now at his hip. “You said you couldn’t stand that boy. You said he was all biceps, no brain, and the emotional range of a pylon.”

Your face twists. “He’s not my boyfriend plus he’s none of that, I only said that when I used to hate him, when we were in high school.”

“Right,” your mother says, dry. “Just half-naked and answering doors on your behalf.”

“Covered in bruises,” Karina adds unhelpfully.

Your dad’s muttering now, low and incredulous, like he’s trying to piece together an entire puzzle from the wrong box. “Towels,” he says under his breath, jaw tightening. “He steals towels? Half-naked? In your apartment?” His voice gets sharper with every word, but there’s a baffled softness under it too — the kind that only comes from being very protective and very out of the loop. His eyes flick between you and your mother like this is the first time he’s hearing any of it, and that’s because it is. She didn’t tell him — on purpose. You can see it in the way her mouth twitches behind her glass, that smug little flicker she gets when she’s proud of herself for keeping a secret just long enough to drop it with style. He turns to her slowly. “You knew about this?” She lifts her glass like a toast and hums, all grace.

You inhale too fast, the heat still curling up your neck, and shake your head with a too-bright grin like that’ll distract from the colour still high in your cheeks. “Anyway,” you say, stretching the word with a forced lightness that doesn’t fool anyone, “where are Sohee and Nari?”

Karina nearly chokes on her drink, the sound sharp and amused as she leans slightly toward your mother for dramatic effect. “Same place they were when you asked two minutes ago,” she says, smirking around her glass, and that’s the moment it hits you. Your spine straightens a little too fast. Your fingers flex against the fabric at your sides. Your gaze flashes to the far corner of the room where light flickers between moving guests, and your stomach tightens with instinct before your mind even finishes the math. It’s Nari. Even though you love her with every stretched thread of sibling grace you have left, you’ve also lived with the particular chaos that follows wherever she turns her attention, and you’ve spent years learning how to quietly sidestep the fire before it sparks. The panic climbs slowly but surely, like it always does around her — a creeping tension that coils in your jaw as your eyes finally catch on the unmistakable silhouette of her talking to Jeno.

You spot them before they see you, Sohee angled elegantly against the glass railing with a lemon twist tucked into her drink, and Nari halfway through telling a story you know is exaggerated based on how wide her eyes are. Your feet pick up speed without permission, the ache in your ribs easing with every step closer to them, and when Sohee turns and opens her arms with a graceful, delighted “Finally,” you step right into her hold and squeeze tight. She still smells like rosewater and pressed linen, always the pristine one, always first to fix your hair and scold you with love. Nari joins a beat later, wrapping an arm around both of you like she’s crashing a secret, and the second she kisses your cheek she mutters, “You look like you’ve been committing crimes,” before biting down a grin.

You laugh, breath catching from the warmth of it, the reunion folding around your chest like a quilt you forgot you needed. “I missed you both,” you murmur.

Sohee rubs your back while Nari dramatically pats your ass and says, “You better have.”

That’s when Jeno turns, shoulders relaxing the second his eyes land on you. His mouth curves into that smirk he’s always trying to bury when your family’s around, but it doesn’t last long, not when he watches you with them, your arms tangled around both sisters like muscle memory, your face brighter than it’s been in days. The moment you meet his eyes, he slides an arm around your waist and pulls you into his side, tucking you there like that’s where you’ve always belonged. “Hey, baby,” he says under his breath, lips brushing your temple, then glancing at your sisters with a nod. “They’re already better at keeping you sane than me.”

“Because we’re better looking,” Sohee says with a wink.

“And better at keeping secrets,” Nari adds, raising her glass. Then her gaze flicks down to the way Jeno’s holding you, and her smile tilts, just a little too knowing. “You’re looking very… moisturised.”

“You’re truly glowing, little sis’” Sohee says, and Nari snorts before you can respond.

“She’s glowing because she’s been—” she stops, eyes flicking to Jeno with a devil’s grin, “—hydrated.”

Jeno narrows his eyes slightly, something quiet flickering under the surface as he studies her face for a second longer than necessary. “Have we met before?” he asks, tone playful but edged, and Nari’s lashes flutter like she’s innocent.

“Maybe,” she says sweetly. “You seem like the kind of man who’s had a few memorable nights with very forgettable names.”

Jeno chokes, but covers it with a laugh that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. Sohee snorts. You drop your face into his chest with a muttered groan. “She’s been like this since birth,” you mumble into his shirt. “This is the toned-down version.”

Nari raises her brows, deadpan. “And you used to cry if someone took your crayons.”

You breathe out a laugh, leaning in closer, but Nari’s already tossing back her drink like she’s won something. The flash in her eyes lingers longer than it should. And Jeno keeps looking at her like there’s a thread at the back of his memory he hasn’t quite pulled yet.

The sun’s shifted again, casting long gold angles through the glass of the south-facing suite, where everything’s been set up like a bridal nerve centre. It’s one of the smaller rooms off the main hall, tucked behind an archway that guests don’t bother wandering past, and yet somehow still feels like the most alive part of the whole villa. Clipboards on chairs. Fabric samples in mugs. Lip gloss on seat cushions. Music playing off someone’s half-dead phone. You’re kneeling beside a crate of boxed centrepieces when Yangyang walks in with the last stack of ribbon menus, and the quiet between you is companionable, the kind of easy silence that speaks of survival. You take them from him without a word and begin sorting through, and when his voice does break the stillness, it’s only with a slight huff.

“I’m glad you haven’t asked Jeno to do any of this,” he says, setting the extra stack beside you and collapsing into the low chair opposite. “He’d’ve dropped half the place cards, slept with the other half, and called it quality control.”

You don’t look up at first, fingers skimming the edge of a ribbon roll, but your mouth curls before your voice follows. “He wouldn’t be as good as you.” It’s clipped, quiet, firm. You say it like it’s obvious. Like it’s always been true. Then you glance up, and he’s already looking away, but not before you catch it—the way his shoulders lose just a little of their tension, the way his lips twitch into something he doesn’t bother hiding. He was afraid that things would change, that fucking Jeno meant he’d been replaced, that the one thing still yours and his—the planning, rhythm, the dynamic, the trust—might’ve slipped away with the rest. But it didn’t. He’s still here. You still wanted him here and you can tell by the way he exhales, quiet and easy, that it means more than he’ll say.

You keep your focus on the seating chart a second longer than necessary, the edges of the paper tugging gently beneath your fingers as if buying you time, and then your voice slips out — even, but low, curved with quiet weight. “We’re okay though, right?”

Yangyang’s elbows rest against his knees, his wrists slack, and for a moment all you can hear is the rustle of the place cards shifting in his hand. “We don’t need to talk about it” His eyes flick up to yours for just a second. “I don’t want to talk about it. You told me what it was. I knew before we started that you didn’t owe me anything.” He exhales through his nose, reaches for another stack, and the movement is so steady it almost looks rehearsed. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

Then, with the kind of shift that feels like tugging a thread out of a wound, he steers the moment somewhere safer. “Saw your dad by the omelette station,” he says, flicking a card toward the pile. “Told me he used to play striker for the military base league. Told me again five minutes later like it was breaking news.”

You smile, threading a finished bundle of menus through a ribbon loop. “He does that when he likes someone.”

Yangyang leans in, forearms draped over his knees, mouth twitching into a half-smirk as he eyes the chaos around the room before shifting focus to you. “Is your sister single?” he asks, too casually to be innocent.

You pause, brows raised. “Which one?”

He shakes his head, already grinning. “The one in the green dress with the eyes that look like she’s ready to commit a felony if someone hands her the right reason.”

You laugh, real and sharp, warmth spilling into the quiet between you. “That’s Nari. She’s hot, sure, but definitely not hotter than me.”

“Obviously,” he says, tilting his head like the answer should be carved into stone by now. “I just didn’t want to get banned from another wedding for being too charming. You know how it is.”

You lob a folded name card at his chest and he catches it without flinching, flicking it back onto the pile like it was always part of the plan. “Sohee’s engaged,” you say, rolling your eyes affectionately. “Her fiancé is loaded, he works in finance. They’re doing a Bora Bora wedding next spring, and she’s already asked me if I can help plan the wedding.”

“And Nari?” he presses, chin propped on his hand, grin tugging at the edges of his mouth like he knows better.

You groan softly, pressing your palm to your forehead. “I don’t even know where to begin with her. She’s like a firecracker in a fur coat. Every story ends in either champagne or police intervention.”

“She’s hot though,” he murmurs, smirking like he’s collecting intel for a secret mission. “But still—” his gaze drags to you again, tone warm and final, “—not you.”

You snort. “We were raised the same, but we turned out nothing alike.”

Yangyang nods, gaze still on the cards laid out between you like they might rearrange themselves. “You’re the youngest, but you’re the one everyone listens to. They move pretty, talk nice, and always know what to say. But you’re the one who gets shit done. You’re the one who’d flip the whole room if it meant protecting someone you love.” He glances over then, lips twitching. “Your mom told me, she’s proud as hell.”

You grin, toss a folded napkin at his arm, and stretch your legs out like you’ve got all the time in the world, even though you know you don’t.

It’s golden hour, the kind that doesn’t ask permission before it paints everything in honey, and the terrace is soaked in it. Across the stone walkway and just past the edge of the infinity pool, the guys are posted like they’re in the soft-open of a cologne campaign, every movement loose, glinting, lazily magnetic. It’s pre-wedding calm, not quite the storm before it—but that strange lull where everyone knows the clock’s ticking and no one wants to say it out loud.

The heat sticks to their backs like oil, thick in the air above the villa’s sun-slicked balcony where the guys sprawl out like gods on vacation—shirtless, golden, half-drunk and half-stoned on whatever Jaemin passed around before the girls even made it down to the pool. There are towels draped across loungers, crushed beer cans in a bucket melting with ice, and someone’s speaker bleeding out an old Frank Ocean track, low and bass-heavy. Jaemin slouches back on the corner bench, vape between his lips, abs on display like he was born in a Calvin Klein ad. Mark sits cross-legged on a beach chair, blunt tucked behind his ear while he trims it again with practiced fingers. Jeno props one leg up, one arm draped over his knee, sweat tracing his chest in a glinting curve beneath the sun, and he doesn’t say much—just keeps flicking condensation off his bottle and squinting out at the pool like it holds answers.

“Yo.” Jaemin grins, tapping ash into an empty coconut shell. “Be honest. Who’s got the hottest family member here?”

Chenle perks up. “Easy. Remember Yangyang’s cousin? The one who brought her own flask to my birthday?”

“Shotaro’s aunt though,” Jaemin adds, snorting.

“Y/N’s family wins,” Jaemin declares, calm and conclusive, like he’s settled a debate none of them even started properly yet. “Her sister? That girl’s dangerous.”

“The one in the sheer cover-up?” Chenle glances over the railing toward the pool. “That’s her?”

Jaemin lets out a low whistle. “She’s unreal. Like, if I saw her in a dream I’d never wake up. I remember her, I knew she looked familiar. She’s two years above us, right? Do you remember that showcase tournament in Daegu, a few years back? She pulled up in those little heels, said she was there to support the team—had all the point guards lined up like puppies.”

Jeno’s brow twitches. His gaze drifts, slow, down to the pool again. Nari’s laughing, glass in hand, hair up, a few strands stuck to her neck. The curve of her smile jabs at something deeper than just recognition. “You know…” Jeno says slowly, turning his head. “She looks familiar.”

Mark blinks, mid-roll. “Who, Nari?”

Jeno nods. “Yeah.”

Jaemin leans back, considering. “She used to hang around the courts a lot. Traveled with the girls who’d tag along for Daegu’s summer league. You were at that camp, weren’t you? Freshman year?”

Jeno’s fingers still against his bottle. There’s a flash of memory—bleachers, a warm night, the low hum of floodlights and a girl in a red hoodie pulling him under the stands, whispering something about liking the way he handled the ball. He leans forward without meaning to, bottle slipping in his grip, knuckles whitening as the memory tunnels in fast and hot, His eyes widen. “Oh shit. I think I lost my virginity to her.”

There’s a silence so sharp it feels like it cuts the heat. Mark’s blunt pauses halfway to his mouth. “To Nari?”

Shotaro sits up from where he’s been half-dozing, blinking behind his shades like he’s not sure he heard right. “Wait—Nari Nari?”

Donghyuck chokes on his drink. “Holy fucking shit, bro—are you serious?”

Chenle freezes, then explodes into laughter so loud it echoes. “No fucking way!”

Jaemin drops his vape into his lap. “You smashed her?!”

Jeno just stares ahead, looking like he’s watching his past self make the worst decision of his teenage life. “She said she liked my free throw. I thought it was a compliment, I was young!”

“Oh my god,” Donghyuck groans, wiping his mouth. “This is the best day of my life.”

“You really lost your V-card to your girl’s sister?” Jaemin’s practically wheezing now, legs kicking against the bench.

Mark just leans back, grinning wide, slow. “You’ve been in the family longer than we thought.”

Shotaro snorts. “Imagine telling that story at the wedding.”

Jeno presses the heel of his hand into his eye socket. “I didn’t know, man. I swear to god I didn’t know it was her.”

Chenle slaps his thigh, cackling. “How do you not remember the face of the girl who took your virginity?”

“I was sixteen! It was a dark tunnel under a bleacher! She was chewing gum and pulled me by the waistband—what the fuck else was I supposed to remember?”

Mark shakes his head, smirking. “You always said you loved basketball. Turns out basketball loved you back.”

Jeno groans louder. “This cannot be real.”

His laughter fades before theirs does. It slips out of him too quickly, too hollow, the sound thinning against the back of his throat as the memory settles heavy, shame-caked and sticky, into his chest. Jeno sinks back into the lounger, elbows on knees, hands clasped over his face. The warmth that was in his laugh twists into something else—tight, nauseating. His mouth’s dry. His heart kicks once, hard. And suddenly he’s only thinking about you.

You’d roll your eyes first—he knows that much. That dry, unimpressed look you give when you’ve already written the argument in your head and you’re just waiting to deliver it in full. You’d probably cross your arms too, bite your cheek like you’re holding back something sharp. But you wouldn’t yell. You’d just sit with it. Let the weight of it do the damage. That’s the part that guts him.

He exhales into his palms, soft and stunned. “Shit. She’s not gonna be happy to hear this.”

Jaemin’s still chuckling but quiets when he sees the way Jeno folds into himself, the tension curving his spine like he’s trying to shrink. “You think she’ll really care?” he asks gently, nudging Jeno’s leg with his foot.

Mark sighs, low and thoughtful, like he’s been holding the words for a while. “She’s objective. She’s fair. That’s one of the things about her—you can fuck up, and she won’t spiral, she won’t turn it into a war. She listens. She thinks. She’ll try to understand you before she tries to punish you.” Jeno exhales and nods. “But,” Mark goes on, voice gentler now, “she’s gonna be annoyed. Like—deeply. Not just because it’s her sister, but because it’s Nari.”

The guys glance at him, curious now.

“I grew up around them, I know what I’m talking about. She’s always had a good relationship with her sister,” Mark explains, picking at the skin near his nail, “but Nari’s always been tricky and difficult to deal with, she’s more immature and self-centered. It’s not that she’s a bad person. She just takes up space, says things without thinking. Makes messes and doesn’t always clean them up.”

“The point is—she’s spent years trying to make sense of Nari. Trying to have a sister she respects, who respects her back. It’s always been a little uneven. So this? This feels personal in a way it wouldn’t if it were just anyone. She’s not gonna throw you out,” Mark finishes. “She won’t scream or sob or throw shit. She’ll just go quiet and scary, good luck man.”

Jeno doesn’t answer. He just stares out at the horizon, your face floating behind his eyelids like it never left. The way you looked this morning—barefaced and half-asleep, still chewing your lip while tying your robe, asking him if he’d eaten yet. It stings. The thought of hurting you stings in a place so deep he can’t even touch it.

“She’s gonna be fine,” Donghyuck offers, more gently than expected. “She’ll be pissed, yeah. Maybe call you a dumbass but she knows who you are now. That matters more than whatever you did when you were sixteen with a full head of hormones and no sense of the future.”

“Exactly,” Jaemin adds. “Tell her before she hears it from someone else. Or worse—walks in on one of us laughing about it.”

Chenle grins a little. “Which we will. Repeatedly.”

“I just…” Jeno’s voice comes quiet, raw around the edges. “I don’t want to see that look on her face. Like she doesn’t trust me anymore. Like I’m someone she didn’t know to be careful around.”

Mark meets his gaze and nods. “Then remind her who you are now. Remind her that it’s her you want. It’s always been her.”

He leans back, the sun grazing his skin, and exhales like he’s bracing for impact. “Fuck,” he murmurs again, this time not for the past—but for the fallout. He hears the words without context, murmuring just behind him, teasing and thick with implication—“Now’s your chance, Jeno”—but he’s already looking up, already halfway through a breath he doesn’t exhale, already staring.

It’s you, walking down the back steps of the villa, and Yangyang beside you and you’ve changed. The cover-up you’re wearing is so sheer it’s practically suggestive, soft mesh catching the wind and parting just enough to show the curve of your swimsuit beneath—black, high-cut, tied at the hips, like a arrow to his bloodstream. Your hair’s still damp, your skin sun-warmed and glistening, and you don’t even glance in his direction. You walk past the boys without a pause, stride unbothered, gaze locked straight ahead. Every part of you is deliberately unreadable. You don’t give him a look to grab onto, nothing to brace against. It hits him harder than anger would’ve.

You make your way across the stone path, the cover brushing against your thighs with every step, and drop to your knees beside your sisters without a word. Nari grins wide when she sees you, tugs you in close by the wrist, says something right into your ear that makes you smirk, lashes lowering with amusement. You whisper something back, fingers brushing hair out of your face, and she laughs—loud, bright, enough that a few heads turn. Then it happens. You both look up. You both look at him. Nari lifts her hand and points. Just once. Just casually enough that it lands like a blade.

Jeno knows. He doesn’t need to hear it, doesn’t need to guess. That’s the moment, the second it lands, when you find out, when she tells you the kind of thing that can change the shape of everything. He feels it in the pit of his stomach, a drop, heavy and cold. He holds your gaze, but yours is narrowed now, clinical, like you’re observing something you already expected. You don’t storm over or shout, you don't break a glass, you don’t even look disgusted. You just rise, legs stretching long, face unreadable as ever. You don’t look at Jeno with rage—you look through him like you’re figuring out whether this detail matters anymore and that, somehow, feels worse.

You walk toward him without saying a thing, sun kissing your shoulders, your thighs, the sheer fabric fluttering like a veil that never covers enough. Yangyang’s already crossed the deck, plopped himself beside Donghyuck and kicked at his legs. There’s a beat of confusion in Jeno’s gut, like whiplash, like bracing for something that doesn’t come. You reach him. He moves aside to make space, still watching you like you might detonate but you sit. Calm, close, thigh against thigh. Your hand finds his knee, your body tilts in and then you kiss him.

It isn’t casual, but it isn’t sharp either—not meant to punish or forgive, just something in-between. A quiet instinct, a need to feel his mouth before the words come, before the weight of what you know starts rearranging things you haven’t figured out how to carry. The first kiss is slow, not deep, just a press of lips to skin like you’re reminding yourself how close he is, how easy it’s always been to touch him, and the second follows with less hesitation, more familiarity, your mouth brushing over his in a way that feels too steady to be accidental. By the third kiss, you’re leaning in more, anchoring yourself, fingertips curling against his knee, breath shared in the space between, like you’re trying to stay grounded in something real before the floor gives out. The air shifts around you, people fall quiet, heads turn, but it all feels far away—like you’re underwater, like the only thing keeping you from floating off is the way his hand finds your hip, tentative but certain, like he doesn’t know what you know yet, but he can feel it, and he’s holding on just in case. You don’t kiss him to make a scene. You kiss him because you’re scared that if you don’t, you’ll lose the one part of this that still feels like yours.

You kiss him one more time, softer this time, your lips barely brushing his before you let the words out like a breath against his cheek, so low no one else can hear. “Is there anything you want to tell me?” The moment pauses around you, so tight it almost hurts. You feel the way his body freezes, the shift in how he holds you, like your question just bent the axis of the day. You keep your face close, keep your touch light, and when he finally blinks, when his throat moves slowly like he’s swallowed something jagged, he nods.

“Come with me.” He helps you up with careful fingers around your wrist, thumb brushing your skin like he’s testing how far he can go before you flinch. You let him lead you past the edge of the pool, where everyone’s trying and failing to pretend they’re not listening. Donghyuck straight-up follows with his head tilted like he’s narrating the damn thing in his head, and you catch Jaemin whisper something to Karina, who slaps his arm and then starts laughing. Someone behind you mutters “Ten bucks says she slaps him,” and someone else goes, “Nah, she’s too calm—it’s scarier when she’s calm.” You walk under the ivy-covered arch, into the side garden nook of the villa, just out of view. But you can still hear the others snickering behind you. “Should’ve brought popcorn,” Mark fake-whispers.

Jeno turns to face you once you’re alone, and he looks like he’s about to be sick. His hand runs through his hair, jaw tight, chest rising like he’s bracing for a punch. “Yeah…” he says, barely above a whisper. “Turns out I might’ve lost my virginity to your sister.”

You stare at him. You don’t blink, don’t move, just lock your eyes onto him like you’re waiting for the part where he says he’s kidding. He doesn’t. “What?” Your voice is deadpan.

“I didn’t know it was her,” he says quickly, voice steadying as he speaks. “It was high school, some party at that ski lodge. I was young, drinking too much, just trying to forget everything back then. She had her hair up, barely said a word the whole night, and I didn’t think twice about it. We hooked up behind the bleachers, she was gone by morning, and I never thought about it again until today.”

You nod once, slowly, and your face stays level, neutral. But something bubbles under your ribs, something sour and sharp and too familiar. “Okay,” you say. It sounds final. It sounds fake.

He tilts his head. “‘Okay?’”

“I don’t even feel angry,” you say quietly, eyes on the ground. “I think I’m just tired. I keep expecting to react, to feel something sharp or loud or obvious, but it’s like the feeling never arrives. You tell me something like that, and all I can do is stand here wondering why I’m not spiraling. It’s not that it doesn’t matter. It’s that I’ve spent so long bracing for things to hurt, I don’t know what to do when they actually do.”

Jeno shifts closer, cautious. “You don’t have to be fine.”

“I know I don’t have to be fine,” you say, voice even but worn, like you’re forcing yourself to sound calm just to hold everything together. “And I’m not trying to blame her, really, I’m just… tired. She’s always had this way of slipping into spaces without asking, like the moment I find something for myself, she’s right there acting like she belongs in it too but it’s different now because I actually care about this. About you. And maybe she doesn’t mean anything by it, maybe she thinks she’s being playful, but it doesn’t land that way for me anymore.”

Your eyes drop, lashes low, and you exhale slowly before continuing. “She’s never cared about anything real. Never pushed herself in school, never stuck with anything for more than a semester, just partied, floated, let the world shape itself around her. I spent years thinking I had to make up for that. That if she wouldn’t try, then I had to succeed for both of us. My parents leaned on me, praised me, expected me to set the example, and she—she never even noticed. Or if she did, she didn’t care. I joined the debate team, and suddenly she was in Model UN. I got accepted to the program I worked all summer for, and she told everyone she could’ve gotten in too if she’d bothered applying.”

You pause for a second, jaw tightening just slightly. “It was always like that. Always. Not malicious, just… constant. Little jabs, little shadows. If I read something, she’d call it predictable. If I dressed up, she’d find a way to wear the same thing louder. And now she’s here again, dropping comments about how you look tired after we spend the night together, or how I’ve apparently ‘trained you well.’ Like this is just another performance she gets to judge from the sidelines. And I know it’s probably a joke to her, but it doesn’t feel like one to me. It feels like she’s still watching. Still following.”

Your voice softens, almost apologetic. “I’m not mad at her. I’m just worn out from always having to brace for her next appearance. Every time I think I’ve carved out something that’s mine, something that makes me feel steady, she walks in and turns it into a shared space. And now I find out she had you, once, even if it meant nothing. It’s not about what happened. It’s about how it always somehow circles back to her.”

Jeno doesn’t answer at first. He just watches you—really watches you, in that quiet, unsparing way he always has when he’s not trying to be the loudest person in the room, when he’s thinking so hard it’s like he’s scared he’ll get this wrong if he says even one word too fast. His hand doesn’t leave yours. He shifts it, barely, lacing his fingers through yours like that might slow down the pulse hammering under your skin. Then he pulls you in—not urgently, not with force, just enough so your chest brushes his, and your breath catches at the contact, and it’s like he’s trying to anchor you by being close enough to count every inch of space between your bodies.

“I didn’t realize how much of this you’ve been carrying,” he says, voice low, like it’s meant to stay between you and the ivy. “You always seem so in control. Like nothing can touch you unless you let it.” His hand lifts to your waist, the curve of your ribs, warm and slow, holding there like he’s trying to make the world feel still. “I didn’t think—I didn’t think you’d feel threatened by this. By her. But now that you’re saying it, fuck, it makes so much sense.”

“You don’t have to worry,” he says, gently. “About any of it. About who’s around, or what they say, or what you think you’re supposed to hold together. None of that changes anything for me. Not when it comes to you.” His thumb brushes slowly across your side like he’s memorizing the shape of you through the fabric. “You walk into a room and I feel it in my whole body. Like everything else goes quiet until I’ve found you. It doesn’t matter who’s there, or what happened before, or what anyone else might think they know. I only ever want you.” He closes his eyes for a second, resting more of his weight into the space between you. “You don’t have to prove anything to me. You never did. I don’t care if you’re tired, or quiet, or unsure of yourself. I care that you let me see you like this. That you trust me enough to fall apart a little.”

You try to look away, but he dips down just slightly, making sure your eyes are still on his. “This—what we have—it’s not something she gets to touch. Even if it happened years ago, not even if it was an accident. You get all of me now. Not some memory. Not a version of me that didn’t know what the fuck he was doing. You.”

He exhales slowly through his nose, voice dropping low enough to rake straight down your spine. “That was nearly ten years ago, baby. I’m not that guy anymore.” His hand slides up your side, thumb grazing under your shirt like he needs you closer just to say it right. “I’ve had sex since then but none of it ever stuck. None of them felt like you.” His voice falters there, just a breath, then he steadies again. “And if you want to be mad, be mad. If you want to be quiet about it and just stand here like this, I’ll stay. You don’t have to bounce back right away. You don’t have to smile and make it easy. I can take it. I want to take it. Let me hold this for you for a second.”

“You don’t need to prove that you’re okay. I already know you’re strong. You’ve always been strong. Even when you shouldn’t have had to be.” You moan into his mouth before you can stop it, soft and aching, your hands clutching his shirt like the fabric is the only thing tethering you to the ground. His lips crash into yours with heat that builds slow, devouring, every glide of his tongue deeper, more possessive, until your knees threaten to give out and all you can feel is his mouth and the pulse between your thighs. You kiss him harder, hungrier, tilting your head to take more, let him taste how badly you need this, how badly you need him. Your breath stutters as you pull back, lips wet and parted, skin flushed, heart hammering like it might beat right through your chest.

He brushes your bottom lip with his thumb, voice low and controlled. “Are you calm now?”

Your eyes flutter, throat tight as you whisper, “Yeah.”

“Good,” he murmurs, mouth ghosting yours again, too close for your brain to work properly. “Stay that way for the wedding.”

The bridesmaid dresses drape across ivory velvet mannequins like sacred relics on display, humming with softness and intention beneath the filtered late-morning sun. They glow under the floor-to-ceiling windows, basking in the quiet reverence of their own craftsmanship. Karina designed each one herself—no two cuts identical, no color duplicated, but all speaking in the same hushed language of texture and soul. The fabrics fall like poured silk, touchable poetry: slinky champagne charmeuse, mink satin with the sheen of candle wax, layers of rose-smoke chiffon trailing like mist. There is crushed satin in sun-warm clay, oyster silk so smooth it looks liquefied, organza stiffened like breath held too long. Every seam speaks in metaphors—Areum’s dress clings with a corset back and a scatter of pale crystal beading like dew gathered on skin, Seulgi’s moves with her hips even on the mannequin, the asymmetrical slit hinting at mischief mid-stride. Yours is dangerous in its simplicity: bias-swept, body-hugging, the kind of silhouette that demands silence. Tucked into every bodice is a secret—wisteria pressed into Irene’s lining, wild rose for Karina, narcissus for Nahyun—each one invisible unless you already know where to look. Behind every zipper, her ghost signature: for the ones who make love look like power.

The grande suite exists in holy chaos. It’s built for light, for luxury, for myth-making—walls painted cream with undertones of gold, mouldings hand-carved into curling vines and soft arcs, mirrors edged in burnished brass. The room breathes in movement, filled to the edges with motion and bloom: robe sleeves trailing across silk rugs, foundation brushes stippling rhythm onto collarbones, rollers clicking shut into hair like armor. The floor is littered with satin sashes and curled ribbons, vows half-folded, petals that dropped too early from a floral arrangement now wilting near a Dior compact. A rogue heel lies on its side beneath a vanity; a lip liner rolls gently every time someone walks by. Sunlight filters in through sheer gauze curtains, painting warm gold onto glass tabletops and the marble that shines under your feet. Music moves between genres—slow R&B winding into baroque piano—its rhythm smothered by the noise of too many voices, too many hands, too much life. The scent is dizzying: freesia, rose oil, grapefruit toner, the heat of curling irons, something sweet and sharp in your throat. The air is thick with becoming.

The girls are scattered like brushstrokes across the canvas of the room, each one in motion, each one luminous in her own kind of disarray. Karina kneels at Irene’s feet, fixing a misbehaving hem with her teeth clamped around a pin, shoulders bare, her own dress undone down the back like she’s forgotten about herself. She moves with the precision of someone born to construct beauty under pressure, one eye on the thread and the other on the clock. Irene sits perfectly upright at the central mirror, still and royal, her hair sculpted into an elegant coil, her lips painted with near-military symmetry. A stylist fastens her earrings, and for a second, Irene doesn’t breathe. Seulgi leans out the window, half-dressed, fingers wrapped around a vape pen, laughing breathlessly at something someone shouts from the garden below. Her robe slides off one shoulder, tattoos catching the sunlight, bare legs folded like she’s a queen holding court. Areum perches on a chaise with her knees pulled to her chest, sipping champagne through a glass straw, her roller-set hair bobbing every time she giggles. She hums to herself between scrolls, scrolling through something she won’t name. Nahyun is locked in front of the mirror wall, expression flat, her gaze welded to her own reflection as a makeup artist paints soft shimmer onto her lids—too much gold, too exact. She doesn’t flinch. You sit at the edge of it all, legs crossed on a velvet stool, mascara wand in one hand, just watching.

Your slip clings in places the air won’t touch, your robe slouched low down your arms, and your eyes sweep the room like a camera lens stuck on slow zoom. Everything feels heightened. Every laugh is too bright, every sigh too sharp, every rustle of fabric layered with static. The world outside the room doesn’t exist. Nothing exists except the scent of heated product, the gleam of highlighter brushed across a clavicle, the soft sounds of breath and laughter and glass kissing glass. Someone’s dress hangs half-zipped on the door. Someone else’s lashes are still wet with glue. Hairbrushes lie teeth-up like traps across the vanity. Karina says something in a rush, tugs at a hem. Irene swats Seulgi for making a joke too loud. Areum spins the stem of her glass and whispers something that makes Nahyun turn her head just slightly, just once. The atmosphere isn’t tense—it’s thick, waiting, almost lush with the sense that something’s about to break open, that time’s stretching around you like a veil pulled tight before it tears.

The room feels like breath held in the chest of a goddess. Like every woman here has been summoned to play a part, and the script hasn’t been handed out yet. No one says it aloud, but you all feel it—that this is the kind of moment that becomes legend. You reach for your gloss without looking, tracing it across your lips slow, your gaze flicking toward the window where sunlight cuts across Seulgi’s ribs like gold wire. Irene’s reflection meets yours once in the mirror and then flickers away. Karina exhales, sitting back on her heels with thread between her fingers and tension still in her spine. Areum bites the edge of her straw. Nahyun blinks, finally. You inhale sharp, tasting powder and prosecco in the back of your throat, and you let it burn. You look at yourself in the mirror and wonder how much more you can take before you burst. The music dips into silence. Then the makeup artist behind you whispers, “You’re next.”

The makeup artist is sweeping powder across your jawline in slow, practiced strokes when a quiet knock interrupts the rhythm, followed by the soft creak of the suite door opening just enough to reveal a white-gloved hand sliding something inside. A box, wrapped in matte black velvet and tied with a pale ribbon that looks pressed by steam, rests now on the threshold, weightless in appearance but heavy with purpose. There’s no card on top, no logo, no hint at who it’s from—just the kind of packaging that speaks louder than names ever could. Karina notices first and raises an eyebrow as she sets her sketchbook aside, voice low and knowing as she murmurs, “That’s either a cease-and-desist or a sex toy,” with the grin of someone who already knows it’s neither and everything else at once.

The girls move fast—half-zipped dresses rustling, pins between teeth, mascara wands held mid-air—each one drawn by the scent of drama more than the delivery itself. Someone passes it to you, and your fingers hesitate on the bow like you’ve already guessed what’s inside, or maybe just hope you’re right. You peel back the ribbon slowly, careful with every fold, until the box sighs open to reveal a charm nestled in black tissue paper—small and silver, shaped like a wedding bell with tiny curved edges and an engraving so fine it reads more like a whisper than a message: ‘for the moment before the vows.’ It sits beside a second gift, layered in sheer white tissue, barely held in place—an ivory lace lingerie set, delicate and translucent, the kind of thing meant to disappear the second it’s worn. The thong is soft and light enough to crush under a fingertip, and the bralette is all embroidered vines and scalloped edges, more suggestion than coverage, designed with a purpose that speaks through fabric alone.

A card lies flat against the silk, plain cream with no envelope, only a few words written in the kind of handwriting your body already remembers: ‘Wear this for me.’ That’s all it says, but the message crashes through your chest like it carries years of weight behind it. You breathe in slow, mouth parted, hand hovering over the charm like it might imprint against your skin if you touch it long enough. The room around you erupts—Karina lets out a sound halfway between a shriek and a laugh, Irene covers her mouth with the back of her hand to hide the flush climbing up her face, Seulgi points at the thong like it’s a live wire and demands to know who the hell she has to marry to be treated like that (as if she isn’t already married), while Areum leans in closer, humming and twisting the lace between her fingers like it might dissolve if held too tightly. Nahyun stays silent, sitting straighter now, her gaze flickering only once toward the card before settling back on her reflection.

You say nothing, but your lips curve, soft and full, warmth blooming up your throat as you reach for your bracelet, undoing the clasp and slipping the charm onto the chain like it’s always belonged there. You don’t offer names or answers, don’t try to justify the color in your cheeks or the flicker in your eyes; the moment wraps itself around you like silk, light and rare and full of something you don’t want to name in case it slips away. The makeup artist resumes working, gentler now, like she’s caught the shift in the air without needing to ask. The girls buzz around you, half-teasing, half-envious, their laughter trailing through the room like perfume, and for once you feel weightless, pulled from whatever had been knotting itself beneath your ribs all morning.

Karina tilts her head, watching you closely as she fastens her own zipper, and her voice carries across the space with a grin sharpened by pride. “Well,” she says slowly, as if the words are obvious, “seems like you’re getting married next.”

Moments later, you find yourself sitting in the window seat tucked into one of the villa’s back corridors, the kind of place meant for slipping away rather than being seen, carved deep into the stone with a ledge wide enough to curl into and cushions softened by years of heat and salt air. The arched glass frames a view of the coast that flickers like a dream—sunlight bouncing off the tide, pale rooftops glowing against a sky that hasn’t decided whether it wants to storm or stay golden. Your dress settles around you like memory turned fabric, the silk folding at your waist in gentle ripples, the lace underneath clinging close like a secret only he’s supposed to touch. The charm on your bracelet shimmers each time your wrist shifts in your lap, scattering glints across the windowpane like little pieces of light that don’t know where to land.

You’d texted him without thinking, the way muscle remembers a dance. Meet me here. He comes quietly, steps muffled by the rug in the corridor, and you feel him before you hear him—something in the air shifting, your breath catching in a rhythm you never learned how to break. He doesn’t speak right away. His eyes travel down the line of your spine like he’s reading something sacred, tracing the shape of your shoulder, the place where your hair has been swept behind one ear, left bare for no reason except this. His breath falls quiet against the back of your neck, soft and warm and steady, and when he leans in, his voice finds you like a thread being pulled through silk.

“Look at you,” he says, and the words settle against your skin like silk, low and reverent, his tone brushed with something you don’t want to name. “You look so fucking hot right now.”

His hands find your shoulders, thumbs brushing along the dip where your collarbone curves, and the moment folds in on itself—quiet, golden, suspended. Your lips pull into a smile without effort, your eyes still half-fixed on the coastline ahead, though it shimmers now, slightly blurred, made less real by the weight of him behind you. “You’re just saying that because I wore the lace,” you murmur, light teasing woven into the edges of something warmer, deeper, less careful. He laughs under his breath, and you can feel it through your back, that sound curling low through your spine.

He leans in just a little, nose brushing your cheek, voice loose and familiar. “I’d say it if you wore nothing,” he murmurs, tone easy, like he’s half-joking—but only halfway. “But the lace’s a nice bonus.” One hand slides down to your hip, fingers catching the silk. “Makes it harder to focus, don’t know how I’m gonna get through his wedding in one piece.”

You breathe out a soft sound that barely passes for a laugh, your body still folded into his, the silk of your dress brushing against his fingertips where they rest at your waist. The lace beneath it feels warmer now, tingling where his voice landed a moment ago, but you shift slightly, tilting your head, eyes turning toward the horizon as if letting the moment pass like a pebble dropped into still water. “The view’s beautiful,” you say quietly, almost to yourself, your gaze catching on the curve of the ocean where it meets the edge of the cliffs. Light spills over everything, soft and gold, painting the stone rooftops and salt-bitten shutters in shades of pearl and honey. Far below, the water rolls in slow ribbons of blue and green, folding in on itself like silk layered in motion, calm but restless, always just on the verge of changing. A single cherry tree leans over the villa wall in full bloom, soft petals drifting off its branches like paper wishes in the breeze, a memory of spring in a place where spring has already passed. You watch one land against the stone, then lift again with the wind, carried out toward the sea.

There’s something sacred about it, this stretch of coastline that refuses to be loud, this hush of color and movement that wraps around you like prayer cloth. The cliffs remind you of ink-brushed screens from an old ryokan, the sea painted with the same restraint, the same careful quiet. The horizon fades into a soft haze, pink and pale like the space between dreams and waking, and the sun hangs there, blurred and still, like it’s pausing just long enough for you to say goodbye to whatever version of yourself you’ve been carrying all day. Your voice is softer now, threaded with something quieter, something wondering. “It feels like a place you don’t just visit. It feels like a place you leave pieces of yourself behind.”

“The view is beautiful,” he says after a beat, arms sliding around your waist as he presses his chest to your back, his chin finding its place on your shoulder like it’s been there a hundred times. Then, quieter, spoken close enough that your cheek warms from the breath of it—“But mine’s better.”

You jab your elbow back into his side with no real force, breath catching in a laugh, your head tilting just slightly so your lips can brush the edge of his jaw. “Corny fucker,” you whisper against his skin, though you kiss him as if you’ve been waiting all morning to melt back into this, into him, into the version of yourself that only exists when his hands are on your waist and his eyes are saying things his mouth won’t.

Your fingertips drift up to the back of his neck, curling at the base of his hair, and you let yourself lean into him fully, body folding into his like memory slipping back into a groove that never fully faded. “I missed you,” you say, too gently for it to sound like a confession, but not careful enough to pretend. The words find him and linger, and his arms tighten in response, drawing you closer, breath steadying against your cheek like he’s settling into something he wasn’t sure he’d be allowed to feel again.

The two of you stare out at the sea together, but your eyes lose focus, drawn more to the reflection of his hands resting on your stomach, to the flicker of his smile in the glass. The sun dips lower, casting long gold shadows across the tile, and everything slows. Something inside you loosens, folds inward, curls around the softness he always brings when you let him this close. You feel weightless here, surrounded by warmth, by silk, by the illusion that this—this quiet, this comfort, this version of together—can stretch into something that lives beyond the afternoon. But even as your cheek rests against his shoulder and your fingers curl around his wrist like they’re meant to stay there, you feel it begin to slip again—slow, subtle, the way saltwater seeps through cotton, impossible to catch until it stains.

The breeze curls through the corridor with a softer touch now, brushing the silk at your ankles, lifting the edge of a petal that never quite made it to the ledge. You stay for a beat longer, body still folded into Jeno’s, his hand warm at your waist, his breath grazing the top of your shoulder like a tether. The world outside the window stays golden, suspended, the sea still folding in slow ribbons, the sky still soft with a haze that makes everything feel unreal. Your fingers trace the charm at your wrist without thought, the glint of it catching the sun just as you shift—ready to say something, maybe nothing at all—until the sound comes.

Footsteps, measured but off-rhythm, echo against the stone like someone walking faster than they want to be seen. Then a cough, short and dry, cutting through the stillness like something sharp drawn across velvet. You lift your head. Jeno straightens behind you. Mark is already there. He’s framed by the curve of the archway, shoulders back, hands loose at his sides like he’s been wringing them without realizing. The tux clings clean to his frame, the lines of it sharp and deliberate, but his bowtie hangs undone and his shirt collar gapes slightly, like he put himself together too quickly or stopped halfway through.

“Y/N. You have to come with me,” Mark says.

Jeno shifts behind you, stepping closer without saying a word, already falling into place beside you. Mark finally looks at him then, just for a moment, something unreadable flickering through his expression before he turns. His shoulders are straighter now, jaw set, the sharp angles of his tux catching the light as he walks back down the hallway he came from—silent, expectant, not waiting to be followed, but certain you will. The soft clang of a distant bell drifts in through the window behind you. The petals are still falling. Somewhere deeper in the villa, music stirs faintly into life.

And still, the only sound you hear is your own breath tightening. Something sacred cracks open just slightly at the edges. You follow.

The hallway narrows the farther you walk, the marble growing colder beneath your feet, the sun thinning into shadow as it filters through narrower windows and aging drapery that doesn’t move with the breeze. Mark walks ahead with a pace too measured to be casual, too clipped to be calm, shoulders squared like he’s bracing for impact, like whatever waits behind the next door already hit him first. Jeno stays close beside you, his hand brushing the base of your spine now and then, steady and wordless, fingers curling just slightly into the silk of your dress when you walk a little too fast. The charm on your wrist tugs every few steps, a tiny pulse against your skin that wasn’t there before, heavier somehow, as if absorbing the air’s new weight with every corridor passed.

The music you heard before fades beneath the low murmur of voices and the clink of glass, distant but fractured, like a celebration you’ve suddenly slipped behind. The final door opens without ceremony, Mark pushing it in with one palm, and the air inside is sharp with perfume and unease. The suite isn’t quiet—but it isn’t loud either. It holds the kind of tension that lives in dressing rooms before curtain call, in kitchens before plates hit tables, the kind of breathless stillness that masks itself as control. Irene paces barefoot across the rug, one hand curled tight around a half-full flute of something warm, the hem of her dress brushing over the edge of a cosmetic case left open on the floor. Her veil hangs from the back of a chair, strands of her hair slipping from the pins as she walks, muttering something too low to catch.

Karina stands near the wardrobe with her phone raised like she’s waiting for it to ring, the screen glowing against her face, brows pulled so tight they cut her expression into pieces. A makeup artist lingers uselessly in the corner, still holding a powder brush in the air like she forgot how to move, eyes darting toward Irene, toward you, toward the door Mark just closed behind him. The vanity is cluttered with chaos—false lashes peeling at the corners, a cracked perfume bottle tipped on its side, a printed setlist streaked with something that looks like foundation. Twenty missed calls blink on the screen of a phone someone left buzzing in a nest of tissues and ribbon. Mark runs a hand through his hair like he’s buying himself another second of silence, but it doesn’t hold. It breaks instead.

You step forward slowly, silk brushing at your ankles, voice caught somewhere between your ribs and your throat. “Okay,” you say, quieter than you meant to, eyes flicking from Mark to Irene. “What happened?”

Mark doesn’t waste the breath to preface it. “The lead singer from the band—she’s gone. They were rehearsing down by the terrace, and she started feeling sick. High fever, dizzy, collapsed. They rushed her out in a cab twenty minutes ago. No one’s answering her phone.”

Irene lets out a shaky exhale, glass tipping slightly in her hand. “The band’s still here, the instruments, the sound techs—but she was the voice. The person we booked. She was supposed to sing after the vows, during the slow dance.”

Jeno’s brows pull in, arms crossed loosely as he leans into the wall behind you. “So get a backup vocalist?”

Karina doesn’t even look up from her phone. “Not at this hour. They’re trying, but everyone’s either at another wedding, stuck in traffic, or hasn’t responded. She was a solo artist—they built the whole set around her.”

You glance at Irene, her whole body curving inward now, like she’s shrinking into herself just to keep the dress from falling off. Her fingers press against her forehead, lips parted like she’s trying to inhale enough air for someone else. You step forward again, softer this time. “How long do we have?”

Mark’s jaw ticks. “Forty minutes.”

Irene’s eyes lift, slow and careful, the way someone looks when they’re almost afraid of naming what they need. Her voice is soft but breaks just slightly around the edges. “You know the song, right?”

You’re still watching the setlist. The paper’s been smudged by someone’s powder-covered hand, a lyric blurred at the bridge. Your gaze drifts to the champagne glass on the vanity, the wet ring it’s left behind, the sound tech’s clipboard still leaning against the chair. “Yeah,” you murmur, barely thinking, voice too low to carry weight. “I know it well.”

Silence. Then—movement. You glance up, and both of them are staring. Mark’s head tilted just slightly, arms crossed like he’s already piecing it together. Irene’s face has shifted entirely—hope blooming too fast, too loud. Her shoulders square, her mouth parting, her eyes waiting. They watch you with matching expressions—eyes wide, brows soft, like they rehearsed it beforehand. The exact same tilt of the head, the same hopeful half-smile, the same silent please. It’s disturbingly in sync.

You freeze. “No,” you breathe out, almost laughing as you step back. “No. No, no—don’t look at me like that.”

Your hand lifts instinctively, fingers brushing your temple like you can wave the pressure off your skin. “I can’t do this. I don’t sing. I haven’t sung in public since—” you cut yourself off, pulse stammering in your throat. “Forget it. I just can’t.”

Mark’s voice comes slow, quiet, like he doesn’t want to push too hard. “You can.” A pause. “You do sing. All the time.”

You shoot him a look. He doesn’t back down. “You sing every single one of my demos. You hum through the verses like you’re the one who wrote them. You tweak the keys when they’re off and then send me voice notes pretending you don’t care.”

You look away. Mark’s voice dips lower, steady and knowing. “You’re the best singer I know.”

You sigh, slow and uneven, the kind that folds in on itself before it ever fully leaves your chest. The room feels too loud now—even in its silence. Too many eyes, too much pressure blooming under your ribs like heat that doesn’t know where to land. You stare at the floor, the blurred edges of the setlist, the way your own reflection wavers faintly in the polished wood beneath your heels. In your head, the list forms without meaning to: reasons to say yes, reasons to run. You know the song. That’s one. You love her. That’s another. But your throat is already tightening and you haven’t even opened your mouth. You haven’t done this in a long time, you’re still scared. This is Irene’s moment. This is a room full of people who will remember. Either way, something cracks open.

Jeno steps in before either of them can say another word, his body angling closer to yours like instinct, like a shield pulled tight around your hesitation. His eyes land on Irene first, then Mark, sharp and unreadable, but steady in the way that makes silence stretch. “If she doesn’t want to sing,” he says quietly, “then that’s it.”

There’s no challenge in his voice, just weight. Finality. Like he’s not asking for permission, only drawing a line.

He doesn’t move in front of you, doesn’t pull you back—just stays close enough that you feel the quiet charge in him, his presence curling protectively at your side like a silent promise. His voice is low but firm, cutting through the tension without raising. “You’re not here to fix anything,” he says, eyes still locked on Irene and Mark. “You’re here because they asked. You planned every part of this wedding. You made it beautiful, personal, theirs. That’s enough.” His jaw tightens slightly. “You don’t owe anyone anything more.” Then he looks at you, and his expression softens, all that heat turning inward. “You don’t have to do this.” His voice drops lower, more private. “You don’t always have to be the one who saves the day.”

You don’t answer right away. You just stand there, the weight of the room closing in soft and slow, like steam rising in a space too tight to breathe. Jeno’s voice still lingers at your side, warm and firm, wrapping around the parts of you that started to unravel the second you looked into Irene’s eyes. You don’t owe them anything, maybe that should be enough to keep you still but something in you shifts anyway, delicate and stubborn, caught between love and the kind of ache that doesn’t know how to name itself.

You feel him watching you before you turn. His gaze is already there, quiet and unblinking, so deep it makes your breath stutter. When you meet his eyes, it’s like standing too close to something molten, something true. He sees it, he always does. The exact second your heart tilts in a direction you haven’t even admitted to yourself yet. That terrifying intimacy of being read without asking to be, understood without speaking. There’s no flinch in him—just a slow exhale, like your decision hurts him too, and he’s already accepted it anyway. Then, softly, with that kind of warmth that feels like the opposite of pressure—just space, held open for you—he says, “But if you want to do it, if it’s your choice, and no one pushes you into it, then I’ll back you with everything. Every second of it.”

Your gaze drifts to Irene, to the way she’s holding her breath without meaning to, knuckles white around the stem of the glass she forgot to finish. She’s not begging. She’s just hoping and that’s worse. It would be easier if someone demanded it. If someone asked loudly enough for you to say no. But this—this quiet, breaking kind of trust—this is the thing that undoes you.

Your throat tightens. Your fingers twitch at your side. The list in your head starts again, but this time slower, more fractured. You’re scared. You hate the spotlight now. You haven’t sung in front of anyone since that night. You don’t even know if your voice will hold but you love her. You owe her nothing, and yet—you love her. In the end, that love outweighs the fear, drowns out the logic, silences the part of you that wants to run. It pushes forward, steady and impossible to ignore, because even when you don’t choose it, love chooses you and it always wins.

Your lips part before you’ve fully decided. Your voice barely pushes through the air. “I’ll do it.” You say it like surrender. Like it’s being pulled out of your chest piece by piece. You say it because no one else will. Because you’ve spent so much of your life learning how to hold other people’s moments together without asking for one of your own. Because the song shouldn’t be missing. Because you shouldn’t be missing from this either.

Mark exhales first, like he’s been holding the air in his chest this entire time, only letting it go when your words settle into the room for real. His shoulders drop, eyes softening as he watches you with something that looks like pride pressed up against guilt—grateful, but heavy with the knowledge that it shouldn’t have had to be you. He doesn’t say anything. Just nods once, slow and quiet, like he knows a thank-you would cheapen it.

Irene’s lips tremble before any sound comes. The glass in her hand wobbles slightly, and she sets it down on the vanity like she suddenly remembers she’s holding it. Her eyes are already glossed, lashes catching with the beginning shine of tears, and her bottom lip tucks in like she’s fighting it—but failing.

You raise a hand before she can even open her mouth. “Don’t. Don’t you dare cry. You’ll ruin your makeup and you’re already two pins away from that updo falling apart.” She lets out a broken laugh, sniffling as she reaches for a tissue, dabbing carefully. You point toward the makeup chair with practiced command, your voice slipping right back into steel. “Sit down. Let them fix you before you walk down the aisle looking like you crawled through a rainstorm.”

She obeys without hesitation, the familiarity of your tone grounding her more than any comfort could.

You turn to Mark next, arms folding, your brows lifting. “And you—maybe try panicking a little less next time and give people a second to breathe before you start dragging them through hallways like it’s a hostage situation.”

His mouth twitches, and he looks like he might argue, but then thinks better of it. You raise an eyebrow. He throws his hands up in mock surrender, stepping back with a half-smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

You glance around the room once more, all that fear from before folding into purpose now, your voice clipped and commanding as you nod to the stylist. “She’s ready. Again.” No one moves fast enough for you. “I need someone on lips and someone on hair now.” You don’t raise your voice, but the way it cuts through the air makes it clear you won’t repeat yourself. “Two pins are falling from the left side of the bun, and she needs a touch-up along the lash line. I don’t want to see a shimmer of tears in a single photo.”

The artists scramble into motion. Irene sits up straighter without needing to be told. You don’t smile, don’t soothe. You manage. One hand on your hip, the other flicking through the crumpled setlist on the vanity as you scan the rest of the space. “And someone fix that bouquet,” you snap, nodding toward the corner where the blooms are already wilting from too much sun and too little water. “Tell the florist to remake it or add hydration beads—I don’t care how they fix it, just make it photo-ready in ten.”

Mark shifts a little behind you, and you turn sharply. “You.” Your finger jabs in his direction. “Unless you’ve suddenly learned how to blend concealer or pin a French twist, get out of the way. Go check on the sound check or the lighting—something useful. Go.”

He blinks, stunned, but obeys, backing toward the door with both hands raised like you’ve pulled a weapon.

You scan the room again, breath steady now, fingers curled slightly at your sides. The chaos doesn’t rattle you anymore. It sharpens you. Fear has shape now. Command. Direction. Irene peeks up at you through the mirror, her mouth twitching. “She’s back,” she murmurs.

You don’t respond. Just turn on your heel, silk brushing like breath against your calves as you move through the suite with clipped purpose. Jeno follows without hesitation, quieter than your steps, his eyes tracking the tension that’s building in your shoulders with every hallway you pass through. He doesn’t speak at first—just reaches out, fingers ghosting along your arm before gently curling around your hand, grounding you with a touch so tender it nearly slows your pulse on contact. He laces your fingers with his, his thumb brushing along the edge of yours, and leans in close enough that his voice lands warm against your temple. “Hey,” he says softly, “come here for a second.”

You stop walking, but your body’s still locked in that rhythm of movement, like your thoughts are pacing even when your feet aren’t. He steps in front of you, one hand still holding yours, the other sliding up to rest at your waist, slow and deliberate, like he’s asking without asking. “Breathe with me.” His eyes search yours, gentle but firm, the kind of gaze that sees everything and doesn’t flinch. “Do you wanna take a second before all of this kicks off?” he murmurs. “Just you and me? No noise. No decisions. Just… a breath.”

You shake your head, barely, just enough for him to feel it through your fingers. Your voice is quiet but clipped, too full of momentum to be softened now. “There’s no time.” Then you’re moving again. Your hand stays locked in his, dragging him with you through the corridor, steps sharp and certain, dress brushing against your ankles as the villa tilts around you like a set piece that needs rearranging. His grip tightens in yours, no resistance, no protest—just the weight of him following, tethered and willing, holding on like he knows it’s the only thing keeping you steady.

The hallway grows narrower the farther you go, walls blooming with soft shadow, light tapering to a silvery blur across the polished floor. The scent changes too—less floral now, more storage room chill, hints of eucalyptus and green foam brick, the quiet, cold smell of water left too long in glass. You’re barely breathing as you turn the final corner. Behind you, you can feel the wedding pulsing to life. Music building from the terrace, voices carrying through the high windows, laughter feathering across the marble as more guests arrive. Somewhere, someone is placing the last flute of champagne on a tray. Somewhere, the string quartet is tuning in harmony. You should be by Irene’s side right now, touching up her veil, calming her nerves. But instead you’re here—fixing what should’ve already been perfect.

The staging room is bright, too bright, the overhead lights buzzing faintly as you step inside. Everything is lined with symmetry—four mirrored trays stretched across a linen-draped table, each holding a bridesmaid bouquet resting on a single square of ivory lace. It’s beautiful at first glance. Orderly. Cinematic. Until it isn’t. Your eyes land on the fourth bouquet from the left, and something inside you coils too tight. It’s subtle, a barely-there imbalance, but you see it instantly. The shape leans too far forward. One side heavier, slack where it should be arched. You move closer, heels clicking like punctuation, hands already curling at your sides before your mind catches up.

They were meant to be uniform—hand-tied, tightly domed, held together with pearl pins and finished with soft cream ribbon. Karina had chosen the stems herself: white orchids for elegance, hydrangeas for volume, gardenias for scent. A balance of softness and structure. Nothing too bright, nothing too traditional. A visual echo of Irene’s dress, of the curved silhouette of the altar, of the silk tulle in the cathedral veil that still waits in its box. But this bouquet—the one closest to your hand—is wrong. The orchids are bent, their pale petals bruised at the tips like they were crushed in storage. Two of the hydrangeas have started to sag, heads nodding forward like they’ve wilted under the heat. And tucked between them, obscenely out of place, are three pale pink roses.

You freeze. Just for a second. Then your fingers reach without permission. You lift it gently, and then not-so-gently, the stems pressing hard against your palm as your grip tightens. The ribbon twists under your knuckles, catching on the curve of your ring. You hold it up to the light like it might explain itself. It doesn’t. The pink blooms stare back like a dare, and something behind your ribs gives way to anger. This was supposed to be the final hour. The quiet before the aisle walk. Everything laid out, pristine and waiting, just like she imagined. And now there’s this—one small flaw threatening to throw off everything.

Behind you, Jeno steps into the room, the echo of his shoes softer than yours. His presence trails through the doorway like heat following a shadow. He doesn’t say anything at first, just watches the way you’re holding the bouquet—like it’s something that wronged you personally. He crosses the space slowly, hands open at his sides, shoulders low, eyes gentle even in the silence. When he speaks, his voice is barely above a murmur. “Hey. You want me to find out who handled these last?”

You don’t wait for an answer. You push past him, bouquet still gripped in your hand like you’re delivering evidence to a crime scene, silk ribbon fluttering from your wrist as you move. The door swings open in your wake, catching the edge of the light and throwing it hard against the marble. Jeno follows, a step behind and quiet, but his presence is a tether, thick and close. He knows better than to speak right now.

The hallway stretches long and pale ahead of you, lined with window seats dressed in cream cushions and embroidered throws. Golden light spills in from the south-facing windows, dust particles catching mid-air like glitter suspended in honey. Your friends are scattered all along it—some perched delicately, murmuring over flutes of rosé, others walking in soft heels and open jackets, waiting to be summoned to the ceremony. There’s a hush over it all. That particular, weighted hush that comes right before something beautiful is meant to begin.

But you’re cutting through it like a knife.

Each step of yours lands with more bite than intended, your heels echoing sharp against the floor as heads turn, subtly at first, then with more curiosity. You don’t look at anyone. You don’t need to. You can feel them—watching the woman with the crooked bouquet and the storm in her jaw, the undone robe slipping down her shoulder, the man behind her trying to keep up, one hand half-extended like he’s ready to catch her if she shatters.

You haven’t eaten since yesterday. You’ve had two iced coffees, half a mimosa, and a bite of a macaron that tasted like perfume. You’re supposed to sing in front of a hundred people in less than an hour. You just found out that Jeno lost his virginity to your insufferable sister and somehow, you’re expected to smile through florals like that’s not your villain origin story.

You’re gripping the bouquet like it’s a weapon. Not a dainty little floral arrangement but a goddamn threat. The stems are crushed in your fist, white orchids bent out of shape, and someone’s added fucking pink roses—pink. You don’t even remember how you got to this point, but suddenly you’re standing dead center in the villa’s staging room, bridal robe falling off one shoulder, hair only half curled, and murder in your eyes. “Who,” you breathe, slowly, dangerously, “did this.”

“Is it too much to ask for one thing to go to plan? One thing! I don’t even care that my boyfriend banged my sister behind the bleachers, but God forbid the florals stay on theme!”

The room freezes. Chenle’s the only one dumb—or brave—enough to answer. He glances at Jaemin, who’s already halfway behind a curtain. “I think she’s gonna stab someone with that,” he mutters under his breath, but not low enough. “Should we disarm her or… watch?”

Your head snaps in his direction like a hawk, bouquet raised. “You think this is funny?” you hiss, seething. “You think I spent four months coordinating hand-tied, stem-cut, ivory-only orchids for one of you frat-touched Neanderthals to fingerfuck the arrangements like it’s an elementary school art class?”

Jaemin fully vanishes. Chenle throws up his hands. “I didn’t finger anything. Bold accusation.”

You’re halfway to lunging when a hand wraps around your wrist—broad, firm, claiming—and it stops you cold. Jeno doesn’t rush, doesn’t flinch. He moves in slow, all quiet control and barely veiled heat, like he’s handling something wild that only he’s ever been allowed to touch. His shirt clings across his chest, open at the throat, collarbones shadowed and sharp, his forearms flexing where his sleeves are rolled, veins thick, hands made to restrain. He looks down at the bouquet in your hand like it’s ridiculous, then meets your eyes again. “Put it down,” he says, voice smooth and firm, no space for argument.

His shirt clings to his chest, collar open, the edge of his chain catching the light against his collarbones. Sleeves rolled high on his forearms, veins stark under golden skin, and the way he moves—controlled, deliberate—makes your pulse jump. His other hand comes up slowly, palm brushing your side, then gripping the base of your spine as he leans in.

You don’t. Your jaw locks in defiance, eyes flicking back to the bouquet, breath ragged.

He tightens his grip on your wrist, just enough to remind you he feels everything—every tremble, every twitch, every refusal. His head tilts, and his mouth brushes near your ear, breath hot. “Y/N,” he says again, firmer this time, deeper. “Put. It. Down.”

You don’t. Not right away. Your breath is shaking and your pulse is feral, hammering in your chest like it’s trying to break through bone, and the bouquet in your hand feels heavier now—less like decoration, more like a threat. “I swear to God—” you snarl, voice splintered, on the verge of detonation. Karina freezes mid-step, her eyes darting from your hand to your face like she’s weighing whether to intervene or sprint. Areum mouths something silent and horrified to Mark across the room, hands clutched to her chest, and Shotaro—sweet, useless Shotaro—literally ducks behind a drinks cart like flower shrapnel might fly. No one steps in. No one ever does. You’ve been like this before—volatile, burning at both ends, impossible to soothe. They all know there’s only one person who ever gets close when you’re like this.

“You’re shaking,” he says, voice like the press of a thumb to the back of your neck—firm, intimate, final. His fingers tighten around your wrist just enough to make you feel the difference in control. “Look what you’re doing.” He nudges your hand up, just slightly, makes you see the bouquet trembling in your grip, petals bent and bruised, stems crushed where your fingers won’t let go. His eyes stay on yours. “Calm down.” Another beat. Another inch closer. “Breathe for me.” His tone dips lower. “Or I’ll make you.”

Jeno’s already taking the bouquet from your grip. He doesn’t throw it, doesn’t mock it, just sets it on the table like it’s done nothing wrong. Then he moves closer—right into your space—and tips your chin up with two fingers. His palm curls around the back of your neck, grounding, thumb brushing slow beneath your jaw. His eyes lock on yours, and everything around you starts to dull.

“Come with me.” His voice is low, warm, dipped in something rougher now—something that brushes right up your spine and doesn’t ask twice. His hand slides down your wrist, fingers curling around yours like a command dressed as comfort. “We’re gonna take a breather,” he murmurs, stepping in until your bodies touch, “and you’re gonna walk out of here before you do something stupid with a centerpiece.” His mouth grazes your cheek, not quite a kiss. “Now.”

You’re still fuming, jaw tight, shoulders locked, every instinct in you wound tight enough to snap as you chew through crisis after crisis, running on caffeine, sex and the desperate need to have everything perfect because if you stop moving, you’ll fall apart. You haven’t breathed all morning, haven’t let anyone touch you, calm you, help you—not Karina, not Shotaro, not even Mark—but his hand is still on your neck, warm and firm, thumb stroking just beneath your hairline like he owns the fuse and knows exactly how to keep it from blowing, and the heat of his body crowds yours until for the first time today you stay still. You don’t speak, but he sees it in your face, the twitch of your lip, the defiance behind your lashes, the way your throat works like you want to spit something bratty just to push him and maybe you will, maybe you want to, but you don’t pull away and when you try, just slightly, he leans in closer, mouth brushing your temple like he’s memorizing your temperature, and you—wild, wound, ruthless—you let him because he’s the only one who’s made you breathe.

“Or,” he murmurs, “if you’re still feeling mouthy… I’ll take you upstairs, bend you over the bathroom sink, and fuck the fight right out of you.”

That’s what breaks you. Not the threat. The promise in it. The way his voice goes soft and low and vulgar all at once, like it belongs closer to your skin than your ears, like he already knows exactly what you need before you admit it. The way you know, know, he’d do it right now if you said please, no hesitation, no mercy. Your breath stutters and your body tips forward without thinking, a soft moan breaking loose as you lean into his chest, your fists curling in the fabric of his shirt like you’re anchoring yourself to something solid. One tear slips out, then another, hot and silent, streaking your cheek as your jaw locks tight and your eyes flutter shut. His hand never leaves your neck, never loosens, just holds you there, steady and close, like he knew this was coming and planned to catch it all.

From behind the curtain, Chenle mutters, “I knew she’d weaponize florals. Respectfully though.”

“She was wielding that bouquet like she trained in ancient Greece,” Jaemin whispers, slowly crouching like that’ll save him. “That’s not a centerpiece, that’s a goddamn war hammer.”

“Bro, those are hydrangeas,” Chenle hisses. “She was about to commit a felony with hydrangeas.”

Jaemin peeks out again, eyes widening. “Do you think if I scream ‘she loves me, she loves me not’ she’ll chase me?”

“You’ll be dead before she hits ‘not.’”

“She’d look good at my funeral.”

“You need help.”

“Out,” Jeno says without looking away from you.

The room clears in fifteen seconds flat. It’s just you and him now, heat pressing off your skin in waves, his hand still holding your neck, your breath catching between your lips like you’re about to either scream or cry. He leans in, tilts your face, eyes searching. “Say it,” he whispers. “Say please.”

Your pride burns through your chest. Your throat tightens. You say it anyway—quiet, low, breathless against his mouth—and when he kisses you, it’s rough and slow and grounding, like you’re still holding the weapon and he’s letting you use it, letting you lean into the fire just enough to soften without turning to ash. He holds you through it, one hand firm around your waist, the other curling behind your neck, thumb dragging under your jaw with the kind of touch that doesn’t ask, doesn’t hesitate. When his lips trail up and press to your temple, the kiss lands with aching precision—like he’s closing a wound you didn’t know had split open.

Someone coughs behind a curtain, but Jeno doesn’t turn. His voice stays low, steady. “I said out.” Just three words, no sharpness, no theatrics, but the tone pulls movement from every corner. Chairs scrape quietly. Breath is held. You hear Chenle curse under his breath and the soft tap of shoes as the final person filters out. The door clicks closed, and stillness settles thick around the two of you like velvet pulled tight.

He tilts your chin, eyes moving over your face as though every shift, every quiver, every flicker of control means something he understands too well. “Breathe.” His forehead presses lightly to yours. “Just you and me now.” He takes your hands in both of his, thumbs brushing along the insides of your palms, smoothing over the creases where stress still lives. His touch is deliberate, tested. He knows where it hurts. Knows what to do when you go quiet and coiled.

“I just know what’s gonna calm you down,” he says, soft and certain, the corner of his mouth curving like it’s been waiting to say it. “Come with me.”

His hands stay locked with yours as he guides you through the corridor, past half-open doors and sun-warmed windows. The villa breathes differently now—quieter, slower, as if it feels him leading you away from the wreckage. Light floods the long hallway through tall panes of glass, golden and late-afternoon rich, casting soft reflections over the polished wood floors. Outside, through the windows, the horizon glows like a painting just beginning to blur at the edges.

He doesn’t rush. His thumb still strokes the back of your hand, and his other hand rises to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear with so much care it makes your chest pinch. When you reach the end of the hallway, he pushes open the double doors to the old piano room, and you feel it immediately—the stillness of it, the cool air, the way sound seems to fold inward inside these walls. Sunlight pools across the keys in uneven stripes. The bench waits, polished and warm, and Jeno turns to you with a quiet breath, lips brushing your temple again. “Sit with me,” he says gently.

The bench is cold beneath you at first, carved dark walnut softened by age, the kind that creaks slightly beneath shifting weight but holds its history in the curve of its spine. The piano stretches out in front of you like a body waiting to be touched, black and ivory worn from love and time, each key a secret that only responds to pressure in the right places. Your fingers hover over the octave you know too well and your breath stumbles before it can leave your mouth, jaw locked, stomach tight, heart a mess of chords thudding out of rhythm. You play a few notes—they clatter, off-tempo, clumsy, too fast and too shallow. It sounds like nerves, like pressure, like someone else trying to imitate your hands. Jeno moves closer beside you then, close enough for his thigh to brush yours, his body a soft perimeter of heat and stillness and weight, and he watches you—your jaw, your hands, the way your knee bounces without rhythm—like he’s reading sheet music etched into your pulse.

Your nail drags to your lips, a bad habit pulled from some bruised corner of your childhood, and before you can bite down he catches your hand in his, slow and certain, presses your knuckles to his mouth and holds them there, his kiss warm and still and grounding. “This is why I was nervous about you doing this,” he says gently, his voice low but steady, no judgment in it, just knowing. “Because there’s only so much a person can hold before something slips.” He doesn’t mean it as a criticism—it’s more like truth, soft-spoken and carefully delivered, like a chord you don’t expect but fits perfectly when it lands. His hand never lets go of yours. He lets it rest on your thigh, thumb stroking along the edge of your skin just under the hem of your robe, and the rhythm slows everything in you. Your shoulders ease. Your breath finally catches and releases. And when he leans in close, the press of his chest brushing your shoulder, the room starts to mute around the edges.

“Try again,” he murmurs, and this time he says it like he means it, like it’s a gift instead of an order, and when your fingers move again, they don’t fumble. They settle. They remember. The first notes hum out clear and round, soft and steady like breath returning to a body. The keys don’t feel foreign anymore—they feel like flesh, like language, like something sacred you thought you lost. The melody unfurls slowly from your chest, and when your voice joins it, it’s quieter than usual but stronger too, like it’s coming from someplace older than fear, someplace he knows how to reach. He watches you the whole time—not to judge, not even to guide—but like he’s listening with every inch of his skin. His hand doesn’t leave your leg. His thigh stays pressed to yours, the warmth of it bleeding through silk and nerve endings. It feels like you’re being played too, like the music is threading through both of you, pulling taut the silence between inhale and exhale.

“I used to play this with my dad,” you whisper, fingers still ghosting the keys. “When I was little. He’d sit next to me on this terrible bench that squeaked every time we moved, and he’d play the chords I couldn’t reach yet. He always smelled like bergamot and chalk.” You laugh, soft and breathy, something aching just beneath it. “He never sang, though. Said his voice was for yelling, not melodies.”

Jeno doesn’t speak at first. Just rests his forehead against the side of your temple, his breath warm against your skin, his silence louder than any response. Then his fingers lace tighter through yours. “Your voice belongs here,” he says simply, reverently. “Right here. Like it’s always known how to come back. You got this. Your voice is gonna save the wedding, sing it like it’s just for us.”

Your mouth tilts into a smile, slow and dangerous, one that doesn’t quite reach your eyes but still pulls the memory up from somewhere buried beneath your ribs. It curls there for a moment, smoke rising off something half-burned. “Do you remember the first time you watched me at the bar?” you murmur, voice low, like you’re whispering to someone who’s already seen the worst parts of you and stayed anyway. The air in the room shifts around it, heavier now, thick with something unspoken. You don’t look at him when you say it—you stare ahead, at the piano, at the way your fingers hover just above the keys like they’ve forgotten whether they’re supposed to make sound or stay silent. Your hands are always like that when he’s this close. Like they remember things your mouth is still too afraid to say.

He doesn’t answer right away, and that silence tells you everything. You feel it in the slight tension of his thigh brushing yours, the way his chest doesn’t rise for a breath, the quiet way he watches you. That night is still alive in both of you—not a memory, but a locked room with no windows, no clocks, just red light and ruin and the exact moment everything split in two. It was never casual. Never accidental. You were both running from something you didn’t name, and the music in that place didn’t sound like music—it sounded like a warning, like metal stretched too tight, like desire curling inside danger. He wasn’t meant to be there but whatever God pulled you into the same room at the same time had no interest in peace. It was always going to end with teeth.

“When I saw you,” he says finally, voice thick and low, heavy with something darker than awe. “I just froze. I had never felt like that in my entire life, it was like the air changed to make space for you.” His words slow as they form, deliberate, controlled, but you feel the truth sliding beneath every syllable—his restraint, his hunger, the memory of the moment he saw you sing. “You opened your mouth,” he murmurs, his hand tightening slightly on your thigh, “and I knew that it was you, Mark’s best friend, insufferable, stubborn, someone who I should’ve never looked at and wanted the way I wanted you that night.”

His breath skims your cheek, low and warm, dragging your pulse with it. “You were onstage and you didn’t flinch once. Didn’t glance at the crowd, didn’t adjust your mic, didn’t break when the bass kicked in—you just sang. Like you were already somewhere else. Like we were the ones interrupting.” His voice dips, rough now, close to dangerous. “I was already hard halfway through your second line. You hadn’t even looked at me and my whole body knew.” He shifts closer, thigh pressing tight against yours, eyes tracking your mouth without shame. “No one’s ever hit me like that before. Not with sound. Not with silence. Nothing has touched me the way your voice did that night.”

His hand moves, slow and sure, up your thigh—his fingers sliding just beneath the edge of your dress like they belong there, like they’ve always belonged there. His other hand catches your wrist gently and lays it flat against the closed lid of the piano, palm down, as if anchoring you there. His eyes stay on your face the whole time, studying it like the words live somewhere in your skin. “I remember the way you held the mic,” he goes on, voice lower now, almost hoarse. “Like you didn’t need it. Like the sound would’ve come from you anyway, whether we were ready for it or not.”

He breathes out slowly, like the memory tastes heavier than he expected. “And I was standing there, thinking this was some kind of fucking punishment. That I’d done something wrong in another life and this was the consequence—having to sit and watch you. Not being able to touch you until after. Watching you sing like you weren’t meant to be seen, like the whole goddamn world was already inside you.” His thumb drags a slow line up your inner thigh. His mouth presses once to the side of your neck, just under your ear, not soft—curious, like he’s revisiting something that never stopped living in his head. “I fell into you and I haven’t heard silence the same way since.”

You let the silence hang there just a little too long, the heat between you curling tighter with every second, his words still simmering low in your stomach like they’ve hooked something and started pulling. Then you shift on the bench, slow, deliberate, your thigh pressing into his like you’re daring him to flinch. Your eyes flick up to meet his—darker now, sharper, a little cruel. “The second I started singing you didn’t even pretend to look away. You just looked at me like you already knew what you wanted and were waiting for me to catch up.”

You slide into his lap without warning, slow and heavy, your dress hiking higher as your thighs cage him in, your hands planting firm on his shoulders like you’ve done this a thousand times in your head. You rock once, hips pressing down with quiet intent, and the breath he pulls in is sharp enough to cut. Your voice stays low, your mouth near his ear. “Then I saw you properly. Lee Jeno. Captain of the Ravens. Mark’s cocky little brother. The one who strutted through campus like every hallway was made for him. Everyone knew you. The arms, the jaw, the fucking mouth—yeah, all of it. But the thing that really got whispered about?” You shift again, grinding slow against the thick press under you now, your lips dragging along his cheek. “Was your cock. Big enough to ruin girls. Heavy enough they bragged about how sore they were the next day.”

Your fingers tug his shirt just a little, knuckles brushing skin. “I should’ve walked the fuck away. Should’ve known better. But then I saw your lips—full, slow, too pretty for someone who looked like he fucked rough—and I just knew. I was gonna ride you until you forgot your own name.” Your smile flicks sharp, your hips rolling once more. “And you let me so I still sang for you.”

Your mouth brushes his jaw, slow and sure. “Didn’t matter that I’d heard about you. That you were a player, that you were a shitty boyfriend, that you left girls in tears and didn’t call back. You watched me like you were already under me. Like you were already mine.” You glance down, just once. “And when I got you alone—and saw how fast you gave it up, how quick you let me take control—I knew. I fucking knew I had you.”

You lean in closer, lips grazing his jaw as you speak, slow and hushed, like this is only for him. “Everyone else at the bar disappeared. I couldn’t see anything but you. I don’t remember the second verse. I don’t remember the bridge. I just remember your face. That grip you had on me from across the crowd. I could feel it. I was singing for you by the end of the first chorus.” Your tone dips silkier, tighter now, like a ribbon drawn across skin. “Didn’t know what I was doing. I just wanted to see what you’d let me take. How far you’d go for me. How far I could push.”

The moment hangs between you, breathless and heavy, like a dropped match waiting to burn through the floor. You don’t blink. He doesn’t move. But the tension shifts — coils tighter, thicker, deeper, until it cracks open between you with a low, ragged inhale that’s more instinct than breath. His mouth catches yours before you finish your next thought, and the kiss is harsh from the start — desperate, consuming, all tongue and teeth and hunger, like you’ve both been holding this in for too long and now there’s no way to stop. His hands find your waist, your hips, dragging you closer until your thighs frame his, until your bodies press in everywhere they can. You moan into him and feel it echoed back in the way he growls softly, low in his chest, the sound vibrating through your ribcage. He’s already trying to hike the dress up higher, fisting the silk against your ass, until you break the kiss with a gasp and a smirk and slide your hand down his wrist.

You break the kiss only when his fingers start gathering your dress too roughly at the sides. You pull back just enough to let your voice cut between you. “Careful,” you whisper firmly, nails scraping along his back until he freezes mid-motion. “If you ruin this dress I’ll strangle you mid thrust.” Your eyes flick to his—dark, daring, half-lidded, but deadly serious. “And I really want to fuck you first.” The corner of his mouth curves, but he gets it. His touch changes instantly. Slower now, reverent even, the same control you always knew lived under all that force. His palms move under the silk like they’re reading you, mapping every place he’s already claimed and finding the ones he hasn’t yet. He hums once, a sound deep in his chest, amused and wrecked and reverent all at once, and kisses you again, slower this time, letting his tongue trace your bottom lip like he’s smoothing over the chaos he just caused.

The kiss deepens again, but it’s no longer desperate. It’s controlled. Purposeful. His hand cradles the back of your neck, thumb grazing beneath your ear with that precise pressure that always makes you melt. His other hand slips under the hem of your dress with practiced ease, not yanking, just lifting until the fabric pools at your thighs, warm against your skin, heavy with threat. You let him—because the way he touches you now is reverent, like silk is sacred and your body is scripture, and he’s memorizing both in the language only your nerves understand. His lips move to your throat, grazing down slowly, mouthing at the place your pulse flutters just beneath the skin. You tilt your head back, giving him more, even as your fingers curl into his shirt, dragging it loose at the hem, searching for skin. He groans into your neck, one hand still cupping your thigh, the other trailing fire down your spine, and when he speaks again, it’s more breath than voice.

The door clicks shut behind you with a finality that pulls the breath from your chest. The sound vanishes into the charged quiet of the piano room, where everything feels untouched, preserved, waiting. The grand piano stretches across the floor like a black monolith, gleaming in the late-afternoon light, its lid down, its keys still reverberating faintly from the last song you played — like they remember your fingers, your voice, your unraveling. Your dress is bunched high around your thighs, the bodice pulled taut across your chest, wrinkled from where his hands have already been. Jeno’s blazer is somewhere on the floor behind you, his sleeves rolled to the elbow, forearms veined and flexing, shirt sticking to the sculpt of his torso like he was poured into it.

This isn’t a room anymore. It breathes like it’s alive, like it’s watching, like it’s holding its breath for you. Every corner hums with memory, with heat, with the tension of something about to break. It’s a sanctuary carved out of pressure, a stage where nothing stays hidden, a confessional without mercy. The walls feel too close and too wide all at once, the light too gold, the silence too loud. And the piano—black, gleaming, still humming from your last touch—is no longer furniture. It’s an altar dressed in shadow and reflection, waiting to be worshipped or ruined. It’s the only thing in the world solid enough to catch you when your body finally gives in.

He kisses you like he’s been holding it back all day, like he’s starving and you’re the last thing in the world worth sinking his teeth into. His mouth is hot, open, forceful — tongue sliding deep, dragging heat from your chest into your throat, groaning against your lips like he’s tasting the fear you didn’t voice. There’s no fumbling, no hesitation. His hands are already under your dress, palms dragging up the backs of your thighs, thumbs bruising the swell of your hips as he moves with purpose. Lace is shoved aside with a flick of his fingers. He finds you wet and swears into your mouth like it’s a prayer. You grind down into his touch, chasing friction, your breath hitching, your thighs tightening around his wrists like you’re begging without language. He doesn’t give you time to catch up. He just grips your waist, spins you, and bends you over the closed piano lid so fast your breath punches out in a gasp. Your palms flatten against the wood, cool and smooth beneath your skin, the arch of your spine instinctive, heels planted wide.

The room is silent, unbearably so, thick with tension and sweat-slick heat, save for the ragged catch in his throat when he fists the base of his cock and pushes between your thighs, dragging the swollen head through your folds like he’s savouring it — slow, slow, then deeper, deeper, until he bottoms out with a groan punched from his chest, and you’re split open around him, stretched tight, hole clenching involuntarily as you gasp, ass in the air, chest pressed flat against the cold, glossy curve of the piano. The angle’s brutal — deliberately so — your back arched like a bow strung too tight, cunt forced to take every inch without resistance, every nerve ending scraped raw by the drag of his cockhead as he grinds deeper.

Your knees are already trembling, locked wide and helpless, the burn shooting up your thighs delicious and filthy. He doesn’t thrust yet, doesn’t give you even a rhythm to chase, he just stays buried, holds you there like a fucktoy meant to wear him, every inch of him pulsing hot inside your gut. One hand grips your hip, the other spreads across your ass, squeezing, then prying your cheeks apart to watch himself disappear into you, his breath catching again. “You feel that?” he mutters low, more to himself than you, but it licks down your spine like a promise. “Fucking dripping. Swallowing me whole.” You’re leaking around the base of his cock already, slick dripping down your inner thighs, pooling between your legs, and when he gives the slightest twitch of his hips, not a thrust, just a tease, you choke on a moan, whole body clenching as the stretch lodges in your throat like a sob. You can’t think. You can’t move. You’re impaled, used, and already begging for more with your body, and he hasn’t even started.

One hand spreads wide across your shoulder blades, pressing you down hard until your chest molds tighter to the piano’s curve, forcing your spine into an obscene arch, ass high and trembling, legs locked open like they’ve forgotten how to close. His other hand slides into your hair, threading in deep at the roots until he’s gripping your whole scalp, angling your head back until your throat’s exposed like an offering. You feel it before you hear him, before he even speaks, the wet warmth of his spit landing hot on your cheek, rolling down in a slick line toward your mouth. He doesn’t wait. He catches it with his fingers, spreads it messily across your lips, then pinches your chin until your jaw drops open for him like muscle memory. “That’s it. Show me,” he murmurs, voice wrecked, and slides two fingers between your lips, curling them over your tongue with a pressure that’s possessive, worshipping.

Your moan wraps around them. He thrusts forward hard at the same time, brutal and sudden, the head of his cock punching deeper into your cunt, and the sound you make is ragged, animal, caught between a choke and a cry. You gag around his fingers and he groans, low and guttural, hips grinding deeper as his palm at your back slides lower, gripping your waist like it’s his anchor. “There she fucking is,” he snarls, dragging your mouth open wider, spit stringing from your lips to his knuckles. His voice is thick with filth, but it’s the way he says it, slow, measured, almost loving, that makes your cunt clench, your eyes flutter. You’re drooling down your chin now, thighs slick and shaking, nails scraping uselessly against lacquer, and you still want more. You want him nastier, deeper, meaner. You want to be taught, to be fucked through, to be stripped of whatever’s left of your control until all you know how to do is obey.

His fingers are still in your mouth, curling deeper now, pressing down on your tongue until your moans turn to muffled pleas, nothing but heat and drool and need spilling past your lips. He watches it all, how your body jolts with every grind of his hips, how your thighs quiver when he pulls almost all the way out, slow and cruel, before slamming back in with a growl that ripples through your chest. Your eyes roll, your breath catches, and still, he gives you no mercy. Just that same punishing pace, every thrust angled to hit the spot that makes your legs kick, your back arch, your voice break around his hand.

“You wanna come, baby?” he rasps, leaning in close, mouth brushing the shell of your ear, his voice dark and coaxing. “Say it. Say what you need. Say who you need.”

You whimper, the noise pathetic and soaked, spit running from the corner of your mouth down to your jaw. He pulls his fingers out, slow and wet, smearing the mess across your lips like gloss. You chase the touch, drunk on it, and the absence burns worse than the stretch.

“Please,” you manage, voice wrecked, hips stuttering beneath his grip. “Please, I need—”

He slaps your ass again, rougher this time, palm cracking loud across your skin, the sound bouncing off the piano’s polished surface. You jolt forward, walls clenching hard around him. He laughs, soft and cruel, dragging you back again until your cunt’s swallowing his cock to the hilt. “No,” he hums, “use your words. Tell me who’s making you feel like this.”

Your lips tremble. Your eyes sting. You’re dizzy with it, all of it — the burn, the rhythm, the way his cock hits so deep you swear he’s carving out space inside you. “You. You are—”

“Wrong,” he snaps, grabbing your face, fingers digging into your cheeks until your mouth is forced open again. “Try again. Or I’ll edge you all night, baby. I’ll fuck you stupid and empty, and you still won’t get to come.”

It slips out of you like instinct, like prayer sharpened into confession. “Daddy,” you gasp, voice cracking at the edges, “Daddy, please, please let me come— I need it, I need you, I’ll be good, I swear, just—”

He slams into you so hard the piano shudders beneath your ribs, a guttural noise ripped from his throat. “That’s it. Fucking beg for it. Beg like it’s the only thing keeping you alive.”

“Daddy—” you sob, choking on the word, on the shame and heat and the unbearable fullness inside you, “Daddy, please let me come, I’ll do anything, I’ll say anything, I’ll stay bent just like this, just don’t stop—”

“Good fucking girl.” His voice breaks. “You sound so fucking pretty when you cry for me.”

The sound you make isn’t human. It doesn’t have to be. His thrusts are ruthless now, no rhythm, just brute force, hips slamming into your ass until the piano rocks under you. The lacquer groans. The keys cry out, discordant and shrill. You try to reach back, to brace yourself, but his palm cracks down across your ass again — hard enough to welt, hard enough to leave you gasping — and his voice whips across your spine like a leash. “No hands. You stay where I fucking put you.”

You whimper, head bowed, breath steaming against the lacquered surface, lips parted, drool catching on the curve of your chin. Every muscle in your thighs is trembling, every nerve pulled taut, but you grind back harder anyway — shameless, greedy, your cunt clenching like it’s starving for him. “Fuck,” you hiss through clenched teeth, desperate to feel him deeper, meaner, rougher. He snarls behind you, a brutal sound, then grabs your hips like handles, fingers digging in so deep you’ll wear his marks for days. In a single motion, he lifts you clean off the keys, spins you like a ragdoll, and tosses you onto your back across the piano lid. The thud echoes beneath you, sharp and jarring, lacquer biting into your spine and shoulder blades, but you don’t care — legs falling open on instinct, knees bent, toes pointed like a whore waiting to be used.

You barely catch a breath before he’s shoving in again, a savage, hungry thrust that splits you open from the inside, your slick gushing around the base of his cock as your whole body arches. “You were made for this,” he growls, voice shaking with restraint. “Made to take me like this. Like a good little slut.” His hands snake around your throat again, callused thumbs bracketing your jaw as he starts to fuck up into you — brutal, relentless, each thrust slamming you against the unyielding wood, each drag of his cock obscene and wet and unrelenting. He’s not choking you, not exactly — just holding you still, keeping you there with that sick possessive grip like your body is his anchor and he won’t let it drift an inch.

Your heels dig into his back, calves tightening around his waist as you start to move too — riding him from beneath, bouncing on his cock like you need to be ruined, like you want it enough to sob for it. The slap of skin against skin gets filthier, wetter, faster. Your tits bounce with every thrust, nipples pebbled, mouth open wide as breathless moans turn to ragged cries. “You like that?” he spits, slamming up harder, driving his cock into your cervix like he’s trying to fuck you straight through the piano. “You like being flipped and fucked like a toy? Look at this fucking mess — drooling, bouncing, begging me to break you.”

You can’t answer. You can only moan, eyes rolling back as your hips slap down again, cunt so soaked it sounds pornographic. You ride him harder, grinding with every downward roll, letting him use you like the filthy little thing he always knew you were. Your hands claw at the keys beneath you, hitting sharp discordant notes that scream beneath your body, and still he doesn’t slow. “Show me,” he snarls, eyes locked on yours. “Bounce on it. Fuck yourself on my cock. Come on, baby — make me come with you.”

You ride him like you’ve been waiting your whole life to be ruined, thighs spread wide, knees digging into the bench on either side of his hips as you bounce on his cock with reckless, messy abandon. Your palms press into his chest for leverage, nails dragging down his sweat-slick skin, your body snapping up and down in frantic rhythm, tits bouncing, mouth open, breath coming out in hot, stuttered gasps every time you drop your weight and take him to the base. The piano bench creaks beneath you, sharp and jerking, but you don’t stop — you can’t — not with the way his cock bullies into that perfect spot with every bounce, the drag and stretch driving you insane. Your cunt clenches wet and tight around him, soaking him to the base, your slick coating his thighs, dripping down to the wood beneath you. You fuck yourself like you’ve got something to prove, grinding on every downstroke, riding that thick cock like it’s the only thing keeping your body from shattering. He’s gripping your waist now, letting you do the work but guiding you, dragging you down harder, faster, snarling up at you like you’re the prettiest slut he’s ever seen. You throw your head back, hands sliding to his shoulders, and moan through gritted teeth as your pace turns feral, hips snapping, ass clapping down with every bounce, fucking him deeper, fucking yourself dumb.

“Fuck—fuck, I missed this,” you sob, voice high, wrecked, hands braced against his chest for leverage as your hips snap, grind, roll. “I missed how deep you get. How full you make me, I can feel it deep inside of me, baby—” He groans beneath you, breath ragged, hands fisting around your waist to hold you steady as you fuck yourself on his cock like you’re trying to bury him in your womb. You know he’s watching — the bounce of your tits, the way your stomach flutters with every slam, the sheen of sweat dripping down your spine. You lean closer, panting in his ear as your rhythm turns desperate. “You like watching me? Like seeing your girl bouncing like a whore, soaking your cock, using you to fuck herself stupid?” You grind deeper, clenching around him, and his cock twitches hard inside you. Your lips brush his, teeth grazing, filthy and breathless as you whimper, “Then let me perform. Let me come for you, baby. Let me fucking sing.”

His hand flies up to your jaw, grabbing it rough, tilting your face to his until your noses nearly brush, and his voice rips out of him like a growl dragged through broken glass. “Look at me.” His eyes are wild, pupils blown, locked onto yours like he’s about to devour you. “Fucking look at me while I break you open. You wanna sing for me, baby? Then earn it. Come on my cock with your eyes wide, looking at the man who owns every fucking part of you.”

You try. God, you try. Your head lolls, tears stinging at the corners of your eyes, and your fingers scrabble at the edge of the piano, nails scraping ivory, the instrument shrieking beneath you. Your cunt clenches hard — too hard — and he groans like it hurts. “That’s it,” he bites out. “Come on this dick. Squeeze it. Show me how fucking ruined you are.”

Your body’s already trembling when he shifts beneath you, still balls-deep inside your soaked cunt, still hard, still twitching, the weight of his cock stretching you full and high and aching. His hands roam your back, slow and reverent now, dragging down the slick curve of your spine, then back up again, pressing you tighter to his chest as you grind your hips in slow circles, cunt fluttering with overstimulation. It’s not the frantic bounce from before — this is deeper, filthier, more intimate. You roll your hips deliberately, letting the tip of his cock kiss your cervix on every pass, your clit grinding against the seam of his pelvis until your whole body quivers from the inside out. You bury your face into his neck, moaning soft and wrecked, breath catching when he presses his lips to your shoulder. “That’s it,” he whispers. “Take it slow, baby. Give me all of it.”

Your nails dig into his shoulders, and he shudders when your walls squeeze around him, tight, hot, desperate. “Baby,” you whisper, voice barely there, more breath than sound, “I’m close. I’m gonna—fuck, I’m gonna come—” Your thighs shake, hips stuttering, every nerve drawn tight like a bowstring about to snap. He kisses you then — soft, deep, tongue curling into your mouth like he wants to feel your orgasm before it even hits — and thrusts up into you with a rhythm so perfect it breaks you open. You cry out into the kiss, loud and raw, grinding hard against him as your climax rips through you. Your cunt clamps down around his cock like a vice, pulsing, sucking him in, and your whole body jerks in his lap, every muscle seized and shaking. Your mouth opens wide, a gasp caught somewhere between sobbing and singing, and your fingers tremble against his chest as the wave crests and crashes, crashing again, spilling through you in shudders.

He doesn’t stop — just fucks you through it, holds you through it, his arms locking tight around your waist as you ride out every pulse, every twitch, every aftershock. “That’s it,” he murmurs against your jaw, lips soft, his voice low and reverent. “So fucking beautiful like this. So good for me. Look at you.” You’re gasping, eyes hazy, fucked-out and floating, and when he feels your cunt milk him again, tighter this time, more needy, more greedy, he groans — deep and rough, hips bucking once, twice, then slamming up into you as he comes with a snarl against your throat. He spills deep, cock twitching hard inside you, his whole body going rigid as he empties into you, thick and hot and endless. You feel it coat your walls, drip out around him, your cunt still fluttering from the aftershocks, still squeezing him like it wants to keep every drop.

You stay like that, wrapped around him, unmoving, your head buried under his chin, your chest heaving against his. Neither of you speak. The silence is warm, sacred, stretched thin between two ruined bodies coming back together. His hands smooth up and down your back in slow strokes, and your thighs twitch every time his cock shifts inside you, still buried, still plugging you full. He kisses your temple again — longer this time — and breathes into your skin like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth. You hum, soft and raw, a sound closer to love than lust, and your fingers toy with the hair at the back of his neck. “You okay?” he murmurs. “You here?” You nod, weak but sure, your voice cracked from screaming, from moaning, from all the words he fucked out of you.

His mouth brushes your temple one more time, and he smiles, tender and quiet. “You ready?” he asks, but this time there’s no teasing, no expectation, just warmth — like he’s giving you the choice to stay, to breathe, to be held. Your voice is gone. But your eyes are open, soft and shining, and your lips curve with something more than just the afterglow. Your whole body is molten in his arms, wrecked and cherished all at once.

“Now I can sing.”

The villa has been transformed into something almost mythic, like the final act of a play too divine to name. Pale stone stretches beneath tall open archways that frame the horizon like a painting in motion — sea kissed gold by the late afternoon sun, the sky heavy with light, clouds dragging slowly above like silk soaked in honey. The altar is built from old ivory columns entwined with draping orchids and twisted wisteria, everything blooming outwards in soft white and antique blush, petals drifting loose in the breeze like the ceremony’s already begun weeping. Rows of chairs line the platform in perfect symmetry, every detail curated to whisper reverence — thin velvet ribbons, golden place cards scrawled in delicate ink, glasses of sparkling citrus spritz balanced on side tables that catch the sunlight in shards. The sound of the ocean below blends with the music still tuning in the background — violins soft, expectant, like a throat clearing before a vow.

Guests have started to arrive in slow waves — family friends, former teammates, board members in tailored suits, plus-ones holding nervous smiles and clutching their handbags like shields. Nahyun sits toward the second row with her father, legs crossed, eyes cast to the floor like she’s trying to stay invisible — though her dress clings too sharp, too smooth to ever blend in. Her father hasn’t removed his sunglasses. He sips his drink like it’s penance. Chenle and Shotaro are seated farther back, whispering commentary in low bursts, adjusting their collars and pretending they’re not watching you every time you shift in your seat. Karina’s down front beside one of Irene’s nieces, checking the time every ten seconds like she’s waiting for someone to detonate. Doyoung stands off to the left of the altar, arms crossed behind his back, mouth tight, suit sharp, but his gaze flicks toward the entrance every few beats, like he’s tracking the wind for signs of a storm.

You arrive moments before the music begins, slipping into the side wing of the platform like a secret. Your heels don’t echo, they hum. The bodice of your dress hugs high across your ribs, shoulders bare, your arms loose at your sides, and the fabric catches in the wind just enough to make it look like you’re part of the altar itself — not walking toward it, but rising from it. Your skin glows, flushed but even, that halo of fresh touch still clinging to your throat like memory. You’d barely had time to touch up in the mirror before Karina shoved you into place again, but it doesn’t matter — your lips are soft, your hair is coiled loose and perfect, your wrists still bear the imprint of Jeno’s fingers. You’ve been undone and remade in under twenty minutes, and the evidence is everywhere. It’s in the way your eyes gleam brighter. The way your steps carry heat even through marble.

Jeno is already at the front, barely seated, collar open at the neck where he didn’t bother refastening his tie, his chest rising slightly too fast as he scans the altar and then — you. His gaze locks. He doesn’t look away. His suit fits like it was tailored in a rush, one button slightly skewed, his cuffs half rolled again, the aftershock of you still visible in the way his legs are spread and his palms drag down his thighs like he needs to anchor himself to the moment. When you pass behind the back row of chairs, your fingers drag the hem of your dress gently to the side, and he watches your hand like he can still feel it wrapped around him. You don’t smile, but your mouth curves. And when he shifts again — when his knuckles graze his jaw, when his tongue presses slow to the inside of his cheek — you know he’s thinking about what you did in the piano room. How you sounded. What he took, and what you gave.

Your family sits along the right-hand row, halfway up. Your mother in a pale mauve wrap dress, perfectly pressed, hair pinned tight, eyes scanning the altar with restrained tension like she’s watching a test she doesn’t believe you’ll pass. Your dad beside her, stiff, trying to make polite conversation with a guest who clearly doesn’t remember who he is. Nari is on the aisle seat. She looks radiant, cheeks pink, dress tight in the way she knows works for her body, one leg crossed high and head tilted every time someone interesting walks past. She smiles easily, but her eyes flick to your mother every so often like she’s waiting for approval, or judgment, or a reason to vanish. None of them know what just happened in the piano room. None of them know what it cost you to walk out here glowing. But they feel the echo of it anyway, even if they don’t name it.

A bell rings faintly in the distance. It’s not real. Just wind brushing against the chimes from the far end of the terrace. But it feels like a signal. The kind of sound that closes a chapter. Somewhere behind you, Irene stands up, exhales once, and says your name.

Outside, the wedding has bloomed. Canopies stretch across the side lawns like sails mid-flight, each corner anchored by heavy iron lanterns that glow dim amber under the afternoon haze. Plates are already laid out in precise rows—gold-rimmed porcelain, linen napkins folded into delicate lilies, glass flutes at every seat already half-filled with rosé that catches the light like fractured gems. Long wooden tables hum with the promise of a feast, each centerpiece a climb of white branches and pale dahlias, tea lights flickering like tiny heartbeats under leaf-dappled shadows. Waiters move like ghosts, gliding between chairs with trays of champagne and citrus-smoked olives. Nothing’s been touched yet. Everything waits. Everything holds.

The violinists are positioned at the far left, beneath the ivy-covered archway that curls just before the aisle begins. One of them plucks a soft arpeggio to tune, and it sounds like a breath held too long, like someone stepping back into a memory they haven’t had time to grieve. The rest of the quartet adjusts their bows, straightens posture, reads the same line of music over again. The opening note hasn’t begun, but the silence feels shaped around it.

From where you’re standing now, the sea is glass. The sky feels like the lid of a treasure box slowly sliding shut. Somewhere behind the altar, Irene’s about to make her entrance. But for a moment — just a moment — everything belongs to the tension braided between your gaze and Jeno’s, tight and breathless, stretched across the marble like a drawn bow.

Behind the columns and chiffon curtain folds, where the altar can’t be seen but its gravity still holds, the air is denser. Thicker with perfume and nerves and hairspray, with the sharp sweetness of peonies pushed too close to the edge of their bloom. Irene sits on a velvet bench near the open terrace doors, hands clenched tight around a silk handkerchief that’s already been folded twelve different ways. Her dress gleams against her skin like a second spine—structured, commanding, beautiful—but it doesn’t hide the way her knee keeps bouncing. Her makeup is flawless, her hair curled into place, but her eyes shift too often, too fast, and when she glances down at her bouquet, she counts every stem like it’s a mantra. Beside her, Areum mutters something meant to soothe, but her voice is too high, too breathy to land. She’s flustered, beautiful, impatient in that Areum way—lipstick reapplied twice in five minutes, strapless dress adjusted with every inhale, pretending she’s holding it together when her hand hasn’t left the compact mirror since she arrived.

Mark stands slightly apart from both of them, near the curtained divider that separates this corner of the villa from the ceremony aisle. His tux is immaculate—black silk lapels, navy pocket square folded with quiet precision—but his jaw is locked, eyes unmoving. His fingers tap his thigh in a steady rhythm, but his shoulders don’t twitch. Stillness like that only comes from fury, or focus, or grief, and Mark’s carrying all three. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t check his phone. His attention is fixed on the gap in the curtain where the sunlight bleeds through, pale and soft and waiting. He’s listening. For footsteps. For voices. For the start of something he doesn’t know if he wants to end or preserve. When Areum shifts again and sighs, Mark’s brow twitches, barely visible—but it’s there. You know he’s watching the timeline split open again in his head.

Inside the bridal suite, Irene stands still beneath the soft glow of the chandelier, lips parted, whispering something soundless into her bouquet—half-prayer, half-ritual, her breath fogging the petals like confession. Her eyes flick upward as if searching for something to hold onto in the rafters, something steady above the weight in her chest. The silk of her gown glimmers with every shift of light, her veil trembling slightly at the edges, whether from nerves or wind no one can say. Everything about her seems suspended—between fear and joy, between memory and future, between the person she was and the one she’s about to become. She’s mouthing the vows under her breath now, like a mantra, like armor, but her hands won’t stay still, fingers twitching against the stems of the bouquet that’s already beginning to wilt from how tightly she’s gripping it. The room doesn’t breathe. It waits.

You tilt your head slightly, the corner of your lip caught between teeth as you study her profile, the flutter in her lashes, the way her fingers adjust the bouquet even though it hasn’t moved. “Are you okay?” you ask gently, barely louder than the wind stirring the linen drapes behind you, and she nods too quickly, like it’s instinct, not truth. Her breath catches halfway, and you see the moment settle in her shoulders, the weight of it, the truth of what comes next. You don’t let the silence win—you reach for her hand, folding your fingers over hers, thumb sweeping slow across her knuckles. “You don’t have to be perfect,” you murmur, tone quieter now, built from years of knowing how she listens. “You just have to be here. You’ve already done the hard parts. This is the easy part. This is love, not war.” Her grip tightens, barely, her fingers warm and trembling, and she doesn’t say anything right away—just closes her eyes for a second, exhales again like she’s remembering how.

Mark steps close with the kind of quiet you rarely ever see from him, eyes softer than they’ve been in years. He lingers near the curtain just a beat too long, then steps forward and smiles—genuine, tilted, a little crooked in that way that only belongs to him. “I’m supposed to be heading out to stand near Doyoung,” he says, voice low, a breath threaded through a smile, “but I had to come see my beautiful mother first.” Irene turns at the sound, her lips parting in something between surprise and relief, her lashes still damp from that last blink. She hasn't said anything yet. She doesn’t need to. Mark closes the space between them, slow and easy, and brings both hands up to cup her face, his fingers careful not to smudge the veil as he presses a kiss to her temple.

“You look beautiful,” he says, softer now, close to reverent. “Like you dreamed this into being.” His thumb strokes gently along the lace edge of her veil as he sets it into place, and this time, Irene doesn’t tremble. Doesn’t break. She just holds his gaze with something full and glowing in her chest. Her fingers come up to touch his wrist, and he smiles again, tighter this time, like he’s holding back more than just tears. “Go on,” he murmurs, stepping back and nodding once toward the chapel doors. “They’re all waiting for you.”

You step back, watching them, something thick blooming in your chest. “She’s ready,” you say, and this time, Irene is.

The aisle stretches ahead like a prophecy written in marble, anchored between rows of silk-covered chairs that gleam under the muted gold of a sky preparing to bear witness. Every seat hums with stillness, every guest poised in reverence, breath held behind the rims of crystal flutes and linen fans trembling in the warmth. Light slips through the stained-glass arch above the altar, diffused into amber and rose, painting the floor in ribbons like old blessings unfurled. The altar itself rises like a quiet cathedral—draped in ivory voile, garlanded in jasmine and orchid, each bloom fresh with dew, each ribbon floating like a held breath caught midair. No chandelier dares interrupt the air; only low candles, set deep into carved stone sconces, flicker with purpose, their flames dancing like they’ve been taught the language of devotion. The violinist lifts his bow, still suspended in pause, the air split with tension so fine it feels like a hush that belongs to God. The first step lands soft beneath your heel. A breath later, the world pivots around it.

You move forward slowly, each step measured against the heartbeat in your chest, each footfall sinking into the silk runner like the start of something mythic. Your dress clings and drapes, spun sugar and gravity, pulled tight across your frame in places and floating in others, like it was sewn by hands that understood longing. The orchids in your bouquet curve toward your fingers like they recognise your touch, their pale throats gleaming beneath the soft cascade of cream ribbon. You keep your gaze ahead, fixed on the slow unfolding of the ceremony, yet every shift in the room reaches for you—the tilt of a head, the intake of breath, the collective silence curved into admiration. The sun stretches lower through the western panes now, catching the sequins on your shoulder, and it feels like stepping into an old prayer meant only for you. The aisle beneath you is smooth, clean, sacred in the way fire is sacred—something meant to burn away the noise and leave only what matters.

He stands just beside the altar, haloed in shadow and light, a portrait rendered in contrasts—dark suit, pale collar, a throat that moves when he swallows like he’s holding something back that might burn. You see him before you mean to. Your gaze catches on the curve of his shoulder, the tension in his jaw, the hand curled briefly at his side like it remembers your shape. His eyes are already on you. They track the sway of your dress like it’s music he hasn’t heard in months. It’s not just desire. It’s dread. It’s reverence. It’s the look of a man who’s memorised too much and survived too little, who would follow you through ruin if it meant hearing you say his name again. You blink, and the candlelight seems to bend toward him. He stands there, chest rising slowly, a prayer written across his sternum and buried beneath the wool. If this wedding is the crescendo, he’s the pause between movements—the silence that threatens to swallow the song. Your feet still move forward but your pulse stumbles, your breath twists. You’re walking through a cathedral of strangers, but all you feel is the weight of his stare.

There is something terrible in the way he waits. Something holy. You don’t look at Mark, not even when he shifts beside Jeno, face gentler than it’s been in weeks. All you see is the man you almost ruined, who let you do it, who held your wrists and begged for more. He doesn’t smile but his lips part slightly, just enough for you to remember how they felt against the inside of your thigh. Just enough to make your breath drag harder through your lungs. Your hands tighten around the bouquet, stems creaking beneath your grip like bones bracing for impact. He stands beneath the stained-glass arch like he was built into the architecture, like he’s been standing there since before you were born, just waiting for you to walk into this moment and let it destroy you. You wonder if he knows—how the lace at your thighs is still damp, how your skin burns where he last kissed it, how every step toward him feels like falling out of your own body. You don’t break eye contact. You don’t need to. He already knows. He always has.

Behind you, Areum follows with practiced grace, the soft blush of her gown gleaming with every sway of her hips, her hair swept into a coiled arrangement of pins and delicate white combs. She smiles just enough to be caught by the light, her expression poised between elegance and effort. The two nieces follow, small in stature, heavy in symbolism, their dresses fluttering like opened letters passed between generations. A single flower slips from one of their bouquets—a pink gardenia, petal-folded and still warm from a child’s palm—and lands gently near the curve of the runner, settling there like a silent offering. The violin begins to climb in pitch. The sound blooms against the pillars, and the atmosphere turns electric with anticipation. It feels like the inside of a heartbeat.

And then Irene steps into view. Every motion becomes reverent. The light follows her first. The silence bends in her direction. Her gown flows behind her in waves, the fabric glinting with barely-there shimmer, each step stitching her more deeply into the moment. Her bouquet trembles once before stilling again, white lilies and pale roses arranged with the kind of deliberateness that reads more like confession than decoration. Her veil floats behind her, sheer and edged with antique lace, like a whisper of the women who came before her, who dreamt of this but never made it past the threshold. Every person stands. Every person turns and for a suspended breath, she walks through their gaze untouched—like myth turned flesh, like her love has built a new religion around her. Doyoung waits at the altar ahead, but she doesn’t hurry. The music swells like a vow, time reshapes itself to let her pass.

From the rightmost aisle, Mark watches. His head tilted slightly, eyes fixed on his mother the way a boy might look at the sea after years of drought. His mouth lifts, just slightly, reverence blooming through the corners. His suit is tailored sharp, collar open, and there’s something raw caught in the set of his jaw. He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink—just absorbs every step she takes like she’s rewriting something in him. Her hand lifts briefly as she approaches, and you can see the way it trembles before settling on Doyoung’s arm. Then her eyes flicker to Mark, just once, long enough for the air between them to thicken. The violin holds a single note too long. The moment stretches and then Irene smiles. The kind of smile saved for the end of a journey. The kind that carries both peace and weight. The kind that means everything’s about to change.

Doyoung stands steady at the end of the aisle, his shoulders square beneath his tailored jacket, hands clasped in front of him like a soldier waiting for home. The guests blur into softness, their outlines indistinct in the golden haze of afternoon light that spills through the open archways. Each footstep she takes sounds like it’s wrapped in velvet, the hush of the room bending to let her pass. Her gown spills over the marble like poured milk, heavy silk whispering at her ankles with every step. You can feel her heart from where you stand—the rhythm of it stitched into the silence, into the way her spine holds straight, into the way she walks like a woman stepping into myth. Candles flicker along the aisle in tight glass cylinders, the flames low and reverent, like they recognize something sacred in her passage. She does not look left or right. She looks forward. She walks to him.

Doyoung takes one step forward before she’s fully arrived, and that’s the part that catches. Not the vows, not the music swelling behind them, but that instinct—his reach before the world gives permission. His eyes never waver, but they soften as she nears, mouth twitching with something he’s trying to swallow whole. Her hand finds his like she always meant to. They don’t speak yet. The silence between them folds like linen, thick and pressed with years of weight. The priest says something soft and measured—about love, about time, about hands that endure—but you barely hear it. The altar feels suspended now, wrapped in something larger than glass or sound. Even the sky seems to pause outside. The ocean doesn’t move. The wind has gone still. Irene turns toward him, and it’s the first time she blinks since she entered. Doyoung lets out a breath that sounds like it’s been waiting forever.

Their vows begin slow, trembling at the edge of restraint, but you watch how the words build, how Irene’s voice clears mid-sentence, how Doyoung straightens when she says ‘I choose you, every time.’ It isn’t the grand declarations that land—it’s the way their bodies lean into each other like gravity’s been pulling them closer for years. He holds her hand as if she’s fire and anchor both, and when he speaks, he doesn’t raise his voice. His words fall between them like stones in a riverbed, soft and irreversible. The sky outside brightens by a shade, as if the sun knows this moment needs recording. Somewhere behind you, someone sighs. Someone else wipes a tear. But in front of you, it’s just two people who stopped waiting. Two people who said yes when the world kept telling them to pause.

The priest’s voice breaks like thunder under silk, low and sonorous, as though it’s being exhaled from the bones of the villa itself. “If anyone objects to this union—speak now or forever hold your peace.” The words spill into the air like smoke through a cathedral, curling through breath and blood, freezing time just enough to make the world lean forward. The violin stills mid-glide, bow suspended like a blade about to fall, and a hush blooms so wide you can hear the wine shift in the glasses and the wind sighing through the drapes. Your spine draws tight. Every rib seems to listen. Something in the air pulls taut. It holds there, trembling, like it knows what’s coming before it arrives.

The scrape carves through the silence like a faultline breaking open mid-prayer, one chair dragging against stone, a screech that sounds too raw, too real, too much like a warning dressed in mundane disguise. It cuts through the air like a blade, turning every head, freezing every breath mid-inhale, as though even the wind dares not move until the sound finishes landing. You don’t see him first but you feel it, a disturbance rising like static in the chest, the kind of shift that rewrites the temperature of a room before your eyes catch up. Then there he is. One figure rising from the far end of the aisle, slashed in shadow, etched in the pale gold that bleeds through the arches like a crown forced onto the wrong king. His suit hangs heavy, collar askew, his tie wilting against the press of his sternum like something losing its shape. Taeyong. Standing. Or trying to. A hand lifts, suspended mid-air, trembling as if reaching for something he once had the right to claim. His mouth parts — barely — and you see it then: the flinch in his eyes, the panic fluttering beneath the glaze, the recognition that he’s forgotten the names of everyone watching him bleed from the inside out. He doesn’t look furious or guilty. He looks like a ghost still tethered to its body. And then —

Taeyong rises in pieces. His posture cracks first—one knee buckling before the other straightens. His foot catches, scrapes stone, and his shoulder clips the chair next to him. It tips, half-lurches, rights itself. His foot skids, heel catching crooked against the pew’s base, and for one breathless second his body pitches forward, spine bowing, one arm slicing through the air like he’s reaching for a rail that no longer exists. You see the shift in his weight, the jolt through his spine like something inside short-circuited. One hand shoots out for balance, fingers grazing the back of the nearest pew, but his grip slips, weak, shaking. He stumbles forward. It’s not enough to fall but just enough to make everyone think he might.

The sound that rips through the room isn’t a gasp—it’s the inhale before disaster, the kind of breath that clings to the throat like smoke in a locked stairwell. It doesn’t carry fear. It carries knowing. A premonition cloaked in lungs and salt. Something ancient and blood-bound. It sweeps through the space like an omen cracking its knuckles—familiar and final and already too late.

He straightens again—but too fast, like a marionette pulled hard on frayed strings, his head snapping upright, eyes wide, mouth hanging just barely open. His breath sounds wrong in his throat, shallow and wet, like he’s exhaling smoke no one else can see. The gold light through the windows cleaves his face in half—one side haloed, the other swallowed by shadow—and in that contrast, he looks biblical. Or blasphemous. A man who once stood behind pulpits now haunted by the ghosts that watched from the pews.

“I can’t—” he chokes, then swallows hard. The silence swells. “This can’t happen. This isn’t how—” His voice falters. “He was supposed to— I was…” His words twist and stumble the way his body just did, cracked and barely holding shape. He blinks rapidly, lashes twitching like something behind his eyes is unraveling faster than he can name it.

“I object.”

The words fall like metal dropped in a church—jagged, echoing, wrong. Not a plea or a cry, just the sound of something breaking where silence used to live, a hinge rusted shut, a door locking behind a ghost. You feel it first in your gut, sharp and cold, like the clink of silver against glass at a wake no one planned. You don’t move. No one does. The stillness isn’t stillness anymore. Jeno’s hand tightens around yours, almost too tight, the skin between your fingers pulled taut. He’s staring straight ahead, jaw locked, as if seeing Taeyong standing there has ripped open something he buried years ago. His breath halts in his chest, and you can hear it—feel it—like a pressure drop before a storm. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. Just holds you, as though if he lets go, you’ll both fall through the floor.

Mark’s eyes are already wide, chest heaving like he’s run somewhere he can’t name. His head snaps toward Irene, then back to his father, and something wounded flashes across his face. Not disbelief—recognition. Like he’s seen this before, maybe in a dream. Or a warning. His hands hover at his sides, fingers twitching, caught between stepping forward or bolting out of the room.

Nahyun shifts half a step back, confusion carved across her features like she’s waiting for someone to explain the joke. Her eyes dart to you, then to Jeno, then back to the figure swaying at the altar’s edge. Her father reaches for her arm in reflex, protective, but it only unbalances them both. He stares hard at Taeyong, lips pressed in a line, the kind men wear when they’re bracing for a headline.

Jaemin doesn’t move at all. He’s seated at the aisle’s end, body a statue, expression unreadable save for the slight crease in his brow, the sharp blink that betrays how closely he’s watching. As though he knows what’s about to happen, has already played it forward in his head and is just waiting to be proven right.

The priest’s book lowers by a fraction. His lips part, but no words come. He stands frozen, spine stiff, eyes fixed on Taeyong as though he’s not entirely convinced the man belongs to the living anymore. Doyoung’s fingers shift around Irene’s hand, but he doesn’t pull her back. And Irene—her breath catches like fabric tearing in her throat. Her mouth opens, then shuts, lashes trembling once before she lifts her chin. She’s holding on now. Bracing.

You don’t know if he sees any of you. The way Taeyong stands there—off-balance, blinking too slowly—it’s like he’s already somewhere else, answering a question none of you heard asked. And still, no one moves. Because no one knows whether this is a man clinging to what’s real—or a ghost that doesn’t yet know he’s dead.

Taeyong’s gaze drags across the crowd, jittery and unfocused, like he’s trying to recognize faces that once belonged to a life he no longer remembers. His breath comes faster now, words tumbling again before they’re shaped. “She doesn’t know. You think she knows, but—” He coughs. “They’ve lied. The history—her family—mine. It wasn’t supposed to end like this.” His voice sounds like it’s rotting. Like it’s been buried too long and just dug itself back up. There’s a tremor in his jaw, a twitch in the tendons of his neck. He clutches the edge of a chair like it might anchor him to this plane.

The air has gone still. Even the candles seem to lean away. Flames shrink low in their holders like they’ve seen too much, like they’re preparing to be snuffed. The walls feel narrower. The light flickers from the weight of something darker, something pressing. A silence that hunts. Then—he laughs. It scrapes the air like metal teeth dragged across glass, too dry to carry, too slow to feel real. The sound comes from somewhere guttural, somewhere rotting—a crackle that stutters out of him like his lungs had to dig it up from underneath grief. It echoes sideways, warped by the marble and the arch, slithering past the rows of stunned guests like a whisper sent to the wrong century. It doesn’t land where it should. It doesn’t fit this wedding. It lingers too long and dies too slow, like something half-alive trying to crawl back into silence. A laugh pulled from the mouth of a man who’s already seen his own obituary and underlined the name in red. The kind of laugh that happens a moment before someone throws themselves into traffic—not out of recklessness, but inevitability. “You don’t know who I am anymore.” His voice curls under the altar like smoke beneath a locked door, chasing breath out of lungs before anyone can remember how to scream.

His knees buckle again, a slow sinking, joints folding like paper soaked through—but they don’t break. He rights himself just before bone meets marble, legs stuttering beneath him, spine wavering like a signal gone static. Still standing but only because collapse is choosing not to take him yet. He sways like a man waiting to be pulled offstage by something he owes. A debt come to collect. His body jerks once, a half-step forward that isn’t movement—it’s memory. It’s guilt returning to its origin point.

It’s disintegration dressed in memory, ritual gutted at the spine. The kind of undoing that starts at the seams—threads tugged by invisible hands, versions of him long buried clawing their way back to the surface. It bleeds from him now, thick and sour, fevered like confession whispered too late. Each word spills like it was never meant to leave the body. His mouth forms shapes that don’t feel human anymore. His breath stutters. His suit hangs limp, soaked with sweat, clinging like a borrowed name. The silk at his cuffs is stained, his tie wilts like it’s grieving. His shadow stretches crooked and long, curling across the stone like a spill that can’t be mopped up.

The body stays standing but everything else gives. The silence. The illusion. The unspoken pact to keep the past buried beneath clean linen and rings. Whatever line was drawn between the sacred and the ruined dissolves beneath his shoes. The guests don’t breathe. The priest doesn’t blink. You don’t know if you’re watching an objection or a resurrection. He looks like a man already halfway across, shouting from the shore, begging to be dragged back by the only thing strong enough to do it—truth. A god undone, crown melting down his throat. A father unraveling not into death, but into memory.

Mark moves. Each step lands like a warning, sharp against stone, echoing with the precision of something final. His shoulders stay rigid, suit pulled tight over his frame, breath shallow, locked inside a body wound for violence. The aisle stretches before him like a fuse, and he’s walking straight into it, eyes lit with a kind of rage too cold to shake. The guests scatter without needing to be told—Chenle reaches toward his arm once, hand half-lifted, but never makes contact. Mark walks through the space like he owns it, heat trailing in his wake, fury stitched into every tendon, every clenched muscle. His jaw is granite, his fists already curling at his sides with the slow rhythm of something about to strike. Taeyong stands near the altar, slack-eyed, muttering, unraveling by the second, and Mark only picks up speed. Every inch of him reads like impact. Beautiful. Tortured. The kind of fury that’s been waiting its whole life for an opening. When he reaches his father, he doesn’t pause. No speech. No hesitation. Just the sheer, unrelenting momentum of a son stepping into blood.

Taeyong staggers back, spine crashing into the edge of the pew, his body folding inwards for a second before he steadies again, arms limp at his sides. He stares ahead, glassy-eyed, lips parted like he doesn’t know whether to respond or vanish. There is no fight in him, no fury, no defense. Just the quiet slackness of a man who knew this moment was always coming. Mark’s voice cuts through the tension like a hot blade through ice. “You disgusting fucking coward.” His words land heavy and raw, throat scraped hollow from the force of them, too loud for this room, too real for this ceremony. “I told them not to let you come. I told them you’d do this. That you’d stand there like a goddamn monument to everything you broke and act like you deserve to be here.”

He steps forward again, taller somehow, broader in that rage, and his hand lifts for another shove, this one meaner. Taeyong folds against the motion, stumbling sideways into the pew again, breath knocked from him. “Every woman who’s ever trusted you,” Mark spits, “every girl who thought you were safe. You took that from them. You stole it and then you walked away like it wasn’t real.” His voice cracks, not from weakness, but from the unbearable truth of it. “And now you stand here like it never happened. Like you can just show your face and sit front row like this family wasn’t built on a fucking lie.”

Mark’s voice doesn’t rise—it tears. Straight from his chest, splintered with something rawer than rage. “You didn’t just ruin my life.”

He steps forward again, eyes burning through the candlelight, every word landing like glass underfoot. “You ruined everything.” His hand cuts toward Irene without touching. “You ruined his.” A flick toward Jeno, jaw clenched, unreadable. “You left pieces of yourself in all of us and then walked away like we were supposed to survive it.” His voice warps now, fury catching on the edge of grief. “You could’ve stayed gone. You should’ve stayed gone.”

Mark’s chest heaves once. Then he laughs—short, bitter, hollow. “You wanna know how you ruined my life?” His eyes lock on Taeyong’s, blazing. “You made me grow up in a fucking lie.” He steps forward, voice rising. “I spent half my childhood thinking I was your secret, the other half wishing I wasn’t. You left my mom in a one-bedroom flat with no heating and a son who looked like the man who walked out. You never visited. Never wrote. Never cared.” Mark shakes his head. “I used to think if I worked hard enough, played good enough, maybe one day I’d earn a seat at your table. But you already had a family. You already picked.”

He leans in. “You made me watch you love a son who got everything handed to him, while I clawed for scraps just to be allowed in the same room. And now you’re here, pretending like you were ever a father, ever a member of this family.” His fists clench again. “You didn’t just ruin my life. You made sure it’d hurt every time I tried to fix it.”

Chenle’s the first to move, fast and sharp like instinct cracking through the haze. His shoulder cuts through the aisle’s edge with a jolt, one arm shooting out toward Mark’s chest—no command, no scolding, just a hand pressing back, trying to wedge itself between rage and ruin. “Bro, that’s enough,” he mutters under his breath, but his voice trips halfway, unsteady. “You made your point. Come back.”

Mark doesn’t budge. Doesn’t blink. His chest is still heaving, suit stretched tight across his frame, jaw clenched like he’s chewing on everything he never got to say. Behind him, Donghyuck’s already crossed the threshold of hesitation—he doesn’t speak, doesn’t joke, just grabs Mark’s wrist and tugs, firm and bracing. “You’ll kill him,” he says quietly, more warning than concern, and there’s no fear in it, only exhaustion. Shotaro trails close behind, slower, more stunned than anything else, eyes flicking from Taeyong’s bent form to the edge of Mark’s mouth like he’s trying to gauge which part will crack next. “Mark—seriously—”

“Get the fuck off me.” Mark snarls it, but his voice breaks halfway, the fury starting to ripple into something darker—hurt that’s taken shape in his throat and now bleeds through every syllable. His shoulders tighten under their hands but don’t fight back fully, body twitching with restraint like a dam trying not to split at the seams. He takes one final step forward anyway, breath fanged, eyes still locked on Taeyong’s face, like if he looks away first, he loses. “You wanna beg now? Do it somewhere else.”

Taeyong doesn’t speak. Doesn’t wipe the blood at the corner of his lip. His gaze wavers, unfocused, and for a second he looks old. Smaller. Almost swallowed whole by his own name. Then he turns. Or is turned—pushed by the weight of Mark’s fury and the quiet pressure of the boys’ hands pulling him back—and stumbles toward the end of the aisle like a shadow unraveling.

“Get him the fuck out,” Mark bites out. “He’s not family. He’s not anything. Don’t let him look at her again.”

And that’s how Taeyong’s sent out—by the hands of strangers, by the silence of the room, by the eyes that watched and didn’t flinch. The door closes behind him like a verdict. And no one claps. No one speaks. All that’s left is the ache of everything Mark didn’t finish saying.

Jeno’s shoulders hold a shape built from stone, rigid and sculpted like restraint worn too long. His jaw pulses, breath shallow, each inhale caught in the hollow of his throat as if the air thickens before it reaches him. There’s weight behind his eyes—buried, dark, ancestral—the kind that settles before it swells, the kind that keeps men frozen in their bloodlines. He remains where he stands, fists carved tight, arms locked by his sides, the pressure curling into his bones like a command whispered from something older than shame. His stare clings to Taeyong like it’s searching for proof that this version is real, that the father in front of him can still bleed. His body pulls forward and stays still all at once, like every muscle screams toward war while his soul drags him into the silence.

Something roots him there. Maybe guilt. Maybe memory. Maybe the thought of what happens if he steps one inch closer and loses himself in the fury his brother couldn’t swallow. His eyes flick toward Mark once—quick, fractured, unreadable—and return just as fast, like he fears what he might find in the mirror of that rage. You watch him. Always. You know the lines around his mouth by now, the twitch in his brow, the storm in his ribs. And right now, there’s a boy trapped beneath the captain’s skin, someone small and scarred, someone waiting for the ground to give out. The room keeps breathing. He does not.

Nahyun’s hand spreads across her father’s chest, a wide, steady anchor, not for protection but for control. Her mouth stays neutral, but her eyes drag across Jeno’s form with a kind of sick anticipation, like she’s watching a gun held just below the frame. Irene keeps her bouquet angled at her waist, petals shivering where her fingers flex tighter, face tilted into the light like a statue carved from silence and grit. Her gaze meets Taeyong’s and holds it like a crucifix, unmoving, her chin lifting just barely as if she’s watching him disappear in pieces. You grip your dress tighter, bunching fabric into your palm, silk wrapped like rope between your knuckles. The threads bite against your skin, sharp enough to keep you present, sharp enough to keep the room from swallowing you whole.

The air shifts again, dragged taut by the scrape of ceremony left undone. Silence lingers like smoke, heavy and hung with unfinished chords. Then: movement. Donghyuck steps forward from the side, loose-limbed but decisive, the only one with enough voice to fill the vacuum. His hand rises, open and calm, but his eyes sweep the crowd like he’s pulling triage from memory. “Everyone,” he says, firm but smooth, “the ceremony is on hold. For now. Please—help yourselves to the buffet, take a moment outside. Breathe.” He doesn’t ask. He instructs. And maybe it’s the shock, maybe it’s the tone, but no one protests. The air breaks open with the hush of shuffling chairs and low murmurs, shoes whispering against marble, glasses clinking from somewhere unseen.

You see Jaemin near the altar, head bowed slightly, exchanging quiet words with Shotaro, whose expression is pale, stunned. Irene disappears with Doyoung through a side passage, his hand resting over hers in a grip that feels more like anchoring than affection. Nahyun tugs her father toward the far exit, both of them shadowed in the same stunned grief, their silhouettes warped by stained glass. And Jeno—Jeno stays still. Like stone cracked down the center, no sound, no motion, only the visible tether of something inside him breaking quietly. His fists don’t unclench. His jaw stays locked. You catch it—one muscle twitching just beneath his cheekbone, the barely-there flicker in his gaze. He is stuck between the boy he was and the man he’s trying to be, bound by a name that holds too much rot.

Your dress is still bunched in your hands like a lifeline, silk crushed where your fingers refuse to let go. You feel the press of your pulse in your throat, in your wrists, in your ribs. There’s too much stillness, too much air, and you have no idea where Taeyong went. It’s like he evaporated. Ghost, gone, unreconciled. As if he was never flesh, only consequence.

Areum crouches beside Mark near the back pew, icing his knuckles with the grace of someone who’s done this before. Her voice is low, lips barely moving, but the care radiates from her like warmth through wool. She doesn’t look scared of him. She looks scared for him. One hand holds his wrist, the other presses the makeshift ice pack tighter, and her eyes shine with something raw—fear, love, fury on his behalf. Mark won’t speak. He won’t look at her. But his free hand covers hers, silent gratitude in every inch of the touch.

Seulgi stands at the edge of it all, ghost-pale and unmoving, her lips parted just slightly like she’s still catching up to the moment. Her eyes don’t search for Taeyong. They search for the damage. She catalogues it in silence. One hand lifts slowly to her necklace—clasps it like a charm—and when her breath steadies, she nods. Just once. The kind of nod that carries history. The ceremony must continue.

Later, once the space is reset and the guests reseated, once the ache in the air becomes bearable again—once the music returns in careful waves and the priest steadies his voice—Irene and Doyoung face each other under the soft canopy of trailing jasmine. Their vows are soft but clear, shaped by years of ache, of silence, of choosing each other anyway. And when the priest calls the words—“I now pronounce you husband and wife,” the sky opens above the arch.

Under the awning of a sky scraped raw by dusk, the world holds its breath again—not in fear this time, but reverence. The love echo soft through the jasmine-sweet air, not loud but thick, each syllable woven with years, with silence, with the kind of love that rebuilds instead of rewinds. Irene’s voice doesn’t shake. It steadies mid-word, like she finds her footing in the way Doyoung’s eyes stay on her, the way his hand never lets go. Their fingers remain locked, tight, unmoving, the tether around which this whole fractured day finally begins to spin forward again. When the priest calls the last line, it rings not as tradition but as triumph. Husband and wife. A declaration, a resurrection. The crowd exhales as if they’ve been underwater since the scream, and in that breath, the world shifts again.

From the edges of the altar canopy, a sudden cascade ignites—petals burst into the air in soft blush and ivory, freed by a near-invisible mechanism hidden beneath your floral rigging. They swirl upward like smoke in reverse, catching the late light, glowing almost metallic where sun and wind collide. The sky itself opens above the altar, a muted explosion of pale fireworks from the ridge behind the villa, set off precisely as you’d arranged. Not loud. Not chaotic. Just a slow-blooming flare of light across the violet horizon—fire without violence. They shimmer for a breath, gold dust cracking over indigo, a promise painted in combustion. Like love reimagined as spectacle. Like pain made beautiful only by survival. You watch them bleed into each other, burst then soften, fall like stars nobody got to wish on.

The guests erupt into applause, but it doesn’t feel performative—it feels sacred. Mark pulls Areum into his arms, his chin tucked into her hair, the ice long gone, only warmth between them now. Jaemin lifts his drink and clinks it against Chenle’s, both of them still shaken, but laughing now, quiet and real. Shotaro claps with his whole body, eyes wide, the ghost of the earlier rupture still trembling in his throat. Nahyun stands near the edge with her father, holding him like a child holding a photo she can’t burn. The sky keeps blooming. Jeno turns to you with a look that breaks through your bones, eyes so full of you they spill over the rim. No words. Just a hand reached across breathless distance, and the grip that holds you like he’s never letting go again.

And still, the sky burns slow. The flares don’t stop immediately. You timed it so the last ring of light would split as the couple kissed—a twin-burst, gold and crimson, like a heart pulsing its final beat before resetting anew. Hidden meanings coil beneath every spark: the way the explosions mirror the wreckage and the repair, the way the soft fall of petals echoes Irene’s veil, her breath, her stillness. Celebration here doesn’t erase what came before—it absorbs it. This is beauty built from ruin. Love gilded in ash. This is the ceremony not ending but transforming, the altar repurposed not as a stage for heartbreak but a sanctum for survival. You feel the moment root itself into the floorboards of memory. And you know: the aftermath is coming. But for now, the light holds. The kiss lasts. The sky, somehow, does not fall.

The table stretches longer than the room knows how to hold, draped in silk that gleams under the low halo of candlelight, each flickering flame mirrored in cut crystal and water beads clinging to silver-rimmed glasses. The plates gleam—hand-etched, gold-laced, nestled on chargers of deep obsidian. Soft blush and white roses spill down the length of the runner in wild, tangled clusters, veined with olive and eucalyptus, like the table bloomed straight from a myth. You sit tucked against Jeno’s side, your thigh pressed into his, your shoulder caught beneath the curve of his arm as if he’s forgotten how not to keep you close. His napkin rests untouched in his lap, his fork turned sideways beside his untouched glass. He hasn’t spoken much—not since the sky fell, not since the altar trembled—but the quiet he wears now isn’t peace. It’s weight.

The first course arrives like ritual. Truffle-oil burrata split over heirloom tomatoes dressed in basil oil, served with charred fig and balsamic crackle. Then the sea: seared scallops on lemongrass puree, a whisper of pomegranate gel curled like a signature around the rim. The mains come next, plated with reverence—bone-in ribeye butter-seared and fanned open like pages, roasted duck breast glistening with cherry jus, wild mushroom risotto cradled in edible blossoms. Every dish smells like elegance, like wealth, like the kind of celebration that shouldn’t ache the way this one does. Dessert waits in the wings, suspended chocolate spheres to be cracked open by spoon like secrets begging to be spilled.

Across the table, Mark leans forward on his elbows, hands clasped before him like he’s about to preach something unholy. His voice rings clear above the din of wine and whispered aftermath, his words a soft balm lacquered in mischief. “To my mother,” he starts, and Irene’s eyes close briefly like she needs that second just to prepare. “Who has survived more chaos, more men, and more bad choices than any woman I know—and still had the audacity to walk down that aisle looking like the patron saint of rebirth.” Laughter spills from the table like sunlight off a mirror. Mark lifts his glass with a smirk. “To Doyoung, who finally realized my mother was the best thing he’d ever fuckin’ lose. And chose to stop losing her.” It’s crass. It’s perfect. It lands exactly where it should, somewhere between the ribs and the relief, and Doyoung covers his face with a laugh. Irene swats at Mark’s arm. Her smile doesn’t waver.

Mark doesn’t sit down yet. He leans further into the candlelight, the flicker catching on his cheekbones, casting hollows beneath his eyes like he was carved for moments like this—equal parts son and sinner, reverent and wild. His voice dips slightly now, lower, steadier. “I grew up watching a woman pull herself back together with nothing but teeth and silence. She gave me the best childhood, the best upbringing, despite everything I never felt like I was missing out and I never said this out loud, but there were nights I thought she’d vanish from how hard the world tried to break her.” His gaze flickers to Irene, then briefly to you. “But she didn’t. She turned breaking into a language and made the rest of us learn it, the strongest woman I know.” The table stills for a beat. Even the glasses seem to still mid-glint.

He tilts his head, smirking again, but the edge is softer now. “And to Doyoung,” he adds, “for standing in a fire you didn’t start, and still choosing to hold the hand that could burn you.” A few of the guests let out quiet exhales, smiles blooming slow across the faces that matter. Mark raises his glass again, but his gaze sharpens on Jeno for a heartbeat too long, like he sees something no one else has noticed. Then he smiles like it costs him nothing. “To love that hurts. To second chances. To choosing each other, even when it’d be easier to walk the hell away.” Three glasses clink near you. A fourth lags behind. Jeno doesn’t lift his. You do. For both of you.

You glance toward Jeno. His hand still rests beneath yours, but he hasn’t laughed. Hasn’t spoken. Hasn’t even touched the wine. You lean in closer, chin brushing his shoulder. “You sure you’re fine?” It’s the third time. This one lands quieter. Slower. You feel his jaw move first, the clench just beneath your cheek, before the words arrive.

“Y/N.” A pause. “Drop it.” He says it soft. But final. Like that’s all the space he’ll allow for grief tonight. You nod slowly, curling closer, but something inside you tenses. He hasn’t let go of the day. He’s wearing it under his skin. Jeno’s silence hangs heavier than the chandeliers. You feel it in your bones, in the twitch of his thumb where it skims the seam of your wrist. He hasn’t said a word about Taeyong. He hasn’t flinched. He hasn’t broken but he’s still bleeding somewhere quiet and you’re the only one close enough to taste it.

Mark lifts his glass higher, catching the light, and his voice stretches out with the kind of grin that commands attention without raising its volume. “I hope you’re all ready for what’s coming next,” he says, eyes sweeping the long, candle-lit table like he’s letting them in on something rare. “We’ve got a slow dance under strings of lanterns that’ll make you believe in every love song you’ve ever pretended not to cry to. We’ve got a midnight toast waiting on the balcony with firecrackers rigged to spell their initials in the sky. A dessert table that looks like someone robbed a French patisserie blind. Tarot readings from Jaemin, who swears he’s only drunk enough to be accurate. Late-night espresso martinis on demand. A photo booth hidden in the wine cellar. And if we’re lucky, a dancefloor moment that’ll end with Donghyuck trying to split his pants again.” Laughter spills across the table in waves, lifting the mood like lace caught in the wind. “And last,” Mark says, voice softening as he tips his glass a little toward you, “a performance by the one and only Y/N, whose voice could get God to sit up straighter.”

You feel the burn of everyone’s gaze before your head fully turns, the heat catching your throat somewhere between flattered and exposed. You laugh, small and stunned, eyes darting toward your empty glass, but Jeno’s already there, smiling in that soft, slow way that always makes your pulse forget itself. He leans in, pressing his lips to your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth, barely a whisper of pressure before he rests his forehead against yours. “They’re not ready,” he breathes, voice dark with pride. “But I am.”

The hall is golden with fatigue now, soft with the blur of wine and fading laughter, the kind of quiet that settles only after something almost fell apart and didn’t. Candles flicker lower than they did before. The buffet’s been picked clean, shoes long abandoned beneath tables, and Seulgi’s tucked into a corner with a glass of something aged, whispering about the stars. Doyoung and Irene sit curled together near the terrace, his fingers tracing patterns into her wrist like he’s still memorizing her after decades of almosts. Jaemin’s halfway to sleep in a booth, tarot cards face-down beside a coffee cup that never saw espresso. Someone’s playing with the leftover sparklers on the lawn. The night’s slower now. Heavier, but intact.

And you—backstage, velvet curtain parted just enough to watch the lights stretch long across the stage—you’ve got Jeno’s back pressed to a wall, your body flush against his. Your hand curls around the base of his neck, fingers tracing the line of his jaw like you’re drawing a map you already memorized. He’s looking at you like he can’t believe you’re real. His grip anchors low, palms full of your ass beneath the curve of your skirt, thumbs dragging slow and deliberate across your skin like he’s branding intention into every breath. “You nervous?” he murmurs, voice rough, warm against your cheek. His mouth doesn’t move far. Every word is a kiss half-given, the drag of his lips across your temple, your hairline, your jaw. “You can tell me.”

“I’m strong enough to do this.” You say it like it costs something, but like it’s worth every drop. Like it’s been carved out of bone and time and rebuilt from the inside. There’s no tremor in it now, no pause for reassurance—just the clean edge of conviction returned to its rightful place. And still, when you lower your hand from where it rested at his chest, you move as if it aches somewhere beneath the skin. Like memory still burns behind the scaffolding of your strength, like muscle still remembers how it used to shake. But you don’t.

You stand with it now. All of it. The girl who couldn’t meet her own eyes in the mirror after that night at the bar, after the final spiral that cracked your ribs from the inside out. The one who let silence become a habit, who swallowed every song until they tasted like dust. She’s still in you, but no longer holding the pen. The version of you that steps forward now has flame in her spine, rhythm in her pulse, and her voice—your voice—has found its shape again. Built from absence. Sharpened by grief. Held together by hands that refused to drop the thread.

Jeno watches you like he knows all of it. Like he saw the worst parts break and waited, quiet and close, while you decided if the pieces deserved to be gathered. His hands haven’t moved. His breath stays low, measured, reverent. And though he doesn’t say a word, there’s a shift behind his eyes—something that tells you he’s not thinking of the stage, or the guests, or even the song. He’s thinking of that night you said nothing and still let him hold you until morning. He’s thinking of the first time your voice cracked mid-verse and you didn’t run from it. He’s thinking of the war it took to stand here now, and how you already won. And the door waits, just ahead. The spotlight behind it. The hush of the crowd. But for this second, it’s just you and him. The version of yourself that came back. And the man who never stopped listening for her return.

“I know you are,” he murmurs, voice low and hushed like it was meant for a darker room, a later hour, a softer world. “You’re the strongest person I’ve ever fucking known.” His hand moves up your spine, slow and sure, until his palm cups the back of your neck and he draws you in again, forehead brushing yours.

Jeno’s hand stills against your waist, fingers curling with the kind of quiet pressure that says he’s memorizing this—you—not just the moment. He leans in like the space between your bodies doesn’t exist, breath catching as his lips brush your temple. “You don’t know what it does to me,” he whispers, voice thick, almost raw, “watching you step into yourself like this again.”

You nod. Once. Then again. But there’s something tight at the edge of your smile, something old and aching that flickers in your eyes. He sees it. He holds your chin. “You’re about to sing like the world depends on it,” he murmurs, brushing your mouth with his. “But after? You come back to me. You dance with me.”

You press a kiss to his collarbone. “Promise?”

His voice catches. “Promise.” His pinky wraps around yours like a charm against the inevitable.

Outside, the spotlight slices through the twilight, fierce and unforgiving, cutting across the terrace like a blade hunting shadows. Its fractured beams splinter through aged glass, scattering pale silk ribbons that ripple ominously along the stone floor, each one whispering secrets better left buried. You remain pressed against him, frozen, heart stuttering to a halt exactly where his lips had brushed yours, pinkies interlaced in a fragile grasp that quivers between a promise and a threat—too tenuous, too charged to decipher clearly. Silence enfolds you both, rich as velvet yet suffocating, and beneath your ribs something shifts, slow and insidious, an unseen tremor that hollows your chest, carving out spaces you didn’t know existed. You tilt your forehead gently into his cheek—not quite devotion, not quite surrender—but suspended in that nameless moment, you forget all that lies beyond this fragile hush. The air around you thickens, charged like the electric stillness preceding a storm ready to crack open the horizon. As the spotlight retreats, pulling its warmth away and leaving behind an aching chill, something inside you recoils—sharp, sudden—as if mourning a warmth that left too soon, a room haunted by the echoes of things already lost, long before the door ever opened.

Moments slip past unnoticed until suddenly you’re no longer grounded in reality but stepping over an invisible threshold, and the stage rises beneath you, lifting your body as though the tide itself has chosen you. The lights blossom across your skin, fierce and sanctifying, heat radiating like a whispered confession, turning every nerve ending incandescent. The microphone trembles lightly in your grip, no longer a mere object but a weapon you’ve finally earned the right to wield, power pulsing eagerly beneath your fingertips. You stand exposed, poised and luminous, your heartbeat reverberating through the polished wood beneath your feet, lips parted with the first haunting note already coiling delicately behind your teeth, ready to spill forth like smoke.

Under the delicate canopy of the terrace, the atmosphere unfurls around you in gentle silk folds, caressing your legs as you stride forward with practiced grace. The crowd parts fluidly, not silent but thrumming with warmth and anticipation—a charged, restless energy gathering like distant stormclouds lighting up at the edge of a darkening sky. The polished oak gleams softly beneath your heels, guiding you toward the modest yet reverential stage ahead, beautifully framed by trailing ivy and lanterns suspended like captured stars, flickering gently as if coaxed down from the heavens. Behind the instruments, velvet curtains billow subtly, their soft undulations breathing life into the moment, as though you’ve crossed into the realm of dreams you’ve visited countless nights before, now finally given substance. A live band waits beside the microphone, arrayed like echoes from a forgotten era—upright bass humming deeply, electric guitar angled reverently, brushed snare drum whispering quiet rhythms, an upright piano standing elegant and austere, carrying memories of melodies older than your lifetime. First, the guitarist nods softly, a silent acknowledgment matched by the pianist’s steady gaze, their eyes speaking fluently without the intrusion of words. Your fingers curl gently around the mic stand, a quiet reverence tightening your grip. You inhale deeply once, drawing courage from the hush. Then, on the exhale, music floods the space, and you step fully into your voice.

The melody crawls up from the floorboards, rich and slow, every note stretched to the edge of indulgence, and your voice follows with that kind of aching control that stirs in the marrow and works its way outward. The sound is sultry, layered with restraint and a heat that refuses to beg for permission—it unfolds the way dark red wine might stain the inside of a mouth, slow to hit, impossible to forget. You don’t glance at the crowd all at once. Your eyes trail over them like smoke—first the couples at the nearest tables swaying in their chairs, then the figures gathering at the edge of the dance floor, drawn like magnets into orbit. Jaemin and Karina are already moving, her smile pressed to his jaw as their hands settle low at each other’s backs, and Doyoung pulls Irene toward the floor with a grace that feels more earned than practiced. Nahyun leans into her father’s shoulder nearby, their steps slow, circular, a rhythm of generations finding one another again. And you—centered under the spotlight, mini skirt cutting into your thighs, hair backlit like fire—you sing like you’ve lived through the song’s final verse and came back to teach it from memory.

Each note spills from your mouth like silk soaked in heat, unspooling through the air in long, deliberate ribbons—sensual, slow, the kind of sound that wraps around bodies and doesn’t let go. You hold the room like it’s yours by bloodright, hips swaying in tempo not to the rhythm but to the tension it builds. The light clings to your skin like a lover, golden and low, casting sharp shadows across the column of your throat, the dip of your collarbone, the part of your lips as the next note slips free.

Jeno stands beside the pillar where candlelight blurs into shadow, shirt unbuttoned just enough to hint at skin you already kissed, sleeves rolled to his forearms like he’s ready to step into you the second this song finishes. His gaze holds, fixed on you like the only thing he sees is the way your voice curves, the way you tilt your head for a high note and arch into the mic like a promise he already made. The look on his face—slow-burning, jaw tense, eyes low and smoldering—makes your thighs shift where you stand. He’s touching you without touching you. You can feel it. Your voice dips lower, softer, just for him, just for that. You let the note stretch. You let the silence hang just a little too long between verses. You don’t smile. You breathe him in from across the room and sing the next line like it tastes like his name. Jeno finally steps forward, moving through the soft-lit crowd with that look carved straight from heat and devotion, you already know—this is the moment. This is the start of everything that breaks.

You hear the wind howl first, a moaning whisper that devours the soft, golden evening in its monstrous teeth, clouds clawing across the bruised sky like a thousand jagged scars torn open anew. There is no warning, only the way the gentle hum of your song fractures mid-note, shattering into silence beneath the crush of storm and shadow. The moon slips from its orbit, consumed slowly, methodically, by a beast made of ink and gloom, and the darkness seeps downward like a veil of oil, thickening the air until breathing becomes a struggle. Thunder snarls in the distant hills, vicious in its hunger, a reckoning foretold by stars falling from their places in the heavens. Your voice falters, heart stuttering as a chill creeps through your spine, a prophecy carving itself across your bones.

He emerges then—a phantom birthed from chaos and rot, moving through the sprawling gardens like a plague unfurling its blistered fingers toward every soul within the villa. Lee Taeyong, but no longer the man who once walked these halls; he’s a shadow, barely human, his skin pale and waxen, draped over bones that shift with the unsettling rhythm of something ancient and unburied. Eyes sunken, dark as a dying planet, haunted by things that should have stayed dead, should have remained beneath the earth that once claimed him. His footsteps drag slowly, as if gravity itself rejects him, each step an agonized collision with earth, a dying star falling through its final, doomed orbit. He lifts his head toward you, and even from here, you see his hollow gaze, the sickly glow of a soul returned to finish something unspeakable, a reckoning clawing free from its grave, ravenous and unrelenting.

The wind tears the music from your throat, ripping notes like delicate petals violently plucked from their stems. Your song breaks midair, splintering into shards that scatter helplessly into the void, a silence so raw and sudden it bleeds. You clutch desperately at the mic stand, fingertips numb, lungs frozen as though an unseen hand has slipped into your chest and closed slowly around your heart, squeezing until every fragment of melody dies inside you. Lee Taeyong stands below, gaze dark and lifeless, the eerie pull of his presence robbing you of sound, voice stolen once again by a man who has haunted every shadowed corner of your life. His stare is hollow, but it penetrates like cold iron thrust into flesh, silencing you not through fear alone, but something deeper, ancient and sickly, his existence a living scar carved across your memory.

Gasps ripple violently across the terrace, glass slipping from fingers and shattering, guests stumbling backward as the elegant calm fractures, splintering into shards of panic. Irene grips Doyoung’s arm until her knuckles whiten, breath frozen in her chest. Karina recoils, stepping instinctively into Jaemin’s shadow, eyes wide, hand trembling as she presses it to her lips. Donghyuck’s laughter dies brutally in his throat, eyes widening as if faced with a nightmare resurrected. Jeno stiffens beside the stage, jaw clenched painfully, fists tightening with quiet fury. Everyone stands paralyzed beneath the horror-stricken weight of recognition, faces drained of warmth, a collective heartbeat stuttering to a terrified halt.

Mark moves first, propelled by something dark, vicious, an anger shaped and sharpened over years of wounds left raw and bleeding beneath careful smiles. He shoves chairs aside, steps rapid and furious, eyes blazing with a rage that sparks like lightning. His fist rises, knuckles white, muscles coiled like wire pulled taut—yet just as he lunges forward, Taeyong stumbles grotesquely, knees buckling beneath him like brittle twigs snapped by invisible hands. Taeyong crumples forward, collapsing a split second before Mark’s blow lands. To the stunned crowd, it seems Mark struck him, but Mark himself knows the truth, knows he touched only air, Taeyong’s fall inevitable, preordained by something more sinister, more final.

Taeyong hits the ground with sickening impact, limbs sprawled unnaturally, bones shifting visibly beneath his waxen skin. His body convulses violently, back arching like a marionette dragged roughly by tangled strings, veins straining black and grotesque along his throat and temples, lips parted wide in a silent, horrible scream. His fingers claw desperately at the stone terrace, nails splitting, blood smearing against marble like a grotesque painting of agony. Eyes rolling back, white eclipsing black as he struggles futilely against the violent rebellion within his own failing heart, Taeyong looks like something ripped straight from the grip of death and thrown cruelly back for one final torment.

Darkness gathers around him, an oily shadow seeping from beneath his trembling form, spreading outward slowly, consuming the floor inch by terrible inch. The terrace lanterns flicker violently, their glow sputtering in protest, illuminating his final moments in sickly, jaundiced yellow, casting distorted, monstrous shadows across faces twisted in fear and horror. Taeyong’s mouth stretches wider, chest convulsing in rapid, horrific pulses, a final desperate attempt to breathe, his body buckling and spasming, bones cracking audibly beneath skin stretched impossibly tight. A choked, guttural sound claws free from his throat—a wet, strangled whisper of agony and despair.

Then he stills, sudden and unnatural, limbs dropping heavy, eyes staring sightlessly into a sky devoured by storm clouds, mouth frozen open in silent pleading. Silence thickens, oppressive, unbroken except by the wind’s ghostly whisper and the slow, rhythmic drip of blood against polished marble. Mark stares down, chest heaving, horror etched deep into his features as he steps back shakily, fists unclenching, eyes darkening with understanding that this death was not by his hand, but something crueler, something darker—fate itself laying claim to a soul whose debts were finally due.

You remain frozen, voice still stolen, heart caught in your throat, knowing the night will never surrender the memory of this moment. Taeyong lies lifeless, a corpse turned prophecy, an omen staining the ground at your feet, his silence louder than screams, his departure not peaceful, but violent, relentless, a shadow that will forever haunt the cracks of the villa’s stone foundations.

Jeno breaks from the crowd in a sudden, violent burst, tearing forward as though a lifetime of restraint has snapped beneath the unbearable weight of seeing Taeyong sprawled, twisted, lifeless on cold marble. You’ve never seen him like this—raw, stripped down to exposed nerves, a boy cracked open, heart bleeding through skin, grief and rage entwined in a nightmare tango. He drops beside Taeyong, knees colliding brutally with stone, barely registering the pain as he grabs his father’s limp body roughly by the shoulders, voice shattering into fragments of desperate pleading.

“Dad,” he cries, the word splintering into something broken and childlike, years peeled away in seconds, revealing a boy who once idolized the same man he learned to despise. “Dad, Dad—wake up!” His voice climbs higher, frantic, jagged at the edges, echoing across the terrace like glass shards scattering over stone. His shaking hands press urgently into Taeyong’s chest, fingers splayed, pressing down hard and merciless in rhythm, a sickening crack sounding beneath his palms as he begins CPR, tears tracking messy paths down his face. He breathes desperately into his father’s slack mouth, each breath raw and gasping, desperate life breathed into death.

Around him, the world fractures into chaotic still-frames of horror: the stunned silence of Mark, eyes wide and hollow with regret; Irene clutching Doyoung as if she might fall into the abyss opened beneath them; the wild-eyed terror etched deeply into Jaemin’s usually calm facade. Jeno’s sobs become violent, shoulders shuddering under an impossible burden, each compression an attempt to undo decades of heartache, bitterness, betrayal—to somehow reclaim a childhood stolen, a father he’d learned to bury long before this moment.

In flashes, memories rip violently through Jeno’s mind—his father’s strong hands teaching him to ride a bike, a laugh rich and warm against sunlight; the darker nights that followed, arguments bleeding through thin walls, sharp words carving invisible wounds into his young skin; afternoons in empty bleachers, waiting for a father who promised to show but never arrived, disappointment carving deeper scars than bruises ever could. All these splintered pieces of love and loathing collide violently inside him, breaking open wounds that never truly healed, grief erupting from a lifetime of suppressed longing and rage.

His desperate movements slow as exhaustion claws at his muscles, heart shattering again with each futile breath forced into lungs refusing air. Jeno sobs openly, tears mixing with sweat and blood, dripping onto Taeyong’s ashen face, skin already cool beneath trembling fingertips. Silence closes in, thick and final, the hopelessness suffocating, heavier than death itself.

Then—impossibly—Taeyong jerks, limbs seizing violently, back arching off the stone terrace as if electrified. A ragged, wet gasp tears from his throat, wretched and unnatural, chest heaving upward as his lungs inflate with a desperate, rasping breath—a corpse dragged cruelly back from death’s embrace. His eyes snap open, blank at first, pupils wide and unseeing, milky white rolling back until dark irises slowly reclaim their place, wild and terrified. His fingers clutch blindly at Jeno, nails digging fiercely into skin, a drowning man clawing desperately for air and warmth.

The terrace erupts with screams, startled cries of disbelief and horror ricocheting into the night. Jeno recoils in terror but cannot pull away fully, trapped beneath Taeyong’s frantic grip. His father coughs violently, choking on air as though it were poison, convulsing as life tears viciously back through veins already stilled. Color floods his pale, corpse-like flesh with grotesque immediacy, a flush of sickly red blossoming in jagged patches, the sight disturbingly unnatural—a resurrection in shades of violence and fear.

Taeyong’s voice splinters painfully into the darkness, rasping words spilling forth like shattered glass, broken and sharp-edged: “Jeno—help me—please.” Each syllable drips agony, desperation raw and terrifying in his wide, panicked eyes. And beneath him, Jeno kneels stunned, horrified, holding the man he’d spent years convincing himself he could never save, haunted by the monstrous paradox of wishing both for death and for another chance to forgive.

At ten thirty-five PM, paramedics flood the villa grounds, bodies clad in ghostly white uniforms flashing beneath the strobing scarlet sirens. They move like wraiths, quick, precise, clinical in their grim choreography of revival. Jeno trails them closely, footsteps hollow, face drained of all but the ghastly pallor of a son facing the unimaginable. His breath clouds visibly against the cold night, a tremor rattling violently through each hurried exhale, an involuntary rhythm to his own inner chaos. Mark follows at a distance, movements reluctant, hands trembling and stained with imaginary guilt. He stares numbly ahead, haunted by the horrific illusion of violence—the thought that his fist had ended a life. Around them, whispers ripple like shadows flickering along the walls, each murmured word sharpening into accusations and disbelief, the bitter aftertaste of catastrophe heavy in every throat.

At eleven twenty-three PM, beneath the hospital’s sterile fluorescent lights that hum coldly overhead like impatient vultures, a doctor stands rigidly, face expressionless yet profoundly grim. “His heart is failing,” he announces, voice dry and mechanical, precise as clockwork ticking toward doom. “Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy has left his heart muscle rigid and thickened, unable to endure this trauma. The strain is simply too great; his body is spiraling downward.” Jeno flinches as though struck, a visible shudder that tears down the length of his spine, fingers curling involuntarily into his palms, nails leaving crescent-shaped scars as the weight of inevitability burrows itself deeply into his bones. Behind him, the family hovers, silhouettes twisted in silent despair, each absorbing the news like a blade slipping smoothly between ribs.

At twelve forty-seven AM, in a shadowy corridor lit only by dimmed, buzzing bulbs, you approach Jeno with careful footsteps, each step weighted by hesitation, each heartbeat drumming painfully in your ears. You reach for him, fingers trembling slightly as they brush his arm—only to feel him jerk violently away, muscles coiled taut like steel cables, eyes vacant, glazed in a terrifying emptiness. “Don’t,” he growls, a low sound harsh as broken glass, voice slicing brutally through the silence. You recoil instantly, your hand frozen mid-air, heart splintering quietly within your chest. A cruel, unspoken wall erects itself swiftly between you—cold, impenetrable, absolute—leaving you stranded in helpless anguish, watching Jeno retreat deeper into an internal darkness you cannot reach.

At one fifteen AM, the nightmare escalates—Taeyong’s liver begins to fail catastrophically, his organs mutinously collapsing one after another, toxins surging through his bloodstream like venom. The doctor returns, tone heavier, voice quieter, bearing yet another crushing revelation. “He needs an immediate liver transplant, or his entire body will succumb to sepsis within hours. Without it, his organs will systematically shut down; death will be swift but excruciating.” His words hang thickly, like smoke pooling beneath a suffocating ceiling. Jeno’s gaze fixates blankly at the linoleum floor, mind spiraling with panic, desperation, helplessness crashing violently in waves behind his carefully schooled mask.

At two thirty-six AM, test results strike another brutal blow: Jeno is no match. Mark, bitterly, ironically, is a perfect donor. Mark’s face twists darkly at the news, jaw set with immediate refusal, bitterness etched in every defiant line. He stands immovable, determinedly denying compassion, until Jeno approaches him—a hollow specter of anguish, desperation etched into every sharp, shadowed line of his face. Jeno says nothing; he doesn’t need to. His eyes speak a language of suffering older than words, pleading silently from an abyss deeper than pride. “Please,” he whispers finally, voice ragged, breaking on a single, desperate note. Mark’s resolve cracks violently, a fissure splitting wide through his bitterness as he nods slowly, defeated. He consents only because the alternative—watching Jeno shatter completely—is a pain he cannot bear.

At four fifty-nine AM, Taeyong lies sprawled beneath the merciless glare of surgical lamps, chest opened, heart pulsing weakly beneath sterile hands. Surgeons maneuver swiftly, desperately, placing Mark’s liver meticulously into Taeyong’s failing body. But soon, a chorus of alarms erupts like banshees wailing through the operating theater. Taeyong’s body convulses violently, rejecting the transplanted organ with primal fury, immune system screaming betrayal. The surgeons’ frantic, urgent movements blur in panic as Taeyong’s vitals spiral out of control. Blood seeps thick and dark across surgical linens, instruments clatter, a dreadful symphony marking the inevitable descent into oblivion.

At six forty-one AM, doctors step aside, eyes shadowed, voices reduced to whispers: “It’s time to say goodbye.” The room fills with a haunting silence broken only by quiet sobs and the faint hum of machinery counting down to death. Mark says nothing, standing rigid and numb beside Irene, eyes downcast. Irene brushes her fingers softly against Taeyong’s cool cheek, whispering final words heavy with regret. Karina and Jaemin hover at the threshold, expressions tight, grief etched deeply into their features. Only Jeno remains unmoving, anchored beside his father’s bedside, holding Taeyong’s limp hand like a lifeline he refuses to release. He whispers broken words—apologies, accusations, pleas—all colliding in a quiet storm as he watches Taeyong’s chest rise and fall one last, feeble time.

At seven thirteen AM, the door swings open slowly, as if weighed down by the very gravity of death itself. Jeno steps through the threshold alone, emerging like a shadow reborn, the sterile white corridor engulfing him immediately in its stark, unforgiving glare. The fluorescent lights above flicker momentarily, as though even they sense the unnatural presence now inhabiting his frame. His face is pale, waxen—skin stretched taut over hollowed bones, gaunt in a way you’ve never seen before, every feature starkly defined by grief and something infinitely darker.

His eyes, once warm and fiercely alive, now stare forward with a chilling emptiness that sends an involuntary shudder through everyone gathered nearby. They gleam hollowly beneath the harsh hospital lights, pupils wide, lifelessly black, reflecting nothing but a terrible void. Yet, there is something burning within them, a dreadful, alien spark that wasn’t there before—something cold, sinister, achingly familiar. The eyes of his father, freshly extinguished, resurrected now in the gaze of his son. It is as though the soul of Lee Taeyong has seeped directly into Jeno’s bloodstream, saturating every cell, consuming his identity completely.

Every step he takes echoes down the hall, precise and measured with an unnatural calm, footsteps landing with the meticulous, ruthless rhythm of someone accustomed to causing pain rather than feeling it. The sound reverberates coldly against the polished tile, each echo magnifying the unsettling shift that has occurred within him. Nurses glance up and freeze mid-action, sensing an inexplicable chill; doctors fall quiet, conversations dying abruptly as a silent unease spreads swiftly through the corridors.

You stand at the far end of the hallway, breath trapped painfully in your throat as you watch Jeno approach. His movements carry a rigid control, shoulders squared beneath an invisible burden he seems to carry effortlessly now, as though grief and darkness have strengthened rather than broken him. He doesn’t pause, doesn't look sideways, gaze fixed forward with an intensity so cold and detached it pierces straight through your heart.

The next day, at twelve fifteen PM, skies churn overhead, iron-grey clouds gathering like bruises spreading slowly across the heavens, heavy with impending storm. You find Jeno outside, framed against a landscape drained of warmth, the air biting fiercely through your clothing, chilling your skin and seeping into your bones. The distance between you feels immense, vast, even as you step hesitantly forward. He senses you immediately, turning with a stiff precision that chills you to the core.

His eyes, now completely devoid of the gentle warmth they once held for you, stare into yours with raw, brutal indifference. The expression carved into his face is one of finality, ruthless determination etched deeply into every line. Your breath catches painfully, words faltering on your tongue, an instinctive plea rising within you. But before you can speak, he cuts you off, voice slicing through the brittle air with surgical precision.

“We’re done,” he announces flatly, the words coldly brutal, devoid of hesitation or remorse, falling from his lips like stones plunging irretrievably into the deepest, darkest waters. Each syllable echoes dully in the space between you, heavy and unrelenting, crushing whatever fragile hope still fluttered within your chest. “Stay away from me. Forever.”

You recoil instinctively, stumbling backward as though struck physically, chest constricting sharply, a tight ache gripping fiercely around your heart. A desperate, instinctive hand reaches toward him, trembling in silent pleading, your fingertips straining for the comfort of his touch, the reassurance that somewhere beneath this monstrous transformation, the boy you loved still survives. But Jeno jerks away violently, muscles coiling as if your proximity sickens him, gaze sliding mercilessly through you as though you are nothing—less than nothing.

His voice lowers further, becoming chillingly quiet, dripping with disdain and an eerie, detached cruelty. “I said leave,” he repeats coldly, eyes narrowed, jaw tightening viciously, resentment and pain merging into a volatile blend that seeps through his words like venom. “You have no place here anymore. Forget you ever knew me.” The raw cruelty in his tone slices through you more deeply than any physical wound could, tearing through flesh and bone and memory, leaving you hollowed and bleeding invisibly in the bitter wind.

He turns sharply, back rigid, walking away with chilling certainty, each step deliberate, leaving behind only echoes of the warmth he once held for you. You watch helplessly, paralyzed and numb, as he moves further and further into the gathering darkness, becoming one with the shadows stretching toward him eagerly. Jeno disappears from sight entirely, taking with him the last fragments of your shattered heart, leaving you abandoned beneath an unforgiving sky, haunted by the chilling realization that he has become precisely what he swore never to be—a reflection of his father, cold, unfeeling, and terrifyingly final.

𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄: 𝐒𝐈𝐗 𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐇𝐒 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐀𝐄𝐘𝐎𝐍𝐆’𝐒 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇, 𝐋𝐄𝐄 𝐉𝐄𝐍𝐎 𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐒 𝐄𝐍𝐆𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐊𝐈𝐌 𝐍𝐀𝐇𝐘𝐔𝐍—𝐀 𝐋𝐄𝐆𝐀𝐂𝐘, 𝐀 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐆𝐄, 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐀 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐋 𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐖

“In a move that has set both the sports and business worlds ablaze, NBA phenomenon Lee Jeno has officially announced his engagement to renowned influencer and heiress Kim Nahyun—just six months after the death of his father, the infamous mogul Lee Taeyong. The announcement, confirmed late last night through a carefully curated photo drop and closed-door press release, has reignited national conversation around power, inheritance, and the ever-expanding shadow of the Lee family legacy.

At twenty-seven, Lee Jeno has rapidly risen to become one of the league’s most explosive and merciless athletes, his presence on the court described by analysts as “ghostlike, surgical, possessed.” Since his father’s collapse and subsequent death, Jeno’s transformation has been startling: emotionless post-game interviews, streaks of unrelenting performance, and a gaze that, as one coach put it, “doesn’t blink when it should.” His movements echo Taeyong’s relentless hunger but where the elder Lee cloaked his ambition in charisma, Jeno wields his like a blade.

The announcement’s most circulated image? Not the diamond-studded engagement shoot, but a candid photo snapped during what sources confirm was a high-stakes contract finalization: Jeno, shaking hands with Chairman Kim Doyul—CEO of Doyul Group and father of Nahyun. The handshake isn’t simply symbolic. Insiders claim it marks the execution of a sealed merger between legacy holdings long prepared by Taeyong before his death—assets that, up until now, Jeno had deliberately left untouched. Until now.

Kim Nahyun, a household name in fashion and digital influence, boasts over twelve million followers and a curated empire of beauty and luxury endorsements. But her true value lies off-screen—in boardrooms and family lineages. As the only daughter of one of South Korea’s most powerful industrial dynasties, Nahyun brings more than social capital to this engagement—she brings bloodlines, power, and global visibility.

The timing is precise. Too precise, some argue. Though whispers have long tied the two together, the engagement’s sudden confirmation following Jeno’s recent real estate acquisitions and withdrawal from post-season press suggests careful orchestration. Observers point to this union as more than romantic—a calculated alignment of wealth, legacy, and consolidation. Not just a marriage. A new empire.

And yet, beneath the polish, speculation simmers. Those close to Jeno—former teammates, childhood friends—have fallen silent in recent months. Some say he hasn’t been the same since the moment he stepped out of that hospital room, eyes empty, spine too straight. Others say Nahyun is the only one who’s ever been able to hold his gaze without flinching.

Whether love, legacy, or ghost-haunted obligation fuels this union, one thing is clear: Lee Jeno is not stepping out of his father’s shadow. He is wearing it. And now, with Kim Nahyun at his side, he’s walking straight into the empire Taeyong left behind—stone-faced, unreadable, and more dangerous than ever."

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

authors note —

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

positive feedback means the absolute world to me. so remember, fill my inbox!

important authors note —

hi my loves — before anything, i just want to say thank you so much for reading, for feeling this story so deeply, and for sitting with every chaotic twist i throw your way. i know the ending of this chapter, especially jeno’s behaviour, is a lot. it’s brutal, it’s cold, and it hurts and i promise you, that was entirely intentional. please know that how i write has always been dramatic, layered, and pushed to emotional extremes. i love the ache, the tension, the flawed choices and the uncomfortable silences between characters who don’t know how to save themselves, let alone each other. this scene is no exception.

but also — you’ve only seen that night through fragments. snippets. you weren’t there for the full unraveling, the hours of silence, the things said off-page, the weight jeno’s been dragging behind him for longer than even he realises. grief is not linear. it’s not always quiet. sometimes it manifests in cruelty, in withdrawal, in self-sabotage, especially when someone’s entire identity collapses in a single night. jeno is drowning. and right now, he thinks pushing everyone away is the only way to survive. a lot happened that night but i only showed about 5%.

you don’t know everything that’s happening under the surface yet. you don’t know what’s been buried. or what’s about to resurface.

so please — be kind. not just to jeno, but to the story as a whole. let it breathe. let it get ugly. let it break you before it makes you feel again. remember grief looks different on everyone.

thank you for trusting me with your hearts.

with all my love,

sophs <3

176 notes · View notes