#i do truly love you felt like i was a good person to come to for this that is SO sweet

[yourislandgirl]

OKAY LETS GET INTO THIS !!! (spoilers ahead)

from the very start, the set up is pristine — it’s described so vividly, i can picture every setting with clear and precise accuracy and fits truly spectacular how you capture eeriness and confusion from the townspeople’s perspectives before shifting it to relative enjoyment and contentment when it comes to the boys

I LOVED THE BOYS ODD ROUTINE OMG IT STIRRED SO MUCH CURIOSITY IN ME — you set up the premise and the mystery very very well omg — the way they just pause and go back inside?? like robots??? i’m like lost in the mystery bcs i NEED TO KNOW WHAT THIS MEANS

ALSO the house itself is a character and i LOVE THAT — very edgar allan poe of you, very fall of the house of usher — i think this genre is smth very untapped by most enhablr writers but its EATS bcs it fits their early concepts so well

the way you talk abt yn’s paintings being fragments of their lives — doorknobs, pictures of the boys, umbrellas, shadows stretching over floorboards — IM IMMERSED IN THIS

AHHH AND HYUNJIN MAKING FUN OF HER FOR THE GHOSTS IN HER PAINTINGS “Artist in the haunted house, starts painting ghosts- classic.” WHAT DID I SAY??

DID I NOT TEXT YOU THE EXACT SAME THING LIKE A WEEK AGO??? sjdhfjsjdjd i love this concept so much

there’s something so haunting abt artists having felt clairvoyant messages involuntarily and then feeling compelled to paint them — they’re battling with accusations of insanity while giving into their urge to create bcs how else are they supposed to understand of what they see and feel and sense???

i LOVED your characterisation of jake in this fic btw ☹️ he’s so me AND THE PART ABT HOW HE GETS IN TROUBLE?? WHAT IF I JUST START CRYING I SEE MYSELF IN HIM SO MUCH :( id get into so much trouble for always questioning everything and wanting reasons and explanations omgg i can’t deal w this JAKE ☹️☹️ i felt so seen

ALSO YESS??? JAKES QUESTION START QUESTIONING !!! and it’s really sad in like a depressing way to realise all this intrigue, confusion, and suspense is wrapped up in camaraderie bcs they truly only had each other and they don’t really know what’s going on so who else can they turn to??

now . after yn moves in, heeseung feeling connected to yn but realising just how apart he is from her bcs they’re two people sharing a space but one’s dead and one alive and he feels like he’ll never be KNOWN?? that was painful

next, her reaction to seeing him?? it was written so well !!! bcs it played out in my head like a movie !! i love the build up from this moment too — how yn just leaves immediately (good on you girl), how she goes straight to hyunjin (i can see where that’s going but i feel bad for heeseung T^T), and how she doesn’t return for DAYS like the pacing of this is perfect i have to say

AND AFTER SHE COMES BACK?? ENTIRE INTRODUCTION BETWEEN THEM WAS PEAK

the PAIN I FELT FROM HEESEUNG WHEN HE WAS DESPERATE TO EXPLAIN HIS SITUATION so well written

this fic really tugged at the heartstrings with their gradual growth into friendship and the way they were slowly falling in love without realising it?

i LOVED that day out in town where yn played mahjong!!! IT WAS SO CUTE and so sad as well bcs heeseung gets a taste of life and normality that he never got to experience as an actual young person when he was alive?? author, why do you love torturing him?? (i kid, this was written so well)

but ya know what hurt the most?? YNS BREAKDOWN ABT FALLING IN LOVE WITH HEESEUNG

girl YOU MADE ME CRY I WAS IN TEARS FOR HER ?? FOR BOTH OF THEM

what a DEVASTATING situation to find yourself in?? in love with a soul that you can’t touch, you can’t feel, you can’t be intimate with .. but the love isn’t just gonna disappear bcs of this struggle, if anything it gets stronger bcs the desire and the need to have these things makes it that much harder to let go

PAINFUL

but then . the BASEMENT — the plot kicked in so well?? i was on the edge of my seat, i was clinging to my phone, i was gasping with every sentence, whispering the words of the fic, eyes welling with tears at the realisation that these boys SUFFERED for NO REASON bcs of a madwoman and her shattered mind

i was mourning for them idk how to describe the way you pulled these emotions out of me but it felt REAL and so very tragic

also, side note, hyunjin is such a real one in this fic, like his and yn’s slow but genuine growth is sweet, it’s bittersweet bcs yn and heeseung are so connected ?? hyunjin is like the love that feels soft and safe bcs the love that was real couldn’t happen

also hyunjin’s genuine desire to help and give heeseung some closure was sweet too, A+ guy

finally, the moment of meeting heeseungs family?? I DIDNT THINK YOUD MAKE ME CRY TWICE BUT YOU DID WTF

i was so broken yet smiling while reading bcs they’re finally getting answers from the tragedy and they’re reminiscing abt the life that heeseung had w them ??

and WDYM THE ENDING IS PREDICTABLE THAT DOESNT MAKE IT BAD?? i LOVED that you gave heeseung closure, i love that you helped him move on to the next stage of departing the mortal realm? it’s so aligned with the trope and the concept there’s no reason to worry abt that

and i’m so satisfied with how yn found happiness with hyunjin — trust babe, as a reader, this fic was IMMERSIVE LIKE NOTHING ELSE

the love that heeseung and yn shared lived on, you made that so very clear in a beautiful way, and i cannot wait to reread this fic sometime soon bcs i think it truly changed a little smth in me

it was lovely in its tragedy and i need everybody to read this right right now

Echoes Where You Stood

Pairing: Ghost!Heeseung x Painter!Fem!Reader

TW/N〡39k- ghost romance, slow burn, slice of life, bittersweet, love that's impossible, strangers to lovers, sad ending, locked together, PARANORMAL LOVE. Mentions of death, murder, incest (chill, just in pasisng dialogue), conspiracy, huge gossip, mental health issues, loneliness, anxiety. VERY VERY SAD (I guess, I kinda hate my writing in this I really rushed it). I realise that in all my fics, most of them at least, they never end up together. Do I hate myself or my characters? Inspired by ENHYPEN'S earlier concepts and me just sticking puzzle pieces incorrectly (I'm sure more shit inspired me I just can't remember rn cuz I'm desperate to publish this). NOT PROOF READ. Hyunjin Stray Kids.

Summary: When Y/N moves into a quiet house on a hill, all she wants is solitude and a fresh start. What she doesn't expect is Heeseung- a ghost with soft eyes, a drifting presence, and a past that refuses to stay buried. As Y/N digs deeper into the strange history of the house, she uncovers fragments of a story long forgotten- one that ties her to missing children, a fire, and a family left behind.

i. prologue

The house on top of the hill, located at the edge of the town, far from where everyone lived, was known for its beauty, the beige colours painted on the walls and its roof decorated with glossy brown tiles. The grass around the house was always green and butterflies would flutter around the premises during spring. A lone Weeping Willow stood behind the house, its leaves following the breeze of the wind and occasionally brushing against the curtained windows of the house. During summer, wisteria and bougainvillaea would cover the span of the walls, leaves seeping through cracks in the bricks. In winter, the place seemingly allowed itself to be buried by snow. The changes of the exterior of this house, to the town, was what marked the changes in season. But no one knew what the inside looked like, how many rooms the house had or whether it even had furniture.

The townspeople had seen only a few going in and out of the house before. There was a particularly old lady that everyone would speak of when the topic of the house on top of the hill came up. Albeit, no one knew who old this lady was. She wore pristine dresses made of cotton and silk, always walked around with a black umbrella as a cane, her white hair was always tied in a perfect bun and her wrinkles were mostly prominent around her forehead and mouth- she always looked like she belonged to a wealthy family. This lady, whom everyone liked to call Madam Black because of her umbrella and darkly coloured attires, was always seen walking out of the house with slow steps, head held high, her hands clasped behind her back as the tip of her umbrella dug into the earth beneath. Some said, when she made her public appearances as such, that she was smelling the air to examine her surroundings, feeling the shifts in energy around her. Curiously enough, though, she would walk back inside within a few seconds and out would come a group of seven boys.

This group of seven boys, whenever they were spotted out in the grass, in the garden, always had on smiles. They would all be wearing the same white shirts with long sleeves and ruffles that were tucked into black shorts. Some would wear knee length socks while others stuck to simply running around in their black shoes. People in the town were observant enough to notice the complexities of their shoes- they had thick soles, its exterior made of shiny leather and they had straps that would secure the shoes onto their feet. They’d always be wearing ties, though they weren’t always knotted properly. The piece of black cloth would be tied loosely around their collars, sometimes falling off their necks due to their rapid speed in running around while playing. It was said that sometimes, when these boys were playing, the happiness in their laughter would be so loud that it could be heard all the way on the other side of town.

To be fair, their town was rather small, housing sixty families under their many cottages, but it was a huge distance for sound to travel regardless. However, their laughter would immediately stop after a certain amount of time- it really depended on the day. The boys would freeze dead in their tracks, their gleeful expressions seemingly falling off their faces. They would robotically turn towards the house and walk inside in a straight line, their arms dangling at their sides like dead weight. Some said this was because Madam Black would call them back in with an ugly yell and others said it was because of a loud bell marking the end of their playtime.

No one had ever seen these people step foot in town, nor had anyone seen their faces up close. Whatever they had observed of them was from a distance, most of the time painted with hues of their own imagination to make their viewings sound more interesting. People spoke about how they had never seen anyone bring them supplies, making them wonder where they got their clothes and food from. They had never seen anyone, apart from the seven boys and Madam Black, step foot into the house or out of the house. And everytime, when a rebellious kid from town or a lost child would somehow wonder so much as close to the house or near the hill it was perched on, they would say that some sort of energy would petrify them from taking any step closer.

It was peculiar events and details as such that made the townspeople create all kinds of rumours. Some said that the place was haunted and the people they would see walking in and out were merely ghosts, which would explain why they were never seen with food or water and why they seemed to live in a loop, a meticulously scheduled timetable. Others theorised that it could have simply been a strict boarding school which allowed only a certain class of people to enter or could perhaps be an orphanage, which would explain why the townspeople had basically watched these boys grow up- from toddlers to whatever age they were now. Assuming this theory were true, people insisted that a few of the boys must have been foreigners due to their blond hair.

The house on top of the hill, seemingly lonely after a few years of observing, had become a sort of spectacle for the townspeople. If they didn’t have themselves to gossip about, they would always turn to the house on top of the hill for an interesting conversation. It would start with admiring the exterior botany and architecture, then a wonderment of what the inside must have housed and then the conversation would move on to Madam Black and the seven boys. These conversations consisted of retelling the same stories and theories, just with different wording and perhaps a little more exaggeration compared to the previous telling.

The townspeople, though they denied it, were rather obsessed with the house, or rather what they made it out to be. They had to admit, the silence from the place, the stillness of its surroundings despite the Weeping Willow, kept them up some nights but the questions and mystery surrounding it drew them towards it, keeping their curiosity alive. 

“Something really messed up must be going on in that house,” the owner of the bakery would always say, “or else they would have come down to town and introduced themselves to us by now, don’t ya’ think? Maybe they’re incestuous or are murderous psychoes dressed in expensive clothing. What’d ya’ think it is?” He’d ask his customers whenever the topic came up.

But what he or his customers or anyone from the town didn’t know was that the happenings of the inside of that house, the infamously beautiful house on top of the hill, was rather mundane. They weren’t ghosts, nor were they students of a boarding school. If anyone asked them if they were orphans, they wouldn’t know what to say because they thought of each other as family enough.

The seven boys, all almost the same age, would wake up everyday and clean up, brush their hair so that they looked pristines, had their meals accompanied by a pill that they had been taking since they could remember, would sit around their vast living room telling stories or playing piano and would sit in front of their Warden- they called her Warden because she never revealed to them her name- while she taught science and mathematics.

These boys, though oblivious to their outside world, were happy in the house they lived in. It was huge and had room to fit perhaps a dozen more children like them but they were content with how they lived. They had their own rooms, had their own books and toys and didn’t have to worry about fights because the seven of them got along just fine. 

Warden would dress them up in expensive clothing, exquisitely designed for royalty so they could act out plays or run around their spacious house enacting fantasies of being from royal blood. She also taught them how to dance and sing like the people they saw on their tiny television that played black and white videos of the opera. These boys learned how to use swords and knives, perfected how to speak impeccable languages and were told that the world outside was a horrible place and that Warden was the only person that could keep them safe.

With little to no knowledge of the outside world, these boys accepted that their lives were as such and were happy. They never complained or made a fuss, instead drowned in their little world of pianos, literature and games. In fact, while the bakery owner was gossiping, these boys were probably posing for the stand camera with hearty and toothy smiles, huddling together and fixing each other's ties while Warden stood behind the camera to take a picture of them for the hundredth time.

ii. 

For six months, Y/N had been spending all her time and money in house hunting. Her days consisted of a repetitive schedule- waking up, scrolling through the internet to find a house or apartment she found fit for the next few years to rent out and if she was lucky, she would travel by bus or train, or flight if she had the money, to examine the place for herself. But so far, she’s switched house brokers at least three times, had visited over fifteen cities and yet, she hadn’t found a house that fit her taste.

She had just finished her latest line of paintings and auctioned them off for a fat chunk of money. It took her almost two years to complete those paintings and only two months for all of them to leave her warehouse. Now, she decided to start a new collection of paintings by using mediums and considering aesthetics she’d never bothered with before. For that, for her vision to be fulfilled, she insisted that she needed a house, one that was huge and spacious with plants hanging off its walls. She wasn’t sure what she was going to accomplish in this house, if she ever found it, but it was a start. And she had a huge sum of money as investment, too.

It was around the seventh month, or perhaps the eight month, that the fourth broker Y/N hired had called her with what she described as good news. He described a house exactly the way she wanted; minimalistic architecture but with a plethora of plants and even a Weeping Willow. The rooms were empty with windows that filtered early morning rays of sunlight and it was built on top of a hill where there was no disturbance from traffic. By the end of the day, she and the broker were on the next bus to whatever small town this house was located in. When they reached, Y/N was asking for the lease documents within the hour. Curiously enough, though, she had never met the owner, only spoke to him through messages or the occasional phone call.

The broker told her that he himself knew little to nothing about the owner of the house on top of the hill. He’d seen him only a couple of times- he had salt and pepper hair and was a rather tall man, quiet and powerful with the way he strode with his hands clasped at his back at all times. The broker said that speaking with him, especially while he was standing right in front of him, had brought chills down his spine, an almost condescending glare staring him down. “It feels like you become shorter while talking to him,” the broker said to her, “He’s very private, too.”

“He seemed fine on the phone,” Y/N mused but the broker responded with a shake of his head and an exasperated sigh.

Before moving in, Y/N had the house deep-cleaned by one of those professionals that specialised in home restorations. She also had her furniture moved into the biggest room the house had, the one with the window right beside the Weeping Willow and a clear view of the town below the hill. Though there was no need for it, she had the restoration professionals make sure that the plumbing in all the washrooms were working and that the water supply was clean. Within a month, she was officially a resident at the house with the cupboards filled with her clothes, rooms filled with easels and paint supplies and framed pictures and paintings hung on the walls. 

This was going to be her home for the next God knows how many months- perhaps years.

The day after she moved in, having successfully spent a full night of good sleep in the house, she decided to head into town; she needed groceries. 

It was the type of small town that most people would imagine- small family houses, friendly faces wherever she went and family businesses that kept finances afloat. There was even one of those newspaper boys that would hurl the paper at everyone’s doorstep early in the morning. People sold flower bouquets on cycles, candied fruit sellers at the end of every street. She even saw a fortune teller sitting on a pavement with tarot cards laid in front of her.

Eventually, with her bag already filled with fresh fruit and vegetables, she entered a house that was named the town’s bakery. It seemed to have installed new glass doors and the cabinets inside looked freshly cleaned. There was a man cleaning tables with a wet towel and an old man with greying hair standing behind the cashier with his fist pressed to his cheek on the verge of falling asleep. When he heard the glass doors whooshing close, he startled awake and looked around the bakery in a daze before his gaze inevitably met with his new customer.

Clearing his throat and straightening his posture, the old man bellowed, “welcome, you seem new here!”

Timidly, Y/N gripped the handle of her bag with both hands and stepped towards the cashier. “Well, yes,” she confirmed. “I’m Y/N, I just moved into town yesterday…”

“Oh, are you the young lady that moved into the house on top of the hill, dear?”

“Is that what you guys call it?”

The old man furrowed his brows in confusion as though Y/N was abnormal for not knowing such a piece of information, like it was supposed to be common sense. “Ah, yes…,” he trailed, shifting his gaze to look around the bakery once again. “Well, welcome to my bakery, I’m the owner and that is my grandson over there… let us know what you need,” he uttered and let his gaze fall back on her again, watching her as she looked around to see what she needed.

Y/N picked up a baguette and a few pastries to store in her fridge. She even opted to buy raw ingredients to bake her own cake. And once she placed all her items near the cashier, the owner of the baker indulged her in more conversation.

“Say, dear,” he started. “Why’d you decide to move into that house, anyway? Rumour has it that it’s haunted,” he stated with narrowed eyes, fingers moving to stroke his thick moustache. 

Y/N tilted her head in confusion, her eyes twitching at the sudden piece of information. “Excuse me?” She wasn’t sure whether to ignore this or confront the owner of the house. But what would she complain about? Ghosts? She would be the one sounding problematic.

“Back when I was younger, a lot of gossip went around about that house,” he pointed his finger out the glass doors of his bakery, the sight leading right towards the house on top of the hill, Y/N’s new home for months to come. “I heard a lot of messed up things went down in there, ugly things- things we wouldn’t dare speak of.”

Y/N stood dumbfounded, her eyes wide and expression taken aback. She was leaning so far back that she would have almost fallen if it weren’t for the grandson stepping in and placing a supporting hand on her arm. With a smile, he dropped all her purchases into her bag and shot a glare at his grandfather. “Pops, you were the one making up those rumours most of the time,” he rolled his eyes and led Y/N out of the bakery by her arm.

She was grateful for this man for taking her out of the conversation. If she had to listen to the old man speak of her house any more eerily, she thought she could board the next bus and never come back. It wasn’t as if Y/N believed in the paranormal but she wouldn’t want to live in a place where illegal activity took place either. For all she knew, the old man could be talking about murder- cold-blooded murder.

“What is he talking about?” Y/N said to the man, bewildered and fearful to climb up the hill. She looked around her surroundings, careful not to glance back into the bakery in fear that the owner would be staring back at her. A few townspeople were looking at her curiously- surely they were wondering who this new woman was and surely, the news of a newcomer would spread like wildfire by the next morning. 

“It’s just crazy talk,” the grandson said, softly taking her wicker basket from her grip and offering to walk her back home. “Those rumours were all the rage back when I was a little kid. There was this group of boys that lived there along with an old woman but no one had met them or known their names. They were sort of just there, as if their world was completely separate from ours. Naturally, out of curiosity, people started making rumours.”

“And what were these rumours?”

“You know… ghosts, monsters,” he shrugged. “I don’t really remember, I was very young. You probably weren’t even born yet.” Though he looked around her age, Y/N supposed he could have been a few years her senior.

“Oh,” she cleared her throat and dropped her gaze to her shoes and the gravel she stepped on. From the corner of her eyes, she could see the fingers of the man holding her wicker basket with a lazy grip, swinging it back and forth. “What do you think it was?”

“A lot of people thought it was some sort of orphanage or a boarding school,” he said. “I think that’s what it was.”

“Well, what happened to them? Where are they now?”

“Again, I’m not sure,” he sighed in defeat, embarrassed that he couldn’t provide her with more information. “They just kind of disappeared, I guess. One day, we saw them roaming about the hill and the next, we never saw them ever again. There was a fire a while back. We just… don’t know what happened after that.”

“There was a fire?” Y/N gasped, rubbing the side of her arm to comfort herself. 

“Did the owner not tell you? Broker, perhaps?”

The pair stopped at the hill and turned so they were facing each other. The man was looking at her with soothing eyes and a soft smile, stretching his hand out so she could take her basket. Y/N glanced up, nervous to have to trudge up the hill alone and enter the house that supposedly had rumours and myths attached to it. She should have done her research before renting it out but it wasn’t like the owner would have provided her with such information. Who would buy, let alone rent, a house that was supposedly haunted?

“You’ll be fine,” he said, shoving his hands into his pockets. “There’s really nothing to worry about.”

Involuntarily, Y/N found herself blushing under his gaze. She allowed her hair to cover her cheeks as she cleared her throat and nodded. “Alright,” she said and wondered if she could ask the boy to walk up the hill with her, at the least. But she wouldn’t do that, especially if she had only known the man for a few minutes. “You dragged me out of there before I could pay.”

“Oh, that’s alright,” he waved off. “You can pay me back the next time you visit. If you need anything, you can always ask.”

“Alright, thank you.”

“I’m Hyunjin, by the way,” he said, grinning as he turned to walk away from her. “It was nice to meet you, Y/N.”

iii. 

In the month that Y/N lived in the house on top of the hill, she noticed nothing out of the ordinary. Though she’d usually think about the seven boys Hyunjin mentioned, what they’d look like or how they’d spend their days, if they’d ever stood where she stood. There was nothing in the house itself that gave them away- no photographs, no worn shoes left at the door, no scrawled names carved into the wood. Just the occasional creak in the floorboards, and once, the smell of saltwater coming from the old study upstairs. She told herself it was just the draft, or the wind carrying the scent from the coast.

It was scary, how empty the house was, sometimes.

Most mornings began with the same quiet ritual: tea on the porch, the fog rolling through the hills below like a secret. The town stirred slowly- someone walking their dog, a bicycle wheel squeaking, a cough from the bakery across the street. Y/N had begun to enjoy this pace. It was nothing like the city, which she’d left behind with no intention of returning.

The town below was a quiet one, the kind that swallowed sound and memory if you weren’t paying attention. The people were kind in the distant way small towns always were- warm smiles from behind bakery counters, a nod from the fisherman when she passed by the docks. They knew she was the outsider in the house on the hill, but no one asked too many questions. Maybe they already knew the answers.

Y/N kept mostly to herself. She walked down for groceries once or twice a week, took photographs of the cliffs, and sketched what she couldn’t capture on film. Her art was changing, though she couldn’t quite say how. At first, she tried to paint the house itself, but every version felt wrong- too rigid, too lifeless. So instead, she began painting fragments- a doorknob that glowed gold in the morning light, a shadow stretched like a ribbon across the staircase, the chipped edge of a window frame, where ivy had begun to creep in.

Then came the dreams. Or maybe they were memories pulled from somewhere deeper than thought.

The lines in her paintings grew softer, more fluid. Some days she woke with the sudden urge to paint the sea- even if she hadn’t planned to- and by the time the brush touched canvas, her hands moved faster than her mind could follow. 

Hyunjin came by on Sundays. He brought leftover stew from home or fresh coffee in a thermos and didn’t linger unless she invited him in. He always asked how she was doing- like he genuinely meant it. He was older than he looked, or maybe it was just the way he carried himself. He never talked much about the house, or the boys who once lived there, though once, while glancing at one of her unfinished paintings, he murmured, “You’re starting to see them.”

She laughed, half expecting him to smile too, but when she glanced up, his expression was unreadable.

“Oh, come on,” she said, nudging his arm. “Don’t say stuff like that. You’ll make me think I’m going crazy.”

Hyunjin cracked a grin then, like that had been his goal all along. “Maybe you are,” he teased lightly, tapping the side of his temple. “Artist in the haunted house, starts painting ghosts- classic.”

But later, when Y/N was alone again, brushing the same stroke over the same patch of canvas, his words echoed back to her. Not as a joke but as something she wasn’t sure she wanted to understand.

iv. prelude 

Heeseung had been dead for longer than he cared to remember- or, perhaps, it was longer that he had the ability to remember. He didn’t know anymore, he never really figured out how to navigate this other realm- the other side, the third dimension. He didn’t even know what to call it and he didn’t know what role he played- or what role he had to play. He just knew that he was stuck in the house on top of the hill, haunting its walls. Or was it the other way around? Perhaps the house was haunting him.

For years, maybe decades, Heeseung spent the remainder of his existence watching time pass around him while he seemed like he was frozen. Because he didn’t age, he looked twenty-two since the time his body shifted into this dimension. Nor was he able to touch anything, his body would simply pass through walls without any effort, his fingers plummeting into objects he’d want to pick up but forget he couldn’t. His voice went unheard, drowning in silence, as though physics didn’t exist in the dimension he was suspended in. He screamed, he screamed a lot, in fact. And he could hear himself, his voice ringing in his head, shaking in his throat. But it felt like no one, not even the air, could ever hear him. He used to talk to himself, mumbling nonsense to keep his mind occupied- but eventually, he stopped speaking all together.

Heeseung couldn’t remember the last time he heard his own voice. Which was unfortunate because he’d always been told he had a beautiful voice- he was a great singer. He used to be a great entertainer.

That is, until the fire. Heeseung remembered it as clear as a sunny day- fire cracking against the house, engulfing him, taking away everything from him- his brothers, the music, the life. Sometimes, when Heeseung was staring out the window and pondering at the Willow tree, he would see flashes of that fire, its cresendo peaking into the night sky as screams of torture echoed in the smoke. He was surprised the Willow hadn’t been taken in that fire. He liked to think that it was protected by some sort of magic… magic that couldn’t protect him and his brothers. 

Heeseung tried not to think about the fire as much, but he didn’t have to try for the memories to simply come to him. He couldn’t experience sensations anymore, but sometimes, if he concentrated hard enough, he could still taste the burn on his tongue, still feel the heat on his skin, still smell the burn of wood which somehow never seemed to go away. And during times like this, he would try forcing those memories away, displacing those grotesque, dismal images with softer, fuzzier images.

His piano, also burnt in the fire, came to his mind a lot. His piano was the center of happiness for him and his brothers for as long as he could remember- since the day he learnt to play it to the day they’d been engulfed by flames. Everyday, they would gather around him as he played and they would giggle, dance, hum along and make up lyrics along the way. Heeseung could still move his fingers to mimic the tunes of his songs, the cold of the piano tiles under his fingertips. 

He didn’t know when everything went wrong. His entire life, he’d been living in that house on top of the hill. He didn’t know how he ended up there, he just knew that it was his life and it was how it was going to stay. And for the most part, he liked it. A lot of his memories consister of him playing with the other six boys in the house, laughing and running along the grass of the hill, blowing the feathers of dandelions, and tripping over shoelaces until Warden would ring the bell and they had to run back inside. They never questioned it- her. They never disobeyed her. 

Warden raised them well. The aged woman taught them language, skill, gave them education and promised to keep them safe from the horrors of the outside world. And Heeseung supposed that was what she had been doing the whole time. They were fed food that wasn’t cooked by her, had been given a pill to have after every meal that supposedly boosted their immune system and were given books, toys and music to entertain themselves. They had expensive clothes stitched for them, they were taught how to act, how to dance, how to perfect their pitches. 

Life was simple, really. Especially if it was Warden taking care of them.

That is, until Jake started asking questions. Jake was the curious type, always looking out the window to examine the outside world, always touching things he wasn’t supposed to, always probing around the house when Warden was asleep. He’d gotten in trouble a lot- he used to be scolded, beaten with a stick to the palm, sent to detention in his room when it was play time. But he never seemed to learn- to question and to discover were innate qualities of his that no one could control.

They’d tried coaxing him to stop his behaviour. Jungwon, especially, had even warned him about their lack of knowledge about Warden and what she would do to them when her patience broke. And Jake would apologise every time and would, inevitably, get in trouble again. Sometimes, he was scolded for stepping out the door when he wasn’t supposed to. Other times, he was punished for entering the basement without Warden’s knowledge. But mostly, it was his questions- his annoying, pesky questions. “What? Why? Who?How?” Warden hated being asked questions- Jake never seemed to learn his lesson.

And as they grew older, Jake grew smarter. He was the smartest out of all of them, he could solve puzzles and math problems in a blink of an eye and he always won games that required mental work. So, during lunch, when they were alone, the question he asked didn’t come to a surprise for anyone- if anything, his question instilled fear in them.

“Have you guys ever wondered if Warden is lying to us?”

Sunoo let out the loudest gasp known to man-kind. It was the loudest Heeseung had heard him gasp at the time, his eyes blowing as wide as saucers, parted lips hidden behind his hands. “How can you ask that?”

Perhaps, things started spiralling the day Jake asked that question. A seed of suspicion had planted in their heads. Warden realised. Everything burned down in flames, literally and figuratively. Heeseung couldn’t really pinpoint all the events that lead to their deaths- he still didn’t know how the fire even started. He was convinced it was a mistake, a freak accident- an argument, fleeing from punishment, tripping over a candle, pulling down a curtain in the process.

When Heeseung woke up as a spirit, the house had burnt to char. That was all that remained. He didn’t know where the bodies of his brothers were, he didn’t know where Warden ended up. In fact, for all that he knew, they could have still been alive- perhaps relocated somewhere. Maybe Heeseung was the only one that didn’t survive. 

But then, a few days later, days where Heeseung had just stared at the remains of the house, unmoving from his position, a truck had pulled up the hill. From the truck emerged a large group of men, all who had dove into reconstructing the house. And Heeseung watched them, these old, burley men that carried bricks, wooden slabs and iron to rebuild the house on top of the hill and everyday, he would anticipate what would happen after it was finished. Would Warden bring everyone back? Were they all alive? Would they look for Heeseung’s remains?

But nothing of the sort happened. Heeseung was undeniably dead. His brothers were undeniably dead. Warden was undeniably dead. He figured it out from a conversation he overheard between two men while the construction was still happening. 

“It was a candle fire,” a man said while mixing cement. “Everyone died, on the spot.”

“How many people?”

“Eight,” the cement-mixing-man scoffed. “Big houses come with big tragedies, I guess.”

When the house was fully constructed again and when a man who claimed to be Warden’s brother showed up to oversee finishing of the house, Heeseung wondered how the contents of the basement somehow stayed intact. Warden’s brother personally arranged the place. He placed cardboard boxes along newly made shelves, framed partially charred pictures of him and his brothers and repainted the walls.

And after that day, after the basement was locked and all the doors were shut, no one came back for more years than Heeseung could count. And Heeseung, the ghost of him, whatever that was left of him, didn’t leave the walls of the house on top of the hill. And honestly, he had never really tried. The town down below continued to bustle and days continued to turn into nights and he discovered more about his abilities- or rather, his lack of- as a spirit. 

Heeseung really didn’t have any entertainment apart from himself. It was miserable, really. During the first few days of his death, when he tried pulling at books and exploring the cardboard boxes in the basement, he would break down in tears at the fact that he’d simply passed through the items- like he was some sort of hologram. He simply ceased to feel- physically, at least. He didn’t know what hunger was, what pain was, what a headache felt like. He would miss it sometimes- he missed what made him human. But he could still feel his heart, the ache, the yearning, the loneliness and, sometimes, happiness. Heeseung was the happiest when it rained. Once, he even stepped out of the house and allowed himself to drench in it- and he wondered if anyone could see him. But he already knew the answer to that.

As a ghost, he could walk through walls. That was pretty much all he could do. And occasionally, he could control the wind enough to cause the slamming of the door. And sometimes, during certain times of the day, he could touch water. He knew this because one day, when it was thundering and pouring rain, Heeseung stretched his hand out of the window and he felt it- the heavy fall of a droplet of water on his palm, the way the weight of it made his palm sink down slightly. He remembered smiling that way. It was the fact that a force other than himself that made his presence move.

Beds and chairs were tricky situations. Because if he didn’t put effort in hovering, he would probably sink into the mattresses and cushions too. Most nights, he would hover in his bed and try to sleep- but apparently, sleep wasn’t actually sleep as a ghost. It was just shut-eye, but he was wide awake, aware of every movement of every atom around him. He was able to sit in wooden chairs, not the cushioned ones. So when he needed to, he’d drag the rickety wooden chair with him- he would either sit near the window and watch the world outside change or he would sit in front of the door, waiting for it to open- but he didn’t really know who he was waiting for.

Until one day, the door really did open.

It was Warden’s brother again. He was a tall man, his hair greying in streaks now. And he brought along another man with him, a man who called himself a house broker- best one in the province, at that. Heeseung didn’t know what it meant. But Warden’s brother said something about renting and leasing. Heeseung didn’t know what that meant either.

As days passed, the house broker kept coming back. Sometimes it was a few times a week, other times it was once every couple of months. And with him would always be a stranger, different strangers every time. Sometimes it was a couple, other times it was a family. But everytime, they would decline the house, saying it was too isolated and… eerie. Heeseung wondered if they could feel his presence. Who else could be making the house eerie?

The house broker stopped showing up for a while. Heeseung assumed that his hunt for a renter had ceased. But one day, a large truck pulled up the hill and a group of men lugged furniture and suitcases into the house. It wasn’t repainted because the woman who was going to live in it didn’t care enough for it. She just made sure the air cooling and washrooms were working. 

Heeseung watched everything unfold- the woman, who’s name was Y/N, apparently, signed sheets of paper that the house broker gave her. And he watched as the furniture was moved around, as the bed was set in the room that was previously Warden’s, as the old piano was lined with more books and paintings that he’d never seen. 

And he felt the shift Y/N brought with her- the air around him had physically shifted. The house felt different when she moved in. She moved around the house like the living thing that she was- cooking, painting and breathing life into the emptiness it held for so long. She made the walls less suffocating, less barren. And though she was alone, the walls of the house soaked in the new memories she brought with her- memories that were soft, mundane, peaceful.

Most days, when she wasn’t painting, Y/N spent her time reading. She would sit in the old piano room on her favourite cushioned chair, languidly flipping through pages with her head nuzzled into the cushion. And during moments like these, Heeseung tried keeping his distance, afraid that he might shift something and scare her away. But the more she read, the curiouser he got. And slowly, he’d started decreasing the distance between them until one day, he was leaning over her shoulder and reading her book with her.

She never felt a thing. In her mind, she was still alone.

And so, Heeseung started hovering over her more often. He would sit on the kitchen counter while she cooked, hover over her shoulder while she read, crouch beside her while she watched a movie on her laptop (whatever that was) and would follow her around the house while she blasted music. The movies and music were… interesting. Back when he was alive- he couldn’t remember how many years ago that was- entertainment didn’t look and sound like that.

Eventually, he integrated himself into her life itself. He would watch her paint, examine the way her brush swirled over empty canvases to bring to life the world around her. He would watch her walk into the town below through the window and keep an eye on how she interacted with other humans. He would watch her sleep, eat, drink water- he had her schedule memorised, soon enough.

A man called Hyunjin came over every weekend. He was the baker’s grandson, apparently. He brought with him fresh food and groceries that Y/N would indulge herself in. And the pair would talk a lot, about random things. They would cook together, he would help her run errands together and they would sometimes, very rarely and occasionally, watch movies. And the pair laughed a lot, over random jokes Heeseung couldn’t understand. He realised that he liked hearing her laugh- the soft, high pitched giggles she exhumed around Hyunjin or when she was watching something funny or reading something stupid. And Heeseung would grow glum over the realisation that he probably could never make her laugh like her company did- the way Hyunjin, books and movies could.

For the first time, Heeseung felt the weight of isolation. It came with a realisation that he couldn’t be seen or heard or felt by the girl he was basically living with- he was dead, she was alive. And automatically, they were worlds apart. But then, in the back of his mind, there was the faintest trace of something new. A connection, maybe. Or just the strange, impossible hope that this time, maybe- just maybe- someone would see him, even if only for a moment.

But she didn’t. Months had passed and nothing had changed- she was still living her mundane, artist life. Heeseung was still following her. And she continued cooking, continued painting, reading, took up new hobbies like knitting, sewing, journaling and pottery (she bought a cheap set online) which allowed her collection of coffee mugs to grow. And every Sunday, Hyunjin would come and they would sit, talk and laugh. 

Things didn’t seem like they would change. And Heeseung didn’t know exactly how much time had passed. Because, for the first time, he truly felt like a ghost as Y/N passed through him and lived her life. 

Y/N let Hyunjin see her paintings for the first time. Heeseung didn’t realise how private she was about her work and he almost felt guilty for watching her paint, to experience her artwork before she allowed anyone else to. But he watched the way Hyunjin examined her art, leaning closer to the large canvas that were painted in spectrums of beiges and blues, his fingers wrapped around his chin in thought. 

“You’re starting to see them,” he said. And Heeseung swore he felt his dead heart skip a beat.

Hyunjin apparently meant it as a joke. He didn’t see or realise the weight his words had on Y/N- or Heeseung, for that matter. Because after Hyunjin left, Y/N crouched in front of her paintings and frantically looked through her paintings to find what Hyunjin was talking about. And she saw it- the faint shadow of umbrellas in the background, seven heads of hair camouflage against the silhouette of the house on top of the hill, the faint curves of a back disappearing behind walls, a blurry photograph of a group of boys that was never hung on the wall- but it was in Y/N’s painting.

She saw it. And Heeseung saw it too. And his hope returned- that someone, Y/N, would see him, could communicate with him and save him from his misery. 

For the next few days, Heeseung tried getting her to notice him. And it started with small things- slamming the doors closed, tipping utensils off the table, flickering the lights (which took a lot of effort). But Y/N never noticed it. She’d simply chalk it up to the wind, her own clumsiness or the poor wiring of the house. She’d shrug everything off and simply move on with her day. He saw it; she would literally shrug her shoulders and walk away and continue whatever she was doing at that moment- reading, painting, flipping the pages of her book, stirring her coffee. 

It was fucking insatiable.

Heeseung even screamed into her face while she was cooking. He got in front of her face and yelled as loud as he possibly could- his cheeks turned red, his eyes watered, his hands balled into fists and the vein in his forehead bulged. But Y/N couldn't hear him. She simply passed through him, holding a plate of warm dinner with a smile on her face. And that was the first time in a long time that Heeseung heard his voice- his voice in that ugly, violent and desperate tone. 

And he kept trying. He kept repeating the same things- slamming doors, falling utensils, flickering lights, screaming into her face- but nothing seemed to work. And a lot of nights, he would watch Y/N fall asleep while he prayed that whatever he was trying to do would finally work- that one day, she would see him, hear him and talk to him. That she could save him from… Well, Heeseung didn’t know what he wanted to be saved from, what he wanted to escape from.

On a rainy Thursday morning, Y/N started a new painting. Heeseung didn’t know where this unlimited supply of paint and canvases were coming from, but she seemed to blow through a lot of them- unfinished, unsatisfactory, unresolved. This new painting she started had a beige background, just like all her other paintings did. And when she started painting the details, he couldn’t tell where she was going with it- and by the looks of it, he didn't think Y/N knew what she was doing either. He knew because of the way her brows dropped. It was the same expression she had when she was reading a complicated recipe for food, when she was using a screwdriver to fix her bed frame or when she was figuring out the water system of the house. And he watched her as she painted, his arms crossed as he leaned against a wall. Her arms eventually stroked with paint, her hair tied in a bun with a brush, another brush held tightly in her fingers as she pressed the paint into the canvas.

After a few hours, when the rain got heavier and the thunder got louder, something seemed to take shape. It was a silhouette- a man with broad shoulders, a skinny and tall frame, a looming shadow of grey surrounding him. It wasn’t detailed yet, it was barely a shadow. The silhouette didn’t have a face yet, didn’t have a personality yet- but Heeseung saw it, his arms still crossed, and suddenly, he felt breathless.

Because the man she was painting was undeniably Heeseung. He was sure of it- it resembled him in all the ways that it mattered. It was the future- the angle of the shoulders, the arch of the neck, the way the arms hung heavy at the sides- it was him.

It was him.

She was painting him.

Unknowingly and unconsciously, the strokes of her brush formed what made the essence of Heeseung, the echo of who he was. And he wasn’t sure what it was supposed to mean. Was she dreaming of him? Was she seeing visions? Was she conjuring him up in her head? Was this good or bad? Heeseung didn’t know anymore. 

He gasped- soft and under his breath, easily drowned out by the sound of the rain. He couldn’t even hear it himself. 

But she turned… slowly. Her face, caught in that fragile space between curiosity and confusion, twisted. Her brows furrowed, her lips parted. Her entire body stiffened like she had just walked into a room that wasn’t empty anymore. Her eyes- wide, dark, blinking too fast- locked onto him, and her mouth opened but no words came out- it was just air, just fear. Her features contorted like something inside her had collapsed- eyebrows pulled together so tightly it almost looked like pain, eyes glossed over in disbelief, and her lower lip trembling in a way that made Heeseung take a step back. She could see him. She saw him. And for a second- just one, delicate, unbearable second- they stared at each other like the rules of the world had stopped applying.

And then she screamed. A raw, guttural sound tore out of her.

It wasn’t a startled scream. It was visceral, the kind that clawed its way out of the chest because no other part of the body could contain it. She screamed like she’d seen a ghost and maybe that’s exactly what she had done. She screamed and backed into the table, brushes clattering to the floor, and she blinked- once, twice, three times- and suddenly something shifted. 

The room changed. Her face changed. The scream died but the panic didn’t. Her breathing turned ragged, shallow, chest rising and falling too fast as her eyes scanned the room with a kind of wild urgency. And Heeseung stood there, shaking his head, mouthing “no, no, no, please no, don’t-” but she couldn’t see him anymore. She was looking through him, not at him. And she looked scared in a different way now- not of him, but of the absence of him. Like she had just seen something she wasn’t supposed to see, and now it was gone. Like she was searching for a spider she’d seen crawling across her bed but couldn’t find anymore.

But Heeseung was right there, in front of her, desperately shaking his hands at her, eyes wide and unwavering.

“Oh my god,” she mumbled, over and over again, hands in her hair, fingers tangling like she needed something to hold onto but couldn’t find it. “Oh my god. Oh my god.” She stumbled toward the door, her movements jerky, uncoordinated, one hand fumbling for her phone, the other gripping the door handle like it was the only real thing in the world. And then she was gone. The door slammed shut behind her with the kind of finality that made the walls tremble. Heeseung was left standing in the quiet aftermath, the painting still wet behind him, the shape of him still staring back in half-formed silence.

v. 

Y/N should have realised that things around the house were starting to feel different. It started with the random chills that ran down her spine- how walking through certain parts of the house was cold and brought goosebumps to her skin. She just assumed it was the weather or the poor ventilation of the olden house and architecture. She didn’t read much into the fact that her coffee would somehow always turn cold too fast or her freshly cooked dinner would stop fuming with heat when she walked through cold air. She never even questioned where the random cold air was coming from- she just went on with her life and even got used to it.

Then, around the time Hyunjin saw her paintings, doors started to slam randomly. And it made sense- her windows were always open and the weather had just transitioned into the sweet quarter between summer and autumn. Strong gushes of wind were bound to slam doors. But along with doors, utensils started to fall off her table too. And it wasn’t just once or twice- it was always. And it was easy for Y/N to chalk it up to her clumsiness- she did have a tendency of knocking down her paint supplies a lot.

Then came the flickering lights. It was mostly the lights in her study- the room where she spent her time reading or writing. And it was always when she was reading that the lights would flicker- like they were coaxing for some sort of attention, like the flicker was meant to distract her. She even called an electrician one day and had him check the wiring and bulbs of every single room- he assured her that nothing was to be worried about and the flickering of her lights was something no one could control.

And of course, there were times Y/N would wake up in the middle of the night with an unsettling feeling of company- that she wasn’t alone, that the house was criminally huge for a single person to reside in. But that, too, she somehow managed to sweep under the rug of her conscience and live through. This was natural, to react this way- to not know how to be in a house as huge as this, especially when it was her first time. 

Her whole life, she was accustomed to three bedroomed apartments with her family or studio apartments to store her artistic endeavours in. And to suddenly make the decision to move into an isolated house- she was bound to feel uneasy, right? She never actually gave herself time to grow accustomed to the house, right? 

The ambiguity her broker left her in circled her thoughts a lot- the way he talked about the owner, the way he was apprehensive about answering her questions on who used to live in the house on top of the hill before her. She barely interacted with the owner- some nights, she thought she had been roped into some kind of scam. Because she saw it, on days she let her eyes flutter too far south, the unevenness of the floorboards, the occasional splinter on her foot and the low char marks on what she was told was brand new wood- the fire she was never informed of.

But again, she didn’t question it. There wasn’t much she could do about it. So, she would continue to ignore the uneasiness in her stomach, the way she always felt like there was a presence over her shoulder, always watching her. And she ignored the random chilled breezes and the slamming doors and the clattering utensils and the flickering lights. Because there was always some sort of logical explanation.

And she continued ignoring these things until she physically couldn’t anymore- until she found herself fainting the silhouette of a man she’d never met and until she saw the man in her painting standing in front of her, only to disappear within seconds. He was right there, right in front of her, watching with the confidence that she couldn’t see him. There was an indifference in the way he crossed his arms and leaned against the wall to watch her paint- as though he had been doing this all along. 

But Y/N could barely register him. In the blink of an eye, the man was gone. Not even his shadow lingered- no outline against the wall, no dent in the floor, no shift in the air. It was like he had been swallowed whole by the silence. The house stood still, too still, the only sound now the echo of her scream bouncing off the walls and the wet panic caught in her chest as her breaths came out sharp, uneven, animal. She stood frozen, eyes darting across the room, searching for any sign, any proof that she wasn’t losing her mind. But there was nothing. Just the canvas, the painting, the half-formed silhouette that looked too much like something she didn’t want to admit. And she didn’t know if it was her imagination cracking at the seams or if she had really seen him- the man, the figure, the ghost. 

As her mind registered this, as she accepted what she had just realised- that perhaps, she had never really been alone in her house- she made her way towards the front door with her keys dangling in her fingers and phone pressed to her ear. The rain was pouring, thick droplets landing on her frame that instantly had her soaking wet. She was sure she was crying, she could feel her eyes burning with tears, mixing with the rain that ran down her cheeks as her phone rang and clicked in acceptance.

“Hello?” She was practically running down the hill, desperate to get away from the house. The words of the old baker came back to her- about the seven boys, about the conspiracies, about their basic lack of existence. “Hyunjin?”

“Y/N?” Hyunjin’s concerned voice rang in her ears, through the weight of the rain slamming down on the ground. Heavy rain had a distinct sound- Y/N had always hated it. It was always so depressing, so cumbersome, so suffocating. But in that moment, she would rather be in the rain and its sound than with whoever- or, whatever- was stuck in that house. “Is everything alright?”

“Hyunjin, I think I saw one of them.”

“What?”

“I can’t stay there anymore,” she gulped. “I just can’t-”

“Where are you?” He asked. “I’m coming to get you.”

Hyunjin found Y/N at the middlepoint where the end of the hill met the border of the town. He was holding a large yellow umbrella and he hunched, despite nothing pushing him down. It was a natural instinct- to hunch during such a rain and to hunch while pulling someone into the umbrella. And they walked grudgingly, forcing their legs through the floods until they finally reached the bakery- its familiar bricked roof and dull ivory paint. The rest of the town was asleep, unbeknownst to the events of the night, unbeknownst to the possibility of their favourite conspiracies being true.

He led her through the back of the bakery and up a flight of stairs. The stairwell creaked like it had been neglected and the light shone softly overhead- faint, warm, welcoming in the way only old homes know how to be. His place was small, tucked just above the scent of cinnamon and bread, and exactly as Y/N imagined it would be- soft corners, faded cushions, shelves too crowded with books and glass jars, a coat hanging crooked by the door. But she didn’t have it in her to focus on any of that. Her mind felt waterlogged, too full, like a sponge pressed too hard and then abandoned.

So when Hyunjin wrapped her in a towel, gently but without a word, she let him. She let him lead her to the small washroom- tiles cracked at the edges, mirror fogged, a little plant sitting resiliently on the sill. He handed her clothes, said they might be big but warm, and that his granddad was asleep in the next room. His voice stayed quiet, like he didn’t want to disturb more than just the man in the room over. “I’ll make you some tea,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “It’ll be waiting when you come out.”

Then he left her there- alone, with silence, dripping hair, and a towel clinging to her like a second skin. Y/N looked at her reflection in the mirror but didn’t really see herself. Her fingers gripped the edge of the sink. Her legs ached from the walk. Her throat felt tight, like it wanted to scream again but had nothing left to give. And still, somehow, in the corners of her exhaustion, the image of him lingered- not Hyunjin, not the bakery, not the umbrella or the rain- but him. The silhouette, the man she’d painted without knowing, the ghost who might not have been a ghost at all.

“You’re definitely gonna get sick after that,” Hyunjin said to her after she meekly exited the washroom. “Have the tea.”

She sat beside him on the couch, the cold of her fingers thawing by the warmth of the tea- jasmine tea, if she could tell correctly. Hyunjin had told her, a while ago, that he loved to collect tea bags and that his favourite had always been jasmine. “It’s great, thank you.”

A beat of silence passed between them. Y/N continued trailing her eyes around his house as she slowly sipped on the tea. His kitchen was decorated with old bathroom tiles and wooden shelves jars of spices lining his walls. Knives and ladles hung from nails hammered into wooden slabs. Hyunjin continued to fiddle with his fingers, his elbows on his knees as he pondered over Y/N, shivering and unsettlingly silent beside him.

“Do you wanna tell me what happened?”

Y/N let out a sigh and let her head hang. She stared at the tea in her hands, finding words to form in her head in a way that didn’t make her sound like she was having a psychotic break. For a brief moment, she considered it- that maybe she was hallucinating it, that maybe she had a psychotic episode, that everything that was happening in her house was a consequence of her psychosis. 

The tea leaves settled and formed an odd pattern at the bottom of the mug. “I don’t even know,” she shook her head. “What if I’m going crazy?” She looked at him, bottom lip pulled between her teeth and eyes glassy from the steam of the tea.

Hyunjin, like it was instinct, rubbed her back in comfort. He leaned his head closer to her, eyes meeting hers. “What did you see, Y/N?”

“A man,” she said and Hyunjin’s eyes widened. “As in… he was there. And then he fucking disappeared-”

“Are you sure someone didn’t break into your house?”

“I’m sure,” she blinked. “I saw him disappear. I blinked and he just… wasn’t there anymore.”

Hyunjin pursed his lips, his thumb pausing mid-circle against her back. He wasn’t sure what to make of the situation- how much of it was fear, how much of it was real. He’d heard enough stories from the townspeople to know that sometimes superstition was just a prettier word for paranoia. Still, Y/N wasn’t the kind of person to make things up. She wasn’t theatrical like the kids in town who claimed they’d seen shadows in the cemetery just to scare each other.

Hyunjin leaned back, crossing his arms tightly across his chest. “Have you been sleeping properly?”

Y/N rolled her eyes, half in frustration and half in exhaustion. “That’s the first thing you ask me?”

“It matters,” he said, brows drawn together. “Sleep deprivation does things to the brain. Hallucinations, distorted perception- ”

“No, I get it,” her voice cracked. “But, Hyunjin. I saw him. I saw him standing there, staring at me painting. And when he realised I could see him- his expression-”

“His expression?” Hyunjin cut her off. “You actually saw him?”

“Hyunjin, you don’t understand,” she sounded like she was about to break down. “When he realised I could see him, I swear he looked...”

“What?”

“He looked… surprised,” she blinked. 

Y/N tried to recall his expression- the way his eyes had softened for a split second before they widened in realization, as if he hadn’t expected her to notice him at all. There was something hauntingly gentle in that moment, a flicker of emotion that didn’t belong to a malevolent presence. He didn’t look dangerous. He looked almost innocent, like he had been caught doing something he shouldn’t have, like he was scared- not of being seen, but of what might happen now that he had been. It was as if he had been trying to calm her down, to reach out, to stop her from reacting. And that, more than anything else, unsettled her. Because the fear she had felt was real, but so was the strange tenderness in his eyes.

“Y/N,” Hyunjin sighed at her. “Are you sure?”

“I know I sound crazy, but-”

“I’m not calling you crazy,” he shook his head and let his hand hover over her knee. “But I do think you’re tired. And that you need sleep-”

“Should I be scared?” she whispered. 

“You can stay here as long as you want,” he nodded. “I genuinely don’t think there’s anything to be scared of-”

“I painted him.”

“What?”

“The man I saw,” she clarified. “I was painting him when I saw him.”

vi. 

Heeseung waited for her.

Heeseung waited for Y/N like he would evaporate if he let his thoughts wander away from her even for a second. He wafted through the house in memory of her- mimicking her daily routine, ghosting around her potential presence. He’d pretend like he was cooking breakfast, pretend like he was watching the television, pretend like he was sitting and reading her book and pretend like he was painting. But he couldn’t actually perform any of these actions; he’d just stand there- staring at the stove, staring at an empty television, staring at her bookshelf and staring at her canvas that graced her unfinished painting. The painting that was supposedly him. 

When he was bored of staring, he would lean his cheek against a windowsill and look out at the town below, hoping to get a glimpse of her amongst the bustling life of the townspeople. He watched schoolchildren in raincoats splash through puddles, elderly women carrying grocery bags, men cycling past with newspapers tucked under their arms- but never her. Still, he looked. Every morning, every dusk. As if some part of her might break through the fog and find its way back to him. It became a ritual- one that left him emptier with each passing hour. When he could no longer bear the absence in the windowpane, he’d retreat back inside, only to be met by a home that felt like it was unraveling without her.

The house without Y/N felt wrong- like wearing someone else’s skin, like trying to breathe underwater. It creaked in all the places she used to quiet with her presence. The walls, once warm from her laughter and clumsy footsteps, now stood cold and unmoving, like they, too, were holding their breath until she returned. Heeseung drifted through it, weightless and unseen, yet tethered painfully to every inch of it because it reeked of her- her perfume embedded into the curtains, her slippers carelessly tucked under the couch, a chipped mug by the sink with remnants of jasmine tea dried at the bottom. He wandered into her room often, sitting at the edge of her bed though he couldn’t touch it, watching the dust settle in shafts of light that filtered through the curtains she used to pull back each morning.

When it rained, the sound against the roof didn’t soothe him the way it used to. Instead, it rang out like a countdown, reminding him of how long she’d been gone. At night, he would sit by the corner of the bed and listen for her keys at the door, knowing they wouldn’t come. The house felt like it was waiting with him- every crevice, every pipe, every old floorboard groaning under the weight of absence. And he hated it. He hated that it didn’t feel like a home without her in it. Because she had breathed life into this place, made the shadows warmer and the emptiness bearable. Now, it was just a ghost of what it had been. Just like him.

Heeseung knew she would come back- she had to. All her things were still here- her clothes neatly folded in drawers, her coats on the hooks by the door, the coffee mug she always used still sitting in the sink. Her books stood untouched on the shelf, spines worn and corners dog-eared from her rereading. The house was still undeniably hers. She hadn’t taken anything with her except herself, and it made the absence feel all the more unbearable. Her life lingered in every room like a paused breath. And yet, for all that remained, it was what she might take that scared Heeseung most.

She could come back only to leave again- with purpose this time, with boxes and packing tape and an unsettling kind of resolve. She could move through each room with quiet finality, choosing what to keep and what to discard. Heeseung had imagined it a hundred different ways- her hair tied back, sleeves rolled, face blank. Efficient and detached. He feared that the girl who returned might not be the same as the one who once clung to the corners of the house like ivy. He feared that his only hope of ever being seen would slip past his fingers like his life did.

But when she finally did come back, it wasn’t with boxes or resolve. It was with hesitation. With a quiet step over the threshold, like she wasn’t sure if she was welcome in her own life anymore. And Heeseung, watching from the kitchen doorway, realized then- she hadn’t made up her mind yet. She was back. But she hadn’t decided if she’d stay.

Y/N had spent the past week in Hyunjin’s house, tucked into a routine that felt half-lived and oddly distant from the life she was used to. Mornings began with jasmine tea and breakfast at the kitchen table, where Hyunjin’s grandfather- blunt and endlessly curious- would narrow his eyes at them and ask, “If you’re not together, why is she still here?” Hyunjin could only shrug in response, helpless against his grandfather’s sharp instincts. He couldn’t exactly explain that she was hiding from a haunting- that the ghost stories cluttering the town’s gossip might not be stories at all.

While the men worked the bakery below, Y/N drifted through the upstairs apartment like a leaf caught in still water. She curled up on the couch and watched shows she didn’t care about, their plots blurry and indistinguishable, lacking a beginning, middle, or end. Sometimes she’d call a friend to hear another voice or pick up an old, brittle book from the grandfather’s shelf and turn its pages without reading. Occasionally, she’d wander into the bakery, tying an apron around her waist to help clean or knead dough, letting Hyunjin teach her how to fold and shape loaves. But most of the time, she just… sat. Time dulled, her limbs slackened, her mind, usually sharp and humming, grew languid. The longer she stayed away from home, the more she feared she was forgetting how to function- how to paint, how to think, how to feel like herself.

Yet her thoughts, no matter how much she tried to distract them, wandered back to the house. She missed its quiet beauty, the comforting disarray of her things exactly where she left them. She missed her space- her solitude, the safety of the brush against canvas, the smell of linseed oil and acrylics clinging to the air. And then there was the man- ghost- whatever he was, who filled the corners of her mind more persistently than the house ever did. She couldn’t stop thinking about his eyes. The way they held a strange, undeniable sincerity. The way they widened- not with malice or fear, but something else entirely. She knew how to read expressions. Her art school autonomy class had drilled that into her. She had studied faces for years. She knew what she saw.

So, when she finally mustered the courage to return, it was without ceremony or companionship. Hyunjin asked her several times if she was sure, standing by the door like a soldier seeing someone off to war. Each time, she gave him the same quiet answer: “I want to go home.”

And so she did.

She walked through the town slowly, hands tucked into her sleeves, her heart thudding not with fear but with anticipation. She approached her front door like it might recoil at her touch. The key turned in the lock with a tired groan, and the moment the door creaked open, the sound echoed into the belly of the house like a thunderclap in a cathedral.

She stepped in cautiously, eyes darting around like she was expecting to catch someone mid-movement- sitting on her couch, boiling water, brushing dust off the table. Someone who had been living here while she was away, waiting for her- like a married couple in a fight.

Her hands twitched at her sides, fingers curling and uncurling into uneasy fists. She stood at the base of the staircase, scanning the house like she was seeing it for the first time- or from some unfamiliar, alternate angle. Everything looked the same, and yet... slightly off. Like a stage set built to mimic her life, but lacking the soul of her presence. It felt like stepping into a parallel version of her world- one that had kept moving while she stood still.

“Hello?” she called out, her voice softer than she intended.

Silence.

“I know you’re still here.”

It was a gamble- she didn’t actually know. She didn’t even know if he was real. For all she knew, the man she saw could’ve been a trick of the light, or a fractured dream pulled from the edge of sleep. Maybe Hyunjin was right. Maybe she had imagined it all. But something inside her- something stubborn and quiet and burning- refused to let that be the truth.

She began to climb the stairs, each step measured and deliberate. Her fingers brushed the banister, slow and reverent, almost mournful. She imagined someone else had done the same- slid their hand along this exact path. She could almost feel it. Could almost feel him. And in that moment, she couldn’t shake the certainty that she wasn’t alone. That someone was following her even now, silent as shadow.

Heeseung was, in fact, following her. From the second he heard the front door creak open and felt the unmistakable rhythm of her footsteps echo across the floorboards, he hadn’t left her side. He whispered her name, called it louder, reached out to her- again and again- but his hands slipped through her like mist. He tried to touch her shoulder, to block her path, to fall at her feet if that’s what it took- but she never stopped walking. She couldn’t hear him. And it wasn’t even her fault.

Y/N stepped into the painting room, hesitating at the doorway before stepping in. Dust clung to the air like memory. She stood in front of the unfinished canvas- the one she’d left behind in a moment of confusion, fear, awe. The one that looked like him.

On the other side of it, Heeseung stood frozen, barely breathing. His chest tightened with every second. He looked at her like a man starved of light, like her presence might undo him entirely. He wanted to cry, scream, beg- but what was the point? None of it would reach her.

He didn’t know how she’d seen him the first time. Maybe it had been her conviction, maybe it had been his desperation. But nothing worked now. Not even when her hand reached out, half an inch from where he stood.

“Maybe you’ll show up if I start painting again, huh?” she muttered under her breath, lowering herself onto the dusty stool. She didn’t bother brushing it off. Her supplies were dried out, long past usable- but still, she picked up a brush. Still, she brought it back to the canvas. She traced over the faded strokes- his face, his shoulders, his hair. Her hands moved slowly, carefully, reverent. 

“What are you doing?” Heeseung asked, knowing full well she wouldn’t hear. But he said it anyway- just to speak. Just to feel like he was in the room with her, not just orbiting her world like a forgotten star.

But then-

She paused.

Heeseung froze, mid-sentence.

Her hand stopped moving. She tilted her head- slowly, cautiously- and then looked up.

Her eyes locked with his. Not past him. Not through him. At him- wide and startled.

Heeseung didn’t breathe. He couldn’t- his entire body went still, like the moment had slammed into him head-on.

“Oh my god,” she whispered.

His heart stuttered. “Y/N?” he asked, but it came out more like a gasp. “You… you can hear me?”

Her lips barely moved. “You’re… oh my god.”

He took a step forward, chest trembling. “You can hear me?” He said again, disbelieving. He needed to be sure. 

“Oh my God,” she stammered, eyes glued to him like she couldn’t dare look away. “I can hear you.”

It hit him all at once- like a dam breaking open. Weeks, months, an eternity of silence, of yelling into a void, of begging shadows to notice he existed. All the desperation, the isolation, the ache of watching her and never reaching her- it poured through his body in a rush so intense he almost collapsed.

“I’ve been trying,” he said, voice shaking. “Ever since you moved in. Every day- I was trying to get you to see me. You don’t know how- how loud I was. How hard I tried.”

Y/N just kept staring, breath caught in her throat.

“You don’t understand,” he said, the words barely making it out between the pressure in his chest and the quake in his voice. “You don’t understand how lonely it’s been. How much I tried.”

“You’re a ghost,” she whispered, almost to herself- but her voice cracked like she felt it too.

“I know what I am,” he said, choking on a half-laugh, half-sob. “You see me.”

He stared down at her, blinking hard as if afraid she'd vanish again. But she didn’t. She was still there. Sitting in front of him. Looking up with eyes full of shock, wonder, and something else- something he couldn’t name.

And for a moment, time slipped sideways. The dust floated in the sunbeams like stardust. Her canvas sat between them, half-finished, half-remembered.

“You’re a ghost,” she said again. But this time, her voice didn’t tremble with fear.

“Dead, yes,” he nodded, gaze following her as she stood and circled around the canvas to reach him. 

Heeseung didn’t know what to do. Could he touch her now? Would his hand still pass through her skin like smoke? His fingers twitched at his sides, itching to reach for her, to see if her warmth would meet his cold.

“I don’t understand,” Y/N said softly. “How are you here?”

“You’re not scared?” Heeseung ignored her question, eyes darting across her features so he could memorise this expression on her- the expression, the face that could see him, that acknowledged him.

“Terrified,” she said and a beat of silence passed between them. In the silence, Heeseung heard the rapid slamming of her heart in her chest. “You’re… you can’t… you’re not supposed to be real.”

“Yeah, I think that, too,” he admitted. “But here I am, against my will.”

“I don’t understand,” she shook her head. “How did you die?”

“The house burnt down a while back… a really long time ago, actually,” he recalled. “I died in that fire.”

“Only you?”

Heeseung’s eyes snapped open again, confused and yet, intrigued. “You knew there were others?”

He realised that was a stupid question to ask. 

“Rumours…” she trailed, not knowing how to answer his question. “People talk… about the house on top of the hill. It’s a folktale to the townspeople.”

“Right,” Heeseung pulled his lips between his teeth. “Hyunjin.”

“You know him?”

“Through you,” he said. “I know everything that goes on in this house, Y/N. As unnerving as that sounds, I know everything about you. And I’m terribly sorry about that. ”

A chill ran down her spine. It occurred to her then- truly occurred to her- that he had been living with her this whole time.

The creaks in the floorboards. The slamming doors. The falling cutlery. The temperature drops in the middle of the night. The feeling of being watched when she stayed up painting or reading. The mirrors fogged when she hadn’t even taken a shower. The dreams.

She took a shaky breath, her voice quiet but razor-sharp. “You mean to tell me… you’ve seen everything?”

Heeseung’s expression crumbled with guilt. “Not intentionally. I didn’t mean to- Y/N, it’s not like that. I wasn’t watching you to intrude. I couldn’t leave. I just… existed. And when you moved in, I- I didn’t expect you. I didn’t expect to care.”

His voice broke like glass in the quiet room.

“I tried looking away. I tried giving you space. But I’m in the walls, in the wood, in the air. I didn’t choose to haunt this place. I was trapped in it. And you came in like saving grace.”

Y/N stepped back slowly, her mind racing- heart thudding not with fear, but with overwhelmed awareness. She didn’t know what to do with this- with him. This… presence that had quietly lived with her for months, knowing her like a diary she hadn’t meant to share.

But Heeseung- translucent, trembling- didn’t move.

“I don’t want to scare you,” he said, voice hoarse. “I just… needed you to know. That you weren’t imagining things. That I wasn’t either.”

She looked at him, really looked, and saw the ache in him. Not just the weight of death, but the unbearable intimacy of knowing someone so completely without ever being known in return.

And in a voice so soft it almost wasn't hers, Y/N said, “Then tell me everything.”

vii. 

There were seven of them, the oldest being Heeseung, then Jay, then Jake, Sunghoon, Sunoo, Jungwon and Riki. Riki was the youngest of the brothers- or at least, Heeseung called them his brothers. He didn’t actually know if they were related or what they were to each other. His earliest memory was trying to teach Riki Korean- he didn’t know the language when they met him. The boy was fourteen, Heeseung was eighteen.

“How’d you end up here?” Y/N asked.

The pair sat in her reading room- Y/N curled in her chair, knees tucked close, and Heeseung leaning against the table, arms crossed, eyes fixed on her like she was the only thing anchoring him to existence. After spending so long screaming into silence, watching her without ever being seen, he couldn’t tear his gaze away now that he had her attention. She was looking back at him- really looking- with that unmistakable spark in her eyes, the same one she reserved for rare things: an artwork that made her stop, a story that lingered, a color she couldn’t name. And in that look, Heeseung felt something tighten in his chest, something like wonder or grief or longing- because for the first time in all the endless days of haunting, he wasn’t a ghost in the room. He was the reason she blinked slower, breathed softer, stared longer

“I wish I knew,” he shook his head with a sigh. “I just remember being here… living this life with Warden and my brothers. I woke up and this was my life,” he gestured.

“You don’t remember anything from before you were eighteen?”

“No…” Heeseung blinked like he’d just realised how insignificant he sounded. “You know… in your diary, you write about your childhood? The books you read, the characters start off as children?”

Y/N nodded, coaxing him to continue. 

“I don’t think I have that… I don’t know if I have ever had it. I sometimes remember being a child- like, eleven, twelve. But it was nothing. I was in this house and that’s it.”

“What is this, retrograde amnesia?”

Heeseung blinked at her, eyes softening in confusion. “What is… retrograde amnesia?” The words were foreign in his mouth.

Y/N blinked back at him, astonished. “What did Warden teach you?”

“I don’t know… academia?” He shrugged. “We read books, she taught us science, music, we acted for her- she used to dress us up. She used us as entertainment-” Heeseung paused and ran his hands through his hair. 

“She used you guys?” Y/N whispered, her gaze lowering in caution. “Heeseung, what do you mean?”

Heeseung’s heart stilled at the sound of his name spilling from her lips- a sound he never thought he’d hear, sweet and startled. But the swell of emotion was quickly drowned by the static growing louder in his mind, confusion rumbling like thunder beneath his skin. He couldn’t feel pain, but his head ached in a way that made the walls seem too close, the air too thin. He didn’t want to talk about how he died, how it felt, what he remembered. Not now, not when her eyes still held some softness for him. 

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” he said, voice low. “You haven’t eaten anything since you got here. You should eat something,” his tone was gentle, but there was a crack in it- like the weight of his death had followed him even here, into this quiet moment with her.

Y/N didn’t argue with him. She examined his face for a second- still pale and slightly transparent- and decided to let him be. Quietly, she said, “okay,” and pushed herself up from the chair to head to the kitchen. Behind her, Heeseung followed.

She wasn’t expecting him to, but she didn’t stop him. For the first time since she moved in, she was confident she wasn’t alone- and oddly, that brought her comfort. Her company wasn’t imagined. He was real, right behind her.

Heeseung followed her like it was second nature, like he had done it a hundred times before- because he had. On a regular day, this was exactly what he would be doing anyway- drifting behind her, watching, listening, silently wishing to exist more fully in her world. He sat cross-legged on the kitchen counter as she moved around the space- boiling water, frying onions and tomatoes, warming up frozen meatballs, stirring spaghetti with the ease of routine. He watched her cook with quiet fascination, like she was a painting coming to life.

When she plated her food and walked over to the table, he followed and sat across from her, mimicking the position he used to take when he still remembered what eating felt like. She looked up at him and grinned- and the sight of it made his chest cave in with something strange and warm.

His eyes widened suddenly. “I’m so sorry- do you want to be left alone?” He asked, startled by his own presence.

Y/N chuckled and shook her head. “No, it’s alright,” she said softly, twirling her fork into the spaghetti. “The company is nice.”

Her phone buzzed on the table, the screen lighting up with Hyunjin’s name. She didn’t flinch. Calmly, she reached for it and answered while Heeseung froze, his translucent frame stiffening as though the voice on the other end could somehow reach him too.

Y/N brushed off his expression with a small chuckle, waving her hand. 

“Hello?”

“Y/N! How’s being back home? Seen the ghost yet?” Hyunjin’s voice rang through the speaker- joking, light, exaggerated like he was playing a character on stage. He always did that when he was nervous.

Y/N rolled her eyes and twirled her fork into her spaghetti. “Funny, Hyunjin. Thanks for checking up on me.”

“You know I’m kidding,” he said, his tone softening, sincerity seeping through. “Really, how is it?”

“It’s fine, I guess.” She shrugged, though he couldn’t see it. “Everything’s just the way I left it.”

“So no ghost?”

“No ghost,” Y/N said, clearing her throat. Her eyes flickered down to her plate, then across to Heeseung, who looked at her like she was balancing him on the edge of a knife. “I’ll be fine. Really.”

“Alright,” Hyunjin sighed. “I’ll drop by tomorrow like usual.” The line clicked off.

Y/N stared at her food for a moment before glancing back up. Heeseung still looked rattled.

“I appreciate you not telling him about me,” he said quietly. “God knows what they’d do if they found out there’s a ghost here.”

“What could they possibly do?”

“Drive you away,” Heeseung answered like it was obvious. “Tell you to stop living here. Or they could try driving me away.”

“You want to stay?” She asked, tilting her head.

He didn’t answer right away. “I don’t know,” he finally said, voice distant. “I don’t know which is more painful- staying, or leaving.”

“Leaving... to where your brothers are?”

“Do you think they’re still alive?” He asked. His voice cracked halfway through, but he didn’t hide it. “Alive, as in... I know they’re dead. It wouldn’t make sense for them to still be alive. If they were, they’d come looking for me. But do you think that maybe... maybe they’re stuck somewhere? Like me?”

The knot in her stomach tightened. His expression wasn’t scared- it was empty, like someone had opened him up and scooped out the hope that once lived there.

“I don’t know, Heeseung,” she said quietly. “We can only hope they’re in a better place.”

While Y/N finished her dinner, silence took the shape of purpose- dense and wordless, like dust in sunlight. Neither of them spoke, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was heavy, weighted by the shift in their realities. That a living girl sat across from someone who had died years ago. That a ghost, who had existed in the lonely corners of this house for so long, now had someone who could see him- who looked at him without screaming or running. They didn't say anything about it- not out loud- but the truth hung there between them, undeniable. It settled in Y/N’s spine as she chewed slower, and it clenched somewhere behind Heeseung’s ribs even if he had no real lungs anymore. Why now? Why her? Heeseung had spent months reaching- months whispering into empty rooms, months brushing by Y/N who didn’t shiver. So what changed? Was it time? Was it fate? Had he stumbled into some cosmic thread he didn’t even know existed? Or maybe it was her. Maybe she was the shift.

The questions began when the silence wore thin. Heeseung asked about her laptop first, pointing to it with something like suspicion and awe. Y/N blinked, confused, and opened it to show him. It took a good while to explain even the concept of the internet- how the entire world was, in essence, digitized and carried in your palm. She had to google almost every answer she gave him. He didn’t understand how pictures could move on screen, how voices could be captured and sent across oceans, how someone could Google anything and receive millions of answers in seconds. When she played him music from her playlist, his eyes widened as synth and bass filled the room. “That doesn’t sound like real instruments,” he said, brows furrowed. She grinned and played Frank Sinatra, watching as recognition flooded his face. “He was my favorite,” he murmured. “Sunghoon used to hum this one while shaving.” Something about the memory felt like a thread- one he clung to tightly, as if it proved he had existed once.

But it wasn’t just the future he wanted to understand. It was the world. “What are people like?” He asked, voice tentative. “The people in town. Do they talk to each other? Do they know each other?” And Y/N- caught off guard by how soft his tone was- did her best to answer. 

She told him about how the community still existed in pockets. That people still gathered at Sunday markets and laughed too loud in restaurants and watched football together in cafes. She told him about her travels- how she'd seen snow-capped mountains in Switzerland, the old streets of Rome, temples carved into cliffs in Asia. She told him how the world felt endless sometimes, and how small her childhood town had seemed when she came back. Heeseung hung on every word like it might make him feel whole again. He asked about things that no longer existed- gas lamps, iceboxes- and each time she answered, a quiet grief passed through him, like realizing the world had moved on without him was both a relief and a heartbreak.

And then she spoke about herself. Her siblings, whom she still loved deeply even though their family had broken in ways kids shouldn’t have to understand. The way they made each other laugh even when the sky felt like it was falling. Her favorite foods- things Heeseung had never heard of, like sushi, gyoza, peri-peri fries, truffle pasta. She watched him furrow his brows and repeat the words back to her, trying to get the sounds right. She laughed, and he smiled in this small, stunned kind of way, like the sound was something he hadn’t heard in years and hadn’t realized he missed. She told him she liked long walks and sunny mornings, that she liked reading old books more than watching new shows, and that she never quite stopped feeling like a kid, even when the world expected her to be grown. And the whole time, Heeseung watched her- eyes full of awe and innocence. Like he couldn’t believe someone could be so alive.

By the time the sun set, the house felt different. It wasn’t warmer. But there was a kind of breath to it now- a pulse. As if the walls had heard every word and decided, for the first time in years, to listen back. And Heeseung- who had spent so long moving through empty rooms and unopened doors- felt something shift inside him too. Something he couldn’t name yet. Something that maybe looked like hope.

When Y/N went to sleep that night, she wasn’t expecting to see Heeseung again in the morning. Some small part of her- still rooted in reason, in the safety of disbelief- clung to the idea that maybe he’d been a dream. That the day had been a slip in reality, some elaborate mirage crafted by loneliness and memory. That by morning, the world would reset itself. That her house would go back to being empty, and silent, and haunted only by creaking floorboards and her own thoughts. The weight of the day sat uneasily in her chest- a lingering unease that made it hard to fall asleep. Heeseung had been so... gentle. Like the soft echo of a song she used to love but forgot the lyrics to. And yet he had practically tucked her in, the curve of his mouth twitching up in a smile as she curled into her blanket, pulling it to her chin like it could anchor her to something real.

And then morning came.

The light was warm and gold on her face, and her room felt still. For a second, Y/N didn’t move. She let her eyes flutter open slowly, unsure if she wanted to be proven right or wrong. But when her gaze finally adjusted, there he was- Heeseung- perched on the old chair by her window like he belonged there. His body was cast in soft light, the rays passing right through him, catching in the edges of his form like he was made of smoke and sunbeams. He didn’t notice she was awake yet. He just sat there, looking out, like he was trying to memorize the world one sunrise at a time. And in that quiet, fragile moment, Y/N felt her throat tighten- not in fear, but in something far more disorienting. He was still here. He hadn’t vanished like a figment of her imagination. 

“You’re still here,” she mumbled, perching herself up by her palms. Her eyes squinted as sunlight hit her frame. Her hair was unruly and she could still taste sleep in her mouth.

Heeseung cracked her a grin. “Good morning,” he said, trying to hide the giddiness in his heart. “Hyunjin is here, too,” he said, plainly. “He’s been knocking for a few minutes.”

“What time is it?” 

“It’s quite late into the afternoon,” he admitted. “I didn’t know how to wake you- you looked really peaceful.”

“Heeseung,” she groaned, dragging her hands down her face before pulling herself out of bed. “I feel like a mess.”

Heeseung didn’t follow her as she went downstairs to greet Hyunjin. He stayed back, still by the window, eyes cast over the golden morning light, but his senses were tethered to her- irrevocably. He could hear her feet rushing down the stairs, hear the creak of the wood beneath her steps like a familiar rhythm, hear the door swing open with the soft gasp of old hinges. He heard her voice too- bright, unguarded, the kind of sound that made something in his chest ache. Her delighted squeal when Hyunjin pulled her into a hug, the casual, warm laughter as he handed her a bag of fruit. Heeseung didn’t have to see any of it to feel it. She moved through the house like sunlight through glass- undeniable, gentle, and everywhere all at once. And somehow, that tether between them, the strange thread of awareness that had drawn him to her before she ever even saw him, only grew stronger. She was one with the house now, he realized. One with the rhythm of its days, the breath of its silence. One with him.

Heeseung could sense them moving around the house- the gentle chaos of two people settling into comfort. First, they were in the kitchen. He knew that much from the aroma that drifted upward to him. Toast, sausages, steamed eggs, and stir-fried vegetables- Y/N’s usual late breakfast. But there was something different in the way the food smelled today, and Heeseung recognized it instantly. Hyunjin was cooking. He had a way of seasoning the vegetables that Y/N always loved- just enough spice to wake up the palate, just enough butter to soften the bitterness. Heeseung could almost see it: the way Hyunjin would move around the kitchen with ease, Y/N leaning against the counter, teasing him for making a mess but smiling anyway. 

Then, they moved to the couch- their usual post-meal routine, where food gave way to conversation. And Heeseung, though upstairs, could hear them clearly. They spoke about Hyunjin’s grandfather and how much he missed Y/N. About how the bakery had more customers than usual yesterday, about Hyunjin’s ideas for new recipes, about how Y/N hadn’t painted in so long and, surprisingly, didn’t miss it. 

Through it all, Heeseung sat by the window, watching dust particles drift through the light, feeling like a ghost in more ways than one. The laughter below made him smile. It made him ache. He wondered- was he really still invisible to everyone else? Or had something changed in him that only let Y/N see him now? Was he tethered to her in a way no one else could reach? And if not… What then? Could the world see him? Would they scream? Call for help? Try to cast him out?

He knew it was a risk, but the weight of curiosity outweighed his caution. Slowly, Heeseung rose and moved toward the stairs, each step taken with the hesitance of someone both desperate and terrified to be seen. He clutched the railing, craned his neck around the corner until he caught sight of them- Y/N and Hyunjin, sitting on the couch. She had her plate tucked close to her chest, eating in lazy, contented bites. Hyunjin nursed a drink, legs crossed and eyes bright with the joy of casual conversation. They were laughing at something, at nothing. And Heeseung stood, half-shadowed, watching.

Y/N saw him first. Her eyes darted toward the stairs, wide with surprise, her brow tightening in alarm as she subtly shook her head and signaled for him to go back. She turned quickly to Hyunjin, trying to recover the flow of conversation. But Heeseung ignored her warning. He took another step down, one more inch into their shared space.

Hyunjin’s gaze followed hers instinctively, turning toward the staircase. His brows furrowed, head tilting slightly. He stared for a moment- right where Heeseung stood.

"Y/N?" Hyunjin asked, voice lined with cautious concern. "Everything okay?"

"Hmm? Yeah!" She said quickly, shaking her head as if dismissing a thought. She sucked her teeth and gave a half-hearted smile. "I think I saw a spider, that’s all."

Hyunjin let out a breath and returned to his drink. But Heeseung didn’t move. He was standing just a few feet away, in clear sight, yet utterly unseen.

So that was it. Y/N was the only one who could see him. His existence, fragile as it was, belonged only to her. To witness, to carry, to understand- whatever that meant. He didn’t know what role he was meant to play in her life. A companion? A remnant? A haunting?

But something had made it so. Something in her, or something in him. Either way, he was here. And for now, he was hers.

viii. 

“So only I can see you?”

Y/N didn’t even bother greeting Heeseung after coming home. She found him sitting on the couch, fiddling with his hands when she came in, ripping her coat off her back and hanging it on a chair in the kitchen. After Hyunjin had dropped by, he suggested dropping by the bakery with him- for no particular reason, just for the sake of it. Because his grandfather missed her and because she wasn’t doing anything for the day and because they simply could. Heeseung wondered what it was like to have such freedom. He never knew people could function that way- to do whatever they wanted. Everyday he spent observing Y/N was everyday closer to realising that his life with Warden wasn’t a life at all.

“I suppose so,” Heeseung weaved his hands together on his lap, turning his head towards her languidly. The more Y/N interacted with him, the more she realised how composed he was- untouched by the impatience of the world, always calm and collected, even when lonely. 

“You don’t think that’s odd?” She sat beside him on the couch and he felt the cushions dip beside him. Furniture didn’t do that when it was him sitting on them.

“Of course, I do,” Heeseung said. “That’s all I could think about while you were out,” he admitted. “I’m not even sure what this means.”

“Me neither,” Y/N sighed and leaned into the cushions, burying her weight beside him. “It could mean so much- maybe there’s a purpose for this right? Maybe you need my help. Maybe you did something so only I can see you. Maybe you’re still here because of unresolved duties or some crap. You know, like in the movies? Ghosts leave after their work in the world is done.”

Y/N looked at him with conviction- like there must be something going on in his head that could relate to her thoughts. But Heeseung only looked defeated, his eyes glassy and tired- the kind that made Y/N realise how ambiguous his existence had been, how untouched he was by reality.

The next few days, Y/N spent hours deep-diving into the black hole of the internet, searching through forums, essays, Reddit threads, and YouTube videos about ghosts and the afterlife. Her laptop was a mess of open tabs- articles about spirits tethered by unfinished business, theories on liminal space, and first-person accounts of haunted houses and people seeing apparitions only they could perceive. 

Most of it felt exaggerated. The rest didn’t feel like Heeseung at all. He didn’t haunt her, not really. He wasn’t banging doors shut or whispering in hallways. He sat beside her while she folded laundry. He asked her about her day and remembered things she liked. If ghosts were meant to be frightening or threatening, Heeseung was neither. He was quiet and gentle and sad- so very, very sad. And she didn’t know if that made things better or worse.

In between those searches, she talked to him. Told him about the articles she’d read, the absurd things people claimed. She’d laugh about it, half-joking, half-hopeful, like maybe if she made light of it, the weight of his presence wouldn’t feel so consuming. But Heeseung didn’t always laugh with her. Sometimes he’d offer a quiet hum, sometimes just a stare- one that looked like he was thinking hard, trying to piece things together. Other times, he’d respond with memories. About his life. About Warden and his brothers and the way silence used to feel different when it meant peace, not loneliness. He spoke softly, like he was remembering things and trying not to shatter them while saying them out loud. Y/N listened more than she talked on those days. It felt like she was letting him return to something that had been long buried. Or maybe he was carving space for it in a world that had forgotten him.

By the fourth night, she dreamed of him. Not in the ghostly, eerie way, but in a mundane, gentle one. They were at a beach she hadn’t visited since she was a child, and he was alive. She knew that in the way his fingers sunk into the sand, in how he laughed when the wind caught his hair. There were no words exchanged in the dream, but she remembered waking up with her chest heavy- like she’d just returned from somewhere that was almost too perfect. She blinked against the morning sun, half-expecting him to be gone, the room to be empty again. But there he was, sitting at the foot of her bed, the sun slicing through his translucent shoulder, looking like he didn’t sleep at all. She didn’t say anything. She only looked at him, and he looked back- both of them carrying questions neither of them had answers to.

Like Y/N had slipped into his world, Heeseung became a part of hers too- gradually, naturally, as though the space around her had always left a seat open just for him. He was with her while she cooked, watching the way she hummed under her breath and chopped vegetables with a rhythm that felt almost meditative. He was there while she read, following her eyes across every page, absorbing new stories while she read them aloud sometimes just so he wouldn’t feel like a ghost again. And in the evenings, when the weight of the day dulled the light in her eyes, they watched old movies together- films he had never seen, grainy in texture but strange in how timeless they felt. 

And through all of it, she talked to him. She wanted him there. She liked him. That realisation was unsettling in a comforting way- because Heeseung feared himself. Fearing the version of him that hovered behind doors, that disappeared into shadows. But she never flinched. She never pulled away. She welcomed him with a warmth he never knew existed for someone like him. And slowly, surely, they were becoming friends. 

For Heeseung, the entire dynamic was foreign- unfamiliar in a way that made him both cautious and mesmerised. He hadn’t known what it was like to simply exist next to someone, to be silent and still be seen. Y/N didn’t mind his lingering, even when he thought she would. She didn’t mind that he watched her sleep sometimes, didn’t mind that he often trailed off into thoughtless silence. There was no pressure to perform or speak. She just let him be, and in doing so, gave him permission to feel like a person again. One night, she asked him about the books he used to read and he quoted Shakespeare, Dickens, even Poe. His voice took on a different texture then- more grounded, more certain. They debated about literature for over an hour, with Y/N defending contemporary language and Heeseung fighting for the ornate elegance of the classics. He won, but not without effort. Later, he admitted to reading with her for months, trailing behind her gaze as she flipped through pages, imagining the words moving inside her mind. The confession left her stunned, but not in fear- in comfort. She had never really been alone, it seemed. Even in her loneliest moments, someone had been there, keeping her company in silence. The idea made something shift inside her- something soft and grateful.

There were, of course, awkward moments that neither of them could forget. Like the time Heeseung walked into her room while she was fresh out of the shower, towel slipping and skin bare. He turned around so quickly he nearly vanished, face redder than she’d thought possible for someone no longer bound by flesh. And just like that- she couldn’t see him. For three entire hours, he was invisible again, even though he swore he hadn’t moved from her side. It was as if embarrassment rewrote the rules of his visibility. But even those moments felt strangely intimate, like parts of a growing relationship that neither of them could have planned. 

And when Heeseung occasionally slipped into memories of his past- eyes glazed and mouth parted like he was trying to hold back something heavy- Y/N didn’t ask questions. She simply placed her hand over his, even though it passed through him like mist. Static clung to her skin, a strange electric pulse where her fingers met air, yet she didn’t move. She let her hand linger in the space he occupied. And for Heeseung, that was enough- enough to anchor him, enough to feel like maybe this wasn’t all for nothing.

He appreciated her in ways he couldn’t yet articulate. Heeseung didn’t know what he would be doing if Y/N hadn’t found him, if she hadn’t chosen to see him. Probably nothing, if he had to be honest. Just sitting, watching, waiting- for what, he didn’t know. The concept of time no longer applied to him, but now it moved again, at her pace. Her laughter filled the empty places inside him. Her presence softened the sharp edges of his isolation.

One quiet afternoon, without ceremony or forethought, Y/N returned to painting. Her livelihood depended on it, after all. Bills didn’t pay themselves, and art- however healing or intimate- had to sell if she wanted to keep her little life afloat. So she walked back into the painting room, the one that had once sent her running, heart in her throat, the first time she ever saw Heeseung. The same room where she’d later lured him back in, step by hesitant step, when her fear had melted into curiosity. And now, Heeseung followed her in again, quietly, his presence gentle and steady. He watched as she pulled the easel to the center of the room, dragging a stool behind her with a faint screech on the wooden floor. Paint supplies were unpacked from their boxes- brushes, tubes, palettes, jars of water. An old apron wrapped around her waist, already stained with past colors, and her hair was knotted into a bun that bounced slightly as she moved. Then came the canvas.

Not just any canvas.

It was the same one she had started before she ever knew him- before she knew he was real. The painting she had abandoned in fear, unfinished and half-imagined. The portrait of a man she hadn’t meant to meet, and yet had found anyway.

She stood in front of it for a moment, eyes scanning the faded lines, the soft shadows of a face she now knew. But there was no fear in her gaze this time- only anticipation. Only a calm, bubbling kind of excitement. And then she turned to him, her cheeks warm with a smile that lit the dim room brighter than any bulb.

“Now that I can see you,” she said, her voice soft but sure, “I can paint you accurately.”

In the coming days, whenever Y/N felt like painting, Heeseung would model for her. He would stand across from her, still as a statue, while she brushed strokes of him onto canvas. It came naturally to him- standing still, doing nothing. But this time, his stillness had a purpose. It was for her, for her art.

And he liked it.

Y/N had started going out more often too, especially on weekends. Hyunjin stopped coming over, so now she would go to him. And every time she returned, she came home with stories- long, winding stories that made Heeseung feel like he was living again, somehow. Stories of the cake Hyunjin made her try that tasted like burnt sugar and nostalgia. Stories from Hyunjin’s grandfather’s childhood, so far away in time that they felt like fiction. A group of teenagers who looked older than her, which she found hilariously baffling. The newly opened flower shop down the street, run by a single mom whose kid had just started school.

And Heeseung listened to it all.

Listened intently as she painted the world just beyond the bottom of the hill- a town he had never dared to see for himself. A world he had watched from windows but never entered. A world that, somehow, Y/N brought to him in color.

One day, she came home buzzing with energy, practically bouncing on her feet. “You will not believe this,” she announced, kicking off her shoes. “I played mahjong today with a group of grandmas. Actual grandmas. They taught me! Said I had potential. I’m playing with them again next week.”

Heeseung smiled, genuinely happy for her. But Y/N noticed something behind his eyes- a flicker of solemnity, a quiet pause in his expression.

She stepped toward him. “Can I ask you something?”

“When have I ever objected?” Heeseung gave her the smallest smile, one that tried to reassure.

“Why did you never leave the house?” She asked softly. “Why did you never try exploring the town?”

Heeseung’s gaze drifted away for a moment. He thought about it, then chuckled, almost embarrassed.

“I guess… I was too scared.”

Y/N understood his fear. How could she not?

It made sense- the way his world had been shaped. His whole life, all he had known were walls and shadows, silence and restriction. He had never been allowed to meet the townspeople, never permitted to walk their streets or laugh in their company. And even now, even in this half-existence, it was as though something invisible still held him back. Some force he couldn’t name, like a tether keeping him from crossing an unseen line.

“Why don’t you come with me next time?” 

ix. 

“How are we going about this, Y/N?”

Heeseung stood hesitantly at the threshold of the door- where floorboards ended and earth began, where the old house that had once been his whole world spilled out into a new one. Y/N was already outside, basking in the sun like it was something she’d been born to do. The town was sprawled beneath her, alive and vibrant, bathed in golden morning light. The wind tousled her hair. Her shoes kicked dust as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, hands tucked behind her back, and she looked up at him with that smile- the kind that coaxed secrets out of people.

“Come on, Heeseung,” she giggled. It was the first time he’d heard her make that sound- something bright, unfiltered, and full of something he hadn’t known she carried. Even around Hyunjin, she never laughed like that. “Just step out. I know you’ve done it before. The town will be fun, I promise.”

He stared at her, wary. “If people see you talking to air, they’ll think you’re crazy, you know that right?”

She rolled her eyes and waved him forward. “Then I won’t talk to you. And you won’t talk to me. Today is about you seeing the outside world. Now come on.”

He hesitated for a moment longer, then finally- cautiously- stepped out.

His foot touched the ground like it might reject him. He half-expected the air to push him back inside, for the light to bounce off of him like a mirror reflecting emptiness. But nothing happened. The breeze grazed him- light, subtle, a whisper against his skin. And the sun- faint as it was to him- warmed the air around his frame. It wasn’t sharp and it wasn’t painful. It just… was. And for the first time in years, maybe longer, Heeseung felt something close to alive.

Y/N skipped down the hill ahead of him, earbuds tucked into her ears, the tinny sound of music barely audible. She moved with a rhythm that didn’t belong to the past, didn’t belong to grief. It was lighthearted, free. She didn’t turn around to check on him- maybe because she already knew he was following, maybe because she trusted he would.

He trailed behind her like a stray spirit chasing something it had lost, and as he reached the bottom of the hill, he blinked in disbelief.

The town wasn’t a vague blur anymore- it wasn’t the soft dreamlike painting he’d seen from the window all his life. Up close, it was full of color and movement and scent.

Children ran barefoot through the dusty roads, chasing each other with paper kites in their hands. The fruit stalls overflowed with ripe mangoes, apples, lychees, and bananas- each stacked in chaotic towers, tended to by vendors yelling prices with weathered grins. The small flower shop stood with hand-painted signs, the petals of marigolds and roses spilling onto the sidewalk. Nearby, a shoe repair stall sat beside a tiny grocery kiosk where old uncles gathered to read the paper and sip tea from steel cups. Houses climbed up the other side of the hill- some crumbling with age, some painted fresh blue and white with laundry swinging from balcony rails.

And then there was Hyunjin’s bakery. Tucked on the corner with its blue awning, the warm scent of cinnamon and cardamom rolled out before they even reached the door. The bell above the frame jingled as Y/N pushed it open. Heeseung, of course, didn’t touch the door- he simply passed through, quiet and invisible.

He watched her from a corner- his place now, it seemed. She threw her arms around Hyunjin in a hug, laughing at something he said. Then she greeted Hyunjin’s grandfather with a respectful nod and a kiss on the cheek. She was bright- like the sun had pressed itself into her chest and made a home there. Had she always been this happy? Had he just never noticed it?

Customers came and went- parents with children, college students, elderly couples with routines. Heeseung stood by the window, peering out at the slow dance of the town. The bakery was a little bubble of warmth and chatter, and even though no one could see him, he felt strangely present.

And every now and then, Y/N would glance at him. Just for a second. As if to make sure he was still there. As if, in that moment, she wished she could speak to him. Maybe even reach out. Maybe hold his hand.

And Heeseung- he would have let her. If only he could.

“Do you want to go play mahjong now?” Heeseung heard Hyunjin ask, his voice light and familiar.

Y/N nodded with an eagerness that made her seem years younger, her eyes lighting up like a child offered ice cream. She grinned, practically bouncing on her feet, and Heeseung’s curiosity only deepened. He had no idea what mahjong truly was- but if it could make Y/N look like that, then he was willing to follow her anywhere.

And so, he did.

He trailed behind them down the winding road, his steps light and ghost-silent. The street unfurled before him like a dream he had never dared to imagine living. It was narrower here, hemmed in by low stone walls and wooden homes with sun-faded paint. Ivy crawled along brick corners, and potted plants lined windowsills in mismatched ceramic cups. Children darted past them with bamboo swords and handmade paper crowns, and a man sat on a small wooden stool fixing a bicycle tire with a cigarette between his lips.

Women sat outside their homes peeling vegetables, gossiping in soft-spoken bursts while dogs lazed in patches of sun. A radio crackled out golden oldies from an open window, and laundry flapped on lines strung across the alley like flags. The smells were rich- fresh dough, fried batter, wet earth, incense- and Heeseung drank it all in like he’d been starved for it. He didn’t just see the town now. He felt it.

Why did he never get to live like this?

Or… had he once, long ago? Had the memory of it slipped from him like sand through an open palm?

Hyunjin and Y/N eventually stopped in front of a small yellow-painted house, where a courtyard lay open to the sky. A group of elderly women sat around a low table under a shade tree, some wearing wide-brimmed hats, others adorned in colorful shawls. But they all wore the same kind of smile- soft, warm, the kind that made your ribs loosen and your chest feel full. It was the kind of smile that made you feel safe and loved.

As soon as they saw Hyunjin and Y/N, their faces lit up even more, and they called them over with a flurry of gentle scolds and laughter, waving their hands to invite them into the group. One grandma patted the ground beside her, motioning for Y/N to sit. Another handed her a tiny porcelain teacup before she’d even had a chance to greet anyone properly.

And Heeseung stood at a distance- his usual post now- watching. He watched Y/N and Hyunjin ease into the group like they had always belonged. He watched the white and green tiles with their strange symbols get shuffled and stacked, knocked and passed. He didn’t fully understand how the game worked- there were too many rules, too many gestures. 

But he understood that it made Y/N happy. That when she laughed, she did so without hesitation. That when she made eye contact with Hyunjin, there was a softness there, a natural rhythm. That when she leaned back and threw her head at a joke one of the grandmas cracked, her whole body moved with it.

And every now and then, as if by instinct, she would glance around- looking for him. And Heeseung would meet her eyes. Just for a second, just enough, just to make sure, just to feel real.

Mahjong wasn’t all they did.

After a few rounds- after the excitement gave way to warm satisfaction- the grandmas began to drift into a different kind of rhythm. The game tiles were gently pushed aside, and tea was poured instead. They leaned back into their chairs, their bodies settling with the weight of age and ease, and the air turned dense with stories. It wasn’t a conversation exactly- Heeseung didn’t know the word for it. It felt more like… passing time together through words, threading years of life into shared space. The way the grandmas talked, it was as if time folded in on itself.

They spoke of their childhoods- days spent swimming in rivers, running barefoot through fields, hiding sweets in the hems of their skirts. Of the first time they fell in love, the first time they had their hearts broken. Of raising children in small homes with cracked walls and big dreams. Of late husbands and long marriages, of the smell of their kitchens and the silence of their homes now. Some stories were wise. Some were funny. Some were filled with such mundane gossip that Y/N laughed herself into hiccups. But all of it- all of it- was rich.

Heeseung listened from the sidelines, tucked into the edges of their lives like a shadow who had always been there. He clung to every word, every syllable, like it might slip away. He couldn’t help but wonder what he would’ve been like, had he lived long enough to grow old. Would he have laughed like that? Sat with his brothers in some courtyard, tile game spread out before them? Would he have known what it felt like to have grey hair and stories that made people lean in?

Or was he always fated to be a flicker? A life cut short before it could bloom?

When the moon began to rise- hanging silver and slowly above the rooftops- Hyunjin and Y/N stood up, announcing it was time to head back. The grandmas protested playfully, pulling them in for long hugs, pressing their palms to Y/N’s cheeks, telling her to visit again soon. They waved goodbye with hands wrinkled and waving in twilight- never once knowing that a boy long gone trailed behind them.

As they returned to the bakery, the streets were painted with streetlamp gold. Hyunjin and Y/N shared a quiet hug outside- no words, just a pause, a familiarity. Then Hyunjin turned into the bakery, the bells above the door jingling once before fading.

Y/N walked up the hill alone. Heeseung walked beside her, his steps soundless, eyes fixed on her side profile. There was something serene about the way she moved- arms swinging, a small smirk resting at the corner of her lips, like she already knew what was coming.

“So?” She asked, casting him a glance. “How was it?”

Heeseung didn’t answer at first. He didn’t know how to. The experience felt like light after too long in the dark- blinding and warm and almost too much. He had seen people. Heard laughter that wasn’t muffled. Watched stories stretch across generations. And for a brief second, he had felt like he was part of it all- almost alive.

And yet… There was sorrow too, the aching kind. The kind that curled in your chest when you realized what you missed out on- what you could never have.

That would never be his life- not ever.

“I…” he began, but the words fell short. So he said the only thing that mattered. “Thank you,” he murmured. His voice was quiet, reverent. “Thank you for making me do that.”

“If I could hug you, Heeseung, I would,” she said as she opened the door. And Heeseung could hear the solemness behind her words too.

x. 

If Y/N had to be honest with herself- really, truly honest- having Heeseung around was better than she had ever imagined. It wasn’t strange anymore, not eerie or unsettling. In fact, his presence had become something she looked forward to. It was grounding and it was warm. She’d grown used to talking to him while she cooked, watching his subtle reactions when she tried new recipes, listening to his quiet suggestions when she asked aloud which spices might work best. She painted him more often now too- he had become her favorite subject. He’d stand still for hours, letting her experiment with light and shadow across the same face she once feared.

Their arguments, mostly over books or music or the nuances of art, had become the backdrop of her days. She would roll her eyes when he quoted Dickens and Shakespeare like they were old drinking buddies, but secretly, she loved every second of it. There was comfort in the way he listened to her stories about the outside world- her world. Stories that once felt mundane, like a visit to Hyunjin’s bakery or learning to play mahjong with the grandmas in town, were suddenly valuable because Heeseung hung on to every word. He made her feel like everything she experienced was meaningful.

It was inevitable, she told herself- the way she was starting to feel. She kept insisting it was just bound to happen, that she was simply reacting to the intimacy of his presence. But she couldn’t ignore the way she now noticed him more deeply, the way she liked how he was there when she woke up and how he lingered by the window while she painted. She liked the attention, the companionship, the way he stayed beside her in town even though no one else could see him.

Eventually, she realized he was exploring the town on his own too. He’d never enter anyone’s house- he’d made that clear- but he did peek through their windows at night. He told her it was to see what a happy house looked like, one where families were built on love and not on fear or silence. It was during one of those conversations that he started to unravel the truth about his own life: that it hadn’t been normal, not in the slightest. That his time in the house wasn't supposed to feel like a cage, and that his brothers weren’t supposed to be his only world.

She noticed the sadness in him shift. It wasn’t the same grief he carried when they first met. It had changed- grown heavier and more bitter, like he was mourning something he never even realized he’d lost. And while he never quite brought it up directly, Y/N could feel the weight of that unspoken ache, resting between them in quiet moments.

Then there was Hyunjin. Heeseung observed their friendship closely- curiously, not jealously. It was a kind of closeness that confused him. He tried to compare it to the bond he once shared with his brothers but it didn’t match. There was something softer here, something he couldn’t name. So he asked one day, not out of accusation, but genuine uncertainty.

“Are you and Hyunjin in love?”

Y/N looked up from her book, caught off guard. She blinked before bursting into laughter, loud and clear. “What? Why would you think that? That’s insane.”

Heeseung’s cheeks reddened as he stumbled through his thoughts. “I’m not sure. It just… seemed that way.”

Still smiling, she shook her head. “Well, I’m not in love with him. So don’t worry.”

“Worry about?”

She paused at that. Her smile faltered slightly as she turned her face away. “Nothing,” she muttered, her tone playful, but tinged with hesitation.

Heeseung tilted his head. “Y/N?”

With a sigh, she finally admitted, “It’s just hard.”

His stomach turned. “What is?”

“This,” she said quietly, gesturing between them. “The fact that you’re always here, but you’re not actually... here.”

Her words landed heavily. Heeseung’s heart, or whatever remained of it, dropped. For a brief second, he feared he’d overstayed his welcome- that he had become a burden. But her voice softened, as if she could sense his spiral.

“It’s hard on me too,” he replied. “I wish I were alive every day too.”

She looked up at him again, her eyes a little glossy. “You know, whenever we’re in town and I catch a glimpse of you, all I want to do is hug you.”

He didn’t know what to say. That ache- the one he’d started to carry recently- grew deeper. He wanted to tell her how much he longed for the same thing. That he wished he could reach for her hand or lean into her shoulder. But all he managed was the truth.

“It kills me,” she whispered. “That I can’t touch you.”

He stepped closer, even if it meant nothing physically. “I’m aware,” he said gently. “It pains me too.”

They stood there in silence, simply looking at each other. It wasn’t an awkward silence- it was full, charged, a silence that said everything they didn’t know how to voice aloud. In a perfect world, they would have already kissed by now. In a perfect world, Heeseung would be alive. They would have held hands on lazy afternoons, kissed in doorways, fought over breakfast routines. They would have been two ordinary people who slowly fell in love.

But their world wasn’t perfect. In fact, their worlds weren’t even the same.

And neither of them knew what to do with that truth. Y/N felt her throat tighten the longer she held his gaze, the weight of what they couldn’t have pressing down on her chest. The look in Heeseung’s eyes mirrored her own- soft, longing, and aching. Whatever she was feeling, it was returned. And maybe that should have been enough. But it wasn’t.

She bit down gently on her bottom lip, trying to steady her heartbeat. “Will you lay beside me tonight?” She asked suddenly.

Heeseung blinked, confused by the request. “What?”

“Just… lay beside me,” she repeated, her voice quieter now. “Be next to me, not at the corner of the room or sitting on the chair. Just beside me. Close your eyes if you want. Pretend you’re real.”

Heeseung didn’t hesitate this time. “Okay.”

That night, as the moonlight spilled softly across the floor, Y/N tucked herself into bed and pulled the blanket up to her chin. She felt oddly nervous as Heeseung moved beside her, lying down with his head on the second pillow. He was close- closer than he’d ever been. Their bodies couldn't touch, but his presence was undeniable. She could feel the way he was watching her, and she didn’t shy away from meeting his gaze.

She blinked at him through the quiet darkness, letting herself memorize the shape of his face- his lashes, the slope of his nose, the way his lips parted like he was about to speak but never did. Something about their nearness made everything feel even more impossible. But also, strangely, more real.

“This is nice,” she whispered.

Heeseung’s voice was soft too. “Yeah.”

They didn’t say anything else. Eventually, her breathing slowed, and so did his. Just before sleep began to pull her under, she swore she felt it- the faintest, static-like touch of his hand against her waist. Not warm or tangible, just… there. And she didn’t move- she just let it be.

For a moment, it felt like everything that wasn’t possible somehow was.

But Y/N woke up crying.

Heeseung wasn’t expecting it. He had been lying there, watching her sleep- just like he did every night now, just closer. But this morning, her breathing hitched before her eyes even opened. A broken sob escaped her throat, and then the tears came, spilling down her cheeks in silence at first, and then with sound.

Heeseung panicked. He moved closer, his hands twitching like he could wipe the tears off her face, like he could hold her, pull her into his chest- but he couldn’t. He couldn’t do anything. He watched helplessly as she sat up and buried her face in her palms, her shoulders trembling violently.

“I can’t do this,” she cried. “I can’t, Heeseung.”

His chest cracked. “Y/N,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “I’m so sorry.”

“Why did you have to be dead?” she sobbed, louder now, raw and desperate. “Why?”

Heeseung didn’t know what to say. He wanted to scream too- at whatever cruel design had made this their fate. He wanted to claw his way back into life, just to hold her.

“Why did it have to be me?” She gasped between breaths. “Why couldn’t I have just fallen in love with Hyunjin? He’s alive. He’s real. Why did it have to be you?”

Her words gutted him. He felt the sting of them not because she meant to hurt him- but because she was right. And she wasn’t wrong to wish things had been different. None of this was fair.

Y/N’s voice dropped to a whisper, shaking as she began to speak again.

“I had a dream,” she said. “You were alive.”

Heeseung’s heart stilled.

“We were married,” she continued. “We had a house. You worked in town. I painted. We had two kids, a garden, noisy neighbors, shared groceries, Sunday mornings. You kissed me on the forehead every time you left for work. I could talk to you in public. We could… make love. I could fall asleep on your chest and know it would still be there in the morning.”

As she spoke, Heeseung felt the muscles in his chest ache- like something inside him had snapped. He wanted to cry, and somehow, he did. His head bowed as translucent tears slipped down his cheeks, the ghost of grief manifesting through him.

“I wish I could do all those things with you too,” he choked out. “I wish I could live in the town with you, grow old with you. I wish I could sit with you in the courtyard, paint your hands holding mine.”

“But I can’t even touch you,” she cried. “Do you know what that’s like, Heeseung? To love someone you can’t touch? To need them, physically, but never get to feel them? I can’t even hold you when I’m falling apart.”

She gripped the front of her shirt, clutching the spot where her heart thrashed like it wanted to break through her chest.

“It hurts. It hurts so much I don’t know what to do with myself. It’s not the kind of pain you cry out and move on from. It’s in my ribs. It’s in my stomach. It’s in my spine. It’s… it’s in my blood. I don’t even feel like a person anymore. I feel like grief wearing skin.”

Heeseung’s hands hovered beside her, trembling with the weight of everything he couldn’t give her. “I’m so sorry, Y/N,” he whispered. “I’m sorry I put you through this. I’m sorry I can’t fix it. I’m so, so sorry.”

That day passed painfully. So did the days that followed.

They tried to be normal- shared breakfasts, quiet painting sessions, reading books, weekend walks to town, movie nights curled up in the same room. But something had shifted and it lingered like fog no sunlight could cut through. Y/N carried the weight of that morning like a bruise on her chest- visible only to those who knew where to look.

Even Hyunjin noticed.

He asked her one afternoon, gently, if something had happened. He said she hadn’t been herself lately. She wasn’t laughing like she used to, and wasn't lighting up the room like she always did. She was quieter now- calm, yes, but in a way that felt too still. Like the calm before a storm that never breaks.

She moved through the world like a version of herself trapped underwater- responsive, composed, but dulled. Brazen, maybe, but only because she'd run out of energy to be soft.

And every time she looked at Heeseung, her eyes were unbearably heavy. She was tired of loving someone she couldn't hold; tired of pretending the ache wasn’t swallowing her whole.

And Heeseung felt it too- how the air between them had changed. He wanted to fix it, to bring her joy again, but he didn’t know how. Because this wasn't about cheering her up. This was grief. This was the unbearable weight of loving someone who could never fully love you back in the way that mattered most.

And they both knew it. Even if they didn’t say it aloud.

One morning, Heeseung found her one late morning, standing barefoot in the middle of the living room, every one of her canvases laid out in uneven rows across the floor like puzzle pieces she hadn't figured out how to fit together yet. The sun poured in through the east-facing windows, painting warm gold onto the floorboards, but her expression was cool- measured. Her hand was perched under her chin, elbow resting in the other arm like she was trying to solve a problem only she could see.

Heeseung spotted the painting of himself first. The one they didn’t talk about. The one they could barely look at anymore without their chests tightening. Even now, it looked out of place among the others- too raw, too intimate, like a wound that hadn’t quite closed.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice low so it wouldn’t break the air between them.

“Examining,” she said plainly, eyes still on the paintings. “Wondering if people will buy them.”

Heeseung scoffed. “People would be criminal not to.”

She turned her head slightly at that, and for a second- just a second- he saw it: the faintest curve of a grin tugging at her lips. It was fleeting, but it made his chest tighten in a different way this time. She barely grinned anymore. Not at him, not at anything.

But maybe- just maybe- it meant she was coming back to him, inch by inch.

“Hey, Heeseung?”

“Yeah?” He perked up.

Y/N pointed to her paintings. The content in them was ghostlike, layered with meaning she never fully explained. He followed her gesture and let his eyes fall on the subtle shadows she was referring to: the faint suggestion of umbrellas dissolving into rain near the background of a street scene; seven boys on a hill, heads blending into one another like they were part of the terrain; the curve of someone’s spine disappearing behind a collapsing wall. And in one of them- most haunting of all- a blurry group of boys, captured mid-laugh, faces smeared like an old photo left out in a storm.

A photograph he knew, a memory he carried. But she had never seen it.

“I never asked you about these,” she said. Her voice had that hush it took on when she was unsure if she was asking too much.

Heeseung tilted his head. “I wonder how you even painted them,” he murmured. “You've never seen them.”

“The pictures on the wall,” she said softly. “Where are they now?”

“The basement,” he replied after a pause. “A long time ago, I used to try and get into the boxes down there. But I gave up trying.”

Y/N’s face changed slowly, like realization was creeping across her skin. “The contractor told me never to enter the basement,” she said. “Strict instructions from the owner-”

“Warden's brother?”

“I guess so, yeah,” she whispered, almost breathless now. Something clicked in her mind- and she turned sharply.

Without another word, she strode down the hall, Heeseung close behind, moving in that strange floating way he did when he was especially tense.

The entrance to the basement was tucked behind a narrow door at the end of the corridor- one that looked more like a forgotten closet than the gateway to anything meaningful. Y/N hesitated before opening it. The stairs beyond were steep, built decades ago in a style that now felt almost theatrical: narrow slats of dark wood, carved into the spine of the house like bones, each one groaning slightly beneath weight that was no longer there. Dust floated in thick strands through the shaft of her phone torchlight.

And at the bottom- the basement door, tall, wooden, and ancient. It loomed, framed by cracked paint and rusted hinges. It looked like it belonged to a different house entirely, maybe even a different time.

She stared at it, torchlight flickering across its surface. The door looked heavy, too heavy for something that hadn’t been opened in years. It was a kind of door you’d only open if you were prepared for whatever might come out.

Heeseung hovered beside her, his voice a whisper. “How are you going to get in?”

She didn’t look at him, her eyes were on the lock. “Bobby pin,” she said, pulling one from the back of her head with that same calm she used when she picked at tangled wires or fixed a brush that had fallen apart. Her fingers moved quickly, confidently.

And then, silence.

Click.

xi. 

The past few days had been quietly devastating. Not in the loud, cinematic way where things crash or fall apart in an instant- but in the slow, aching sense, like watching rot bloom in the walls. The shift between them was palpable. And for Heeseung, it was like coming to terms with his own death all over again- only worse, somehow.

Every night, once Y/N had fallen asleep- if she managed to fall asleep- he’d find himself standing in the corner of her room, watching the way the moonlight traced her silhouette under the blanket. His mind would wander, like it always did, replaying the day from the beginning. He remembered the way her eyes welled with tears mid-conversation, how her laugh would start and then die suddenly, like a balloon deflating. Sometimes, she’d push her food around her plate in silence, forgetting he was even there. Other times, he would catch her staring at her paints with that faraway look, like they weren’t just tools anymore, but reminders- of him, of everything she couldn’t have.

She even skipped mahjong night with Hyunjin once- something she never did. Instead, she curled into her bed like a child, hugging her blanket to her chest, sobbing so hard that her ribs shook with the weight of it. That was the night she kicked him out. She hadn’t yelled. She didn’t even look at him. She had just whispered, "Please leave," in a voice so small it felt like it belonged to a ghost, not her. The irony wasn’t lost on him. He was the ghost, and yet she was the one fading.

It was the first time she had ever shut him out like that.

And yet, even when she let him in, it wasn’t easier. There were nights when she’d sit across from him and just cry- ugly, shaking sobs- and she’d cry about him. About how much it hurt to love someone she couldn’t touch. And Heeseung, powerless, would cry too. And sometimes, in a moment of desperation, he’d try. He’d reach out- slowly, gently- fingertips brushing the air, as if maybe, just maybe, something would change.

But nothing did. His hand would pass through her shoulder, her cheek, her hand. Again and again. And each time, it chipped away at him a little more.

It was unbearable- to be around someone you loved but not be with them. To be in the room and yet feel galaxies apart.

Heeseung was convinced he was losing her. It wasn’t melodrama- it was instinct. He could feel her slipping, inch by inch. She was disappearing under the weight of trying to love him. And he hated that. He hated that her sadness was because of him. That she, who had so much life, was burning herself out loving someone already dead.

So of course, he thought it was inevitable. That soon she’d fall out of love with him- not out of cruelty, but out of necessity. Because how long could someone survive like this? Being in love with something intangible? It would only make sense to pull away, to protect herself, to let go.

What he didn’t expect- what he never saw coming- was the moment he saw her in front of the basement door, armed with a bobby pin and stubborn determination.

She was trying to help him.

Y/N, despite all the pain, despite the distance that had cracked open between them, had still broken into the basement. And she had done it for him- for the fragments of memory he couldn't reach. For the questions he still hadn’t answered. For the little boy he once was- the one buried somewhere under trauma, silence, and forgotten photographs.

And in that moment, watching her crouching in front of the ancient lock with furrowed brows and hair falling in her face, Heeseung felt a sudden swell in his chest. Like grief, but also like love.

She wasn’t falling out of love with him. She was still fighting for him. Even if it was tearing her apart. And somehow, that made it worse- and better- at the same time.

The basement was… unsettling.

It wasn’t the usual cluttered chaos of a forgotten storage space- it was heavier than that. The kind of place that felt watched, even in its silence. The concrete stairs groaned under Y/N’s weight as she descended, the flashlight from her phone slicing through thick shadows. It illuminated walls coated in dust and spiderwebs, the air damp and cold like something long dead had settled into the cracks.

But Y/N moved like she had seen this scene before- because she had. In every horror movie she secretly loved. In every haunted attic, every locked cellar. Maybe that’s why she looked so calm, even as the shadows swallowed her whole.

The basement was smaller than she expected. Smaller than a bedroom, maybe the size of a large closet- but with none of the comfort. Its walls were lined with built-in wooden shelves that strained under the weight of cardboard boxes and stacked, dust-laced photo frames, each one too carefully placed to be ordinary.

Y/N knelt down in front of one of the boxes and carefully pried it open. The second she peeled back the flaps, a strange feeling crept up her spine. Like she had just cracked open something sacred- or something forbidden. Her fingers trembled as she reached inside.

“There are so many files,” she murmured, legs crossed as she pulled the box closer. The cardboard scraped against the concrete. Heeseung lowered himself too, sitting across from her like a reflection in some mirrored dimension, his gaze pinned to the open box between them.

And then- he saw them.

Photos.

Faces.

Their faces.

His brothers.

His breath caught in his throat. It was like someone had slammed their hand against his chest. He hadn’t seen their faces in so long, the sudden recognition knocked the air out of him. For a split second, he worried- panicked- that he wouldn’t remember them. That time had eroded the edges of their smiles, blurred their features into grain.

But there they were.

Young.

So young.

“Are they your brothers?” Y/N asked carefully, holding up a file with Jungwon’s photo clipped to the front. Her voice was gentle, like she knew she was handling something delicate, like the moment might shatter if she got too close.

Heeseung leaned in. He had to squint and rub his eyes.

Because that wasn’t the Jungwon he remembered.

This Jungwon- he was a child. Maybe eight? Nine? His face was still round with baby fat, hair cut unevenly like someone had done it in a rush. There was something hollow in the photograph’s composition too- like it wasn’t meant to be seen. At least not by them.

Y/N pulled out another.

Niki- barely a teenager. Wide-eyed, confused, like he didn’t know where he was when the photo was taken- a mugshot of some sorts.

And as Y/N flipped through the files, more and more of them surfaced. Sunghoon. Jay. Jake. Sunoo. All of them frozen in time, too small, too fragile. And then, finally- Heeseung. But even that picture didn’t look right. He couldn’t place the memory at all.

“What… what are these?” He whispered. His voice trembled. His hands had begun to shake. It was fear, yes, but it was also disbelief. “Why do we look so young?”

Y/N didn’t answer right away. She was flipping through his file now, fingers brushing over sheets and sheets of documents. Her brows furrowed as her eyes scanned the pages.

“They look like…” She swallowed. “They look like case files. I don’t know. There’s so much here- medical records, government forms, birth certificates...”

“Wait,” Heeseung said, his voice cracking. “I had documents? Medical files?”

His head turned sharply toward her, eyes wide with confusion. “But I’ve never been to a hospital. I’ve never even seen a doctor before. Not that I remember…”

The silence was tangible.

Heeseung looked at her now- not just with fear, but with the kind of childlike bewilderment that made him seem ten years younger. Like something inside him had cracked open.

“Y/N,” he said, voice almost breaking. “What is all this?”

“Heeseung…” she began, her voice faltering at the edges.

The words felt forbidden- like they weren’t meant to be spoken, like uttering them would make them too real. But they had slithered their way into her mind the moment she’d seen those photos, those files, those faces so young they looked like they’d barely had a childhood. And now they itched at her throat, demanded to be said.

She swallowed hard.

“Heeseung, do you think that maybe…” She paused, barely breathing. “Maybe you were kidnapped?”

The question shattered something.

It didn’t just knock the breath out of Heeseung- it knocked the existence out of him. Like the very architecture of who he thought he was fractured in real time. He stared at her, but not really at her- his eyes twitched and glazed over, like the cogs in his brain had finally started to turn after years of rust. His hands clenched around nothing. His chest rose, then sank, then rose again.

And for a second, there was silence. A terrible, shaking silence.

“…I don’t know,” he finally whispered. It was the most honest thing he’d ever said. “Maybe we were,” he added. “Kidnapped. Maybe… we were.”

Y/N didn’t say anything in return. She couldn’t. Because the second she heard those words leave his mouth, the floor beneath them felt colder. The shadows in the corners of the room seemed to grow teeth.

She turned her attention back to the boxes. Her hands were faster now, desperate, flipping through sheet after sheet with the kind of quiet urgency reserved for grave robbers and survivors. She pulled out documents so dense they seemed to scream in silence- paperwork filled with signatures from people she didn’t recognize, medical records listing odd dosages and obscure diagnoses, handwritten letters in cursive that slanted violently to the right.

There were bills- massive ones, tagged with hospital logos from cities they’d never lived in. There were journals too, cracked leather-bound notebooks filled with jagged writing and unnerving notes about compliance, observation, medication schedules. Pages were bookmarked with receipts, polaroids, and once- just once- what looked like a setlist of sheet music. It had Heeseung’s name on the corner, written in a neat, unfamiliar hand.

Another box held sketchbooks- childish doodles of houses and animals, then more somber portraits as the pages progressed. The boys’ names were scribbled on the backs, some in crayon, some in pencil. A drawing of a house on a hill showed up more than once, looming behind stick figures with “H” and “J” written underneath them.

There was a teddy bear, an ear pulled out with its stuffing spilling out. “That was Sunoo’s,” Heeseung whispered at the memory- the way Sunoo never slept without it. “He used to call in Ddeunnu.”

And then she pulled out the frames.

They were heavier than she expected and cold to the touch. The glass was smudged and cracked in places, but the images inside were chillingly clear.

Group photos. So many group photos. All seven of them- Heeseung, Jungwon, Sunghoon, Jay, Jake, Sunoo and Niki. In some of the pictures, they were dressed in matching uniforms- deep navy blue jackets with gold buttons, the kind that looked like a cross between military and school attire. In others, they wore elaborate masquerade costumes- velvet coats, lace cuffs, intricate masks that covered their eyes, all standing in front of the same ornate backdrop- a burgundy curtain framed by black marble columns.

Each photo was more surreal than the last. It didn’t feel like they were taken at school or parties- it felt like they were part of… something else. Something curated, something staged. 

Heeseung’s eyes locked onto the photos, and for a moment, he didn’t move- didn’t blink, didn’t breathe.

And then his knees buckled.

There was no sound when he hit the floor- of course there wasn’t. Ghosts don’t make sounds when they fall. But Y/N felt it anyway. Like the room itself exhaled a terrible grief.

Heeseung didn’t sob right away. He just stared. And the look on his face- blank, but not empty- was more haunting than any scream. His hands twitched at his sides, fingers brushing the floor like he was trying to find something to hold onto but he couldn’t

The photographs weren’t candid.

They were composed, like portraits for a catalogue. They looked like dolls- or exhibits.

Not children.

“I remember these,” Heeseung whispered, his voice barely there. “All of them. Warden would line us up, make us stand still… even if someone was crying, the photo had to be taken.”

His voice cracked.

“And this one,” he pointed weakly at a frame where Jay’s mask was slightly off-center, “Jay got scolded after this. For ruining the symmetry.”

Y/N crouched beside him, knees creaking against the cold floor. Her fingers hovered above one of the frames, but she didn’t touch it. It felt wrong- like these images would burn her if she got too close.

“I didn’t forget,” Heeseung said. “I thought I did… but I didn’t. I remember what it felt like. The lights, the silence, the rules. I remember the ache of standing still for too long. I remember Niki sneezing and getting punished for it. I remember how cold we were.”

He reached for one of the pictures- his hand passed through the glass. Again. Always again.

“I miss them,” he breathed. “I miss them so much I don’t know how to exist without them. I didn’t know grief could survive death. But it does. It really, really does.”

And then he let go.

His head dropped forward, shoulders trembling. His form flickered again, softer this time, like even the memory of him was starting to fade beneath the grief.

And then he reached for her- without warning. Just instinct; just need.

Heeseung moved to wrap his arms around Y/N, to bury his face in the curve of her neck and hold onto something- someone. But he passed right through her.

His hands slipped through her shoulders like water through shaking fingers. His chest, his arms, his entire being- transparent against her warmth.

And it broke him.

A single, raw sound left his throat- just a breath torn in half.

“I just wanted-” he tried, his voice catching, “I just wanted to feel someone. Just once.”

Y/N gasped softly, tears she didn’t realize she’d been holding welling at the corners of her eyes. She turned, her hands grasping at empty air, aching to pull him close even if she couldn’t.

She settled instead for sitting inside the outline of where he’d tried to be- her body overlapping with his in the only way it could. Her arms crossed through his chest, through his flickering ribs, and though he couldn’t feel it… maybe he could sense it.

Her voice was a whisper, like prayer. “I’m here. I’m right here, Heeseung.”

He collapsed again, in the same spot, his entire form pulsing faintly like a flame fighting wind. Not gone. But fragile.

Y/N stayed with him like that- half in shadow, half in him- pressing her palms to the floor where he knelt, grounding them both.

xii. 

“There’s a newspaper clipping in here,” Y/N muttered, her fingers trembling as she pulled out a brittle, yellowing scrap from the depths of Heeseung’s folder- the same one that had the hauntingly young picture of him clipped to the corner. The paper was delicate, almost disintegrating between her fingertips, the ink faded to the shade of ash. “Do you want me to read it?” she asked gently.

He was sitting slouched against the opposite shelf, eyes wide but unfocused- like he wasn’t really in the basement anymore. Like he was somewhere far away, suspended in memory or maybe just shock. His elbows were loosely propped on his knees, fingers hanging limply, the curve of his spine folded in on itself. He looked so small like that.

When he nodded, it was barely a movement. Just a slow tilt of the head, he was a ghost remembering how to say yes.

Y/N inhaled, bracing herself. Then she began to read:

“Missing Child: Lee Heeseung, Age eleven. Last seen in his neighbourhood at 5:30 PM on September 17th. He was wearing a red sweater, navy shorts, and white sneakers. His parents reported him missing after he failed to return home from a routine outing. Heeseung is described as quiet, artistic, and soft-spoken, with a birthmark on his right shoulder blade and a chipped front tooth. If you have seen this child or have any information regarding his whereabouts, please contact the number below. Any information, no matter how small, could help reunite him with his family. Thank you.”

She didn’t look up, only stared at the picture that came with the newspaper clipping- Heeseung, an eleven year old boy, playing on a swing set with a toothy smile, his chipped tooth on his display.

Her eyes stung. Her voice shook near the end. There was something violently wrong about reading such a cold, clipped notice about a child who had been loved. A child who had vanished. A child who was sitting beside her now, flickering like the ghost of his own life.

“I had a chipped tooth?” Heeseung whispered, disbelieving. One hand absently reached for his mouth, as if trying to feel the past.

Y/N finally looked up. Her throat ached from holding it all in. “You were just a kid.”

He didn’t say anything.

He just stared at the floor between them, the silence stretching until it frayed at the edges.

And then, very quietly, he said, “They were looking for me.”

Tears welled in his eyes again, but they didn’t fall. Not this time.

“They were looking for me… and I never came back.”

The words hung in the air like a breath that hadn’t been exhaled, heavy and still. Y/N didn’t know how to respond. What could she possibly say to that? Nothing felt adequate. So she let the silence settle around them, dense and grief-laced, and turned her attention back to the folders, searching for something- anything- that would help them make sense of this unraveling truth.

She continued flipping through the others’ files, and with each one, her stomach sank deeper. Like Heeseung’s, every folder held a newspaper clipping- old, yellowed, the ink faded to a tired gray. They were heartbreakingly brief, sterile lines that turned entire lives into footnotes. She read them aloud, her voice quiet, reverent, as if disturbing the paper might make the boys disappear all over again.

“Ten-year-old Park Jongseong- Jay- vanished while returning home from music class. Last seen near a subway exit in Busan.”

“Nine-year-old Sim Jaeyun- Jake- missing from a botanical garden in Ulsan. Reported last seen by a field trip chaperone at 3:45 PM.”

“Ten-year-old Park Sunghoon disappeared after leaving a regional skating competition in Incheon. No security footage available.”

“Eight-year-old Yang Jungwon was last spotted leaving school grounds with an unidentified woman.”

“Nine-tear-old Kim Sunoo, last seen with his sister in the local park.”

“Six-year-old Nishimura Riki- Niki- was reported missing from his kindergarten in Sapporo. A search was launched, but no leads were found.”

Y/N stared down at the clippings, horror creeping up her spine as a timeline began to take shape. She sorted the files according to the dates on the clippings, the story slowly falling into place. Heeseung had been the first- his disappearance marked the beginning of whatever twisted operation this was. Then came Jungwon, then Jay, followed by Sunoo, Jake, Sunghoon, and finally Niki. The youngest. The last.

These weren’t random abductions. They were patterned and intentional- like someone had been collecting them- each boy added methodically, like specimens for something sick and curated.

She hesitated for a moment, then asked the question before she could stop herself, “Do you think your parents are still alive?”

The second it left her mouth, she regretted it. Because how could he know? He didn’t even know he had a family until a few minutes ago. And yet, the expression that crept onto Heeseung’s face didn’t resemble confusion or anger- it was something else. Something far worse. His features twisted into a quiet devastation, like the realization itself was physically painful. His eyes stared into some distant point across the room, wide and hollow, and when he finally spoke, his voice sounded like it had been buried underground for years.

“I had parents…” He murmured, more to himself than to her, as if the sentence was brand new and unfamiliar. The truth of it seemed to land in real time, shaking the very foundation of his being. He turned his head slightly toward Y/N, still dazed, still unraveling. “Do you think they remember me?”

Y/N’s heart clenched at the rawness of the question. She didn’t hesitate. She shifted closer, her voice firm but full of quiet affection. “Of course they do,” she said, her tone resolute. “No parent forgets their child, Heeseung. Not ever. Especially not you.”

He nodded, barely, but the movement was slow and unsure. His eyes shimmered, the light within them fragile and trembling. He didn’t cry- not exactly- but something inside him fractured further. The weight of what had been taken from him was only now beginning to press down on his shoulders, and for the first time, he was letting it.

“Do you want to get Hyunjin involved?” Y/N asked cautiously, her voice soft, testing the edges of the question like it might collapse under its own weight.

Heeseung didn’t respond right away. His gaze dropped to the floor, eyes still rimmed with the ghost of tears. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, a blend of resignation and quiet skepticism. “What can he possibly do to help that you can’t?” he asked. “What else is there left to do with this information?”

Y/N took a breath, grounding herself. “Heeseung,” she said, calm but firm, her hands spread open like she was offering him the truth itself. “So much. We can figure out who you were before you were taken. We can find your parents. We can track down Warden’s brother and get real answers- about who she was, what she was doing, and why she needed all of you. We’re not done, not even close. And Hyunjin… Hyunjin can help me. I could really use the help.”

Heeseung turned away slightly, leaning back against the dusty shelf behind him, his form flickering faintly in the low light. He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he sat there silently, the weight of her words settling into him. His eyes moved slowly as he considered it- really considered it. He thought about the risk, about opening up to another stranger. 

But he also thought about how tired Y/N looked- how worn down she was after digging through the past alone, carrying all this heartbreak in her bare hands. He thought about the warmth in her voice when she said we. He thought about the idea of finally knowing the truth.

“Hyunjin…” he murmured, his brow creasing faintly, “Is he trustworthy?”

Y/N nodded without hesitation. “Yes. Or at least- I hope so. He’s not the type to believe in spirits or hauntings. He’ll probably think I’m crazy. But I’ll find a way to convince him. I have to. Because you’re real, Heeseung. You’re real, and this matters.”

For a moment, he stared at her like he was trying to memorize her conviction, like he needed it to steady himself. And then, slowly, quietly, he nodded.

“Okay.”

Y/N only worked up the courage to call Hyunjin later that evening.

She almost didn’t. It was late, and the storm had started again- hard, cold rain crashing against the windows like fists. The same rain that had poured the first night she saw Heeseung, when she’d run away from him in fear. The memory pulsed in her chest as she tapped his contact. Her fingers trembled.

“I need you, please. It’s urgent,” she said the second he picked up.

And true to who he was, Hyunjin was already on his way.

When he showed up at her door, the rain had soaked through his jeans and shoes, and his umbrella had barely done the job. With one squinty eye and a frustrated hand raking through his wet hair, he stepped inside, shrugging off his jacket.

“Thank you so much, Hyunjin,” Y/N said quickly, reaching to take the coat from him. “I’m sorry to do this so late.”

“Is everything okay?” he asked, confusion etching his brows. “What’s going on? Did you see a ghost again?” He laughed- but it faltered as soon as he saw her expression. Her face didn’t move. No laugh, no eye-roll. “Wait… you actually saw a ghost?”

“Hyunjin,” she said, steady now, “I need to show you something.”

She led him down to the basement.

Papers were strewn across the floor like a violent wind had passed through. Files had been pulled apart, clippings stacked in heaps, frames set out in careful yet chaotic rows. Diaries lay half-open, revealing jagged script and frantic sketches. A handful of items- a teddy bear, faded photographs, dried flowers- sat in a solemn little pile near the far wall. The air was heavy, thick with the weight of old secrets clawing their way into the light.

Hyunjin looked around slowly, his brow furrowing deeper with every step. He picked up a torn newspaper clipping, glanced at the yellowed dates and the name scribbled on the side. He moved to the group photos next- frames cold and deliberate. The boys stood in identical poses, only the costumes changing. All seven of them were arranged like curated dolls in a twisted collection. Not a single one was candid. None of them looked like real childhood memories. It brought chills down his spine as Y/N narrated her findings to him.

Heeseung stood at the back, watching silently. His presence wavered like candlelight- faint, fragile, but still there.

Y/N didn’t speak as Hyunjin took it in. She just let him. She watched his expression shift from confusion to quiet disbelief, to something bordering on dread.

“How do you know all this?” Hyunjin finally asked. “How do you know who this Warden person is? And… how is there not a single photo of her?”

“I don’t know,” Y/N said, her voice low. She picked up a file and handed it to him. Heeseung’s file. “But Heeseung told me.”

Hyunjin blinked at the photo. Then at her. Then back to the photo. Three times. His mouth opened to speak, but nothing came out until finally-

“The boy?” he scoffed. “What? Where is he- he’s alive?”

“No,” Y/N said firmly. “He’s dead. He’s a ghost. He was twenty-two when he died in the fire- you remember, you mentioned it to me.”

“Y/N…” Hyunjin stepped back slightly. His expression shifted- disappointment. He looked like he was trying to ground himself in reality, like maybe she had finally lost it. “You’re telling me you’ve been talking to a ghost?”

“I know how it sounds,” she said quickly, “I know it sounds insane, but- he’s here. Right now.”

Hyunjin stared at her.

“What?!”

“Don’t panic- Heeseung. His ghost. He’s right behind us, standing against that shelf.”

She pointed, eyes flicking to Heeseung, who stood solemn and still, his expression unreadable. But Hyunjin, of course, saw nothing but wood and dust.

“The ghost,” he repeated slowly, pointing to the same spot. “Is here. Right now. With us.”

“He is.”

“You expect me to believe this?”

“Do I have a reason to make any of this up? Look at these!” Y/N grabbed a stack of files and shoved them into his hands. “Look at the damn documents, Hyunjin. These children- these boys- they went missing. They were taken. And now one of them is here. Something horrible happened in this house. Your grandfather’s stories might not have just been stories after all.”

“Y/N, I get that- okay, fine, something happened- but the ghost part-”

“How do I prove it to him?” Heeseung said suddenly, and Y/N turned toward him instantly.

She faced Hyunjin again, heart racing. “What can he do to prove it to you?”

“I- I don’t fucking know!”

“He can flicker the lights,” Y/N offered, breath shallow, “or slam a door- ”

The lights above them flickered violently.

Hyunjin flinched.

A second later, the basement door slammed shut behind them with a force that echoed. A gust of air rushed through the room, knocking papers off the shelves and sending photos skidding across the concrete. Hyunjin stood frozen, staring at Y/N like she was the ghost now- eyes wide, chest rising and falling too fast.

… Yeah, he believed her. Or at least- he couldn’t not.

Then finally, Hyunjin whispered, “This is real. You’ve been living with a ghost.”

Y/N exhaled shakily. “Heeseung.”

“Right,” Hyunjin corrected, eyes flicking back to the empty space where Heeseung stood, as if trying to force himself to see him. “Heeseung. And he… and all these boys were kidnapped?”

Y/N nodded slowly. Her voice was quiet, but firm. “Yes. One by one. Over years. She took them and no one ever came to get them.”

“But… why?” Hyunjin asked, brows furrowed, frustration creeping into his voice. “What kind of person does that? What the hell was she trying to do?”

“We don’t know,” Y/N admitted. “Heeseung doesn’t know. But from what he’s described so far… it wasn’t just a home. She groomed them. Trained them. They had to dance, perform. There were rules. Routines. Like they were living in a theatre… or a museum. And she was the only audience.”

Hyunjin shivered, the weight of it settling in his shoulders. “That’s… horrifying.”

Y/N nodded. “And the owner of the house now? He’s her brother. And I also called the number in Heeseung’s clipping, but it didn’t go through.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Hyunjin assured, softer this time. “You’re not alone in this anymore.”

Y/N nodded, pressing her lips together to keep the emotion down.

“Now,” Hyunjin said, drawing in a breath, “I just need you to tell me everything. Everything that’s been happening with this gho-” he caught himself mid-word, “-with Heeseung. Sorry.”

Y/N turned her head to look at Heeseung- they were grinning at each other, a childlike thrill sparking between them at Hyunjin’s nerves.

xiii. 

Y/N and Hyunjin had been hunched over her laptop for hours, a blanket draped across their knees, the cursor blinking on a near-empty search page as they sifted through local archives, forum threads, and digitized newspaper articles. The house around them was quiet, save for the low hum of the heater and the occasional creak of old wood. Heeseung stood a little behind them, silent, watching over their shoulders with eyes that never seemed to blink.

So far, all they had found were fragments- individual reports of missing children, scattered across different cities and years. There was no central investigation, no unifying suspect, no theory tying the disappearances together. They weren’t even labeled a serial case. Just isolated tragedies. 

“Who would’ve thought to connect them?” Hyunjin muttered, eyes scanning another report. “Different years. Different cities. Different circumstances. It’s like… it was designed to go unnoticed.”

Y/N didn’t answer, but her expression tightened. Her hands clenched around the edge of the keyboard.

She could only imagine the ache of those parents. The slow death of hope. At first, the desperate begging in the papers and tearful interviews on national news. And then… nothing. The public stopped caring. The families stopped appearing. It was as if, one by one, the world made them grieve in silence. Made them forget.

Heeseung stood frozen when Y/N played grainy news footage, the audio brittle with age. Onscreen, a woman’s tear-stricken face came into view- eyes swollen, voice cracking as she pleaded into the microphone for her son to come home. Her pain was raw, open, and unfiltered, and next to her stood a man with haunted eyes, one hand resting protectively on her shoulder, the other holding back grief like a dam just about to burst. Heeseung didn’t speak. His entire body stilled as if some part of him recognized the weight of their sorrow, even if their faces were strangers to him. His form flickered- dim at the edges, like a ghost unraveling. 

“That’s them…” he breathed, not in recognition, but in disbelief. “That’s my mom and dad.” There was no memory to anchor the revelation, just a deep ache that bloomed in his chest- hollow and instinctual.

It was around the time they found a lead- a place, a possible town connected to Heeseung’s family- that Y/N’s phone rang.

She picked it up on instinct. “Hello?”

It was the house broker. His voice was flat, distant. “Hi, Miss Y/N. I… just wanted to inform you. The owner of the house? He passed away.”

The following week, under a sky bruised with late-morning clouds, Hyunjin and Y/N drove into town for the funeral. Hyunjin’s old sedan rattled noisily up the narrow road, its engine groaning with every gear shift like it was protesting the solemnity of the day. As they pulled into the funeral home’s gravel lot, the car let out a final grating whine before settling into a low rumble, drawing a few curious glances from nearby mourners. Y/N sank a little lower in her seat, face flushing in mild embarrassment.

Behind them, silent and unseen, Heeseung trailed like a shadow, his form hovering faintly in the space just beyond the car. Though the living couldn’t see him, he moved with a reverence that matched the occasion- his head bowed, eyes dim, absorbing every unfamiliar face like it might hold a secret to his past.

The funeral was held in a modest yet dignified hall. Rows of black-clad mourners filled the pews, their whispers hushed under the weight of grief. At the front, surrounded by pale lilies and framed condolences, sat a portrait of the deceased: the house’s former owner. He looked exactly how the broker had described him- an old, formidable man with a thick jawline, salt-and-pepper hair combed immaculately back, and stern eyes that seemed to glare even in the stillness of a photograph. There was something unmistakably authoritative about him, like he had spent most of his life being obeyed without question- a boss, a patriarch, maybe even a tyrant.

Heeseung could so easily see the resemblance between him and Warden.

Beside the photo stood a woman. She looked to be in her late fifties, though well-maintained, elegant in a tailored black dress with a string of pearls clutched at her throat like a lifeline. Her silver hair was pulled into a low bun, neat and deliberate. She dabbed at her cheek with a napkin- no sobs, just the occasional tear, as if mourning was something she’d been trained to endure quietly. She greeted mourners with a tight-lipped smile, nodding respectfully, but never spoke much. 

Y/N and Hyunjin watched her from a distance, wondering if she was his wife. She had the composure of someone who had weathered much, and the detachment of someone who had perhaps been at odds with the man she had just buried.

They didn’t know how to approach her. Would it be inappropriate to ask questions at a funeral? Would she even talk to them about something so sensitive- especially the long-dead sister of her husband, a woman connected to whispers, disappearances, and a history no one seemed to want to remember?

So they waited, patiently, until the crowd began to thin- until the perfunctory condolences had been offered, the last guests drifted out, and the hush of the room grew heavy with leftover sorrow. Then, cautiously, they stepped forward.

Y/N’s voice was steady, though her hands were cold. “Ma’am,” she said gently, eyes searching the older woman’s face for any hint of recognition, “I’m so sorry for your loss. But… we were hoping to ask you a few questions. About your husband’s sister?”

The woman’s brow furrowed, barely, but her grip on the napkin tightened. Her gaze, clear and sharp despite her age, moved from Y/N to Hyunjin, lingering longer than was comfortable. She didn’t answer right away, but something shifted in her eyes. Weariness, memory, maybe even fear. 

The woman led them quietly down a narrow hallway into a modest side room of the funeral home, one set aside for guests to rest or refresh. There were empty food trays lining a long table, the remnants of sandwiches and tea cakes left untouched. A single coffee machine blinked quietly in the corner, unattended. It smelled faintly of burnt beans and cheap cologne. She walked with slow, certain steps, like someone who had been expecting this moment for years. She didn’t ask who they were or why they’d come- not yet, atleast. Her expression remained unreadable, but the quiet resignation in her posture said enough: this wasn’t a surprise.

They sat across from her at a circular table, the thin paper cups crinkling slightly as she placed one before herself and took a careful sip. Hyunjin and Y/N took their seats opposite her, and behind them, silent and watchful, Heeseung lingered in the corner, arms folded, the faintest hint of anxious anticipation in his stance.

“Do you live in the house now?” The woman asked, her voice calm, detached.

Y/N nodded. “I do.”

“And you’ve never met my husband?”

“No. He never wanted to. Everything was handled through the house broker.”

“Ah.” She nodded slightly. “That nut job. He was quite annoying. I’m surprised he didn’t come to the funeral,” her gaze fell to the table for a moment, her fingers tightening around the cup. “I assume you’ve come because of the house. Whatever happened there?”

“That’s why we came,” Hyunjin said, his voice low.

The woman sighed. “To be completely honest with you… I don’t know much. Not the specifics, anyway. His sister was… a strange woman. She was never really part of the family. Estranged, I guess you could say. She hated us. And we- we learned to keep our distance.”

“Why?” Y/N asked. “Was something wrong with her?”

“She had a history of mental illness,” the woman replied. “When she was young, her parents had her committed. She’d cut herself open, tried to kill the dog, even ripped the wallpaper apart in her sleep. There were… episodes. They hoped it would get better with age. And in a way, it did- only because she learned how to hide it. The illness never left her. She just learned how to disguise the monster inside.”

“How did she manage to pull this off, though?” Hyunjin asked, almost incredulous. “Kidnapping so many children? No one noticed?”

The woman hesitated, her mouth pressing into a thin line. “When the fire happened, and the truth came out- at least partially- I begged my husband to go to the authorities. To tell them everything he knew. But he refused. Said it would ruin the family name. He’d rather carry the guilt than the shame. He always was a proud man. Too proud.”

“I’m sorry,” Y/N said softly. “That must’ve been hard.”

“I should have gone myself,” she whispered. “I regret that more than anything. Every day. But we didn’t know about the children. Not until the fire. Not until they died. My husband… he was horrified. We both were. But by then, it was too late. There was nothing to do but grieve.”

“When did she move into the house?” Hyunjin asked.

“She was already nearing forty when she left the family for good. That house was her escape. She isolated herself. The last time we heard from her, she was in her fifties- and then she died. We didn’t even know she was alive until the fire made the papers.”

“What happened to those children is unforgivable,” Y/N said. “They were groomed, kept like… like toys. She brainwashed them, we think. She made them dance, sing. She turned that house into a stage for her own sick fantasy.”

The woman nodded slowly, her face pale, haunted. “God knows what they went through,” she murmured. “And the fire… I suppose it ended everything. That’s the tragedy of it. They died, and we never got answers.”

Y/N leaned forward. “Did your husband ever go into the basement?”

She shook her head. “Not that I know of. He said he had it organized, had the place cleaned when he inherited the property, but… he never said anything about what was in it. I don’t think he could stomach it.”

“Well, we’ve been down there,” Y/N said. She took out her phone and pulled up one of the scanned photographs- one of the group pictures of the boys. Seven of them, barely teens, dressed in eerie uniformity, staring out at the camera with rehearsed smiles.

The woman took the phone in her hands, squinting as the image came into focus. Her breath caught. “Oh my god,” she whispered. “What was she doing with them like this? Did they even know who they were?”

“I don’t think so,” Y/N said. “They barely remember who they used to be.”

The woman looked heartbroken. “After the fire, I tried to look into it. I found one of the boys’ family addresses. I wanted to go to them, offer condolences. Maybe even a cheque… I don’t know. Something. But I never had the courage.”

Y/N’s breath hitched. “You found an address?”

“Yes. I think I still have it somewhere.”

Hyunjin leaned forward. “Do you remember whose family it was?”

The woman closed her eyes, searching her memory. Then slowly, she opened them again, her voice quiet. “The oldest boy. Lee Heeseung. Yes… it was his family’s address.”

From the corner of the room, Heeseung stood still, almost translucent in his shock. His gaze was locked on her, unblinking, frozen in disbelief. For the first time, someone besides Y/N had spoken his name. For the first time, there was a road leading back to the life he had lost.

He had a last name…

The car door creaked as Y/N slid into the passenger seat, the funeral home still visible in the side mirror. Hyunjin muttered something about the transmission and twisted the key in the ignition until the old engine grumbled awake. 

Y/N turned slightly in her seat to look at him, though to Hyunjin, it just looked like she was staring at empty air.

“You okay?” She asked gently.

Heeseung didn’t answer at first. His eyes were locked forward, somewhere far beyond the windshield. Finally, he whispered, “She said it. She has their address.”

Y/N nodded, her throat tight. “She did. And we’re going to go see them now.”

Heeseung’s hands, half-formed and flickering at the edges, clenched slightly in his lap. “They’re real,” he said. “They were real this whole time. They’re… out there.”

Hyunjin, hands resting on the wheel, slowly turned his head toward Y/N, his expression somewhere between confused and patient. “I’m guessing he’s talking?” he asked, careful with his words.

Y/N glanced over. “Yeah.”

“What’s he saying?”

She turned back toward the backseat. “He said… it’s just sinking in that his family is real. That they’re still alive. And we know where they are now.”

Hyunjin let out a long breath, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “God. That’s huge. What else is he saying?”

“He’s… kind of in shock, I think,” Y/N said softly. “He never remembered them. But now they’re not just names or guesses. They’re real people. And we’re this close to reaching them.”

From the backseat, Heeseung was staring at his hands. “Do I even deserve that?” he murmured. “After all this time?”

Y/N’s brow furrowed. “He’s wondering if he deserves to be remembered. To go back.”

“Of course he does,” Hyunjin said immediately, with more force than Y/N expected. “He was a kid. He didn’t ask for any of this.”

Y/N gave Heeseung a small, warm look. “Did you hear that?”

Heeseung nodded faintly. “Tell him… thank you. For still helping. Even if he can’t see me.”

Y/N smiled. “He says thank you. For still helping. Even if you can’t see him.”

Hyunjin’s lips twitched, a half-smile forming. “Anytime. I guess I’m part of the haunted now.”

Just then, the engine gave a metallic groan and the dashboard light flickered erratically. Heeseung jumped, even as his body stayed translucent.

“…Is this thing safe?” He asked warily.

Y/N snorted. “He wants to know if your car is even safe to ride in.”

Hyunjin groaned. “Tell him ghosts don’t get to complain about crash safety.”

Y/N grinned. “Heeseung, you heard the man.”

From the back, for the first time since they’d left the house that morning, Heeseung gave a real laugh- quiet and short, but whole. And for a fleeting second, Y/N thought the air around him shimmered just a little brighter.

xiv. prelude

It had been one of those slow, amber-lit afternoons, the kind that stretched lazily through the windows and spilled onto the kitchen floor like honey. Y/N had her hair tied up in a loose bun, an apron hanging off one shoulder, sleeves rolled to the elbow as she chopped vegetables on the worn wooden counter. The kitchen smelled like garlic, miso and something comforting like a childhood memory.

Heeseung was there- or rather, he had been for the past hour, drifting between rooms like he always did, but hovering a little longer today. He leaned against the doorway now, arms crossed, barely making a sound. His eyes were on her, quiet and soft, like he was afraid blinking would break the moment.

Y/N hummed to herself, a tune she didn’t know the name of, and reached for the pot. She didn’t even need to turn to know he was watching- she could feel it, warm as sunlight on her neck. When she finally looked up, she caught him mid-smile. Not the usual teasing one, not the playful ghost grin he wore when he startled her on purpose or made sarcastic remarks about her taste in TV shows. This smile was smaller, sadder maybe.

“What?” She asked, brow arching as she stirred the soup.

Heeseung blinked, startled. “Nothing. You’re just…” He tilted his head. “You look peaceful.”

She huffed a quiet laugh, brushing a hair from her face. “What, I need to be in a haunted house with a ghost roommate to finally find peace?”

Heeseung smiled again, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “No. I think it’s you that makes the house peaceful.”

She didn’t reply to that right away. Just stirred the pot, heart thudding in a strange, off-beat rhythm. She didn’t even look at him when she said, casually, “You always watch me like that?”

Heeseung straightened. “Like what?”

“Like…” She finally turned to him, and for a second, their eyes met-  hers grounded and steady, his flickering like candlelight. “Like I matter.”

“You do,” he said, without missing a beat. “Of course you do.”

It hit her then, in that small kitchen with the chipped tiles and the ghost who looked at her like she was the only living thing that ever made sense. She loved him.

And maybe he realized it too, in the same breath- because his voice was quieter when he added, “Sometimes I forget I’m dead when I’m near you.”

Y/N blinked, startled by the sudden sting in her eyes. “That’s not funny,” she said.

“I wasn’t trying to be funny.”

She turned back to the stove, stirring again just to keep her hands busy. But her chest was tight with something new and terrifying and gentle.

Behind her, Heeseung whispered, “If I could touch anything in this world… I think I’d hold you first.”

She didn’t say anything. She just kept stirring- afraid that if she turned around, she'd break apart.

But in that silence, both of them knew. Even if the world outside was broken, even if he wasn’t alive, and even if it was impossible- it was love; quiet, undeniable, and real.

Even if only one of them could feel the other’s heartbeat.

xv. 

The road stretched out endlessly ahead, all cracked tar and heat lines blurring the horizon. The hum of the car was the only sound for a long time, save for the occasional clink of metal, the soft shuffle of restless legs, the slow whir of Y/N adjusting the AC vent for the third time in five minutes.

Heeseung sat in the back seat, hands clasped tightly in his lap, They had another three hours to go- or two, maybe less. But Heeseung wasn’t counting down the time. He was counting down the courage.

He stared out the window at the blur of trees, of towns passing by that had no names in his memory, wondering if he’d ever driven this way before. Maybe he had. Maybe he’d sat in the back seat with his knees pressed together, earbuds in, head leaned against the window while his family laughed about something he was too moody to find funny.

Or maybe they’d never taken long trips. Maybe his world had always been small.

“Are you okay?” Y/N asked softly, not turning around.

His voice was low, like he was scared of disrupting the air. “I don’t know,” he said. “I thought I’d be excited to see them. Or at least… curious. But all I feel is dread.”

Y/N glanced at the rearview mirror. He wasn't there, of course- not to anyone else. Just air and memory. She didn’t press, just waited.

Heeseung shifted slightly in his seat, still staring outside. “It’s unfortunate, isn’t it? That they can’t see me. That even if I stood right in front of them, I’d be a gust of wind. A cold patch in the room. A feeling that makes them pause without knowing why. Would it have been easier,” he continued, voice tightening, “if I knew nothing? If I stayed forgotten?”

He ran a hand through his hair, almost laughing. “Maybe I’m scared. Actually- no, I am scared. Of finding out the truth. Of shattering the reality I’ve built in my head. What if it was better there? What if they are happy, and we ruin that just by giving them the truth?”

Y/N’s voice came gently, her eyes on the road, “Maybe they deserve the truth.”

Heeseung didn’t reply. 

Instead, he pondered to himself. He hoped they were okay. He hoped they found solace- found softness again. That dinner still tasted good. That birthdays still happened. That someone still played music in the house even when no one felt like dancing. That they grieved and then healed. He hoped they didn't look older than they should have. He hoped the grief didn’t stick to their bones. He hoped that when they laughed, it wouldn’t sound hollow.

The rest of the drive passed in that quiet. Not asleep, not talking- just stillness. Even Hyunjin, without knowing it, drove with a sort of reverence, like he sensed that the air in the car was fragile, sacred somehow.

When they finally arrived, the sky was just beginning to bruise into evening. A few birds circled lazily overhead. The house stood at the end of a short gravel path- brick walls, green-painted door, a swing that creaked slightly in the wind. It was the same swing that Heeseung was playing with in that childhood picture of him- the one in the newspaper. Warm light poured through the windows, and a curtain danced back into place like someone had just peeked through.

Y/N stepped out of the car first, stretching her legs and brushing the crumpled fabric of her pants smooth. Hyunjin followed, looking up at the house for a long moment, brow furrowed.

Y/N walked slowly toward the gate.

“Wait- ” Heeseung’s voice cracked through the air. Y/N stopped mid-step.

Hyunjin turned, confused. “What’s wrong?”

Y/N didn’t answer right away. She turned to look at the sidewalk, where Heeseung stood just beyond the reach of the streetlight, eyes wide, breathing shallow.

“Heeseung,” she said softly. “What is it?”

“I just… I need a minute.” His voice was shaking now, vulnerable in a way that made Y/N’s chest ache. “Don’t knock yet. Please.”

She nodded, backing away from the gate.

Hyunjin blinked. “What’s going on?”

Y/N hesitated, then said truthfully, “He’s scared.”

Hyunjin’s expression softened. “Scared of what?”

Heeseung took a slow step forward, eyes locked on the house. “Scared of what I’ll see. Scared they won’t remember me. Or worse… that they will, and it ruined them.”

Y/N’s voice wavered as she repeated his words to Hyunjin.

Heeseung looked at the porch, at the shoes lined up outside the door- tiny details that screamed domesticity, peace, movement and life.

“I kept imagining this house,” he said, more to himself now. “I thought if I saw it, I’d feel whole again. But I feel like I’m unraveling instead. I want them to be happy. I need them to be happy. Because if they’re not… if they’re broken, if I’m the reason they couldn’t move on… I don’t think I can survive that.”

As Y/N repeated his words, Hyunjin looked at her uneasily, “Heeseung said all that?”

She nodded.

“I just need a second,” Heeseung murmured again. “I’m not ready to knock yet.”

They stood there, caught in the space between memory and reality.

A breeze picked up, brushing past the trees and whispering through the wind chimes on the porch. Somewhere inside, someone laughed faintly- a burst of sound, then quiet.

Heeseung closed his eyes.

“I hope they’re okay,” he whispered.

“Hey, Heeseung,” Hyunjin started. Y/N tried not to laugh at his gaze, that his eyes kept darting amongst empty space in search of Heeseung. “Whatever is behind that door- you deserve to know. I hope you know that. You didn’t deserve the life you ended up with. So take your time, breathe. We don’t have to do this now.”

“No, I want to do this now,” Heeseung stood to his word, a quiet conviction in his expression.

“He says he wants to do it now,” Y/N said to Hyunjin and he nodded.

It felt like time changed course when Y/N finally knocked on the door. Though it was only two seconds, it stretched endlessly for Heeseung- like a whole lifetime crammed into the silence before the lock clicked and the door creaked open.

A man stood in the doorway. Not too old, not too young, maybe early forties, hair swept back but a little disheveled, like he’d just returned from a long day. He had a kind face, one that held laugh lines, a smile worn from use. There was a looseness in his shoulders, the way he grinned instinctively at the sight of strangers on his porch. “Can I help you?” He asked, voice warm, eyes flicking between Y/N and Hyunjin.

Heeseung stared.

There was something about him. Something… familiar. The shape of his nose, the curve of his jaw, even the way he stood- planted firmly, like the ground was home. Heeseung blinked, disoriented. It felt like looking into a mirror fogged with time.

Y/N hesitated, glancing once at Hyunjin before stepping forward. “Hi. Um... this might sound strange, but we were hoping to ask you a few questions? About someone who might’ve lived here. A long time ago.”

The man’s brows furrowed, the smile fading slightly. “This house has been in my family since I was a kid,” he said slowly. “Who are you looking for?”

Y/N took a breath, steadying her voice, “Heeseung.”

At the name, the man's expression didn’t immediately shift. He just stared for a moment, like running through distant memory. Then, quietly, he said, “Why?”

“We’re not journalists or anything,” Y/N added quickly, sensing the tension creeping into his posture. “We just... found something. And we wanted to make sure the right people knew.”

He was silent for a beat, still studying them- cautious, but not closed off. “You said Heeseung?” The name sounded more tender this time, more fragile. “You’re sure?”

Y/N nodded.

The man exhaled and leaned slightly against the doorframe.“He was my younger brother.”

Behind them, Heeseung froze.

“I haven’t heard that name out loud in... God. Years,” the man continued. “He disappeared when he was eleven. Just gone, overnight. No trace. My parents spent the rest of their lives wondering.”

Heeseung couldn’t move. The world tilted. A brother? He had a brother?

The man’s voice softened, almost apologetic. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened to him. We never did. One day he was in the backyard... and then he wasn’t. I was away at college. I came home to police tape and sirens.”

Heeseung felt something shatter in him- like a window cracking under pressure. 

The man stepped aside and opened the door wider. “I'm Jisoo. Come in,” he said, voice quiet, as if any louder might disrupt something fragile still lingering in the air.

The house smelled like time itself- like worn wood, lemon polish, and something faintly sweet, maybe the remnants of a breakfast no one had quite finished. Y/N and Hyunjin stepped over the threshold, their shoes clicking gently against the old floorboards, but Heeseung hesitated. He hovered at the edge, caught in the space between memory and reality, afraid that stepping in might make it all too real- or worse, prove that none of it ever had been. But something pulled him forward anyway, something wordless and ancient- the need to be near them, to see, to remember, even if it tore him apart.

Inside, the air was thicker. Not suffocating, but dense- like it had held its breath for years, waiting for someone to come back. And then they saw the wall. It led down the hallway and was completely covered in photographs. Frames of all sizes, colors, and shapes crowded together like puzzle pieces. Dozens of them- all of a boy caught mid-laugh, mid-run, mid-life. All of Heeseung, a version of him that existed before the house on top of the hill, before the cold basement and locked doors and the nightmares that came after. 

Heeseung at four years old, grinning through frosting-streaked cheeks. Heeseung holding a wilted flower. Heeseung with gap teeth and scabbed knees. Heeseung asleep in someone's arms, so small and still- a baby, a son, a brother.

The sight hit Heeseung like a punch. The floor beneath him may as well have vanished. He didn’t remember these moments. Not a single one. Not the birthdays, not the toys, not the warmth in those smiles. These were pieces of a life he’d lost so thoroughly it no longer felt like it had ever belonged to him. And yet, here it was- undeniable, unshakable- staring back at him like a secret too big to hold in one heart. The photos weren’t just nostalgic relics. They were proof that he was loved, that he was missed, that someone had waited, hoped, mourned.

“These are honestly the only memories we have of him,” Jisoo said, voice softer than before. “Mom dusts them every week.”

There was something in his tone- not just sadness, but a kind of reverence. Like speaking too loudly would shake the memories loose from the frames. He disappeared briefly into the hallway and called out, “Mom? Dad? Can you come down for a minute?”

The sounds that followed were small, mundane- a drawer sliding shut, slippers dragging against carpet, doors locking- but that moment felt monumental. Heeseung stood frozen as footsteps approached, afraid to blink. 

His mother was the first to appear- petite and composed, her silver hair pinned neatly at the nape, the cardigan on her shoulders worn but clean, like it had been folded and unfolded a thousand times. Her face carried the fine lines of time- not just of sorrow, but of laughter too. The kind that came from holidays spent cooking too much food, from quiet mornings with tea, from Jisoo telling her stories at the kitchen table. Her eyes were layered- not only the shadows of someone who had once waited by the phone night after night, but also the clarity of a woman who had chosen, eventually, to keep living. She reached for the stair railing with a quiet steadiness, as though it was routine, as though she still had things worth standing up for.

Behind her came his father, slower, a bit hunched, his cane tapping gently against each step. His movements were careful, but not brittle- there was strength in his restraint. He wore a soft flannel shirt, slightly faded, the sleeves rolled up just enough to show hands shaped by work and patience. His gaze, when it lifted, was clear and bracing, not hollow. It was like someone who had known deep loss but had not let it empty him. He didn’t look like a man crumbling beneath the weight of grief- but rather, one who had made peace with carrying it. One who had smiled again, more than once, and meant it.

“This is Y/N and Hyunjin,” Jisoo said, his hand resting gently on the stair post as they both reached the landing. “They said they have... information. About Heeseung.”

The silence that followed was sharp and almost unbearable. Not sacred exactly, but dense with weight- the kind of silence that followed a siren, the kind that bookmarked a change in life. His mother’s hand gripped the railing tighter, her knuckles paling. Her mouth parted, just barely, as if a breath or a name had been about to escape.

Y/N’s eyes flicked to Heeseung, who was standing just behind the couch, half in shadow. His face was blank, but not empty. It was taut with everything he didn’t know how to process- fear, longing, guilt, disbelief. His family was right there, alive and breathing, just a few feet away, and yet were worlds apart. He didn’t know what to do with the sight of them, how to carry it. He wanted to fall into their arms, into the comfort of being known and remembered, but he also felt like a stranger in his own life. He didn’t recognize the people who had once tucked him in at night- and worse, they wouldn’t recognize him now either. He was right there, close enough to touch, but untouchable all the same.

“Don’t tell them I’m here,” he said suddenly, quietly, to Y/N. His voice was barely audible, more breath than sound. “Please.”

Y/N closed her mouth, which had already started to shape the words. She looked at him, really looked, and saw the storm behind his eyes. Then she gave the smallest nod- an understanding, a promise. She wouldn’t take that choice away from him. 

“Please, sit,” Heeseung’s father said, gesturing toward the couch. His voice was soft but firm, the kind of voice that had comforted scraped knees and calmed late-night fears. He eased himself down with a wince, Jisoo lowering himself into the single chair beside them. Heeseung’s mother sat carefully next to her husband, hands folded in her lap, composed in the way people often become after years of holding back tears.

As Y/N stepped forward, she caught sight of Heeseung behind them- standing still, ghostlike in both presence and truth, just inches away from his family and yet impossibly out of reach. The image hit her with the weight of a cold wave- his eyes darting between the backs of his parents’ heads, his lips parted as though he might speak but didn’t. She felt a chill move through her, down her spine and into her chest, settling like grief in the spaces between her ribs. Her eyes prickled unexpectedly.

Hyunjin noticed. He didn’t say anything, just gently guided her toward the couch, his hand warm and steady against her back. 

“I’m not sure if you know the town I live in,” Y/N began, voice calm but fragile. “It’s a few hours from here, there’s this house on top of a hill-”

“The one that burnt down?” Jisoo interrupted, leaning forward suddenly, eyes wide with sharp recollection.

“Yes,” she said, surprised. “You know about it?”

Jisoo nodded, the motion quick, automatic. “After news broke about the fire… and the seven unidentified kids- Dad and I went to the police. We thought-” He paused, inhaling deeply. “We hoped, maybe...”

“They told us the cases were unrelated,” he continued. “Said a man had already come in and confirmed that the children were cousins visiting an aunt. They had papers. Names. Everything checked out. The townspeople said strange things, but nothing concrete. The police shut us down completely.”

“It’s all a lie,” Heeseung murmured.

Y/N glanced at him, his voice brushing against her thoughts like wind against glass. She turned back to the family.

“All of that was a lie,” she said, steady this time.

There was a beat of stillness- too quiet, too long.

“What?” His mother’s voice cracked through it, no louder than a whisper. Her hand had instinctively moved to her husband’s knee, anchoring herself.

Y/N nodded, her throat tight. “None of the children were cousins. None of them remembered anything before that house. They weren’t visiting anyone. They were trapped.”

The words didn’t land like a crash. They landed like a slow earthquake.

His mother’s face broke first- her brows furrowed, eyes wide, her mouth trembling as if she couldn’t quite get the air in. Then she shook her head, once, then again. Her voice came out thin, strangled. “Trapped? You mean… he was alive?” She looked toward her husband, her son. “He was alive and we…”

Her father let out a sob- like something inside him had snapped. He didn’t cry. He simply leaned forward, elbows on his knees, pressing his knuckles to his mouth like he might hold everything back if he just clenched hard enough.

Jisoo sat back in his chair, the breath leaving him as though someone had punched him in the chest. “How long…?” He asked hoarsely.

Y/N’s voice wavered. “Years. They were taken as children and… kept there. None of them knew why. They just… lived with it. Until the fire. So for Heeseung, it would have been eleven years…”

Silence spread again, not hollow- but full. Full of years and years of questions with no answers, of birthdays spent wondering, of imagining worse and worse possibilities until imagination gave way to numbness.

Heeseung watched his mother raise trembling fingers to her lips, as though trying to hold back the truth even as it poured in. He watched his father close his eyes, tears catching in the corners despite the steel in his jaw. And Jisoo, his older brother, sat as if someone had erased gravity- as if he didn’t quite know how to sit with this version of reality.

“How do you know all this?” His mother asked quietly, her voice thin like paper that had been folded too many times. “How did you even find us?”

“It’s a long story,” Y/N exhaled, her shoulders sinking slightly. “The woman who took Heeseung… and all the others- she kept a basement filled with documents and pictures. We found it a week ago and wanted to ask the owner about it. The owner is her brother- and he passed away last week. So we went to the funeral to try and learn more. His wife was there. She didn’t know everything, but she had an idea of what happened. She told us she’d been meaning to reach out to the families for a long time… but never got around to it. She had your address. She gave it to us.”

Heeseung’s mother sat perfectly still, her fingers curled into the hem of her cardigan like she needed to hold something. His father leaned back slowly, eyes cast down, blinking hard as if trying to stop the world from swimming. Jisoo’s jaw worked soundlessly, his throat rising and falling as he tried to swallow it all- the years of absence, the loss, the truth that had arrived far too late but still somehow not too late at all.

“Pictures?” His mother asked after a long silence, her eyes suddenly sharpening with fragile hope. “You said… you had pictures?”

Y/N nodded and opened her phone, handing it to them. Her hands trembled slightly as she pulled up the folder- images taken carefully, one by one, of the framed photos that lined the basement wall, the past preserved in poor lighting and digital clarity.

The parents leaned in, cautious, hearts in their throats- but their eyes found him immediately.

“That’s our son,” his father whispered, his voice cracking just once before he reached for the phone, his fingers brushing over the screen like he could touch the face that looked back.

“He grew up so well,” his mother murmured, eyes fixed on the image of Heeseung- older, unfamiliar, yet instantly and unquestionably her child. Her thumb stroked the glass instinctively, motherly even now, as if trying to soothe the boy inside the photo.

Behind them, Heeseung couldn’t move. His heart swelled and ached, his eyes wide and wet. They knew. They had known him instantly- no hesitation, no second-guessing. That recognition broke him further

Then Jisoo took the phone from his parents, and as soon as he saw the photo, he pressed his fist to his mouth and sobbed- a sound that ripped through the stillness. He let out a quiet, broken laugh through the tears. “Looks like he ended up taller than me,” he said, his voice shaking.

His parents chuckled- weak, watery little things that caught on their breath, but were real nonetheless. Like the sound of sunlight breaking through after endless overcast days.

“As a kid,” Jisoo said, turning to Y/N and Hyunjin, “he always used to talk about how he’d grow taller than me. He’d stand on tiptoe next to me and say, ‘One day I’ll be taller, you’ll see.’ And I’d roll my eyes and say, ‘Dream on, shrimp.’” His voice caught again, curling around memory. “But I guess he really meant it.”

Y/N leaned slightly toward Hyunjin, her arm brushing against his. He didn’t speak, just slid his hand gently into hers and rested his palm against her back, grounding her. The grief, the gratitude, the unbearable tenderness of the moment was too much for one person to carry alone. Together, though, it felt… survivable.

Heeseung stood behind them, watching everything unfold like a memory he didn’t know he needed. His brother’s tears, his mother’s thumb tracing his face on a screen, his father’s silence. 

“What did they even do in that house- what did she do to them?” Jisoo asked, his voice tight, teetering between anger and helpless confusion.

Y/N sucked in a breath, her fingers knotting in her lap. “I’m not entirely sure. But from what I could gather... she just kept them. She raised them. Made them sing, dance, act. Like it was all some elaborate performance. I don’t know what her end goal was. But they were together. And she was… controlling. Like a puppeteer with too many strings.”

His mother looked up sharply, her voice thin with exhaustion. “How do you know all this?”

Y/N hesitated before answering. “We found diaries.”

Hyunjin, who had been quietly observing the exchange with a steady gaze, added, “Yeah. We brought some of the things we found- documents, journals, and a few drawings Heeseung made when he was a kid.”

They didn’t even have to ask. The way Heeseung’s mother looked at Y/N, eyes wide and almost desperate, made it clear: they needed to see everything. Without a word, Hyunjin was on his feet and out the door, hurrying to the car parked just outside, where the box of recovered belongings waited.

Y/N stayed behind, her hands still, eyes flicking occasionally to Heeseung, who stood in the corner of the room like a ghost made of grief. His expression was cracked wide open- a painful blend of longing and sorrow, as he watched his family on the verge of uncovering the childhood he’d been stolen from. The childhood he didn’t even remember.

When Hyunjin returned and set the box on the coffee table, the room seemed to still. One by one, they began sifting through it. Fake documents listing fabricated addresses and guardians. Medical records. School reports from institutions that never existed. Then, finally, they found the drawings.

Crayon on yellowing paper. Bright colors. Crooked houses. Stick figures. A sun that never stopped smiling.

And always- in the corner- the name “Heeseung” written in small, careful letters.

His mother pressed a hand to her mouth as a sound escaped her- soft and wounded, like something breaking open for the first time in years. She took the drawing into her hands and cradled it like it was made of bone china, like it might vanish if she blinked too hard. His father was quiet, but a tear fell onto one of the pages he held. He let it fall and didn’t wipe it away.

“They’re his,” his mother whispered. “They’re really his.”

“I gotta find frames for these,” Jisoo said with a watery laugh, trying to ease the air, though his own eyes were shining. “He always used to draw suns like that. Big and round, with a smile. He said they looked friendlier.”

The brief laughter folded into silence again as the family took in the rest of the box- each paper a memory never made, each word a reminder of what had been stolen.

“These are the other boys?” His father asked, pointing toward the files marked with names and photos- the same faces from the group pictures Y/N had shown them earlier.

Y/N nodded. “Yes.”

“Do we know where their families are?” His mother asked, her voice soft, touched with something gentle and maternal, as if all those lost children had somehow become hers, too.

“We can try to find them,” Y/N offered, her voice firmer now, with purpose. “Or go straight to the police with everything we’ve gathered. The woman’s sister-in-law- the one we spoke to at the funeral- she’d be willing to help. I know she will.”

The family fell quiet again, sitting in the echo of her words, surrounded by papers, by drawings, by years of unanswered questions finally beginning to take shape. And Heeseung stood silently behind them, watching the family he had lost grieve not just him, but the life that could have been.

xvi. 

The Lee family- Hesseung’s family- insisted Y/N and Hyunjin stay the night. After the emotional whiplash of the day, it felt cruel to send them back into the dark. Besides, Jisoo said softly, he wanted them there when they went to the police the next morning. It felt right, like all of them had started something that couldn’t be left halfway.

“There’s no spare room,” the mother said, glancing at Jisoo. “The couch is always there, of course, but… then there’s Heeseung’s old bedroom. We never use it now- it’s stayed the same.”

That quiet fell again- not awkward, not even heavy, just still.

“I want to see it,” Heeseung said softly, eyes fixed ahead. There was something childlike in his voice, something that cracked just a little at the edges. “Please.”

Y/N met his gaze and gave a small nod. “Would it be alright if we looked?”

His mother hesitated for only a breath before she nodded. “Yes. Of course.”

The hallway upstairs creaked under the weight of so many footsteps. His parents walked ahead, Hyunjin steady at Y/N’s side. Jisoo brought up the rear, his fingers brushing the frames along the wall, as if touching pieces of Heeseung might bring him closer. Beside him, Heeseung floated- not hovering like a spirit, but tethered for once. He examined his older brother’s features like he was reading his face for a secret code they never got to share. They had the same nose, the same bend in the neck. Jisoo’s hair had started to gray near the temples, and Heeseung absently reached up to touch his own, half-wondering how old he’d look if life had gone as it should have.

He even stood back, lined their shoulders in his mind. Heeseung grinned to himself.

He’d grown taller. He’d really won that one.

He wished he'd gotten to rub it in Jisoo’s face the way little brothers do. Tease him at the dinner table, lean on him dramatically during movie nights. He wished he’d gotten the stupid little fights and the shared snacks and the inside jokes that stretched across years. Jisoo seemed like a good brother. Heeseung would’ve loved him- Jisoo would have loved Heeseung.

Jisoo stopped at the end of the hallway, hand resting on a door with a sticker half-peeled at the corner. “Still says ‘Hee’s Room’... He put it on when he was six.”

But before anyone could reach for the handle, Heeseung had already walked through the door.

The air inside felt untouched, like time had paused- really, really paused.

The bed was neatly made, blue rocket ship covers tucked into the corners like someone still checked. On the wall were two slightly curled crayon drawings, one of a whale and another of a lopsided house with seven stick figures drawn in bright colors. The desk had a toy spaceship resting on top, covered in dust but still upright. His name- just Hee- was carved into the wooden leg, almost invisible now.

The room wasn’t frozen with grief. It was gently preserved and cared for like love had lived here and never left.

Y/N stepped inside with Hyunjin behind her, their presence quiet. She took it all in- the shelves of books, the faded nightlight, the photos stuck in the corners of a corkboard. She felt Heeseung beside her, watching it too. Watching his life- the one he never got to grow into.

His mother lingered by the door. “We never changed it. Every time I thought about packing it up, something stopped me. I thought… Maybe if we left it, he’d come back. And if he did, I wanted him to know he still belonged here.”

Jisoo walked over to the desk and picked up a small green figurine, bent slightly at one side. “He gave me this. Told me it was an alien from Neptune. I told him it looked like a melted gummy bear. He made me put it on my nightstand anyway.”

Hyunjin gave a soft smile. “Still looks like a melted gummy bear.”

Heeseung turned slowly, eyes tracing every detail. He felt like someone had left the porch light on. 

Jisoo insisted Y/N and Hyunjin take his room for the night, no arguments allowed. “You drove all this way and brought us closure,” he’d said. “I think my couch can handle me for a night.”

So now, hours later, the house had fallen into a deep hush. The only sounds were the occasional creak of old pipes and the quiet rustle of bedcovers. Y/N sat cross-legged on the bed, brushing out her hair. Hyunjin stood near the dresser, shirtless and yawning, his shoulders slack with exhaustion. But Heeseung didn’t move.

He sat at the foot of the bed, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees, his hands covering his face.

“Heeseung,” Y/N said softly, setting the brush down. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He didn’t look up. “I don’t know what to say.”

“What’s he saying?” Hyunjin asked, tugging on a hoodie.

“He says he doesn’t know what to say.”

Hyunjin hummed, thoughtful. “Do you… maybe want to spend time with your family?”

Heeseung looked up at Y/N, face twisted with quiet disbelief. “How am I supposed to do that?”

Y/N turned to Hyunjin. “He’s asking how he’s supposed to do that.”

Hyunjin shrugged lightly. “Just go. Be with them. I doubt they’re asleep. I can hear your parents whispering through the door. And I’d bet anything your brother’s wide awake, staring at the ceiling.”

Heeseung blinked, like he hadn’t considered that possibility. He sat there, chewing on the thought.

“You heard him,” Y/N said, voice even softer now.

After a second, Heeseung nodded. “Yeah. I think I might do that. Just… go hang out in their rooms. Sit beside them. It’s the least I could do, right?”

“Right,” Y/N said, her voice catching just a little in her throat.

He stood, glancing back once as if to anchor himself. Then he slipped through a wall that led to the opposite room.

In his parents’ room, the lights were off, but a warm glow from the hallway spilled in faintly. His mother was crying into his father’s shoulder, her small frame trembling as she clung to him. His father held her close, his own eyes damp, one hand gently patting her head in quiet comfort. Between their murmured tears, they spoke in fragments- soft, aching memories of Heeseung as a child. He stood in the corner of the room, watching them, and with every word, muscles inside him tugged and twisted.

He wished he could tell them who he’d become- the things he’d come to like while growing up in that strange house on top of the hill. Apparently, when he was little, he had adored the movie Bambi. His mom said he used to rewind the DVD until it broke. Heeseung didn’t remember that, but it made him smile. He figured he could ask Y/N if she wanted to watch it with him someday.

They said he used to beg for ramen before dinner- but only if his mom made it a certain way, with an egg and the noodles soft, not chewy. And basketball- Jisoo used to coach him in the yard, apparently, with plastic cones and makeshift hoops.

His brother… When Heeseung drifted downstairs to see him, Jisoo was still awake, just as Hyunjin had expected. He lay on his side on the couch, one hand tucked beneath his head, eyes fixed on the ceiling fan spinning in lazy, uneven circles. His chest rose and fell in a shallow, unsteady rhythm- breaths that sounded like they were carrying something too heavy. He blinked slowly, like his eyelids ached, like if he shut them for too long he might see something he couldn’t bear.

Heeseung settled on the coffee table, close enough to watch the tiny movements of Jisoo’s face, the tension in his jaw, the tired crease between his brows. That ache in Heeseung’s chest- the one that had hollowed him out for so long- felt quieter now, like someone had loosened the knot. He watched the way his brother’s shoulders curved forward, how his feet tucked up like a boy’s, and he wished for just one moment that he could reach out, ruffle his hair, say his name out loud.

But even without that, he felt himself shift. He felt his limbs go soft and weightless, as if they were losing their hold on the world, or maybe just no longer needed to grip so tightly. The ache inside him was changing, thinning, becoming something ethereal.

“I’m glad I met you,” Heeseung whispered, his voice barely there, meant for no one and everyone.

Jisoo didn’t respond- of course he didn’t. He stirred slightly, his hand reaching for his phone like he couldn’t quite stand the silence anymore.

And just then, the fan above seemed to spin a little slower, or maybe the light caught differently, or maybe- just maybe- the air in the room had settled, as if someone had quietly gotten up and left, without ever making a sound.

Upstairs, the room was dim, lit only by the pale moonlight seeping through the curtains and the soft whir of the ceiling fan turning overhead. Y/N and Hyunjin had nestled into the single bed, heads resting on a pillow that was far too small for two. Their bodies were close, sharing warmth, still carrying the weight of the day in their bones. Sleep didn't come easily- it felt almost wrong to seek rest after something so jarring.

For a while, they just lay there, listening to the silence. Y/N’s head was on Hyunjin’s shoulder, her fingers curled gently against his chest.

“I had a younger brother who passed away too,” Hyunjin said softly, like the words were fragile, floating in the space between them. “I can only imagine what Jisoo must be feeling.”

Y/N lifted her head slightly, eyes wide, mouth parting with a quiet gasp. She hadn’t expected that- had never heard him speak of it before. The look on her face made Hyunjin smile, a little sad, a little fond.

“Don’t stress about it,” he said, his chest moving gently with a chuckle. “It was a long time ago. He had a lung condition. We couldn’t find a doctor who knew how to help. He was thirteen, I was fifteen.”

“I’m sorry,” Y/N whispered, her voice almost lost in the quiet.

“I think he would’ve liked you,” Hyunjin said, looking up at the ceiling. His smile lingered, a soft memory on his lips. “Heeseung deserved this kind of family. They’re good people.”

“Yeah,” Y/N murmured, curling a little closer to him. “He’s feeling things he didn’t know he could feel. And I don’t know how to comfort him. And his family… God, they’ve been through so much.”

“At least they have some kind of closure now. So does he,” Hyunjin said, gently.

She nodded against his shoulder. “Yeah.”

A moment passed. Then she lifted her head again. “Where is Heeseung, anyway? It’s been a while…”

Hyunjin looked over at her, his expression calm. “Don’t worry about it, Y/N,” he said quietly, a small smile in his voice. “I don’t think he’ll come back here tonight. Just… let him be, yeah? He’ll be okay.”

Y/N studied his face for a moment, then exhaled slowly, eyes soft. “Yeah,” she echoed. “He’ll be okay.”

xvii. epilogue

It had been ten years since Y/N last saw Heeseung.

Not felt- because that, she still did from time to time, like a memory pressed against her ribs- but saw. The last glimpse of him had been in his old bedroom, the night he said he was going to visit his parents one last time. She remembered waking up the next morning and knowing- just knowing- that he was gone. She didn’t need to ask. Her chest felt hollow, like a room recently emptied of someone it loved. 

Heeseung had left.

Where to? She wasn’t sure. The afterlife, maybe. Somewhere softer where he didn’t have to carry the weight of questions anymore.

He hadn’t returned to her. Not in dreams, not in passing shadows, not in flickers of lightbulbs like he used to. 

The truth, it turned out, had been the last thread anchoring Heeseung to this world. Once it unraveled, so did his tether.

When Y/N, Hyunjin and Heeseung’s family had gone to the police with the box from the basement- diaries, files, photos- it had taken weeks for it all to unfold. Eventually, seven families were gathered in a room, quiet and hesitant, waiting for answers they had stopped hoping for. A debrief followed. The officers told them everything- that their sons had been abducted, taken in by a woman whose mind had unraveled years before the fire that killed her. That she'd raised the boys in seclusion, training them to perform like puppets in her deranged fantasy. That her brother had covered it all up until the day he died.

The brother’s widow, with her hands trembling, eyes full of remorse, stood up to offer what little peace she could- condolences, an apology, the acknowledgement that none of them deserved what had happened.

Y/N got to speak with some of the parents afterwards. They hugged her, cried with her. Told her about their sons’ favorite snacks and how they used to laugh when they were babies. Told her they were thankful- for the truth, for the closure. 

A few years later, Y/N and Hyunjin got married in a quiet ceremony. They moved back to the city, into her parents' old apartment. It was small, warm, and full of laughter- the kind of life they both needed. Hyunjin got a job as a chef at a fine dining restaurant. Y/N stopped painting for a while. Everything she had created during those years in the house on the hill felt too heavy, too haunted. They sat in her parents’ attic, wrapped in old sheets, collecting dust like unspoken words. She couldn’t bring herself to sell them. It felt wrong- like putting a price tag on grief. And she insisted that they were never to be seen again, never to be touched. They would stay as family heirlooms, the kind where younger generations would be scared to discover and learn the origins of. She liked the thought of that.

Y/N published a book, eventually. It took time- years, actually. Time to breathe, time to grieve, time to gather all the scattered pieces and arrange them into a story. On shelves, it was marketed as fiction. A ghost story, they called it. A quiet thriller with romance at its edges, an eerie, melancholic tale about memory and truth. But only she and Hyunjin knew the pages were stitched with real names, real places, real love.

The ghost in the story was Heeseung. The girl who fell in love with him was her. The truth they unearthed together- the fire, the basement, the stolen childhoods- it was all there, thinly veiled behind new names and fictional towns.

The book did well. It brought in enough income to give them time. Enough to live quietly while Y/N figured out how to create again. When she was ready, she returned to painting- but this time, her brush leaned toward the what-ifs instead of the what-was. She painted sunlit scenes of a life never lived- a group of boys playing soccer in a dusty field, laughter on their faces, arms slung around each other’s shoulders. Campfires and lakesides and birthdays. A series of memories that never existed- except in her heart.

The paintings sold quickly. People loved them for their warmth, their intimacy. No one knew they were her way of rewriting fate.

Even after she had her daughter, Heena, those boys never quite left her mind. At night, when Heena asked for stories, Y/N would curl beside her and tell tales of adventure, of friendship, of love. She told her about a boy who loved to draw, one who dreamed of flying, another who made everyone laugh. Sometimes, she’d speak of Heeseung- his quiet strength, the way he played the piano, how he always lingered just long enough to be felt, never long enough to be seen.

Over time, Heeseung’s name stopped feeling like a wound. It didn’t throb with loss or ache with memory. It was a scar now- healed, settled, softened by time. It meant something. It always would. But it no longer pulled at her chest when she said it. He was a chapter. An important one- but closed.

Still, every now and then, when light slanted through the window just right or when she caught a note of music that reminded her of the hilltop house, she’d pause. Just for a second. Because in the corner of her mind, in the quietest part of her memory, Heeseung would always remain- no longer a ghost, not quite a boy. Just a shadow of someone she once loved, glowing gently from afar.

[the-oracleof-delphi]

PAC: What is stopping them from reaching out?

May you get the message that you are meant to!

Pile One [KofW, QofW, The Sun, 4ofP, AofC]

:: The person comes from a family which is both close-knit and values professional success above all. Love and relationships do not seem to be a priority. This person may have a mother-figure who is a source of material stability for them. With the father the relationship is confusing, unpredictable, and sometimes fearful for the person. But both parents/ parent-figures are social and outwardly successful and place a lot of weight on appearances. This person has learned the same. Love and relationships are not a priority. This person may also be a bit emotionally stunted since they were never taught how to deal with emotions in a healthy way.

:: Right now, there focus is elsewhere. They recently achieved something, it has to do with their career. They hit a big milestone! There is a grand celebration or a serious of celebrations happening. They are spending time with their friends and family. There is an energy of "showing-off" their success.

:: They are thinking about you though, they know they owe you an apology. In spite of the celebrations you are constantly on their mind. A steady presence is what I heard. I feel like they also want to hold you close. ^_^ He he. Strong sense of nostalgia, longing, the urge to make an offer of some sorts.

:: I think they will approach you, but once they are done with this celebration. They have intense feelings for you, but they are holding this together for the time-being. Maybe because it is intense and not something they are comfortable with (?) They are waiting for things to calm down. The overall spread was very positive. There was a good energy to it. Live your life, things will fall into place! :)

Pile Two [9ofC, 10ofSw, 6ofP, The Star, The Hanged Man]

:: This person is probably known for being prideful, confident, a leader of sorts - but that is a front, they have truly been hurt by someone in the past and hence they are very guarded and do not like to appear vulnerable. But this connection has stripped them of this front and brought about some very raw emotions. They were emotionally overwhelmed and a bit all over the place, very unlike their usual self. Their ego is bruised and pride injured.

:: They are holding back from approaching you because they don't want to be perceived as vulnerable. Their ego will not allow them to "crawl back" to you. They find this to be humiliating. There is also a bit of guilt, if this connection was of you giving more than them. If they were inconsistent initially and "bread-crumbed" you, they feel if they approach you now you will leave them in the cold.

:: Additionally, they are a bit unsure about your motives too, this person is used to transactional love. Since, you were so free and giving they may have felt you have some ulterior motives. They are scared of emotions and emotional displays.

:: Finally, this person is very independent and self-sufficient both emotionally and financially. They don't want to be tied down to be honest, they feel like they will be held back if they invest in a relationship right now, they want to enjoy their independence. Their "Young, Wild, and Free Era", lol. They care but they also find emotions to be too messy. Hence, they are taking a strategic pause.

Pile Three [KnofC, 9ofC, AofC, 7ofP, The Hanged Man]

:: They wished to, but they fear being rejected. They fear that they have nothing to give, that their own cup is not full then how will they nourish the other person. Additionally, work-wise too they seem to be starting something new. They probably completed a degree very recently and they are starting with their work. So that too is taking up much of their time and focus. hence, they have postponed the idea of approaching you.

:: They may have had a tumultuous and intense relationship with a woman in his life, probably a mother-figure. They loved him but a bit too intensely, he felt suffocated by their emotions. So that is how they view emotions - suffocating, if you are someone who is more emotional then somehow you remind them of this mother-figure. This may also be one of the reasons they are holding back.

:: They were hoping career-wise they would be in a more stable state. But that did not happen. They put in a lot of work and effort but they feel defeated, things did not turn out how they expected it to be, although the defeat feels more momentary. I think they will be back on their feet before they know it.

:: But right now they are in a position of instability, they have nothing to offer emotionally or materially. There is also a theme of lack of family support coming up, him being robbed of an inheritance that can also be one reasons but the overarching theme is the lack of material stability that he is currently facing in his life. There is nothing he can do, he feels like his hands are tied.

icons and divider credits: @/amorespell @/strangergraphics

[urmumluvr]

Reincarnation - Remmick -

Felt like my last fanfic was lackluster so I’ve decided to try to redeem myself with a concept I’ve been thinking about. Idk if this has been done before so I apologize if this is similar to any other fics. P.S

———————————————————————————

1997, New York.

After what happened in 1932 in Mississippi, Remmick had been traveling around America in search of what he’d briefly had that night. Community. Something that reminded him of the people he’d once loved long ago.

He’d kill people and turn them into vampires, sucking them into his ‘hive’. Once he was bored of them, he’d kill them or leave them. Remmick was desperate to find it again, family, connection, and music. He’d lingered around many black spaces in the south in search of someone like Sammie, but he could never find someone.

So, he moved up north. New York had a lot of people, and he hoped he could find someone like Sammie there. He spent a few months there, and turned a few people into vampires to use. Having people with him made him seem more friendly, he thought. And he hoped that it would attract the right person he was looking for.

But what he didn’t realize was that what he’d truly been needing all along was his wife. When Remmick was a human, he lived and breathed for her. He worked hard every day to support her, to buy her gifts and to see the smile on her face. She was a lovely woman, beautiful inside and out. It was a shame he was a cowered and couldn’t protect her when it was most needed.

When Remmick first encountered you, he felt something he hadn’t feel in over a thousand years. You had been walking down the street at night, wearing a simple sparkly black club dress, heels, jewelry and makeup. Even though you looked different, it was unmistakable. Your scent, your eyes, and the smile you flashed at him as you passed by.

It was you, and there was no mistaking that.

Remmick knew it wouldn’t do him any good to hug you and kiss you like he so desperately wanted too. Talking to you in the middle of the street at night wasn’t a good idea either. He didn’t want to scare you.

But he did plan on turning you. He wasn’t gonna let you go again. He wasn’t gonna watch you die, screaming for his help like you once had all those years ago.

So he opted to put his vampiric skills to use and stealthily follow you, making sure to memorize all the places you frequented and where you lived. He could stand outside of your apartment and listen to that voice of yours for hours. It was enough to soothe him into sleep like a baby.

He eventually planned on meeting you one day. But he wanted to make it perfect, make sure you were interested in him. Maybe he’d start dancing with you at a club, buy you a few drinks and go home with you. Or maybe he’d turn someone into a vampire near you and wait for them to attack you, then come and ‘save’ you. There was too many options, and it hurt his head to think about all of them.

He hated watching you flirt with other men and occasionally take them to your apartment. It wasn’t safe, and frankly he hated watching other men with his wife. You were still his wife and would always be, even if you didn’t know it yet.

Remmick was given the perfect opportunity on a similar night. You were drunk, walking down the street with a man who wasn’t. He was sober, and Remmick could tell he didn’t have good intentions. Remmick wanted to kill him right there, but he knew he had to wait, even if he hated it.

He silently followed, pretending to casually walk down the street on the other side of the side walk, waiting for that guy you were with to do something to you.

Then, it finally happened. The man pinned you to a wall and began kissing you against your will. You began fighting against him, and he pulled a knife out of his pocket and threatened you with it.

Remmick quickly walked over, confronting the man. Yelling at him and eventually punching him. The two fought for a few moments before Remmick took him down with his own knife.

It had been hard for him to control himself. He could’ve bitten the man’s throat out and turned him into a vampire just so he could kill him again, but he didn’t. He stood up, pretending to breath heavily and wiping the blood off his cheek.

“Are you okay, miss?” He asked, looking up at you.

———————————————————————————

Sorry for another super short fic. I’ll make a part 2 soon. Also, I was thinking about making a fic about Remmick and his wife when he was a human, inspired by lady chatterly’s lover if anyone’s interested. But I don’t know how well I am with writing smut (if I am gonna write any) so bear with me on that.

Also, this was inspired by this picture of Jack. The leather jacket reminded me of the 90s.

[yuseirra]

My Fragile God, Fading Fast Analysis (Interpretation of Mizi's character)

It looks like something new came out, so I thought it'd be a good opportunity to talk :)

Right… I used to wonder why Mizi would voluntarily enter something like a death match/survival stage. I wondered if she really didn’t know anything about what was going on-was she just that pure? Or was there more to it. Well, now it's revealed and her life is just… wow…

Maybe I should have seen this coming. Her guardian seemed like a being with a completely different sense and perception from that of humans.

The feeling I’m getting from reading this chapter is an extension of what I felt from The True Face, actually.

I think Mizi wanted to be accepted. She wanted to be understood.

It’s just that the way that comes across—how she mentions about how Sua's "crushable"—feels a bit unsettling.

But Mizi isn’t the type to want to crush someone else. It’s more like… she wanted to have an effect on someone. She wanted to be a presence that mattered to someone in a significant way. To carry some kind of weight in another person’s life. Because she’s always been fragile, and had to survive by leaning on someone else’s warmth. At first, it seems that just being loved was able to make her happy. But living through it… she realized it was actually invasive. Violating. She couldn’t keep living like that. It’s hard to explain, but I do get the feeling.

Mizi wanted—even if it meant dying—to live among beings like her.

No matter how much those aliens who took her in cherished her and treated her as cute in their own way, it wasn’t in a human way.

They couldn’t truly understand her.

At some point, she must’ve realized: she’s fundamentally different from them. No matter how deep their affection, with just a flick of a finger, she could be killed. And living in that situation, no matter how well-meaning her guardians were, was probably unbearable.

And more importantly, they could never truly understand or connect with her emotionally. Their feelings were different. Their ways of sensing and sharing emotion weren’t human. So even if they meant well, they couldn’t connect to her heart.

I think Mizi really did love and like those aliens who raised her. And they probably loved her back, in their way. But what is “a pet,” really? It’s not an equal being.

At the very beginning of the comic, there’s a moment where she notes that Sua has the same number of fingers and toes as she does.

That really matters to Mizi. She wanted to connect with someone. She wanted to truly interact, be understood, and understand in return. That’s why she chose to go among humans even if it meant potential death.

Even if she died, she wanted to live among beings like herself.

She wanted equal interaction and communication—relationships where you give and take at the same level, where even if you hurt each other, it’s mutual. She wanted a relationship where wounds could be shared and given in return. That’s what this is emotionally about. That expression about being able to "crush" someone. However, it doesn't mean that Mizi would actively go around hurting people, quite the contrary, she's always shown to display a pretty big heart, because you see, her essence is about wanting to be understood and connected, treated as an equal.

What’s fascinating is that the “god” Mizi chooses is actually very different from what people usually imagine a god to be. The aliens who raised her are more like the conventional “god” figure: they control life and death, they’re affectionate and loving in their way, but ultimately, they’re supernatural and unable to empathize with human standards. They fit that “god” mold more closely.

But Mizi chooses Sua as her god.

And she knows Sua is far weaker than the aliens who raised her. She knows that she could hurt Sua at any time if she wants it. (That’s the “fragile” in the title.)

And I think there’s a kind of sorrow in that—less a thrill of power, more of a sadness. When you look at her expression, it doesn’t feel like she’s elated or satisfied by the idea that she could destroy Sua. It feels more like she’s melancholic by the fact that her god—this person so important to her—is so finite, so breakable, so easy to lose. Maybe even more fragile than Mizi herself.

Still, I think she found something real in that.

This soft, tender, fleeting being—Sua—is still her god and her universe.

And there’s something a little tragic in that. The sadness that comes with realizing, “My god is someone who could die.”

When Mizi says that she could crush Sua, it’s not from a sense of domination or power.

Mizi needed a god she could understand. Sua became like an anchor for her heart.

Maybe… after her mom(?) died, Sua was the first other person she really met and got close to?

And Mizi wants to be a person.

Even back in The True Face comic, Mizi’s actions were driven by her desire to be understood. She tried to get along with the other kids with this kind of innocent purity she put up as a facade of sorts. (Because she wanted to live among them.)

But deep down, she didn’t want to be accepted just for being harmless. That’s why she snapped when Sua said, “It must be easy for you.” What she really wanted was for someone to recognize her for who she is. And I think she eventually found a lot of that in her relationship with Sua. Mizi must’ve loved Sua a lot—That’s why she called her my universe, my god.

She seems like the type who always wants to connect with others.

And she really, genuinely means it. She wants it to be genuine.

Honestly, in this series, I think Mizi may be the one who cares most about "people", in the broad sense along with Hyuna. Both Hyuna and Mizi seem to have strong compassion for humanity, but it’s displayed in different ways.

For Hyuna, it feels as if it’s more about ideals—justice, belief, freedom, inherited principles. Her love for people comes from a value system, a kind of universal ethics. She's a very humane and idealistic person.

But Mizi simply likes the people around her. (Not saying Hyuna isn't! She loves people too.) She has a desire to be with people. Her love for humanity comes from a more personal place.

That affection projects onto Sua—and Sua is her most precious person.

Even if Sua is weaker than the aliens who raised her, in Mizi’s eyes, she’s the strongest and heaviest presence in her world. But also, the most fragile—someone who could die at any time. A fragile god.

That’s what “My fragile god” means, I think.

Well, that's what I felt from reading the comic!

These kinds of feelings are fascinating to read. There’s so much tangled up in them… but I think I understand. This is just my personal interpretation, but unraveling through it is really enjoyable...I enjoy reading them!

[necrotic-nephilim]

Hello! New to comics and I don't really feel like the New-52 comics are for me and would really like to read and understand Pre-flashpoint and all the dark and good stuff there. Is there an order or starting point you would recommend? Thanks for your time, and I hope you have a great day!

hi! i'm so glad you want to get into comics! i'd love to help with some recs! since you're here, i'm going to assume you're a Batfamily fan and most of my recs will cater to that, but i will try to encompass a bit of everything to help you just understand some big moments and all this mess that is DC canon. adding a cut bc jesus this got long.

so your starting point for pre-Flashpoint is going to be Crisis on Infinite Earths. the TLDR of this event is: DC had a big multiverse in the 70s and early 80s that wasn't friendly to new readers. to try to push their titles more and become a proper competitor to Marvel, they created an in-universe storyline that nuked the multiverse and gave a solid entry point for new fans going forward. this is why you hear terms like Pre-Crisis and Post-Crisis. it refers to the comics canon before and after this event, in 1985. some characters had some big changes (for example: pre-Crisis Jason Todd was a circus kid whose parents were killed by Killer Croc) but most remained largely the same, just simplified. you don't *have* to start with Crisis on Infinite Earths if you don't want to. it's a *good* storyline, but it's a big one and a lot of big multiverse-scale stuff happens. so as long as you understand it as "big event that nuked DC's multiverse and gave the world a clean slate in 1985", then you've basically got the gist. also Barry Allen dies during it, but he comes back so don't worry about it.

in general, if DC has some big timeline/canon-altering event, they're going to call it a Crisis Event. the only Crisis Events that will matter to you, trying to get into pre-Flashpoint are

Crisis On Infinite Earths - the above, starts the Post-Crisis/pre-Flashpoint timeline

Zero Hour: Crisis In Time - an event in the 90s that sought to fix some of the kinks that the above Crisis caused, like fixing the origins of the Legion of Superheroes and other Golden/Silver Age characters, not *super* important tbh

Infinite Crisis - this was a big event that brought back some characters who got nuked by Crisis on Infinite Earths, unfucked Power Girl's backstory, and set the groundwork to bring back the multiverse. if you've heard "Superboy Prime punched a hole in reality and it brought back Jason Todd" yeah, this is the story where it happened

Final Crisis - a big event that was partly meta commentary but heroes fought Darkseid, Batman died for a hot second, it was all a big deal about evil winning and all that

Flashpoint - the event that nuked this timeline, a big storyline to do with Flash and the timeline that would result in the New-52 in 2011

are you confused yet? good embrace the confusion it's going to become second nature of a comic fan. you don't need to read these events as a beginner. you really don't i promise. they'll sound big and important, but besides Crisis On Infinite Earths and Flashpoint, the start and end of this era, the rest you can just kind of breeze by so long as you understand the big plot points like Batman dying or Superboy Prime punching reality. unless you really care about a character central to these stories, skip 'em for now.

now for any character, if they have a Year One comic? that is a very safe bet as a place to start. it is what it sounds like. Batman: Year One is going to be Bruce's first year as Batman. same as Green Arrow: Year One, Batgirl: Year One, etc. when in doubt, if there's a Year One, start with Year One. (note: for Superman, his "year one" type story is called Superman: Birthright and it is worth reading if you like Superman)

for Batman, i am holding you by the shoulders when i say this: people will tell you to read The Killing Joke. they're liars. do not listen to them. it's a bad story. you don't need it. do not let the Joker fanboys lie to you. people will also say Dark Knight Returns. don't listen to *them* either. i *like* DKR, i talk about it a lot here. it's not a good intro to Batman. it's an AU story, it's not canon, ignore it for now.

now where you *should* start with Batman, imo, is as followed

Batman: Year One - as said above, Year Ones are good, this is solid to start with

Batman: The Long Halloween - this is an iconic story and it's a followup to year One

Batman: Dark Legacy - the followup to Long Halloween, also a very good story

Batman: Hush - this story is a solid starter if you want to understand the general vibe of Gotham, the typical characters you see in the Batfamily, and a good Batman villain

once you've got the basics down, you *can* get into the big boy storylines like Batman: Knightfall and Batman: No Man's Land, but don't worry about those right now. they're long and complicated and shouldn't really be your starting point no matter how good they are.

other very good pre-Flashpoint comics that are easy to pick up and iconic storylines

Death of Superman - this is a long arc in the Superman run that if you collect in trades, goes Death of Superman, Funeral For A Friend, Reign of the Supermen, Return of Superman, Doomsday. it's long, but a very iconic storyline

Wonder Woman by George Perez - this the run that helped define modern Wonder Woman within the pre-Flashpoint era

JLA: Year One - if you want a good Justice League story where you get characters besides Batman, Wonder Woman, and Superman taking the shine, this is a great place to start

Green Arrow by Mike Grell - start with Green Arrow: The Longbow Hunters and then go into Green Arrow (1988). this has the darker, very 80s vibes that gets a bit gritty and very realistic with the issues it faces bc Green Arrow comics tend to be more rooted

The New Teen Titans by Marv Wolfman - this technically starts before pre-Flashpoint, don't worry about it it's fine. a good run for all of these characters, can get a little confusing, it is okay to be confused do not be afraid to google shit

so, some big stories out of the way i'm just. honestly going to run down the line of the major pre-Flashpoint Batfamily members and give you comic recs for them that you can start with. (besides Bruce obviously, bc well. see above)

Dick Grayson

NIghtwing: Year One

Robin: Year One

Nightwing (1995)

Tim Drake

Batman: A Lonely Place of Dying

Robin (1990)

Robin II: Joker's Wild

Robin III: Cry of the Huntress

Robin (1993)

Barbara Gordon

Batgirl: Year One

Birds of Prey (1999)

Jason Todd

Batman: The Cult (as Robin)

Batman: Death in the Family (as Robin)

Batman: Under The Red Hood

Red Hood: Lost Days

Cassandra Cain

Batgirl (2000)

Batman: No Man's Land

Jean-Paul Valley

Batman: Sword of Azrael

Batman: Knightfall

Stephanie Brown

Huntress/Spoiler: Blunt Trauma

Batgirl (2009)

Selina Kyle

Catwoman by Ed Brubaker

Helena Bertinelli

Batman/Huntress: Cry For Blood

Huntress: Year One

Birds of Prey: Manhunt

Damian Wayne

Batman & Robin (2009)

there are other very important pre-Flashpoint stories for all of these characters, but these are starting points more than anything. figure out what characters you're interested and go from there. understanding the universe at large helps, do not get me wrong. but at the end of the day, comics are a choose your own adventure of who you want to give a shit about. you're *never* going to read everything "important" and you're probably not going to understand everything. that's okay. don't treat it like a media you need to "complete" like a tv show or a movie, but more like an open world game where you decide what characters/teams/stories you like the most.

pre-Flashpoint covers a lot of ground. some stuff will be darker and grittier, some stuff will be more light-hearted. it will all be about what titles you pick up and what characters you decide you want to read about. you're obviously going to get a much more grounded storyline out of Green Arrow than you are say, a JLA comic. i prefer the more grounded, "street level" sorts of characters. (if you like gritty detective stories, i will be biased and highly recommend the Question (1987) just because. i love him okay.) but you might find you like sometimes more worldly and big scale. at the end of the day: don't force yourself to love a comic you're not enjoying, even if you like that character. you can put that shit down. sometimes, "important stories" are by shitty writers that you won't enjoy reading and you shouldn't make this hobby a chore. i don't care how "critically acclaimed" it is, you don't have to like it if it doesn't click for you. and on the flipside, a comic might be considered "bad" but you may enjoy it (a personal example: Robin III: Cry of the Huntress is considered a very weak comic. don't care. i love it anyway.) accept the cringe, have fun, and enjoy yourself at the end of the day. none of it will make sense anyway so just read what sounds cool to you.

this was all over the place and rambly, but i hope it helps at least a little! welcome to comics anon! if you or anyone else would like more character-specific recs, feel free to ask! if i don't know, i can at the very least hopefully point you in the right direction <3

[hollytree33]

I’m back!!

[gregmarriage]

will always have to begrudgingly remember (and hate the fact) that one must find joy in the small things in life, and live in the present

[urlocalmagicalcat]

really long rant (happy rant) in the tags, mostly towards @synthetic-lavender /vpos

romance repulsed aros and romance favourable aros are both cool and valid but because i never see anything about us: shoutout to romance indifferent aros. romance neutral aros. aros who just couldn't care less. aros who have a conflicted relationship with romance. aros who are fine with romance in some contexts but not in others. aros who don't mind romance when it's not amatonormativity being shoved down their throats. aros who haven't yet figured out their feelings about romance. aros to whom romance is Just Something That Exists. y'all are rad as hell and it's okay not to 'pick a side'!!

[weirdly-specific-but-ok]

for whom good omens is being written

Hey maggots and the rest of the fandom, it's the Good Omens Mascot here. Today I read a post about this tweet:

The accompanying video genuinely made me cry. And I've been thinking about this for a long while, as far back as February, when I saw a lot of conflicting opinions on what people wanted from the third season. It really is true that no matter what you do, some people will be dissatisfied. But what matters is that Neil is writing this for Terry.

And I was reminded of some paragraphs from the Good Omens TV Companion, which I'd read in Amazon's sample excerpt of the book. I know this is a long post, but I really truly do think you all need to read these, I've done my best to select only the most important parts. Here you go:

'His Alzheimer's started progressing harder and faster than either of us had expected,' says Neil, referring to a period in which Terry recognized that despite everything he could no longer write. 'We had been friends for over thirty years, and during that time he had never asked me for anything. Then, out of the blue, I received an email from him with a special request. It read: “Listen, I know how busy you are. I know you don't have time to do this, but I want you to write the script for Good Omens. You are the only human being on this planet who has the passion, love and understanding for the old girl that I do. You have to do this for me so that I can see it." And I thought, “OK, if you put it like that then I'll do it."

'I had adapted my own work in the past, writing scripts for Death: The High Cost of Living and Sandman, but not a lot else was seen. I'd also written two episodes of Doctor Who, and so I felt like I knew what I was doing. Usually, having written something once I'd rather start something new, but having a very sick co-author saying I had to do this?' Neil spreads his hands as if the answer is clear to see. 'I had to step up to the plate.' A pause, then: 'All this took place in autumn 2014, around the time that the BBC radio adaptation of Good Omens was happening,' he continues, referring to the production scripted and co-directed by Dirk Maggs and starring Peter Serafinowicz and Mark Heap. ‘Terry had talked me into writing the TV adaptation, and I thought OK, I have a few years. Only I didn't have a few years,' he says. 'Terry was unconscious by December and dead by March.'

He pauses again. 'His passing took all of us by surprise,' Neil remembers. 'About a week later, I started writing, and it was very sad. The moments Terry felt closest to me were the moments I would get stuck during the writing process. In the old days, when we wrote the novel, I would send him what I'd done or phone him up. And he would say, "Aahh, the problem, Grasshopper, is in the way you phrase the question," and I would reply, "Just tell me what to do!" which somehow always started a conversation. 'In writing the script, there were times I'd really want to talk to Terry, and also places where I'd figure something out and do something really clever, and I would want to share it with him. So, instead, I would text Terry's former personal assistant, Rob Wilkins, now his representative on Earth. It was the nearest thing I had.'

(...) As Neil himself recognizes, this is an adaptation built upon the confidence that comes from three decades of writing for page and screen. But for all the wisdom of experience, he found that above all one factor guided him throughout the process. 'Terry isn't here, which leaves me as the guardian of the soul of the story,' he explains. 'It's funny because sometimes I found myself defending Terry's bits harder or more passionately than I would defend my own bits. Take Agnes Nutter,' he says, referring to what has become a key scene in the adaptation in which the seventeenth-century author of the book of prophecies foretelling the coming of the Antichrist is burned at the stake. ‘It was a huge, complicated and incredibly expensive shoot, with bonfires built and primed to explode as well as huge crowds in costume. It had to feel just like an English village in the 1640s, and of course everyone asked if there was a cheap way of doing it. 'One suggestion was that we could tell the story using old-fashioned woodcuts and have the narrator take us through what happened, but I just thought, “No”. Because I had brought aspects of the story like Crowley and the baby swap along to the mix, and Terry created Agnes Nutter. So, if I had cut out Agnes then I wouldn't be doing right by the person who gave me this job. Terry would've rolled over in his grave.'

And, finally, this paragraph:

"Once again, Neil cites the absence of his co-writer as his drive to ensure that Good Omens translated to the screen and remained true to the original vision. 'Terry's last request to me was to make this something he would be proud of. And so that has been my job.'"

I think that's so heartwrenchingly beautiful, and so I wanted you all to read this, too, just in case you (like me) don't have the Good Omens TV Companion. It adds another layer of depth and emotion to this already complex and amazing story that we all know and love.

Share this post, if you can, please, so that more people can read these excerpts :")

Tagging @neil-gaiman, @fuckyeahgoodomens and @orpiknight, even if you've definitely read these before :)

[finallychaoticeffigy]

Yandere kidnapper x reader

(He's hot...)

You jolt as thunder struck .You have always been afraid of thunder. The sudden intense noise always puts you on edge. However it's not just the volume, it’s the way it breaks the silence and reminds you shits can always happen the moment you least expect.

But there's nothing more terrifying than this monstrous man embracing you like there's no tomorrow.

His big arm wrap tightly around your waist while the other roams freely around other parts of your body. Lips attacking your neck groaning in satisfaction.

He always does this, he never gets sick of it. In fact it almost felt like hes addicted. Furthermore, he doesn't even wear a t-shirt around you, you once questioned him about this.

"Y/n your my lover, besides it helps me feel you more. Fucking clothes just get in the way baby." He responded with care as he kissed your cheeks.

He always whispers sweet things about you, how much he loves you and not just for your body but the whole you,how you're so perfect, your personality being the sweetest. How beautiful you are and how he would die and kill for you.

He always makes time for you. No matter how busy he is, just one word from you and he'll set it all aside just to spend time with you. He always takes care of you, give your needs and wants, you see you didn't even need to lift a finger, you just need to depend on him.

He truly is the best man. Any girl would love to have him, you too.... to be honest. It would all be so sweet. If....If he didn't kidnapped you months ago and forced you to stay with him.

He has brought you into a huge mansion in the woods with no human insight. 'I want us to be together with no interruption , others can go and fuck themselves. Now come here and gimme my morning kiss' you remembered him say once.

At first you tried to escape, but how could you , the windows from your room are way too high to jump and he doesn't even let you out of this stupid bedroom. So you started behaving to gain his trust until you're allowed to roam outside this room.

Your hardwork pays off , he starts trusting you more, you begin to wander around the mansion, taking notes inside your head, thinking ways for your escape.

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

You gradually felt him asleep beside you. You sighed in relief. The sleeping pills have worked. Now's your chance, you have waited for so long for this moment.

You slowly began to separate his arms around you. Careful not to wake him up. You felt your breath stopped for a moment as he groaned.

"Y/n " brows knit together, calling you in his sleep. Goodness even in his sleep, he probably held you captive too.

You successfully detached his arms , heart beating fast as you hurriedly got up and quietly like a mouse ran through the door , you didn't look back you just closed the door hoping not to make a sound.

You ran downstairs adrenaline rush through your veins. When you see the main door you dash as if your life depends on it, well because it did.

You twist the knob.....Locked. How could you be so stupid, of course he would lock it, especially at night. You tried to break the door but it was useless. You ran through the other direction, you would try to get out of the other doors you always saw when you're wandering around.

"Fuck my life" you cursed, it's not working, this was the 8th door you tried yet you couldn't get out.

"Y/n ! Sweetheart where are you ? ! " You knew that deep voice very well, it's him. How could he have woken up so fast?!

Tears began to form your eyes . Everything's useless now. You started to blame yourself. If only you're strong enough. This wouldn't have happened. But you knew very well you couldn't do anything about it.

He stormed inside the room with the same window you were planning to use as an escape route. You shrieked as he once again, wrapped around you like a snake.

"Baby why are you always running away from me?"

"I-i am sorry, i di-"

"Shh.... there there i forgive you...I love you too much to even get mad at you" he cooed like he was talking to a baby , kissing your hair gently.

"But I sure am fucking pissed about how you lied straight to my damn face when you said you weren't gonna run away baby" he bit your neck hard as you tremble in fear.

He picks you up still squeezing you tight. "Now... let's go to our bedroom and make up for it"

[cheftsunoda]

Hiii, I had this idea for Kimi where the reader is the youngest Leclerc, 18, but the Leclercs don't see her, they ignore her. Still, she's been dating Kimi for like a year (she moved to Italy when she was younger with her godparents or something), and I was wondering if you can make it like a 2-3 parts??

he put me first — ka12

smau + blurbs

kimi antonelli x !estranged leclerc sister reader

yn always fell on the back burner for her family, never truly seen. her father was the only one who ever made her feel like she mattered. when he passed, the distance between her and her siblings—charles, arthur, lorenzo—only grew wider. she felt more like a shadow than a sister. desperate to escape the weight of monaco and the name that never really felt like hers, she left for italy with nothing but a suitcase and a tearful phone call to her godparents. that was five years ago.

a year into her new life in bologna, she met a boy. kimi antonelli—soft-spoken, kind-eyed, and utterly unlike anyone she’d ever known. they were just kids when they met, but something about him felt like home. they’ve been inseparable ever since. now, five years later, both 18 years old, yn and kimi have been together for three years. he’s the only person who’s ever truly seen her. but everything changes when kimi is offered a spot in formula 1. because standing on that grid? is her brother. and kimi has no idea who she really is.

(a/n) : amazing idea anon! part two is already finished and will be posted in a few hours. i wasn’t sure if you wanted a happy or sad ending so i wrote both :)

fc : darianka on ig

part two here

—

5 years ago…(Before YN privates her instagram and goes radio silent.) (age 13 1/2)

yn_leclerc

57,089 likes.

yn_leclerc : au revoir pour toujours (goodbye forever)

—

username00 : hope this poor girl finds peace wherever she ends up

username15 : her family never deserved her truly and she must be so upset about the passing of her father

username20 : is she leaving monaco fully?

username17 : is this leclerc’s little sister??

username10 : yes

username17 : starting his f1 debut with family drama yikessss

username50 : grief is hard especially when you don’t have a good support system. we love you, yn.

liked by yn_leclerc

username11 : y’all act like this is so out of left field when none of the leclerc’s acknowledge her publicly and charles was legit asked about his family in an interview and said he had ‘two brothers’. I hope this poor girl heals.

username22 : the poor thing just lost her father a year ago and has been living in agony ever since. she seemed like she had no one to lean on.

—

yn_leclerc has unfollowed charles_leclerc

yn_leclerc has unfollowed arthur_leclerc

yn_leclerc has unfollowed lorenzotl

yn_leclerc has unfollowed leclerc_pascale

yn_leclerc has made her account private.

yn_leclerc is now its_yn on instagram.

—

3 months later

charles_leclerc has requested to follow you.

Block? Account is now blocked.

—

The house was quiet. Too quiet. No footsteps in the hallway. No one calling my name. Just the ticking of the clock above the kitchen sink and the sound of my own breath as I stood by the door, suitcase in hand, trying not to shake. I looked around one last time. The living room still had the blanket folded the way Papa used to do it. There were photos of us smiling—when I was younger, when I thought we were happy, before the silence swallowed everything after he was gone.

No one had come to stop me. Not Charles, not Arthur, not Lorenzo. I don’t even know if they noticed I was leaving. Or maybe they did and just thought I’d come back like the youngest sibling who didn’t know any better. But this time is much different.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. A message from my godmother: “We’ll be at the airport in Bologna when you land, darling. We’re so glad you called.”

That was the only text I’d gotten all day. The car ride to the airport was a blur—buildings passing by like ghosts, my reflection in the window looking pale and unfamiliar. I clutched Papa’s old scarf the entire ride, fingers curled tight around the soft wool, as if holding on to it meant I wasn’t fully leaving him behind. When I reached my gate, I felt something shift. Not relief. Not excitement. Just this aching hollow where my home used to be. Boarding was called. I stood. Walked. Didn’t look back.

As I sat by the window and the plane began to taxi down the runway, I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood. The tears came quietly, without a warning—just like the grief did. Just like the loneliness that had made a home inside me the day they stopped looking at me the way he used to.

I pressed my forehead to the cold glass and whispered, “au revoir, Papa.”

And I left. Forever. Or so I thought.

—

The air in Bologna was different. Warmer, softer, like it wasn’t trying to weigh me down. The sun stretched low across the sky as I stepped out of the airport, suitcase dragging behind me, heart heavier than anything I was carrying.

My godmother spotted me first. She didn’t say anything right away—just pulled me into a hug, the kind of hug that said I know you’re not ready to talk, but I’m here when you are. I clung to her like I was drowning.

The drive to their home was quiet. The roads curved through terracotta buildings and narrow alleys lined with vines and shutters and chipped paint that somehow looked like art. Everything felt old, but in a comforting way. Like maybe it had survived too much and was still standing anyway.

Their house was small and warm and smelled like garlic and old books. My room overlooked a garden with a lemon tree and chipped flower pots and two cats who seemed entirely uninterested in my arrival.

I set my suitcase down and sat on the edge of the bed. Everything was quiet again—but this time, it didn’t feel suffocating. Just… unfamiliar. I checked my phone. Nothing. I told myself it was the time difference. That maybe Charles was racing. That Arthur was busy with training. That Lorenzo had work. That someone—anyone—was thinking about me. But the silence didn’t change.

That first night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept staring at the screen, refreshing my messages. Waiting. Hoping. A stupid part of me thought I’d hear a knock at the door. That someone would get on a plane. That I’d wake up to a missed call or a message that said “Come home.”

But it never came. And deep down, I already knew it wouldn’t.

So I turned off my phone. Slipped under the unfamiliar sheets. And let the sound of Bologna—distant voices, the creak of old floorboards, a cat meowing in the courtyard—slowly lull me into something close to peace.

For the first time in a long time… I didn’t feel like a burden. Just a girl with a second chance.

—

I didn’t want to go. My godfather insisted I needed “fresh air and new faces.” I would’ve preferred to stay hidden in my room, curled up with a book or pretending I wasn’t still checking my phone every hour. But he was persistent in the gentle way only he could be — and before I knew it, I was being walked down the stone path to a small karting track just outside the city.

It smelled like rubber and oil and sun-warmed concrete. I hated it immediately. It reminded me of home — not the home I was trying to forget, but the one I couldn’t stop missing. There were a few kids scattered around, helmets under their arms, laughing and comparing lap times. I hovered awkwardly near the fence, hands in my sleeves, trying not to make eye contact. That’s when I saw him.

He wasn’t loud like the others. He was off to the side, squatting next to a kart with grease on his fingers and a serious look on his face. Blue eyes narrowed in concentration, curls messy under the weight of the sun. He glanced up at me. Just once. And then again — longer this time. Not in a curious, who’s the new girl kind of way. But softer. Like he already knew I didn’t want to be there. He wiped his hands on his suit and walked over, quiet steps across the pavement.

“You don’t like racing?” he asked, his Italian smooth but slow. Like he was trying not to scare me off.

I shrugged. “It’s complicated.”

He nodded like he understood more than he should for a boy his age. “I don’t like people watching me when I drive.”

I blinked. “Aren’t you supposed to be used to that?”

He shrugged back. “I race better when no one’s expecting anything from me.”

I looked at him then — really looked. And for the first time in weeks, I didn’t feel like I was about to cry.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Kimi,” he said simply. “You?”

“YN.”

He smiled, just barely. “You look like you needed someone to talk to.”

I didn’t say anything. But I stayed. And so did he. We sat by the fence for the rest of the afternoon — not saying much, just watching the karts fly by. He offered me half of his water bottle and didn’t ask why my eyes looked red or why I flinched every time my phone buzzed. He just… stayed. And that was enough.

—

a few months later

His room always felt lived in. Not messy, just… honest. Trophies tucked into corners like he forgot to show them off, books stacked sideways on a shelf, a blanket half-hanging off the bed from when we’d watched a movie the night before and fallen asleep mid-scene. I was sitting cross-legged on the floor, picking at the frayed end of the rug. Kimi lay on his stomach across the bed, chin resting on his arm, eyes lazily watching me in that calm, patient way of his.

“Do you ever miss home?” he asked quietly, out of nowhere.

I froze for a second. Then shrugged, trying to play it off. “Not really.”

He raised an eyebrow. “That doesn’t sound true.”

I didn’t answer. He didn’t push. Just waited, the silence stretching softly between us, like it always did when he sensed I had something I was trying not to say.

“I used to think it was normal,” I said finally. “To feel invisible.”

His expression didn’t change, but he sat up, like my voice had shifted something.

“They were busy. All the time. With important things. Big things. I was just… there. A shadow in the background. Quiet, easy to forget.” My fingers curled around the edge of the rug. “The only one who really noticed me was my dad.”

Kimi’s brows furrowed slightly. Still quiet.

“He made me feel like I wasn’t just an accident. He remembered things, small things. He showed up. He listened. And then… he was gone.” My throat tightened. “After that, it was like I stopped existing to them.”

I could feel my eyes sting but I didn’t let the tears fall. Not yet.

“I kept waiting for someone to knock on my door. To ask if I was okay. To notice I was breaking. But no one did. So I left.”

Kimi didn’t say a word. Just leaned down and passed me one of his racing gloves like it was a stress ball. I took it without thinking, gripping it tightly in my hands.

“I thought they’d message. Call. Ask me to come back. But they didn’t.” My voice cracked, just once. “They never did.”

A long beat passed. And then he said softly, “They don’t deserve you.”

I looked up at him, startled.

“I mean it,” he said, eyes steady and a little sad. “Whoever—wherever they are… they don’t deserve you.”

And that was the thing about Kimi. He never needed all the details to understand exactly what I meant. He slid off the bed and sat beside me on the floor, shoulder to shoulder. He didn’t say I’m sorry, or It’ll get better, or You should call them. He just sat there — present, quiet, and unwavering. For the first time in a long time, I felt like someone had chosen me. Not because of a name, or a title, or an obligation. Just… me.

—

The days had started feeling softer. Lighter. I wasn’t exactly happy — not yet — but I was starting to breathe again. I saw Kimi almost every day. We didn’t always talk much, but it didn’t matter. There was comfort in his silence. In the way he didn’t ask questions I wasn’t ready to answer. In the way he made space for me without trying to fix me. That night, it was raining. Not a thunderstorm — just a steady, quiet drizzle. We’d been watching a movie on the old TV in his living room, but we both lost interest halfway through. Now we were just sitting in front of the window, side by side on the floor, watching raindrops slide down the glass. His shoulder brushed mine. Not on purpose. Not entirely on accident either.

“You seem… lighter lately,” he said after a long stretch of quiet.

I looked down at my hands. “I guess I am.”

He nodded like he already knew that. Like he could feel it in the way I laughed a little easier. Like he saw the part of me that was slowly, finally, healing. I glanced at him. His curls were damp from earlier, still soft and sticking to his forehead. He had that look again — thoughtful, half-serious, like he was about to say something important but didn’t know how.

“Do you ever think about…” I started, then stopped.

He tilted his head. “About what?”

I swallowed. “Us.”

There was a pause, long enough that I thought maybe I’d ruined everything.

“All the time.”

My breath caught. He looked at me — really looked at me. “But I didn’t want to push. I didn’t know if you were ready.”

I blinked hard, my throat tightening. “I don’t know if I am. Not really. But I want to be. With you.”

He reached out slowly, giving me the space to move back. I didn’t. His fingers brushed mine, then threaded through them like it was the most natural thing in the world. And then, gently — so gently I almost thought I imagined it — he leaned in and kissed me. It wasn’t fireworks or heat or any of the things I thought a first kiss had to be. It was soft. Slow. Careful. It was safe.

When we pulled apart, he didn’t say anything right away. Just rested his forehead against mine and whispered, “You don’t have to run anymore.”

And for the first time in years, I believed that.

—

3 years ago (private IG) (age 15)

its_yn

liked by kimi.antonelli and 428 others.

its_yn : so proud of my boy <3

—

view 25 comments.

kimi.antonelli : mia bella regazza. ti amo così tanto ❤️ (my pretty girl. love you so much)

liked by its_yn

its_yn : je t’aime ma chérie

yourbff : so cute 😊

liked by its_yn

username22 : so she is missing for two years and pops back up with some random prema guy. hm

username17 : let her be. its clear they didn’t care for her. she has a new life.

liked by its_yn

username8 : she has grown so much in just two years, beautiful girl.

liked by its_yn

—

3 years ago (Age 15)

The paddock was buzzing with energy. People rushing around, shouting in Italian, cameras flashing. I stayed close to Kimi’s side, his hand occasionally brushing mine, grounding me. He introduced me to a few mechanics and an engineer, but I barely registered their names. My stomach was already tight. Then I saw him. It was just a glimpse — the back of his head at first, the familiar tilt of his shoulders as he laughed with someone near the Prema hospitality area. My heart stopped. Arthur.

I hadn’t seen him in two years. I didn’t even know he was racing for Prema now. My eyes locked onto him like a ghost had walked into the room. He hadn’t changed much. Taller, maybe. Sharper around the edges. But still him. He turned a little — not toward me, just enough for me to catch his profile — and I froze. My breath vanished. My chest started to cave in. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. I turned sharply and pushed through the crowd, barely hearing Kimi call after me.

I found a quiet spot behind one of the team trucks, crouched down and pressed my hands over my mouth to muffle the sound of my breathing. Too fast. Too loud. I didn’t know if it was fear or guilt or some horrible mix of both, but the world was spinning.

A few minutes passed before I heard footsteps approach — soft, careful ones. Kimi didn’t say anything. He just sat beside me on the concrete, close but not touching.

After a moment, he offered me his water bottle and looked at me gently. “You don’t have to tell me,” he said. “But I’m here if you ever want to.”

Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes. Not because I was sad — but because he never asked for more than I could give. Never pushed. Never demanded an explanation or a name. He just waited.

“I didn’t know that someone I used to know would be here,” I whispered after a long while.

Kimi nodded once. “It’s okay. Take your time.”

I wiped my face on my sleeve and stared down at my hands. “I thought I was far enough away. That I could breathe here.”

“You still can,” he said, soft but firm. “You’re safe. I promise.”

He wrapped me into him and pressed a soft kiss to the top of my head softly humming into my ear.

—

I hadn’t planned on staying.

After seeing Arthur, every instinct in my body told me to disappear — to slip away before he could look up and really see me. But then Kimi found me behind the truck and told me quietly, “My family’s here. Come sit with them, yeah? I think you need them today.”

He was right.

So now I sat in the Prema grandstand with Kimi’s little sister curled up beside me, legs swinging, playing with the bracelets on my wrist. His mother had tucked a handkerchief into my palm and told me, “You look pale, sweetheart. You need sugar,” before pressing a warm piece of cake into my hand from her bag.

They always treated me like I belonged — like I wasn’t this strange, fractured thing still learning how to be whole. Kimi’s father stood beside us, arms crossed, watching the track like a general watching his son go to war. The cars screamed past us in blurs of color, and every time Kimi’s flashed by, his sister would squeal and clap, and I couldn’t help but smile. Even through the noise, the nerves, the ache in my chest — I smiled. Until I saw the flash of red out of the corner of my eye. Arthur. He was walking along the lower row, near the barricades, clearly heading toward the engineers and team leads. A pass swung around his neck. He hadn’t noticed me — yet — but the sight of him this close sent a bolt of ice straight through my chest. I sat up straighter, turned my head slightly, trying to hide without drawing attention. My breathing quickened. Kimi’s father noticed instantly. He didn’t say anything. Just looked down at me for a half-second, eyes sharp and knowing, before taking a small step forward and positioning himself directly in front of me — calm, casual, like it was coincidence.

But I knew it wasn’t. He stood just enough in Arthur’s line of sight to shield me completely. He didn’t even glance back. Just crossed his arms and watched the race again like nothing was wrong. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes. Not from fear this time — but from something deeper. Something I hadn’t let myself feel in a long time. Protected. Accepted.

The little girl beside me leaned into my shoulder and said, “Papa says Kimi drives best when you’re watching.”

I blinked fast and gave her a watery smile. “I think so too.”

Arthur passed by without noticing me. And I exhaled. Kimi’s father gave the smallest nod without looking back — a silent I’ve got you. And for the first time since I ran away from my old life, I didn’t feel like I was running anymore.

—

present day

The Antonelli kitchen felt like the safest place in the world. It smelled like basil, fresh dough, and melted cheese. Kimi’s mom was humming as she shaped dough into little hearts, laughing every time her kimi threw flour in the air like confetti. His dad was outside with the grill, pretending to be a world-renowned chef. Maggie was sat on the couch on her iPad, picking out what she thought I should wear on my first magazine cover. And I was leaned against the counter next to Kimi, our elbows brushing, my cheeks still warm from all the attention. They were celebrating me. Me — the girl who once ran away in silence. Me— the girl who was just picked up by one of the biggest model agencies in the world.

“Model status suits you,” Kimi teased, reaching over to flick a piece of mozzarella off my shirt. “Soon you’ll be too cool to sit at my kitchen table.”

I snorted. “Right, because Vogue’s dying for a girl who cries watching dog videos and can’t walk in heels.”

He smirked. “That’s exactly your charm.”

I didn’t respond — not out loud. Just looked at him the way I always did when I didn’t have the words to say thank you for staying. For loving me when I couldn’t love myself. His phone buzzed on the counter. Once. Twice. Then nonstop.

Kimi’s dad poked his head through the back door. “Tesoro, your phone’s vibrating like it owes someone money.”

Kimi chuckled, swiping it up and answering casually.

“Ciao, Kimi speaking…”

Then came the pause. I watched it happen in slow motion — the shift in his voice, his posture, the disbelief spreading across his face like sunlight cracking through clouds.

“Wait—really?” he said, straighter now. “Like… official? For this season?”

The phone slipped from his ear a moment. He looked at me — stunned. Breathless. And then he laughed. Just once. A sharp, stunned sound.

“They want me. Formula 1. I’m in.”

The room exploded. His mom gasped, then started crying. His sister squealed so loud the dog barked. His dad came rushing in, hugging them both, eyes glassy with pride. Kimi turned toward me, beaming, his arms already opening like they always did when the world became too much. And I stepped into them — because I loved him, and he had worked for this his whole life, and nothing in the world could’ve made me prouder.

But behind my smile, a storm was brewing. F1 meant exposure. Paddocks. Media. Faces from a past I’d hidden like a wound. It meant Charles. It meant the life I left behind — the life I never wanted to explain — was about to come crashing into the one I’d built with Kimi. He pulled back slightly, still grinning, forehead pressed to mine. “Can you believe it?”

I nodded. Swallowed the lump in my throat. “Of course I can.”

But deep down, I wasn’t sure who I was more afraid of facing — the brothers I’d run from…Or the boy I loved who still didn’t know.

—

twitter!

f1gossipgirls : Let’s get to know our newest rookie— Kimi Antonelli. It was just announced that the 18 year old will be taking Lewis Hamilton’s (big shoes to fill) spot at Mercedes. Born and raised in Bologna, Kimi is the son of racing driver, Marci Antonelli. He has had back to back Direct-Driver European Championships and he won his first title in 2022 F4 Championship with Prema racing. He has been a member of the Mercedes Junior team since 2019. Now— we know what you are all thinking ladies. Does he have a girlfriend? Are we getting a new wag? Short answer being, yes— he does have a girlfriend. 18 year old, YN, who just recently signed with one of the world’s biggest modeling agencies and we do have to say…she is quite gorgeous. Her once-private Instagram account recently went public — and fans immediately noticed Kimi appearing in multiple soft, cozy photos going back years. No tags. No captions. Just vibes. She has also appeared on Kimi’s account many many times. However— F1 fans are clocking something. She looks familiar— with some insisting they’ve seen her around the paddock long before she ever appeared on Kimi’s feed. Let us know what you think below!

view 120,090 comments.

username00 : is this the YN?? like the one we all know.

username20 : WAIT. am i insane or does she look like she could be a leclerc??

username17 : because she is

username20 : huh?

username17 : the leclerc’s have always had a little sister— she was just always left behind. she disappeared shortly after their dad died. guess this is where she was

username15 : my friend is one of the people that still had access to her instagram while it was private and before she deleted all the family stuff. it is most definitely the same yn.

username000 : OMG OMG yn return to the paddock was not on my 2025 bingo card

username7 : this is the drama i needed this season to open with YES MAMA

username11 : wow she has grown up so much. she is stunning. definitely can see those leclerc genes

username0 : her and kimi are so cute omg. they’ve been together since they were 15

this tweet has reached 500k retweets.

—

third person point of view

It was a quiet evening in the Leclerc apartment. The windows were cracked open, letting in the soft hum of the sea below, and the TV played old F2 highlights that neither Charles nor Arthur were really watching. The off-season had given them rare downtime — but lately, neither of them had really known what to do with it.

Arthur was half-scrolling through Instagram, letting the silence settle between them. Then he stopped. His thumb hovered over the screen. His body went still.

“Charles,” he said, voice tight.

Charles didn’t look up. “What?”

“No—Charles. Look.”

Arthur turned the phone toward him. It was a post from a well-known F1 gossip page. The caption wasn’t what caught Charles’s attention, though. It was the photos — grainy at first, then clearer, softer. A girl in a sun-drenched field. On a balcony. Sitting next to Kimi Antonelli, smiling like the world wasn’t heavy anymore. Her smile. Her face. It couldn’t be. But it was.

His breath caught. “No…”

“It’s her,” Arthur whispered. “It’s YN.”

They both stared. It had been five years. Five years since she’d vanished overnight with nothing but a vague message and a suitcase. Five years since they’d called her phone, left angry voicemails, waited by the door. Five years without their little sister. And now here she was.

Not a girl anymore. Not the quiet, overlooked youngest who used to sit at the end of the dinner table, trying not to take up space. She looked like a woman now. Confident. Radiant. Her curls were longer, darker. Her cheekbones sharper. Her eyes… the same, but older. Like they’d seen more than any eighteen-year-old ever should have. Charles swallowed hard, eyes locked on the screen.

“She’s stunning,” he murmured, almost like the words had escaped him before he realized he said them.

Arthur didn’t respond right away. His throat was tight. “She looks… happy.”

Charles nodded slowly. “Yeah. She does.”

Another beat passed.

“She went public,” Arthur added. “Her account. It’s not private anymore. That wasn’t an accident.”

Charles took the phone from him, scrolling carefully through her feed. The soft aesthetics. The little captions. Kimi in the background of nearly every photo, his arm around her waist, his chin on her shoulder.

“She really stayed gone,” Arthur said. “She meant it.”

And it hurt. It shouldn’t have surprised them — not really. But it did. They’d spent so long pretending she’d come back on her own. That time would heal things without them having to face what they’d done — or failed to do. But now, the girl they barely said goodbye to had grown up into someone they didn’t even recognize. Someone who had built a life without them.

“She’s with Kimi,” Charles said, staring down at one of the photos. “She’s been with him a while, I think.”

Arthur looked over. “Do you think he knows who she is?”

Charles shook his head. “If he did, we’d have known a long time ago.”

Silence stretched between them again. Then Arthur said it — the question neither of them had said aloud in years.

“Do you think she hates us?”

Charles stared out the window, jaw tight, eyes glossy.

“I think… she had every right to.”

—

[starstruckmiraclekitty]

Simon was seething. Never had he been so viscerally angry, his temper dangerously towing the tight rope that was his self control. You’d almost been killed. You’d been shot, and you were damn lucky that it hadn’t been fatal.

He found you on the roof later that night, no longer hiding the pain the bullet wound in your side had caused once you thought you were alone. It took all of two seconds of him seeing you hurting like that for him to snap.

“The fuck were you thinking out there, Y/N?!” His voice echoed in the night air, causing you to flinch slightly. “Do please tell me you’ve got a reasonable explanation for what happened.”

“Simon, please just calm down for a minute.” Your voice was soft, too soft, and it only fueled his anger more.

“Calm down? You want me to calm down?” Simon bellowed, his self control rapidly slipping out of his grasp. “You almost fuckin’ died, Y/N!”

Simon hated the way you flinched, hated the way you backed up ever so slightly away from him, but he couldn’t control himself. He had almost lost you.

“I know that, Simon. I know. But I don’t regret what went down.” You forced your voice steady, your eyes not leaving his as you attempted to stand your ground. “I-.”

“You don’t regret almost getting shot? Y/N, you’re not on this team to make reckless decisions. If I knew you’d be making choices like that, I’d have had Price kick you off the team months ago! Almost dying, for what? For what?!” Simon moved closer to you, the red in his vision nearly blinding, and this time you didn’t back away.

“For you, asshole!” You screamed, your hands reaching for Simon’s chest, pushing him as hard as you possibly could. Simon barely moved an inch before you screamed again. “For you! If I hadn’t taken that bullet, you would’ve died!”

Simon’s world stopped in that moment, the red vanishing from his vision, his heart coming to a slow halt in his chest as he absorbed your words. For him?

“He was aiming at you, Simon. If I hadn’t stepped in the way, we would’ve lost you. And I.” You trailed off, unable to look at the hulking man in front of you. “I don’t know, I didn’t hesitate, it was as if it was just instinct for me.”

Simon could hear his heartbeat in his ears, the soft thud thud thud the only thing keeping him grounded. You’d saved him. You’d risked your life to save him.

You, the sweet soldier who always put others first. You, the one who’d always patched him up late at night, laughing at his shitty jokes. You, the one who understood him like nobody else. You, the one person in this godforsaken world that got him to lower the never ending walls within him. You, the one he’d unknowingly loved for years. Saved him.

“I know it was stupid, and if you want to kick me off of the team for it, fine. But I’d do it again.” You threw your hands up in the air, and Simon didn’t miss the way you winced from the pain in your side. “I don’t regret it.”

Simon only stared at you, his eyes betraying none of the inner turmoil that he was currently experiencing.

“I couldn’t lose you, Simon.” Your voice was barely audible as you spoke, your eyes falling on the lower half of his mask. “Not now, not ever. I don’t know what I would’ve done if that bullet hit you.”

Simon’s eyes found yours as he let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He opened his mouth to speak, but his tongue felt heavy, incapable of moving. For the first time in his life, he truly didn’t know what to say.

He watched as you chewed your bottom lip, your eyes leaving his yet again as you looked down at your feet. God he wishes he could say something, anything, but as always words failed him around you.

“I’ve got to go report in to Price.” You said, slowly turning away from him to face the door. “I won’t apologize for what I did, but I’m sorry for causing you to doubt my ability to support the team. Have a good night, lieutenant.”

Watching you turn away from him had finally stirred something within him, his heart rapidly beating in his chest. He had to make this right.

“Y/N.” Simon found his voice as you reached the roof’s door, causing you to turn to face him. “Wait.”

Your heart practically stopped beating upon finding Simon’s mask discarded, his face now fully bare for you to see. You weren’t sure what you had expected, once you’d finally seen him, but it certainly wasn’t this.

He was simply beautiful. Every scar, every small freckle, dimple, wrinkle had formed his face impeccably well, and you couldn’t help but stare at him as your mind ran completely blank.

You’d fallen for the masked man long ago, his dry humor, loyalty and bravery were something that’d you’d found yourself drawn to. You’d meant what you said to him about not regretting taking a bullet for him. You loved him. And truthfully couldn’t fathom a life without him.

“Now you see me.” Simon breathed, his eyes softening as he watched you take in every inch of his face. He should’ve felt vulnerable, shy even. But he didn’t. Not with you. He wanted you to see him, every imperfect inch of him.

He bared himself to you, let his face and eyes tell you everything he didn’t know how to express with words.

“I’ve always seen you, Simon Riley.” You spoke, your voice barely above a whisper as your hand softly cupped his cheek. “Always.”

And that was all it took for Simon to know he loved you.

[frenchkisstheabyss]

♡ butterfly ♡

♡ Pairing: personal trainer!boyfriend!mingyu x chubby!fem!reader

♡ Genre: fluff/smut/comfort

♡ Summary: When your boyfriend leaves his phone behind after a cozy morning at home you decide to do something sweet and bring his phone to him at work but an unexpected interaction leaves you questioning yourself and if you truly deserve your place in your relationship.

♡ Word Count: 6.3k

♡ Warnings: some body image insecurities/comments about the reader's body from someone else but plenty of comfort from Mingyu for them, unprotected sex, shower sex, a lil nibbling, lots of kissing, a lil manhandling, no pulling out, a lil nipple play, pet names (baby, sweetie, good girl).

♡ A/N: This is the first fic that I've written in a long, long, long time so I'm sorry if I'm a little rusty at this. I just wanted to write something comforting and sweet for all of my chubby babes out there. I also have to thank @anyamaris for supporting me in writing this and checking in on me so much. I love youuu.

Peace. That’s all Mingyu knows when he’s around you. Even in this moment.

Lost deep in some dream he probably won’t remember, his arms wrapped around you as you snuggle against his bare chest lost in dreams of your own. He’s never felt safer. He’s never felt more at home. Wild horses couldn’t drag him away from this bed that you share together. Nor could his morning alarms that have gone ignored one after the other until his phone seemingly decided he was a lost cause and went back to sleep itself. 

How can you blame him when he was set up for failure to begin with? The sound of rain beating against the window of your 3rd story apartment, drowning out the rest of the world so that it feels as if he’s on a planet of his own. The warmth of the fluffy cotton blankets he’s been swimming in all night, protecting you both from the crisp chill of the early morning. The softness of your body pressed to his, every breath of yours so gentle and sweet. So perfectly timed with his that you’re almost dueting a lullaby, dragging him deeper and deeper into his slumber. He could stay like this all day—snoozing the hours away, blissfully unaware of the fact that he has actual responsibilities—but someone else has other plans. 

The bedroom door creaks open but only barely. Just enough for a chubby orange cat affectionately known as Jellybean to skip her way into the bedroom and fling herself onto the bed. It’s 30 minutes past breakfast time and in her mind she’s withering away. If you two sleep any longer there’ll be nothing left of her to feed. Navigating the mess of blankets, she stops right on Mingyu’s chest, close enough for her fur to tickle your cheek. The cold, pink tip of her nose nudges at Mingyu’s chin. It’s time to wake up. 

“Mingyu, stop, that tickles” you mumble, cuddling closer to him. 

Mingyu shifts in bed, reaching down to stroke your hair, “Babe, are you licking me?” 

His hand comes down onto Jellybean’s back and it occurs to him that the hair he’s feeling isn’t yours. It’s also purring. Tilting his head up, he cracks one eye open to see the hungry little face staring back at him. 

“Bean, what are you doing up here?” he giggles, petting the crown of her head so that her ears perk up. 

You let out a groan, knowing that if the kitty’s on patrol then sleepy time is over. “Come on, you can’t eat your dad.” 

Scooping her into your arms, you force yourself up in bed only for Mingyu to drag you back down. Even half asleep he’s twice as strong as you. Not that you’re complaining. 

“Where are you going?” he pouts, kissing you on the cheek, “I’m not finished with you yet.” Jellybean chirps, pressing a paw to his lips as he comes in for another kiss and Mingyu frowns like a disappointed child. Curved by a cat.

“Cut it out” you say half heartedly, a barely awake smile on your face, “Bean is hungry. Plus you have work today don’t you?” 

Mingyu’s eyes widen in shock. His heart sinks to the floor. It hits him all at once. The realization that he has no clue what time it is when he probably should. He nearly knocks the two of you off the bed as he bolts from the bed, grabbing his phone and staring in complete terror at the sight of the four missed alarms on his lockscreen. The usual glowing, honeyed tone of his skin turns pale as the panic sets in. It’s 7:45am. Work starts in 15 minutes. Fuck. 

“So I guess you’re not eating breakfast” you tease as he tears out of the room, darting to the bathroom to brush his teeth. 

A few seconds later he scrambles back in, a toothbrush wedged between his pearly whites. He mumbles something, probably a comment about how you have a smart mouth and you’ll pay for it later, but you can’t take his threats seriously when he’s completely naked running around the bedroom like a chicken with its head cut off.

You try to be respectful to his current struggle, averting your eyes elsewhere, and yet they keep drifting back to the sight of his body. Those well defined arms, those abs you could spend all night running your fingertips across, an ass you could bounce a quarter off of—

Mingyu slips his underwear on, popping the toothbrush out of his mouth, “Am I a piece of meat to you?” 

You nuzzle Jellybean closer to your chest, offended at the audacity of your boyfriend to say such a thing. “Mingyu…”

Crawling back onto the bed, he brings his lips inches away from yours, a flirty grin playing on his them. “I can be a piece of meat to you if you want. I can make time. Just get the brat out of the way and…”

It’s oh so tempting but someone has to be the responsible one and, as much as you hate it, it has to be you. Stroking his cheek, you stare into the prettiest brown eyes you’ve ever seen and say words that pain you. “Not a chance. You’re already late for work.” 

Mingyu raises an eyebrow, shocked by the amount of restraint you’re showing. “If I’m already late. Why not make it later?”

His hand smooths over the blanket, massaging your plush thigh through the fabric. Now your body’s awakening in more ways than one. You dish out a light slap to his cheek, fighting off the tingle coming over you. “We’ll have time for that later but for now…work.”

Mingyu only stares back at you, devouring you with his gaze, patiently waiting for you to break but you never do. How he finds your stubbornness so annoying and so hot all at the same time is a mystery he’ll never solve. 

“Fine” he groans, giving you a toothpaste laced smooch on the lips before disappearing back into the bathroom. 

As he leaves, you let out a sigh of relief. “Close one, huh, Bean?” 

Turning the poor, starving kitty loose, you drag yourself out of bed and slip into the t-shirt thrown over the back of a nearby chair. You figure if Mingyu has to be productive then so should you. The walk to the kitchen feels eternal. You’re still yawning and rubbing your eyes when you fill Jellybean’s bowl with food, nearly losing your balance as you bend over to set it on the floor.

You consider for a brief second heading to the bathroom to get started on your morning routine but by the sound of it Mingyu’s bouncing off of the walls in there. Figuring it’s best to stay out of the way, you pop open the fridge and set out in search of a breakfast of your own. Having recently gone grocery shopping, the shelves are filled with every delicious food your heart could desire and every single dish requires you to cook. 

“Why does everything need to be cooked?” you whine, head thrown back in agony. “I don’t wanna.” 

Mingyu flies past you, grabbing his keys from the kitchen counter, “Then don’t. Order out.”

“I thought we weren’t ordering out. Saving money and all that.”

“You can use my card. Just order the food, okay?” 

You stand there in silence staring into the void, hearing him but too lost in thought to acknowledge it. The ingredients in the fridge stare back at you. A useless array of items if nothing’s done with them. Mingyu slaps you on the butt. The quickest way he knows to snap you out of it. 

“Hey!” you squeal, spinning around to slap his hand away. 

Flinging the refrigerator door closed, he pushes you up against it, sweeping you into a kiss much deeper than the last. Not as tinged in toothpaste but more minty than you’re used to still. “Order the food” he mumbles, trailing kisses down your neck, “Promise.” His hands slip beneath your shirt, delighting in the plushness of your lovehandles. He’s getting himself started again. He probably shouldn’t but he can't help it. He never can with you. 

His palms are cold, sending a chill up your spine that makes you arch into him. “I promise” you relent, knowing you’re in no position not to give in. 

Giving your body one last squeeze, he swirls his tongue around yours, snatching himself away just as you’re really getting into it. “You said ‘later’, remember?” he teases, heading for the door. 

Picking up a nearby spatula, you wind your arm back in his direction. “I could throw this at you!” Your aim is immaculate. You have full faith in your abilities. Too bad Mingyu’s shoes are on and he’s already halfway out the door by the time you make up your mind to do it or not. 

“Love you!” he shouts over his shoulder, disappearing into the hallway, leaving you defeated and too horny for 7AM in the morning. 

“Love you too” you huff, tossing the spatula back onto the counter. You’ll get him when he gets home or he’ll get you. That second one doesn’t sound so bad actually.

Sparing another glance at what’s in the fridge, you abandon any thought of financial responsibility and make your way back to the bedroom in search of your phone. Jellybean pays you no mind as you pass. Her food has been secured. You’re on your own. Turning back into your bedroom, you spot a phone at the foot of the bed. You scoop it up, flopping back down onto the bed. You nearly melt into the comfort of it, contemplating just going back to sleep and forgoing breakfast altogether but you know you can’t. You promised Mingyu afterall.

There’s just one problem. You can’t unlock your phone. Tapping in the code, you frown as the phone rejects it. It’s fine. Maybe you put it in wrong. You did just wake up. Putting the numbers in again, slower this time, you’re met with the same result. Incorrect. Then you notice it. This phone’s wider than yours and thicker too. That isn’t even your lockscreen. 

“Shit! Mingyu!”

Phone in hand, you race out of the bedroom and into the living room as fast as your legs will carry you. You push the window nearest to you open with every intent of screaming his name out at the top of your lungs—he always parks his car across the street in perfect shouting distance—but it’s no use. His car’s already gone.

Without thinking, you scurry back into the bedroom and hop into a pair of sweatpants. You pay no mind to the messy state of your hair or the mismatched rain boots that you throw on. Breathless, you race out of the door, car keys in hand, to catch up to your boyfriend. Two minutes ago you were threatening to throw a spatula at his head. Now you’re dropping everything to make sure your baby has his phone. 

Ah, romance. 

It’s not that you don’t know where your boyfriend works. 

It’s more so that you only have a vague idea of where your boyfriend works. You know that it’s some super nice gym tucked away on a quiet street downtown, somewhere in the general vicinity of a bookstore. Or was it a thrift store? A thrift store that sells books? He’s driven you past it a few times when the two of you were headed out for dinner with friends but you’ve never actually been there. Had you considered that before you left the house you might’ve just waited for him to double back for his phone but knowing your boyfriend he wouldn’t have noticed until it was too late. 

Thankfully you didn’t get yourself completely lost. You recognized a few things here and there. Not enough to keep you from wasting a half hour driving in circles but enough to find it eventually. An unintended perk of  having wasted so much time is the current absence of rain. The clouds are clearing up, tiny slivers of sunshine breaking through as you push your way into the sleek air conditioned gym.

With all its shiny silver decor and glowing white accent lights everything here feels so sterile. The aesthetic is definitely clean. Almost medical in a way. On the walls are posters with barely dressed, muscular figures posing proudly on them. Motivational words paint the bottom of them. 

No excuses. 

Work harder.

Smile. Sweat. Repeat. 

You hear the faint sound of a 2000’s pop mix streaming from speakers strung high in each corner. In the distance there’s the thud of sneakers hitting a treadmill at full speed. Clearly this playlist has someone going hard. Good for them. You can’t say that you’ve ever been a gym girl. It’s never been your thing.

Honestly, when you first met Mingyu it was one of your biggest insecurities. A personal trainer who spends all of his time at a gym and a chubby girl who doesn’t even have a membership. What could you possibly have in common? As it turns out, everything. Well, almost everything. Mingyu never made you feel weird about it but, catching your reflection in a nearby mirror, you remember why you did. 

Most of the time you feel secure. Mingyu makes sure that you do. But there are other times, like now, that you question what exactly he’s doing with you. Fresh out of bed in your house clothes, wedged between “Sweat Is Just Fat Crying” and “No Days Off”, you feel utterly unfit to be here. 

“Um, excuse me, can I help you with something?” the receptionist calls out to you. 

“I—uh—” you stutter, blinking yourself back down to earth. Straightening yourself up a bit, you shyly approach the front desk and the drop dead gorgeous girl who runs it. 

In her expensive workout gear and her high slicked back ponytail, she’s the tiniest bubbliest thing you’ve ever seen. Her name tag reads “Lexi” and truly, what else would her name be? 

“Can I help you?” she repeats, twirling a gym branded pen around her fingers. She looks at you curiously. She’s smiling from ear to ear but you can feel her judgement...or is it all in your head? 

“Yes” you manage to get out, shrinking into yourself more and more by the second, “I’m looking for Kim Mingyu.” 

“Oh!” She seems thrilled at the sound of his name, “One second.” 

Swiveling around in her chair, she picks up the phone and clicks the button for the intercom. “Mingyu to the front desk please. Mingyu to the front desk.” Hanging the phone up, she turns her attention back to you. “He’ll be up in a second. So, have you been here before?”

“Aah, no. I haven’t—”

“First timer? Slay queen. It’s never too late to make a change.”

“Well, I’m not here for—”

“You’re gonna love, Mingyu. He’s great really. He’ll have all that extra weight off of you just like that.” 

She snaps her fingers. Poof. Magic. Chubby girl be gone.

“I’m actually—”

“And don’t tell him I said this…” she leans forward to whisper, a secret between two girls, “He’s, like, super hot. If getting in shape means getting a guy like that what other motivation do you need, am I right?” 

You woke up this morning feeling so nice. Loved. Desirable. How can all of that change so quickly? 

“Baby, what are you doing here?” Mingyu asks, freeing you from the smothering confines of this conversation. He appears around one of the corners, pulling you into a bear hug, “Everything okay?” 

“Baby?”  You catch the receptionist mouthing to herself. For her it’s the shock of the year. Of the century even. 

“Mmhmm” you nod, using what minimal free space you have to hold his phone up, “You forgot this.” 

“Oh my god, thank you. You drove all the way here for me?” Mingyu’s face lights up enough to blind you to the confused expression on your new friend Lexi’s face. Almost. 

“You’re the sweetest thing ever, you know that?” he gushes, smushing your cheeks together and kissing you all over your face. 

“Gyu, cut it out, there’s people around” you giggle, wiggling in his grasp. 

After a few more kisses he turns you loose, taking his phone and shoving it down into his pocket. “Now that you’re here, you wanna come meet my coworkers?”

That wasn’t a question. It was more of a command. You wanna come meet my coworkers? You’re gonna come meet my coworkers. Taking your hand, he’s got his heart set on dragging you to the back, but you resist, putting your full weight into staying right where you are. 

“I forgot. I have some errands to run.” You’re proud of yourself for thinking quickly on your feet. 

Mingyu turns to you, confused. “Errands? What errands? I thought today was ‘bedrot’ day. You even sang the celebratory ‘bedrot’ song last night.” 

You just laugh him off, gently running your hand along his bicep. “Well, ya know, a girl can’t bedrot forever.” Looking around the gym you see another poster. Another slogan. “No days off, right?” 

Unimpressed with your regurgitation of some cliche quote you saw on the gym wall, Mingyu narrows his eyes at you, more suspicious than ever. 

“Baby, I’m serious” you say, doubling down on your lie, “I’d love to meet them but I really do have to go. Another time?” 

The thought of meeting his coworkers makes you nauseous. The idea of what they’d think of you—of you two together—is enough to make you want to evaporate. What’s even worse, despite your insecurities, is the idea of Mingyu being upset with you. You give him the puppy dog eyes, the hardest thing for him to resist, and he melts that instant. 

“It’s okay, sweetie. Do what you need to do” he smiles and relief washes over you, “They actually invited me out for drinks tonight so you can come too, right?” Mingyu looks so hopeful, so sickeningly adorable. How dare he.

You clear your throat, forcing yourself to look happy about the trap you’ve fallen into. “Right. Sure. Drinks. Tonight.” 

A delighted Mingyu gives you another hug and a quick kiss. “Good and thank you again. I owe you” he winks and you wave goodbye, watching as he heads back to work and leaves you with the unrelenting stare you’ve been trying to avoid this whole time. 

“Have a nice day” you mumble, scurrying back towards the front door. 

Something is said behind you. The stiff, uncomfortable farewell of a person who realized that they’ve just said all of the wrong things. Even if she were to apologize now it wouldn’t matter. By the time you hop back into your car you’re already spiraling. Any thoughts about grabbing breakfast are pushed to the farthest reaches of your mind. You don’t wanna eat. You certainly don’t wanna go out for drinks later. All you want is to pick up the pieces of your shattered self-confidence but they’re scattered all over the floor of that gym and there’s just no way you’re going back for them.

Bedrot?

No, couch rot, actually. You aren’t sure if that’s a thing. If not, you’re pioneering it. The queen of couch rotting. With the exception of feeding Jellybean her dinner and a few quick trips to the bathroom, you haven’t left your spot on the couch all day. It’s almost 6PM. Not that you’d know the exact time. You haven’t so much as glanced at your phone since you got in. Your only hint of the hours having passed by is the arrival of dusk quietly creeping in beyond your curtains.

Draped across the couch, you stare at the TV as scenes of a show you’re hardly watching flash on the screen. You’ve cried, you’ve slept, you’ve cried again. When you’re feeling down a couple of naps typically do the trick. They make you forget all about the problem, if only for a little bit, but how can you forget the problem when you can’t stop wondering if you’re it. Is it really such a hard thing to imagine? That Mingyu could be your boyfriend and not your trainer? Is it really such a stretch of the imagination? 

“If getting in shape means getting a guy like that what other motivation do you need, am I right?”

Does everyone think that? That to earn someone like your boyfriend you need to get in shape? Get thinner? The possibility weighs you down like an anchor, assuring that you’ll never stop drowning. Never stop wondering. 

You’ll have to come up with an excuse for tonight. Something believable. Maybe you’ll say that you aren’t feeling well. You have been lying around the house all day. Method acting is what they call it. You never did order that food. He can check his card and see that you haven’t. Even more support for the fact that you just aren’t feeling well. As much as you want to meet his coworkers, you think, mentally rehearsing your story, the alcohol would only make things worse but he should go and have fun. 

“Next time” you’ll say, “Pinky swear.” 

A new episode of your show kicks on, a wistful theme song playing as the leading actor’s faces and names fade in and out. A rose tinted sequence of beautiful faces. You close your eyes, pulling the blanket over your head. Time for another nap—maybe this will be the one that fixes it all—but there’s no time. The sound of a set of keys jingling on the other side of the door sends your lids shooting back open. The door knob turns. The curtain’s rising. You hear those familiar footsteps. It’s time for your performance, kid. Begin scene. 

“Sweetie! Are you here?” Mingyu calls out, kicking his shoes off. He scans the apartment, noticing that the only source of light is from outside and what little is provided by the TV. 

You cough weakly, sitting up on the couch, “I’m here.”

Why did you cough? Terrible acting already. No Oscar for you.. 

Mingyu leans over the back of the couch, arms thrown over your shoulders. “I’m sorry. Did I wake you up?” 

“No, I was just resting. I haven’t really been feeling so good today” you say, trying your hardest to look and sound the worst that you can. 

Circling around the couch, Mingyu kneels in front of you, taking your hands into his. With your eyes all red and puffy it’s an easier sell than you expected. His face twists with worry and you can’t fight the guilt brewing inside of you at the sight of him. 

“What’s going on? Are you sick? Do you need to go to the hospital?” 

“No, no. It’s not that bad” you assure him, subtly gaining strength in hopes that it’ll ease his concerns. “It’s just a stomach bug or something.” 

“Lay back down, okay?” he insists, thumbs petting the back of your hands, “I’ll go make you some soup.” 

“Mingyu, you really don’t have to” you start but he’s already guiding you back down onto the couch, hurrying into the kitchen to get some soup started for you. 

The clanking of pots and pans fills the space where any further protest from you might fit. “You just rest!” he shouts, “Let me take care of everything and don’t worry about tonight. We can always wait until you’re feeling better.”

You sink further into the couch at his words. “Until you’re feeling better” means he’ll bring it up again. It means you’ll have to fake sick every single time he mentions it but how long could you play that card before he started to get suspicious? Mingyu can only be distracted by his concern for you for so long before he suspects the truth, that you’re just trying to avoid it, and you’ll have to tell him why. 

“Mingyu, can you come here?”

Too busy raiding the fridge for ingredients, Mingyu barely hears you. “Hmm? You say something?” 

“Come here for a second, please!” 

You push yourself up on the couch, tossing the blanket aside. Mingyu’s there in a flash, ready to do whatever it is that you need. His eagerness to help you only makes you feel worse for having lied to him. You pat the cushion beside you and he takes a seat, bracing himself for whatever news you’re about to break to him. 

“Are you pregnant?” he blurts out and you clutch your chest in shock. 

“Pregnant? What? No. I’m not pregnant. Why would you think I was pregnant?” 

“Messy hair, baggy clothes, you’ve definitely been crying all day, and the ‘stomach bug’” he says, making air quotations at your fake ailment. “I know what that means, I’m not stupid.” 

Even at your lowest moment you can’t stop the laugh that escapes you at how absolutely adorable he is. “Oh, my love, I’m not pregnant.”

“Then what is? Tell me” he begs too sincerely to deny, “You know whatever it is, I’ve got your back. We’re a team, remember?” 

Leaning your head on his shoulder, you lace your fingers between his and settle into the comfort of his presence. Why are you lying to someone you don’t have to lie to? Mingyu’s your person. What is there to hide?

“You know the receptionist at the gym?” 

“Yeah, Lexi, what about her?”

“She…well…she thought I was your client.” 

“Why would she think that?” 

You pause, giving him time to process it. You can feel it when he does. His body tenses, the energy in the room shifting at the realization. 

“Did she say something to you?” he asks, standing up as if he’s ready to run back to that gym to confront her. 

You’re positive that he would. Mingyu’s probably the most gentle man you’ve ever met, you’ve rarely seen him get angry or raise his voice, but when it comes to you it’s never a problem to get a bit out of character. 

Your chest aches recalling the interaction. The casual tone of her voice. The shock on her face when he called you baby. “She was just surprised. I guess I can’t blame her. A girl like me walks into a gym asking for you and what else is she supposed to think? You’re literally built like a god and I’m built like—” 

Mingyu interrupts you on purpose, refusing to let you even attempt to put yourself down. “A goddess. You’re built like a goddess. Stand up.”

“Mingyu, no” you protest but he insists, grabbing your arms and forcing you up from the couch. Gathering the loose fabric of your t-shirt in his fists, he brings it flush against your body, defining every curve. “This body is the body of a goddess. It’s the body of the woman I love. I think it looks perfect next to mine.” Mingyu’s eyes are brimming with admiration and all he wants in this world is for you to feel it but you just hang your head, unable to meet his gaze. 

“But that’s not what other people think.”

“I don't give a shit what other people think. Look at me.” He scoops your cheeks into his hands, giving you no option other than to look at him—to accept the way he looks at you. “When we’re together I think that I can’t imagine being with any other girl. I think I’d lose my mind if I ever woke up next to anybody else. Don’t you feel that way too?”

Of course you do. That’s the silliest question he’s ever asked. You wouldn’t trade being with him for anything. It’s never even crossed your mind to question it. “I always feel like I’m right where I should be when I’m next to you, Mingyu.”

“Because you are,” he smiles, kissing the bridge of your nose, “You belong with me and nothing anyone else says could ever change that.” 

If you had any tears left to cry, even a single one to spare, you’d shed it for him and it wouldn’t be one of heartache or pain. It’d be pure love. Pure appreciation for the existence of a man who can so effortlessly fight off the fears you can’t face on your own, making them feel smaller and smaller until the only thing you can feel is his love for you. 

“I’m gonna go shower. Come with me” he says, his palm skating down your arm to take your hand in his. 

This time you don’t resist. Not when he leads you down the hall to the bathroom, humming as he flicks the light on. Not when he strips you of your clothes, slowly peeling them away until they’re nothing more than a pile of fabric at your feet. And certainly not when he wraps his arms around your naked figure, his tongue exploring your mouth as he pulls you under the warm water sprinkling from the shower head. 

And just like that you’re right back to where you were this morning. Before you walked into that gym, before the insecurities. You’re on your own planet again. Just the two of you. His soapy hands gliding along the contours of your hips. Your fingers combing through his slick, dark hair as he kisses his way down to your chin, burying his face in your neck to nip gently at your sensitive skin. You let out a whimper, your body shivering in his grasp, and Mingyu laughs, never sick of how cute you are when you make that sound. 

Your back arches, jutting your pillowy breasts forward, tempting Mingyu to take one into his hand. He can’t fight the urge to touch you. To feel the weight of it in his hand. So soft and bouncy. Your perky nipple slips eagerly between his fingers, just begging to be pinched the slightest bit. 

“Mingyu” you moan, nibbling at your bottom lip, a flash of heat hitting you so intensely you’d swear someone changed the water temperature. But no, it’s only Mingyu. It always is. 

“Do you remember what you were wearing the first day we met?” he whispers, his voice lost somewhere between lust and fluffy nostalgia. “It was really hot out that. I was walking through the park when I saw you in that crop top and those shorts…fuck…I know I shouldn’t have looked at you like that but your body was so beautiful, baby. Your belly. Your hips. Your thighs.”

Mingyu’s hands patiently glide down your figure, taking their time to indulge in the shape of you. It radiates from him—the admiration, the longing—and it has you melting. You part your lips to release another floaty moan and Mingyu’s right there, his mouth pressed to yours, hungry for the taste of it on his tongue.

“I can’t forget your face” he hums, breaking from the kiss, stars dancing in those brown eyes, “It’s my favorite thing about you. Just look at you.” One hand dances up to stroke your cheek while another dips between your legs, his fingertips ghosting your clit just enough to make you tremble. “You’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. Especially when you make faces like that.”

You don’t want to make faces. You want to look cool, calm, and collected—completely unaffected by his teasing—but it’s nothing you can help. Your body reacts to him just the way he wants it to every single time and there’s nothing you can do about it. Nothing he wants you to do about it. 

“Don’t start” you warn, playfully swatting him on the back of the head. Instinctively you wrap a leg around his waist, your actions immediately betraying your words. 

“Start?” he asks, eyebrows furrowed, “I don’t know what you mean. Start what?” 

Mingyu plays innocent but in the blink of an eye he sweeps you off of your feet, your back pressed to the wall and his arms tucked behind your knees. You lock your arms around his shoulders, terrified that you’re about to come crashing to the ground. 

“You can’t just pick me up like that!” 

Mingyu laughs, shifting your weight to make sure you’re secure, “I can actually. Don’t worry. All this muscle isn’t for nothing. I’ve got you.” He locks eyes with you, as serious as he’s ever been.

“I said, I’ve got you” he repeats, rocking his hips so that the head of his cock brushes your slit. You’re dripping, already clenching, and the slick warmth of you coating his tip has him licking his lips. “Just relax, okay? Can you do that for me?”

Relax? And put your full weight onto this man? You can’t. He’s out of his mind. He’s insane. He’s lifting into you and every thick, wonderfully veined inch of his cock makes you care less about how heavy you might be. The only thing on your mind is the motion of his hips, every stroke of his cock making your body sing the sweetest of songs. 

If he were honest he’d say that holding you up was harder than he thought but not because of your weight. Your walls are so velvety, hugging his length like you never want to let go. The pleasure’s almost too much. It takes everything in him to keep himself from falling apart. 

“Love you” he whispers, nibbling at your bottom lip, “Love you so much.” 

 “Love…mmph….you…aah…too” you squeak, the smile on your face making his heart skip a beat. 

Mingyu thrusts into you harder one good time just to watch your eyes roll back. Your nails dig into the tense muscles of his back but he’s too high from the feeling of you for the sting to feel anything other than good. 

“Say it again. Tell me you love me too” he demands, fingertips digging into the flesh of your thighs. 

“I love you too” you utter between sloppy kisses. 

“And you belong with me.”

He’s throbbing so deep inside of you that you’d swear you can feel it in your stomach. Your vision’s hazy. Your pulse is racing. It feels as if your very cells are vibrating. “I belong with you”. 

“That’s it. My good girl. My perfect girl” he coos, feeling you tighten around his cock. “Aww, you gonna cum, baby?” 

“Mmhmm” you whine, mindlessly riding his lap, desperate for more. 

This image of you will be burned into his mind for weeks. Legs around his waist. Pinned to the wall. Beads of water glimmering on your naked form. Clenching. Needy. Juices leaking down his cock as you cum around him, your walls spasming wildly as you take every inch. Every thrust. Every drop of him when he finally breaks, filling you until the warm white liquid’s dripping from your pretty slit. 

Are you levitating? You must be because he can’t feel himself holding you and you can’t feel yourself being held. You’re just here together floating in ecstasy. Peacefully. Effortlessly. As it should be. You can’t discern how much time has passed when Mingyu’s carefully lowering your legs, refusing to let you go until he’s sure you can stand on your own. 

“I’ve gotta get away from you” you tease, hopping out of the shower as quickly as your wobbly legs will let you, “You’re trouble.” 

Mingyu shuts the shower off, jumping out right after you to drag you back into his arms. “But you like trouble” he says, assaulting your left cheek with kisses. 

You roll your eyes and pout but you know he’s right. Any trouble you get from Mingyu is trouble you want. You couldn’t go without it. “Maybe.” Grabbing your towel, you tuck it around your body before tossing Mingyu his. “Now hurry up and get ready.”

“Get ready for…”

“I thought we were meeting your coworkers for drinks.”

Mingyu freezes, his system’s malfunctioning. He’s sure you didn’t just say what you said. “I thought you didn’t wanna go.”

“People change their minds, baby. Especially when they have boyfriends like you who make them feel like the prettiest girl in the world” you say, pinching his cheek, “I wanna be wherever you are. Unless you don’t want—”.

“Shut up, we’re going” he interrupts, “But first I gotta talk to you about something.” 

“Okay, what is it?” 

“We can’t talk about it here. It’s better if we talk in the bedroom.”

You stare at him skeptically, arms folded across your chest, “What can you talk to me about in the bedroom that we can’t talk about here?”

Mingyu lulls you into another tender kiss, sliding your towel up to massage your ass. “Get in there and I’ll show you.” 

You place your full trust in him, letting him blindly back you out of the bathroom and down the hall where your bedroom awaits, kissing you and caressing you, throwing off your entire sense of direction. It occurs to you as you cross the threshold of what you assume to be your bedroom and your towel hits the ground that you probably aren’t going out for drinks tonight. 

Chances are you’ll spend the night in instead, ending your day the way it began. Tangled in the sheets. Lost in him. Lost in each other. And that suits you just fine. You’ll see his coworkers when you see them. There’s no nervousness about it anymore. No fear. You’ve never known peace the way that you have with Mingyu. As long as you’re together everything’s as it should be and nothing can make you question that ever again. 

[0097linersb]

𝐑𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐞 (m)

Pairings: Wooyoung x Reader

Genre: Smut

Word count: 15k ~

Warnings: It´s a smut so +18 MDNI pls

Follow me on twitter: wooyosgfreal <3

Part 2

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

As someone who has been single for the past 2 years, you often found yourself missing certain things and feelings. It´s not even the dating in itself that you craved, you were in fact, very content with being alone, and after all your inner healing and growth, you didn´t even think you were ready for a relationship at this point in your life. But as you and Wooyoung were on your couch lazily spending the afternoon, you found your body and mind screaming for comfort at the sight of the rainy day outside. 

Your friend had his head on your lap as he played some online shooting game on his phone, the movie you intended on watching now only serving as background noise as you drifted off, hands absent-mindedly playing with the strands of his hair that fell on top of your thighs.  

Hand-holding. 

That´s something you really missed. The feeling of interlacing fingers with someone as warmness spread through your body. When you were dating, you weren´t even that into holding hands, uncomfortable with not being able to move freely or with the way your palm seemed to always feel clammy – But now? You would kill for a chance to walk around a park linked with someone.  

You also really missed being so familiar with someone that you just felt at ease, having a person there to do nothing or everything with, being able to talk or gossip about anything. You remember spamming Mingyu´s chat with every little thing that happened during your day and him just being genuinely happy to hear about it, replying to every single message in order. As your best friend, Wooyoung was someone you talked to a lot, but you still couldn´t text him about how you already drank 6 glasses of water or how you were annoyed because your stapler kept getting stuck – Those are the annoying little things you only get to share with a significant other that has the obligation to put up with you. 

And showering together. You almost felt dramatic tears fill your eyes at the thought of it; sharing the hot stream of water with someone, have them rub soap down your back or massage shampoo onto your scalp, or just simply holding someone in the dark under the running water as steam filled the room.  

Oh, and free massages. You definitely missed those, being able to ask for a massage at whatever given moment with the certainness that you would receive one. Mingyu´s love language had always been acts of service, meaning you wouldn´t spend a single day without his hands squeezing your shoulders or rubbing down your back.  

Maybe you should call Mingyu. Something along the lines of “hey, I know we broke up a few years ago but can you come like, hold me for a minute? Cuddle until we fall asleep?” 

You were so touch deprived you could cry. 

There was also the intimate part of a relationship; You had tried casual sex, one-night stands, friends with benefits, even a Tinder hook up once – It just wasn´t for you. It´s not even the sex on itself that you longed for, you could spend another few years without it if it came down to it. But you did miss what came with being intimate with someone who truly cared about you. When it comes to casual flings, people are normally selfish (yourself included), doing the bare minimum to get the other person off but truly aiming for their own pleasure; it was nice being with someone who´s main priority was making you feel good without the need of having the “favor returned”.  

What you really did miss though, was a bit cruder: You missed the feeling of someone´s dick in your mouth, the groans and whines that came with it, hands tangled in your hair, your tongue tracing hot veins as someone praised you. You missed having someone´s fingers inside of you, your walls tight around them as they pumped in and out of you with ease. You also really fucking missed someone eating you out. 

You subconsciously pulled a bit on Wooyoung´s hair out of frustration but he didn´t seem to notice, eyes fixated on his game. You gently pat his head where you had tugged on the strands and went back to playing with his hair, letting your mind take you away once again.  

Again, it´s not like your relationship with Mingyu ended badly, surely, he wouldn´t mind if you called him up to go down memory lane for a night- 

You had never noticed how plump Wooyoung´s lips were.  

He had a habit of pouting when he was focused, or biting on his lips when he was extra concentrated – which he was doing just now as he tried to shoot at someone who was trying to kill him. When he finally managed to take out the other player and escape, he let his bottom lip go, now all red and glistening as he cursed out loud. They just looked so soft and plushy, and the mole he had on his bottom lip –  

You suddenly realized you were kind of obsessed with Wooyoung´s nose shape. You know what people say about big noses… Also, how good would it feel bumping against - 

“You´re being way too nice. What´s going on?” Wooyoung´s voice suddenly interrupted your thoughts, causing you to jump in shock and realization that you were just thinking about your friend eating you out.  

“I am nice, just not to you,” You correct, meeting his eyes which were looking up as you noticed you were still running your fingers through his hair. 

“I have very strong opinions about that, but either way, it´s what I meant. Why are you being nice to me?” 

“Am I?” 

“I remember very clearly the last time I asked you to cuddle me, almost got down on my knees begging and you just looked at me like I had rolled around in the trash.”  

“You were quiet today, behaving like a normal person-” 

“Go on, call me a good boy. I know you want to,” He rolls his eyes. 

You laugh out loud at that; he did know you well. 

“Nah, you´ve ruined it the moment you opened your mouth.” 

“Guess I´m a bit further from perfect than I thought, getting there though. How was the movie anyways?” 

“Oh, did it end already?” You asked, finally looking at the TV and realizing the credits must have been rolling for a while. “Wasn´t paying attention.” 

“What were you even doing?” He furrowed his eyebrows at you, a second away from calling you stupid. 

“Thinking.” 

“About?” 

“Calling Mingyu,” You half-lied. 

At that, he managed to furrow his eyebrows even more, the biggest judgmental face he had ever sported looking up at you, “Why? Are you suddenly into him again?” 

“No.” 

“Then why?” 

“I don´t know, just-” 

“Oh my god,” His eyes widened, and he covered his mouth in shock. “It´s a booty call.” 

“It´s that what people call it these days?”  You ask, trying to sound nonchalant about the whole ordeal. 

“Oh my god, so it is.” 

“I guess?” 

“Y/N, it´s been like 2 years. I know you´re hot and he´s a man but I think that conversation would be kind of weird. Were you planning on texting him a wanna come smash?” He questioned you as he sat up. “Do you even have his number?” 

“No, I - I don´t know. I-  Let´s change the subject.” 

“Let´s absolutely not.” 

“You´re being annoying.” 

“Aren´t I always?” 

“Yes, defin-” 

“If you´re horny, why don´t you text that last guy you were going out with? He was hot too.” 

“Ew, don´t use the word horny.” 

“Would you prefer I call you needy?” 

Maybe you would, yeah, very much. 

“No, ew. Just stop talking all-together.” 

“So, why don´t you text him?” 

“You know I can´t really enjoy it much when I´m not like, close to the person.” 

“So you thought of your ex,” he deadpanned. 

“Yeah.” 

“Has literally not even one of the guys you hooked up with gotten you off?” 

“I mean, some of them did. But I don´t want to just get off, I-I- I don´t even know what I want, can we please chan-” 

“You want to be treated like the little pillow princess you are, got it.” 

Did he have to say it like that? Suddenly you felt the pulse between your legs raising its intensity. Oh god no, you were absolutely not getting turned on by Wooyoung´s crude choice of words. 

Anyone but Wooyoung! 

“Who says I´m a pillow princess? Am not!” 

“Ah, please. You scream I´ll bring nothing to the table besides looking pretty.” 

“Is that how I come off as?” You gasped at that, feeling deeply offended. “You´re full of shit.” 

“Why are you even getting mad? There´s nothing wrong with that, I´m sure you´re really good at looking pretty under a guy.” 

“Please stop picturing someone else fucking me?” 

“Who says I´m picturing someone else?” He winked at you teasingly. 

You literally, in your over 20 years of life on this earth, have never - not even once - thought you would actually choke over someone´s words. This was Wooyoung, you were used to his ways, c´mon! 

“Yeah, let´s not do that.” 

“Awn, pretty princess got flustered,” He cooed at you. 

You knew he was just teasing you; you knew there was no real sexual intent behind his words because that was Wooyoung, he flirted and teased as naturally as he breathed - but they still got your thighs tensing and you hating yourself for it. Couldn´t you just take a joke for what it was? 

“Although now that I´m thinking about it, I wouldn´t be surprised if you turned out to be a brat in bed. You´re already the biggest one normally.” 

“Look who´s calling me a brat,” You rolled your eyes once again. It didn´t matter if he was right or wrong, Wooyoung had no right calling anyone that when he was the way he was.  

At that, he presented you with the most attractive smile you think would ever exist in the world, a mixture between cunning, excitement and condescending, “You think I´m bratty?” 

“Oh, I´m sure of it.” 

“Maybe I´m just good at matching energies, you know?” He winked, teasing you further. 

“Fuck off. I know San forced you on your knees more often than I´d like to imagine.” 

“Because I allowed him to.” 

You snorted, “Yeah. Sure thing, honey. Now let´s move along, please.” 

Except that, your mind decided to in fact, consider his words. Wooyoung liked teasing and annoying people for his own entertainment, he whined at you every time he didn´t get things his way and he was always playfully flirting with everyone - and you meant literally everyone. Because of that, you had always just kind of assumed (but never spared it many thoughts, thank God) that your best friend was just someone who like to be dominated when in relationships, or sexual encounters for the matter.  

But honestly, you could kind of see it differently after his comments. It was true he always had everyone wrapped around his fingers and somehow, he always managed to get things his way - Wasn´t that also some form of control? The lines were kind of blurred when it came to Jung Wooyoung, but that was kind of even more attractive to you.   

“Oh my god, you´re thinking about it,” Wooyoung teased.  

“You´re the one who started it!” 

“You don´t have to stress your pretty little head over it,” He smiled, his finger finding it´s place under your chin to tip your face in his direction playfully. “I can show you.” 

Oh, absolutely not. 

Your eyes fluttered shut for a millisecond at his words, your guard crumbling surprisingly fast as you practically whimpered, “I know you´re joking but can we please not?” 

“Why?” 

 Couldn´t he stop giving you that annoying freaking smile? 

“Because I am kind of horny and I really don´t want to go there,” You practically growled.  

Now he was the one who broke character, not expecting you to be actually affected by his jokes, before the teasing smile was back on his face in a heartbeat - but you saw it. 

“Did I make you horny?” He teased. 

“Of course not, I was already horny before. I´m just in a weird mood.” 

It wasn´t necessarily a lie. If you weren´t already feeling some type of way since earlier, you would have never - and you really mean that - caught yourself thinking about Wooyoung´s stupid plump lips or if he could actually fuck you.  

“So, you were thinking about getting dicked down while I was here innocently lying down on your lap? You´re dirty,” He snickered. 

“It wasn´t weird until you made it weird,” You groaned in frustration. This is really not how you imagined your afternoon would go down.  

“Want me to help you out?” 

“Got any hot friends who are also not my friends?” 

“I do,” He nodded with his head. “But I´m also right here.” 

Your eyes almost flew out of your head. You always judged yourself as the only person immune to Wooyoung's weirdness, deeming that nothing the man did or say would ever surprise you since you basically were the same - but you now guessed the tests became harder as the years passed.  

“I can´t really tell if you´re joking-“ 

“I am absolutely not.” 

“Yeah, not going to happen.” 

“Why?” 

“Because!” 

“I know you can use your big girl words.” 

“Because as much as it pains me to admit it, we´re best friends. I guess?” 

“Now you´re the one who´s making it weird. You´re hot, I´m hot. You´re horny, now I´m horny. What´s wrong with helping each other out?” 

“What´s wrong is that I never really saw you like that!” You whined. 

“But you´re seeing now.” 

“Yeah, and I don´t like it!” 

“Tell me,” He raised an eyebrow at you, a devilish glint on his eyes matching his smile once again.  

“What?” 

“What you imagined me doing to you.” 

“Oh my god. Nothing!” 

“Oh c´mon, I won´t think you´re in love with me or anything. I know we´re friends and I´m a man, if there is one thing I can understand is simple plain old horniness.”  

“How is this so easy for you?” 

“Oh, I already imagined fucking you many times. In many different ways, too,” Wooyoung stated so casually, like he was talking about his shopping list for when he went to the supermarket later. “You know that one time at Seonghwa´s pool when you were wearing that little orange bikini? I must have made up at least 4 different scenarios, just that day.” 

“I feel kind of violated?”  

You also felt the way something throbbed in between your legs at his words but he didn´t need to know that. 

“As I said: I´m a man, Y/N. I love you and would never do anything to make you uncomfortable or fuck up our friendship, but there´s nothing wrong with fantasizing. It´s not like I actively decide to do it either, it just happens, I don´t know.” 

“Do you just casually think about fucking all your friends?” 

“No, only the hot ones. And it´s not something I keep thinking about all the time, I´m not a creep. Just once every blue moon hormone takes over or something. Also, you´re a fool if you think any of your other friends who are into women have never, not even once, thought about fucking you.”  

“Yeah, I´d rather be a fool,” You rolled your eyes. “Also, San hasn´t!” 

“San would quit his dream job in a heartbeat if I called him over for a threesome right now.” 

“Yunho then! He would never -” 

Wooyoung laughed at that, “Honey, I have something to tell you-“ 

“Please don´t.” 

“Anyways, you´re not lacking options to help you out. All I´m saying is that I´m here and I´d be more than glad to be the one,” He had the audacity of winking at you. “Since you were already thinking about it.” 

“I´m begging you to please drop it.” 

“Only if you tell me what you were thinking about.” 

“Oh my god! You know what? Let´s play your stupid fucking game, Jung Wooyoung. I´ll tell you if you tell me first.” 

“So, you do know how to have fun,” Wooyoung gave you a big smile, his eyes disappearing in happiness as if you had just told him you got him a new car. “What do you want to know?” 

“About the day at Seonghwa´s pool.” 

“Fun. I will use your own words then: I was in a weird mood that day and then you just took your clothes off and looked so good in that bikini. You were sunbathing and at some point in the afternoon you went inside Hwa´s house to get something from the kitchen and my brain just kept flashing images in my head: what if I followed you into the empty house, pushed you against the nearest wall and fucked you, watching as you tried to keep quiet so the others wouldn´t hear from right outside? Your cheek red from rubbing against the wall, your -” 

“That´s scenario number one.” 

“You want all of them? Kinky.” 

“I can just go-“ 

“Calm down, princess. See? I knew you were a brat.” 

“Wooyo-“ 

“Later when I was sitting down on the sunbathing chair with you while you were helping me out with the sunscreen, I noticed how my hand was so close I could pull the bottom of your bikini to the side and just slip my fingers in, right there in the open, no one would even notice. I wondered if you were already going to be wet and how you would sound trying to keep your noises inside with my knuckles deep into you. I couldn´t imagine a better sight than you all pretty clenching around my fingers or how you would look trying to casually spread your legs for me without anyone suspecting. I even went as far as imagining us getting caught, can you picture Mingi noticing what a little slut you are and trying to watch without getting caught himself? Poor boy wouldn´t know what to do with himself, would just loose his mind at how hot you´d look. I wondered if you´d like that he was watching –“ 

“That´s scenario number two,” You interrupted before the skin where you dug your nails into could start bleeding from your efforts to ground yourself and not squirm like an animal in heat at Wooyoung´s words. 

He was good, you had to give him that.  

Wooyoung laughed at you and you wondered if he had any clue about what he was doing to you. Then you mentally slapped yourself because of course he did, he had eyes.  

“When everyone went inside to make some drinks and start on dinner, you sat there on the edge of the pool and started kicking water at me. Remember that? I happened to notice the edge was just the perfect height for me to eat you out from the pool, and you even had your back to the door. We were all alone out there and even if someone came out, I would be hidden from their view in between your legs. I could picture my hands holding your thighs open and your back arching-” 

“Yeah, ok. That´s enough. I´m going to go, humm, shower or something and you can just like leave-” 

“Can I join?” He joked as you stood up. 

“No.” 

“Can I at least stay outside listening?” 

“What? I´m not going to mastu- Wooyoung, I´m just taking a cold shower.” 

“OK, go cool yourself off, princess. I´ll wait for you here,” He informed, unlocking his phone once again and showing you his screen where his game was loading. 

“Yeah, ok. Suit yourself.” 

“You really should let me listen as payback for getting me horny,” He screamed once you were already down the hallway. 

“You got yourself horny,” You screamed back before shutting the bathroom door behind yourself. 

You silently screamed against your hands as you let your body slide down the door. 

What the hell just happened? How many lines did you just cross?  

Why was Wooyoung suddenly so hot? 

And so, a cold shower you took and thankfully, after you left the bathroom, no one talked about the subject for the rest of the night and just pretended that nothing had happened. 

Except that now you were miserable and your mind echoed Wooyoung´s words every time you looked or thought about him. It was not optimal to be crossing your legs in the middle of class at university because you accidentally caught yourself staring at your friend´s veiny arms for half of the lecture. 

★  

“You´re still horny,” Wooyoung stated a few days later when you were literally getting ice cream after class. 

“And I´m actually mortified that you noticed.” 

“You´re being stubborn.” 

“We´re not fucking, Wooyoung.” 

“Dude, at this point I am genuinely feeling bad for you. We can ask Mingi or whoever, just please get some dick.” 

“You´re being kind of sexist-” 

“Y/N, you look constipated. I am worried for your sanity.” 

“Just shut up before I stop talking to you.” 

“I can use a blindfold or something if you´re worried about me seeing you naked-” 

“You´d like that, wouldn´t you? Submissive bitch.” 

“Don´t degrade me unless you mean it,” He winked at you. 

“You are actually insufferable.” 

“I´m just trying to help.” 

“You can´t because you don´t understand that this isn´t just about getting some dick!” 

“So what is this about? You tense every time my hands get near you -” 

“Wooyoung, this is an ice cream parlor. There are kids around, just shut the fuck up.” 

“So let´s go to my place.” 

“I´m not getting inside any closed spaces with you unless there are more people around.” 

“Kinky.” 

“Oh my god, you know what I mean.” 

“I know, just let me tease you. Ok, but seriously now, I think that in order for me to do my duties as a best friend, I need to understand what´s going on.” 

“Since when do you care about your best friend duties? You once left me behind alone at a party to get fucked by Yeonjun or whatever you two-” 

“Allegedly.” 

“No, Wooyoung. Not allegedly, it was literally me that you dragged to a corner to inform you´d be going upstairs with Yeonjun-” 

“No one knows what happened in that room.” 

“Yeah, thank god.” 

“Ok, whatever. Let me help you, tell me what´s going on inside that little messed up brain of yours.” 

“Nop. I really would rather lock myself inside the industrial freezer in the back.” 

“Yeah? Then I´m texting Mingi to go to your place and give you the fuck of your life tonight-” 

“Wooyoung!” 

“Y/N!” 

“Just drop it.” 

“No! Do you actually miss Mingyu? Or dating? Do you want a boyfriend? Is that it?” 

“No,” You groaned, hitting your forehead against the table.  

“So?” 

“Just- I need alcohol if we´re going to talk about this.” 

“Ok, let´s go to-” 

“Wooyoung, it´s 2 in the afternoon.” 

And so, he let it go for the moment, but the next time he saw a single drop of alcohol near you, he sat down next to you and crossed his hands like he meant business, a pointed look on his face. 

★ 

“So?” 

“This is literally my first shot.” 

“Then take it.” 

“Fine,” You begrudgingly complied, and you hadn´t even placed your glass back down before Wooyoung was already pouring you more. Figuring you weren´t going to escape this conversation, you downed your second shot and sighed in defeat. 

“Now tell me why you aren´t getting your back blown out at this very moment.” 

“It´s really weird talking about sex with you.” 

“We talk about sex all the time.” 

“Yeah, about other people, not about me, or about you suddenly being willing to fuck me- “ 

“Not suddenly.” 

“Yeah, whatever. Pour me some more.” 

“That´s what I like to hear,” He smirked at you, eyes glinting as he filled your glass up.  

“Y/N looks miserable,” Mingi suddenly stated, dropping his body next to you on the couch coming from seemingly nowhere.  

“Doesn´t she?” Wooyoung agreed, giving you a pointed look as you punched Mingi for the out-of-pocket comment. 

“Where did you even come from?” You asked the tall man next to you, excited for a change of topic. 

“The kitchen,” He absentmindedly answered you, hand busy filling up the glasses in front of you before handing you one. “Take a shot with me.” 

And so you did, hissing at the burning sensation and taking deep breaths to not gag at the taste of tequila. 

“OK, why does it look like your house burned down?” The man turned his attention back to you after smashing the empty glass on the little center table in front of you. 

Damn it, Mingi. 

You didn´t even have the time to begin forming any kind of excuses before Wooyoung  answered for you in a heartbeat, “Little Y/N over here is horny.” 

“Jung Wooyoung!” You gasped at his choice of words, thorn between hiding behind your hands, punching the man and apologizing to Mingi. 

Mingi, in turn, was frozen in shock mid pouring himself another shot. And you meant that the man wasn´t even blinking, mouth open and hands stuck in the air holding the glass bottle which you took from him afraid he would break it. 

“See what you´ve done?” You sighed to Wooyoung, elbowing his ribs as you tried waving your hand in front of Mingi´s face for a reaction.  

“Wait, what?” Said man came back to life, his voice way higher than what you´re used to. 

“You heard it, man. She hasn´t been fucked right in ages-” 

“Wooyoung, you know what you said about wanting to keep up with your best friend´s duties?” You asked between gritted teeth, about ready to jump the man and rip all of his hair out. “This is really not it.” 

“But you´re hot!” Mingi seemed confused. 

“I told her that!” Wooyoung ignored you. “I even told her you´d volunteer to help her out-” 

“I so would-” 

“Shut the fuck up, you two! Wooyoung, I´m about a second away from blocking you on my phone and never seeing you again,” You were also as close to ripping your own hair out. “Yes I´m horny, the whole world doesn´t need to hear about it.”  

Mingi noticed the crazy look behind your eyes and rubbed your back in comfort, he too knew what Wooyoung could do to people when he decided to be annoying.  

“It´s ok, love. We´ve all been there,” Mingi assured you and his words did soothe you a bit.  

“It´s just – You guys don´t get it. It´s not about just sex. I know I could literally fuck anyone at this party if I wanted to, I´m not dense. I guess I just miss dating but I don´t really want to date anyone at the moment?” 

“So like a friends with benefits thing?” Wooyoung pressed. 

“No, that´s just fucking with a fancy title. I mean like, I miss being touched and hugged and pampered and – I don´t know.” 

“Every time I try to hug you, you freeze and glare at me!” Mingi pouted. 

“I´m just not a touchy person!” 

“I know! That´s why I´m not understanding what you want.” 

“Just forget it-” 

“I get it,” Wooyoung interrupted.  

“Do you?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“You want a boyfriend without the obligations and feelings involved with a relationship. I was right, you´re needy.” 

“Oh,” Apparently it made sense to Mingi too. 

“Ok, and with that, I excuse myself,” You say, already standing up to go find someone else to hang out with because you were definitely not ready for the rest of that conversation. 

★ 

“What are you doing here?” You asked in annoyance after opening the door to your place to a very content looking Wooyoung. 

"I came to be your boyfriend-not-boyfriend,” He smiled proudly. 

"We're not fucking, Wooyoung,” You managed to sigh and roll your eyes at the same time. "Which is exactly what I told you the other 50 times you suggested it." 

"Who said anything about fucking? I'm just here to force the touch-deprivation out of you. Now move, I brought snacks," He said as if he hadn't already pushed you out of the way about midway through his sentence.   

You sighed in defeat, accepting your peaceful quiet night was ruined - You hadn't even locked the door yet and Wooyoung was already sprawled on your couch organizing the snacks on your coffee table, making way more noise than necessary.  

"At least you brought my favorite," You noticed, arms crossed as you stood up next to the couch.  

"These are all your favorites," His eyes were even shining with the amount of pride he had for himself. 

"Says who?" 

"Says me." 

"You called Seonghwa, didn't you?" 

"Only about the chips." 

"Knew it." 

"It's not my fault you literally change your opinions every day." 

"Welcome to girlhood." 

"Now sit down and I'll put something on Netflix." 

"Wooyoung, why-" 

"Y/N, listen," It was his turn to sigh. "You helped me through a lot when everything happened with my grandpa and you were always there for me when shit went down, just let me help you this once however I can." 

"Ok, got it. Enough with the sentimental talk," You quickly obeyed. You didn't like serious Wooyoung.  

"Now, are we feeling Criminal Minds?" He asked once you were sitting next to him, remote in hand. 

"Sounds great." 

“Perfect,” Wooyoung agreed as he put on the show, quickly standing up to turn off the lights before sitting back down and opening his arms. “Come here.” 

“Uh, I would rather not.” 

“I don´t care, we´re doing this.” 

“I don´t think forcing me to cuddle you will help much-” 

“Do you want me to really force you? Because I can,” He raised his eyebrow at you, arms still hanging in the air. 

“I´m pretty sure I´m stronger than you-” 

“Oh my god, just shut up,” He groaned and rolled his eyes at the same time, bending his body forward so he could grab onto your waist and pull you against his chest.  

Ok, yeah. He was definitely stronger than you. 

“Can you not make it so difficult?” He asked once he noticed how stiff you were in between his legs. “Stretch your legs, relax.” 

You decided against reminding him that he was in fact forcing you to do this and obeyed, he was just trying to help after all and maybe he did have a point: Some human touch might help calm your mind down. Also, the quicker you played along, the sooner it would be over.  So, stretching your legs across the couch you did, letting your body relax against Wooyoung´s, who contently wrapped his arms around you as you both turned your attention towards the Tv.  

Well, that lasted for about 10 minutes before you started feeling the heat of your friend´s skin radiating and everything started making sense: Being held by someone you loved really was comforting. Huh, who would have guessed? 

You generally hated being touched by people but right now you kind of felt like a cat, wanting to rub your head on Wooyoung´s shirt and snuggle into his warmth.  

“Can I play with your hair or will you bite my hand of?”  

“You can try,” You answered, not wanting to admit he was right all along and that you would very much like more of whatever this was.  

You could practically feel the roll of his eyes at your threatening tone as he pulled your head like you were just one big barbie doll, so your right cheek would be rested against his chest, turning your body to the side so now your right shoulder kind of met his chest instead of your back.  

“Ouch, you could be gentler,” You complained, rubbing your forehead skin where his palm was planted seconds before.  

“When you deserve it,” He grunted, eyes fixed on the Tv.  

“That was not very let me help you of you.” 

It was easy to tell he bit back his comeback, simply taking a deep calming breath and burying his fingers in the hair behind your neck, gently rubbing the area – Maybe you would purr. Judging you now had the upper hand, you decided to in return wrap your own arms around his wait so you could get comfortable and Wooyoung  gave you a cocky victory smile. 

Damn it. 

The two of you went through the entire episode like that and you were so relaxed that when Wooyoung stood up to open the snacks and grab some wine, you didn´t even complain about how that was a bad idea, sharing some glasses while you watched the second and third episodes and he tossed you around into every cuddling position you never even knew existed, discussing who you though were the killers and all the little gossips of the week. 

“You could create like a cuddling Kama Sutra,” You joked, kind of dizzy because of the drink – or because you had an incredibly attractive man holding you for the past 2 hours or so.  

“Will you quit complaining about my touchy personality now?” He smiled. 

“Nah, this was a one-time thing.” 

“Are you at least feeling a bit better?” Wooyoung asked, adjusting himself on the couch to look at you since you were now sitting side to side after the last episode ended.  

“Yes, actually.” 

It was true, you were no longer feeling like you could rip your entire skin off if you went through another second of someone not touching you.  

“I have one last move prepared,” He informed excitedly. 

“We´re not fucki-” 

“Oh my god, will you quit it with the fucking thing? If you keep bringing It up I might start thinking you´re interested-” 

“What was the idea?” You quickly asked, trying to cut the flirting off before it could lead your brain somewhere you spent the entire night not wanting to go.  

“Let me give you a massage.” 

“Wow, you´re really invested in this helping me thing.”  

“Contrary to your big mouth, I am a good friend. Sit down right here,” Wooyoung ordered, opening his legs and pointing to the space on the floor in between his feet. “Tonight I´ll take the neediness out of you the best I can since you refuse to go out and get some dick.” 

You rolled your eyes and ignored his remark, sitting down where he showed you and waiting silently as he gently gathered your hair and moved it out of the way. You cursed at how your skin erupted in goosebumps as his fingertips brushed against the side of your neck, your breath suddenly caught in your chest. 

You followed the realization that this was probably a horrible idea with another glass of wine, thankful he couldn't feel your heart beating fast.  

Wooyoung worked his thumbs in circles, digging them between your scapulae and pressing them up until they reached your shoulders, which he squeezed in the perfect strength to get shivers running up your spine every minute as he repeated the motion over and over.  

“How are you so good at this?” You whined, hating how your body was reaction to the touches. 

“There´s really nothing I´m not good at.” 

“Humbleness,” You offered. 

“That was a cliché answer, you can do better than that.” 

“I don´t care, just please never stop.” 

“I get that a lot.” 

“Do you really need to make everything sexual?” 

“I´ve always been that way, it´s not my fault that now that you´re horny it´s bothering you.” 

You hated when he put it like that, because yes. 

And maybe the way he sometimes would squeeze your neck during the massage or just the fact that he was touching you, were getting you feeling some type of way you would rather he did not notice.  

“If you were a girl, you´d understand,” You groaned. “Ovulation sucks.” 

“You actually just gave yourself the perfect solution, why don´t you fuck a girl?” 

´Cause what I really want is fucking you. 

Oh, wow.  

Where did that come from? 

“Speaking of which, do you even know how to?” You ask, admittedly kind of shy of asking such question.  

“Know how to what?” 

“Like, have- you like- With women?” You try, motioning widely towards the couch with your hands as if it would help you get your point across so you wouldn´t have to say the words. 

Wooyoung seemed to get it though, hands suddenly stopping on your back so you would look at him, “Y/N, you do know I have fucked women, right?” 

“How would I? You never told me!” You whine. 

“I thought it would be disrespectful?” 

“But when you told me how much you loved choking on San´s dick it wasn´t?” 

“Well, no-” 

“Or when you literally shared about how you thought about your fingers inside of me?” 

“You asked for it!” 

“I don´t believe you,” You narrowed your eyes towards him. “There´s no way I wouldn´t have known.” 

“Do you want like a list or something?” 

“What? No! That would be disrespectful.” 

“See?” 

“Ok, no, wait. Just tell me this: Lauren?” 

“Yes.” 

“Wooyoung, nooooo!” You whined. 

“What? She´s hot!” He was exasperated. 

“Oh my god, everything makes so much sense now.” 

“Wait, did you really think I was gay? We´ve know each other for years! I talk about women all the time!” 

“Yeah, but I thought you talked about women like Kevin talks about Beyoncé! Like in a slayy pussy  queennn way, not in a I´d want to fuck her way.”  

“Would you like me to go around harassing women?” 

“No, listen: I didn´t think you were gay, I just kind of never thought about it?” 

"You though I was just joking around with you the other day and you still got all hot and bothered?" Would he quit teasing you? "Kinky." 

“I thought you were playing and I didn't get any way!" 

“Whatever you say, princess - Wait, why did you think Ali was always hanging around my neck all these months?” 

“I just thought she was kind of crazy – Wait, did you fuck her that good? She wouldn´t leave us alone for a second, it was driving me insane." 

“I just told you there´s nothing I´m not good at,” He winked at you with a cocky smile on his face. 

You wanted to die.  

“Wooyoung,” You warned. 

“Awn, am I getting to you?” His tone was so sarcastic and condescending that a fire burned inside of you that you were afraid was never going out.  

“It´s the wine,” You assured, more yourself than him. 

“It´s always something.” 

“See? That´s why I told you I didn´t want to be alone with you.” 

“Afraid you´ll jump me?” He mocked. “I´m not scared.” 

"Just shut up. If whatever you're saying is true, I just want you to know you have the worst taste in women ever." 

"Well, considering I would love to taste you more than I would anyone else, I agree," He played with your words.  

“Go wash the glasses,” You ordered, the skin under your cheeks burning.  

“Yes, ma’am,” He answered with a laugh, immediately standing up and following along.  

When you were alone in the living room, your face fell between your hands in despair. 

You fucking hated Jung Wooyoung and his fucking giant noise. 

★  

Stupid fucking Jung Wooyoung.  

Fucking hell.  

Cursed be the day that man was born and cursed be the hospital and the doctors and the nurses and everyone in the world for all you cared. 

Your entire body was filled with rage as you opened the stupid coffee maker to pour the water into the compartment – which you had of course forgotten to fill 10 minutes earlier and almost burnt the whole office down. How would you explain to your boss that you started a fire because your brain was simply too busy flashing images of you sitting on your stupid annoying best friend´s face for the past 4 hours? 

It has been 2 days since the day at your place, 2 nights since you've gotten a decent night of sleep. "Why is that?" One would ask. Well, the answer would be that your useless brain decided to sabotage you, having you dream about your best friend over and over again – Which wouldn't be so bad if 90% of the dreams didn't consist of you ridding said best friend's face, waking up sweating and wanting to scream. 

At this point you just wanted to break Wooyoung's nose with a punch, so you'd never have to think about it again. After almost ripping your hair out in front of your computer, you decided on texting Hoshi for Mingyu's number - That's how desperate you were to get stupid fucking Jung Wooyoung out of your head. At least your friend assured that your ex was indeed single now and still didn't hate you, which was enough for you.  

Not really knowing how to tell your ex-boyfriend, after so much time has passed, that you just wanted him to throw you around, things weren't going as fast as planned and you couldn't keep avoiding Wooyoung forever – One, because he has no sense of boundaries and would just show up at your place if you ignored him and two, you really didn't want to have the conversation that would go down when he found out why you weren't around.  

It'd been over a week since you last saw Wooyoung in person, you were still in the talking stages with Mingyu, dreaming about your friend every fucking night and staring at his picture on the chatting app for hours while wanting to die. Now, you kind of genuinely didn't care anymore, Mingi and Wooyoung were right, maybe this was just about getting some dick – and you would find out if one could die of horniness if you didn't get some soon.  

It was Saturday night, Hongjoong decided to throw a small party at his place to celebrate his birthday and you figured alcohol was a good solution since stabbing a knife into your brain wasn't an option. You even invited Mingyu, hoping in person and after a few drinks you'd figure how to ask him to bend you over – The man said he would be pretty late because of previous scheduled commitments but that he would go. Your ex was an incredibly attractive man who knew his way around a lady, maybe you would see all your problems flying away after tonight. 

Except that after your first cup and some chatting with Mingi and Seonghwa on Hongjoong's couch, Wooyoung decided to arrive.  

You took one (1) - ONE, UNO - look at the man and grabbed your phone, shooting Mingyu a text: don´t come, party´s canceled. 

“Bro, your hair looks sick!” Mingi shouted before your brain could even begin to process what you were seeing. 

You were the one actually about to be sick. 

“Decided to try something new,” Wooyoung smirked, jumping over the back of the couch to sit next to you. 

You simply stared at him dumbfounded, glad he was too busy stealing the drink from your hands to notice your mouth wide open.  

Jung Wooyoung just showed up to the party with the bottom part and the front strands of his hair dyed blonde and you weren´t sure what kind of look that even was but you felt like it genuinely changed your whole life. You were pretty sure you got goosebumps when you first looked at him, lucky you were sitting down with the way your legs got weak. 

“What do you think about it?” He asked you after he was content with finishing what was left in your cup. 

“I hate it.” 

Well, you weren´t lying. Your nails were literally digging into the palm of your hands to try and get your head back in place - The new look made his skin look tanner, the mole under his eye darker, the shape of his nose - 

 The way he pushed his hair back, blonde strands surrounding his face - 

No, nop. 

No. 

“Since I know you´re joking, I´m gonna go say hi to Hongjoong and grab us more drinks so we can get this party started.” 

You let him go with absolutely no fight, eyes wide and glued to his form until he was out of your sight as Seonghwa led him to where the birthday boy was supposed to be. 

“Are you ok?” Mingi asked, noticing the crazy look on your face. 

“I need Wooyoung to fuck me.” 

Your brain definitely was short-circuiting. 

“Oh. Wow. Ok.” 

“I´m being serious. And I´m not happy about it.” 

“Hasn´t he been offering for like weeks now?” 

“Yeah.” 

“So just go and tell him.” 

“That´s not how it works.” 

“Oh my god, why do you have to be so complicated?” 

“I need him to offer again so I can say no, then when he insists, I will give in and pretend I´m kind of thorn about it.” 

“And why is that?” 

“So he doesn´t know he won! And I don´t like being vulnerable or whatever.” 

“I know we said you need some dick, but maybe you just need some therapy.” 

“Yeah, that too, but what I really need right now is your help.” 

“Sure,” Mingi shrugged. That´s what you liked about him, things were simple with him. 

“I need him to think I´m horny.” 

“You are horny.” 

“Yeah, but I need him to see it so he will joke about helping me out again.” 

“And how are you going to do that?” 

“Well, I could stand here with a bitch face all night, but it´s Joong´s birthday so I don´t really want to be like that. I don´t really have any other ideas-” 

“Touch me.” 

“What?” 

“Like, be touchy with me.” 

“Oh, that could work.” 

“That will definitely work.” 

“You´re good,” You complimented. 

“You should come to me for help more often.” 

“Don´t push it.” 

“Fine.” 

“You´re invested, huh?” 

“Move closer,” He ordered and you obeyed, sitting sideways on the couch so you were turned towards him, left knee touching his thigh. “Lean forward and put your hand on my thigh.” 

Despite your body´s discontent, you did as told. 

“And don´t flinch when I touch you,” He warned.  

“I feel like a spy,” You joked. 

“All this because you can´t tell a guy you want to fuck,” He rolled his eyes. 

“C´mon, pretend you´re not enjoying this, I dare you.” 

“Touché.” 

When your friends came back with more people tagging along, the first thing you noticed was the way Wooyoung´s gaze traveled immediately to your hand on Mingi´s thighs.  

Ok, yeah, this could definitely work. 

“Here, princess,” He handed you your drink, which you grabbed with your free hand.  

“Thanks Wooyo,” You smiled at the man before turning your attention back to Mingi, not missing the way your friend squeezed his eyes at you.  

Thankfully, Wooyoung didn´t say anything about it, sitting down on the floor in front of the couch as a circle naturally formed in the living room so everyone could play something, and the first choice was the 007 game. You went along with the plan, hitting Mingi´s thigh instead of your own, touching his arm when you had to laugh, not going stiff when his hand met the skin almost at the hem of your skirt. 

You know what? Mingi was actually really hot too, if this night didn´t end how you expected it to, you were so horny you were just about considering asking him to fuck you.  

Whenever you looked in Wooyoung´s direction, you could practically see the engines turning in his head. It was just a matter of time now and you were already feeling shaky with excitement, which you weren´t exactly thrilled about – But then you looked at him again with that stupid hair and that stupid nose and that stupid half-unbuttoned shirt and decided that to hell with your morals and ethics. 

Mingi apparently decided his role in the ploy wasn´t enough for him, since after an hour or so passed by and people started standing up to go after more drinks or socialize with other people, he waited for Wooyoung to approach before asking loud and clear, “So, any luck with the getting some dick thing?” 

You were not exactly a good actress but you did know how to flirt, so not really knowing how else to react to the sudden improvisation, you smiled at him, “Why? Know someone interested?” 

“Yeah, nice to meet you. I´m Song Mingi,” He half-joked, hand still heavy on your thigh. “Oh, Wooyoung. You´re here, didn´t see you there.” 

He was good, you had to give him that. 

“I can see why,” Wooyoung answered, eyes pointing at the contact between you two.  

“Jealous?” Mingi asked his friend, his tone was humorous, but you could see the challenge in his eyes. Even though he was just playing, he couldn´t help being an egotistical Leo. 

“I wouldn´t say jealous is the right word.” 

“Did you know Y/N invited Mingyu over?” Mingi laughed. 

Wooyoung raised an eyebrow at you, eyes dancing with amusement.  

“I already uninvited him, asshole.” 

“Is that why you´re all touchy today?”  Mingi asked. Ok, you would have to buy him some ice cream after the phenomenal performance he was delivering. “Thought you would convince her to fuck someone, Woo.” 

“Believe me, I tried,” He shrugged. 

“Can we quit talking about me like I´m not here? Also, I´m not an animal in heat, stop being weird.” 

Well, weren´t you?  

Really? 

“You sure seem like it,” Wooyoung completed. 

“You look hornier than me, Wooyoung.” 

“I´m not denying it,” He stated matter-of-factly. 

“Oh shit, I forgot my phone with Yunho,” Mingi cursed, suddenly petting his pockets. He was so convincing you almost forgot he was helping you out. “Shit, shit, shit. I´ll be back later.” 

With that he stood up and quickly marched out of the living room, Wooyoung lazily taking his place next to you on the couch. 

“Were you really about to let Mingi fuck you?” 

“Maybe?” You answer, and well, that wasn´t a lie either. 

“Ouch, that kind of hurts my ego.” 

“Mingi and I are just friends, now you and I are best friends. There´s a huge difference there.” 

“So, you´re saying you´d fuck me if we weren´t best friends?” He joked. “Wow, thank you. I´m shy now. No need for all these compliments.” 

You rolled your eyes, not sure what to say that would lead you towards what you wanted, choosing to just be normal and hope the night would eventually get you there. 

“Why did you cancel on Mingyu?” 

“Didn´t think he would throw me around today.” 

“Someone´s getting bold.” 

“Shut up.” 

“I actually like frustrated Y/N, it´s hot.” 

“Then stop bothering me to fuck someone and let me be frustrated in peace.” 

“Well, that seems nice but I´m sure you´d look much hotter getting the frustration out.” 

“Are we back to the “you imagining someone fucking me” thing?” 

“I could correct you once again saying that I´m not imagining someone else, but since you´ve made it pretty clear that you´re not interested, I´m not going to.” 

That was it, that was your moment. 

“And what if I tell you maybe I am?” 

He stopped to give you a knowing cocky smirk that made you immediately regret raising the white flag, “I know.” 

“What? Ho- No -” 

“Y/N, you wouldn´t stop staring at me like you wanted me to destroy you in front of everyone while Mingi literally had his hand on you.” 

“That´s not -” 

“Do I have to pretend I think you were squirming because of him and not me? I can play dumb if you´d like. I can even go call him back if you tell me you weren´t wishing it was my hand almost getting under your skirt instead of his. So, are you going to give in now or are we going to keep playing this game?” 

“Wooyoung-” 

“We´re best friends, I know. But I don´t see how you avoiding me because you get wet every time I´m around is doing our friendship any favors either.” 

Ok, he did make a pretty good case even though you were already convinced like an hour ago. 

“You´re right.” 

“I know.” 

“So?” 

“I´m not fucking you at Hongjoong´s.” 

You stared at him, completely dumbfounded – also not liking how the tables have turned one bit. Wooyoung in turn laughed and sent you another playful wink, “Trust me, you won´t want anyone around.” 

“It took a lot from me to come to terms with this, so we´re either doing it tonight or we´re not doing it.” 

“Oh, princess,” He gave you a condescending look that got you wanting to rip his hair out. “I find that hard to believe, but I appreciate the enthusiasm.” 

“Wooyoung-” 

“Y/n,” His voice was calm, hand finding its place on your thigh where Mingi´s was earlier, except this time the touch burned and got you fighting for your life not to squirm. “I said I´m not fucking you at Hongjoong´s, not that I´m not fucking you.” 

“Then let´s go.” 

“Now, that would be rude, wouldn´t it?” 

“Why are being like this?” You whined, about a second away from actually hitting the cockiness out of him.  

“You have this needy look in your eyes, like you´re ready to drop down and beg at any moment,” He smiled, his free hand gently tucking your hair behind your ear like he wasn´t talking about you on your knees. “It´s cute.” 

“You know what will be cute? When I ask Mingi to fuck me instead.” 

“If you can go to Hongjoong, in front of everyone, and tell him that we need to leave his birthday party right now because you can´t wait for me to fuck you, I´m good to go.” 

“Have you always been this annoying?” 

“Only when I know you´ll like it.” 

“You know you were the one asking to fuck me for weeks, right?” 

“I know.” 

“You just know everything, don´t you?” 

“See? You´re hot when you´re frustrated.” 

“You think I´m sexually frustrated but now I´m actually just mad at you.” He simply smiled at you in return, and you rolled your eyes once you realized where you had dug your grave, “I forgot you have a degradation kink or whatever. Can´t even be angry at you in peace anymore.” 

“If you´re really mad at me, we should fix that. I wouldn´t want my best friend to be angry at me.” 

“I don´t think it´s possible to fix it considering being annoying it´s like your whole personality. Point proven.” 

“Come say that closer,” He winked playfully, and you seriously would cringe at the number of times that man has winked at you if he wasn´t Wooyoung.  

Ok, coming completely clean: You were also kind of annoyed at the way you were definitely getting wet at the banter between the two of you, like teasing each other wasn´t what your whole friendship has been about for years. 

It also helped that Wooyoung´s hand was still on your thigh, veins sticking out and fingers filled with rings that you just couldn´t stop picturing against the skin on your neck.  

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. 

It took a second to decide if you would actually listen to that one braincell fighting for its life inside your head or not, but in the end, you decided against it, quickly standing up so you could sit on Wooyoung´s lap and take him by surprise as you straddled his thighs, one of your knees on each side of legs.  

Yeah, there was definitely something pulsing in between your legs. Fucking hell. 

You moved too quicky for Wooyoung to process what was going on, so it really was amusing the way he violently jerked once you moved your head closer, lips almost brushing his ears as you whispered, “What do you want me to say?” 

For a second you had almost forgotten it was Jung Wooyoung under you, but he was fast to remind you as one of his hands found its place on the side of your thigh and the other grabbed onto your waist, where his thumb brushed gentle circles against your exposed skin. He took advantage of the fact you were already bent down to say against your ear this time, “You never told me.” 

“What?” You asked, creating some distance between you so you could look at the smirk on his face and because you didn´t quite like the way you got weak when you felt his breath against your skin so closely. 

“The other day, we made a deal. You said you would tell me what you imagined me doing to you if I told you first, but you ran away after I completed my part. You owe me.” 

Under regular circumstances you would have stood up and left right then and there, but the way his palms met the front part of your thighs and started rubbing them up and down, a bit higher each time, got you wanting to play his game to see where it would end. 

“You´re right. That day was the first time I ever thought about you sexually, and you know what triggered it?” 

“What?” He smiled at the way goosebumps erupted all over your skin under his touches. 

“Your nose.” 

“So you like my nose?” 

“And your lips, but mostly your nose.” 

"And what about my lips and nose?" 

"Was just thinking about how good they'd feel under me," You look into his eyes, centimeters away from yours, thankful that Hongjoong had deemed the lights at some point of the night and now Wooyoung's face was illuminated only by a pink hue, coming from a fake sunset light your friend had bought on AliExpress. 

"That's good, ‘cause I've never wanted someone to sit on my face so bad before." 

“Careful,” You warned, inching your face closer to his, toying with the buttons on his shirt as your lips were almost brushing. “We still need to go back to being friends after we fuck and get this off our systems.” 

"I’m sure we can manage," He smiled, inching closer himself so now your lips were indeed touching as he continued speaking. "I'm a good friend after all." 

"Kiss me then, I dare you," You breathed out, shooting your last shot. 

He laughed at that, "You know I never back down from a challenge." 

But well, it worked. 

Wooyoung made his words true, grabbing onto your waist with a firmness that you didn't know he had to pull you closer. With your chests now glued, his lips finally pressed against yours and you hated yourself for not being disappointed. You so wanted the man to be all bark and no bite, but the moment his tongue met yours you understood why that girl wouldn't leave him alone. You had indeed kissed many people before, but it had never felt like this - and also, you were right, his plush lips were definitely something to obsess over. 

What didn't surprise you at all, was that like in everything else, Wooyoung was a tease. In some moments when you would deepen the kiss, he would pull back a bit and bite on your bottom lip just to laugh when you groaned in annoyance. When he felt you were getting frustrated at his little games, he would grab onto your hips and grind them against his – which well, definitely got your mind to stop thinking about how insufferable he was. Good thing you knew how to play too, hands finding the roots of his hair to pull harshly on it, almost passing out at the whine he let out.  

"I love that you're wearing a skirt," He groaned out. 

"Why is that?" You were so breathless you almost got embarrassed. 

"I can feel how wet you are." 

Fuck. 

"You must be imagining things." 

"Oh, am I?" The cunning smile he gave you along with those words should have prepared you. 

It really shouldn't have surprised you when one of his hands left your ass and snaked its way in between your bodies. You leaned back a little to try and understand what was happening, giving Wooyoung all the access he needed to get his hand under your skirt and press the pad of his middle finger right on your clit over your panties. 

"Told ya," He smirked in content at the way you gasped involuntarily.  

"Wooyoung-" 

"What? Weren't you the one who couldn't wait?" He teased, rubbing slow circles with his finger. "If you're already soaked like this, I can't even imagine what it would be like if I just pushed your panties to the side-" 

"No-" You whined, thorn between just letting him do whatever he wanted or stopping him - since you were very much in the middle of your friend's living room and there were people around. 

"Getting shy now?"  

“Wooyoung.” 

“That´s my name,” You could see in his eyes how much fun he was having teasing you. 

“You want me to stop teasing or stop touching you?” He mocked with a smile on his face, finger still working on you as you fought with all your life to not squirm on his lap. 

“You know what? If you want everyone to see, I can put on a show,” You sighed, accepting defeat. 

You expected Wooyoung to smirk once again but was instead surprised when he stopped and retreated his hand, adjusting your skirt back in place. Your heart dropped at the sight, searching for answers in his eyes, but they were busy looking somewhere else: Mingi had gotten back. You could see the way the tall man was frozen at the entrance, eyes wide and hand once again stuck in the air – this time holding his phone proudly. 

You sent a glare at the intruder (as if there were not at least 10 other people in the room). The moment Mingi´s eyes caught yours, he jumped as if he had just woken up from a nap and he tried mouthing something like “sorry” and “oh shit” so you just rolled your eyes and motioned with your hand for him to move along, preferably far away. He seemed to get the message, almost tripping with how fast he spun on his heels and left.  

“What? Weren´t you the one who wanted everyone to know?” You asked Wooyoung, tone pointy as you climbed off his lap. It was like someone had thrown a bucket of cold water over you. THIS WAS JUNG WOOYOUNG. 

YOUR BEST FRIEND JUNG WOOYOUNG. 

THE GUY WHO MADE YOU DRESS LIKE A CHEERLEADER TO GO TO HIS COLLEGE SOCCER GAMES AND CHEER FOR HIM, THE GUY WHO BURPED AND LAUGHED AT HIS OWN DISGUSTINESS, THE GUY WHO DID A CRISTIANO RONALDO IMPRESSION EVERYTIME HE WON SOMETHING, THE GUY YOU HAD TO ONCE RESCUE FROM A PIG FARM AFTER DRINKING WAY TOO MUCH! 

“Yeah, but I guess my protective best friend side spoke louder,” He sighed too, fixing his pants. “Don´t be mad.” 

“I´m not mad.” 

“Yes, you are.” 

“Yes, I´m mad. Ok? Cause now the magic is over or whatever and I realized you´re my best friend and we can´t fuck.” 

He turned around on the couch to be able to look into your eyes, his searching. He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out, so he simply closed his eyes, sighed once again and stood up, offering his hand, “C´mon. Let me take you home.” 

★

“So, Mingyu huh?” Wooyoung asked, one hand on the wheel and the other on the gear.  

“Don´t do that.” 

“Do what?” 

“Ask about another man and pretend everything´s normal.” 

“Well, I guessed that now that we can´t fuck we can go back to being normal best friends.” 

You locked your jaw and crossed your arms. You were angry and you didn´t even know what for – But you expected Wooyoung to fix it, nonetheless. 

“Use your words.” 

“No.” 

“Ok, then. Silent ride it is.” 

You huffed; aware you were acting like a spoiled child, but you were just angry at the mess inside your head and that your friend was not able to read your mind and untangle everything so it made sense. Maybe you really were just spoiled and angry you didn´t get what you wanted when you wanted. 

“Oh. I get it now.” 

“What?” Wooyoung asked, eyes moving from the road for a second to look at you. 

“When you call me a brat. I get it now.” 

“I was searching my brain for plausible reasons for you to be all sulky, for you to admit you were mad just because I didn´t fuck you at the party?” 

“Yeah? Not just that, but you know I don´t like when things don´t go my way, I just wanted everything to happen fast so I wouldn´t have time to think about it but then when I thought about it, I felt bad because I still wanted it to happen but I know it shouldn´t.” 

“Y/N, it´s sex.” 

“Don´t make me sound stupid.” 

“I´m not, you´re just really overthinking this.” 

“Yeah, that´s the whole point. And it´s all your fault, so you see why I´m mad now?” 

“Yes. I´m the worst.” 

“You are.” 

“Not when I fuck you, thought.” 

“The moment has passed, Wooyoung. The train has left the station. Deal with it.” 

“If you say so. Are you opening the garage, or should I park outside?” 

“I didn´t bring the tag – Wait, are you going up?” 

“Street it is then.” 

“Answer me, stupid.” 

“Yes, I´m going up.” 

“What for?” 

“You said it yourself, if we´re best friends and nothing more is ever happening, there should be no problem with me sleeping over, right? We´ve done it thousands of times.” 

“Yeah,” You squeezed your eyes at him. You knew what game he was playing, trying to prove you wrong – But you were also convinced you were more stubborn than him and that you would instead prove him wrong. 

“Slumber party, fun!” He exclaimed, taking the key out and tapping your thigh before leaving his car.

 ★

“Since this was kind of last minute,” You heard Wooyoung´s voice approaching your room, “I didn´t really bring any clothes.” 

And there he was, next to your bed in nothing but a towel around his hips, long messy hair slightly dripping down his torso and toothbrush in his mouth, looking all casual like you both knew he wasn´t doing this on purpose.  

The fact that it was working only made you even more annoyed. 

“You know where the drawer with your stuff is,” You groaned, pretending to look at your nails. 

He looked way too smug as he turned to your closet, opening said drawer to pull out some sweatpants. You kind of expected (or is it hoped the right word?) that he would just unknot the towel and expose himself to try and seduce you, but he behaved and simply pulled the pants under the fabric before unwrapping it.  

“Have you not heard about underwear?” 

“Have you not heard that it´s healthier to sleep without it? You should hang out with me more, I can teach you a lot.” 

“Yeah, I already see you enough, thanks.” 

“Come dry my hair.” 

“I think you´re perfectly capable of doing that yourself.” 

“Yeah, but I like when you do it.” 

You rolled your eyes and groaned, pushing the blanket out of you, “Fine.” 

Wooyoung walked to the bathroom in front of you, surely having planned the way his back and arms looked from behind. You had seen him without a shirt hundreds of times already, why did you feel like you wanted to jump him now?!!?!?!?  You figured you were over it after coming back to your senses but oh boy, were you wrong. 

“Has San been dragging you to the gym?” You asked as he bent over to get the hair dryer from the bottom drawer. You figured making small talk and acting normally would keep your brain busy. 

“Yeah. And you would know that if you opened the hundreds of snaps I send you every day.” 

“I´m not 14, Wooyoung. Snapchat died in 2015, sorry to inform you,” You joked as you plugged the dryer he handed you. “Give me the towel.” 

He did as told, sitting down on your toilet as you started drying the water excess from his hair. Doing your best so no part of your arm or leg would accidentally touch his skin since you could feel the heat emanating from it. 

That was no way of living. 

Once the towel was completely damp, you tossed it on the floor and grabbed a brush, ignoring how he closed his eyes in appreciation at the touch. You fucking hated him and the way your heart was beating fast for absolutely no reason.  

Now untangled, you reached over to get the hair dryer once again but were stopped with a soft touch to the side of your leg. 

You looked down at the man expecting an answer and he simply gave you a lazy smile, gently grabbing your wrist and pulling you in between his legs, “Come here. Let me look at you while you do it.” 

Well, you let him pull you along because there was nothing really sexual about it, Wooyoung was just a touchy person and he looked like he was about to fall asleep anyways.  

You turned on the dryer and used your fingers to move his hair around so the heat would get to his roots, feeling the skin of your face heat up at the way he hummed in content. Wooyoung had a lot of hair, and not just that, but he had a lot of thick hair, so you were already aware you would spend a long time in there, appreciating the silence and the fact he was pretty much out of it so you could let your guard down. 

WHICH IS EXACTLY WHY you jumped in surprise when both of his hands found their way to the side of your thighs, just very softly rubbing them up and down as you dried his strands, goosebumps erupting all over your body at the delicate touch.  

Once again, just sleepy touchy Wooyoung. 

Nothing new, nothing to fuss over. 

Except YOU WERE FUSSING OVER IT BECAUSE ONCE AGAIN YOU FELT A PULSE WHERE YOU DIDN´T WANT TO FEEL A PULSE. 

This whole situation was just so domestic and nice that it scratched a very specific part of your brain that got you wanting to live in that moment forever – except maybe not with your best FRIEND. 

“I like when you touch me,” His raw voice came out softly. “You don´t do it a lot, so I have to enjoy every chance I get.” 

You didn´t have an answer to that, the only thing you could think to say was “stop” but how could he stop when he wasn´t even doing anything to begin with? This time it was not his fault that your mind was in the gutter. 

“You have enough people touching you already,” You managed to string a few words. 

“Yeah, but it feels nicer when it´s you,” He opened his eyes, you could see the sincerity in them and you felt bad that you kind of just wanted to punch him and run away. 

You were also surprised by the sudden unexpected eye contact, which explains why you accidentally pulled one of his strands a bit harshly. WHAT WASN´T EXPLAINED THOUGH, WAS THE LOW MOAN HE LET OUT AND THE WAY HIS EYES CLOSED AS HIS MOUTH PARTED. OR THE WAY YOURS HUNG OPEN TOO AT THE SOUND OR THE WAY YOU COULDN´T STOP STARING AT THE STUPID MOLE ON HIS LIP. 

It was a moment of insanity, a few seconds when your soul was out of your body; when you tentatively pulled on his hair again, feeling his nails digging into the skin of your thighs and his breathing getting heavier, yours matching. 

“If you really don´t want us to fuck then you´re just being cruel right now,” He breathed out, eyes still closed as his forehead met your abdomen.  

“I don´t?” 

“Is that a question?” 

“No. I don´t. I think your hair is dry.” 

“It´s definitely not,” He argued, raising his head once again. “C´mon, finish it. No funny business, I promise.” 

You wanted to tell him it´s not him you were worried about, it’s the way your own body was betraying you that bothered you, but you took a deep breath and continued with the work, doing your best to ignore his eyes on you or how his hands were once again toying with your thighs or how his thighs were touching your legs or how he was centimeters away from you. 

Yeah, a lot of things to ignore. 

Was your bathroom always this small? 

“You smell nice.” 

“I shower once in a while,” You agreed. “And you said no funny business.” 

“I´m complimenting you, how is that sexual?” 

“It´s not,” You agreed. 

He smirked at you because he too was well aware of the tension, if the way his sweatpants were suddenly tight were anything to go by. Thankfully he didn´t answer because you don´t think you could continue to ignore it if he mentioned he was getting hard just by you drying his hair. 

Eventually, after what felt like days, you finally turned off the dryer and prayed he would agree to your suggestion, “You´re done. Wanna sleep?” 

“Nop, this is a slumber party.” 

“What? You want to have a pillow fight now or do facemasks and gossip?” You rolled your eyes. 

“Although the first option sounds fun, I was thinking we can watch something until we fall asleep.” 

Watch something. 

Until you fell asleep. 

In your bed. 

Sure, what could go wrong? 

“What are you doing?” Wooyoung asked amusedly. 

“Building a barrier between our sides of the bed.” 

He laughed loudly at that, crawling into the bed too and taking the pillows from where you were organizing them, “Wooyoung!” 

“Shut up, you enjoyed cuddling once and you will enjoy it again.” 

“Absolutely not.” 

“What? Afraid you won´t be able to resist me? I thought we were just friends,” He teased. 

“Very funny-“ 

“Because if you´re interested we can just skip the foreplay and go straight to –“ 

“What do you want to watch?” 

You ignored his low chuckle, giving up on fighting for the pillows and getting comfortable on your bed so you could turn on the TV. 

“Community?” 

“Great,” You agreed between gritted teeth, opening the Netflix app and putting on the show from where you two had stopped it as Wooyoung fluffed the pillows behind his back next to you.  

This time he didn´t even ask before pulling you in between his legs, your back against his chest. You didn´t even fight it because honestly, what for? You simply groaned as you felt him searching for the light switch on the wall over your bed.  

“Don´t pretend you don´t enjoy it, I´ve got you all figured out now.” 

“Yeah yeah, believe what you want to.” 

“Shut up, I´m trying to watch the show.” 

You huffed, rolled your eyes and crossed your arms all at the same time. You knew it wasn´t at him you were annoyed – although he was sure making a great job at feeding into it.  

You also immediately regretted wearing shorts as the palms of his hands splayed over your thighs.  

“It´s too hot,” You complained, hoping he would let you go. 

Wooyoung simply stretched out one of his hands and grabbed the AC remote, turning it on before tossing it away and returning his palm to your thigh. His silence told you he was focused on the show and you truly wish you could say the same about yourself, but instead, your eyes were glued to the sight in front of you like it was a car wreck, not being able to look away no matter how much your brain ordered you to. Your knees were bent, your thighs almost touching your chest, so his hands were just right there in your line of sight, all veiny and calloused.  

The harder you tried to stir your mind away and pay attention to the TV, the more your brain looked like a Wattpad fanfic written by a 40-year-old who just got divorced and discovered sex wasn't just missionary. The conversation you had with Wooyoung about how the girls he fucked became literally obsessed with him kept flashing into your head and you were legitimately about to bite onto your fist and scream for 7 whole minutes.   

Your mental breakdown however was interrupted by the man behind you, who with no words started tracing his fingers – seemingly – unpresumptuously over your skin. You ignored it because you had no energy to fight it and as long as it stayed PG-rated it would be fine.  

The soft touches plus the very cold wind from the AC hitting you got goosebumps to erupt up your skin and you just felt how your nipples were suddenly sensitive against the fabric of your shirt and Wooyoung´s hand were just there, mere centimeters away and oh, you so desperately wanted him to touch them. In fact, you wanted it so badly you were fighting for your life to keep the uncomfortable squirming to a minimum.  

Thankfully, Wooyoung didn´t notice it – deep down you knew he was just pretending not to for your sake, but if he could, so would you.  

“Who do you think is hotter, Annie or Britta?” His voice suddenly, almost against your ear, shocked you. “Oh, jumpy, are we?” 

“Shut up, I was just startled.” 

“So?” 

“Britta.” 

“Same.” 

He went quiet once again, except now, when you thought his mind was once again focused on the show, his hands started getting braver. They escalated from just his fingers drawing shapes on the patch above your knees to suddenly coming down to the sensitive skin between your thighs. You jerked involuntarily even though he only traced his fingers about halfway down your legs. Wooyoung once again pretended to not notice your reaction and you pretended to not notice he was touching you.  

His fingers gently brushing the sides of your thighs all the way to your knees before you could feel the tip of his middle finger slowly grazing your skin down the inside of your thighs, lower and lower each time he came down. At this point your heart was beating so fast it was almost coming out of your throat, your breathing labored and sweat building up on your forehead even though the room was freezing cold.  

“She´s kind of annoying, though.” 

“Who?” You breathed out, honestly not even knowing your name anymore. 

“Britta.” 

“Oh, yeah.” 

Silence once again.  

Attention back to the show. 

You had to control your whine of disappointment when he retreated his hands.  

Ok, you took the chance to breathe, count to 10 and give yourself a pep talk. You could do this. You would not fuck your best friend. If not because of your morals and because of your friendship, because fucking him would mean he won, and you would never give Wooyoung the satisfaction. 

Ok, you could do this. 

You could definitely do this. 

Wooyoung gently gathered your hair and pushed it over your right shoulder, the familiar goosebumps showing up once again at the way the tip of his fingers brushed against the skin of your neck.  

Yeah, you could not do this.  

The sound that came out of your mouth when his wet lips met the juncture between your neck and shoulder could only be described as a pinscher finding out it could bark. You were in fact shaking as much as those annoying tiny dogs are known for. 

You froze, not being able to react when you felt him sucking on your skin or when his tongue tried to soothe the pain his teeth left behind. Your core was clenching so hard it hurt. 

“Wooyoung,” Your voice came out as half plead half warning.  

“Hm?” He hummed against a different spot on your neck, and it made it a thousand times worse.  

 “We shouldn´t-” 

“Just tell me to stop and I will.” 

Except you couldn´t. Not when he found your sweet spot and grazed his teeth against it before gently sucking on it. This time you allowed yourself to squirm and you felt it at the same time you heard it; Wooyoung groaned as you accidentally pressed against him and figured out you were not the only one going insane. His dick was hard and now very much pulsing against your ass and lower back.  

Both of you realized you never told him to stop and you were fighting so hard to gain control of your body back as he kissed the vein on your neck - but it was all lost when his hands snaked around your torso and grabbed your boobs. You whimpered, shamefully, squeezing your legs together to try and relieve some of the throbbing.  

His kisses grew harsher, as he sucked one spot hard enough to leave a mark, the pad of his middle fingers toyed with your nipples and you simply couldn't pretend you didn´t want this to happen anymore, not with the way you could literally start dripping onto your bed any moment now.  

A gasp left your lips when his right hand grabbed onto your thigh and pulled your legs open. You felt his dick twitching when he saw the wet patch in the middle of your shorts. 

“Oh, princess,” He sighed, pressing against the stain in pure admiration. 

“Wooyoung-” 

“Tell me to stop.” 

He gave you no time to consider his words, pulling the bottom of your shorts and panties to the side and rubbing his middle finger down your slit to wet it. You carved your nails onto his thighs in return, doing your best to stay grounded. It didn´t even take a minute for you to understand why the prior girls who slept with Wooyoung became obsessed with him, you weren´t really doing anything yet and the second the pad of his finger found your clit while his other hand gently pressed down onto your lower stomach everything became even clearer. You threw your head back on his shoulder in pleasure as he rubbed figure eights against your clit. 

Yeah, you agreed to pretend nothing happened starting tomorrow, but you figured you would never be able to forget the sound of your best friend´s deep moan against your ear when he felt you around his finger for the first time. 

“Glad to see I´m not the only one going crazy,” He groaned against your ear - and when did his voice get so raspy? 

You whined once again, not really knowing what else to do when you were practically on the edge from a minute or two of stimulation. 

“Tell me to stop.” 

“Wooyoung-” 

“I love when you say my name.” 

Were you about to cry? 

At this point, you just wanted him to ignore you and throw you around and do whatever he wanted, but you knew he wouldn´t until you said so, and you were definitely not doing that. Although with every second that passed with his finger on you, that definitely was turning more into a probably.  

“I never told you.” 

“Wha- What?” 

“From all the ways I imagined this happening, I never told you my favorite.” 

“What is it?” 

“It´s the one where we´re in a sleepover and you´re so desperate that you can´t even go to the bathroom, so you just very quietly put your hands inside your shorts and touch yourself right next to me thinking that I´m asleep. And I pretend I am, but I can hear the small whimpers you try to hold back, I can feel the slight shake of the bed and I can hear how wet you are so clearly. Sometimes, I even imagine you would decide to use me, not even try to wake me up, just sit on my face and ride it until I pretend to wake up and finally eat you out until you´re crying and shaking.” 

When you literally had to hold yourself back from finishing at his words, you grabbed his hand and turned around on your knees, smashing your lips with no fanciness against his. He was quick to grab your ass and direct you to sit on top of his legs, your thighs on either side of his in the familiar position as your tongues met and you pulled the hairs on the back of his neck with all the frustration you had inside you. 

“We´re not fucking,” You informed in between labored breaths. 

“We don´t have to fuck, I just need you to sit on my face.” 

You never whined so loudly in your life before. 

That was the one single thing you have been dreaming about hearing for weeks now and you were so happy you could practically cry, in fact, you almost came right there without even being touched. 

The link to Part 2 is at the top! <3

[nadvs]

the power play (part six)

pairing hockeyplayer! rafe cameron x tutor! reader

rating mature 18+

summary rafe is your complete opposite. the only thing you have in common with the hockey player you tutor is that he’s also recently had his heart broken. in a last-ditch effort to make the people who hurt you regret it, you agree to pretend to date.

< prev

Rafe drives down the dark street, silent while his mind races and whirls with regret.

He shouldn’t have offered to come with you tonight. He shouldn’t have let himself see you like that, with all your friends, with the guy who’s blind to how lucky he is that you love him.

Envy courses through him, burning and vicious. Who would he be if he had a life like Beck, surrounded by people who loved him? Why couldn’t he have that? Why couldn’t he be someone else? Someone you’d want?

“You might be right,” you say happily. “Maybe Beck is jealous. He wouldn’t stop looking at me tonight.”

Rafe is still in his head. He hated that your eyes wouldn’t stay on his at that party. That other eyes were on you.

“Neither would that guy who plays for Hatfield,” he mutters.

“Marcus?” You sink further into the passenger seat, settling in for the hour-long drive back to campus. “What do you mean?”

He rubs his jaw, reminded of how warm your cheek felt on his when you whispered to him during that stupid game of truth or dare.

“He likes you, too,” he says.

You have to laugh.

“No way.”

“So, he’s never tried anything,” Rafe states, unconvinced.

You look out your window as he turns onto a busier street. Through your high school days, Lyla had implied that Marcus had a crush on you, but you refuted it every time.

“Well…” You sigh. “Lyla thinks because he asked me to a dance one time, it meant something, but he told me himself he was asking me as a friend.”

“He said that to not look like a loser if you shot him down,” Rafe huffs.

“I’m not so sure,” you say.

His pain weighs even heavier. It’s messing with him how you imply that guys don’t look at you like that. It took you this long to say that maybe Beck’s jealous.

You’re oblivious to the effect you have on people. On him.

Frustration wrenches in his chest and his words come out unfiltered.

“You really are clueless about this shit,” he mutters, his voice clipped.

It’s the first time Rafe’s words truly cut into you. You’re used to his brashness, to how he doesn’t hesitate to let you know when you’re irritating him, and normally it makes you laugh or roll your eyes.

But this stings. And it throws away the joy you’d felt seconds ago. You’re already painfully aware that you’re inexperienced, having spent so much time stuck on one guy who kept you trapped in a confusing loop.

Despite the pang in your heart, it’s comforting to know, to really know, that you could never like Rafe like that.

You’ve seen bits of tenderness in him, but he’s more hard, icy edges than anything else, and he’s not the type of person you’d ever feel safe giving your heart to.

At least you know you’ll be able to avoid Rafe hurting you the way Beck has.

Rafe glances over to see you turned away, your dejected pout reflected in the window. He hates himself for being such a dick, but fuck, it kills him that you act like it’s ridiculous that someone could have feelings for you.

He’s falling off the edge right in front of you and you don’t see it. And it dawns on him that it’s a good thing you don’t, because you wouldn’t fall with him.

“That was mean,” you say quietly. You look over and catch glimpses of the writing you left on the inside of his wrist as the streetlights flood in and out of the car. “Even for you.”

The thinness of your voice is a razor that slices into him.

“You’re not always right about everything, okay?” Rafe says stiffly.

“I never said I was,” you reply. You look out the window again and take a moment before you continue speaking. “But what happened with Beck did mess with my confidence, if that’s what you’re getting at. And you’re not making it any better.”

Knowing he’s only adding to your baseless insecurities cuts him deeper.

“I’m sorry, alright?” he mumbles. He stares ahead as he pulls onto the freeway. “All I’m tryin’ to say is that you don’t need to be so jaded just because one asshole strung you along.”

Your ache numbs a little. In his own, tactless way, he’s attempting to help.

“Your approach needs work,” you say flatly, “but I see your point.”

Tension sinks between you, every sense of camaraderie gone. And Rafe is desperate to undo it, to make you feel better.

“You can tell you’re getting to him?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you say in a hush, although the high of witnessing Beck’s jealousy is gone now.

It’s satisfying to know he’s seeing what he’s missing, but it hurts that you had to go to these lengths for it to happen. It hurts that you still care.

“Good,” he says.

Rafe’s met with no response. And he wants to beg you to speak. His lips part, heart hammering.

“What are you thinking?” His deep voice fractures the silence.

You bite your lip, remembering the first time you were in this car, when Rafe suggested he drive you back home because you wouldn’t stop talking.

Now, he wants you to talk, and if he didn’t ask, you wouldn’t offer up your thoughts like you usually do. Not after that dig.

“You ever wish you could make yourself not care about something?” you eventually say.

“All the time,” he admits within an exhale of relief that you answered him.

“Really?” you ask, your brows lifted in surprise.

He knows he manages to seem like he doesn’t give a shit about most things. It’s a defense mechanism that works until his anger gets so heavy that he cracks.

He refuses to crack in front of you again. Right now, he’s okay with giving you the vulnerability you’re always trying to coax out of him if it means you’ll be you again.

“She told you I wouldn’t move on, right?” he says sardonically.

You gaze at him, reminded of the way his ex had laughed when she told you he wouldn’t stop bothering her.

“I kept trying to work things out and I – I wish I didn’t.” He shakes his head, embarrassed. “And I don’t even want to be with her now, but I care enough to want to piss her off. I know that’s not normal.”

Your eyes are fixed on the license plate of the car ahead of you. The things you know about his past relationship, things that Emma said, things that he said, come together to paint an ugly picture.

“I think it’s how a lot of people would feel,” you say. “It doesn’t sound like she was very nice to you.”

Rafe knows he could be just as poisonous, raising his voice and escalating fights, but Emma made him feel like he was insane for being human.

Any time he was hurt, she said he was overreacting. He wasn’t allowed to be angry. To be sad. To be anything.

And he always feared she was right. He was too much, felt too much. He’d heard it from so many people, the first and loudest voice being his father’s.

“She wasn’t,” he answers. “I wasn’t, either.”

You don’t doubt it. You can only imagine how vicious their arguments were.

“Can I tell you something?” you say.

He’s upset, but he takes a page out of your book, trying to lighten the mood.

“You’re going to do it anyway,” he mumbles.

Despite yourself, you chuckle.

“You already very kindly established that I’m no expert on relationships,” you say, your joke splitting the tension, “but do you ever think that maybe things were toxic between you?”

You’re prying again, but Rafe’s relieved you are, because it means you’re okay.

Maybe his relationship was toxic, but he doesn’t know otherwise. It’s how he operates, always on the cusp of chaos, always on the edge of imploding.

“What?” he asks, just to stall.

“You said you wanted to hurt each other when you fought, right?”

The tires continue to rapidly roll over the asphalt with rhythmic pats, the wind whooshing over the windows.

“Yeah.”

“What’d you fight about?”

“Everything,” he says. “I mean, yeah, I have a short fuse and I – I say shit I don’t mean, but she acted like she never did anything wrong.”

“That’s hard to deal with,” you sympathize. “What’d she do wrong?”

He grits his teeth. The memory of how Emma would shut him down whenever he had a problem with something she did flashes through his mind like a bad dream he wants to forget.

“She acted like she only liked me when I was happy,” he tells you, on edge, in disbelief that he’s hearing his voice admit these things.

“What would she do when you weren’t?” you ask.

His jaw tenses, the memories of Emma’s shouted words a punch to the gut.

“She’d tell me to grow up,” he says dryly.

Rafe is sure you’d never say something like that to him, but there’s still an alarm going off in his head that he’s opening up too much, giving you what you need to hurt him, sharing criticism that you might silently agree with.

Every piece that he shares with you could serve as proof that he’s a catastrophe of a man that you’d be better off staying away from.

You look down at your lap, your heart pinching. The space between you is delicate, fragile, a bond you never could have imagined growing between you.

You’re upset to think about how Rafe clearly already doesn’t really do feelings and was made to feel bad for showing his to his girlfriend.

Emma had called him pathetic, but you feel that the word describes her instead.

“That’s not fair,” you say. “Nobody deserves to hear that from someone who’s supposed to care about them.”

He only offers a rigid shrug.

You’re still curious about what he told you when you asked him why he liked her. He’d said things were simple with her, that she made him feel uncomplicated, but it sounds like all they did was bicker.

You want to know why he tried to get back together after they’d had such a rocky relationship, why he’d called her crying.

“You said she made things easy?” you say.

He tightens his grip on the steering wheel, not sure how much more of this conversation he can take.

“When we weren’t fighting, we had fun,” he explains. “I didn’t have to think about anything, you know?”

And she never pushed to see the pieces of himself that he hides. And all you do is push, so why the hell is he losing his mind over a girl who’s done nothing but try to make him face what he runs from?

But when he looks at you again through the darkness, it’s like he can see how good you are.

And that’s why.

That’s why you’ve taken him captive. You’re warm, the way you find joy in almost everything, the way you’re unabashedly yourself, the way you want to understand people for who they really are.

You take in his awestruck expression, looking like he can’t believe he just told you all that.

You get it now. Emma didn’t want to deal with the heavy stuff. And it worked for him. Until it didn’t. It doesn’t sound like they had that deep of a connection if she punished him for having feelings.

“I really don’t like her,” you say quietly.

“Damn,” he murmurs. “Brutal coming from you.”

You chuckle. Rafe takes a few breaths before he speaks again, hating that he actually feels shy right now.

“Sorry I said…” He trails off, not wanting to repeat the word clueless. He went too far. “You’re smart, okay?”

“You’ve mentioned that a few times,” you laugh.

“We friends again?”

You smirk.

“Maybe if you say please,” you say.

“Shut up,” he laughs.

“Hmm.” You squint. “Try again.”

You watch him with an expectant expression, a playful smile on your face.

“Please,” he mumbles, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Alright, you don’t have to beg,” you chuckle.

Rafe groans in annoyance and you laugh again, picked back up out of your low mood.

You get the feeling of being linked to him again, the one you had when you watched him from the stands before you even spoke.

He’s wading through the pieces of a broken relationship, and you’re trying to shake yourself out of infatuation, and they’re different circumstances, but you both need the same thing. To not care anymore.

“I read something about how the opposite of love isn’t hate,” you say. “It’s indifference. Eventually, you won’t care about what she thinks. And you’ll find the girl you need when the time’s right.”

Rafe stares ahead.

“Yeah,” is all he can say. Because he’s already found the girl he needs. She just doesn’t need him back.

════════

In the span of almost five days, Rafe has gone from bad to worse.

On Sunday, the team just barely won the first game of the tournament. He watched from the bench, pissed off beyond belief watching the gameplay. They were lucky the opponents’ offense was so choppy.

It was both frustrating and validating when his coach told him that he hopes Rafe can play game two, because defense is suffering without him.

Yesterday, he saw the team’s physical therapist. He managed to move his arm with full mobility, but still felt a minor, stubborn pinch. He was cleared for game two, so long as he saw a doctor to get imaging done and make sure he wasn’t putting himself at risk.

He had the appointment this morning and he’s already dreading the call with the results. He can’t lose hockey. It’s the one thing keeping him sane.

Now, he’s walking under the hot afternoon sun, on his way to an off-campus uptown cafe you’d suggested for your tutoring session. He had to park two blocks away after looking for a spot for ages.

He’s in a foul mood, rereading your text just so he doesn’t take it out on you. You gave him the head’s up that this place is usually busy and parking could be tough, offering to stick with the library if he preferred.

He went along with what you wanted, because he’d rather not let you down. At this point, it hurts seeing any hint of sadness on your face. He’s still pissed off at himself for what he said to you in his car last weekend.

He steps into the small cafe, the air smelling of coffee, the machines whirring over overlapping conversations. He finds you in the corner, your head adorably tilted in thought as you type on your laptop.

The knot in his stomach loosens once you look up and smile at him.

Every morning, every afternoon, every night, you’re on his mind. You’ve thrown him completely off center, dominating every second of his day, the longing to see you when he’s not with you insatiable.

Rafe strides towards you between full tables, and you take a moment to drink him in, the strong, self-assured way he walks, never the type to act like he thinks he doesn’t belong wherever he is.

“Hey,” you say. “Was parking okay?”

“You warned me.” He pulls out the chair across from you, dragging it across the hardwood. You shut your laptop. “Why are we here? I got that tattoo for nothing?”

You glance at his wrist to see that the marker has washed off.

“It’s gone anyway,” you giggle. “I thought we could use a change of scenery. Plus, this place has the best treats.”

You slide a small brown paper bag towards him.

“I’ll trade you for your laptop,” you say.

Minutes later, you’re checking in on his grades. Your stomach drops when you see a warning in red text next to last week’s submission link.

7 days late.

“Rafe,” you say soberly. “You forgot to send it in.”

You look up at him from across the table, confusion creased into his features as he finishes chewing.

“Remember, last week?” you say. “Your laptop died and I told you to submit the essay before midnight?”

He readjusts his posture.

“It’s not a big deal,” he sighs defensively.

“It’s 5% lost every day,” you reply. “I’ll submit it now.”

He scowls, agitation rippling over his features. It discredits the text that Lyla sent you the morning after her birthday party, not that you believed it anyway.

My mom said it’s cute how obviously in love Rafe is with you.

The way he’s looking at you right now is the farthest thing from love. Like he said, he’s a great liar.

“This matters,” you reiterate. Rafe glances away. It’s hurtful to witness how disinterested he is.

You submit the assignment, displeased by his apathy, reminded of how much his bad attitude and moodiness can get to you, but try to remain positive.

“Let’s see what you have so far,” you say, opening his draft document. “This week’s discussion question is about the significance of time in the novel. Did you notice it was sometimes spelled with a capital T?”

Your brows pinch in concentration as you lean forward, reading what he’s put together. It’s sparse, disjointed, just like his work when you first started tutoring him. It’s like he’s gone backwards.

You look up at him, but his eyes are downcast, lips turned down. Something’s wrong.

“You didn’t get much time to work on it?” you say, keeping a kind tone to your voice.

“This book made no sense,” he mutters.

“It is pretty convoluted,” you say. “But there’s substance to it. I like how it explores the idea of friendship. Speaking of, friends tell each other when something’s wrong, so get to talking.”

If Rafe didn’t know better, he’d think you're trying to hurt him.

Disappointing you was painful enough. It’s why his instinct was to act like that late assignment wasn’t a big deal; because then, he wouldn’t have to accept that he was messing up in front of you yet again.

And now, you’re rubbing it in that you only see him as a friend, adding salt to the wound.

“It’s been a shitty week,” he admits.

You lean over to push the bag of treats a little closer to him, earning a nearly silent chuckle.

“Is your shoulder feeling okay?” you ask.

“I had to do some scans,” he says. “I’m waiting to see if I can play. But I’m good.”

Your lips purse in thought. It’s like Rafe is nothing but knee-jerk reactions, snapping when he’s mad, direct about when he’s annoyed, but he hides everything else, as if he’s telling himself he’s not allowed to feel anything besides anger.

You wonder if he was always like that, or if his last relationship left that particular scar.

“Is midterm season getting to you?” you ask. “Because it’s getting to me. Studying’s hard enough and now I have a group project that’s been keeping me up at night.”

“It’s that bad?” he says, a hint of amusement in his tone.

“You know when you’re put into a group with guys who think dropping paragraphs into a slide deck counts as contributing?” you say. “And when you try to meet up outside of class to practice the presentation, they pretend they didn’t see your text? Does that kind of stuff not happen to you?”

A smile pulls on his lips.

“Just me, then,” you reply.

“Do I need to talk to anyone?” he asks, and he realizes he’s only half-joking.

“You mean like, to threaten them? Only if you can fit it in your schedule,” you joke. “I don’t want to put you out.”

You think he’s kidding. He’s not. He feels insanely protective over you, and while he can see that you’re not that bothered by this, he’d get those idiots you’re working with in line if you needed him to.

This is only getting more difficult. He wants to tell you that he’s serious. That he’d do anything to make things easier for you, that you don’t deserve to be ignored, that you should cut this act out and be with him for real.

But he has to accept that while he’s spent his life being ruthlessly honest about what he thinks about people, good or bad, he needs to swallow down his words around you.

He can’t talk like that with a girl who’d never want him. Who he’d never recover from getting rejected by.

“You know you can tell me when something’s bothering you, right?” you say. “It’s not like I’d…”

You don’t finish your sentence, your gaze soft. He can tell you’re trying to reassure him that you wouldn’t criticize him for being stressed like his ex used to, the reminder of your last conversation planting discomfort in his chest.

“I didn’t mean to forget,” he utters, eyes darting away again. You nod. So he does care. And now you feel bad if you made him feel ridiculed.

“Was I too intense?” you say dolefully. “I’m sorry. I just want you to do well. We worked hard on that assignment and it’s a waste of effort to lose points for lateness.”

You pull out your notebook, full of study notes you took last semester.

“It’s okay,” you conclude. “It’s just one assignment. We’ll finish up this essay and then start prepping for the midterm.”

Rafe’s muscles loosen, in awe of how quickly you just turned his mood around.

“Oh, before I forget,” you say, “do you want me to come to the next game? I can drive up with Lyla. It’s an away, right? This Saturday?”

“You did your homework.”

“Did you forget who you’re talking to?” you laugh.

“Yeah, you should come,” Rafe says after a beat. “If I play.”

“Deal,” you say with a grin.

He’s hopeful you follow through. Because even if you’re there as a friend, as all you’ll ever want to be to him, he plays better knowing you’re watching.

════════

Rafe sits on the team bus on the way to game two, his eyes following the dips and valleys of lush trees lining the road. Music buzzes in his earbuds, his fingers interlaced in his lap, his knees bouncing.

He needs this before big games; the closest he can get to solitude, confining himself into his own mind, finding focus.

He’d never liked quiet until he started playing hockey. He chased noise, commotion, distractions. And he still gets his dose of chaos with every game, but it’s always preceded by this stillness. This moment he gives himself for the calm before the storm.

He got the call yesterday. The scans came back fine. They showed nothing serious, no signs of tearing, no reason for him to be freaking out.

Rafe texted you right away, finding himself wanting to tell you of all people the good news first, even before his coach.

As expected, you responded with an enthusiastic message telling him you couldn’t wait to cheer him on. The focus he’s trying to find right now keeps getting derailed by thoughts of you.

The song fades out, replaced with ringing. He picks up his phone to see that you’re video-calling him.

His stomach flips and he feels like a little kid with a crush on a girl in his class. The effect you have on him is starting to get really damn embarrassing.

Your pretty face appears on his screen, the backdrop a well-lit ceiling and colorful display shelves.

“Hello,” you greet him cheerfully. “We just stopped at a gas station. Do you want me to grab something for you for after the game? You know, because you’ll need nutrients and electrolytes and all that.”

“I will?” he says, his lips turned up in a smirk. “No shit?”

“Okay, I’m just being nice,” you laugh. “Don’t you get tired of being so sarcastic all the time?”

“Not really,” he replies.

Isaac, who always sits beside him on these drives, hears Rafe mumbling. He leans over and gazes at the screen.

You see the corner of Isaac’s face, then grin and wave.

“Hey, I have a really quick question,” Isaac says.

“What’s up?” you ask.

“She said to leave her alone,” Rafe murmurs.

“I did not,” you laugh, realizing only Rafe can hear you through his earbuds.

“Lies,” Isaac says. “I have this essay that’s killing me. You’re good at that stuff, right? Could you look at it for me? Please? It’s a huge chunk of my grade.”

“Sure,” you say with a nod. “Send it to me. You can get my email from Rafe.”

“She said no,” Rafe says.

“I saw her nod,” Isaac retorts.

“I’ll give you her email, alright?” Rafe says impatiently. “You done now? I’m trying to talk to my girl.”

Isaac feigns offense and leans away after giving you a thankful smile.

“You don’t need to get me anything,” he tells you.

“Suit yourself,” you say. “How are you?”

“Good,” he says simply, because he can’t be honest that he’s nervous about this game, nervous that he’ll mess up his shoulder again, nervous that he’s falling so hard for you that you could shatter him without even knowing it.

His mind is blank, words refusing to form.

“Okay,” you say, unhappy he’s being so short with you.

You don’t know what you did wrong, why he gets so irritated with you all the time. You’d called him impulsively, only ten minutes into your drive with Lyla when you stopped to buy a drink, but you assumed you were in a good enough place to call whenever you felt like it.

It’s all too familiar, this sinking feeling of questioning what a guy thinks of you, just like you always did with Beck. You know things between you and Rafe are platonic, but you thought he’d like to hear from you, because you like to hear from him.

Still, you can’t pretend that the sound of him calling you his girl didn’t make your heart lift with an unwelcome warmth. You remind yourself it’s a lie. Beck’s surely sitting close by, overhearing Rafe’s words.

“I’ll see you after the game,” you say low-spiritedly.

Rafe grimaces, guilt sinking into his bones. You’d once told him he makes you feel annoying and you were joking, but he hates to think that he’s really making you feel like that.

“How ‘bout you?” he asks hurriedly. “How’s your drive been?”

“Aside from Lyla’s road rage?” you joke.

“I do not have road rage,” Lyla defends herself with a playful gasp from the other side of the aisle.

Rafe watches as you look off-screen, the corners of your eyes crinkled as you laugh.

“Be careful,” he says, worry icing his chest. “Tell her to drive safe.”

“Oh, my God, I do!” Lyla half-shouts with a laugh. “Is he always that protective?”

“It’s why I like him so much,” you answer.

This is the point where Rafe would just be direct. He doesn’t play games. Never has. He’d ask you, straight up, the next time you're alone, if you meant that or if you were just faking affection in front of your best friend.

But he can’t do that when he already knows the answer. You told him yourself last weekend. I like you. Just not like that. Imagining something more with you just makes him a masochist.

“I’m offended that your boyfriend doesn’t trust me,” Lyla says.

“He doesn’t trust anyone,” you counter playfully. You look back at the screen. “I’ll let you go. Let me know if you change your mind.”

“Look what I found,” Lyla sing-songs. She holds up a bottle of the drink you’ve been looking for.

“I love you,” you tell her.

Hearing you say those words and knowing they’ll never be directed to him is its own brand of agony. And it’s so soft, so insane that he’s already thinking about love, but you’ve thrown him for such a loop that he can’t control it.

He catches his reflection in the corner of the screen. It’s almost unbelievable how good he is at it, looking so careless, numb, when his heart is cracking down the middle.

“Good luck today,” you say to him. “You don’t need it, though.”

“Thanks,” Rafe replies. “See you.”

You hang up.

“For a second, I thought you were telling Rafe you love him,” Lyla says.

“Oh,” you laugh, turning to look at the items on the shelves again. “No.”

“Do you?” she asks. “Or do you see it getting to that point?”

“Maybe,” you reply.

“You’re giving me crumbs,” she whines.

You meet your best friend’s eyes, having already heard her complaints about how little you share about your relationship. You’re tight-lipped about Rafe because you’d rather not have to stomach the shame of feeding Lyla lies.

“What do you want to know?” you ask.

“Everything. Start with the juicy stuff. Have you guys kissed?”

Imagining what it’d be like to kiss Rafe makes your stomach flutter. You wonder if his kisses would be like him; rushed, hard, impatient, or if he’d be soft and gentle and slow.

Your cheeks burn as you think about it, once again trying to pull yourself back into reality.

“Lots of times,” you say with a shrug.

“Have you guys…?” She raises her brows.

You laugh nervously. Her brother saw you leaving Rafe’s room. You doubt they’d ever gossip about you like that, but it’s better to keep the lies consistent.

You nod in response.

“And?”

“Let’s not do this here,” you chuckle, playing it off. “I don’t want strangers overhearing.”

Less than a minute after you hang up, Isaac gets Rafe’s attention with a nudge. He takes out an earbud.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Isaac says, “but how’d you get her to like you?”

“How the hell do I take that the right way?” he replies.

“No offense. She’s just so… nice,” Isaac tells him. “It’s a good thing. I can tell you’re happy. Way happier than you were with what’s-her-name.”

Rafe suggested this ploy so it’d seem that way. But with time, with getting to know you, with seeing what it’s like to be someone you care about, it’s become the truth.

════════

The game is hardly a nailbiter. Within the first period, you can tell the opponents aren’t strong contenders. It ends in an easy win.

You catch Rafe’s gaze a few times throughout the game, but you don’t get a chance to talk to him. On your way back to campus, he texts you that the team is celebrating their win in one of the common rooms in the athletes’ dorm building.

Lyla parks and before you can let her know you’ll call Rafe to come downstairs, she pulls out her phone.

“Hey,” she says after a pause. “Can you come down and let us in?”

You unbuckle your seatbelt, stomach turning. You know she’s talking to her brother.

“I could’ve called Rafe,” you say nervously when you step out of the car, walking side-by-side to the building.

“It’s no problem,” she says. You can tell that she thinks she did you a favor by taking care of it, but these days, being around Beck brings you an unwelcome, awkward tension.

Beck lets you in, holding the front door open as you exchange casual greetings. You pace through the lobby and the elevator door slides shut behind you.

Beck stands by the buttons, Lyla leans against the corner between you, and you cross your arms and look up at the numbers changing.

“When’s the last time just the three of us hung out?” Lyla says lightheartedly. “And this doesn’t count.”

Your eyes flit up to Beck, whose stare is already on you. Lyla has no idea what’s gone on between you, that an unspoken heaviness has settled between you since that day in front of his exam room last semester.

Does he regret it? Does he want to take it back? Does he wish he’d never spent years leading you on and just pursued you from the beginning? Does he want to tell you what he’s really thinking? Will he ever?

The questions swirl through your head, a pattern that, at this point, you could do in your sleep.

And you realize that the answers don’t matter. Not really. Because if it takes a lie, a delusion that you’re with another man for Beck to see your worth, he never deserved you in the first place.

It gives you hope that you’re finally taking back your heart, piece by piece.

You need to allow yourself to see who you are without this hold he has on you. To love yourself instead of waiting for somebody else to. To give yourself space to be you, unencumbered by what anyone else thinks.

“It has been a long time,” you say. “I think we’ve all just been swamped.”

“Swamped?” Beck asks you. “You doing okay?”

His eyes drift over your face, shadowed with a hint of sadness.

The elevator reaches its stop. The doors open with the ding of a bell. And you nod.

“Yeah,” you answer. “My head has never been clearer, actually.”

════════

Rafe was hoping you’d still be wearing his jersey, rubbing it in Beck’s face that you’re wearing his name, no matter if it is just a ploy.

His throat tightens when his eyes land on you as you step into the common room, taking you in as he leans against the armrest of a couch. You’re not in his jersey. And you’re with Lyla and Beck.

His heart sinks. Why didn’t you call him to come get you?

“Hey,” you say, beaming at Rafe as you approach him. “You were great tonight.”

You pull him into a hug, arms draped around his wide shoulders, inhaling the smell of his body wash.

Part of you is embracing him because it’s what a girlfriend would do. The other part is because it feels good to be held by someone who knows just how much pain you’ve been holding onto.

Rafe’s hands tighten at your waist, his nose in the crook of your neck, breathing you in.

“Pretty relaxed celebration,” you say, looking around when you part. Teammates and their friends and girlfriends are scattered around the room, grouped in different conversations.

You look at Rafe again and you swear that he’s somehow getting more handsome the longer you know him. Being inches away from him after daydreaming about kissing him makes the realization all the more overpowering.

The only thing you can feel is frustration because this is the last thing you need, to jump from liking one guy to another. Especially to one who has proven that he’d only hurt you.

You need your crush on Rafe to remain superficial. Any deeper and you’re just opening yourself up to more heartache.

“Yeah, this is really lowkey,” Lyla agrees with you. “You guys didn’t have it in you to party?”

“We’re pretty worn out,” Beck explains.

“Are you?” you ask Rafe, gazing up at him in that way that he’s grown to adore.

He is. He’s exhausted. And he’d fucking love it if you could go to his room just down the hall, lie in his bed together, doze off wrapped up in each other.

“Getting there,” he replies.

“I’ll let you guys talk,” Lyla says, then looks at you. “Or whatever it is you do.”

“Lyla,” you groan with a laugh. She slips away, prompting Beck to do the same. Nowadays, he seems to hate being around you when you’re with Rafe.

“What was that about?” Rafe murmurs to you quietly.

You lean on the armrest, settled next to him with your arm pressed against his, finding that you’ve grown to enjoy the conversations you’re always having outside of the crowds, the feeling of being tucked away into privacy together.

“She’s annoyed that I’ve been so secretive,” you reply just as quietly. “I don’t give her details about us, but can you blame me?”

“What does she want to know?”

“If we’ve kissed and… stuff,” you say, looking at the floor, feeling too awkward to tell him the truth. “I said yeah, but I couldn’t exactly come up with details about something that never happened.”

Rafe’s eyes lower to your lips, staring while your gaze stays on the floor.

“You tellin’ me you want to break your ‘no kissing’ rule?” he asks in a joking tone, as if his heart isn’t pounding in his ears right now.

“No,” you chuckle, looking back up at him. “I still want my first kiss to be real.”

It’s the first time he doesn’t like the sound of your laugh, because it’s apparently funny to you to consider having genuine feelings for him.

He swallows down the bitterness, determined not to punish you for his own pain. He’s done that before and he hated himself for it.

“If I played so great, why’d you take off my jersey?” he asks.

He didn’t his best tonight, feeling pricks of pain in his shoulder only a few minutes into the game. It made him afraid of getting into any hard collisions. He’s never been like that. It’s just as aggravating as it is depressing.

You lace your fingers together in your lap, fidgeting.

“I left it in the car,” you answer. You don’t offer him anything else, a faraway look in your eyes.

“Did something happen?”

You breathe out slowly, still in disbelief of how easily Rafe can read you. It’s a good thing you’re not really falling for him. He’d be able to tell.

“You’re too perceptive,” you murmur. He smirks. “It was just a weird elevator ride.”

“You could’ve called me to let you in.”

“Lyla called him before I could.” You clear your throat. “I’m finally seeing him act how I always wanted him to and… it doesn’t feel like I thought it would.”

Rafe studies you intently, hanging onto your words like they’re the only thing keeping him breathing.

“Everything that happened with him made me so insecure,” you confess. “And I think I shouldn’t date for real until I’m totally over him.”

At least Rafe won’t see you with another guy once you call this off, but now he’s wondering if he’ll see you at all, if you want to stay friends with someone like him, if he can manage being platonic with a girl who has so ruthlessly claimed his heart.

“And that’ll be long after we stage a mature, civil breakup where we mutually decide we’re better as friends,” you say. “And we are staying friends, got it?”

You offer him a smile. He returns it, relieved that you answered his unspoken concern, lucky that you want him around at all.

Rafe hopes you mean it, that you’re not just being nice. He can’t not have you in his life. He’ll just have to get used to quietly wanting you.

“Do we have to?” he teases, keeping his pain hidden.

You breathe a laugh, gently elbowing him, the contact making your heart feel a little less heavy.

It’s moments like these, when Rafe jokes with you and flashes his dimpled grin and shows glimmers of softness, that you worry your feelings will plunge into dangerous territory.

But you spent too long silently hoping someone would like you back. You can’t do it again.

next >

author’s note my bad… i love a man yearning too much to end it just yet… slowest slowburn i’ve ever written stg

if you want notifications on when i post my fics, follow @xorafe-library and turn on notifications 💘

[rosierin]

not so easy | atsumu miya

synopsis; atsumu didn’t mean to spiral. but jealousy hits different when the girl you’re kinda-maybe-sorta in love with starts laughing at someone else’s jokes. now the apartment’s tense, the silence is loud, and his pride is doing everything it can to keep him from saying what he actually means.

(aka: i miss you. i’m sorry. i don’t know how to do this—but I want to.)

disclaimer; this fic will bounce between atsumu and (y/n)'s pov!

a/n; dont worry this aint super angsty, just a bit more introspective than what i usually write. ive weaved in a soft suna moment and some light-hearted bro talk :p

this fic is part of the off-season quartet™ series! for more, click here :)

Atsumu Miya rarely got jealous.

Not because he’d never been given reason to—but because, in his eyes, he was the reason.

He had the looks. The charm. The talent. A fast mouth to back it all up and the skill to make sure it never sounded hollow. He knew what he brought to the table, and he brought it loudly. With flair. With confidence. With certainty.

Even when it came to Osamu—his twin, his mirror, the one everyone always loved in a quieter, steadier way—it had never been envy. No, with Osamu, it was rivalry. Pure and simple. The kind that lit a fire under his skin and pushed him forward. Faster, stronger, better. It made him hungry, sure—but not bitter. Never bitter.

That wasn’t jealousy. That was drive.

But (y/n)?

(Y/n) was different.

The only person who’d ever made something ugly twist in his chest and settle there like it belonged.

And it wasn’t even that she did anything. That was the kicker. She just was.

Sweet smiles, soft hands, warm eyes. Always so patient with him, even when he didn’t deserve it. Always seeing through the noise, the flash, the jokes—cutting clean through to the part of him he didn’t know how to talk about. She had this way about her—like she didn’t just look at people, she read them.

And for someone like Atsumu, who’d always been so loud about who he was… it was equal parts thrilling and terrifying to be understood so quietly.

She got under his skin without trying. Without even knowing.

And maybe that was why the first time he’d ever truly felt jealous, it had come out of nowhere. Like a sucker punch. No warning. Just a quiet ache and the unmistakable sense that something was his, and someone else was about to take it.

He remembered the moment vividly.

It was stupid, honestly.

They were just picking her up from class.

The three of them had done it a dozen times—Atsumu, Osamu, and Suna strolling across campus like they owned it, waiting outside the writing building for her to appear like clockwork.

It should’ve felt normal. Like a routine.

But not today.

The simple reason being? She wasn’t alone when she walked out.

Atsumu noticed before anyone else, mid-conversation with Suna about something most likely irrelevant. His voice trailed off when his eyes locked on her. She was standing next to a guy. Tall. Kinda clean-cut in a “tries but not too hard” sort of way. He had rings on his fingers, a journal tucked into one arm, and the relaxed confidence that rubbed Atsumu the wrong way instantaneously.

They were talking. Close. Closer than necessary.

His smile was easy, practiced. And worse—(y/n) was smiling back, her laughter ringing through the campus.

It wasn't just a polite chuckle, either. Not just a soft smile. She was laughing. Head tilted slightly, eyes crinkled, the way she only did when something genuinely caught her off guard.

Atsumu’s steps faltered.

Suna glanced sideways. “You good?”

“Huh?” Atsumu blinked, covering it up with a grin. “Yeah. Peachy.”

But he wasn’t. Not when he could already hear it coming—like a freight train on a collision course with his mood.

“Don’t forget to send me those notes, sweetheart.”

Atsumu stopped dead.

His breath hitched.

Did he…?

Osamu made a noise. Suna raised a brow. Nobody said it, but they all felt the shift in the air.

“Did I hear that right?” Atsumu started, his voice cracking somewhere between disbelief and irritation.

“Uh-huh,” Suna said flatly.

“Who does he think he is?” Atsumu muttered, voice dropping into something lower. More personal.

Osamu and Suna exchanged a look. Osamu was the one to diffuse the tension, an amused smile tugging at his lips.

“Ain’t that yer line?”

“Yeah,” Atsumu replied—too firm. Too quick. Too obvious.

“Didn’t realize you trademarked it,” Suna added, dry as always.

(Y/n) spotted them and waved, her smile lighting up like always—blissfully unaware that a war had just begun inside Atsumu’s chest. She jogged over, cheeks flushed, still catching her breath.

“Hey! Sorry, we ran a little late. That’s Tetsu—he’s in my poetry elective.”

Sweetheart.

Sweetheart.

Sweetheart.

It echoed like a drumbeat in Atsumu’s skull.

He forced a grin. “Sweetheart, huh?”

(Y/n) blinked. “Oh—yeah, he just… says stuff like that—kinda like you do. It’s not a big deal.”

No big deal.

Right.

Totally.

Atsumu stared at her, pulse tapping loud behind his ears. “‘Kinda like me,’ huh?”

He'd almost hissed.

She blinked again, her smile faltering just enough to make something in his chest twist. Her brows pinched, just slightly, like she was trying to figure out what she’d said wrong.

“S’wrong with you?” she asked lightly, eyes flicking between him and Osamu like the latter might have answers.. “You’re acting a bit weird."

“Nothin's wrong,” he shot back—too fast. Way too fast. “Just didn’t know we were handin’ out pet names now, s’all.”

Osamu gave him a warning look. The kind that meant, pull it together.

But Atsumu was already halfway gone. His fists were already clenched in his hoodie pocket, and the words were already bubbling up.

It was the first time he’d ever hated someone for being nice—for being funny.

For making her laugh.

He didn’t say a word the rest of the walk.

He kept his eyes fixed ahead. Not because there was anything worth looking at—he just needed something to anchor him. His stare went vacant, unfocused, like his brain had gone somewhere else entirely. The path in front of him blurred at the edges. Everything around him—the footsteps, the breeze, the faint hum of traffic—faded into background noise.

From the corner of his eye, he could see Osamu making light conversation with (y/n), mulling over dinner ideas like nothing was wrong. Her voice chimed in now and then, soft and bright, completely at ease. Suna lagged behind, phone in hand, probably on Reddit.

But Atsumu barely registered any of it.

His brain was too loud. Too hot. Churning, hissing, burning.

He felt like a kettle left on the stove—lid rattling, steam building, seconds from boiling over.

He was stuck on that one stupid word. That name. That guy.

Tetsu.

He’d said it so casually. Sweetheart. Like it didn’t mean anything. Like he hadn’t just kicked over a landmine.

Atsumu bit the inside of his cheek.

It wasn’t even the word, not really. It was the ease of it. The way (y/n) had smiled when Tetsu said it. The comfort. The familiarity. Like it was something she expected from him. Like she liked it.

Atsumu didn’t know when she’d gotten close to this guy. Didn’t know he was part of her writing class. Didn’t know they walked together after class. Exchanging smiles. Laughing at his jokes.

All things she used to do with him.

The thought settled in his gut like a stone.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Later that night, back at the apartment, (y/n) padded into the kitchen in search of tea—only to pause when she saw him. Atsumu stood in front of the fridge, bathed in dim light, staring blankly inside like he’d forgotten why he opened it.

He didn’t reach for anything right away. Just stood there a moment longer, eyes flicking lazily over the shelves like nothing in there was quite worth the effort.

He hadn’t noticed her yet.

“Hey,” she said softly.

His head jerked slightly at the sound of her voice, like he’d been pulled from far away. “Oh. Hey.”

He offered her a glance—brief—before turning back around. No smile. No warmth.

(Y/n) watched his back as he grabbed a carton of milk, lifting an arm to take a long swig.

She raised an eyebrow. She didn't approach him right away. Just stood at a reasonable distance, observing. Assessing, rather.

“You okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he replied, voice dripping with fake charm.

She gave him a slow blink. There it is.

It wasn’t the first time he’d deflected, but this time it landed harder than usual. She wasn’t oblivious. She had a very solid idea what was bothering him—and she wasn’t about to spell it out for him. Not yet. Not when she was giving him the chance to say it himself.

Part of her wanted to scoff at her own restraint. Fat chance.

“You were kinda quiet earlier,” she probed, still gentle, still coaxing.

“Just tired."

A lie. So obvious it was almost insulting. His voice didn’t have that worn-out drag she recognized after long practices or late nights. This wasn’t fatigue. This was avoidance, plain and simple.

Why couldn’t he just admit it?

Her jaw ticked once. That was the worst part—he didn’t even try to sell it. Like he was hoping she’d let it slide.

But she didn’t.

Not tonight.

“Right. Just tired.”

A pause stretched between them, taut and humming.

“I talked to Tetsu,” she added casually, watching him from the corner of her eye. “He texted me after we left. Said you seemed… intense.”

That got his attention. She didn’t miss the slight twitch of his brow.

“Oh, did he?” His voice had gone flat. “Glad I made an impression.”

(Y/n) hummed. “You did. He asked if you hated him or if you were just having a bad day.”

“Sure he did.”

(Y/n) folded her arms, watching as he tinkered aimlessly around the kitchen. Looking for a distraction. Back turned, facing her like a stone wall.

“He’s actually really nice, you know.”

She could've sworn she heard a scoff. “I’m sure he is."

There it was again. That clipped tone. The snide edge.

“Funny. You made more of an effort hiding your frustration earlier when I was laughing at his jokes.”

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t even look at her.

Her eyes narrowed. “You know, if you’ve got something to say, you could just say it. Instead of sulking and being passive-aggressive about a guy who—surprise—was literally just talking to me.”

“I’m not sulkin'.”

She scoffed. “You’re definitely sulking. You’ve been avoiding me since the second I walked out of class.”

Atsumu’s mouth opened like he wanted to argue—but then he just sighed and ran a brisk hand through his hair.

“Listen, ’m not in the mood.” He finally turned to her, giving a look that landed somewhere between warning and weariness. “I’m gonna head up. Long day.”

“Nope,” she said, stepping aside to block his path, her expression sharp. “You don’t get to pull the moody card and ghost the conversation.”

Atsumu’s brow twitched. “What conversation?”

(Y/n)’s gaze didn’t waver. “The one where you admit you were jealous and being kind of an ass about it.”

His jaw ticked.

And for a second, neither of them moved.

The air thickened.

His voice dropped into a velvet-coated jab. “Cocky little thing.”

Before she could retort, he leaned in. Just enough to make it infuriating. His breath brushed her skin. His eyes darkened.

“If it’s eatin’ at ya so much,” he murmured, voice curling into a sneer, “why don’tcha vent to Tetsu about it?”

He didn’t bother hiding the distaste. The name rolled off his tongue like a slur.

(Y/n) opened her mouth to argue—but he was already brushing past her, his shoulder bumping hers with just enough force to make it feel deliberate.

Prick.

“See ya tomorrow,” he muttered.

And just like that, he was gone.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Morning sunlight filtered through the slats of the kitchen blinds, catching dust in its beams and painting the floor in pale, hazy stripes. The house was unusually quiet for this hour. No footsteps. No clatter of cutlery. No muffled Osamu humming through breakfast prep. Just the low, humming quiet of a place still steeped in sleep—or maybe something heavier.

(Y/n) stepped into the kitchen barefoot, hair tied back messily, a faded hoodie swallowing her frame. Her footsteps were soft against the tile, the kind that came from habit, not caution. But even still, she paused at the threshold.

He was already there.

Atsumu stood by the counter, hunched slightly, shirt wrinkled, cradling a mug in both hands. He wasn’t doing anything—just staring into the steam, eyes distant, jaw slack. Whatever expression had hardened on his face overnight hadn’t softened with sleep.

She lingered by the doorway a beat too long.

He didn’t look up.

(Y/n)’s chest pulled tight, something quiet but sharp blooming in the space between her ribs. This wasn’t new—Atsumu avoiding eye contact when he was pissed. What was new was the ache behind it. The fact that she’d stopped knowing what version of him she was going to get.

Still, she moved toward the kettle, reaching over to grab a mug. Her arm brushed his.

He stepped away like he hadn’t noticed her at all.

Right.

Of course.

She inhaled slowly through her nose, counting the seconds it took for the kettle to boil, willing herself to stay grounded. Calm. Collected. Not bothered.

But the silence scraped at her like sandpaper.

"So we're doing this, then?" she asked quietly. No heat. No sharpness. Just a weary tilt of her voice.

Atsumu didn’t move. Didn’t answer.

She turned slightly, just enough to see the angle of his profile. His eyes were downcast. Still wrapped in thought, or maybe just pretending to be.

“I said one thing. One,” she murmured. “And you made it a whole thing.”

That got him. She saw the twitch in his jaw.

But again—no answer.

Her hand tightened around her mug. She could feel the ache of it now. Not just his silence—but the effort it took to pretend she didn’t care. To match his pettiness stride for stride.

“Tetsu texted me again last night,” she added, deliberately casual.

Nothing.

She let that hang between them. Like bait. Like a challenge.

He sipped his coffee. Still didn’t meet her eyes.

Coward.

Her voice was quieter this time. Flat. “You didn’t say goodnight.”

He set the mug down a little too hard, the ceramic clink echoing through the quiet kitchen.

And then, like a final blow, he turned and left.

Didn’t speak. Didn’t glance back. Just walked out, hoodie sleeves bunched at his wrists, footsteps heavy and retreating.

She stood there, heart stinging, tea forgotten.

Some fights had shouting. Some had tears.

This one had silence.

And silence, she was starting to realize, hurt a whole lot more.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Movie night wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

The living room was warm, lights low, a blanket tossed over the back of the couch, a half-finished puzzle pushed to one corner of the coffee table. Everything looked normal—comfortable, even. But (y/n) could feel the tension in the room like static. It clung to the air, heavy and unspoken.

She sat curled into the armrest, legs tucked beneath her, a cushion hugged to her chest. Across from her, Atsumu slouched in his usual spot—hood pulled up, expression neutral, thumbs idly tapping the rim of a water bottle like he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to drink it or launch it across the room.

Osamu handed her the popcorn with a soft, “Here,” like he was passing a truce flag.

“Thanks,” she murmured, barely glancing at him.

The movie played on, some half-hearted action film Suna had picked. It barely held anyone’s attention. He was slumped low in his armchair, feet on the ottoman, phone balanced on his thigh, thumb flicking lazily through some feed even as the screen ahead flashed and boomed.

Halfway through a loud car chase scene, her phone buzzed quietly in her lap.

Rin: y’all break up or sth?

(Y/n) stared at the message for a second, then glanced at him. He didn’t look up. Didn’t even blink. Just kept scrolling.

She rolled her eyes and typed back.

You: we’d have to be dating for that.

A second passed.

Rin: mhm coulda fooled me

She let her phone drop to the couch cushion beside her, face down.

Still, Atsumu hadn’t said a word.

Not to her. Not since last night.

Every word was filtered through Osamu or aimed at Suna. She could’ve been a coat rack for all he acknowledged her presence. Like she’d been demoted to background noise.

The thing that grated wasn’t the distance—it was the performance. The calculated effort to pretend everything was fine, that they were fine. Like he hadn’t iced her out in the kitchen the evening he picked her up from Uni. Like he hadn’t dropped that little dagger of a line and walked away without looking back.

She glanced at him.

He was still staring straight ahead. Jaw tight. Fingers twitching.

“Had coffee with Tetsu today,” she said suddenly, voice light.

The silence that followed was immediate. Dense.

Suna’s eyebrows lifted slightly. Osamu shifted in his seat.

Still, Atsumu said nothing.

Not even a glance.

Look at me.

“He read me one of his new pieces,” she continued, picking a kernel of popcorn, twirling it between her fingers. “He’s been working on this stream-of-consciousness thing. It's nice. Really vulnerable.”

Osamu cleared his throat. “Huh. Sounds... poetic.”

“Mhm.” She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I told him it reminded me of Atsumu, actually.”

A breath hitched across the room. Quiet, but she caught it.

Still, he didn’t bite.

Instead, he stood. Abruptly. Walked to the kitchen under the guise of grabbing a drink. A drawer opened. Closed. Too loud. A bottle cap clinked against the counter.

(Y/n) let out a soft breath and sagged slightly into the couch.

Suna didn’t look up. “You’re really gonna keep poking him like that?”

“I’m not poking,” she replied. “I’m waiting.”

“For what?”

She turned her gaze to the glowing TV screen, unreadable. “For him to grow up.”

The words left her mouth cooler than she meant them to. She hadn’t planned to say them. Hadn’t even realized she felt them until they were out in the air between them, heavy and uninvited.

Suna didn’t reply right away. Just glanced sideways, his expression unreadable in the TV’s flickering light. Then, without a word, he leaned forward, grabbed a handful of popcorn, and sat back like he hadn’t just witnessed a relationship quietly unraveling beside him.

(Y/n) pulled the blanket a little tighter around her legs. Onscreen, someone was shouting. Something exploded. The room stayed quiet.

Atsumu never came back.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Atsumu hadn’t planned on going to the library.

He hated the place. Too quiet. Too cold. Too many rules and not enough snacks. If hell had a waiting room, he was convinced it looked like this—rows of dusty books, stiff-backed chairs, and the constant, smug silence of people who actually enjoyed being there.

But his apartment was too loud, the team lounge was full of idiots, and his brain wouldn’t shut up long enough to let him nap. So here he was. At rock bottom. In the library. With a textbook under one arm and a pen he already wanted to snap in half.

It was fine. He’d find a table. He’d get his notes done. He’d move on.

Until the universe—as always—decided to make a complete joke out of him.

Of course the library was packed. Midterms or whatever. Every table was full. Every chair taken. Except—

His stomach sank the moment he saw her.

(Y/n). Back turned, head tilted just enough to catch the soft edge of her profile. Sitting across from none other than Tetsu Fucking Poetry Boy.

Atsumu stopped walking. Just for a second. Just long enough to internally scream.

And then, like fate had a sick sense of humor, he spotted the only available seat in the entire damn room—tucked in the far corner, across from a broken heater, a table that was just far enough to be forgotten but just close enough to give him a perfect, unobstructed view of her and her stupid, flowery friend.

Fantastic.

Absolutely fantastic.

He dropped his stuff on the table with more force than necessary and sat down with a grunt that earned him a glare from the girl at the next table. Whatever. He didn’t care. He opened his book, flipped to a random page, and tried to focus.

He really did.

But the thing about libraries? Quiet meant every little sound stood out.

Every scrape of a chair. Every soft murmur. Every laugh.

Especially her laugh.

That gentle little breath of sound—the one she tried to hold back when she found something really funny. Like now. Apparently Tetsu had cracked some hilarious observation about metaphors or whatever the hell he wrote about.

Atsumu’s jaw clenched. His pen hovered uselessly over his notebook. He hadn’t written a single word. He could feel his pulse in his temple.

Another laugh.

A quiet, almost bashful, “You’re so dumb,” from (y/n), and then a hushed giggle that sliced right through him.

His grip tightened around his pen. He didn’t even realize how hard until his knuckles ached.

You’ve gotta be kidding me.

Of all the places, of all the tables, of all the goddamn days—

A shadow passed over his table. Then another.

“Ya look like yer about to shit yerself,” Osamu said, rounding the table.

Suna followed, dropping his bag with a dramatic sigh. “Aw, did we miss the meltdown?”

Their arrival was both a curse and a lifeline.

Atsumu didn’t answer right away. He just shoved his notebook away with a quiet swoosh and dropped his pen like a man resigned.

“Didn’t realize this was a group project,” he muttered.

Osamu and Suna dragged their chairs in unison, the legs scraping against the floor loud enough to draw a look from a girl at the next table.

“What’re you doin’ here?” Atsumu asked, narrowing his eyes at Osamu. “You bored or somethin'?”

“Speak for yourself,” Suna added. “You haven’t voluntarily stepped foot in a library since high school.”

“What can I say?” Osamu shrugged and pulled a battered notebook from his bag, slapping it onto the table. Loose pages fluttered out across the wood like confetti. “Finals got me in a chokehold.”

The paper rustling stirred the girl next to them again—her eyes already narrowed over the rim of her glasses like she’d been waiting for an excuse to hate them.

Suna turned in his chair, met her gaze dead-on, and jerked his chin like he was silently asking, something wrong?

She didn’t dignify him with a response. Just rolled her eyes, gathered her books, and stormed off with the fury of someone who’d only gotten four hours of sleep and took that very personally.

“Charmin’ girl,” Osamu muttered, flipping a page.

Atsumu sniggered and stretched, arms overhead as his joints cracked audibly—like he’d been buried in his notes for hours when in reality... He glanced down at the desk. His notebook lay open in front of him, still blank. A glaring reminder of his unproductivity.

“What about you?” Osamu asked, already digging out a sandwich from his bag like this was a picnic. “You studyin’ or tryna chat-up some cute bookworm?”

Suna reached for the half-empty pack of jelly sticks peeking out of Osamu’s bag, his movements obnoxiously smooth. “Aw, 'Samu, you shouldn’t have.”

Osamu shot him a withering glare.

Atsumu huffed a dry laugh, arms folded on the table as he angled his head downward. “I wish.”

He flicked lazily through his notes, nose wrinkling like the very act disgusted him. “‘M here for the same reason you are.”

Then, under his breath—eyes drifting toward that one table in the distance—

“’Least that was the plan.”

Neither of them missed the shift in his tone.

They didn’t say anything at first. Just exchanged a quiet look as they started unpacking their own notes.

Then, like clockwork, Suna leaned to the side, following Atsumu's line of sight. He didn’t say anything, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

“Oh,” he said. Just that. One syllable, dragged through understanding.

Osamu followed his gaze. “Seriously?”

Atsumu didn’t answer.

“Yer pathetic,” Osamu said flatly, peeling the crust off his sandwich before plopping it into his mouth.

Atsumu gave him a glare that could’ve soured milk.

“Were ya spyin’ on her?” He asked between mouthfuls.

“Fuck no,” he hissed. Neither seemed convinced. “I ain't lyin’! You think I’d willingly set foot into this dweeb cesspool just to spy on ‘er?”

The duo exchanged a long, knowing look.

Atsumu clicked his tongue, agitated. “I ain't,” he repeated, more defensive. “They just happened to be here. I walked in and bam—there they were. Right in my face.”

“You could’ve walked out,” Suna offered, shrugging as he bit into a jelly stick.

Atsumu scoffed, mildly offended. “Yeah, right—and what would that make me?”

“A whiny little bitch."

Atsumu lunged for him on instinct, arm swiping across the table. Suna jerked back, grinning around the purple jelly stick.

"Leave 'em be," Osamu said coolly, reading over his notes. He didn’t even glance toward them—clearly didn’t see the appeal, unlike the other two. "They're only talkin'."

“She’s gigglin',” Atsumu hissed, barely above a whisper. “Ya don’t giggle at someone unless they’re funny. Or cute. Or both.”

“God forbid someone be funny," Suna drawled, rocking lazily on the back two legs of his chair, still sucking on that goddamn jelly stick. Atsumu resisted the urge to rip it out of his mouth.

“His jokes suck.”

“How would you know? You been on a date with Tetsu as well?"

Atsumu sneered at the word.

Date. Yeah, right. Who takes someone to the library for a first date?

But what if it wasn’t the first?

What if there had already been others?

How many others?

Atsumu swallowed hard and shoved the thought deep into the back of his skull. Clicked his tongue again.

“I don’t need to. Just look at him. He's a poetry major. I can smell his bottom shelf vanilla body spray from here.”

Suna snorted despite himself.

Osamu pressed a knuckle to his mouth to stifle a laugh.

Atsumu slumped further into his chair, eyes on his shut notebook, expression tight.

Then Osamu’s voice broke the moment. Low. Blunt. But not unkind, a rare flicker of seriousness settling between his words.

“You do realize this is yer fault, right?”

Atsumu didn’t reply, nor did he look up.

He knew.

God, he knew.

That didn’t make it hurt any less.

A beat passed. Long enough for it to feel like a decision.

Then Suna leaned forward, propping his chin on his palm. “Y'know, there’s this thing you can do when you like someone…”

Atsumu narrowed his eyes. “What.”

“It’s wild,” Suna said, deadpan. “Really cutting-edge.”

Osamu glanced up from his notes, barely containing his grin.

“You just… tell them,” Suna finished.

Atsumu scoffed. “Yeah? And say what, exactly?”

“Dunno.” Suna slurped the last of his jelly stick. “That's something for the both of you to figure out."

Osamu hummed, nodding with what one might consider mild interest. “Ya wouldn’t be in this mess if ya just talked to 'er."

“I do talk to 'er.”

“Right,” Osamu drawled. “I mean properly. None of yer passive-aggressive bullshit.”

Atsumu let out a sharp breath through his nose. “She’s the one who’s all over that fuckin’ guy.”

“So what if she laughs at a few of his jokes?” Suna replied. “You sound like a 14-year-old.”

Atsumu scowled, shoulders squaring as he leaned back in his chair. “Ya don’t get it. I’ve never seen her giggle like that before. Not even with me or—” he gestured toward Suna, a flicker of emotion sneaking in. “Even him. Her childhood bestie or whatever.”

Suna’s brows lifted—not quite a challenge, but close.

Or maybe that was just how Atsumu chose to take it.

“She does,” Suna said evenly. “You’ve just never been around to hear it. (Y/n)’s a pretty giggly person by nature.”

Atsumu tried not to let his irritation show.

Tetsu was the problem right now. Tetsu.

Osamu leaned forward to grab a highlighter, casually creating a barrier between the two. “Y’know, if yer this insufferable when yer not datin' her, I’m terrified to see what happens when ya are.”

“Shut up, 'Samu. No one asked."

"I'm serious. Yer lack of communication is astoundin'."

“Plus she doesn’t owe you anything,” Suna added, smooth as ever.

Atsumu’s jaw tightened.

Right. Because they weren’t dating.

Just like Osamu had conveniently pointed out.

He already saw where this was going, and he hated it.

If they were about to lecture him on feelings and intentions and his goddamn love life, he was out.

It was none of their business. Whatever he felt for (y/n)—vague as it was, loud as it got—it didn’t concern them.

Feelings were messy. Conversations were messier.

And if there was one thing Atsumu had learned about liking someone, it was this:

You either commit, or you run.

And he’d never been good at choosing.

Not when it came to this.

Love.

"Relax." Osamu's voice sliced through Atsumu's thoughts like a knife through hot butter. “We’re not here to lecture ya. All we’re sayin’ is—talkin’s an option. You know (y/n). She’ll listen. In fact 'm sure she'd be more than happy to discuss with ya."

"She's always been the more vocal type," Suna added, shrugging calmly.

“Yer clearly bothered by the idea of them datin',” Osamu said. “So ask 'er about it.”

“'M not bothered.”

Osamu and Suna gave him the exact same look. Flat. Devoid of humour.

Atsumu cringed.

Okay. Whatever. Point taken.

So maybe he was a little peeved.

How could he not be?

The guy wore v-necks and chinos—chinos! (Y/n) could do better. She should do better.

Atsumu slumped lower into his seat.

Then, quieter. More careful:

“...I just hate how easy it looks.”

Osamu looked up. Suna’s chair landed back on all four feet.

“With him,” Atsumu added, not quite meeting their eyes. “Like... he don’t gotta try.”

That sobered them just a little.

But only a little.

“Maybe he doesn’t,” Osamu said.

Atsumu looked up, brows furrowing—almost like that stung more than he expected. Like he was trying to figure out if Osamu meant it as an insult.

“But you do,” Osamu added, voice steady. Clarifying. Grounding.

Suna nodded. “And that’s not a bad thing.”

Atsumu didn’t say anything. Just glanced across the library again—at (y/n) and Tetsu, still talking, still laughing like no one was watching.

Then she looked up.

Caught his stare.

Even from this far, he could’ve sworn her eyes widened—surprise, confusion, maybe even guilt. He didn’t know.

Didn’t want to.

He sucked in a breath through his nose, heart jumping in a way he blamed on being startled.

He hadn’t meant to get her attention.

Still, as he toyed with his pen between his fingers, his friends’ words lingered.

Talking to (y/n)...

God.

Where would he even start?

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

(Y/n) hadn’t even looked up when the door to the library opened. She didn’t need to—her back was already straightening at the sound of three sets of footsteps, too loud, too confident, and far too familiar.

She glanced up. And there they were.

Atsumu. Osamu. Suna.

She blinked, stunned for half a second—not at the sight of them, but at the sheer audacity.

What the hell were they doing here?

No, seriously—what were they doing here?

The library, with its creaky chairs and strict “no snacking” policy, was sacred. Quiet. Orderly. Full of mild-mannered English majors and caffeine-fuelled med students. Not... jocks. Not six-footers in hoodies and joggers who made every chair they touched squeak like a scream.

She stared for a moment longer. They looked so out of place it almost made her laugh. But the amusement quickly gave way to something tighter. Something warmer.

Annoyance.

Surely—surely—this wasn’t on purpose. Atsumu couldn’t have known she was here. There was no way he’d actually come all the way to the library just to eavesdrop.

Osamu wouldn’t let him do that. Suna definitely wouldn’t.

…Right?

She must’ve looked as annoyed as she felt because Tetsu lightly tapped her arm, pulling her attention back.

“You alright?” he asked, voice low.

She blinked. “Yeah. Sorry. Zoned out.”

Tetsu smiled politely, but his gaze flicked to where she’d been staring. His expression didn’t change, but something in it cooled.

(Y/n) tried to focus again, nodding along as Tetsu talked through the reading. She picked at the cuff of her hoodie absently, resisting the urge to glance over.

She managed to concentrate for a few minutes.

...Until a soft thunk drew her attention again.

She looked.

Atsumu had tossed a pencil at Osamu. Osamu had dodged. And the girl behind them—bless her—had taken it square to the forehead.

The sharp What the hell?! that followed echoed through the library.

(Y/n) slapped a hand over her mouth, stifling a laugh.

The poor girl stood, flushed and furious. A heated whisper-argument broke out, heads turned, and thirty seconds later, the librarian was shooing the trio toward the exit.

She caught Atsumu’s eye right before he disappeared behind the shelves. His expression unreadable. She didn’t bother trying.

Tetsu turned back to her, one brow raised. “They're your friends, right?” A pause. Then he sucked in a breath—almost like a wince.

(Y/n) caught it. Just a flicker.

But she blinked it away. Maybe she was reading too much into it.

“They sure are lively,” he added, a dry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

She exhaled through her nose—half sigh, half laugh. “That’s one way to describe them.”

Tetsu nodded slowly, like he was trying to piece something together. “The blonde one… Asumo, right?”

Her jaw tensed.

“Atsumu,” she corrected, almost automatically. For some reason, the mispronunciation irked her more than it should’ve.

“Right,” Tetsu said, still smiling. “He your boyfriend?”

She spluttered. “What—no.” A scoff, her hand waving the idea away like smoke. “God, no.”

Then, after a beat—because she was curious. Because she couldn’t help herself—

“What makes you think that?”

Tetsu gave a small shrug. "He seemed... irritated the other day. I figured it was about the nickname.”

She rolled her eyes. “I think he was mad because that’s what he usually calls me.”

Tetsu arched a perfectly groomed brow, his tone dipping into something almost… accusing. “He calls you sweetheart?”

(Y/n) blinked once. “Yeah— all the time. But it's not romantic."

She said it like it was obvious. Like it meant nothing.

Because, in Atsumu’s world, it didn’t.

In fact, he called her plenty of nicknames, each one as flowery as the next. That’s just who he was: a flirt. Loud, casual, effortless, charming. He’d say it to anyone. Probably had.

She just happened to be around the most.

She lived with him, after all. So yeah—perfectly normal. Completely harmless.

Still, Tetsu didn’t look convinced. His jaw had tightened slightly, mouth flattening into something too neutral.

“Sure,” he said. “Whatever you say, (y/n).”

The use of her name—so pointed, so deliberate—made something in her clench. She didn’t like the tone. Didn’t like the implication. Didn’t like having to read between the lines again.

She was tired of that. Tired of guessing how someone felt. Tired of almosts and maybes and weird, strained silences.

Suddenly, she didn’t feel like reading poetry anymore.

She grabbed her bag, slinging it over one shoulder as she stood. “I think I’m gonna head home,” she said, forcing a smile. “Not sure I can take another stanza about tragic lovers and unspoken longing.”

Tetsu blinked, glancing up at her. “Oh. You sure?”

“Yeah. I’ve hit my limit for symbolism today.”

He nodded, but his eyes followed her a little too long as she turned to leave.

And as she walked toward the exit, her phone buzzed.

She swiped it open.

Rin: did you see us get kicked out the library lol

(Y/n) huffed a laugh, thumbs already moving.

You: unfortunately yes 🙄 what the hell were you all doing there anyway??

The response came fast. Typical.

Rin: studying. obviously. ‘samu brought snacks. got us kicked out.

You: sure. snacks. i’m sure that’s all it was. pretty sure i saw a pencil fly across the room

Rin: lol that was atsumu but the snacks played a part the librarian confiscated them can you believe that

You: the audacity

Rin: ikr

She smiled a little. Just a flicker. But it faded as quickly as it came.

A beat passed before the next message popped up.

Rin: you alright?

She stared at the screen for a second. Then typed, slowly.

You: not really.

Another pause. Then:

Rin: wanna talk about it?

You: yeah. if that’s okay.

Rin: where are you?

You: heading home. passing near the park.

Rin: omw

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The park hadn’t changed much.

Same creaky swings. Same chipped blue paint. Same patch of wildflowers that looked like they’d been planted by accident. The sandbox was mostly abandoned, save for a single forgotten shovel sticking out like a gravestone. A breeze swept through the trees, rustling the leaves like a lazy hush.

It was quieter now—most of the kids had gone home, and the sun had dipped low enough to cast everything in a soft, hazy gold. The kind of light that made you want to stay still a little longer. The kind that made memories feel like they could sneak up on you.

(Y/n) curled her fingers around the cool metal chains of the swing, trainers skimming slow figure-eights in the dust.

Across from her, Suna was perched on the monkey bars like he had been since they were kids—legs slung over one bar, back leaning against another, phone held lazily in one hand. The golden light filtered through the trees, catching in his lashes, painting half his face in sun and shadow.

“Trying to get a good shot?” she asked, voice light.

“Mm,” he hummed. “Sun’s cooperating for once.”

She watched him adjust the brightness, zoom in, tilt slightly left. His thumb hovered over the screen longer than necessary—like he was waiting for the exact second everything clicked into place.

Then, quietly—“Did Atsumu say anything?”

He didn’t look up. Just tapped the screen one more time. “About you?”

She scuffed her shoe in the dirt. “Uh-huh.”

Once satisfied with the photo, Suna hopped down in that unbothered, fluid way of his and wandered over. The swing beside hers groaned as he dropped into it, long legs stretching out, tucking his phone into his hoodie pocket.

“Yeah. We spoke briefly. But before you ask, I’m not telling you what he said.”

She turned toward him, brows furrowed. “Why not?”

He shrugged, watching the wind tangle a leaf mid-air. “S’not my place.”

“But I tried talking to him,” she muttered, frustrated. “He just brushed me off. Couldn't get a word out of him. It's annoying. I know he's jealous—he doesn’t exactly try to hide it. But then he ignores me. Or shuts me out. I don’t know what he wants from me.”

Suna didn’t answer right away. Just sat quietly, rocking a little, watching a squirrel skitter across the gravel.

It was always like this with him. He never rushed to respond. Letting her words hang in the air like low-hanging fog. The silence between them wasn’t heavy—it never was with Suna. Just thoughtful. He let moments breathe. Let the thoughts come in their own time.

She heard the gentle jingle of his chains as he shifted. Then came his voice, soft and even.

“Just give him time. Like I said, we talked. It wasn’t much, but… he came forward in the end. I think he’s thinking about it just as much as you are.”

She didn’t respond right away. Her gaze followed the light bleeding through the treetops, catching flecks of dust in the air like glitter.

“Really?” she asked eventually, more hopeful. “You actually think so?”

Suna nodded slowly. “Mhm. Just be patient with him. You know what he’s like—he hasn’t got it all figured out yet.”

(Y/n) let out a dry laugh. “That sure is a nice way of phrasing it.”

He huffed, something that could’ve been a laugh of his own. Then, for the first time, he turned to look at her. His smirk was soft. Teasing. Familiar.

“What are you two like, eh?”

She frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He gave her a flat look. Raised a brow. Said nothing.

When she didn’t drop it, he finally leaned back against the swing, arms resting on the chains, eyes skyward.

“You and Atsumu. Always dancing around each other. When are you gonna fess up?”

“There’s nothing to fess up,” she said quickly. Too quickly. Her voice went quiet. “I don’t know.”

Suna didn’t press. He just… stayed. Listened.

And so, she kept talking.

“It’s hard to tell with Atsumu. Some days it’s like he’s pulling me in, and other days it’s like I don’t exist. I try not to let it get to me, but... it does. It makes me feel stupid. Like I’m chasing something that’s only real in my head.”

The words fell out easier than she’d expected. She didn’t usually say things like that. Not even to herself.

Suna was quiet for a while. He didn’t look at her. Just let the chains creak beneath him as he rocked gently back and forth.

Then—just once—he glanced her way.

Something flickered in his eyes. The kind of look you only catch if you’re really paying attention. And she was. But it was gone just as quickly.

He leaned back again, legs stretching farther. “You’re not stupid.”

She breathed out slowly. “Thanks.”

Another silence passed, this one lighter.

“I’ll wait,” she said after a while. “Like you said. I’ll be patient. I just…” she shifted her grip on the chains, “I hope he doesn’t take too long. The house feels weird lately.”

Suna nodded once. “He’ll come around.”

“You sure?”

“No,” he said, smirking slightly. “But it sounds better than ‘maybe.’”

She laughed. That soft, airy kind—the kind you don’t even realize you’ve been holding in.

The sun dropped lower, casting the swings in long shadows. The wind stirred the trees. In the distance, a dog barked. Somewhere nearby, wind chimes tinkled lazily.

They didn’t talk much after that—just sat there, rocking slowly, watching the sky turn honey and then violet.

No drama. No tension. Just quiet company.

And for a while, that was enough.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The apartment was quiet.

Too quiet.

Which was stupid, really—because most days he’d kill for some peace. But now, with the sun low and bleeding orange through the living room blinds, all that quiet did was piss him off.

He paced.

Not on purpose. Not even consciously. Just… back and forth, socked feet dragging along the scuffed wooden floor. One hand tugged at the collar of his t-shirt, the other stuffed deep into his pocket, pulling the fabric down like it might ground him.

Where the hell were they?

He didn’t need to ask. He knew.

(Y/n) and Suna were out. Probably talking. Probably somewhere breezy and warm and not here, while Atsumu stewed in a thick, molasses-flavoured mix of annoyance, regret, and something else he refused to name.

He paused by the window. Squinted.

Still no sign of them.

“Quit pacin'. Yer gonna wear a hole in the floor,” Osamu said from the couch, voice lazy. Barely looked up from his phone.

“‘M not pacin',” Atsumu snapped.

“You are.”

“Well maybe I wouldn’t be if someone—” he cut himself off, jaw tight.

Osamu just looked at him. That stony expression that always made Atsumu feel like a ten-year-old throwing a tantrum. He turned away before his brother could say something actually annoying.

He hated this. The waiting. The guessing. The not knowing where she was or what she was thinking. Who she was laughing with. What she was saying.

He’d seen the text on Suna's phone. Hadn’t read it—just saw the preview flash up on the lock screen. A little part of him itched to unlock it. To see if maybe they had said something about him.

It didn’t.

And even if it did, what then?

Was he gonna scroll through their conversation like some jealous ex-boyfriend?

He wasn’t even her boyfriend.

God.

Atsumu scrubbed a hand over his face and slumped onto the edge of the couch, elbows to knees, head in his hands. The silence buzzed louder now, filling all the cracks in the room that she usually softened.

He missed her voice. Her laugh. The way she always had a mug in her hand, never drank from it, just carried it around like a comfort object. He missed her random shower thoughts. The way she kicked her feet sometimes when she was on her phone, unabashed when an edit of her favourite character came up on her 'for you' page. The sound of her bedroom door creaking.

He missed her.

And it was ridiculous. Because she wasn’t gone. She was just… elsewhere. With Suna.

And Suna got her. Always had.

That part didn’t usually bother Atsumu—except now it did.

Now, it bothered the hell out of him.

She’d gone to him, hadn’t she? When everything got awkward. When Atsumu had snapped at her in the kitchen. She’d walked away, and she’d gone straight to someone else. Which, fine. That was fair. That was her right.

But it still stung.

Atsumu sank into the couch, tilted his head back and let out a slow exhale, like maybe if he breathed deep enough he could push the weight off his chest.

“She’s not mad at ya,” Osamu said, out of nowhere.

Atsumu blinked. “Did I ask?”

“No,” Osamu replied, cool as anything. “But yer face is loud.”

Atsumu muttered something under his breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothin'.”

They sat in the golden hush of almost-evening. The kitchen clock ticked in the distance, the kind of mundane background noise that felt cruelly loud when you were going insane inside your own head.

“I don’t get it,” Atsumu muttered, half to himself. “She knows ’m jealous. So why won’t she just… say somethin'?”

He hated saying it. Jealous. But Osamu knew better than anyone, was privy to all the ugly feelings that stirred inside his brother's heart. He'd perhaps be the only person Atsumu would ever admit them to.

Osamu didn’t look up from his phone. Just hummed low in his throat and replied, “Say what?”

Atsumu opened his mouth.

Closed it.

What did he want her to say?

That she noticed? That she cared? That she liked him back?

His mouth twisted. “I dunno,” he said lamely. “Somethin’. Anythin’.”

Osamu finally set his phone down, the click of it hitting the table louder than necessary.

“Were ya expectin’ her to apologise?”

Atsumu bristled. “No. I—no.”

“What, then?”

He didn’t answer.

Not right away.

Because the truth was—yeah. Kinda.

Not an apology, exactly. But some kind of… recognition. Like maybe she’d look at him and say I see you. I get it. I feel it too.

And maybe that made him a jerk.

But still.

Still.

“I don’t know,” Atsumu said again, voice sharp now. Frustration gnawing at him like a bloodhound. “I don’t know, okay? I just—"

He cursed under his breath. Pushed his back off the couch again. His head dropped low.

Osamu watched him quietly for a moment before sighing. “Maybe she’s tired of bein’ the only one who says stuff.”

Atsumu didn't raise his head, just glanced at his twin. “Huh?”

“She always meets you halfway,” Osamu said. “Always puts in the effort. Maybe she’s waitin’ to see if you’ll do the same.”

Atsumu went quiet.

Because deep down, he knew Osamu was right.

He never said it first. Not when it mattered. Always wrapped it up in jokes, or flirty one-liners, or fake indifference. Anything but real words. Anything but actual feelings.

Because actual feelings?

Those meant vulnerability.

Those meant risk.

And he wasn’t ready for that.

...Was he?

His eyes drifted to the front door again. Wondering if she’d walk through it. Wondering if she’d look at him. Wondering if he’d know what to say when she did.

He didn’t.

But maybe… maybe he wanted to try.

He ran a hand through his hair, mumbled into the room, “Think I messed up.”

Osamu didn’t gloat. Didn’t tease. Just leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

“Then fix it.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The front door creaked open with a push of her palm, the familiar groan of the hinges dragging out into the quiet apartment.

She stepped inside, soft-footed, like her presence might echo.

Suna followed behind, wordless as always, slipping his shoes off with that same lazy, practiced ease. For a second, they just stood there in the entryway, the stillness stretching around them like plastic wrap—tight, uncomfortable.

The hallway smelled like soy sauce and garlic. Osamu was cooking.

(Y/n) didn’t hear music though, which was strange. The kitchen was never silent when he cooked. No playlist humming through a speaker. No news show playing in the background. Just the hiss of something on the stovetop, the low clatter of utensils. And—

A sound.

The couch creaked.

She didn’t look.

She knew.

Instead, she toed off her shoes and offered a quiet “thanks” to Suna, who gave a non-committal nod and wandered off in the direction of his room, phone already out. Her own fingers curled slightly at her sides. Her palms felt hot. She wasn’t sure why.

Or—no. That was a lie.

She knew exactly why.

He was here.

And she could feel it.

Feel him.

Even without looking, she knew he was sprawled across the couch like always. She could practically hear the way he was pretending not to notice her. The quiet shuffle. The strained stillness.

God.

Why did it feel so different?

Why did the air feel so heavy?

(Y/n) cleared her throat and headed for the kitchen, willing her steps to stay even.

Osamu stood at the stove, stirring something in a pan. His eyes flicked toward her, brief but not unkind.

“You eat yet?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No. Wasn’t hungry earlier.”

He nodded once, like he understood. “It’ll be ready in ten.”

“Thanks.”

The silence was less awkward here, but still not comfortable. Not really. Osamu, ever the unbothered one, didn’t push. Just continued cooking with the same practiced calm he always carried.

(Y/n) lingered near the fridge, fingers tapping idly against the handle. She wasn’t thirsty. She just needed something to do.

“So,” Osamu said after a pause, “how'd the date go?”

She turned sharply, blinking. Oddly enough, she couldn't tell who he was referring to. Her study session with Tetsu, or her impromptu outing with Suna.

Not that it mattered. She knew what he was trying to do.

His face was neutral—but his eyes were teasing. And that said enough.

She clicked her tongue, but it was anything but hostile, if not a bit thankful. “Zip it, you."

A soft chuckle. “Just tryna ease the tension."

She huffed, but it soothed something in her chest.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the faintest movement—just a shift of a leg over the side of the couch, the tiniest rustle of fabric. Her throat tightened.

Still, she didn’t look at him.

Didn’t give him the satisfaction.

Didn’t trust herself to, anyway.

Osamu slid the pan off the burner and lowered the heat. “He was a pain while you were gone.”

She didn’t say anything.

Didn’t have to.

They both knew who he meant.

She glanced toward the stairs. Her room upstairs. Her retreat. Her escape.

“Alright,” she murmured. “I think I’m gonna go—”

“Wait,” came a voice behind her.

Not loud.

Not urgent.

Just there.

Like it had been waiting.

(Y/n) froze. Turned her head slightly. Atsumu stood halfway off the couch, one hand gripping the back of it like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the room.

His eyes met hers—and dropped just as fast.

The silence that followed was jagged.

“Are you—” he started. Then stopped. His mouth opened again, but no sound came out. His shoulders sagged the tiniest bit, like whatever fight he’d worked up had drained out of him the second he saw her.

She tilted her head.

Waited.

But he said nothing.

Just sank back onto the couch with a muttered, “Never mind.”

Osamu didn’t hide the sigh that escaped his chest.

Suna, reappearing at the hallway edge with a protein bar half-unwrapped, squinted at them all like he'd walked in on an unfinished scene.

Nobody said a word, letting the awkwardness hang in the air.

Osamu was the first to break it.

He scratched the back of his head. “Honestly.”

(Y/n) didn’t look back to the couch.

Didn’t stay, either.

She turned and climbed the stairs.

Every step heavier than the last.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

He didn’t move at first.

Not when she turned.

Not when she climbed the stairs.

Not even when her door clicked softly shut—quiet, polite, final.

He just sat there.

Still.

Sprawled across the couch like dead weight, eyes fixed on the ceiling as the last sliver of sunlight bled out through the windows.

For a second, he thought he might actually fall asleep.

But that would’ve required peace. And tonight, peace was in short supply.

He groaned—loud, frustrated, full-bodied—and dragged both hands down his face until his cheeks burned.

“Fuck’s sake,” he muttered, to no one in particular.

Then he pushed himself up, stomped toward the stairs loud enough to draw attention, and slammed his bedroom door a little too hard.

The room was dim. Warm gold edged the corners of his blinds, spilling faint strips of light across his desk. It painted soft shadows on the wall—shapes that didn’t matter. Nothing in here really mattered. It all felt too small. Too hot. Like he couldn’t stretch out without touching something that reminded him of her.

He sat on the edge of his bed.

Stared at the floor.

And then, slowly, like it might explode if he moved too fast, he reached for his phone.

The screen lit up with a dozen stupid notifications. Group chats. A calendar reminder for weights tomorrow. Osamu sending him a TikTok with a caption that just read: you. He ignored all of it.

Opened her name.

And stared.

Just stared.

The chat window was blank.

He hadn’t messaged her all day. Or the day before. Not since—

He swallowed. Didn’t finish the thought. He'd never gone this long without texting her.

He started typing.

hey.

Then:

sorry i’ve been weird.

Then:

i know ive been an ass lately. i didnt mean it. okay, maybe i did. but its not because of you. not really. i just

He stopped.

Read it back.

Scowled.

Deleted all of it with one angry thumb.

Started over.

you and tetsu a thing?

Deleted that too.

do you wanna talk?

Backspaced it, letter by letter, like each key was pressing into his brain.

He tossed the phone onto his comforter and flopped backwards onto his bed, arms flung wide like he might summon answers from the ceiling.

What the fuck was he supposed to say?

Sorry I got jealous because another guy called you sweetheart?

Sorry I don’t know how to be normal when it comes to you?

Sorry I think I like you but I don’t know how to say that without making it weird and fucking everything up?

He groaned again, dragging a pillow over his face.

He hated this. He hated feelings. Hated how they sat on his chest like bricks, heavy and unrelenting. Hated how they didn’t go away just because he ignored them.

And God, he’d tried to ignore them.

He really, really had.

He thought maybe if he flirted like usual, if he brushed it off with jokes, if he let it simmer beneath the surface without naming it—maybe it’d go away. Maybe it’d stay casual.

But it didn’t feel casual anymore.

Not when her smile was the first thing he looked for in a room.

Not when silence from her felt like punishment.

Not when the idea of her with someone else made his skin crawl.

He sat up again, dragging a hand through his hair.

This was ridiculous.

He was ridiculous.

He looked at the door. Then back at his phone. Then back at the door.

Then stood.

Walked to it.

Paused.

Stared at the handle like it was a detonator.

If he knocked, there was no going back. No pretending nothing was wrong. No more brushing it off. He’d have to face it. Face her. And maybe that scared him more than anything.

He sighed.

Then—

The door across the hall cracked open.

Light spilled into the hallway.

And there she was.

They both froze.

Two doors, two hearts pounding, one painfully timed coincidence.

Like idiots in a teen drama. Like deer caught in headlights. Like everything was about to change and neither of them knew what to do about it.

He hadn’t meant to see her.

She hadn’t meant to see him.

Yet here they were.

Atsumu’s hand was still on the doorknob. Her hand was still curled around the railing. The soft lighting from her room spilled out into the hall, warm and golden, catching the strands of her hair and painting her in a glow that made his breath stick in his throat.

Her eyes widened when she saw him. Not in shock. Not quite. More like… hesitation. Surprise layered with something he couldn’t name.

“Hey,” she said, her voice soft.

“Hey,” he echoed, quiet. Tight.

His fingers slipped off the doorknob.

She stood straighter, but didn’t move. Didn’t leave. The silence between them clung like fog—thick, hesitant.

He looked tired.

She saw it in the slope of his shoulders, the set of his mouth, the pinch between his brows.

He looked at her like she might vanish.

She looked at him like she was bracing for impact.

“I was just…” he gestured vaguely toward the stairs, then rubbed the back of his neck. “Dunno. Nothin’. Forget it.”

She didn’t.

“Were you coming to talk to me?”

He hesitated.

Then—too slow to pass as casual—he nodded once.

“Oh.”

Her fingers tightened on the railing. He noticed.

There was that twitch in his jaw again. The same one from the other day. She could see him wrestling with himself.

“Can we…” he gestured toward her room. Then flinched. “I mean—only if yer okay with it.”

She nodded, wordless.

He followed her inside.

Her room smelled like her. Like strawberries and peony and something warm underneath—comforting, familiar, terrifying. He didn’t sit until she did. When she dropped onto the edge of her bed, he took the desk chair across from her, backwards, arms resting on the top like a makeshift shield.

They didn’t speak.

For a second, they just sat there.

Her eyes flitted to his face. She could tell he was thinking. Could feel the war in his head.

Say it, she wanted to tell him. Say what you came here to say.

He cleared his throat.

“I’ve been…”

He trailed off. Then tried again.

“I’ve been actin' like a dick.”

She blinked, caught off guard. Then, slowly—“Yeah. Kinda.”

He huffed something that might’ve been a laugh if it weren’t so self-deprecating.

“I didn’t mean to take it out on ya,” he said. “I just…” His hand opened, then closed. “I dunno. I get… weird. When I don’t know how to say shit.”

“Uh-huh. 'Weird' isn't exactly the word I'd choose."

He glanced up—saw the faint smile tugging at her mouth, despite everything. It made something loosen in his chest.

“It ain't about him,” Atsumu said quickly. “Well—okay. It is. But not like that. I'm not mad ‘cause ya talked to 'im. I'm mad because—fuck, this sounds so stupid.”

“Go on?"

He stared at the floor.

Then: “I didn’t like how easy it looked.”

She frowned. “What did?”

“You. With him. Laughin'. Like it wasn’t hard. Like it didn’t take effort.”

(Y/n) stayed quiet, watching, waiting...

He met her eyes again. “I don’t know how to be easy with you.”

The words landed.

Heavy. Honest.

Something in her throat tightened.

She needed to make sure...

She shifted slightly. Her legs crossed at the ankle. Her fingers knotted in her hoodie sleeve. “When you say ‘easy’, you’re not just talking about making me laugh… are you?”

Atsumu's gaze drifted to the floor again.

God, he hated this.

Hated the tightness in his chest. The erratic pulse hammering in his throat. The heat coiling beneath his skin like it was trying to crawl out through his pores.

He made her laugh all the time. That wasn’t the problem. He could make her wheeze, snort, cry real tears from laughter—he knew that. He relied on that.

But that wasn’t what he meant.

Not really.

Easy meant... simple. Uncomplicated. Clean.

Tetsu didn’t hesitate around her. He didn’t second guess every word, didn’t overanalyse every glance, didn’t wrestle with the sick twist in his gut when she smiled and it wasn’t at him.

Easy meant: no stakes.

No fear of ruining everything.

No trembling line between friendship and something else.

Whatever this was with (y/n), it wasn’t easy.

He was too aware of her. Of her presence. Of the way his heart did stupid shit when she touched his shoulder or said his name just a little too softly.

Feelings like this weren’t easy.

They were messy.

And loud.

And goddamn terrifying.

Saying that out loud took more nerve than he had in him tonight.

His eyes flicked up once, lingered on her for a second too long, then dropped again.

“No.”

More silence.

She could feel her pulse in her throat now. Her hands had gone cold.

He hadn’t said it—not outright—but she knew.

She always knew with him.

His silence said more than any overconfident one-liner ever could.

She breathed in through her nose, slow and measured. “You’re not supposed to try so hard,” she said at last. “If something bothers you, you just have to... talk to me. Like this. Like right now.”

“I didn’t know if I could.”

“Why not?”

He swallowed. “Because…”

Because I think I like you.

He couldn’t say it.

Not now.

Maybe in another universe. One where he didn’t fumble every good thing that landed in his lap. One where he didn’t ruin things before they ever had the chance to bloom.

Maybe then.

But not here. Not now.

Fear. Doubt. Pride.

They wrapped around his heart like a vice.

Whatever expression he was wearing must’ve given it away, because she tilted her head just slightly, and her voice came gentler.

“If now’s not the right time, then… don’t. I’d rather you didn’t say anything if that's the case. Just… don’t hide behind attitude. Don’t shut me out.”

And that—god—that did him in.

Because she was too kind.

Too patient.

Too good.

He didn’t deserve that softness. Not after everything. Not after the way he’d acted. Not just about Tetsu—about everything. Every time he made her doubt, every time he backed away. Every time he was too much of a coward to commit to anything more than... this.

She should be mad at him. She should be cutting him down with a few choice words and turning her back on him for good. She should be—

But she wasn’t.

She was still here.

Still looking at him like he was worth understanding.

Still giving him the grace to figure it out.

It made him feel worse.

But it also made him want to be better.

For her.

“I thought if I ignored it, it’d go away,” he said, quieter now.

She smiled—sad, knowing.

Something twisted in his gut. “It never does.”

He looked at her again.

Really looked.

And she let him.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. Voice small. Stripped.

A beat passed. Maybe two.

Her face didn’t change. But her body relaxed a fraction.

She nodded once. “It’s alright. We’re alright.”

He blinked. “Really?”

“Really.”

She smiled then—soft and honest.

His heart pulled taut in his chest, stretched so tight it nearly gave out. But he smiled back anyway.

It was lopsided. A little wobbly.

A little too hopeful.

The silence between them softened, turned companionable—like a blanket pulled just barely up to the chin. Safe, but not quite warm.

She moved first, rising from the edge of the bed with a sigh, brushing non-existent lint off her sleeves.

“I’m heading down,” she said lightly. “Osamu’ll start mourning that stew if no one eats it.”

Atsumu stood, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. ‘Samu gets all dramatic when he’s ignored.”

(Y/n) gave a soft laugh, passing him on her way to the door.

Just before she left the room, she paused. Turned her head.

“I’m glad we talked.”

He swallowed. “Yeah. Me too.”

Then, because it felt like the only thing he could do—he reached out.

Just a little.

Just enough to catch her pinky in his for a second as she passed.

She glanced down at their intertwined fingers.

Didn’t pull away.

Didn’t linger, either.

The door clicked shut behind her.

And Atsumu was left standing there.

Hand still curled like it remembered.

Chest too full.

Room too quiet.

And somehow, still not ready to follow.