#i hate feeling this way but i'm trying my best

[sqgeism]

How would our favorite amphoreus men take care of reader after they got caught in the rain and got sick? maybe they have a fever, chills, blocked nose. i need some fluff in life

hope ur having a good day and love your works :)))0

𐙚 𓏵𓏵𓏵 𐙚 ooh, be my baby | various hsr men x gender neutral reader

💌 — ; i'll look after you . working on a rainy day had expected consequences. lucky you, your boyfriend loves you too much to scold you for the time being. well.. depends on who you choose.. ! (anaxa, mydei, phainon, dan heng, boothill, jing yuan)

love mail — hii anonnie tysm! i'm doing great!! thank u thats so sweet (´ﾟЗﾟ｀)♡ i brought back some ogs :3 ! and boothill cause i like him so don't jump me, sorry geppie i swear i love you ！Σ(￣□￣;) these r semishort n stuff cause these r a lot but i hope it does well :D

anaxa makes a cure for you in hours.

he hides it as just 'making advances in his medical knowledge' but he was genuinely worried. he had a busy week at the academy, and he didn't want to leave you alone with no way to be cared for. he wants to be there, but he couldn't call off of work a week before the students exams week, needing to post reviewers and host review classes.

so the weekend you got sick, he made a comfortable bed for you in his lab as he worked on something to free you of your sickness, making sure to also check on you the whole time.

he eventually made a concoction that helped your fever go away, body aches disappear, and clears your nose, however it didn't fix the headache. you don't mind, at least you can move your body without wanting to throw yourself off the planet.

anaxa gives you a minor scolding. something about taking better care of yourself and making him fuss over you, but he kisses your cheek and sighs. "i love you, and i'd figure out the cure to any disease that attacks you, but please don't do this again."

mydei lets you rest on top of him for the first day you got sick. tissues, snacks, thermometer, change of clothes.. all of that are set up on your nightstand. the only times he got up was to make you warm meals, and to replace the icepack that pressed up against your forehead.

honestly, he loves this. he knows the reason why you're warm is because you're literally burning up, but he likes it. you're like a little heating pad and you're extra clingy, weak arms squeezing his chiseled chest makes him melt.

he smothers you in kisses and affection till you feel better (oh, and medicine).

if you chose to be clingy to mydei, phainon's choosing to be clingy to you! but you don't want him to be sick :( he's being a big baby when you try to pull away, but he doesn't care. you're too sickly to fight back and honestly his strong, firm arms around you sound real nice rn. and so you let him, to your dismay.

he's a bit of a jerk about it though, cold hands slipping under your shirt and causing you to shiver, hearing his giggles as he apologizes and squeezes you. phainon's got so much love for teasing you, but he knows you need care to be better.

you fall asleep wrapped in blankets and tangled up with phainon.

boothill's probably the best of them all. he doesn't get sick, and he's like a personal heater or cooler. if you're too warm or too cold, he can adjust his body temperature to your liking. "yer clingin' onto me like i'd ever want to go anywhere, darlin'." he teases, running his fingers through your hair as you press yourself against his cold metal, hating how hot your body feels.

he plays some music for you to relax to, and he's telling you tales of his adventures to get you to sleep. who knew a soft, southern accent could work so well as a lullaby?

his arms are locked around you. he's hiding his worry well, but when you fall asleep he's whispering about how you need to take better care of yourself. "though, mm.. yer real cute like this, all snuggly and sniffly. could baby 'ya all week."

dan heng is definitely more on the scolding side, the moment he wakes up to you squirming and sniffling, he's got an unamused look on his face. the night prior, you walked through the astral express doors absolutely soaked from the rain. dan heng helped you change, shower, dry your hair and sleep. but you woke up sick regardless.. like he said you would, like you said you wouldn't.

"this is why you should let me come with you to missions." he grumbles, stirring the bowl of warm stew he made for you as you lay in bed. "goodness, it was one mission, and you come home to me like this. i hate how much i love you." dan heng scoffed, blowing the spoon of warm food and holding it against your lips. "i can't fight this urge to care for you. you're just so.. ugh."

he falls asleep before you, funny enough. you admire the face of your loving boyfriend before drifting off to your own slumber.

you should get sick more often.

you can't even be mad at yourself, jing yuan has allowed you to cuddle up to his sweet, insanely fluffy lion. you can't tell if it's the clogged nose or all the fur you're inhaling, but you love it. and you've got a 'weighted' blanket too. aka your boyfriend.

jing yuan had already fed you your medicine, changed clothes, and fed you well. so there was nothing to do but wait for the next few hours till you'd have to drink medicine again, so now you two are just cuddled up to the embodiment of a cloud.

"you're liking this far too much." your beloved boyfriend remarks, rubbing his head against your tummy as you chuckle, although very weakly. "maybe, but i really do appreciate being taken care of."

the deepest, velvety laugh escapes his lips as he looks up at you, that same smirk he's always worn on his face. "nothing less than for you. now rest, my love. i'll have dinner served for you soon."

© sqgeism or wtv (^_^;)

[ohagiyo]

I'm gonna try this out with Kaori ^^

How does (pre-wc) Kunigami feel about Kaori?

• I feel like he'd respect her for her abilities but he wouldn't like how her playing style is basically luring people into the penalty box by feigning being bad at something (dribbling, man-marking, ect.) only to either then pick apart their weaknesses before making a shot or a clean pass. • He thinks it's unfair how she lures people & tears their weaknesses apart for a simple goal or game-changing pass. • Since he's dense, he probably wouldn't realize she even likes him since how she treats him seems to be the same way she does everyone just with a bit more excitement.

How does Kaori feel about Kunigami?

• To put it simply, she's enamored. By the bare minimum, too. She's completely head over heels in love & probably has the most heavily tinted rose glasses out of EVERYONE because she still feels the same way about him after Wild Card (elaboration later.) • The main reasons she fell in love was because he literally treated her like she was someone with feelings instead of tossing her aside the moment she wasn't useful or interesting to him. (Even though they weren't even on the same teams up until the NEL.) • This is quite possibly the barest minimum there ever could be but it's Kaori and the bare minimum was never something she could even dream of so for her, to even say she wants someone to treat her humanely is like a big task.

Has Kaori ever made Kunigami laugh? / What about cry?

• For the laugh ask :: Absolutely, it was when Kaori looked like a kicked puppy after she accidently dropped her food on the ground and it was really the funniest sight ever. • On crying however, she hasn't made him cry at all. Shoot me an ask or comment on this if you want to see about other characters. ^^

Do Kaori and (cannon character) ever cross paths?

• This one I'll leave blank since there are so, so many characters in BLLK so just feel free to come in my inbox and ask about it (or really ask about any question with any other character) ^^

Which canon character(s) annoy Kaori?

• Kenyu Yukimiya :: she thinks his smile is fake and that he's too polite. Though, she does like how he doesn't really seem to be mean or anything to her and that he at least doesn't treat her like shit. • Wataru Kuon :: she dislikes how he betrayed his team so easily because 1. she's a loyal person, and 2. Kunigami, Bachira & Naruhaya were members of Team Z and could've gotten kicked out of the program— all of whom she is very fond of. • Ryusei Shidou :: she finds his sexual comments very gross & his violence annoying to deal with but finds his play style intriguing. She also likes how he's really just playing for the love of the game and doesn't really cuss her out unlike certain people (cough Kaiser cough.) • Eita Otoya :: the first time they met, he tried hitting on her and Kaori was too dense to realize. She also didn't get flustered by the close contact at all (since she's a physical person), though she did give him a smack on the back of his head when he tried his “ninja techniques.��� • Aiki Himizu :: she finds him weird and generally uncomfortable to be around, when asked why she said: “ He's always looking too deep and picking apart my expressions, the way I talk, and stuff.. it just weirds me out y'know? Also! It's really annoying when he pretends like I have some ulterior motive or that I'm lying.. ” • Michael Kaiser :: honestly? she dislikes him at most. Not hate because she can't find it in her to hate him but she does dislike him. • Jingo Raichi :: well, annoy is a strong word but she's definitely scared shitless whenever she hears him yelling or screaming. Though, after spending more time in BM and stuff, she got used to it so it's no longer a problem. She finds his quick temper a bit annoying to deal with despite having one too. Noel Noa :: Finds his general demeanor a pain to deal with, that and him making Kaiser the best so he could beat him & use him to further develop his football skills. She dislikes how selfish he is.

What canon character(s) gets annoyed by Kaori?

• Aiki Himizu :: he can't for the life of him figure her & her supposed “lies” out and that ticks him off to no end. (Kaori has told him multiple times that she doesn't lie and actually is very open about everything but she doesn't think he's listening.) • Shoei Barou :: because of her hyper-activity & tendency to forget, Kaori always ends up making a bit of a mess during whatever task she's on, be it eating, training, you name it and it annoys Barou to no end. (even though they're on completely different teams.) • Michael Kaiser :: He just honestly hates her & just everything about her. • Alexis Ness :: He finds her not bowing down to Kaiser an annoyance and the way she treats him with such indelicacy and rudeness an offense against Kaiser. I can't think of anymore tbh, if you have any idea who else would find her annoying, feel free to shoot me an ask of it! ^^

Which canon character respects Kaori most? What gained that respect?

TBA

Which canon character doesn’t respect Kaori whatsoever?

• Michael Kaiser. • Aiki Himizu.

Which canon character(s) does Kaori respect a lot?

• (Pre- & Post-WC) Rensuke Kunigami :: Looked up to him and saw his good-nature as something totally alluring and for some reason, she couldn't stay away after that fateful night. • Meguru Bachira :: Trauma bonding exercises do wonders and the two ended up as the bestest of friends after Kaori accidently kicked a ball at him while practicing. • Nijiro Nanase :: Pretty self-explanatory, girl was stressed when she didn't see him in the first ten rankings. • Yoichi Isagi :: Although she respects him, Kaori disagrees on everything with Yoichi and the two end up bickering sometimes but remain somewhat good acquaintances. • Gin Gagamaru :: She thinks getting hit by balls all the time must be stressful so whenever she lets one slip through she always ends up profusely apologizing to him after the match. More TBA if I don't forget.

Which canon character does Kaori not respect at all? Why?

• Michael Kaiser :: She dislikes the way he treats Ness & everyone as if they were some disposable tool at his use whenever he pleases.

Which canon character is pissed off by the general presence of Kaori? (we all have those people)

• Shoei Barou :: He can't stand her messiness & the way she once lured him into a weak area so she could score for herself once. • Alexis Ness :: As stated before, her attitude towards Kaiser despite anything is supposedly a severe offense against Kaiser. •

Does Kaori have a crush on anyone?

• Rensuke Kunigami :: Most prevalent crush for her right now. • Meguru Bachira :: Very, very small and insignificant, she used to have a crush on him when they first met but she outgrew it. • Nijiro Nanase :: Same situation with Bachira. • Tabito Karasu :: Lasted a really short time after she saw his plays in the U-20 match.

Who would probably have a crush on Kaori?

• Yoichi Isagi :: Mainly because his type is someone who laughs a lot and has a wonderful smile. • Nijiro Nanase :: They're just sillies, your honor.

Who would Kaori most likely to get a puppy-crush on? (but it can’t be the cc they’re actually shipped with!)

• Meguru Bachira :: Both match each others energy and I think their shared struggle with making loneliness would get them to trauma bond and get along. • Nijiro Nanase :: If I wanted her to be happy, I'd have made Kaori get with him or Bachira because they'd be a power couple but I don't like seeing her happy so no Nanase or Bachira/Kaori. • Tabito Karasu :: He's intelligent, intuitive, aware and so much more, truly the perfect man.

Who would Kaori say is her best friend?

• Meguru Bachira.

Who would call Kaori their best friend?

• Nijiro Nanase. • Meguru Bachira. • Pre-WC Rensuke Kunigami.

Who has brought Kaori to tears before?

• Rensuke Kunigami, it was right after his return from Wild Card.

Who has Kaori made cry?

• No one, no one she knows of at least.

Is there someone Kaori didn’t like at first, but then got along with later?

• Jingo Raichi :: Used to find his screaming, yelling & short temper scary to deal with but eventually warmed up to him after they had to spend time together in BM. • • Ryusei Shidou :: Like is a strong word, she tolerates him at best after she saw how more.. normal? he was off the field.

Is there someone Kaori liked at first, but then grew to dislike?

• Rensuke Kunigami :: After Wild Card, she slowly began to dislike him and she doesn't realize it from the heavy rose tinted glasses she has on. The dislike or distaste for him hasn't reached severe levels though, it's just gnawing at her and it has yet to take course. • Hyoma Chigiri :: She thought he was cool, until she found out about how self-important he is, then he began to annoy her with his constant talk about his right leg. She understands that it must've been traumatizing but god does it still annoy her.

Who does Kaori hate?

• Hate is a strong word for Kaori, she's not a hateful person. . . . • HOWEVER !! That just might change in the near future.

Who does Kaori love? (platonic)

• Yo Hiori :: They get along well, not enough to deem the two best friends but they both link up quite easily and with Hiori's passing and Kaori's positioning, the two are bound to pave a way for a goal. • Gin Gagamaru :: Kaori finds his personality cute, though his eyes did use to freak her out a lot. • Ranze Kurona :: Also finds his personality cute. His teeth being crooked like hers made her even happier and find him more cute. I don't know what's up with her liking shy/introverted people. More TBA if I remember

Who does Kaori love? (familial)

• Meguru Bachira :: The two clicked immediately after meeting each-other and quickly became friends after they both realized that they were both shun out as kids. Kaori sees him as a little brother now & they're frequently seen eating & causing ruckus together. • Nijiro Nanase :: She sees him as the little brother she never had & she often helps him with training whenever he's struggling.

Does Kaori love anyone? (romantic)

• She falls in love easily and at some point, it was anyone who showed her a bit of decency. • BUT!! When she had met Kunigami that one fateful night she snuck into the cafeteria and saw him there, inviting her to eat with him and all— he became her first real friend & longest lasting crush.

Has Kaori ever had to let a canon character down easy?

• Eita fucking Otoya, she didn't really do it gently since she hit him on the back of the head for hitting on her but it's the thought that counts y'know.

Has Kaori ever been rejected by a canon character?

• Absolutely, more specifically Kunigami. • It wasn't really a rejection though, no words were said but Kaori had this dreadful feeling that Kunigami would abandon her based off his change despite the two interacting often after Wild Card (mostly just her talking his ear off while he eats and listens silently.) • At least, not unless she can do something to stop him from abandoning or leaving her.

Did Kaori bear witness to anyone’s full character arc?

Unsure.

What is the worst thing Kaori does in their story?

• Fall in love with Kunigami & remain in love with him even after Wild Card. • •

What is Kaori's ‘‘darkness moment’’ in the plot?

In cannon there are 3 times :: 1. When everyone had thought Kunigami was eliminated. 2. When Kunigami emerged back from Wild Card and was completely different from the man she once fell in love with (unknowingly.) 3. When she made the realization that she'd be left behind by Kunigami like everyone else if she doesn't evolve right then and there after seeing Ness' get abandoned by Kaiser in the PXG match. In her lore there are 3 times :: 1. When she had the moment of believing that no one would like her because she's misfortune. 2. When her caretaker abandoned her as did everyone else. 3. When she had to endure people treating her as sub-human due to her appearance & unique color of hair.

What is Kaori's redemption moment?

answer

Is there a canon character that Kaori needs to ask forgiveness towards?

answer

Is there a canon character Kaori needs to forgive?

• Alexis Ness :: For stealing the ball from her right before the moment she awakened in the last PXG VS. Bastard München match just to (from her perspective) pass to Isagi, the man he's despised since the beginning, just to keep her from winning. • Hyoma Chigiri :: For accidently messing up her perfectly braided hair once & spilling sauce all over her during meal time. •

Is there anyone who Kaori would die for?

• (Mostly Pre-WC but also Post-WC) Rensuke Kunigami :: He's the first & only person who taught her about all kinds of love and the first to be her friend so she naturally holds a soft spot for him regardless of his Wild card personality now. • Meguru Bachira :: One of her first ever friends, she and bachira get along quite well and often have lunch together after Kunigami was gone in the duration leading up & afterwards the U-20 match. • Aoishi Tokimitsu :: She seems him as a little brother that she never had despite him being older than her. She also generally looks out for him and uses her positivity/optimism to combat his negative nature. • Gin Gagamaru :: He used to freak her out but she warmed up quickly to him after spending more time together. When questioned why she's fond of him she said: “ His personality is cute! ” • Ranze Kurona :: He made her realize that even with crooked teeth, one can still look cute and she generally finds his quiet personality endearing as well.

Is there a canon character who would die for Kaori?

• (Pre-wc) Rensuke Kunigami through and through. • Reluctantly, Wild Card Kunigami, he'd deny it but he'd actually die for her. • Meguru Bachira.

okay woaht that took a long while, if you have any questions, follow it up with an ask with what other chars ur curious about ^^ Fun fact :: Kaori would have been so much happier if she didn't encounter Kunigami & was in Barcha, she'd have benefited so much from Lavinho & his free-thinking, creative environment and it would've made her embrace who she is & leave the ideals that people only want her around when she's useful but I hate seeing her happy so BM it is !!

Fandom OC Ask Meme

⟢⋱⟡☾ a collection of asks for OCs belonging to specific fandoms

How does (canon character) feel about your OC?

How does your OC feel about (canon character)?

Has your OC ever made (canon character) laugh? / What about cry?

Do your OC and (canon character) ever cross paths?

Which canon character annoys your OC?

What canon character gets annoyed by your OC?

Which canon character respects your OC most? What gained that respect?

Which canon character doesn’t respect your OC whatsoever?

Which canon character does your OC respect a lot?

Which canon character does your OC not respect at all? Why?

Which canon character is pissed off by the general presence of OC? (we all have those people)

Does your OC have a crush on anyone?

Who would probably have a crush on your OC?

Who would your OC most likely to get a puppy-crush on? (but it can’t be the cc they’re actually shipped with!)

Who would your OC say is their best friend?

Who would call your OC their best friend?

Who has brought your OC to tears before?

Who has your OC made cry?

Is there someone your OC didn’t like at first, but then got along with later?

Is there someone your OC liked at first, but then grew to dislike?

Who does your OC hate?

Who does your OC love? (platonic)

Who does your OC love? (familial)

Does your OC love anyone? (romantic)

Has your OC ever had to let a canon character down easy?

Has your OC ever been rejected by a canon character?

Did your OC bear witness to anyone’s full character arc?

What is the worst thing your OC does in their story?

What is your OC’s ‘‘darkness moment’’ in the plot?

What is your OC’s redemption moment?

Is there a canon character that your OC needs to ask forgiveness towards?

Is there a canon character your OC needs to forgive?

Is there anyone who your OC would die for?

Is there a canon character who would die for your OC?

[earlysunshines]

dontcha (want me?)

kang haerin x fem!reader ; fluff

synopsis: haerin doesn’t like you just because and then you hit her in the head with a volleyball and now she has a valid reason to not like you but now YOU have a reason to try to warm up to her

warnings: volleyball player!reader ; haerin is just like me in this I easily hate ; brief one sided enemies to lovers but very brief ; reader lowk whipped ; haerin whipped but she hides it better... maybe ; pure fluff no angst isn't that crazy ; so cute icl ; anything else I didn't mention ; haven't written in twenty years basically this is nooot my best ; not proofread

a/n: you don't understand how much i appreciate haerin's cover of dontcha (listen while you read!! or at least near the second half lolol) bc I'm so obsessed I keep looping the song that song is my everything... also, tried a diff pacing/writing style so lmk what u guys think :-P

haerin never really liked you. 

she’s never actually met you, but in her defense, once she has a reason not to like someone (or that tiny feeling in her gut that draws her away), the feeling grows and grows—quietly, steadily—until it fills every space it can. and you? you’ve given her plenty to work with.

considering your athletic reputation as the university’s star outside hitter, you're relatively well-known around campus. that’s her first strike—not that it’s a bad thing, just enough for haerin to put you in a different world in her mind. two sides of a coin. peas of different pods—and so forth. you’re louder, more outgoing, bright in a way that feels abrasive to her more reserved nature.

your friends don’t help your case either. they snicker during lectures while haerin is trying to take notes, organize her planner, or simply pay attention. even in the halls of the building or on the  respective way to your classes—you somehow manage to pass by her at least twice a day—-your friends are making you push them away because they made you laugh too hard and suddenly the quiet of the arts building is filled with your voice.

so, she didn’t really acknowledge you at first despite the connections you shared with two of her friends eunchae and minji. but when you decided to switch majors before your second semester and started spending more time in her building, ruining the comfortable routine and atmosphere,  that was the beginning of her personal second semester curse.

(haerin’s heard of the infamous second semester curse; she figured it’d just be due to a heavier academic load and whatnot, not for it to manifest in the form of you.)

and if she was being honest, you’d never actually done anything to her. haerin was just being a little more judgmental than she liked to admit—or as her best friend danielle would say, “you’re just being the usual haerin”—and you, all bright and loud, were simply everything she wasn’t very fond of. it was easier to dislike you that way.

but today, she finally had a tangible reason to back up her detestation.

“holy shit—” haerin hears you curse, your voice panicked as sneakers squawk against the gym floor.

the world spins a little as haerin presses her palm against her head, wincing. 

you’re already sprinting over, wide-eyed and breathless, guilt written all over your face as you slow down to a stop.

“i’m so sorry,” you blurt, unsure of what to do now that you’re right in front of her. “i swear i wasn’t aiming for you—are you okay? can you stand? should i get someone? oh my god i’m so sorry!”

your voice fully registers in her mind and through the haze of pain, haerin blinks up at you.

of course it had to be you.

of course you had to hit her.

of course you had to look at her like that—so worried, so intense.

and for some reason, that annoys her even more.

“i’m fine.” haerin says through gritted teeth, holding the side of her face that was pummeled by a volleyball. now it makes sense why you’re the star outside hitter, because it hurt. it wasn’t even your worst spike. 

she grumbles, “could you watch where you’re hitting next time?”

“i’m so sorry, really.” you hesitate, hand still hovering awkwardly in the air before it reaches over to haerin’s so you can check the side of her face, but she steps back.

“seriously,” she says, sharper this time. “i’m fine.”

you flinch a little at her tone, guilt flashing across your features before you try to cover it up with a sheepish smile. 

“right, um, sorry.” you say, backing off and biting the inside of your lip. “but seriously, i’m so sorry. you can, um, like, hit me back if you want? you can throw the volleyball at my face in return—ah, um, revenge. eye for an eye? or i can treat you to something… if you…”

your voice dies down at the sight of her glare, and because she’s taken her hand off her face and wow the color is nasty—a dark red that might just fade into a near purple in the next hour.

she looks at you, unimpressed, and flatly says, “i’m not five.”

you laugh under your breath, scratching the back of your neck. “fair. but if you change your mind, i won’t argue back or anything,” you offer, pointing to your cheek dramatically. “free shot. no consequences.”

for a second, haerin truly wants to slap you in the face. she wants to roll her eyes and walk away. wants to keep being annoyed, to keep clinging to that righteous, simmering dislike she’s built up for no reason.

but you stand there so weirdly genuine and stupidly endearing in your own loud, clumsy way that makes it harder for her to hate on you the way she wants to. 

she huffs—loud enough for you to hear and swallow lightly from her terrifying energy—then gives you a small groan before turning and walking away without another word.

behind her, you raise your voice just a bit as you call out, cheerful despite the tension, “i’ll take that as a maybe!”

haerin doesn’t turn around. she just keeps walking, cheeks nearly as warm as the side of her head.

—

the next day haerin has to add a good two layers of color corrector, concealer, and foundation in order to cover up the giant bruise on the side of her face. 

after the incident yesterday, the nurse gave her an ice pack and a “take care!” to compensate for your damage because ‘regular’ university students do not get the same attention as an athlete with a torn acl, unfortunately.

she sits down at her usual spot for her music history class, pulling out her laptop and current reading for the course as she waits for hanni. but before hanni can steal a seat next to her, someone else does.

“hi, i don’t know if you remember me. i mean, you probably do…” haerin glances to her right, jaw tensing at the sight of you and hearing your voice. “i, um, got you this…”

you hand her a small box of strawberry chocolate bites, offering her a small smile to break the tension. 

but haerin doesn’t give in.

“why?” she asks.

“what?”

“i don’t need your chocolate,” haerin responds flatly. “you can go back to your friends now.” she adds, redirecting her attention back on the book in front of her. 

“no, no. please, i—i insist. i’ve been on that end, worse than what you had to endure though, and it’s really bad, just—”

“just because i’m not you doesn’t mean i can’t handle a ball hitting my face. i’m good, are we done?”

haerin notices the look of shock that makes your features twitch slightly. you avoid eye contact then, pursing a smile before pushing the chocolate toward her. 

“look. i’m not the type of person to let these things slide. it might seem small to me, but i want to make it up to you. take these chocolates for now,” you sigh, standing up. haerin looks up at you curiously, her expression never shifting as you finally say, “bye.”

—

there was a noticeable routine throughout the next two weeks that you couldn’t seem to break.

you’d cross paths with haerin often, because apparently fate had a terrible sense of humor, and you made sure to acknowledge her each time. it started off small” a smile, nod, or a soft “hey” in her direction. none of it was overbearing, just… persistent. it’s how you are.

even when haerin pretended to notice (she sure noticed each and every time), you never faltered. if her gaze so much as brushed yours, you’d light up immediately, offering a little wave that would never fail to be left hanging. 

in class, it was the same. she always sat in the same spot — the third row from the front, fourth seat in — and you always scanned the room for her as soon as you walked in. when you found her (which you always did), you’d stroll past, knock gently on the edge of her desk with your knuckles, and smile before heading to your own seat across the room.

haerin didn’t understand any of it.

why were you being so nice to her? what were your intentions?

it was all so… strange.

hitting her in the head shouldn’t have led to… whatever this was. she’d expected you to move on and forget it. you have much bigger things to worry about anyway, as the outside hitter. instead, it felt like you were making a point to force your way into her peripheral vision every single day.

she’d been skeptical, very skeptical. she’d spend a few minutes zoned out, trying to think about what you were up to, and why it seemed so welcoming. but no, haerin can’t give in. that’s not like her, not for someone like you.

it wasn’t until her confusion simmered down that she found herself out one afternoon with her group of friends huddled around a crowded table at a campus cafe, sipping on iced teas.

“remember when you told us about the volleyball-to-your-head incident?” minji asks, switching the conversation topic from the most annoying professor to you.

haerin raises a brow. “yeah, why?”

“y/n’s been spiraling because of it.” minji says casually, twirling her straw. “because of you.”

haerin blinks, caught mid-sip. “...what?”

“yeah.” minji grins. “she thinks you hate her. she feels awful about it.”

hanni nods, a bite of a sandwich halfway to her mouth. “i feel bad for the girl,” she adds around a mouthful, earning a look from danielle. “sorry dani. but yeah, minji was telling me about it kinda. damn.”

“so you’re just going to tell hanni about a story that involves… me? without telling me first?” haerin rolls her eyes playfully.

“okay well to be fair she’s my roommate so how about that.” minji argues. “anyway, ever since the volleyball thing,” she continues, leaning forward like she’s about to drop the craziest news ever (knowing minji, it’s probably not that crazy), “she’s been convinced she made an enemy out of you. like, actually upset about it. she keeps asking me if she should apologize again, if she’s being annoying, if she should just stop trying…”

haerin stares at her, stunned into silence.

you? of all people? spiraling because of… her?

 “maybe she’s just not used to people like you, ‘rinnie. i don’t know her like that but i heard she’s very lively and outgoing and basically your complete opposite.” danielle giggles softly. “and i thought i was bad.”

“plus, she thinks you’re like a ghost or something. she sees you everywhere, apparently,” minji adds with a laugh. “she’s kinda going insane.”

for a long moment, haerin just sits there, her fingers gliding along the condensation on her cup. the irritation that she pairs up with you in her head fizzles away just a little.

she hadn’t realized it got to you that much. she never realized how much you truly cared about how she was affected by your killer spike.

maybe, haerin thinks, maybe she’d been a little too quick to judge. 

maybe you’re not just loud and obnoxious. maybe you’re just trying to mend things.

“i guess i’ll be a little nicer. you can’t blame me though, that bruise was purple. i’m just glad it wasn’t that close to my eye.”

“i’ve had worse.” minji snickers, earning a glare from her.

—

today, you have your music history class. 1pm on tuesdays and thursdays, seventy-five minutes long, and one of two classes you have with kang haerin.

you also share the class with two of your teammates: kazuha, the most reliant, talented setter you know, and yunjin, whose killer vertical and presence at the net make her the best middle blocker in the region. 

while the two are a dream combination on the court, they’re a nightmare in any academic setting.

out of the three of you, you tend to be a little more reserved, which says a lot. your composure breaks without fail because they’re so loud and unfortunately so hilarious that it makes you cackle and completely lose any self-awareness in class, or anywhere in general.

yunjin’s nudging you as you three walk up the stairs, teasing you as soon as you reach the second level of the building.

“are you ready to be ignored by kang again?” she snickers, grinning from ear to ear. “i think she hates you even more after all of whatever you’re doing.”

“oh shut up.” you groan, shoving her with your shoulder. “look, i’m trying to be nice. do you know how fucking bad it is to get hit in the head with a volleyball? dude, that wasn’t even my best. it was practice. i feel so bad… one time i got hit by ryujin’s spike and—”

you shiver, remembering how puffy and purple your face had been after the game against your rivals. you looked like you’d gone ten rounds in a boxing ring.

and you can’t stop thinking about haerin after, pinching the bridge of her nose at the thought of her. the faint swelling after the incident, the way her concealer couldn’t quite cover the bruise. the fact that she hadn’t said a word about it, just sat there stiff and silent the next day in class.

“—i need to make it up to her.” you mumble under your breath, almost to yourself.

“wow. i’ve never seen you so sorry.” kazuha hums thoughtfully, sipping on whatever flavored latte she has in her hand. then, she nudges you, nodding her head toward the woman you injured two weeks ago. “but seriously, it’s impressive. i’ve never seen someone make being nice this tragic— hey, now’s your time to shine.”

you glance up.

it’s nine in the morning and you always pass haerin on your way to your first class of the day. today is no different. 

she’s put together, headphones in, and headed straight towards you. 

you feel a lump in your throat. every day, every time, you say hi. and every day, every time, she ignores you.

but you can’t help yourself. you swallow lightly, raising a hand and smiling at haerin. to your surprise���she looks up and meets your eyes, holding the contact for a second longer than usual, something almost unreadable shimmering along the surface before she shifts her gaze forward like it’s nothing, continuing down teh hall.

she acknowledged you. 

you turn to watch her walk away, stunned. “guys, maybe she doesn’t hate me.” you gasp under your breath.

“or maybe: you’re delusional.” yunjin clicks her tongue. “there was probably something on your face.”

“was there?” you say in a slight panic, pulling out your phone to check yourself out. there’s nothing but your plain old face, the face that haerin looked at for four whole seconds.

you can’t be delusional, there’s no way.

when you go to your next class, your spirits are still lifted. you step into music history half an hour later. kazuha and yunjin are already in their seats since you left them to go grab something from your car, and by the time you glance over they’re laughing at something on yunjin’s phone. you linger longer by the door, adjusting your hoodie.

out of habit, your eyes find haerin—third row from the front, fourth seat in—posture perfect with her laptop in front of her, earbuds out now.

something is different this time when you look at her, because she’s already looking at you.

you feel your breath catching. a flash of nervousness rushes through your body and you have no clue why. she blinks once, twice, then quickly turns her focus back to the screen, fingers typing calmly like nothing had happened.

still—you catch yourself smiling, chest a little lighter than it had been all week.

something is different. you can feel it.

and for the first time you can relax your shoulders, because it feels like you’re not just fighting this silent losing battle anymore.

—

you see her again thursday morning, but yunjin and kazuha aren’t there to witness your five seconds of embarassing yourself. 

today her hair is up in a bun and she’s wearing a plaid long-sleeve button paired with wide-leg sweatpants—she looks good, and now that the thought pops up… when hasn’t she?

“hey,” you blurt out before you can even think about what to say after. “good morning.” you add with a friendly smile.

she slows down, her brows twitching just barely as she looks at you like she’s thinking of what to say. maybe she’ll utter nothing and walk off. maybe she’ll reprimand you. to be honest, you don’t really care what happens next because it’s better than nothing.

“hi.” she says quietly, flatly. she breaks eye contact and walks right past again.

your smile widens, and each step down the hall feels brighter.

—

the week ends for most people with relief, but not for you. most friday’s are spent at the university’s court for practice, running a few warmup laps around the small court to get you going.  

everything continues on normally: your team pairs up to pepper for ten minutes before moving into spiking drills, setting, receiving, and perfecting minor details before moving on to scrimmages. it’s a routine you could never get tired of, one your body knows by heart. even when you’re sore and dreading practice, you love it.

what breaks the usual routine is a certain someone showing up twenty minutes before practice ends. 

haerin walks through the door with two of her friends. you recognize danielle and hanni since they’re a weekly feature on your teammate minji’s instagram stories. while everyone gets back into order, your eyes linger on haerin. what you don’t expect is for her to lock eyes with you for a split second, a moment that makes you stop in place, before she breaks the contact. 

you catch the group sitting in the bleachers, sparking a sudden urge to try a little harder.

the last twenty minutes of scrimmage consist of you doing very well. your turns are sharp and precise, your spikes heavy and quick—even some of your teammates are shocked at the sudden boost of energy. you’re playing almost as well as you would in a real game, and maybe it’s because of a special someone in the crowd. maybe it’s to distract her from the fact that one of your spikes left her in the nurse's office.

when practice ends, you run a few laps with your team before stretching together, though not without trying to sneak a peek at haerin to find that she’s already doing the same. you have to fight back a smile each time.

and after everyone finished changing, you caught up with minji, nudging her arm with your elbow.

“hey buddy,” you greet with a teasing tone. “nice blocks today. your vertical is getting better by the day!”

“thanks,” she laughs. “and… buddy? since when did start using that?”

“since now?”

“you sound ridiculous,” minji sighs. “so, what did you need from me?”

“i already told you! you’re doing better… and… well, i have a question.”

minji sighs once more.

“what’s with your little friends showing up?”

“no,” minji starts, raising her eyebrows. “what’s with haerin showing up.”

“no…”

“...yes,” she counters. 

you huff, rolling your eyes as you step back onto the court. minji’s friends are still sitting in the third row of the bleachers, laughing at something from what you can tell. and then minji looks at you from the side, raising her brows again and tilting her head, motioning for you to follow her.

you hesitate when minji starts heading over, but give in anyway.

“i’ll just say hi,” you mutter, more to yourself than minji. your teammate shrugs. 

when you arrive, they’re already headed down the bleachers—it’s a little terrifying. haerin is second after danielle, with hanni trailing behind. you watch as danielle leaps over to hug minji, then catches you while her arms are wrapped around your teammate.

“oh hey!” danielle beams into minji’s ear. “you must be y/n?”

“yeah, right on!” you respond with the same energy. 

then your eyes land on haerin, who’s fixing the collar of her t-shirt before meeting your gaze once again. the energy in your body dims down, your jaw tenses, and you feel like a movie character when the background blurs behind and it’s just them.

“hi haerin.” you greet warmly. 

she scans you again as if she’s figuring out whether or not you deserve a response. you gulp shallowly.

“hi.” she responds. her friends turn their heads toward her, clearly amused. then, her lips curl up just barely, almost imperceptibly. if you weren’t so hyperfocused on her you wouldn’t have caught it. “i’m surprised you didn’t hit anyone in the face.”

your heart beats against your chest like it’s trying to escape. 

minji bites back a laugh as you awkwardly chuckle before saying, “well, that’s progress.”

haerin’s brows raise just a bit as she adds, “your aim must’ve improved.”

minji doesn’t hold back her laugh this time, slapping your shoulder. something about haerin’s light teasing warms your chest, there’s a grin on your face as you respond, “just for you.” and maybe it was risky, but it makes haerin’s lips turn up just a little more. it feels like a standing ovation.

“well,” you begin, because your heart might explode right there and right now. “i was just catching up with minji. i have to uh, i have to… catch up with someone else. see you haerin— and um, you two as well— hanni, danielle.”

they all giggle before waving to you, though haerin only offers you a small smile that makes you want to celebrate.

—

haerin lifts up her head after sensing someone’s presence right by her side. she assumes it’s hanni, so she doesn’t bother to look right away. but when she tilts her head and glances over, it’s not who she expected.

“morning.” you greet, casual, but a faint smile is seen on your face.

you’re here early, haerin thinks. usually your friends would make it before you, loud and probably sharing their whole weekend with the class unknowingly. you’d show up just before class started and scan the room for haerin before making  your way over to the back to join the disturbance. not that she’s keeping track or anything though. that’d be ridiculous.

she blinks once. “morning.”

she turns to grab something from her bag, assuming you’ll leave sooner. but you don’t. instead, she feels your lingering presence beside her desk.

“so, how was your weekend?” you ask, equally awkward as sincere.

“fine.” she replies without looking up. 

you nod, waiting, but nothing conversational trickles in after.

your attempt at dissolving the tension is by clearing your throat, trying not to make it weird. “that’s good. did you do anything fun?”

she turns her head just barely, meeting you halfway—sort of. “why are you bothering me?” she asks, and the bluntness makes you stiffen a little.

your lips part but nothing comes out. you hesitate before answering, “i’m waiting for my friends.”

her brow lifts slightly as if she doesn’t believe you.

“you don’t believe me, do you?” you sigh. “this isn’t me doing charity work because i left a bruise on the side of your face that one time. that was an accident.” 

“right.” she says dryly, her lips twitching faintly.

“i swear!” you blurt out, flustered now. “i felt so bad—like, genuinely. i was gonna ask minji if i could venmo you for your medical bills or something—”

haerin cuts you off by letting out a quiet huff of laughter, looking at you properly for the first time. the corners of her lips lift and something in her eyes soften.

“has anyone ever told you how dramatic you are?” she questions, amused.

you fake a pout. “whatever.”

“you know,” she turns back to her desk, fighting a smile, “you’re not bothering me. i also feel bad that you look like a loser, all lonely and all. you can stay a bit until your friends come.”

“what did you say?”

“you heard me.” she says with a smile. 

and just like that, you’re pretty sure your morning’s already made.

—

you’re not really sure why you decided to put an effort into stepping over the line to make it on haerin’s good side. all the waving at her and making your presence known—maybe it could be labeled as bothering—had been spontaneous. 

there was no doubt that you were drawn to her for whatever reason. maybe it was because she caught your eye each time you would pass her near the beginning of the semester. maybe it was because you looked for the familiar face once you got the rhythm of when you’d briefly be within her presence. 

she was also on minji’s instagram occasionally, so you had a clue of who she was before attacking her face with a ball. and you’d stalked her instagram maybe once or twice on a random evening just because she was tagged in a story. she seemed nice and all, so why not talk to her more?

plus, she was nice to look at at. she had the kind of face that lingers in your mind after being around her, sometimes at night too, or even in random bursts throughout the day. she’s a new smile in your life that you start getting used to. 

haerin found you to be an addition to her routine, a very unexpected one. 

you’d appear at the end of the hall, sometimes with your friends—but recently it had been just you—and wave to her. when it was just you, you never failed to ask her how she was or how her day had been so far, everything friendly. and if she were being honest; she didn’t mind all this energy from you, if anything, she really liked it. 

it took a bit of time for haerin to reciprocate, maybe because of the grudge but also because it was difficult to talk to someone who used to be a world away from her. but here she is asking you if your practice is well, when your games were, and further inquiries that introduce you more as a person. she truly liked getting to know you, even if she pretended to be reserved and hesitant at times.

—

“hey,” you greet haerin as you walk up to her.

haerin isn’t sure when the bumping into you turned into willingly wanting to catch you in the morning or afternoon. this time, she’s waiting in the lobby instead of lingering in the usual hall, and she’s caught you by surprise with the slight change.

“hi.” she greets back.

you’re wearing a blue baseball cap with capital ‘a’ in white on it. your hair is pushed down by the cap just a bit, urging you to swipe it away to prevent it from blocking your view. a loose, white graphic tee also hangs over your figure nicely, complemented by a nice pair of jeans with a color that suits you well. you adjust your cap, finding the way it sits on your head a little off, and haerin wonders why she hadn’t realized how cute you’ve been until now.

“so, i was wondering.”

“oh no.” haerin sighs.

“hey!” you whine playfully. “well now i’m not going to say it.”

haerin looks you square in the eye, tilting her head down and raising her brows just barely.

“okay well if you look at me like that…” you surrender, fixing your hair just a bit. “since we have that mini exam, i was wondering if you wanted to go to the library to study… or, we could hit that cafe nearby.”

“there’s a lot of those.”

“well i know a nice one.”

“me too, y/n.”

“everytime i feel like we’re getting better at this, you suddenly find a way to hate me again.” you joke, but haerin lingers on whatever ‘this’ is. you continue, finishing your thoughts, “but yeah, after class, are you down?”

“sure, sure.” she agrees.

and then you smile, teeth peeking out just a bit. haerin feels a weird tingle run through her body.

—

the tingles get worse the next two weeks.

she spends more time with you, getting a little more personal and she likes it a little too much. you tell her the main reason why you switched majors. you were pressured into something law related, but after taking one elective for that path, you knew it wasn’t for you. and then you did that thing where you rambled on about something you liked a lot, in this case you had rambled about your love for playing the bass, which is the main reason you switched.

“you play bass?” haerin’s eyes widen just a bit from the initial shock. you are so much and so normal at the same time. “since when?”

“ummmm when i was like ten i think. i’ve always played and enjoyed it, even had a few gigs, but my parents wanted me to do law or something that would rack up money.” you shrug. “i got a nice scholarship because of volleyball and realized that i could just… do what i like. and what i like is that—more than anything, really—so....”

she turns to see you staring ahead. you’re both walking across campus to meet up with your friends at the food court, but haerin can’t think about any of that when the afternoon sun is kissing your features perfectly. it hits her that you’re really good-looking.

sure, she knows that’s also another key factor that plays into your reputation. people praise you for your skills, how lively you are, but also how nice on the eyes you are. haerin gets that now.

you catch her staring hard, a smile forming as you mumble, “what?”

haerin snaps back to reality, looking ahead again. “nothing. just thinking, sorry.”

“it’s fine.” you assure, running a hand through your hair. 

when you arrive at the building, ready to split ways to meet your friends, you tap haerin on the shoulder as she turns to leave. she turns, tilting her head and says, “what?”

“you know, if you ever want to see me play bass… you could just ask~”

“you’re full of it.”

you snicker, shaking your head. “well. if you ever stop accusing me of being narcissist, maybe i’ll invite you over to a gig.”

haerin narrows her eyes. “whatever. you should catch up with your friends. i’ll see you, bye y/n.”

“yeah, yeah. see you, haerin.” you smile at her and it feels like the ground beneath is stealing the energy from her knees, nearly knocking her off balance.

—

something about haerin has you rolling around in bed. 

before you dressed in your most comfortable pajamas, flat on your stomach with a pillow under your chin as you stare at your phone, you had spent the evening with minji and her friends—haerin being one of them. 

you set your phone face down and rub your face in your hands. 

it was a spontaneous outing, and you had nothing better to do, so why not tag along with minji? it wasn’t anything crazy, just casual and friendly. all of you strolled along the boardwalk not too far from downtown and playing stupid carnival games. it was fun, especially when hanni and minji started arguing over who would win the most tickets before the sun would set.

what was the most jarring was haerin. nothing in particular, just everything about her that night.

she showed up in a baby tee, beige cargos, and that face of hers. there was something about her that night, or maybe there had always been something about her that you never fully realized until the glow of a building hit her features perfectly. you two were the first to meet up—coincidentally— and without the rest of the group it felt like all the confidence had slipped away from you.

it took a second to greet her, your eyes in awe from how pretty she looked with the slight change in her makeup, or maybe the smile formed on her lips as her eyes landed on you.

you roll over to lay on your back, face still in your hands.

 your cheeks feel significantly warmer as you recall haerin lingering by your side the whole night. her hand had brushed yours multiple times—you remembered each and every time out of fifteen—and she was just so different, charming even, with her friends around. it was a slightly different side of her, one that had your heart beating slightly faster the whole night. 

you can’t stop thinking about the moment she fixed the cap on your head, the hair on your face, and her fingers brushing against your face before telling you how stupid you looked with the loveliest grin. it made your stomach churn. 

the thought of her couldn’t—cant leave your head, even as you take your hands off your face to pinch the bridge of your nose and shut your eyes tightly. 

“what is wrong with me…” you mumble, sighing.

you pick up your phone again, opening on instagram and tapping through stories until minji’s suddenly pops up. your brows furrow slightly as you scan it, eyes lingering on the picture of hanni and haerin, but mainly haerin in that frame. 

she looks good. you can’t get over it. and her user is tagged as well, so you click on it out of curiosity and infatuation.

she has two posts, much less than most people you know. the first one has four slides and a cat emoji as the caption. the first picture is a simple selfie of her with a very neutral expression, one which you stare at for a little too long. the next one is a similar selfie, though she’s smiling instead and you spend more time on that one. the last picture is a cute cat on the street, it makes you smile.

when you catch yourself smiling, you throw your phone across the bed, groaning into your hands.

—

haerin shows up to your next practice without warning you, but to be fair, neither of you had the chance (or guts, really) to ask for each others numbers. the only thing you had was the fact that you were now mutuals on instagram and the fear that held you back from texting her a simple “hi.”

 she’s in the bleachers reading a book—reading while you’re practicing. it makes you laugh more than it offends you, but there’s no reason to be offended anyway. haerin is just being haerin.

you try a little harder just in case she decides to steal a peek at you. today is mainly you serving and spiking up a ton while the rest of the team works to receive it, but when it comes to scrimmaging, you do your best—almost. 

practice ends and instead of heading to the locker room with your team, you run up to haerin, who’s head perks up when she catches the blur of your figure in her vision.

“did you miss me so much that you couldn’t help but stop by and watch?”

haerin scoffs. “don’t flatter yourself.”

“tch, whatever.” you respond.

before she spills the reason she’s there, her gaze shifts to the sweat glistening on your neck, then down to your collarbone, your shoulders, and arms. it’s oddly alluring, but she pushes it down by gulping and meeting your eyes again, trying to ignore the stupid smirk on your lips that tugs at her heartstrings. 

“you put your laptop charger in the wrong bag. i figured you’d be here, so—” she pulls out your macbook charger and hands it to you. “—here.”

“haerin,” you mutter, grabbing the charger. then, you put your other hand out and say, “give me your phone.”

“what?”

“just do it.” you urge, and she surprisingly does.

haerin watches you type in something, then hears the phone vibrate. “my number.” you say it like it’s obvious. “so you don’t have to spend your time reading while the sound of our yelling and the volleyballs distract you.”

“it wasn’t distracting.”

“then why’d you come?”

“to see you.”

your face heats up immediately. 

“whatever. are you doing anything after this?” you ask with a twinge of nervousness in your tone. your thumb presses down on the charger in your hand, an attempt to cool your nerves. “lets hangout?”

“look who’s the one missing me now.”

“oh whatever. do you want to, or no?”

haerin rolls her eyes. “okay, but wash up. you’re sweaty and gross,” she says, her look falling to your bicep as it flexes while you squeeze your charger.

—

“so, you and y/n?” minji asks one afternoon, lazily sitting on the couch.

haerin looks up from her laptop, raising a brow. “what?”

“what’s with you two? are you guys dating?”

“what?” haerin repeats, though much more baffled than before. “where did you even get that idea?”

dating? that’s ridiculous. two people can spend more time together, become friends and whatnot. that’s not dating. and plus, you’re still a world apart. if you’re not around her you’re in your bubble above her, floating around far out of her reach. you guys are nothing more than good friends. you’re nothing more than her good friend.

“y/n talks about you a lot.” minji shrugs, but the flicker of mischief in her eyes doesn’t go unnoticed. “a lot.”

“because we’re friends.”

“y/n and yunjin are best friends, but i haven’t heard much about yunjin in a while.”

haerin bites back immediately. “because you know her as well, you guys are teammates.”

“i know you too, haerin. it’s the same.”

minji’s just being ridiculous. there’s no way she’s implying that you have a thing for her. there’s a ton of girls lined up for you and for you to be fixated on her of all people would be ridiculous.

“there’s a lot of people who are into her, but it seems she’s only into you.”

“i—” haerin doesn’t know what to say, she bites her lip instead.

could you really be into her? she thinks hard about it. you’re so oblivious and idiotic, it would be much more blatant if you were actually into her.

“maybe you should pay more attention to her, because she pays a lot of attention to you, haerin.” minji says, followed by a smirk.

haerin groans quietly, sinking in her spot.

“you’re being stupid.”

minji shakes her head. “i think you’re trying to deny what i’m trying to say because you’re also into her—whether you’re going to accept that or not.”

—

minji’s accusation is proven right when it hits her—or rather you, quite literally—not too soon after the night on the couch.

haerin agrees to go to one of your games, but she doesn’t admit it’s because of you. she purposely meets up with minji first, pretending she isn’t eager to see your stupid face. when you run up to her in your uniform, the short sleeves hugging your arms just right, she has to fight back a huge smile. 

you raise your brows, giving her a teasing little smirk. “look who decided to show up.”

“you love to flatter yourself.”

“and you.” it’s a risky comment coming from you, especially when it’s paired with a wink. your teeth catch your lower lip like you regret it—maybe it was too risky. but haerin finds herself scoffing to distract you from the blush spreading across her face.

haerin gets some downtime to meet up with hanni, danielle, and eunchae in the stands. and then the game starts before she process what’s going on.

your team shows up all smiley in their jerseys, the crowd cheering. haerin isn’t on the loud side, so she claps for your team—a sharp contrast to hanni and danielle who are screaming at the top of their lungs. 

somehow, you catch her in the crowd, winking at her before slapping yunjin on the back to boost her spirits. haerin shakes her head, smiling as she does so.

the game starts off well for your team. yoon’s serves throw off the team in the beginning, giving your team a bit of a headstart before they grow accustomed to her. kazuha’s setting, paired with how quick and determined you are on the court, score two-thirds of the points in the first set.

the second set is rougher, with the other team winning by a few points. haerin can see the frustration in your face from where she’s at. the way you tighten your jaw after each slip up and how minji slaps your shoulder to keep you from losing your cool. she’s never seen you so serious, not even during practice. the way you hold yourself on the court is tremendously different from how unserious and carefree in class or alone with her. it’s admirable—also really attractive

the game goes on. you play well. really well.

the third set has you pumping your fist with each successful spike. haerin’s never been into volleyball like that—eunchae was the one who had to explain all the rules while the game was running—but she can tell that you’re incredible just from the way you leap, score, and celebrate.

everyone cools off a bit before the fourth set, determining if you’ll have to play another rigorous round or if you’re ready to celebrate a win against your rivals. 

it begins well, with one great serve from lily that scores the first point. yunjin’s quick to block a spike from the other side, and then kazuha’s dump scores another point for your own team, earning a slap on the back from you that’s too hard for her liking. she pushes your head roughly with a smile on her face.

for a while, the game goes smoothly—until it doesn’t.

your rivals’ star ace spike was faster than you could react, the ball hitting your temple unexpectedly with a force matching your own spikes. the sharp sound catches everyone off guard, and it’s followed by a few gasps, then cheers as the ball lands on the ground after your team loses their focus to look at you with concern.

it hurts, but you shake it off, signaling that you’re fine with a toothy smile and a thumbs-up.

haerin’s sitting up straigher in the stands now, worry etched into the way her eyebrows furrow. danielle glances at her, brows raised, but haerin says nothing. she doesn’t blink once until the game continues on.

everyone’s on the edge of their seats nearing the end of the game—your team is a point away from winning. the other team serves, your team does their best to keep them from scoring, then the ball is on the other side for them to deal with it.

and then, unbelievably, it happens again—this time way worse. 

their outside hitter jumps, swings, and the ball hits you directly in the face clean, and blood shoots out from your nose like something out of a cartoon. the crowd gasps, and haerin flinches as if it hit her too.

you recover quick, blinking hard, and yell at yunjin. she runs after the ball, keeps it in the air, and the game continues. your team scrambles, recovers, and you manage to run up, leap, and score a winning point that echoes in the court.

the gym erupts.

you exhale in relief, losing strength in your legs and laying on the ground with your eyes on the ceiling. blood trickles down your lip, mixing with sweat, and dripping onto the court where you lie down. it’s kind of gross, but you can’t really bother to care because you’ve won. 

the athletic trainer rushes over and makes you sit on the sideline, ice pressed to your face, tissues jammed up your nose almost comically. your team scrambles around you, and you brush them off, telling them you’re fine.

as soon as you’re left alone, haerin doesn’t think—she just moves. she scoots past legs and bags and down the bleachers, walking fast toward where you are.

you look up when she approaches, and all she can think of is how completely stupid you look. stupid and cute.

something sharp and certain twists in her chest.

she likes you.

not in a maybe, possibly way. in a real way. in a “you just bled all over your team’s side of the court, it’s on your jersey, and you’re still smiling at me like that” kind of way.

“i’m fine,” you say, like it’s the most normal thing in the world to be grinning with blood drying under your nose.

she sits down next to you, looking at you with worry in her eyes. “you look like an idiot.”

“an idiot who scored the winning assist~” you hum happily, then pause. “maybe this is payback for the time i hit you.”

she narrows her eyes and shoves your shoulder—not hard, but enough to make you laugh.

“i hate you. i still have a grudge because of that but,” she smiles, then continues, “that’s way too harsh for payback.”

you laugh—sort of, through the tissue—and it’s not even that funny, but she laughs too. 

and for a second, the sounds around you fade. the gym, the team, the chaos. it all blurs. everything clicks into place like it’s always been leading to this.

it scares you both simultaneously—how real it feels, how quick it settles in your chests—but it also feels safe. god it feels warm. like this was supposed to happen eventually.

you like her. she likes you. it hits you both at the same time—the third time something has hit you today, but this one hits way harder.

—

when haerin sees you next, your face is still swollen from the game a few days prior.

you’ve shown up to class without bothering to cover up the giant purple mark around your eye and another red mark on your nose bridge. but still, like always, you greet haerin with a smile before heading to your friends, who poke at your face on purpose and earn a pained groan.

“damn, ryujin got you good… it’s still there!” kazuha snickers poking you again. “jesus christ, it looks like you got punched.”

you shove her off, scoffing. “i’ll give you a similar mark if you keep it up.” 

“you better pray that the mark fades into something better, friday we’ve got that gig.” yunjin reminds you.

a lightbulb appears above your head. you’ve totally forgotten about the gig you landed—with the help of yunjin—after your little triumph on the court from a few days ago. your rub your face in your hands a little too hard and it hurts, making kazuha chuckle. 

yunjin arranged a little gig for you and two other students to play at a lively restaurant downtown. you’ve been a few times, and each time there’s been musicians brightening the atmosphere while bringing people together. out of all the places, this is the one you’ve been wanting to play at the longest. how could you forget?

it’s been a while since you’ve had a gig, if you’re not counting late-night bedroom sessions with friends, friends of friends, and friends of friends of friends in someone's dorm or rooftop. the though of performing in such a long time, after being occupied with volleyball, makes you a little nervous.

“fuck,” you mutter. “i completely brushed that off.”

“well, you better be ready by then. we’ve got to practice for that after practice practice.” 

you nod, sighing at the slight sting of your injury. your eyes land on haerin, who’s writing something down on a sticky note and placing it in her notebook. she turns to say something to hanni and your eyes linger on the outline of her side profile.

a thought pops up in your head, one that makes you smile ever so slightly.

—

“so i was thinking,” you start, watching haerin turn to look at you with an “oh god,” expression plastered on her face.

“that’s not good.”

“would you not.” you sigh. “just let me finish.”

you two have been studying european music history together on the second floor of your campus’ most popular cafe. chatter is spilling out from every table, some mixed with the sound of writing or a pen tapping against the table, which does a decent job of making the process of studying your least favorite era less dreadful.

haerin has on a slight blush and lip balm that tints her lips, a no-makeup kind of look that prompts you to steal glances every few minutes or so. you can’t not glance at her, not when her hair is up in a high bun, some shorter hairs falling over her face shifting around just a bit everytime she laughs at your stupid jokes or looks up to think about something. 

“okay, fine.” haerin giggles softly.

“as i was saying,” you continue, but haerin is momentarily distracted.

the oversized t-shirt’s collar is loose enough to reveal a fraction of your collarbones. it drapes over you lazily, complimenting the slight tousled look of your hair. plus, you just look cute in general that it had made it really difficult to study with full concentration. the swelling had gone down and the bruise faded ever so slightly, but there’s a natural flush on your cheeks that lingers from the inflammation that haerin can’t help but find adorable. she looks down at the table, biting down on her back teeth and pursing her lips to give you her full attention.

“i have this… thing on sunday. it’s nothing big, kinda…” you say a little quiter than before. haerin’s distracted again, but just a little. your mannerisms are caught by her eye immediately; the way your voice simmers down to something slightly vulnerable when you’re serious, how you bite your lip in between sentences, and the way your eyes dart around are enough to tell her that it’s actually ‘something big.’

“down at that restaurant near the waterfront, the one with the good burgers and italian food—i have a um… a gig.” you explain, eyes meeting haerin’s again to search for something. “and you know, i’m gonna play bass, and yunjin’s gonna be there too with some others. we’re just gonna have fun, have a good time, a good night and stuff. i was um, i was wondering if you wanted to come.”

before haerin can respond, you clear your throat and clarify, “actually, i’m not really asking. i want you to come.” 

haerin is speechless for a moment, responding with only a blush dimmed by the ambience of the cafe and a smile.

“i’d like that.”

“really?” your posture fixes just a bit from sheer shock. “great. you can bring a friend of course! i don’t care, but i’d… i’d like to see you there. i’d like to spend time with you after my little thing too.”

she laughs and her head tilts a bit, eyes softening as she looks at you with those dumb, adorable blue light glasses slipping down near the tip of your nose. her hand moves over to push them back up, making you smile like a child.

haerin moves her hand back to her laptop, eyelashes fluttering as she blinks and says, “i’m looking forward to it.”

—

panic crawls up haerin’s spine before she can stop it.

she was supposed to have everything under control—finish her assignment early, take her time getting ready, maybe even have some downtime before heading out. but the essay took longer than expected because she lost half of her sources somehow, and now she’s scrambling. she types at a speed that blurs her vision and biting the inside of her lip with each typo just to submit with barely thirty minutes left to get ready to see you. 

haerin’s usually composed, easy-going, and on top of things. but now there’s a small pile of clothes tossed on the bed, her phone buzzing with the time, and her thoughts spinning faster than she can catch them. the bus stop is five minutes away, which means she has less time than she thought. her fingers have trouble zipping up her bag.

she ends up in something simple, making her second guess (but there’s no time for that, really). her hair is braided in two, something simple and hopefully cute enough for you. the braids fall neatly over her shoulders, parted slightly off-center. her makeup is light to match the striped, long-sleeve top she has on, paired with comfy jeans. it’s casual, but hopefully enough to make a statement, or get you to notice her, or maybe—

she closes her eyes, thinking of how ridiculous it is to be thinking so hard about her impression on you. she wants to look nice—wants you to think she looks nice. it’s stupid. she knows it’s stupid. and it’s conflicting in the sense that she’s standing in the mirror trying to impress someone who might not think twice about what she’s wearing. but she can’t help it.

now she’s tying her sneakers and thinking about how you’ll see her when she walks in. if you’ll glance at her for a beat longer than usual. if you’ll say anything. and that thought alone makes her blush so hard she has to put a hand over her face, thinking, what’s gotten into me?

—

haerin gets there a little late—heart banging against her chest from the walk and nerves—but it’s fine. the outdoor area is dim from the setting sun, the lights are warm and hazy, and you’re just about to start. the crowd isn’t crazy huge, but only two tables aren’t filled with a group of friends or couple. she spots a table for two, walking over and passing people talking over drinks, leaning into each other, swaying slightly even before the music begins.

you’re on stage, tuning your bass, laughing at something yunjin says into the mic. haerin spots you immediately, and before she can duck or think twice, your eyes catch hers through the crowd.

the moment is like a movie. everything slows down and it’s just you. your face lighting up—small, just a grin—but she feels it right in her chest. you look thrilled. like her showing up meant the world. like she’s not just another person in that room looking for a nice friday night. like she’s there for you and you only and the thought of it makes you soar.

she finds a spot somewhere off to the side, still in your line of sight. the music starts. something low and smooth and groovy—your fingers working the bass like it’s second nature. haerin’s never really paid attention to bassists before. but with you, it’s impossible not to. 

she’s suddenly too aware of every single thing you do. everytime your fingers shift to another note, the way your eyes flicker over her a little too often—none of it goes unnoticed.

yunjin stands beside you, her energy laidback, teasing. she waits for you to finish the opening chords, then strums into the rhythm, syncing naturally with the beat. you move with the rhythm, eyes mostly on your bandmates but still drifting back to haerin again and again like you can’t help it. 

the chorus creeps in, you step up next to yunjin, nodding at her like there’s a silent understanding of what’s up next. the crowd sways with you two, reeled in by your energy and playfulness. you alternate the lyrics with yunjin; she sings the first part of the chorus, and you sing the second part. 

“cause basically i—” yunjin starts, before passing it to you, “i just wanna ride with you”

your voice slides into the space, low and clear, easy but intimate.

“i gotta getcha—’cause i just wanna vibe with you”

yunjin keeps it light, laughing a little as you bump her shoulder during her next line, but when you return to your part, your gaze locks in on haerin. 

“‘cause i just gotta know if you want me too,” you sing. your voice is like silk, the tone is almost inviting, “dontcha want me?”

the lyrics feel different—like they mean something deeper and you’re not just singing it to entertain the crowd, like you really mean what you’re singing and it’s not just the song.

haerin’s heart races in her chest. she feels it even in her neck, in her fingertips, and the thrill of it makes it impossible to look away. the way your voice fills the room, rich and warm, and she’s hanging on every word. you sing with such ease, so naturally, as though this is exactly where you’re supposed to be. and with every chorus that yunjin flows into, you complement her voice without failing to make eye contact with haerin as you dance around with yunjin. 

dontcha, 

dontcha, 

dontcha, 

dontcha want me?

the outro loops, and she’s completely under whatever your voice has cast. her head bobs along, a faint smile on her lips, not even trying to hide how enamored she is. 

as the song ends, you pause for a moment, fingers still resting on the bass strings, and meet her gaze. you have the same look from before. a quiet understanding. your smile isn’t wide now, but it’s full of something softer, steadier. like you’re both aware of the new realization that hangs in the air. 

haerin rises with the rest of the crowd, clapping, her expression a little different now—slightly flushed, eyes bright. she makes her way to you once the applause dies down and people begin settling back into their seats after everyone on stage says their final words of appreciation and gratitude. 

it’s just you and her again. 

you’re both quiet. not because you want to be, but because haerin opens her mouth to say something but nothing comes out. and on your end, it feels like your brain short-circuits the second you see her up close. 

she’s standing there with her hands fidgeting around with the end of her top, her cheeks are pink from the slight chill of the evening or maybe from the song—maybe both. her hair catches the light in soft waves, and her eyes, even as she glances down, make you want to collapse then and there. she looks up again with those gorgeous brown eyes you could probably stare at for the entirety of a lecture and longer and your brain is fuzzy and twisted and tangled. 

the golden light from the streetlamp pools down against a window and it somehow reflects perfectly to make her face glow more than before. everything about her feels surreal, a little too good to be true.

and before you can even process anything other than the slight tilt of her head, you say it.

“wow.” 

your voice is quiet, breathy, like you’ve just found a new wonder of the world. 

she glances up at you, lips parted like she was about to speak, but your next words beat her to it.

“you look beautiful.” and it’s not smooth, or practiced. it falls out of your mouth clumsy and too honest. but the second it slips out, you mean it more than anything you’ve ever said.

her eyes go wide for a second, and then she laughs—soft and flustered and caught off guard. her eyes dart away like they’re too shy to hold yours anymore. she shifts on her feet, head ducking slightly, biting the inside of her lip just barely. 

“you’re just saying that,” she murmurs, her voice quiet but warm, still not quite looking at you. 

“no,” you say, immediate, because it’s true and you need her to know it. “i mean it.”

she laughs again—maybe to calm her stuttering heart, or because she is way to flustered to act normal at all—and smiles into the sidewalk like it’s the only way she can keep from blowing up then and there.

(something like that)

you watch her closely, your heart racing, but not from nerves anymore. from something else. something lighter. better. 

“i um, i—” you pinch the bridge of your nose, cringing at your stutter. haerin laughs, and you do too before continuing. “thank you for coming. i was really looking forward to see you.”

“you were?”

“of course i was, idiot.” you grin. “have you eaten yet?”

haerin thinks to herself briefly. she had crammed before meeting with you, and if she tried to take even a bite out of anything she probably wouldn’t have been able to swallow it just from the overwhelming rush of nervousness that washed over her just from thinking about you and seeing you.

“no. i didn’t get the chance.”

“let me treat you then! the burgers here are great. lets grab two and share the fries,” you suggest, putting your hand on your stomach. “and i’m really hungry after all of that.”

haerin rolls her eyes, then chuckles. “of course you are. let’s go eat, y/n.”

—

after dinner, and saying all your goodbyes to everyone who showed up, you end up walking along the waterfront right outside the restaurant.

(yunjin makes sure to wiggle her brows at you two, and tease you until you’re blushing even harder than before.)

the night is quiet except for the sound of water lapping gently against the edge of the dock and the occasional breeze. the street lamps light up your path, and your steps slow naturally, like neither of you are in a rush to go home.

you nudge her arm gently as you walk. “you know, i always wanted to get to know you better.”

she glances over, rasing an eyebrow. “since when?”

“since that day i hit you in the head.” you laugh a little, eyes on the water now.

she groans. “seriously?” and you grin.

“i felt so bad—you were so pissed,” you say fondly. “i did everything i could to warm up to you because i was so, so sorry. every time we passed each other, you’d act like i didn’t exist or give me that look… my friends poked at me for it but i was kind of fascinated.”

haerin’s already laughing now, shaking her head. “you’re so weird.”

“probably.” you admit with a chuckle. “but i liked finally getting through your skin, getting to know you… you just— you stood out. i don’t think i’ve ever met anyone like you. and i didn’t stick around because i felt bad for giving you a giant bruise. i just thought you were interesting, and smart, and pretty. and when you say you hate me and call me an idiot it only makes me want to stick around and bother you more.”

your voice dies down a bit. haerin notices the shift in your demeanor—something shy, nervous, and adorable.

“i thought you were so odd for wanting to stick around,” she finally says, glancing at you with that same familiar side-eye, but softer this time. “and i didn’t like you before because we were in two different worlds and… your friends were so loud.” she jokes.

you pretend to clutch your chest, gasping. “wow, i’m hurt. you hated me without knowing me?”

“i didn’t hate you!” she defends, pushing you softly.

she laughs again and you both stop walking, pausing near the edge of the water. she’s still smiling when she looks at you, but her voice is smaller when she speaks again.

“i’ve really grown to admire you,” she says quietly. “and i’m glad we’re here, and you invited me to your little gig and i finally got to see you play bass and you…”

“i’m glad we’re friends—kind of,” you say softly, quietly. she looks up at you with a confused expression, to which you respond by looking away, smiling at the water in front of you. “i’m saying ‘kind of because’… i’ve kinda had a thing for you for a while and i’m really glad you came and i wanted to ask you out tonight but god it feels like my heart is beating out of my chest and—”

you inhale, then look her in the eyes before exhaling your confession, “haerin. i really, really like you.”

she doesn’t say anything at first. just looks at you, her eyes darting across your face like she’s searching for something in the sparkle on the surface of your eyes. 

then, slowly, she leans in and kisses your cheek. it’s quick, barely there, but you heat up almost immediately. your chest warms, and then your face, and then your whole body.

you blink. your cheeks are flushed like crazy—they have to be—and haerin pulls back, clearly flustered now too. she bites back a smile.

“i really like you too,” she mumbles, looking anywhere but at you. “you’re so cute. i hate it.”

you grin. “sorry.” 

“don’t be. i like it.” she responds, earning a playful scoff from you.

you can’t stop smiling for the rest of the night. neither can she.

—

your first official date with haerin is downtown, but it’s nothing too far from a usual hangout other than the fact that both of you are crazy aware of the mutual feelings, mutual everything. haerin smiles at you the whole time and you want to capture the moment and hang it on your wall.

the second official date is nothing crazy, but it’s really domestic for a second date. 

you invite her over to your place since yunjin’s out for the weekend helping her mom with something you completely forgot about. haerin shows up in a simple sweater and shorts and the sight of her alone earns a bunch of kisses pressed all over her face. she pretends to be annoyed, pushing you off and groaning playfully, but when you’re settled, she presses a soft kiss on your cheek and calls you cute. you nearly combust.

for a second date, it’s awfully intimate. intimate in the way that you were supposed to be watching a movie together, but a gust of drowsiness decided to sweep by. it hits you first, starting off with a small yawn that leaves your lips, and then your head falls to haerin’s chest, the thump of her heart lulling you to sleep. she’s flustered beyond measure at how calm and settled you look, snapping a picture before shutting your laptop and pulling your blanket over both of you. she moves just a bit so you can both lie comfortably instead of at a questionable angle, and the last of your energy takes over then, your arm wrapping around her.

the second date ends with you waking up to a dead-asleep haerin sprawled out on top of you. the soft breaths from her lips urge you to reach out your hand, even while half asleep, and brush the hair out her face, smiling before you succumb to sleepiness again.

—

an incident familiar to your first mishap with haerin occurs before you even get to your third date. 

it’s just like before–same gym, same rush of adrenaline as you play through another long rally during practice. the ball sails high over the net, your timing feels perfect, and without thinking, you leap up and spike it hard.

the ball’s trajectory decides to swerve and smack right into someone’s head.

you freeze.

it takes less than a second to realize it’s haerin.

“oh my god—” you’re already sprinting across the court before she can even recover from the hit, cradling her head with one hand while waving off the coach with the other. “are you okay? are you—can you see me well? how is your vision? do you feel dizzy?”

“i’m fine,” she says, blinking a few times. “it just scared me—”

“i just hit your head with a nasty spike, do not lie to me. i’m not taking any chances. come on.” you gently take her wrist, ignoring the fact that practice hasn’t ended yet as you pull her toward the exit. 

she doesn’t resist. she just walks beside you with that unreadable expression she always has on her face—though it’s slightly more readable when she’s around you and you take much pride in that—though you don’t catch the way she keeps stealing glances at you.

you head over toward the nurse’s offices, nearly barging into the hallway, but once you’re alone and the noise of the gym fades behind you, you stop and turn to her. 

“let me see,” you mutter.

she opens her mouth to assure you that she’s perfectly fine even though a stinging sensation lingers, but you’re already cupping her face in both hands.

your thumbs press softly against her cheeks, fingers curled just under her jaw, tilting her head from one side to the other. “you’re not dizzy? does your head hurt? is your vision—”

“i’m fine,” she repeats, but her voice is quieter now, and her eyes keep flicking between yours and your lips.

the proximity decreases the more you frown. concern is etched on your features as you inspect her like she’s made of glass. “i swear, i didn’t mean to—the ball just, i thought yunjin would’ve got it but—ugh, you could’ve been really hurt if it were a direct spike. your cheek is already deepening in color, your face—”

and that’s when she kisses you.

a quick, soft press of her lips to yours. barely there. just enough to shut you up.

you blink. 

she pulls back immediately and fills the silence, her voice small. “you worry too much.”

your hands are still on her face, and now they tighten slightly. and before you can overthink it, you lean in and kiss her again. this time it’s slower, softer, and certain. 

she makes a small noise of shock against your mouth, but melts into it a second later. her whole body relaxes completely. 

when you finally pull back you’re blushing like crazy. her eyes are widened and her smile grows the longer you look at her.

“... are you sure you’re okay?” you murmur, your thumb brushing her cheek. 

“i am, stop worrying so much.” she scolds, then giggles softly. “you still hit me in the head me in the head though—again.”

“sorry.” you sigh. “guess we’ve come full circle now.”

“i guess so, loser.” she laughs, then moves over to peck your lips again.

[yes-no-maybe-soo]

A couple of things that I love and admire about Sylus ♡♡♡

(This got long so decided to add a cut dhdjfj there is just too much to appreciate when it comes to this man ^^;)

For earlier parts in this "series": go here and here

How mentally and emotionally strong he is. His past never broke him or managed to twist or warp his soul. Which considering his background is incredibly impressive. This is a man that suffered severe trauma pretty much from infancy and onward for thousands of years. He is heavily implied to have been abandoned as a child due to being "weak". He self harmed at an early age. He witnessed the total slaughter of the only kin he'd known. He was nearly murdered himself for no other crime than looking different. He was tossed into the abyss to rot for over a millennia, stuck in place with a greatsword lodged through his chest. All of this happened while he was still a juvenile. He most likely hadn't experienced a single day of real happiness or care in his life up until meeting his sorceress. But even before they get properly close, he shows her kindness and compassion despite never having known any himself. We learn that he has never eaten a human soul, nor harmed anyone that didn't deserve it. When he dies, his soul is revealed to smell like flowers. He never lost his innate goodness. In the present, he also shows that same remarkable inner strength and stability, now even more noticeable with added age and further maturity.

How well he takes care of his people. All evidence points to him being an amazing boss and leader. It's especially touching to see how much the twins admire and appreciate him.

The effect he has on those that come under his wings. They all seem to flourish and come out stronger than they were before.

His aura. His scenes in LAR and his entire anecdote gives me chills to this day.

His perfect jawline. It's immaculate.

His honesty. He never lies to MC. Not even once. He doesn't ever whitewash himself and is upfront about his desires and his greed. Similarly, from what we've seen, he honors the deals he makes with anyone seeking his protection (No Way Out, Elysium).

His straightforwardness. On a personal level, as a ND individual, I appreciate this quality in others immensely since reading subtler signals more often than not isn't my forte and tends to stress me out trying to figure out what they are trying to convey to me. So it brings me comfort to see Sylus be straightforward with his feelings for MC. He may not always be direct with his words – both he and MC like to talk in riddles at times – but his actions and his demeanor always are.

His quick thinking and savvy.

Just his sharp intelligence in general. He is always eight or ten steps ahead of his opponents.

His sheer unwavering confidence and charisma. Both enough to fill the mariana trench.

How he is incredibly emotionally mature. He is calm, composed, never abuses the power he has, never lashes out, never loses control of himself. He isn't bitter, doesn't dwell on the past. He isn't brooding or hateful. And when MC tells him he sucks at something (giving a massage in the specific instance I'm thinking of) instead of getting annoyed or taking it personally, he asks her to teach him how to do it. When she says that he is pestering her, he accepts it and gives her the space she says she wants without arguing even a little. We have never once seen him fight with MC over anything. Nor can I even picture a scenaro where they would, try as I might. They're just too chill/emotionally intelligent to get heated or argumentative.

Overall his emotional strength and maturity shows itself best with MC. He definitely made major mistakes in his treatment of her at the start of LAR out of desperation and a misguided belief that the end justifies the means, but the moment he realizes that he has gone too far and that he needs to stop trying to force their past onto her, he stops. Nor does he ever try to manipulate or hold their soulbond over her head (he never even mentions it to her). Instead, he puts his all into building a relationship with the present her from scratch, on her terms, at her pace. He falls in love with and cherishes the present her, just as much as the past her. That is not to say though that all emotional scars have healed. Of course not. Whenever MC unknowingly makes those oddly specific references tied to the shared past she doesn't remember, it's bound to hurt him. But he handles it amazingly, staying composed. And he still aches for her to remember – but I suspect in large part for her sake rather than his. He wants her to know herself entirely, every single part. She deserves to know her history. But crucially, he never pushes the issue. All he does is make gentle references in the hopes that she might remember. But that's all. At the end of the day, on a personal level, if MC never recalls anything, then he'd be fine with that. He is overjoyed just to be a part of her life again, to hold her in his arms.

And imo the probably biggest instance of his maturity and strength? Being willing to let her go, if that is what she desires. Remember that MC represents everything good, beautiful, and joyous in his life. She is the best thing that happened to him. The one person to love, accept, and want him unconditionally. The sole individual to truly see the real him (the only one that dared or cared enough to try). After his resurrection he has yearned and searched the galaxies for her for an unknown but more than likely vast amount of years. And yet... he is willing to let go, for her sake. Even though it would destroy him on the inside. Because she is so much more important than his own desires.

Following on with the maturity theme, I admire the way he approaches losing. He isn't a sore loser but bears it with ease of mind, which isn't always the case with people like Sylus who are used to coming out on top. But to him, whether he wins at a competition or not doesn't affect his confidence or self worth, and he can readily acknowledge when he's been fairly beaten by an opponent. The only time he truly cares about winning is if MC wants him to. And then he'll make sure to win no matter what.

Another thing I admire is how he is so willing to adapt and adjust for MC and the love he bears her. For instance, Sylus is not by nature or temeprament a patient man. He wants to get things done and wants them done fast. A good example of this is in the most recent event, where he does not have the patience to let flowers grow naturally and so tries to force the process. However, when it comes to MC? He is willing to wait infinite lifetimes. He always walks at her pace when it comes to their relationship, and never pressures her. He gives her as much time as she needs to figure her feelings out. He is an impatient man willing and ready to be endlessly patient for his beloved

For all that he is down bad for MC, Sylus isn't a doormat nor spineless in regards to her. He won't just mindlessly agree and go along with whatever she wants but has a strong will, agenda, and boundaries of his own. He teases and bullies MC (affectionately), gives as good as he gets from her, and doesn't hesitate to call her out and/or fluster her for his own amusement. Leading to the banter we all know and love.

His ability to truly self reflect and grow. I am referencing what happens in and after LAR 1-8, where he disappears for a while after having gotten hit by a harsh but necessary reality check. My belief is that he went away initially to cry, but that he also did some major self reflecting. Afterwards, his behavior toward MC changes quite dramatically. He realized that he fucked up, and is determined to do and be better for her. And he never falters. We stan a person that recognizes they fucked up and learns from it. His character development and growth in general mean a lot to me.

How incredibly skilled he is at driving those mototcycles of his. No wonder MC feels safe riding with him no matter how fast they go or how dangerous the terrain.

That his crimes never affect innocents. Sylus has always made it a point only to harm or kill those who truly deserve it.

Despite how he claims never to have comforted anyone before, he is touchingly good at it. He is incredibly emotionally intelligent and attentive. He is always so quick to pick up on how MC is feeling, and he also knows when it's best to give advice, when it's best to act (ie send her something to comfort her, take her on a joyride etc), or when it's best to simply listen and be there for her. Most of the time he is incredibly in tune with her feelings and her needs.

And he can be so achingly tender when he comforts her. A great example of this is in Where Hearts Live, when at one point MC feels embarrassed and insecure about verbalizing how she feels. He is so patient and gentle, holding her close in his lap and rocking her, softly reassuring her that she can talk to him, that he wants to hear what she has to say. And there are other examples of his kindness, such as with animals and plants. A huge reason why this is so admirable to me is that Sylus is a man that has lived a rough life, and with few exceptions seen and dealt with the worst humanity has to offer. He has had precious few opportunities to witness or experience goodness or tenderness from others. And yet he has no trouble being either to those he cares for. It comes so naturally from him. Again, further proof that he has always at his core been compassionate and kind, and that those qualities have withstood throughout all the hardship and violence.

Lastly, I (naturally) greatly admire his hands. They are mesmerizing. Large and rough, yet elegant and beautiful. I can stare at them for hours and never get tired.

Ok I lied I also need to add his veins. Both on his hands and on his bulging arms.

[wordsarelife]

—foolish one

pairing: theo nott x fem!reader

summary: it's your birthday, but theo forgot about it.. or did he?

warnings: very very little angst, mostly fluff

note: i absolutely hate this and beg you guys to not let this piece form your opinion about my writing lmaooo

“i told you he was an asshole.” enzo was laying on your bed, facing the ceiling.

you turned around to look at him. “come on,” you muttered, and enzo moved so he could hang his head over the edge and stare at you. you almost had to giggle at how red his face got.

“what am i supposed to say?”

“something that’ll make me feel better,” you suggested. “you’re my best friend, enzo.”

“fine,” he sighed, before he thought for a moment. “maybe theo had a good reason to forget your birthday. maybe someone obliviated him, or he hit his head and forgot all about your six-year friendship—or no, better, maybe he went out to fight voldemort to make sure nothing could come in the way of your special day.”

“enzo,” you sighed dramatically.

even though you hated to admit it, he was right. your hopes had been up all morning, excitement pooling in your chest while enzo and you walked to the great hall together. your excitement had evaporated into thin air when all your friends had been there—except for the one person you had most hoped to see.

your friends had, of course, congratulated you and promised to give their presents to you in the common room later, but theo hadn't shown up all morning, and despite their best tries, you had slipped into a sour mood at his forgetfulness and absence.

"let's just stop moping around, how about that, huh?" enzo suggested, and you rolled your eyes.

"i'm not moping around," you remarked. "i'm getting ready." as if to prove your words, you quickly grabbed the blush, applying it onto your cheeks.

"yeah, you were totally doing that this past hour," enzo nodded sarcastically. "i'm not saying that you shouldn't be disappointed about theo, i'm just saying that you have friends who actually remembered what day it was."

"yeah, i know, and you're right." you smudged the blush with your fingers until it looked even and mostly natural, before you stood up. "let's go back down and join the others."

enzo smiled and nodded, following you out of your room. to your surprise, the common room wasn't looking like it normally did. it was decorated with balloons and streamers, and a happy birthday banner was hanging between two tall columns.

it hadn't looked like that when you had come back from breakfast.

"happy birthday!" your friends and a few housemates chorused as you laughed in surprise.

theo stepped through the crowd of people, a wrapped present in his hand.

you turned around to look at enzo, who just shrugged. "sorry," he smiled, and you shook your head, realizing that theo's absence had been part of a bigger plan.

"you didn't forget?" you asked unnecessarily, your eyes looking up at him with hope.

"of course i didn't," theo shook his head as if he couldn't fathom how you would ever think he could forget. "i was just busy planning this party, so i couldn't congratulate you sooner."

you shook your head, tears brimming at your eyes as you again took in the room around you. "you did all that for me?"

"of course," theo chuckled. he opened his mouth, ready to give you your present, but you interrupted him, opening your arms and throwing them around his body in a hug.

he tried again when you loosened the hug, but was interrupted by your friends, who all walked forward, ready to congratulate you. you looked around one of your friends in front of you, trying to gather a look at theo. he smiled at you, sending a wink in your direction, before he stepped back, letting the small box sink into his pocket, saving it for later.

you didn't see much of him for the rest of the party. someone always demanded your attention, but you saw him look at you a few times, maybe even debating coming over and joining the conversation.

you knew theo hated birthday parties, especially ones that involved a lot of talking. but he had still organized this for you, surprising you with something you loved, because in that departure, theo and you were polar opposites.

the party began to wind down, and though you had tried your best to enjoy it, you couldn’t help but feel the growing distance between you and theo. but you were determined not to let it ruin your night. there would be time later. you'd get your moment, your chance to talk to him.

and then, as if on cue, theo appeared. he was standing in the doorway, watching you, his expression unreadable. you stood up straighter, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear as you moved toward him.

"hey," you greeted softly, your voice almost unsure. it had been a long evening, and though the disappointment from earlier still lingered, you didn’t want it to define this moment. you wanted this to be your chance to reconnect.

theo’s eyes softened when he saw you, but there was something else there—a quiet sadness, something he hadn’t allowed to surface all night. he gave you a small, almost apologetic smile. "hey. i, uh... i wanted to find you earlier, but something always got in the middle."

"no, yeah, i get it," you smiled. "it's fine."

"i still need to give you your present." his expression relaxed a bit as he found something he could hold onto. his hand went into his pocket and took out the small black box, holding it out in front of you.

you looked at it for a few seconds before you softly took it, his and your fingers meeting for a fleeting moment.

the box snapped open with a low thud, revealing a dark red cushion and a beautiful golden bracelet laying on top of it. it was decorated with little diamonds, which seemed to be a bit too real.

"theo..." your breath hitched, unable to come up with real words. "this must've cost a fortune."

theo ignored your words. "do you like it?" he asked instead. "you mentioned something about a diamond bracelet your grandma always wore, which got lost when she died. this is the closest i could find that fit your description."

"you remember that?" you wondered, looking up with tears forming in your eyes. "that was years ago."

"i wanted it to be as close as possible to the real one," theo shrugged. "this one came out at the beginning of the year."

"you're joking," you shook your head, still not able to really understand what was happening.

"you said you loved that bracelet," he continued to explain. "and i remember how sad you were when it got lost. i wanted you to have something to remember your grandma by."

"theo..." you said once more. "this is too much."

"no," he shook his head with a soft smile. "it's the least i could do for you."

you looked up again at his words, your eyes crashing into his. the sincerity in them almost made you stumble. you had waited years for him. years in which you had begged that he would finally say the words.

but all this time, he had clearly shown you what he felt, with you being simply too oblivious to realize it.

"do you want me to help you put it on?" theo asked, and you nodded, holding your arm out in front of him.

theo's fingers were soft as they worked around your wrist, the golden bracelet bringing a sudden cold to your heated skin.

"can you do something else for me?" you asked without thinking.

theo didn't even hesitate. "of course, anything."

you took a small breath, the moment feeling like it stretched forever in your chest. "kiss me, theo." your voice was almost a whisper, as if you didn't really want him to hear the words escaping your lips.

the stunned surprise on his face was enough to make your stomach drop—just for a second, you thought you might have ruined everything. that this might be too much, too sudden. but then, just as quickly, the surprise vanished, replaced by something deeper, more certain. his expression softened, his gaze lingering on yours for a beat longer, and in that moment, you knew. he wasn’t pulling away.

your eyes fluttered closed, and before you could take another breath, his lips were on yours. it was gentle at first, as though he was still testing the waters, but then, it deepened—slow and warm, like everything else that had felt uncertain between you two was melting away.

his hand cupped your face, his thumb brushing over your cheek, and you couldn't help but press closer, feeling the comfort of his presence, the certainty in his touch.

down there in the dark common room, theodore nott's lips were all you felt and all you wanted to feel for the rest of your life.

[jungkoode]

死 KKANGPAE | #16 死

† shooting range and dinner †

"When his insomnia slips out, you decide being a useful fuck buddy is part of the arrengement. Even if sleeping is not exactly what you want to do tonight."

next | index

⚔ chapter details ⚔

word count: 9,3k.

content: jeon taking a nap in j-hope’s office and hobi having none of it, verbal fights between friends, bestie plans being cancelled, shooting range practices that feel like lame excuses to touch, insomnia confessions, sleeping arrangements where both of them fail to simply sleep.

☠ author's note ☠

Y'ALL I'M SCREAMING. Look at my boy Jeon being all emotionally constipated and sleepless and GRUMPY! I cannot with him sometimes (⁠╯⁠°⁠□⁠°⁠)⁠╯⁠︵⁠ ⁠┻⁠━⁠┻

So I'm really exposing my kinks here, but the whole "let's sleep together but actually sleep" trope is just *chef's kiss* perfect. Insomnia-ridden boy who can only sleep well with you nearby? GIVE IT TO ME INTRAVENOUSLY, THANK YOU.

And J-Hope being all "I'm your friend whether you like it or not, you stubborn asshole" is everything I needed today. Their friendship is so beautifully dysfunctional I want to frame it and hang it on my wall.

Meanwhile, you guys in the comments are like "show us Jeon's POV!" and I'm over here like "fine, take his whole entire trauma-riddled brain, are you happy now?!" The answer is yes, you're all trauma vultures just like me. No shame in our game.

I had so much fun writing the shooting range scene though! That whole "let me adjust your stance" trope where they're basically just looking for an excuse to touch you? ICONIC. I will never get tired of it. Sue me.

And don't even get me started on that dinner scene. Jeon actually eating with another human being and not hating it? CHARACTER GROWTH, PEOPLE!

Sorry for leaving you hanging with the spicy bits but... actually no, I'm not sorry at all. The slow boil to explosion is the best part and I'm savoring every moment of your collective suffering (◕‿◕✿)

See you next chapter, you magnificent disaster enablers!

⚔ socials ⚔

read on ao3

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tumblr/twitter: @jungkoode

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎

"Again, Jeon?"

J-Hope's voice hits him as soon as he walks in, but Jungkook can't bring himself to care. His body feels heavy, mind foggy with exhaustion.

The medical ward has become too familiar lately—the sharp smell of antiseptic, the soft hum of medical equipment, the way the afternoon light filters through the blinds.

He grunts in response, already making his way to his usual spot. The stretcher's not comfortable, not really, but it's better than lying awake in his own bed.

"You can't come here every afternoon, you know. I have shit to do and your snoring is not precisely helpful."

Jungkook almost rolls his eyes. He doesn't snore—never has—but arguing takes energy he doesn't have.

"Then put some background music."

"You—"

He doesn't wait for J-Hope to finish, just rolls onto the stretcher, facing the wall. The vinyl covering is cool against his arm, and somehow it's grounding... perhaps in a way he doesn't want to examine too closely.

"Are you for real right now? This is the third day in a row you're taking a nap in my office."

"You said yourself I should nap from time to time." His voice comes out muffled, face half-pressed into the thin pillow.

"Yes, but not in my goddamn office!"

The silence that follows is heavy.

He can picture J-Hope without looking—probably pinching the bridge of his nose, that look of exasperated concern he gets whenever Jeon's being particularly difficult. He hears the medic's chair creak as he leans back.

"Look, Jungkook." The use of his real name makes something in his chest tighten. J-Hope only uses it when he's about to say something Jungkook won't like. "I don't wanna be the one saying this to you, but you need to get your shit together."

"Well I am trying to fall asleep right now." The deflection is weak and they both know it.

"That is not what I mean you dimwit." There's that familiar mix of frustration and worry in J-Hope's voice. "Believe me, I'm glad you're finally trying to get some proper rest. But this—in my office? Just why."

Jungkook quiet, hoping J-Hope will drop it. He doesn't want to think about why he keeps coming here, why his own room feels too empty, too quiet. Why he can't sleep unless he can hear someone else breathing nearby.

(He definitely doesn't want to think about how he slept better in that tent, with y—)

"Jungkook."

Not his real name again.

Something in him snaps.

"Fine. I don't fucking know, okay?" The words come out sharp, defensive. He glares at the wall like it's personally offended him. "I just seem to sleep better in company."

"In company?" He can hear J-Hope's brain working, trying to piece together this new information. "Okay, what—? Elaborate right now."

"No."

The word is final, heavy with all the things he refuses to say.

Like the nightmares that wake him up gasping. Or how silence fucking makes his skin crawl. Or how being alone with his thoughts is becoming unbearable.

About how he hasn't had a decent night's sleep since—

"Whose company, Jungkook? This isn't about little bed-hopping habits, is it?"

It's offensive, the question, really.

But all he does is stare at the wall, trying to ignore how his mind immediately conjures up images of you. Of how he actually slept through the night in that tent.

No nightmares, no cold sweats. Just... sleep.

Four fucking years of insomnia, and the solution was this s̶t̶u̶p̶i̶d̶ simple?

"No, it's not." His fingers curl into a fist against the stretcher, leather creaking under fingers—and the sound grates on his nerves, already frayed from lack of sleep. "I ain't talking about it. Drop it, Hoseok."

Using J-Hope's real name now is a low blow, but Jungkook is too tired to care. He just wants to test his theory—see if sleeping near someone, anyone, will keep the nightmares at bay. He doesn't need J-Hope playing therapist, doesn't need him picking apart why this might be working.

Because that would mean thinking about you, about that night, about how for the first time in years he actually felt—

No.

"I'm your friend, Jungkook. And as a member of the Council of Nine, I have to know if anything... or anyone is becoming a weakness."

Jeon almost laughs.

A weakness? No. This isn't about feelings. This is about finally getting some fucking sleep without having to relive—

He cuts that thought off too. Focuses on the antiseptic smell of the medical ward, the equipment, anything but the memories threatening to surface.

J-Hope's concern is misplaced. This isn't about compromising the gang or breaking rules. It's about finding a solution to a problem that's been haunting him for four years.

So if sleeping near someone help? Fucking fine. He'll take what he can get.

Even if it pisses him off that it took this long to figure it out.

"There is no fucking weakness, you got that?" His eyes feel like lead weights in his skull. "I just need some goddamn sleep. I've gotta be sharp for the mission. That's all you need to know."

He can feel J-Hope's eyes on him, searching for cracks where light would shine through.

There's none.

It's been a long time since there's none.

But the medic knows too much, has seen too much. Was there that night when everything went to shit, when V—

"And after the mission? What then? You keep coming back here for your afternoon siestas or are you gonna be sleeping with that company?"

The implication slices through without sugarcoating. There's another word hovering in the air between them, pressing down on the air like a goddamn vacuum.

Traitor.

It sits there like poison, like the taste of copper in his mouth from that night.

Jeon pushes himself up, muscles tense, anger corroding his veins. His head is pounding from lack of sleep, making everything sharper, harder to control.

"I'll deal with it when it comes. Besides, who the fuck will notice? You gonna bitch about it to the rest of the crew?"

"Watch it, Kook." The use of his nickname is a warning, one that would mean more if he wasn't so fucking tired. "I'm trying to help you, not rat you out. But if you become a liability..."

"I ain't no fucking liability."

He's on his feet now, wrath burning through the exhaustion. His fists clench until he can feel his nails biting into his palms.

The suggestion that he'd risk the gang again, that he'd let himself be compromised like that... He does not appreciate it.

It makes something dark and ugly twist in his chest.

"You think I don't know the stakes? You think I'd let myself become another Sylvia episode?"

"Surely you're more intelligent than that."

The words hit exactly where J-Hope means them to. Because yeah, everyone thought he was intelligent back then too. Look how that turned out.

Jungkook holds J-Hope's gaze, something ugly settling in his chest.

For a moment, he considers telling him about you, about this arrangement that's purely physical—no strings, no complications, just a solution to his sleepless nights.

But the words catch in his throat. Because J-Hope isn't just asking for himself, is he? He's asking for AD too. AD, who still carries Sylvia's ghost like an open wound, who took her death even harder than he did.

Who trusted her, protected her, only to watch her choose Jungkook—and then watch her die for that choice.

The guilt sits like lead in his stomach. He can't do that to AD again. Can't make him watch from the sidelines as another woman gets tangled up with Jungkook, always wondering if history's about to repeat itself.

The weight of Sylvia's death is still a chain around his neck, dragging him down every time he closes his eyes.

So he swallows the truth, lets it burn on its way down. This thing with you—he'll handle it himself. Keep it contained. Control it before it becomes something he can't take back.

His face settles into careful blankness as he meets J-Hope's searching look.

"I fucking am. I don't need your nagging."

It's not even a lie. This isn't like Sylvia. He won't let it be. You're different—safer. You know exactly what this is.

"You sure you don't?" J-Hope's voice rises. "Because from what I recall, you've been a messy piece of shit ever since she's gone."

Something dark and ugly coils in Jeon's chest. "Watch how you sling that shit at me, J-Hope."

"Keeping an eye on it, always. Seems we all gotta tiptoe with our words 'round you, huh? Drop one mention of her, and you're all about throwing punches, no thoughts, just rage. Done you a lick of good, has it?"

"Shut your mouth!"

The words rip out of him before he can stop them, raw and ragged.

Because J-Hope's right, and that's what makes it hurt so much.

Four years, and he still can't hear her name without feeling like he's drowning in it all over again.

"Pull yourself together, Jeon!" J-Hope's voice cracks with frustration. "You've been haunted by those fucking nightmares since she died, and now what? Using someone else's body to quiet them down? Jumping from one disaster straight into another and expecting me to just watch?"

Jungkook's eyes feel like they're burning. "No one's asking for your fucking two cents. Always sticking your nose where it doesn't belong."

He wants J-Hope to hit him, to hate him, to stop looking at him with that mix of concern and disappointment.

So his next words are not something he's proud of. But something he feels he needs to do.

"Why don't you go find a bottle to crawl into?"

It's a low blow, and he knows it. Watches J-Hope's hand shake, sees the muscle jump in his jaw.

"Don't you fucking go there, Jeon." The warning in his voice is clear. "I see what you're doing—spiraling because you're losing control. But I'm not playing that game. I'm not V."

"Right, you're not." Jeon's laugh is hollow, bitter. "At least that bastard's honest about not giving a fuck about anyone but himself."

"Jesus fuck, Jeon. You're not the only one carrying shit, you know that?" J-Hope's laugh is all broken glass. "Is that what you want? Me to knock your teeth in? You think that'll fix whatever's going on in that fucked-up head of yours?"

"Whatever. I don't give a shit."

"Yeah, keep telling yourself that. Maybe one day you'll actually believe it. Pushing everyone away—that's about the only thing you're good at anymore."

"Don't need anyone. Do just fine on my own."

"Really?" J-Hope's voice is sarcasm. "That why you're trying to sleep in my fucking office?"

"Fucking hell, man. Just drop it and let me rest. I'm not digging into your shit, am I? Let me handle mine." His voice comes out raw, desperate, and he hates it.

"You might not see it, but some of us actually give a shit about you, you stubborn asshole." J-Hope's voice softens, and that's worse somehow. "I might share that council seat with you, but I'm also your friend—whether you like it or not. I'm worried, okay? This isn't how you deal with your demons."

Jeon closes his eyes, exhaustion settling into his bones. "Maybe it's exactly how I deal with them."

Maybe he deserves them.

He doesn't say that.

"It's a shit way of dealing with anything, Jungkook." The softness bleeds out of J-Hope's voice, and something in Jeon's chest loosens.

Anger he can handle.

Concern?

That's harder to dodge.

"Fuck, I'm not watching you spiral down that rabbit hole again. You can hate me all you want, but I won't stand here and watch you self-destruct. Not a second time."

"I get it. Like I said—not your cross to bear."

Jungkook can feel J-Hope's eyes on him, cutting through his bullshit like always.

"Fine, Kook. Hoard your secrets. But the moment it fucks with the mission, you're answering to me—and the Council."

Jeon knows that tone. It's not just a threat—it's a lifeline J-Hope's throwing him, begging him to get his shit together before everything falls apart.

The anger sits like acid in his chest, but he swallows it down.

This isn't about him and J-Hope anymore. This is about the mission. About the gang. About not letting his f̶e̶e̶l̶i̶n̶g̶s̶ weakness compromise everything like last time.

"Got it," he mutters, dropping back onto the stretcher and turning to face the wall. The stone is cold against his face, grounding in its indifference.

Behind him, J-Hope's chair scrapes against the floor as he turns back to his work. The sound is harsh, angry.

But it's okay if he's angry. Better that than worried. Better that than watching Jeon like he's a bomb about to go off.

"Fucking Sylvia," J-Hope mutters.

Then, silence drops.

For all his crankiness, J-Hope won't kick him out. Can't, maybe, because under all that anger is the same guy who dragged Jeon's drunk ass home after Sylvia, who patched him up when he picked fights he knew he'd lose.

J-Hope's right to be worried—secrets in Kkangpae have a way of turning lethal. One wrong move, one slip, and everything goes up in flames.

Again.

(But this thing with you isn't like Sylvia. It isn't. He just needs to figure out how to sleep through the night without—)

Jeon closes his eyes, lets the antiseptic smell of the medical ward fill his lungs.

Maybe if he lies here long enough, sleep will finally come.

Maybe this time, he won't dream.

𝚂𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚒𝚗 𝟻. 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚍 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛.

The message glares at you from your phone screen, all business and no explanation. Typical Jeon.

𝙹𝚎𝚘𝚗?

．．．

𝘚𝘦𝘦𝘯

Great. He's seen it and can't be bothered to reply. Fantastic.

You stare at your phone, trying to will a response into existence. Nothing. Just that stupid "seen" mocking you. It's like talking to a brick wall, except the wall probably has better communication skills.

Jeon and his one-word texts. The man's got a gift for saying absolutely nothing while still managing to ruin your plans. You had a whole evening of doing absolutely nothing planned, and now? Now you're apparently going to the shooting range. Yay!

You toss your phone onto the bed; angry, petty. It bounces once, screen still lit up with Jeon's oh-so-eloquent message. His profile pic is just a blank space. Of course it is. God forbid he show an actual human emotion. Or, you know, a face.

With a sigh that could probably be heard three floors down, you drag yourself to the bathroom. For once, it's empty. Small mercies, right?

You tie your hair back into a ponytail, all business. Can't have stray hairs getting in the way when you're handling firearms. That's a safety hazard or whatever. Plus, you know Jeon would probably lecture you about it.

Mr. Safety-First-Unless-It's-About-Emotions.

The mirror shows you a face that's equal parts annoyed and resigned.

This is your life now—dropping everything because Jeon decided to grace you with a whole six words. Six! He's feeling chatty today.

You stare at your reflection, wondering for the millionth time how you ended up here. Not just in a gang, but at Jeon's beck and call. The man's like a black hole—impossible to ignore, drawing you in whether you like it or not.

(You like it. You hate that you like it.)

Time to go play with guns, apparently. Because nothing says "fun night out" like potential bullet wounds and Jeon's silent judgment.

This better be good, you think. But with Jeon? It's always a toss-up between mind-blowing and mind-numbing.

Guess you'll find out which one it is tonight.

You finish tying your hair back and grab your phone, typing out a quick message to Yunjin. Your fingers hover over the keys for a second because ugh. You were actually looking forward to dinner with her.

𝙲𝚊𝚗'𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛. 𝙶𝚘𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖. 𝚁𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚌𝚔?

The card reader beeps when you swipe your ID, sound echoing through the empty hallway like some ominous warning bell.

The elevator ride feels like you're being delivered to your doom, each floor passing with total indifference to your impending crisis.

Ding.

Third floor. You step out into a corridor that feels way too quiet. Your sneakers barely make any noise against the floor, which just makes your heartbeat sound louder in your ears.

You reach the shooting range and—because you're not a complete idiot—you don't just barge in. Instead, you peek through the reinforced glass window like some s̶t̶a̶l̶k̶e̶r̶ cautious person.

And fuck.

There he is, in his own little world of violence.

He's wearing his usual dark t-shirt, fabric's stretched across his shoulders in a way that's honestly unfair for every other man. His combat pants are doing that thing where they show off every muscle without being obvious about it, and his boots are planted like he owns the ground he's standing on.

He hasn't spotted you yet. He's too focused on the gun in his hands, handling it with the kind of familiarity that reminds you he does this for a living. The protective gear—ear muffs and glasses—should make him look dorky, but nope. In your brain that simply catalogs as hot.

Each shot he fires is like... well, it's like watching someone who knows what they're doing. Which, you suppose, makes sense.

The recoil doesn't even phase him—his body just absorbs it like it's nothing. Spent casings hit the floor with little metallic pings, and you find yourself weirdly fascinated by the way his fingers adjust on the grip between shots.

(You're definitely not thinking about what else those fingers can do. Absolutely not. That would be unprofessional.)

You watch him reload—movements quick and methodical—like he could do this in his sleep. Probably has, honestly. This is Jeon's comfort zone, after all.

You step inside, and it hits you again how different the air feels in here. Smelling like gunpowder and that underlying tension that always shows up when you're around him.

Jeon doesn't turn around, too focused on whatever target he's destroying. You can't help the little smirk that tugs at your lips because finally—a chance to catch Mr. Perfect off guard. He's so zeroed in on his shooting that he might actually not notice you for once.

(You should know better by now, but hope springs eternal or whatever.)

Your sneakers don't make a sound on the rubber floor as you creep closer. You're already planning it—maybe a sudden clap, or yelling his name. Something to make him jump, even just a little. The thought sends this weird thrill through you, like you're about to get away with something.

You take a deep breath, ready to execute your master plan, when—

"Don't even think about it."

Motherfucker.

He doesn't even turn around. Doesn't move a muscle. Just keeps standing there like some statue of Perfect Shooting Form, and you can hear the smirk in his voice.

It's not fair how he does that—makes you feel like you're being predictable without even looking at you.

"You got radar in your head, or what?" you ask, trying to play it off like you weren't just caught being an absolute child.

Your voice comes out light, playful, which feels kind of wrong in a room designed for practicing how to kill people efficiently. But that's kind of your whole thing with Jeon, isn't it? Finding these little moments of tomfoolery in between all the violence and duty.

Sometimes you wonder if he lets you get away with it because he needs those moments too.

Jeon turns around, and as usual, there's this look in his eyes. Could be the fluorescent lights, could be him being a smug bastard.

He sets down his gun with this final-sounding click that somehow makes the room feel too quiet.

"Let's just say I've got a good sense of when someone's lurking in my blind spot."

The corner of his mouth twitches, and you're starting to think he practices that almost-smirk in the mirror.

You watch as he moves to the gun rack, all fluid movements. He picks out this pristine semi-automatic that gleams under the shitty range lights like it's showing off.

"Come on." His voice drops the playful edge. "If we're going to have your back in the field, you need to be able to hold your own. No hesitation this time."

This time.

The words bring back memories of your first shooting lesson with him—how your hands shook, how the gun felt too heavy with the weight of what it could do. You weren't ready then.

But now, with this mission hanging over your heads like a guillotine, you don't have the luxury of not being ready.

You step forward, closing the gap between you. When he hands you the gun, his fingers brush against yours, and even that tiny contact sends electricity up your arm. The metal's cold against your palm, but you grip it like you mean it. Like you're not thinking about how those same hands felt on your skin just days ago.

"Good." He nods, and something warm unfurls in your chest at his approval. "First, your stance—it's all about balance. Feet shoulder-width apart, one foot slightly ahead of the other."

You follow his instructions, hyper-aware of his eyes on you. It feels like being under a microscope, but like, a really hot microscope that you maybe want to kiss again.

You plant your feet, trying to look like you know what you're doing.

"Now, grip. Not too tight—imagine holding someone's hand. Firm, but you're not trying to crush it."

He moves closer, and suddenly the air feels thicker. His comparison makes your brain short-circuit because now all you can think about is holding hands, which leads to thinking about holding other things, which—yeah, nope.

Can't think about that. Not while you're holding a deadly weapon.

His hands come up to adjust your grip, and it should be clinical. Professional.

But there's this undercurrent of something between you, like static electricity looking for a place to ground itself. Like every little touch is loaded with meaning.

You find your rhythm with the breathing, in and out, as Jeon steps back to give you space. He's watching you with that unreadable expression of his, but his eyes are intense, like he's trying to will you into not fucking this up.

"Align the sights." His voice drops low, and fuck, it shouldn't affect you when he's teaching you how to shoot people. "Focus on the front sight—everything else is just background noise. Breathe in, breathe out, and on the exhale—that's when you squeeze the trigger."

You narrow your eyes, zeroing in on the target downrange.

It's not just a paper outline anymore—it's a test.

Another thing you need to prove you can handle in this life you've chosen.

You let out a slow breath, and with it goes some of that nervous energy that's been making your hands shake.

Right now it's just you, the gun, and this need to show Jeon—and yourself—that you're not out of your depth here. That you belong in this world of his, even if it's just at the edges.

The shot cracks through the air like a whip, and the recoil hits your palms. It's jarring but real, solid proof that you're actually doing this. That you're becoming whatever it is you need to be to survive in Kkangpae.

Jeon gives you this little nod, like yeah, okay, maybe you're not completely hopeless. But then—oh. Then his mouth does this thing, curling up at the corners into what might be the most dangerous smile you've ever seen.

"Good job."

Two. Words.

Just two fucking words, but the way he says them—all low and pleased—makes heat pool in your stomach.

It's not fair how he can do that, turn a simple phrase into something that feels like innuendo, voice wrapping around you like smoke, seeping into places it has no business being.

You're starting to think weapons training with Jeon might be hazardous to your mental health. And not for the obvious reasons.

Because the fucker is not just hot—though fuck, he absolutely is—he's something else entirely.

The way he handles a weapon, the easy confidence, how he makes everything look so effortless? It's doing things to you. Things that have nothing to do with training and everything to do with how his hands looked wrapped around that gun.

"Let's try again. This time, focus on consistency. You want to be able to replicate that shot every time."

He moves behind you, and suddenly breathing becomes severely underrated.

You try to focus on the target, but your brain's too busy cataloging every tiny detail—how his breath stirs the baby hairs at your nape, the way his chest is just shy of brushing against your back.

You take a deep breath to steady yourself, but that's a mistake because now all you can smell is him.

Pine and wood and leather.

Jeon.

The gun feels heavy in your hands as you line up another shot, and your attention is split between the target downrange and the way Jeon's presence seems to fill up all the space around you.

The shot immediately cracks through the air, perfect center mass.

You should feel proud—and you do—but mostly you're trying not to think about how close he is, how easy it would be to lean back just a little...

Because you know he's all business, laser-focused on getting you ready for the mission. Completely professional. But there are these tiny tells—the way his fingers linger when he adjusts your stance, how his eyes sometimes drift from the target to your face, staying just a second too long.

It's driving you insane.

Like there's this invisible line neither of you is willing to cross first, even though you both know exactly where this tension is heading.

You've been there before, after all. That night in his tent wasn't that long ago.

You lower the gun, trying to ignore how your hands are shaking—partly from adrenaline, mostly from something else.

The way Jeon's looking at you right now.

"Just like that. Keep it up."

You manage a nod because words? Not happening. Your throat's too dry, and honestly, you're afraid of what might come out if you open your mouth.

Another shot rings out, and you can't help wondering if Jeon feels it too. This crackling tension that makes your skin feel too tight. Or maybe you're just losing it, getting all hot and bothered over a man who's literally just teaching you how to shoot people.

"Reload. Keep your focus sharp."

He hands you a fresh magazine, and your fingers brush against his again—and honestly?

This isn't fair.

You're supposed to be learning important gang shit here, not mentally cataloging how good his hands feel.

Your brain keeps replaying every tiny touch, every moment his body was pressed against yours while "correcting your stance."

Which, by the way? Totally unnecessary.

You're pretty sure proper shooting form doesn't require his chest being that close to your back.

Focus, you tell yourself. You're here to learn how to handle a weapon, not daydream about handling... other things.

You need to prove you belong here, that you're more than just another recruit who can't keep it in their pants around the hot Chief.

(Even if said Chief is making it really hard to think straight right now.)

You grip the gun tighter, channeling all that frustrated energy into your next shot. The bang echoes through the range, and you pretend it drowns out the voice in your head that keeps suggesting alternative uses for this private training session.

The magazine clicks into place with maybe more force than necessary, but whatever. You're determined to get through this without embarrassing yourself. More shots follow, each one a desperate attempt to focus on anything except how good Jeon looks when he's in instructor mode.

(It's not working, but at least you're hitting the target.)

You're about to take another shot when something catches your eye.

Jeon looks... off.

There are shadows under his eyes that makeup can't hide, and his movements are slower than usual.

Most people wouldn't notice, but you've been trained to spot weaknesses.

"You look like shit."

The words slip out before your brain can filter them. Because you're such a professional, apparently. But now that you've started digging this hole, might as well keep going.

"When's the last time you actually slept?"

Dark eyes snap to yours, and you swear something raw flutters behind his eyelashes. Doesn't last long-as never anything really does with him. The walls come slamming back up.

"I'm fine."

His tone screams drop it; the voice in your head screams 'don't.'

Good thing you've always been good at hearing yourself first.

Besides, this isn't exclusively about him anymore.

You set the gun down, turning to face him fully. "Look, I get it—we all have our shit. But if you're walking around half-dead, that's not just your problem. That's how people end up getting killed."

He gives you a death stare, and you're pretty sure he's about to pull rank and shut this conversation down. But then he exhales, and something in his posture just... gives.

"Insomnia's an old friend." An admission that comes out rough, like he had to force the words past his defenses. "Been dealing with it for years. It doesn't affect my work."

"Bullshit." You shouldn't push, but your mouth's apparently on autopilot today. "You slept fine in the tent—"

His eyes narrow, and okay, maybe that was too far. But you're not wrong. You remember how peaceful he looked that morning, no trace of the tension that's radiating off him now.

"That was different."

His voice drops low, warning you away from this topic.

But there's something else there too—like maybe he's trying to convince himself more than you.

He doesn't deny it though.

So you nod, letting the subject drop. But you tuck that little piece of information away like a secret—Jeon sleeps better when he's not alone. When he's with you, specifically. You're not sure what to do with that knowledge yet, but it feels important somehow.

Silence falls. You turn back to the range because it's easier than trying to decode whatever's happening here.

The gun in your hands is simple, straightforward. Point, shoot, repeat. No complicated feelings or midnight revelations to deal with.

You cycle through the weapons Jeon's laid out, each one different but serving the same purpose. Pistols feel natural now, like they belong in your grip. Shotguns still kick like a mule, but you're getting better at handling them. Each shot echoes through the room, filling the space where words should be.

It becomes almost meditative after a while. Load, aim, breathe, squeeze. The routine helps quiet your mind, pushes away thoughts of Jeon and sleep and whatever's going on in that cold brain of his.

You're here to learn how to stay alive, not psychoanalyze your Chief's sleeping habits.

When you switch to the rifle, you can't help sneaking a look at him. He's lurking in the shadows like some kind of sexy gargoyle, watching your every move. Even exhausted, he's still intimidating as hell.

But there's something different about him now—like seeing him tired makes him more... real. Less Chief of Tactical Assassinations, more just Jeon.

The rifle's recoil brings you back to reality. You line up another shot, remembering everything he's taught you.

Breathe in, hold, squeeze, exhale. The bullets hit close together, forming a tight group that would definitely ruin someone's day. Jeon gives you this tiny nod that shouldn't make your stomach flip, but it does anyway.

The sun's starting to set, painting the room in long shadows. Empty casings litter the floor around your feet like tiny brass confessions. Neither of you has said much, but somehow it's not uncomfortable.

You've learned two things today: how to shoot better, and that Jeon trusts you enough to show you some of his cracks, even if he doesn't mean to.

You're not sure which lesson is more dangerous.

(Probably the second one.)

You start packing up, going through the familiar motions of cleaning and storing the weapons.

"It's getting late," you say, mostly to break the silence.

When you turn around, Jeon's standing there with his arms crossed, staring at nothing. Or maybe at something only he can see. He doesn't react to your voice, like he's been aware of every move you've made since you started cleaning up.

The lighting in here is shit, but it's not bad enough to hide how exhausted he looks. The shadows under his eyes are getting deeper, more obvious. You think about what J-Hope would say if he saw Jeon like this—probably something cranky and concerned wrapped in medical jargon.

"If it helps," you start carefully, like you're approaching a wild animal, "we can sleep together again. No bullshit—just sleep. Seems like you could use it."

For a second, his face goes completely blank. It's that perfect mask he wears when he's processing something he doesn't want to deal with.

Then—there.

His shoulders drop just a fraction, like someone's loosened a wire.

"I don't need charity."

The words come out defensive, but they're missing that sharp edge he usually uses to keep people at a distance. You recognize deflection when you hear it—you work in the Seduction Division, after all.

"It's not charity." You click the last weapon case shut, buying time to choose your next words carefully. "Consider it... part of our arrangement. We're no good to each other tense or half-awake."

The silence stretches out so long you start to wonder if you've fucked up. Maybe you pushed too far, got too personal. But then he nods, just barely, like he's trying to convince himself he's not giving in to anything.

"I'll think about it."

His voice is gruff, but there's something else there—a hint of relief, maybe. Like you've given him permission to want something he thinks he shouldn't. You pretend not to notice how his eyes linger on you as you finish packing up, like he's already made up his mind but isn't ready to admit it yet.

You glance at the clock, and shit—it's really fucking late. The castle gets quiet around this time, most people already finished with dinner or working night shifts.

Speaking of dinner... you were supposed to meet Yunjin, but someone had to drag you to impromptu target practice.

A thought hits you, and you can't help the little smile that tugs at your lips. It's probably stupid, definitely pushing your luck, but...

"By the way," you say, closing the weapons case with a satisfying click. "Since it's already so late... How about grabbing some dinner together at the cafeteria?"

Jeon looks at you like you've just suggested robbing a bank in your underwear.

There's this tiny flicker of surprise in his eyes that would be funny if it wasn't kind of sad. Like the concept of eating with someone is completely foreign to him.

"Dinner? I eat alone."

His voice is flat, but it's as though he's actually considering it, even if he'd rather die than admit it.

"I know, but it's late." You shrug, going for casual even though your heart's doing this weird skippy thing. "Few people will be there, and I had plans that got... rearranged."

You give him a pointed look because hey, this is technically his fault.

"Don't feel like eating by myself."

He stares at you for what feels like forever, face doing that blank thing he does when he's processing something unexpected. Then his mouth quirks up at the corner.

"I don't usually do dinner dates."

You actually laugh at that. "You wish.Think of it as a tactical debriefing over food. Can't strategize on an empty stomach, can we?"

His smirk gets a fraction wider—the Jeon equivalent of a full grin. It's rare to see him look actually amused, and something warm unfurls in your chest at being the cause.

"Tactical debriefing, huh? That's a new one."

"Come on, Jeon. It's just dinner." You try to sound nonchalant, like you're not weirdly invested in his answer. "Besides, you're probably starving after all that shooting."

He does that thing where he goes all still, like he's running risk assessments in his head.

Finally, he nods. "Alright, but this isn't a habit we're starting."

"Of course not, you have a reputation to maintain, thundercloud."

You can't help the smirk as you head for the door. The nickname slips out before you can catch it, but whatever. You're already in deep.

"Not like anybody would believe you anyway, sunshine." He rolls his eyes, but follows you out.

The way he says sunshine—like it's both an insult and something else—makes your stomach do a little flip. But you're not going to think about that.

This is just dinner. Just two gang members having a totally normal, professional meal together.

The walk to the cafeteria is weirdly peaceful.

Neither of you says anything, but it's not that awkward silence that makes you want to crawl out of your skin.

It's just... quiet. Your brain's still processing everything—the training, the arrangement, the fact that you're actually going to dinner with Jeon of all people.

The cafeteria's practically empty when you walk in. Just a few night owls scattered around, most of them looking like they're running on coffee and spite.

It's nice, though. No curious eyes, no whispers. Just the soft hum of the air conditioning and the distant clink of dishes.

The buffet spread looks like heaven. Your stomach reminds you that you haven't eaten since lunch, growling at the sight of steaming bulgogi and kimchi jjigae. The castle chefs don't mess around—everything looks magazine-worthy, even at this hour.

You load up your tray like you're preparing for hibernation: bulgogi because duh, japchae because the noodles here are actually insane, kimchi fried rice because comfort food is a thing, and those spicy braised potatoes that make your mouth water just looking at them.

Jeon, for his part, goes straight for the protein—galbi ribs, bibimbap loaded with meat, and bossam like he's got something to prove.

You're about to head for a table when you catch him adding even more bulgogi to his already meat-heavy tray.

"Got enough protein there?" You can't help the teasing tone. "Or are you planning to feed a small army?"

Jeon's mouth does that thing where he's trying not to smile but failing.

"I need to keep up my strength." His eyes flick to yours, dark. "Never know when I might need to pin a smartass against a wall."

The laugh that escapes you is only partly nervous. You lead the way to a corner table, far from the few other diners. It feels weirdly intimate, having dinner with someone who usually eats alone.

The food works its magic. You feel the day's tension melting away with each bite, and even Jeon looks more relaxed. That permanent frown he carries around is smoothing out as he tackles his galbi like it's his division's target.

"Holy shit, this is good," you mumble around a mouthful of noodles.

The chefs here could probably work in any five-star restaurant, but instead they're cooking for a bunch of criminals. Life's weird like that.

Jeon makes this little grunt of agreement, cheeks full like a hamster's. He swallows before speaking because apparently assassins have table manners.

"Only decent perk of this place."

You fall into comfortable silence after that, both focused on demolishing your food.

It's strange how normal this feels—just two people sharing dinner, like you don't kill people for a living, like you haven't had your hands all over each other hours ago.

"That rifle technique you used today was solid. Got good instincts."

Coming from Jeon, that's practically a love letter. You hide your smile behind another bite of food, but can't resist poking the bear.

"Well, I have a good teacher. Even if his people skills need work."

He snorts, stabbing another piece of meat with maybe more force than necessary.

"I don't coddle. You get better by doing, not talking."

"True, but positive reinforcement helps too." You gesture with your chopsticks. "I'm only human, thundercloud."

The look he gives you could melt steel. One eyebrow goes up, and there's something dangerous playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Hmmm. Almost sounds like you want to be coddled, sunshine."

The way he says it makes heat pool in your stomach. Because that wasn't about teaching at all, was it?

You laugh to cover the way your breath catches. "In your dreams, Jeon."

You ball up your napkin and throw it at him, which he catches without even looking because of coursehe does.

Show-off.

"Still," he says, ruining the moment like he's allergic to peace, "your reaction time needs work."

"I'll keep practicing." You shrug, aiming for casual. "Can't have you worrying about me in the field."

"Who said anything about worrying?" But his eyes give him away—that split-second flicker before his face goes blank again.

"Oh please." You wave your chopsticks at him. "You were watching me like a hawk in there. Probably counting my breaths or something equally anal-retentive."

He just shakes his head, suddenly very interested in his food. But you're on a roll now, feeling brave or stupid or both.

"Admit it, you care about my progress." You lean forward, grinning. "It's almost sweet."

Jeon looks up then, and oh. His gaze is intense.

"I care about not getting shot because you can't handle your weapon, sunshine."

You can't help yourself. Really, you can't. "Mhm? Thought I was getting better at handling weapons, thundercloud."

His lips twitch, just barely, but you catch it. It's fascinating, really, how you've somehow stumbled into this easy back-and-forth with him. How beneath all his sharp edges and your sass, there's this... thing.

This rhythm that shouldn't work but does.

Dinner's winding down, and you notice something different about Jeon. The tension he usually carries—the one that makes him look like he's ready to snap someone's neck at any moment—has eased up. Even his face looks softer, less murder-y than usual.

"This was... not terrible," he says, like admitting it physically pains him. His eyes meet yours across the table. "The food, the company... both exceeded my low expectations."

"Oh my god." You press a hand to your chest, going for maximum drama. "Was that a compliment? Should I call J-Hope? Are you feeling okay?"

He snorts, and there's this little uptick at the corner of his mouth that you're starting to recognize as his version of a smile.

"Yeah, yeah. Don't get used to it."

"Too late." You stand up, gathering your plates. "I expect this level of praise at every meal now. Maybe we can work up to actual sentences by next week."

"Don't push your luck, sunshine." But he's still got that almost-smile as he gets up too.

"I mean, you already admitted you don't hate my company. That's practically a love confession by your standards."

Jeon shakes his head, but there's something soft in his eyes.

"You're really something else, you know that?"

"So I've been told."

You drop off your dishes, and both head for the elevator, falling into comfortable silence.

You reach for the elevator buttons, aiming for the fourth floor where your room is. But Jeon's arm suddenly appears in your peripheral vision, his chest almost brushing your back as he leans forward. There's this tiny pause—blink and you'd miss it—before he hits the button for the fifth floor instead.

You turn your head just enough to catch his eye, raising an eyebrow. No words needed.

You both know what this is: him taking you up on that offer to help him sleep. Simple as that. Like picking up takeout or scheduling target practice.

The elevator starts moving, and holy shit why is it so slow? The silence should be awkward, but it's not.

Maybe because you both know exactly what this is. No bullshit, no complications. Just sleep. Like you said in the training room—you're no good to each other half-dead from exhaustion.

It's probably stupid, spending the night with your Chief. But you've already crossed that line in his tent, and honestly? If sleeping next to you helps with his insomnia, then whatever.

You're already fuck buddies—might as well be helpful ones.

The doors finally open to the fifth floor, and Jeon steps back. He's giving you space, making it clear this is your call. Which is... weirdly considerate, actually. You step out because why not? This isn't some dramatic decision. It's practical. Logical, even.

The walk to his room feels longer than it should. Your feet are dragging because yeah, you're fucking tired. Today's been a whole thing—training, dinner, and now this weird arrangement that somehow makes perfect sense.

Jeon stops at his door, giving you one last look. Checking if you're sure, probably. You nod because duh. This isn't complicated. You're both adults who sometimes fuck and apparently now sometimes sleep (just sleep) together.

The door clicks shut behind you, and you get your first look at Jeon's private space.

So this is where the Chief of Tactical Assassinations sleeps. You can't help but snoop—it's basically in your job description as a member of Seduction Division.

The room is... exactly what you'd expect from Jeon, honestly. It's like someone took his personality and turned it into interior design.

Everything's black, white, or gray, like he's allergic to color. It matches his whole aesthetic—the guy who sees the world in shades of gray, making calls about who lives and who dies. Maybe the monochrome thing is some kind of metaphor. Or maybe he just really likes black.

There's this massive king-sized bed against one wall, all black sheets and dark gray duvet. The bed's made diligently, but you can see the slight wrinkles that mean he's actually slept in it. Unlike some people who just have fancy beds for show.

Next to it is this super minimal nightstand with just a lamp and—oh. An ashtray. Right. His stress-smoking habit.

The furniture could be from one of those fancy minimalist catalogs. Everything's black wood, clean lines, no fuss. There's a dresser that probably holds his endless supply of black t-shirts, a desk that looks barely used, and a chair that seems more decorative than functional.

What really gets you is how empty it is. No photos, no personal stuff, nothing that says "someone actually lives here."

It's like a really expensive prison cell or one of those model rooms in furniture stores.

You spot a door that has to lead to a private bathroom, and fuck, that's not fair. You're sharing a bathroom with like five other girls while Mr. Chief here gets his own shower? The perks of rank, you guess.

The floor's spotless—like, you could probably eat off it. Not a speck of dust anywhere. The whole place is as buttoned-up as Jeon himself, like maybe if he keeps everything perfectly ordered, the rest of his life will fall into line too.

"Well, it's very... you," you say, because what else can you say about a room that looks like it was decorated by a very organized ghost?

"I don't need anything else." He shrugs.

You hover by the bathroom door, suddenly feeling weirdly out of place. Being in Jeon's private space is... different. Not bad different, just different. Like seeing your teacher at the grocery store, except your teacher is a hot assassin you occasionally fuck.

"Hey," you start, trying to sound casual, "mind if I grab a quick shower first? I always wash up before bed, especially after training." You scrunch your nose. "Pretty sure I don't smell like a spring meadow right now."

Jeon's eyebrow does that thing—that infuriating arch that makes you want to either kiss him or kick him.

"What, you saying I stink, sunshine?"

"We both worked up a sweat today, cloud." You roll your eyes, but you're fighting a smile. "No judgment, just stating facts."

He jerks his head toward the bathroom door. "Go ahead. Towels and shit are in there."

You can't help yourself—really, you can't. As you pass him, you throw out: "Maybe take a page from my book and grab one yourself after. You know, freshen up a bit."

The snort he lets out is almost a laugh. "Watch yourself. I don't take orders in my own quarters."

But his eyes are doing that thing where they get all dark and playful, and you know that look.

Intimately.

"Just a suggestion between... friends."

You draw out the last word, letting it hang there like bait. Because that's what you are now, right? Friends who sometimes sleep together. And sometimes fuck. But tonight's just for sleeping.

(Sure it is.)

"So pushy." His smirk should be illegal. "What, you wanna shower together now? Could've just asked, sunshine."

You roll your eyes because it's easier than admitting how tempting that sounds. "You wish, thundercloud. I can handle washing myself just fine."

You head for the bathroom, but pause at the door because apparently, you hate yourself.

Glancing back over your shoulder, you add: "But you know... my back is kind of hard to reach..."

"Nice try." His voice has dropped lower, rougher. "But we said only sleeping tonight. Go get cleaned up. I'll be here when you're done."

The way he says it—like a promise and a threat wrapped in one—makes you seriously reconsider this whole "just sleeping" thing.

The bathroom is exactly what you expected—black and white everything, minimalist as fuck. It's like the room outside but with more tiles and chrome.

You turn the shower on hot enough to steam up the mirrors and step under the spray, letting it pound against your shoulders.

The water pressure is amazing. Of course it is—Chief privileges and all that. Your shared bathroom on the fourth floor can barely manage a decent drizzle, but this? This is heaven.

You take your sweet time, enjoying the luxury of a private shower where no one's going to bang on the door telling you to hurry up.

When you finally emerge, wrapped in one of Jeon's obscenely fluffy black towels (seriously, where does he get these?), steam billows out behind you like you're making some dramatic entrance. Your hair's twisted up in another towel, water still dripping down your neck.

You feel Jeon's eyes on you before you see him. He's sitting on the edge of the bed, and the weight of his stare makes your skin prickle.

His face is doing that careful blank thing, but his eyes? They're giving him away.

"Shower's free," you say, aiming for casual even though the tension in the room is thick enough to choke on. "You know, if you want it."

He just makes this low humming sound that absolutely does not make heat pool in your stomach.

Instead of moving, he just... looks at you.

His eyes track down your body, slow and deliberate, like he's memorizing every inch.

Like he's thinking about what's under that towel.

You refuse to squirm under his gaze. Two can play this game.

"Like what you see?" You cock an eyebrow, channeling your inner seductress (which is technically your job, so).

His mouth curves into that dangerous almost-smirk. "Maybe I'm just waiting to see if you'll drop that towel."

"You wish."

You turn your back on him (which is definitely not just an excuse to give him a better view) and head for his dresser.

The drawers are organized because of course they are. You find his t-shirts, all neatly folded like some department store display.

"I'm borrowing this," you announce, grabbing a shirt that looks big enough to work as a dress. You glance over your shoulder, catching his eyes again. "Unless you'd prefer me naked?"

His smirk grows, and fuck, that should be illegal.

"Be my guest."

The invitation in his voice makes your skin feel too tight, but you're not giving in that easy. This is a game of chicken now, and you're not about to lose.

Even if losing sounds really, really tempting right now.

You unwind the towel from your hair and toss it at Jeon, aiming for his face but hitting his chest instead.

"Just sleeping, remember? Go shower."

The towel slides down his front, and you catch this tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth—like he wants to smile but his reputation won't let him.

He stands up in that way he does, all fluid grace and barely contained power. Without a word, he heads for the bathroom. The door clicks shut, and soon you hear water running.

You grab his brush (because of course he has one, Mr. Perfect Hair) and start working through your damp hair.

It's weirdly domestic, sitting here in Jeon's room, wearing his shirt, using his stuff. The brush is probably expensive—it glides through your hair like it's made of silk or something.

Speaking of his shirt... You pull it on, and fuck. It smells like him—pine, wood, and smoke.

The fabric drowns you, hanging off one shoulder, falling to mid-thigh. There's something stupidly thrilling about wearing his clothes, like you're getting away with something.

Once your hair's somewhat tamed, you twist it up into a bun. The mirror catches your eye—one of those full-length ones that probably cost more than your monthly salary. You can't help checking yourself out, tugging the shirt down a bit because apparently, you still have modesty or whatever.

That's when you see him in the reflection.

Oh.

Jeon's fresh out of the shower, water still beading on his chest, towel riding low on his hips like it's trying to start something. He's got another towel in his hands, drying his hair as he sits on the bed, but his eyes?

His eyes are locked on your ass like it's his favorite meal.

The mirror gives you a perfect view of his face, and holy shit. The way he's looking at you—it's not subtle. At all. His gaze is heavy, hungry, like he's thinking about all the ways this "just sleeping" arrangement could go very, very wrong.

(Or very, very right, depending on your perspective.)

The temperature in the room spikes, and it's definitely not from the shower steam. You can practically feel the heat of his stare through the mirror.

So much for keeping things platonic tonight. A smirk tugs at your lips as an idea forms. Because if Jeon wants to play this game?

Well, two can definitely play.

You reach up to your bun, pretending to mess with the hair tie.

Oops—it "accidentally" slips through your fingers, falling to the floor with a silent grace that would make your Seduction Division trainers proud.

"Oh no," you say, channeling your best innocent voice. The one that fools absolutely no one but works anyway. "How clumsy of me."

You turn your back to Jeon, and fuck, you can practically feel his eyes burning into you.

Bending down—slowly, because you're nothing if not thorough—you give him a view that you know from experience he can't resist. The borrowed shirt rides up just enough to be interesting.

You take your sweet time "looking" for the hair tie, even though you can see it right there. Your fingers trail across the floor like you're putting on a show, which... yeah, you absolutely are.

When you finally grab it, you throw a look over your shoulder.

Jackpot.

Dark, obscure eyes pin you in place. Absolutely hungry. You'd bet good money that towel isn't hiding much anymore.

"See something you like?" Your voice comes out honey-sweet, but there's nothing innocent about the way you're looking at him.

Before he can compose himself enough to answer, you straighten up and sashay over to the bed. The sway in your hips isn't natural, but who cares about natural when it makes Jeon's breath catch like that?

You slip under the sheets, turning away from him because you're evil like that. The mattress dips as he lies down next to you, and you have to bite back a smile.

"We should get some rest." You keep your voice light, casual, like dismissing every inch of space between you. "Long day tomorrow."

He makes this grunt that could mean anything, but you know him well enough by now to recognize the sound of him wrestling with his self-control.

You can picture his face—brow furrowed, jaw clenched, probably glaring at the ceiling like he wants to shadowbox with it.

You wait, barely breathing.

Maybe you read this wrong.

Maybe he's actually planning to be good tonight.

Maybe he really does just want to sleep.

That's fine. Totally fine. This was his idea anyway, right? Just sleeping.

You're about to give up, admit defeat, when the mattress shifts.

Jeon rolls toward you, and suddenly his chest is pressed against your back, all heat and hard muscle. You fight back a shiver as his hand finds your hip, his thumb drawing lazy circles that make your skin buzz. His breath fans hot against your neck, and fuck, this is so much better than sleeping.

"I need to ease some tension, sunshine."

His voice is pure sin, rough and low right by your ear.

Heat pools in your stomach as you roll onto your back, meeting his gaze. His hand tightens on your waist, pulling you closer, and you can feel how much he wants this.

"Oh?" You hold his stare, watching his control slip. "I thought you'd never ask."

You're definitely not getting much sleep tonight.

But hey, that was kind of the point, wasn't it?

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[xylatox]

mama, i’m in love with a criminal || pjs

ANOTHER RAIN FIC EEKK!! I wanted to read this so bad oh my god, I love small town vibes, i love toxic religious beliefs AND IT HAS DARK THEMES. Its literally so perfect to me.

Anyways unto my thoughts (. ❛ ᴗ ❛.) i just know i'm going to lose my mind.

Before I begin, a moment to appreciate rain’s graphics???? They're always so good its actually ridiculous

The chapel smells like old pinewood and older secrets. You sit between your brother and your mother, stiff in your Sunday best, your spine straight as the hymnals stacked behind the pew. The stained-glass windows cast slivers of color across the congregation, blood reds, bruised purples, the blue of a cold winter sky. Light falls like confession, quietly and without permission. You are not paying attention to the sermon. You never do. — ugh the beginning is going to drive me insane. As a small town girl who grew up heavily in religion [Catholicism and other branches of Christianity] I am going to be so annoying in this fic i apologize.

The pews smell of lemon oil and something more human, powder and old perfume, the sweat of people trying to look holy. — god the way my brain knows the scent. We literally have a lemon-scented furniture polish and I can feel it leaking through my veins. Its a scent i feel like is so haunting, not just of memories but a familiarity of home that doesnt necessarily feel like home and more like responsibility? Anyways ill hush now.

I can practically see the scene before me. The way i know how the mc feels rn and honestly, I feel sick personally. Too many times have I sat in church with my mother and she was definitely one of those in church who commented on someone’s kid crying and I just felt so bad like, theyre babies girl what more can a parent do. She literally always said they needed to be disciplined and ‘given something to cry about’ but i feel like because she never had to deal with that (i wasnt a crier as a baby) so she cant really sympathize with the parents if that makes sense?

You lean in, ear to the crack. Another grunt. And a voice; feminine, breathy, choked with a sound you’ve only ever heard behind closed doors in dramas you weren’t allowed to watch.  — god i hate (love so badly) that so many little aspects of her remind myself. Like idk what it is with strict Christian households but I wasnt even allowed to watch Spongebob as a kid, most shows in fact i havent seen because my mom was so strict with me and just focussing on education or what she deemed appropriate.

Holy shit that scene with Jay, the way you expressed things, Rain, please let me inside your head what the heck. I love the way everything sounds almost like country small town vibes? At least thats how it feels to me.

She stands with Jay’s mother, who is dressed in pastel pink, too pristine for the venom coiled beneath her voice. Their conversation is coated in sugar, but you can hear the brittle underneath; like porcelain tea cups about to crack. “Oh, she’s grown so much,” Jay’s mother says, her smile wide and empty. “Just lovely.” Your mother laughs, high and bright like wind chimes in a storm. “Time goes fast. I can barely keep up.” — oh i love this, this is exactly how some people in my old town behaved.

THE COMMENT FROM THE DAD OH MY GOD???? Girl im living for this i cant even lie

“If I ever catch you talking to the likes of Park Jongseong,” he says, without turning his head, “I will ship you off to a convent so fast you’ll be reciting rosaries before supper.” The words hang in the air, stark and heavy as thunderclouds. “Yes, Daddy,” you say softly, your voice a breath against the wind, your eyes fixed on the ground — i love how rural this feels. I really am resonating with the feelings here.

Going to appreciate the innocence of Minji, God bless her pure little heart. Family matters, especially those where words are so poisonous always make me feel a little sick inside.

A moment to appreciate Taehyun :(((((((( hes such a cutie pie (yes i can feel the fierceness in him but all i see are 2 boba eyes)

“We’re heading to the bake sale. Church is raising funds for that wedding coming up. Sohiya and Heeseung, bless them.” — ヾ(≧▽≦*)o Heeeseunggggggg

RAIN I AM LIVING FOR THIS TOWN DRAMA. AHHH LIKE — “Have you heard?” she whispers, the kind of tone that makes your stomach drop before you even know why. “Sohiya’s pregnant. That’s why the wedding’s so rushed.” Your brows lift in quiet shock — this is literally the shit people talked about back home oh my god i kid you not. Literally so much so my mom literally told me to not embarrass her because people or family will talk. Like so many people knew me and I didnt know them that i literally had to be nice, have manners and do no wrong near anyone because someway and somehow my parents would’ve found out.

Thinking about that fight between Felix and Jay and I can only see the height difference, its kinda funny but actually situation is so sad I feel bad for Felix :( I love how Jay’s character is here actually, literally had to play criminal, the vibe is just too good.

“Why do you act like this?” Jay blinks slowly, like you’ve asked him a question no one’s ever dared to. Then, in a voice barely louder than a confession, he says, “Because people already made up their minds about me a long time ago. Figured I might as well give them what they want.” It slices through the silence like a nail through silk. — I FEEL BAD FOR HIM I CANT HELP IT. the way your reputation depends so heavily on people sucks

“Run along now,” he mutters, eyes dark. “Before your daddy comes lookin’. Wouldn’t want you shipped off to a convent, would we?” — i laughed at this but i really shouldnt (my high school was a convent, like no joke)

“You weren’t supposed to hear that,” he says, his voice low, more exhale than sound. “Conversations like that aren’t meant for young girls.” — RAIN YOU CANT DO THIS TO ME IM TAEHYUN BIASED. THIS WILL DRIVE ME MAD. Holding my head in distress. Its crazy they’re only a year apart and Tyun and he really is behaving like hes so much older (i assume it has to do with his responsibility)

Jay saving mc. Jay. Saving. Mc. I want him so fucking bad oh my god.

He looks at your face, and something flickers in those storm-dark eyes of his; something close to concern, but too buried beneath bravado to fully surface. His fingers ghost the edge of your jawline, not quite touching but close enough to feel like lightning waiting for the right tree. He tilts your chin ever so slightly, examining the swelling beneath your cheekbone with an expression that makes your stomach twist. — I WANT HIM SO BAD NOOOOO.

Also her dad and Tyun seem kinda bat-shit, i kinda like it (her dad is a bit more stinky ion like him that much, just the craziness)

Holy shit the first kiss oh my holy shit. — And then, with aching softness, he leans in again and places a second kiss on your lips, quieter this time, reverent almost. A kiss like a secret. A kiss like a promise or a threat. You don’t know which. Then he stands. — I AM GOING MAD. MAD.

You lift the latch. He climbs in without ceremony, without sound, landing like wind on the floorboards. The air shifts the moment he enters, and suddenly your small, worn bedroom feels like a world away from everything else; everything loud, everything righteous. You barely whisper his name before his hands find your face, cradling it with a hunger that feels like grief and something more dangerous. He kisses you like he’s been drowning since birth and your mouth is the first breath of air he’s ever tasted. — oh. my. God

Am I being brought into a false sense of comfort? I hope not and Im going to ignore everything else (yes i saw the warnings, i will be ignorant till the end)

“I’m not just some girl you kiss in the dark,” you say, eyes catching his. “I don’t do this. I don’t just… fool around. I believe in love.” — i couldnt help but giggle shes so fucking cute actually

What were you asking for? Were you ready to have sex? To lose your virginity? and to Jay of all people? You weren’t sure. It was like Jay could sense your hesitance, his head shaking no as soon as the words left your lips. “You’re not ready, baby.” He whispered into your temple. and he was right. You weren’t. So instead he stayed in your bed. Not much longer but long enough for you to really miss him when he left. — god i am not your strongest soldier.

Jay and mc are like a flame and a moth. This girl really pretended to care about Minji’s play date to go to their house. I will say it again, I absolutely love Jay’s character and how complex it is. I really do feel bad for him because there are so much things unsaid about him (so far) and it actually hurts that words and people can cause the behaviour. Like, him coming to her house after they has the little moment when she was over hurts. The way he was hurt, the way he literally cant tell her ugh :( 

You could’ve leaned in. You could’ve kissed him right then, let him forget the pain with the press of your mouth. But you didn’t. Instead, you cupped his face, thumb stroking gently beneath the bruise that bloomed like a violet shadow under his eye. “You didn’t have to come here,” you whispered. “I didn’t know where else to go.” And your heart cracked wide open. — my heart is too fucking weak for this oh my god im actually close to tearing up.

If they ever came for you…” His jaw tightened, that fire lighting behind his gaze again. “I’d burn the whole fucking earth down first.” Your breath caught. There was no poetry in his words. No soft metaphor. Just pure, raw promise. And it hit you harder than any poem ever could. — oh my god. 

Tonight, He wasn’t the boy with blood on his hands and secrets behind his teeth. You were just two people, breaking open beneath the weight of something delicate and real. — the vulnerability, i actually cant handle it

You stiffened. The words felt like claws scraping against your skin, peeling away the quiet you’d wrapped around yourself. You looked up, your fork frozen in your hand. “He’s not like that,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, but it rang clear through the room like a church bell cracking. “You don’t know him.” The silence that followed was immediate and suffocating, like the house had stopped breathing. — ?!?!?!?!? HELLO. Good for her honestly but im scared of the dad.

He didn’t answer at first. The space was small, too small, like a secret made physical. You could feel his breath at your temple, the heat of him seeping into your skin. “Forgive me, Father,” he murmured, voice low and sacrilegious, “for I am about to sin.” — oh my god. Holy fuck. The way he just downright confessed before he was about to start.

Jay—” you tried to protest, but he leaned in, forehead resting against yours, and the world tilted. “I want you so bad.” he said, softer now, like a confession. “I couldn’t help myself.” — Rain, youre going to send me crazy.

RAIN? RAIN???? IN THE CONFESSIONAL BOOTH????? 

“Oh god —” You let slip out. A wave of panic washes over you. 

“Yes.” Father Lee hummed. “Call onto our lord and our savior..” Jay adds another finger his pace quickening along with your breathing, your chest heaving and moans knocking at lips begging to be set free. — the way father lee responded, the i what ???? i literally cannot form coherent words rn. The catholic freak in me is living for this.

“Yes, god.” You whimpered, moving your hips to better aid Jay’s fingers. “Yes, yes, god.” 

“That’s it.” Father Lee nods. “Call unto him, as he is the only one who can judge you.” — I feel like i have to go confession after this (I havent done that since highschool)

“Do you accept this prayer and are you ready to confess all your sins?” Father Lee says as a closing statement. Your orgasm washes over you like a wave, pleasure coursing through your veins straight to your belly. You convulsed around Jay’s fingers withering under  his touch. 

“Yes! Yes!” You chanted “Oh my god.” Your breathing was uneven. Father Lee shuffled beside you. “We can begin..” He trailed off. 

“Tell me, what would you like to confess?” Your eyes find Jay’s once again as your breathing slows. What did you just do? Jay flashes you a smile, a shit eating grin that you can’t help but send back. You were in trouble with him, you were falling in love with him. And nothing good could come from that. — RAIN. I am so sorry but I just had to highlight this entire thing because OH MY GOD. Its so blasphemous (i love it)

AND WHEN I THOUGHT THINGS COULDNT GET WORSE ITS FELIX WHO DIES???

He looked up, startled, and then he smiled. “Hi, beautiful. What a surprise.” — on my knees. On my fucking knees.

The confession from Jay? His fucking dad being like hook, line and sinker? I feel fucking sick. And this was the false sense of security i fell into.

The way Jay was finally there, the way he killed Chul, the way immediately after police, her dad and taehyun appear. The way they cuff Jay…the way just. Everything. 

And then you kissed him. Fiercely, tenderly. Like the world was ending, because maybe, in some way, it was — oh my god i feel sick, tears in my eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, voice breaking. “I love you.” And then they took him. — no :((( 

Rain this was so freaking good. Like its literally the most immaculate piece. I love literally every moment. I love the way you did the plot, the way it progressed. The way Jay had so many complexities to him and in a way him and mc were on opposing sides of the same coin. Both with complex families, except with mc her dad more or less protected her purity and with jay his dad basically exploited him. I feel sick. I will always, and i mean always love your writing style, its really how I achieve to be.

Again, I really loved every bit of this piece. Your Jay will be remembered.

MAMA, I'M IN LOVE WITH A CRIMINAL P.JS

೨౿ ⠀  ׅ ⠀   ̇ 24k ⸝⸝ . ‌ ׅ ⸺ word count.

pairings 𝜗𝜚 criminal ! jay ៹ rival family ! kang ! reader ᧁ ; smut ˒ angst ˒ violence ˒ romeo and juliet au

warnings ⊹₊ ⋆ smut body worship fingering (in a church) angst graphic depictions of violence dark themes (i’m being serious) kidnapping held captive death injuries forbidden romance romeo and juliet au some toxic religious beliefs small town vibes ft taehyun (txt) ft yunah (illit) ft felix (stray kids) made up names for jay's parents fictional death of real life idols

in which ୨୧ He was a mystery. One you didn't know if you could solve. Hidden behind the shadows of his past and his duty to his family. He was no man for you, no. You needed a good man, a man that could provide and you knew that. So why did you want him so bad? No matter how dangerous, no matter how wrong.

★ ! rain's mic is on ⋆ ͘ . lord. I seen a tiktok edit to Britney Spears 'criminal' with jay and I literally couldn't stop thinking about it. I'm a sucker for Romeo and Juliet type of stories and jay is so perf for this. Also; I hope you guys will understand the ending to this — i tried to make it clear that i was not romanticizing the things that happened in here but also make it known that not everything is black and white in the world; sometimes decisions are more complex than just simply right or wrong. If you have any questions on my intentions with the ending; feel free to respectfully ask and i’m more than happy to explain. There will be no part two.

The chapel smells like old pinewood and older secrets. You sit between your brother and your mother, stiff in your Sunday best, your spine straight as the hymnals stacked behind the pew. The stained-glass windows cast slivers of color across the congregation, blood reds, bruised purples, the blue of a cold winter sky. Light falls like confession, quietly and without permission. You are not paying attention to the sermon. You never do.

The pastor drones on at the pulpit, words like smoke dissolving into the high beams of the chapel ceiling, but your mind drifts toward the murmuring of silk dresses and the creak of wooden pews, toward the undercurrent of small-town theater playing out in god’s house. Your father sits to your left, a statue carved of stone and pride. You feel the tension in his body like a heat source; silent, simmering, the kind of rage that has long since been iced over by responsibility. Your mother holds Minji in her lap, fingers curling gently around your little sister’s arm, but her eyes are watching everyone else in the church. 

The pews smell of lemon oil and something more human, powder and old perfume, the sweat of people trying to look holy. Minji starts kicking the pew in front of you, gently at first, like she’s testing the patience of the wood. Tap, tap, tap. Then harder. Thud. Your brother, Taehyun, flicks her a warning glance, but says nothing. You lean over, whispering sharp and low, like the way your mother does when guests are over “Minji. Stop.”. She glares at you with the full offense of a seven-year-old wronged. Her lip trembles. You already know what’s coming before she opens her mouth. 

She starts to cry; loud, wet, dramatic sobs that echo off the vaulted ceiling like thunder in a quiet storm. Heads turn. A few old women in floral skirts give sympathetic glances; others look annoyed. The pastor doesn’t pause, but you feel the church shift, the way it always does when something unscripted happens. Your mother turns to you, lips tight, voice sweetly cutting.  “Take her to the bathroom,” she hisses, her nails brushing your wrist like a warning. “Now.” You nod, standing and tugging Minji’s hand. She follows, sniffling, dragging her feet like she’s on the way to execution. You step out into the aisle, heat rising in your cheeks from the attention; most eyes pretend not to watch, but you feel them. You always feel them. Small towns are built on watching. You rush to the bathroom in the very back of the church, closed off and muggy. Surrounded by a long hallway of doors upon doors with who knows what in them. 

The bathroom smells like baby powder and old tile, the kind of sterile clean that never truly feels clean. Minji is humming a made-up song to herself behind the heavy door, the sound broken now and then by the rush of the faucet and the scrape of her shoes against the floor. You lean against the opposite wall, arms crossed, eyes flicking across the narrow hallway that leads deeper into the back corridors of the church; the kind of place children are told not to wander and adults forget to remember. It’s quiet here. Too quiet. You can still hear the low cadence of the sermon through the walls, like a heartbeat underwater. But underneath that; there. A sound. A sharp rustle, then a low thump. Muffled. Human. 

You stiffen. For a moment, it’s nothing. Could be a broom falling over, could be the wind sneaking through the stained glass seams. But then it comes again: a grunt, quick and strangled. Another thud. You glance toward the end of the hall, where a door hangs slightly ajar. Beyond it, darkness pools like ink in the corners of the church’s storage room. A place for old hymnals, broken nativity statues, forgotten folding chairs. You shouldn’t move. You know this. Every instinct in you, trained by caution, by family, by a lifetime of walking straight lines, tells you to stay planted, to wait for Minji and return to your seat and never speak of what you thought you heard. But curiosity, you’ve learned, is a quiet rebellion. A whisper that grows teeth. 

So you walk. Slowly. Barefoot-quiet in your heeled shoes. You reach the door, place your palm on the wood, breath hitched in your throat like a prayer waiting to break. You lean in, ear to the crack. Another grunt. And a voice; feminine, breathy, choked with a sound you’ve only ever heard behind closed doors in dramas you weren’t allowed to watch. You flinch, but your hand betrays you, fingers curling around the handle like it belongs to you. And then you open it. 

The light from the hallway slashes across the room, carving shadows into skin. You freeze. Park Jongseong. His back is bare, muscles flexing like a marble sculpture brought violently to life. His shirt is bunched around his waist, and his hands are on a girl. A girl you recognize, barely. Yumi. Her mouth is open in a gasp that doesn’t get the chance to leave. Her dress hiked up like it never belonged to her in the first place. Their limbs are tangled, their sins so vivid it feels like you're watching a sacred text being burned. Jay looks up. His eyes catch yours like a knife catches light. They widen, not with guilt, but with recognition — you, of all people. The breath leaves your lungs like glass shattering on cold tile. You slam the door so hard it rattles the frame.  

You’re trembling, though you don’t know if it’s from shame or shock or some strange cocktail of both. You spin around, heart thudding a war drum in your chest. Minji is just stepping out of the bathroom, drying her small hands on her dress. She doesn’t notice the way your hands shake as you reach for hers. Doesn’t see the way your eyes are wide, unfocused, filled with something that shouldn’t be there. “We’re going back,” you say, voice too high, too sharp. She doesn’t argue. Just nods and follows you, humming again, a tune too sweet for the ruin in your chest. 

You walk back into the sanctuary like a ghost in a girl’s body. You sit beside your mother, folding your hands in your lap like nothing happened, like you didn’t just see sin spill in a place meant for salvation. Your father doesn't glance at you. Taehyun doesn’t notice. But your mother turns slightly, just enough to give you a once-over; the kind that sees everything and says nothing. She thinks the crying was too much for you. She thinks you’ve been startled by your sister’s fit. And maybe she’s right, in a way. You’ve been startled. You’ve been unmade. 

And across the church, hidden in the shadows of holy silence, you feel him. Jay. And it’s not just what he did. It’s not just the shame of seeing it. It’s the way he looked at you. Like you were the one caught. Like he had nothing to hide. You stare straight ahead at the altar, but your mind stays in that room, with the taste of heat and velvet breath and the raw burn of a boundary shattered. You were innocent. Now, you’re aware. And awareness, you’re beginning to realize, is the beginning of every great tragedy. 

The service ends with the gentle hush of murmured amens and the rustle of Sunday clothes brushing past one another like leaves in a breeze. The congregation begins its slow migration out of the pews, a tide of polite smiles, handshakes, and the same conversations they’ve had for years, wearing different dresses. Your mother and father slip easily into their places; your father all firm nods and clipped words, your mother like a practiced socialite, her smile painted just perfectly at the edges. You, Taehyun, and Minji remain behind, lingering in your spot like the forgotten echo of a hymn, three children carved from the same silence. 

Minji swings her legs, her little shoes knocking against the pew in soft rhythm. She’s already forgotten the earlier outburst, too busy playing with the lace trim of her dress and watching Soojin across the room with an expression that flickers between curiosity and envy. Taehyun leans back, arms crossed, eyes roving lazily over the crowd. You try not to look for him. Not for Jay. But your eyes betray you like they always do, wandering before your mind gives them permission. And there he is. Standing by his mother, tall and lean like a shadow at sunset, too sharp around the edges to be beautiful, but too striking to ignore. Jay. His hands are in his pockets, posture relaxed, but there's a glint in his eye, dangerous, knowing. His mouth tilts into a crooked, unbearable smirk when his gaze meets yours. 

Like a match lit in the back of your throat. He knows. He knows you saw. You look down instantly, cheeks burning, staring at your shoes as though they can explain how to erase memory. But there’s no forgetting the picture burned into your eyelids. No way to smother the sound of that half-stifled breath, the friction of skin, the fall of a name not yours. You hear your name drift through the air like a ripple over still water. “Come here, sweetheart,” your mother calls, her voice sweet enough to sting. You rise on instinct, smoothing your skirt with trembling hands, and walk the long aisle toward her like you’re walking a tightrope, each step balanced between ruin and restraint. 

She stands with Jay’s mother, who is dressed in pastel pink, too pristine for the venom coiled beneath her voice. Their conversation is coated in sugar, but you can hear the brittle underneath; like porcelain tea cups about to crack. “Oh, she’s grown so much,” Jay’s mother says, her smile wide and empty. “Just lovely.” Your mother laughs, high and bright like wind chimes in a storm. “Time goes fast. I can barely keep up.” 

You can feel their words curling around you like ivy, decorative and choking. You nod, bow your head politely, try not to flinch as Soojin skips up to Minji and pulls her by the hand to the patch of grass outside the chapel. They giggle, bright as birdsong, unaware of the blood history buried beneath their fathers’ names. And beside them, like a wolf in Sunday clothes, stands Jay. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to. He looks at you like he’s still in that room. Like he can still see you there, wide-eyed, breathless, trembling at the threshold of something you shouldn’t have witnessed. His smirk deepens, lazy and cruel, and you feel it all the way in your stomach.

Your skin prickles. “What the hell was that look?” Taehyun mutters behind you, his tone low, edged with suspicion. He nudges you sharply with his knee, and you nearly stumble. You keep your eyes on your feet. “Nothing,” you say, too quickly. “I’ll tell you later.”

Taehyun narrows his eyes but doesn’t push. He knows you. He knows when to wait. You stand there, between your mother and your enemy’s mother, with your hands clasped and your mouth sewn shut, while your past, your present, and your sins walk the churchyard outside; laughing like children, smirking like boys who don’t believe in consequences. You think maybe you don’t either. Not anymore. 

The conversation begins to wilt, as all forced things do; smiles sagging at the corners, eyes flicking elsewhere in search of escape. Your mother and Jay’s mother trade the kind of compliments that glitter like broken glass: delicate, dazzling, and meant to cut. Behind them, laughter ripples from the church lawn, where Minji and Soojin chase each other in slow, dizzying circles, their dresses fanning out like blooming petals, too young to know the soil they’re rooted in. You glance once toward Jay, who leans against the edge of the wooden steps with his hands still buried in his pockets, his dark hair curling slightly at his temple, his expression unreadable now, less amused, more distant, as if even he feels the weight pressing down from generations above him. And then your father arrives. 

He moves through the crowd like a tide against stone, unyielding and deliberate. The chatter quiets a little wherever he steps, the way air thins before a storm. You feel him before he speaks; a presence that coils around your ribcage and makes your breath shallow. His eyes are sharp beneath the brim of his hat, and when he stops beside your mother, you see the brief flicker of something harden in Jay’s mother’s posture. “Mrs. Park,” he says, voice even, smooth, but cold in the way marble is cold. “Where’s your husband this fine morning? Too busy for the Lord?” 

She blinks once. Her smile holds, but only just. “Business,” she replies. “He’s out of town, dealing with a shipment issue in the city.” Your father’s silence stretches just long enough to make everyone feel it. “I’m sure he is,” he says finally, the words slow and heavy, like stones dropped into a still pond. The implication hangs there; thick, clinging, undeniable. 

You feel your stomach twist. Even the sun seems to dim for a moment, slipping behind a lazy cloud as if to shield its eyes. Your mother steps in like a practiced violinist interrupting a wrong note mid-performance. Her hand grazes your father’s elbow with the familiarity of a thousand such interventions. “Well,” she says lightly, too brightly, “we should be going. The roast will overcook if we linger much longer.” She turns to Jay’s mother with that polished grace only women in battle can master. “It was so lovely catching up. Truly.” 

Jay’s mother nods. Her smile has slipped further now, the edges brittle. “Of course. Always.” You’re ushered away quickly, your mother’s hand at your back firm and urging, her pace brisk as she gathers Minji from the grass, calls for Taehyun, and pulls your family together like a shepherd herding sheep out of a lion’s den. No one speaks until the church doors are behind you, the air suddenly cooler, less suffocating.

You’re nearly free. The gravel of the church path crunches beneath your shoes as your family moves forward, a cluster of matching postures and purposeful steps, like soldiers retreating from a battlefield dressed in Sunday best. The weight begins to lift from your chest, bit by bit, with every step away from those lingering glances and brittle conversations. You tell yourself you’ll forget what you saw, that it was an accident, a fleeting mistake swallowed by stained glass and holy silence. But just as you pass the old oak tree near the chapel gate, a hand snakes out and closes around your wrist. You freeze. The world seems to narrow into a pinprick.

Jay. His fingers are calloused, his grip strong; not enough to hurt, but enough to root you to the spot like a nail through your spine. He’s close. Too close. His face is calm, cold, carved from the same shadows that seem to cling to him even in the daylight. There is no trace of that smirk now. No mischief. No boyish charm. Just steel. “Don’t tell anyone what you saw,” he says, low and sharp, each word slicing into the quiet like the snap of a branch underfoot. “Or you’ll regret it.” 

There’s no drama in his voice, no raised tone, no overt threat. Just certainty. Like a promise. Or a prophecy. Your breath lodges somewhere beneath your ribs. You can’t even muster a word, only a nod, small and trembling, as your heart begins to stutter inside your chest like it’s trying to run ahead of you. He lets go as suddenly as he appeared, melting back into the periphery like a sin you can’t prove you committed. The imprint of his touch remains, hot and phantomlike, as you hurry back to your family with your head down and your thoughts unraveling at the seams. You slip into step beside them just in time to hear your father’s voice break the fragile calm. 

“If I ever catch you talking to the likes of Park Jongseong,” he says, without turning his head, “I will ship you off to a convent so fast you’ll be reciting rosaries before supper.” The words hang in the air, stark and heavy as thunderclouds. “Yes, Daddy,” you say softly, your voice a breath against the wind, your eyes fixed on the ground. And that’s it. No argument. No protest. Because even if you wanted to fight, what would you say? That you didn’t talk to him? That his hand found yours, not the other way around? That he threatened you? That you saw something you can’t unsee?

No. You say nothing. You bow your head like the good girl you’re supposed to be. Like a daughter dressed in obedience and stitched with silence. But beneath your skin, something writhes. Something that feels a lot like shame and a little like fear, but more than anything, like curiosity warped by danger. And as the chapel disappears behind you, you realize this is how it begins. Not with a kiss. But with a warning. 

That night the dining room is warm with the scent of roast chicken and buttered root vegetables, the table laid with modest care, linen napkins folded neatly, wine glasses filled just a touch too high, as though the evening itself demanded the illusion of celebration. Outside, the crickets begin their song beneath the veil of twilight, and the house hums gently with the quiet rituals of family: chairs scraping wood, silverware clinking like distant bells, Minji humming to herself between bites of mashed potatoes. 

You sit across from Taehyun, who nudges your foot under the table once, curious, wordless, but you give him nothing. Not yet. Your mother, dressed in her favorite pale blue blouse, cuts her meat with careful precision, while your father, ever the figure carved from unyielding stone, sips from his wine like it's an act of judgment rather than indulgence. The conversation flits from the mundane to the mechanical, your father talking about a shipment delay, your mother noting the fundraiser next month, Taehyun making a dry comment about work. You listen halfheartedly, moving food around your plate, your thoughts wandering back to the church, to the oak tree, to the ghost of a hand still wrapped around your wrist. But then your mother says it. 

“So,” she begins lightly, as though she’s offering a dessert menu instead of kindling a fire, “Jiyo invited us to dinner next Saturday.” The clink of your father’s knife against his plate is immediate. A small, sharp sound that lands like a gavel. 

“She what?” he says, his voice too calm, the kind of calm that thins the air. Your mother waves her hand, trying to dismiss the storm before it forms. “Just a friendly gesture. She said she’s wanted to reconnect. It’s been years since we’ve sat down like civilized people.” Your father laughs, but it’s humorless, a short, cutting sound like a blade being tested. “And you said yes?”  

“I said I’d think about it.” 

He sets down his fork, dabs his mouth with a napkin, and leans back in his chair like a man preparing to deliver a verdict. “You know how I feel about Chul. That woman chose to build her life beside a snake. What makes you think we owe them the performance of kindness?” 

“She’s not her husband,” your mother says, her tone still soft but no longer passive. “She’s always been sweet to me. To the kids. Especially when you were… gone.” The word lingers — gone — and you feel it hit the table like a dropped stone. Your father’s jaw tightens. “There’s nothing sweet about a woman who lays down with scum and lets him poison the earth around him.” 

“Well,” your mother says, straightening her back, her voice sharpening to a whisper-thin edge, “then I suppose I must be just as rotten. I married a man who once made deals with him too, didn’t I?” The silence that follows is deafening. Your father turns slowly to her, his expression unreadable but his eyes like winter; the kind of cold that doesn’t melt come spring. “Say that again?”

Your mother holds his gaze for half a second longer, a war trembling behind her lashes. But she looks away. She says nothing. Only returns to her plate and cuts her chicken in silence. And that’s it. The conversation dies. No one breathes too loudly. Minji doesn’t notice, she hums and chews and swings her feet. Taehyun reaches for the salt, eyes flicking to yours with quiet warning. Your appetite vanishes like mist in morning sun.

Outside, the wind brushes the windows like fingers trying to get in. Inside, you realize that your family is not made of glass, but of iron, bent into shape by betrayal, rusted over with resentment. And some metals, you think, cannot be reforged. Only buried. 

The night unfurls like silk, cool and gentle, stitched with stars. The backyard hums with crickets and the distant rustle of trees whispering secrets to one another in the dark. You’re curled on a poolside lounge chair, the spine of your book bent beneath your thumb, but your eyes have glossed over the same sentence three times. The page is just a veil now; something to hide behind while your mind wades through the wreckage of the day. The pool glows a soft, pale blue beneath the surface lights, and Taehyun slices through it like a blade through water. His strokes are steady, strong, the kind of motion that speaks of routine, of something he’s learned to rely on. You envy that; his ability to push everything down, to lose himself in rhythm and breath and the sound of water folding in on itself. 

You sigh and adjust your legs, the night air cool against your skin. Sometimes, in rare hours like this, you let yourself believe Taehyun might be the only one who truly sees you. The only one who knows how to read the pauses between your words, the weight behind your silences. Besides Yunah, who is far away tonight, it's always been him; your confidant, your reluctant protector, your brother. He swims one final lap, then glides to the edge and pulls himself out in a single fluid motion, water streaming off his skin in rivulets that catch the dim light. He grabs a towel from the back of a chair and rubs it through his hair, gaze flicking toward you, unreadable but searching. You wait. You know it’s coming. 

He sits at the pool’s edge, legs dangling in the water, shoulders still rising and falling from exertion. The silence thickens, until finally he breaks it. “What was that today?” he asks. “At church. Jay looked at you like…” He pauses, frowns. “And then he grabbed you. What the hell was that about?” You close your book slowly. The words don’t come easily. They never do when shame tangles them first. But this is Taehyun. If there’s anyone you can give them to, raw and imperfect, it’s him. 

“I saw something,” you begin softly. Your voice is barely a whisper, as if the night might shatter if you speak too loudly. “In the church. When I took Minji to the bathroom.” His eyes don’t leave your face. “There were… noises. From one of the storage rooms. I thought someone was hurt,” you say. “But when I opened the door, it was—” You hesitate. “It was Jay. With some girl. Yumi, I think. They were…” 

Taehyun groans, dragging a hand down his face before you can even finish. “Jesus Christ.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, hugging your knees to your chest. “I slammed the door shut. I didn’t even mean to see it.” 

“And that’s why he grabbed you?” Taehyun says, his voice laced with disbelief and anger, a storm gathering behind his words. “That’s why he gave you that look; like he was daring you to open your mouth.” You nod. “He told me not to tell anyone. Said I’d regret it.” 

Taehyun curses again, sharper this time. “What a goddamn asshole.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees, shaking his head like he’s trying to physically rid himself of the thought. “He treats people like shit. Always has. He walks around like the world owes him something for the family name he was born into. I don’t care how tragic his little story is; his dad screwing over ours, his mom pretending to be sweet, he’s just as rotten.” 

The silence stretches again, heavy with unspoken fears and the slow bloom of something darker. “He’s sick for doing that in a church,” Taehyun mutters, his voice low and hard. “And then threatening you about it? He’s lucky it was you who saw him and not me.” You glance at him then, at the way his jaw clenches, his hands balled into fists against his thighs. It should comfort you, the fierceness in him, the way he leaps to your defense without question. But instead, it only deepens the ache inside you. Because no matter how wrong it is, no matter how much your brother’s fury burns bright and righteous, there’s a whisper in the back of your mind that still wonders what it is about Jay Park that makes your heart stutter like that.

“I won’t talk to him,” you say quietly, more to convince yourself than him. “Good,” Taehyun says, looking over at you. “Because that boy doesn’t just bring trouble. He is trouble.” And yet even as the stars blink overhead and the pool water laps gently against tile, you feel the echo of Jay’s voice coil around your spine like smoke. You know what you saw. And worse; you know what you felt. You tuck your head against your knees and close your eyes, wishing the night could swallow the memory whole. But some things, once seen, never go quiet again. 

The house is still, cloaked in the velvety hush of after-hours, when dreams drip slow like honey and silence wraps around the walls like an old lover. The moon hangs low outside your window, its pale light slanting across your bedroom floor like an invitation, or a warning. You wake to something — not a dream, no — but the low hum of voices bleeding through the stillness, muffled and sharp, like the scrape of metal under cloth. Your breath catches. You sit up slowly, ears straining. The clock beside your bed reads just past three. The voices murmur again. 

You slip out of bed on bare feet, the cold floor biting against your skin as you tiptoe to the door. The hallway yawns long and dark before you, stretched like a corridor in some haunted chapel, the air thicker here, like it's been keeping secrets of its own. You hold your breath and follow the murmurs, each step soft, careful, barely there. The kitchen glows faintly ahead. dim yellow light spilling out like spilled whiskey beneath the doorframe. You press yourself to the wall and lean forward just enough to see. Your father stands near the table, sleeves rolled up, a glass untouched by his hand. Taehyun leans against the counter, arms crossed, face grim, eyes flickering toward two men you’ve never seen before, older, stern, the kind of men who carry weight without needing to raise their voices. They speak in hushed tones, but the tension rides every syllable, thick and bitter. 

“…can’t let them find out we’re disturbing their shipments,” one of the men says, low and urgent. “If Chul gets wind of it, he’ll burn this town down to find the leak.” Your heart jolts. Shipments? Leak? “They already suspect something,” the second man adds, fingers drumming against the table like a metronome counting down to disaster. “That little punk, Jay, he robbed one of our guys. Sent a message. You know what that means.” 

Your father’s face is carved from stone. “Of course I do.” Your stomach twists. Jay. “He’s getting reckless,” the man continues. “Acting like he’s untouchable. We don’t deal with people like that.” 

Taehyun’s voice is calm, but edged like a blade honed too long. “He can try,” he mutters. “If he comes near our side again, I’ll handle it.” Your blood runs cold. There’s no hesitation in his tone, only the promise of violence. Your hand flies to your mouth, breath trembling through your fingers. The room spins slightly, your body suddenly too small, too quiet for the weight of what you've just heard. The world feels different now, fractured. You’d known there were histories buried beneath this town, old grudges and whispered deals that had sunk roots deeper than the oak trees. But this — this was something else.

They weren’t just rivals. They were at war. And Jay, whatever he was to you, whatever strange heat curled around your being when you thought of him, was in the center of it. 

You back away from the doorway, heart racing, afraid they’ll hear the thunder of it. You scurry down the hallway like a ghost retracing its steps, back into the sanctuary of your room where shadows feel safer than light. You close the door with trembling hands and slide down the back of it, sinking to the floor. Your mind echoes with voices; dangerous, sharp-edged voices and Jay’s name spinning like a coin tossed too high. Sleep does not find you again that night. Only questions. And fear. 

The morning slips in on golden threads, soft and unassuming, the kind of light that warms the wooden floorboards and dapples the countertops in sleepy patches. You haven’t said a word about what you heard the night before those heavy truths folded into the silence between heartbeats but they thrum beneath your skin like a second pulse. Still, when your mother calls you down the hallway, brisk and bright, you answer as if nothing inside you has changed. “Put on something nice,” she says, her voice already trailing off into the kitchen. “We’re heading to the bake sale. Church is raising funds for that wedding coming up. Sohiya and Heeseung, bless them.” 

You pause with your hand on the stair rail, her words wrapping around your throat like ivy. Sohiya. She was your age, sweet and soft-spoken, with delicate wrists and laughter like wind chimes. And Heeseung, kind-eyed and quiet, the type who always held the door open and bowed his head when he prayed. The idea of them marrying, so young, so sudden, presses strangely on your chest. You dress in silence, the pastel linen of your skirt swishing against your legs like a lullaby as you smooth your hair, your reflection half-faded in the antique mirror on your wall. Outside, the town is already stirring, the sleepy streets of your village slowly waking, touched by the scent of sugar and cinnamon wafting through the breeze. 

At the town square, white tents have been strung with bunting, and tables bow beneath the weight of confections, pies with latticed crusts, sugar cookies shaped like doves, and cupcakes topped with icing roses that seem too delicate to eat. The air hums with the soft murmur of neighbors, laughter bubbling here and there like springwater. It is all so pleasant, so falsely perfect, like a painting trying to forget the shadows in its corners. You spot Yunah by the jam stall, her dark braid swinging as she waves you over with a grin, her mother deep in conversation with someone about flour prices and wedding favors. As soon as you reach her, she grabs your arm and leans in, eyes glinting with mischief. 

“Have you heard?” she whispers, the kind of tone that makes your stomach drop before you even know why. “Sohiya’s pregnant. That’s why the wedding’s so rushed.” Your brows lift in quiet shock. Yunah nods, savoring your reaction like a bite of forbidden cake. “I heard it from my cousin who heard it from Eunju, who heard it from her older sister. Her parents found out last week and demanded the wedding happen before anyone else starts talking.” 

You glance across the bake sale and find Sohiya near the lemonade stand, her hands wringing the hem of her blouse, Heeseung standing beside her like a ghost, present, but hollow. She looks tired, like someone who’s been carrying a secret too long, her smile wilting at the edges every time someone congratulates her. Your heart aches in the quiet way only girlhood understands. You’re the same age. You’ve braided your hair the same, sat in the same church pews, hummed the same hymns. But now she’s stepping into a life that feels ten years too soon. A house. A husband. A child. 

“I couldn’t imagine,” you murmur, voice soft and low, “being married right now.” Yunah shrugs, biting into a shortbread cookie. “You and me both. But you know how this town is. A scandal like that?” She shakes her head. “It’s either a wedding or exile.” You nod slowly, eyes lingering on Sohiya, on the way she keeps glancing over her shoulder like the whispers might catch up to her. The same way you feel the breath of last night’s secrets still clinging to yours. Beneath the sugar and sunlight, the square feels brittle. Like one wrong word could make it all shatter. 

It happens suddenly, like thunder splitting the hush of an approaching storm. One moment you’re nibbling on a vanilla cupcake and nodding along as Yunah whispers about scandalous bridal fittings and strict seamstresses, and the next, the air warps; sharp, brittle, buzzing like a struck wire. The shift is instant, the kind of moment that bends the bones of a quiet afternoon and sets hearts galloping. You hear it first; a voice, sharp and raw with fury. Then the low, sickening thud of someone being shoved against a wall.

Your head snaps toward the commotion, and the whole bake sale ripples with the echo of gasps and stilled conversations. Tables tremble, frosting smears, and parents clutch their children a little closer. Near the corner of the community center, just beneath the old iron sconce where flyers for choir practice flutter weakly, Jay is pinned; pressed against sun-warmed brick by another boy, taller, angrier, eyes gleaming with betrayal. It’s Felix. You know him. Sweet-talking, easy-laughing Felix who works at the town’s little mechanic shop and always smells like motor oil and mint gum. His voice is raised now, ragged and venomous. 

“You fucked my girlfriend, you sick bastard!” he roars, his arm slamming across Jay’s chest, voice loud enough to slice through every inch of sugar-sweet air. Yumi is there too, her mascara running like rivers down her cheeks, her hands fluttering uselessly in front of her as she pleads with Felix, voice breaking like porcelain in her throat. “It wasn’t like that, please,” she cries, grabbing at his arm. “Please, stop. It was a mistake — he didn’t mean—” 

But Jay only stands there, infuriatingly calm. There’s a half-lidded smirk painted across his lips, smug and gleaming like polished obsidian. “Relax, Felix,” he drawls, voice thick with venom-laced honey. “I didn’t know she was yours. She didn’t exactly say no.” The words are a match. Felix snaps. His fist connects with Jay’s jaw in a brutal arc, a punch that sounds like thunder cracking bone. Gasps scatter like doves taking flight. Yumi shrieks, and a cupcake tray crashes to the ground somewhere nearby, frosting splattering like a pink and white wound. 

Jay stumbles back from the blow, hand flying to his cheek but then he laughs. Actually laughs, a low, taunting sound, wild and cruel and so full of gall it steals the breath from your lungs. “You hit like a fucking choir boy,” he spits, blood blooming on his lower lip like a rose in ruin. People rush in, pastors, parents, volunteers with gloved hands and worried brows pulling Felix back, dragging Jay away, trying to stitch dignity back into the seams of a moment too far undone. 

The crowd swells, then parts. Jay is being hauled out by a man in a navy windbreaker and a church elder with trembling hands. But even bruised, even bleeding, Jay looks untouchable; smirking like he owns the goddamn town. And then he sees you. Eyes dark as ink, wild with something you can’t name. He meets your gaze across the chaos, across the bodies and ruined cakes and shattered calm. He winks. It’s slow. Intentional. And it sets your spine on fire. You forget how to breathe. He disappears into the crowd, the echo of that wink burning behind your eyes like the sun. 

Your heart is still galloping when the crowd begins to settle, when the ripples of scandal soften into murmurs and murmurs dissolve into sugared distractions. Parents usher children away with tight smiles and tighter hands, as if sweetness could scrub away the memory of fists and curses. Jay is gone, at least from sight. But not from your mind. “You know,” Yunah says beside you, folding her arms, her voice sharpened with knowing, “he’s no good. Just trouble in designer clothes.”

You nod, because that’s what you’re supposed to do. What you’re expected to believe. What every decent girl in this village is raised to fear. But inside you, curiosity blooms like a slow-burning match, small and dangerous. You mumble something about needing the bathroom and excuse yourself before she can press further, her eyes already narrowing in suspicion. The church looms behind you as you slip away, its whitewashed walls glowing warm in the early afternoon light, the air thick with the scent of sun-baked frosting and wilted roses. But beneath it — just barely, you catch another scent. Smoke. Acrid, earthy, wrong. 

You follow it. Each step feels reckless, like dancing barefoot on a chapel floor. Like carving your name into a hymnbook. The scent grows stronger as you round the corner of the church, your breath catching in your throat like a moth in a jar. And there he is. Jay.

He leans against the wall like he was born to break rules and balance on the edge of forgiveness. One foot propped behind him, head tilted back, the collar of his shirt loosened and stained with a drop of blood near the seam. His cigarette glows like an ember in the low light, the curl of smoke rising from it like a ghost ascending. He doesn’t look surprised to see you. In fact, he barely even glances your way. Just takes a drag, exhales slow, like the chaos he caused hasn’t even nicked his soul. Like the fight, the punch, the girl, the whispers, none of it mattered. 

“Didn’t think you’d come looking,” he says finally, voice low, almost bored. But there’s a thread of something else underneath; taunt or tease, you can’t tell. “You don’t seem the type.”  You should leave. You should turn around, march back to the bake sale, and pretend you never followed smoke down a church wall. But your feet stay planted, heart hammering as loud as the chapel bells. You don’t say a word. You just watch him, silently, like he’s a puzzle carved from shadow and sin and the ache of wanting something you know you shouldn’t. 

Jay flicks ash onto the gravel path, his eyes cutting toward you through the smoke, one brow raised lazily. His lip is split, a bloom of red painting the edge of his smirk. “You see something you like?” he asks. And for one terrible, breathless moment you don’t know the answer. The question drips from his mouth like smoke, slow, curling, coaxing. Not crude, not exactly. But not innocent, either. It lands somewhere in the charged space between your ribs and your throat, where breath gets tangled with hesitation.

You should scoff. Roll your eyes. Offer him the same disdain he so casually invites from the world. But you don’t. Because there’s something about the way he looks at you; like you’re not just another girl in a white dress and soft shoes, but someone he sees through, into. Like he knows your name and the weight it carries. Knows the walls you live behind, and the cracks that run silent and deep beneath your polished smile. You step closer without meaning to, arms crossed loosely, trying to look like the kind of girl who doesn’t care what boys like him say. But your voice comes softer than you mean for it to. “I didn’t come looking for you.” 

Jay chuckles, low and dark, like gravel skimming the bottom of a stream. He doesn’t believe you. That much is clear. He drops the cigarette to the dirt and grinds it out with the heel of his boot, the smoke hissing away like a secret being silenced. “No?” he says, stepping just slightly forward, head tilted. “Then why are you here, church girl?” You flinch a little at the nickname. It’s not mean. But there’s weight in it. A reminder of everything you’re supposed to be. Everything he isn’t. 

“I heard… noise,” you mumble, eyes darting away, to the cracked siding of the church wall. “From earlier. I just… I wanted to see if you were okay.” Jay scoffs this time, straightens, stretches the muscles in his shoulders like a wolf rising from slumber. “You mean after I got punched for screwing some girl who cried over it?” 

He says it like it doesn’t matter. Like he doesn’t matter. Like none of it, the punch, the drama, the girl, was anything more than a flicker in the dark. And still, the wound at the edge of his lip glistens like it wants to be noticed. You hesitate, then speak quietly. “That was cruel. What you did.” 

He watches you now, like your words are more interesting than they have any right to be. “Probably,” he agrees, not flinching. “But she knew what it was. I’m not the one playing pretend.” The words settle over you like dust, heavy and old and aching. You want to hate him. You really, truly do. You want to believe he’s everything your father says, that he’s rotten at the root, grown from betrayal and greed and the same sharp-edged steel his father used to cut yours down. 

But he looks at you then, and there’s something in his expression, not smugness, not bravado; but something rawer. Wearier. Like he’s been fighting a war so long he’s forgotten what peace feels like. You find your voice again, softer now. “Why do you act like this?” Jay blinks slowly, like you’ve asked him a question no one’s ever dared to. Then, in a voice barely louder than a confession, he says, “Because people already made up their minds about me a long time ago. Figured I might as well give them what they want.” It slices through the silence like a nail through silk.

You swallow, the wind tugging at your skirt, the chapel bells tolling in the distance; calling the faithful back inside, as if to protect them from boys like him and girls like you who linger too long in the gray. Jay takes a step back, pulling another cigarette from the pocket of his jacket, but he doesn’t light it. Just rolls it between his fingers like a habit he hasn’t learned how to quit. “Run along now,” he mutters, eyes dark. “Before your daddy comes lookin’. Wouldn’t want you shipped off to a convent, would we?”

And this time, when he smirks, there’s no cruelty in it. Just something almost sad. You hesitate one more breath, just one, before turning, your footsteps light on the gravel, your heart anything but. But as you leave, you can feel his gaze still on your back. Burning. Etching your outline into his memory like a prayer he’ll never speak. 

You scurry back around the side of the church, fingers fumbling with the hem of your dress, your breath still tinged with the ghost of smoke. The sun presses down hard now, warm and high in the sky, yet you feel cold beneath your skin, as though the truth of that boy has left a frostbite behind, unseen but pulsing. The bake sale has resumed its sugary rhythm, laughter bubbling from ladies with sunhats and teenagers handing out lemonade like the world isn’t slowly unraveling around you. As if it’s all sweet and simple, and boys like Jay Park don’t burn holes in the script you were meant to follow.

Yunah finds you with a look that speaks volumes, one brow raised, lips pursed slightly like she already knows you’ve done something that would make your parents spit their tea. She doesn’t say anything, though. Just hands you a paper plate with a melting brownie on it and raises her eyes toward the sky like she’s giving you a silent prayer. You offer a small, guilty smile and fall in step beside her. But your thoughts are no longer here. They wander, wild and unbidden, to the shadows of last night. 

To your bare feet on the cold wood floor, the whisper of your nightgown brushing your ankles. The hush of the house heavy around you as you crept down the hallway, drawn like a moth to the faint hum of voices in the kitchen. You hadn’t meant to listen. But once you’d heard, you couldn’t unhear it. The names, the threats, the implication that beneath all this civility was something far darker. Something like war. “We can’t let them find out we’re disturbing their shipments.” — “That little punk Jay needs to be dealt with.” — “He can try,” Taehyun had said, his voice sharper than you’d ever heard it, like a blade honed under moonlight.

Your father, standing there like a general. Cold. Unmoving. He hadn’t even flinched at the suggestion of retaliation. Of vengeance. You hadn’t wanted to believe it, but there it was, your family wasn’t just at odds with the Parks over pride and betrayal. There were stakes hidden deeper than Sunday sermons and fake smiles at bake sales. Stakes that bled and burned. Stakes that made boys disappear and fathers never come home. Jay. A name spoken like venom in your house, a boy your father swore was born from rot and ruin. A boy who had dared to look at you today with something that felt like a challenge. Or a warning.

Your fingers tighten around the paper plate in your hands, the brownie trembling on the wax paper like it knows it doesn’t belong in your grip. You don’t belong here, either. Not really. Not with your head full of cigarette smoke and secrets. Yunah is saying something beside you, but the words slip past like water on stone. You nod when you’re supposed to. Smile when expected. But inside? Inside, you’re still standing at the edge of that hallway, hearing the words that changed everything. Inside, you’re still by that church wall, staring into the eyes of the boy your father would rather see buried than anywhere near you. And worse than all of it is the ache that curls low in your belly because you don’t know if you’re scared of Jay… or of how much you want to understand him. 

That night, the air in the house is thick with something unsaid. Like storm clouds gathering just out of sight, grumbling low and slow in the distance. The walls creak with old secrets and the whispers of generations past, all of them watching, waiting. You lie in bed, the covers tangled around your legs, staring up at the ceiling where the shadows stretch like spiderwebs. But sleep doesn’t come. Not when your mind is still caught in that kitchen, when you still hear your father’s voice like thunder and Taehyun’s like flint striking stone. 

The question gnaws at you, small and sharp and relentless: what did they mean? What are they doing, what is Jay tangled in that your family feels the need to speak of him like a threat, like a ghost they can’t quite kill? So you get up. The floorboards are cold under your feet, the hallway dim save for the light spilling beneath Taehyun’s door, a golden sliver cutting the dark. You hover there for a second, unsure, your hand paused mid-air. Then you knock gently, once, twice. 

“It’s open,” his voice calls out, slightly muffled. You step in and find him hunched over his desk, textbooks spread like wings, his brow furrowed in concentration. He looks up at you, blinking like he’s surfacing from underwater. “What’s up?” he asks, the corner of his mouth lifting just barely. “Don’t tell me you need help with trig again.” 

You close the door softly behind you and step further into the room, suddenly unsure how to phrase what’s been burning in your chest for the past twenty-four hours. So you just say it, straight and small:

“I heard you. Last night. You and Dad.” His entire body stiffens like wire pulled taut. He leans back in his chair, pen dropping from his fingers as his face darkens with something between disappointment and dread. “You weren’t supposed to hear that,” he says, his voice low, more exhale than sound. “Conversations like that aren’t meant for young girls.” 

You bristle. “I’m only a year younger than you.” He gives you a look, half warning, half weary affection. “And that year makes a difference.” 

“No, it doesn’t,” you insist, crossing your arms. “I’m not a child, Taehyun.” He sighs and runs a hand through his damp hair, frustration flashing across his face like lightning. “You think being an adult is about age? It’s about what you’re ready to carry. And you’re not ready for this.”

“Then help me understand.” Your voice is soft but steady. “Help me understand why everyone talks about Jay like he’s poison. Like he’s something to be eliminated.” The name slips out before you can stop it. Jay. A matchstick against stone.

Taehyun’s eyes narrow. “Why do you care?” 

“I don’t —” you start, but the lie tastes bitter. He stands abruptly, the chair legs scraping against the hardwood. “You do care. Don’t lie to me.” 

You look away, your heart pounding like it wants out of your chest. “I saw him today,” you admit. “At the bake sale. We didn’t talk long. I just —” 

“You talked to him?” Taehyun’s voice cracks like a whip. “Are you out of your mind?” 

“He didn’t hurt me—” You started. 

“That’s not the point,” he snaps. “You don’t know what kind of shit he’s involved in. What his family is capable of. This isn’t some schoolyard rivalry, alright? This is blood and business. He’s dangerous.” 

“You don’t get to tell me who to talk to,” you hiss, your hands trembling. “You’re not the boss of me.” His jaw clenches so tight you swear you hear it grind. “Actually,” he says slowly, icily, “I am. Until you know better, I am.”

That does it. The fury rises in you like a storm tide. You don’t shout. You don’t cry. You just spin on your heel and stalk out of his room, your footsteps like gunshots down the hallway. Behind you, Taehyun doesn’t follow. He just lets the door click shut between you. And you, you retreat to your room with your chest heaving and your thoughts in shambles, torn between the brother who wants to protect you and the boy who might just ruin you.

But wasn’t that what drew you in the first place? Not the danger.The possibility. The proof that something — someone could make you feel something real, even if it burned.

The bell above the shop door tinkles faintly as you step out into the embrace of night. Mrs. Chen waves at you from behind the counter, her fingers still dancing with a needle and thread as the lamplight paints golden halos around her silver hair. You smile, small and tired, the weight of the day settling in your bones, and close the door behind you. The sky outside is bruised with twilight, bleeding violet and blue as the sun disappears behind the hills that cradle your little town. The street lamps blink on one by one, flickering like hesitant stars, and the cobbled road that winds through the town glows amber in the gathering dark. 

You wrap your shawl a little tighter around your shoulders, feeling the press of the cool evening air against your skin. The walk home isn’t far, just fifteen minutes down roads you’ve known since childhood, roads that smell of lilac and woodsmoke and safety. Roads that always, always felt like home. But tonight, something feels different. It begins as a whisper at the base of your neck. That sense; not quite sound, not quite sight but the ancient, instinctual knowledge that you are no longer alone. Your footsteps echo a beat behind yours, too steady to be wind, too light to be mere imagination. 

You glance back. A man. Far enough that he could still be a coincidence, close enough that your pulse begins to drum faster. You turn onto a narrower lane, hoping to lose him in the winding streets, past Mrs. Lee’s bakery now shuttered for the night, past the small chapel with its bowed iron gates and flickering candles in the windows. Your footsteps quicken. So do his. You try to convince yourself it’s nothing; just a late walker, a neighbor maybe, but your hands are starting to shake. Then you hear it. 

The scrape of shoe leather quickening. The sound of breath, heavy, sharp, close. Panic surges like a tide inside you. You break into a run, your feet pounding the pavement, your breath catching in your throat, heart clawing at your ribs like a wild animal. But you don’t get far. A hand slams over your mouth. Another arm snakes around your waist, yanking you back so fast your heels lift off the ground. You try to scream, but your voice is strangled by a palm that tastes of sweat and cigarettes, of something sickly and metallic. The world tilts. You’re dragged, stumbling, into the shadows of an alley.

The narrow passage smells of rust and rot, wet stone and old things. Your feet scrape against gravel, your knees buckle, and still he drags you like you’re nothing more than a sack of flour. “Shhh,” he hisses into your ear, breath hot and rank, “make a sound and I swear to God—” But you’re fighting now, kicking, flailing, desperate not to disappear into the black corners of this town like a ghost no one will remember. Your mind reels. You think of Taehyun. Of your mother’s soft hands. Of Jay’s cigarette smoke curling like a warning. You think: not like this. Not like this.

You are a wild thing now, thrashing and clawing like some animal pulled too soon from the womb of safety, a fledgling bird tossed mid-air and told to fly. His arm is like iron around your chest, squeezing until breath is no longer breath but gasps made of salt and fear. You kick. You scream. The sound doesn’t even sound like you, it's raw, primal, jagged like broken glass tearing up your throat. Then instinct, burning desperate inside your veins, you sink your teeth into his hand. Hard. Hard enough to feel flesh give, to taste copper and skin and filth. He howls, a sound not quite human, and in the next heartbeat, his hand rears back and strikes your cheek with such force that the world spins. White-hot pain blossoms beneath your eye like a cruel flower, petals blooming in shades of red and violet.  

You fall. Hard. The gravel bites into your palms, your knees scream, but nothing compares to the kick to your stomach that follows. A boot, sharp and merciless, lands right where your breath lives. It punches the air from your lungs and leaves you folded on the earth like a broken prayer, stars exploding behind your eyes, nausea clawing up your throat. He’s above you now, shadowed and snarling, and there’s a moment, a single, stretched-out beat of time, where you wonder if this is how the story ends. A foot raised. The night around you holding its breath. Your body too stunned to move. 

Then it happens. A blur. A sound like thunder colliding with flesh. The man is ripped away from you in an instant, tackled to the ground with such force that the cobblestones rattle. You hear the grunt of fists meeting ribs, the dull wet thud of a punch, another, another, bone against bone, like a drumbeat played by fury. Jay. He’s on top of him now, all sinew and violence, his face carved in rage, lips peeled back like a wolf in the final act of warning. His fists fly like they’ve waited their whole life for this moment, no technique, just raw, vicious instinct. The man beneath him sputters, tries to buck him off, but Jay is unrelenting. There’s blood, somewhere, someone’s and it paints Jay’s knuckles like war paint. 

“Touch her again,” he growls low, venom slithering through each syllable, “and I’ll make sure you never touch anything again.” He says it not like a threat, but like a promise carved in stone. You can’t move. You can barely breathe. You're crumpled on the cold ground, blinking through pain and fear and disbelief. But through the haze, you watch Jay stand, chest heaving, jaw clenched, the man groaning at his feet like something discarded. But Jay doesn’t stop. 

His knuckles keep rising and falling like thunder crashing on a cursed shoreline, relentless, wild, each blow drawn from something deeper than fury, a darkness that lives in his marrow, in the cracks behind his eyes. The man beneath him is coughing now, spitting blood between laughter, a cruel, rasping sound that haunts the alley like a specter. And Jay, jaw set like a guillotine, grabs the man by the collar, shoving him harder against the wall, until the bricks groan and dust spills like ash. “Who sent you?” Jay spits, voice sharp enough to cut air. “Who do you work for?” The man just chuckles, a hideous, broken sound leaking out of a bruised throat. His lip splits wider with every word, but still he smirks like a man with nothing left to lose. 

“You think I’d ever tell you?” he sneers, coughing through blood. “You’re just a kid playing gangster.” Jay growls low in his throat, an animal sound, and the next punch lands with such weight it echoes. The man gasps. You flinch. The wind shifts and carries the scent of blood and cigarette smoke into your lungs like smoke from a funeral pyre. 

You push yourself up, your limbs trembling, bones whispering protest. Pain blooms in your side where his boot struck, your face throbs, but still you crawl forward, palms scraping against gravel and broken glass. You reach them. Jay’s crouched like a storm about to strike, the man limp but still smirking like he knows some secret that Jay doesn’t. “Stop,” you say, voice hoarse, barely a whisper, like something stitched together with threadbare breath. “Jay, stop. You’re going to kill him.”

He doesn’t even look at you at first. His eyes are locked on the man, flame-red and feral, his chest rising and falling like the sea before it devours a ship. Then slowly, he turns, and there's something broken in his face, something wild and bitter and unspoken. “Good,” he says, teeth gritted like steel on steel. “He deserves to die.” The words fall heavy in the dark, sharp as glass in a chalice. You reach out, your fingers barely grazing his shoulder and shake your head, a tremble chasing the motion. “Please,” you whisper, not sure if you’re begging for the man’s life or for Jay’s humanity to return. “Please… just stop.”

He breathes in hard. For a moment, the silence stretches too long, pregnant with violence and decision. But then something flickers behind his eyes, a light sputtering back to life, weak and shaking, but there. Jay lets go. The man crumples to the ground, groaning, blood trailing from his mouth like ink from a broken pen. He stares at Jay, equal parts terrified and awed, and then stumbles to his feet, sways like a drunk ghost, and bolts into the dark alley without another word, just the sound of his heels slapping pavement like a heartbeat fleeing death. The world is quiet again. But not peaceful.

Jay turns to you, breath ragged, hands stained red. His jaw twitches as if he’s trying to say something, but the words dissolve before they can take form. He just steps forward, closing the space between you and reaches down, hand outstretched. “Come on,” he says, voice quieter now, softer, not sharp enough to cut but still trembling from what it almost became. You stare at his hand for a moment, at the boy who just fought like a monster to save you. And then, with shaking fingers, you let him pull you up from the wreckage. 

He looks at your face, and something flickers in those storm-dark eyes of his; something close to concern, but too buried beneath bravado to fully surface. His fingers ghost the edge of your jawline, not quite touching but close enough to feel like lightning waiting for the right tree. He tilts your chin ever so slightly, examining the swelling beneath your cheekbone with an expression that makes your stomach twist. “That’s going to bruise,” he mutters, voice low and sandpaper-rough. You nod, slowly, wincing as the movement stirs pain. “Why did you help me?” 

The question hangs in the cool night air like incense in a chapel, sweet, uncertain, sacred. He shrugs, a movement so nonchalant it’s maddening. Like he hadn’t just saved your life. Like the blood on his knuckles wasn’t still drying into his skin. “I don’t know,” he says, eyes flickering away like they don’t owe you the truth.

You stand there, aching and trembling and furious at the way your heart stutters beneath your ribs. You should be scared. You should be disgusted, shaken to the bone from the violence, from the pain still blooming like a bruise across your ribs. But all you can feel is warmth curling in the pit of your stomach, uninvited and undeniable. “Thank you,” you whisper, unsure if it’s gratitude or confession. 

“Don’t,” he says sharply, cutting his gaze back to yours. “Don’t thank me.” His tone is firm, but not cruel. It’s the sound of someone who doesn’t want to be a hero, who’s been told too many times that he doesn’t deserve kindness. And maybe he believes it. Maybe that’s why he can’t take your thanks, because it tastes too much like absolution. He glances down the road, toward the dim golden lights of town, and then back at you. “I’ll walk you home.”

You hesitate. “You don’t have to—”

“I’m not asking,” he cuts in, already moving. So you fall into step beside him, the silence between you stretching long and strange. Your body aches with every step, and yet you feel like you’re floating, disconnected, dazed, and tethered only by the steady rhythm of Jay beside you. Like gravity shifted the moment he touched you, and now you orbit around him whether you want to or not. When your house comes into view, a knot tightens in your chest. The porch light is still on, like an accusation. You can already imagine your father’s face, already hear the questions wrapped in thunder and expectation. Jay stops at the edge of the walkway, still cloaked in night. 

“When your father asks,” he says, voice low, “don’t tell him I helped you.” 

You blink. “What?” He looks at you, unreadable. “Make up a lie. Say you fell or something. Just don’t bring me into it.” 

There’s no warmth in his voice, no smile, not even the smirk you’ve come to expect from him. Just a quiet, raw kind of resolve, like he’s asking you to keep a secret that might burn you both if it ever saw daylight. You nod. “Okay.” Jay lingers for a moment, as if he wants to say something more, like maybe this night changed something in him, too. But whatever it is, he swallows it down and turns away without another word. 

You watch him go, his silhouette swallowed by the dark, and then you push open the door and step into the light of your home, where lies are stitched as easily as hems and truth is just another thing buried beneath silence. The bruise blooms like a purple flower across your cheekbone. The door clicks shut behind you with the hush of finality, as if the night itself is sealing the pages of its most brutal chapter. But there is no rest in this kind of silence, only the jagged inhale of your mother’s gasp as she turns from the hallway and sees your face under the dim foyer light. 

Her slippers skid against the wood as she rushes to you, hands fluttering like frantic birds, afraid to touch, afraid not to. “Oh my god — what happened? What happened to your face?” Her voice is thin, stretched like silk pulled too tight. You flinch as she brushes your cheek with trembling fingers, and just like that, the whole house stirs. Taehyun barrels in from the kitchen, his voice already rising. “What the hell happened?” 

Your father follows in his shadow, his presence larger than the room, chest puffed with immediate anger and the bitter scent of panic barely masked beneath the cologne he always wears. “Who did this to you?” The world tilts slightly as all eyes converge on you, their questions digging at your skin like teeth. You open your mouth and close it again, suddenly aware of how fragile the truth is, how it quivers in your throat, aching to be spoken but dangerous to free. 

So you breathe in, steady and slow, and choose the half-lie with the cleanest edges. “I was walking home from Mrs. Chen’s,” you begin, voice carefully pitched between tremble and calm. “There was a man… I didn’t recognize him. He followed me, grabbed me. I fought back. I bit his hand. He hit me, but then —” You hesitate, careful not to look in the direction of the window, of the dark where Jay had disappeared only moments before. “He must’ve gotten spooked. He ran off. I don’t know why.” You lower your gaze as the lie coils around your tongue, heavy and sour, but necessary. 

Your father’s fists curl at his sides, his jaw set so tight you wonder if he’ll ever speak again. “A man did this to you?” he growls, like the words themselves are fire in his throat. “He laid hands on you?” Taehyun mutters a curse and kicks the wall, hard. The sound cracks through the air like lightning, loud enough to make Minji stir upstairs. Your mother’s hand moves from your cheek to your arm, guiding you to the couch with the reverence of someone handling broken porcelain. She’s whispering something now, prayers, you think. Or maybe just the names of every saint she knows. 

“I’ll find him,” your father says, voice flat and cold. “I don’t care if I have to turn over every damn rock in this town.” 

“Dad —” you start, but he’s already storming toward the back office, barking orders to no one and everyone at once, a storm given form and fury. Taehyun sits beside you, anger still rolling off of him like heat. He watches you with eyes too sharp, too knowing. “Did you really not see who it was?”

You shake your head, slowly. “It was dark. It happened fast.” He exhales through his nose, not convinced but not ready to argue. “I’ll walk you from now on,” he says. “No more being out late by yourself.” You nod, grateful and guilty all at once, because what you’ve said isn’t the truth, but neither is it a lie that came easily. And somewhere, in the places they cannot see, your body still carries the memory of Jay’s arms, of his rage not directed at you, of the unspoken promise that lived briefly between the blood and bruises. You fold your hands in your lap and lower your eyes, letting your family whirl around you with worry and vengeance and vow. And inside, you tuck your secret into the hollow behind your ribs, where all your dangerous truths now live. 

The church bells toll in the morning like an old warning, iron-voiced and hollow, their echoes slipping through the mist that clings to the town’s narrow streets. You walk beside your family in silence, each step heavier than the last, as though shame itself has taken root in your heels. The church rises before you in its usual whitewashed sanctimony, but today it feels more like a stage and you, unwilling, have become the play. You step inside, and instantly, the weight of a hundred unspoken things crashes over you. The air is perfumed with lilies and incense, but beneath it, there's the acrid tang of gossip, hushed tones curled behind cupped hands, eyes flickering like candle flames in your direction. You feel them long before you see them: judgmental, narrow gazes that prick against your skin like nettles. Their stares are veiled in piety, but you know better. You've been raised in a house of wolves pretending to pray. 

“They say her daddy’s sins are catching up with him.”

“She was always going to be a target with a name like his.”

“Poor thing — pretty won’t protect you from retribution.”

You don’t hear the words exactly, but they ripple through the wooden pews like ghosts, rising and falling with the organ's song, threading themselves between hymns and halfhearted smiles. It’s in the way they glance at the bruise blooming on your cheek like a crushed violet, in the silence that stretches too long when you pass, in the pity dressed up like politeness. You lower your head, eyes fixed on your polished shoes, hands clasped demurely in front of you, but your pulse hammers in your ears. You don’t dare look around. You don’t need to. You can feel the weight of it all pressing down on you like a stone in your chest. The truth you swallowed last night has soured in your gut, bitter as wormwood. 

And then, you feel it. A gaze unlike the others. Heavy, direct. You look up instinctively and your eyes lock with Park Chul; Jay’s father. He is sitting two rows ahead with his family gathered close, looking too much like a king among snakes, his tailored suit flawless, his posture regal, and his smile; oh, that smile, it slithers across his face like oil on water. It doesn’t reach his eyes. There’s nothing warm there. Just calculation. Recognition. He sees the bruise. He knows what you’ve left out. The smile he offers you is slow, like a blade being drawn from its sheath.

You blink once and look away, your heart suddenly loud in your ribs. Your fingers tighten around the edge of the pew as you sit down beside your mother, who is already lost in prayer. Your father doesn’t notice, he’s too busy glaring across the aisle at Chul, his disdain worn proudly like a second suit. Jay is there, too, seated beside his sister and looking maddeningly unaffected. He doesn’t look at you. Not at first. But as the choir begins to sing and the congregation rises, you catch it, just the flick of his eyes toward yours, the shadow of a smirk tugging at his lips before he turns his head away like nothing ever happened. 

You stand, too, murmuring the first verse of the hymn without really hearing it, the sound a dull hum in your ears. And even though your lips are moving, your mind is far from holy things. Because something is shifting. And though you can’t name it yet, can’t shape it into something solid, you know, deep in the marrow of your bones, that the bruise on your face isn’t the last mark this war will leave. The sermon drones on, words thick with dust and self-righteousness, echoing off vaulted ceilings like old warnings written in blood and parchment. You sit in the pew like a ghost in borrowed skin, present in body but floating elsewhere. The preacher’s voice is meant to be comforting, commanding, divine, but today it’s just noise, a hum beneath the cold stares and whispered rumors still clinging to you like static.

Another glance. Another hushed voice behind a lace-gloved hand. You feel it before you see it, someone’s eyes skating down the bruise along your cheek like it’s a badge you chose to wear, like you’re not already burning beneath their judgment. Your heartbeat climbs, fluttering in your chest like a caged moth. The walls feel too close, the pews too narrow. You can’t breathe. You rise, a breath of movement in a still room, and excuse yourself softly. Your mother doesn’t look up. Your father is lost in thought, your brother staring ahead like he might kill a man with his eyes. You slip out the heavy doors like a shadow, letting the sun kiss your skin again, warmth meeting chill. Outside, the world is quieter. Calmer. Honest. 

The church steps are cool beneath you, stone soaked in centuries of rain and repentance. You hug your knees to your chest, resting your chin atop them, and try to slow your breathing. The air carries the faint scent of roses from the cemetery down the hill, and further still, the faintest trace of last night’s terror still lingers behind your ribs. Footsteps behind you, Soft but certain. Crunching gravel. You whip around, heart climbing into your throat. But it’s only Jay. Only. 

He stands a moment, watching you with that unreadable expression of his; half smirk, half storm and then lowers himself beside you without a word. He doesn’t touch you, doesn’t lean in close. Just sits, legs stretched out in front of him like he owns the steps, the church, the whole damn town. You open your mouth to thank him again, to tell him you haven’t stopped thinking about the way he pulled you up from the darkness like a ghost from the grave, but before you can speak, his voice cuts across the silence. “Don’t,” he says. Not cruel, not cold, just… tired. Like he doesn’t need your gratitude weighing down what he did. Like it was inevitable.

Then, quieter, more tentative: “Are you okay?” Your heart stutters at the question. You nod, slow. “Yeah. I think so.” He scoffs, not at you, but at everything. The town. The church. The bruises on your face and the venom on their tongues. “Fuck what those hypocrites in there think,” he mutters, eyes flicking toward the stained glass windows above. “They’d rather pray for sinners than help them. Would’ve left you bleeding on the street if it meant saving face.” 

A breath of laughter slips from your lips. Not out of humor; more like release. Like someone finally said what your heart couldn’t. And something shifts. The air between you thickens. No longer easy, no longer innocent. It crackles now, like a wire pulled too tight or a sky just before thunder. You turn to him, and he’s already looking at you, really looking, like he sees through the bruises and the silk dress and the good-girl smile you’ve worn like armor for years. Like he sees the fire buried beneath the ashes. And before you can think, before you can flinch, he leans in. 

His mouth is warm and certain on yours, and everything slows. The birdsong quiets. The breeze stills. Your breath catches, trembling in your lungs, and for a moment you forget where you are, who you are, just lips and heat and the wild drumbeat in your ears. It’s your first kiss, and it doesn’t feel gentle or hesitant. It feels like a match struck against stone, sudden and bright and dangerous. He pulls back, just slightly, and his eyes hold yours with something fierce and searching. As though he's not sure what to say, or if he should say anything at all.

And then, with aching softness, he leans in again and places a second kiss on your lips, quieter this time, reverent almost. A kiss like a secret. A kiss like a promise or a threat. You don’t know which. Then he stands.

Doesn’t say goodbye. Doesn’t look back. Just runs a hand through his hair and strides back into the church as if nothing just happened. As if he didn’t just turn your world on its side. And you sit there alone, the stone still cool beneath you, the taste of him still on your mouth, your heart trying to decide if it should beat faster in fear or in longing. And for once, you don’t feel like a girl waiting to be told what to do. You feel like a match still burning. 

You don’t know how long you sit there, still as breath in a cathedral, the stone steps beneath you holding the echo of his kiss like holy ground. The air around you feels different now, touched by something raw and shimmering, like the hush after lightning splits the sky. Your fingers brush your lips, still warm, still tingling, as though they remember him better than your mind dares to. You’re not sure if it’s madness or magic, but whatever it is, it’s lodged in your chest like a second heartbeat, louder than the church bells, steadier than the sermon inside. Eventually, you rise, legs stiff from sitting too long, and drift back into the chapel’s shadow. Inside, the congregation is standing, voices rising in a hymn that scrapes the heavens, all sharp harmony and practiced devotion. You slip into a seat beside Yunah, whose gaze flickers toward you. There’s something unreadable in her eyes, not judgment, not surprise, just knowing. She doesn’t ask, and you don’t tell. Some moments are too fragile for words, too wild to be captured without breaking. 

The service ends, and the tide of townsfolk washes out of the church, trailing perfume and rumors behind them like smoke. Your family is gathered near the front steps, your mother speaking softly to the pastor’s wife, your father speaking not at all, his eyes like twin flints scanning the crowd for any spark of danger. Taehyun stands off to the side, arms crossed, watching Jay with the wary contempt of a guard dog who’s seen the wolf smile. You don’t say anything as you fall into step beside them. Your father reaches for your shoulder like a shield, and you let him, though you feel the ghost of Jay’s touch burning on your skin. The day unfolds like it always does in towns like this, slow and sun-soaked, filled with the scent of pies cooling on windowsills and the soft echo of children’s laughter skipping down cracked sidewalks. But inside you, something is stirring. Something restless and wild and hungry for the unknown.

At home, lunch is quiet. The clink of cutlery against porcelain plates sounds louder than usual. Your father doesn’t ask again about last night, he simply studies you, the way a man might study a cipher he doesn’t like not knowing how to read. Your mother fusses over your bruises with gentle hands and worried eyes, placing a cold compress against your cheek as though she can will the world to be kind with the sheer force of her care. Taehyun is brooding beside you, silent but heavy, like a storm that hasn’t decided whether to stay or roll in angry over the hills. But even with their eyes on you, even with their questions unasked but still hanging in the air like incense, your thoughts are elsewhere. 

You think of the alley. The press of fear. The sharp, unforgiving sting of a slap and the curling pain of a foot against your ribs. You think of the man’s laugh, hollow and fearless, and how Jay’s fists had answered it like judgment. You think of Jay’s eyes, dark as spilled ink, and how they’d searched your face like he didn’t want to miss a single flinch. How he kissed you like he had nothing to lose and everything to gain. You think, absurdly, foolishly of what it would be like to kiss him again. And that thought terrifies you.

Because you shouldn’t want him. You shouldn’t even know him. He is every warning your father ever gave you made flesh. He’s trouble written in bold letters across your stars, a promise of ruin in every glance. But still… you want to read him. You want to open that book and trace every redacted page with trembling fingers. That night, you sit on your bedroom floor, your journal cracked open in your lap like a confession booth. You don’t write his name. You don’t dare. But you write how it felt to be seen. To be saved. To be kissed like the world had stopped spinning for a heartbeat. You write it down not to remember, but to prove to yourself it happened. That it was real.

Outside, the moon hangs low, a silver eye watching you from behind thin clouds. And in the silence, your body aches, not from the bruises or the fear, but from wanting. From wondering. From knowing that something has shifted inside you, and nothing will ever be the same again. You lie back on your bed, staring up at the ceiling as though it might whisper answers to your questions. You close your eyes, but sleep does not come. Only his face. Only that kiss. Only the fire you didn’t know could live in someone like you.

The night presses against the glass like a velvet shroud, moonlight sifting through your curtains in soft, trembling strands. The tapping begins like a whisper too shy to speak, delicate and insistent, a beckoning on the other side of the veil. Your heart jolts, caught between sleep and something more primal; something curious, something afraid. Barefoot and cautious, you cross the cool wooden floor, each step light as breath, each movement threaded with unease. When you pull the curtain aside and see him; Jay, standing beneath your window like some starless phantom, your pulse skitters. He’s bathed in silver, his jaw sharp in the moonlight, a shadow of rebellion scrawled across the lines of his face. His hand lifts, two fingers beckoning you closer, not like a thief in the night but a boy who’s lost and desperate and burning with something too big for words. 

You lift the latch. He climbs in without ceremony, without sound, landing like wind on the floorboards. The air shifts the moment he enters, and suddenly your small, worn bedroom feels like a world away from everything else; everything loud, everything righteous. You barely whisper his name before his hands find your face, cradling it with a hunger that feels like grief and something more dangerous. He kisses you like he’s been drowning since birth and your mouth is the first breath of air he’s ever tasted.

It’s urgent, almost clumsy in its passion; his fingers lost in your hair, your hands curled into the cotton of his shirt, anchoring yourself to something that shouldn’t feel safe but somehow does. He walks you backwards with care disguised as chaos until your knees hit the edge of your bed, and you sit, breathless, dizzy. He follows, mouth never straying too far from yours, until the world disappears around you. But you pull away, gentle but firm, your palms pressed against his chest like a barricade made of hope and confusion. “What are you doing?” you whisper, your voice trembling not from fear, but from the storm gathering beneath your ribs.

He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes search your face like he’s looking for absolution in your gaze, something holy to balance the weight of whatever he carries. Finally, he breathes out, low and rough. “I needed to see you.” You sit in that truth for a beat, the quiet humming between your heartbeats. “Is everything okay?”

Jay looks away for the first time. His jaw clenches, his hands tightening into fists at his sides. “No,” he says, simply, honestly. “But it doesn’t matter.” A bitter smile plays on his lips. “My father wants something I don’t want to give him.” You nod, not asking, not pushing. There is so much you don’t understand yet, but you understand him. The way he sits next to you with shoulders heavy and breath uneven. The way his fingers find yours again like it’s instinct.  

Your hand finds his cheek. It’s a quiet gesture, a lullaby without words. “You can stay,” you whisper. He exhales, and there’s something sacred in the way his forehead falls against yours. The kiss he places on your lips this time is different; softer, deeper, unhurried. It tastes like gratitude and confession, like the first pages of a book too dangerous to read aloud. His hands settle at your waist as if anchoring himself in you, and yours curl around his shoulders. You don’t speak again. Not for a while. You let the silence fill the cracks, the breaths between kisses soft and slow, the kind that linger and promise without saying anything at all. 

And when he finally falls asleep beside you, his head resting against your shoulder, you stay awake a little longer, watching the way the moonlight rests on his lashes. You think of what it means to keep a secret this delicate. What it means to fall for someone forged in the fire your family fears. You don’t have the answers. But for tonight, you have him. And that is enough. 

Dawn unfolds like a sigh across the sky, the pale blush of morning slipping between your curtains and brushing the walls in hues of gold and rose. The world is still hushed in its waking breath, and for a moment, it feels as though time itself is holding its inhale, reverent of the quiet magic nestled between tangled sheets and slow, secret heartbeats. You stir, not with the abruptness of alarm, but the gentle unraveling of sleep's cocoon. There’s warmth beside you, not the abstract kind, but the tangible, breathing presence of someone tethered to this moment with you. Jay lies on his side, propped slightly on an elbow, his gaze fixed not on the window, nor the ceiling, but on you. 

There’s something unguarded in the way he looks at you; no smirk, no mask, no carefully constructed armor. Just eyes like storm clouds caught at sunrise, soft and searching. It startles something in your chest. You blink sleep from your eyes, voice still laced with dreams as you ask, “What time is it?” His lips quirk, that familiar crooked grin ghosting over his features as he leans closer and murmurs, “Almost six.”

Then, without waiting, without asking, he presses a kiss to your lips, slow and deep and reverent, like he’s memorizing you all over again, like he’s tracing every fragile thread that tethered last night’s chaos to this quiet intimacy. You kiss him back, languidly, until the haze lifts just enough for reality to set its feet back down. You pull away, breath brushing his cheek, and whisper, “What are we doing, Jay?”

There’s a pause, a brief flicker of hesitation across his brow. His hand, warm against your hip, stills. “We’re having fun,” he says at last, like it’s simple, like it’s something that doesn’t ache to hear. You sit up, the sheets slipping from your shoulders like petals falling in protest. There’s a steel note in your voice now, a tremor wrapped in resolve. “I’m not just some girl you kiss in the dark,” you say, eyes catching his. “I don’t do this. I don’t just… fool around. I believe in love.”

He’s quiet for a heartbeat too long. Then he sits up, too, crossing the small distance between you with one hand gently cupping your jaw. The air stills. His thumb traces the edge of your cheekbone as his eyes search yours. “You’re my girl,” he says, voice low, like a promise soaked in shadow and light. “If you want to be.” The simplicity of the words catches you off guard. No grand declarations, no silver-tongued poetry. Just that raw and real and something you can hold. 

A blush colors your cheeks like the blooming of first spring after a cruel winter. You nod, your voice a thread of warmth, “I want to be.” And then you’re kissing again, with a new kind of urgency, not born from fear or secrecy or rebellion, but from the aching sweetness of something finally named. His hands cradle you with more care this time, reverent, as if he knows what you’re giving him. Your fingers twist in the fabric of his shirt, anchoring him, anchoring yourself to the weightless gravity of this moment. 

It grows heated; breath against necks, hands skimming skin, whispered sighs and unspoken want. But there is no rush, no need to chase the edge of desire. You pause, your forehead pressed to his, and he doesn’t push. He stays. He breathes with you. And in that moment, it feels like the world, with all its judgment and fury, has fallen away. There is only this morning. Only this softness. Only the boy who held you under a bruised sky and the girl who believed, still, in love. 

His kisses continue softly, his hands still like steel on your hip — grazing the skin where your pajama top rose slightly. “Jay..” You trailed, breathless. 

“Yes, sweetheart?” He looked at you with heavy eyes, a dopey smile on his face. You were playing with fire here — suiting up to get burned. This was dangerous, who knew what your father and Taehyun would do if they knew Jay was in here with you, kissing you. It could very well be the end of him as you knew it. Your hands found Jay’s chest, pushing slightly to give yourself room. 

“I’m worried.” You say, your voice small. “My family hates you —” 

“Who cares?” 

“I do.” Your voice was stern. You wanted him to know you were serious. That even though you sometimes hated how protective they were, you still loved them, respected them. And what you were doing right now in your room was forbidden, it was wrong. A part of you didn’t care. You felt free from the shalkes tied to your life for the first time and you’d do anything to keep that feeling. But an equal part of you felt ashamed at the lying. You were not one to lie. Especially to your family. 

“They can’t tell you what to do.” Jay’s tone is soft like he knows this is a delicate topic. He’s using his kid gloves on you and you hated it. 

“They don’t.” You huffed. Jay’s eyebrow lifts slightly, like he doesn’t believe you in the slightest. “Fine.” You sigh. “They do.” 

“Don’t let them.” 

“It’s not that easy Jay.” 

“It can be.” He argues. “Just do whatever you want.” 

“You try doing that with a father like mine.” The words slip from your lips before you could stop them, before you could think. Because Jay did have a father like yours; they were one in the same no matter how much they hated each other. Jay looked at you like he understood your slip up. He said nothing further, he didn't need to. It was an unspoken agreement between you too. 

“Jay?” You asked warily. Jay hums, returning his lips to your collarbone as he leaves feather-like kisses over the skin. “What did your father want you to do that you didn’t want to?”

You don’t miss the way his entire body stiffens like a statue made of clay. You don’t miss the second he takes to answer and the shift in his tone. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about that, okay?.” He says, a smile on his face. You stay silent and he doesn’t elaborate, instead reattaching his lips to your neck once again. Maybe in distraction, or maybe because he really didn’t care — either way, it worked. 

You allowed him his freedom to roam your body as he pleased. and you enjoyed it, god help you — you actually enjoyed it. You craved more and like the devil himself took over you, your lips parted only a sigh leaving “Please.” 

What were you asking for? Were you ready to have sex? To lose your virginity? and to Jay of all people? You weren’t sure. It was like Jay could sense your hesitance, his head shaking no as soon as the words left your lips. “You’re not ready, baby.” He whispered into your temple. and he was right. You weren’t. So instead he stayed in your bed. Not much longer but long enough for you to really miss him when he left. 

It was barely seven am when he decided it was time to climb out the window he came from the night before leaving only a whisper of himself and the memory of his lips on your own. It was a hollow feeling, one you couldn’t show when the rest of your family awoke and crawled out of their beds. You had to act normal. Like the enemy wasn’t right under their noses only a door down for the entirety of the night. 

The morning light was pale and indifferent, stretched thin across the sky like a faded lace curtain, and you watched your father and Taehyun disappear down the long gravel drive, their figures swallowed by the dust trail of the pickup truck and the unspoken weight of their business. You didn’t need to be told anymore, it was stitched into the sharp glances exchanged over dinner, into the coded conversations that dropped into silence when you entered the room. “Shipments,” they called them. But you were no longer a child swayed by misdirection and empty euphemisms. You had lived enough in shadows now to know when men spoke in half-truths and loaded words. Still, you said nothing. Because silence, you were beginning to learn, was its own kind of survival.  

Your mother bustled through the house like a hummingbird flitting from flower to flower, gathering Minji’s shoes and packing a tin of the sweet bean buns Mrs. Lee down the road had brought over. You watched her from the hallway, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, half-lost in your thoughts until she mentioned she’d be taking Minji over to the Parks’. “To play with Soojin,” she said, not looking up from her careful wrapping. Her voice was light, casual, like it was nothing more than an errand, like the name Park didn’t hold tension in your bones and a sudden, blooming heat in your chest. “I’ll come,” you said suddenly. Your mother looked up, startled, brows slightly lifted. “You want to come?” Her voice held a delicate edge of suspicion, like she couldn’t decide if she’d misheard you or if you were up to something you hadn’t yet put into words.

You nodded, steady. “Yeah,” you said, reaching for your coat. “I’d like to see Soojin.” That was the lie you chose. And to your surprise, your mother offered no protest, just a quiet, searching look and then a simple, “Alright then.”  The drive to the Park house was quiet, save for Minji’s soft humming in the backseat and the rhythmic turning of tires on dirt. The landscape rolled past in sepia tones, fields dotted with brittle grass, fences leaning like tired old men, the occasional burst of gold where the last stubborn wildflowers refused to bow to autumn’s chill. And then, the house appeared, grand in its own weathered way, with its wide porch and flaking paint and the lingering ghost of old money, old power, clinging to its bones. Soojin ran out to greet Minji, her laugh a bright trill in the cold morning air, and your mother excused herself inside with Mrs. Park, Jiyo, with a container of red bean buns tucked beneath her arm like a peace offering. 

You lingered on the porch, pretending to straighten Minji’s jacket, pretending not to scan the windows, not to listen for footsteps. The air was thick with anticipation, though nothing had yet happened. That was the trouble with secrets, you carried them even when no one asked you to, let them soak into your skin until they colored everything. And then there he was, Jay, stepping out from around the side of the house with that same easy, careless gait, a cigarette between his fingers and mischief in his gaze. He was the storm you had let into your room, into your lungs, and now he lingered like the scent of smoke in your pillowcase. You didn’t speak, not yet. Just held his eyes as he approached, the ground between you crackling with everything unsaid, everything that was coming. And in the quiet beat before words, before explanation, you realized you hadn’t come here for Soojin at all. You’d come for this, to stand in the belly of the lion’s den and feel the pulse of something forbidden, dangerous, and real. 

The sun was yawning low over the tree line, casting molten ribbons of gold across the Park’s backyard where Minji and Soojin chased each other in dizzying circles, their laughter rising like wind chimes caught in a summer gust. You watched them through the gauzy screen door, a ghost on the threshold, your arms folded across your chest like you could contain the gnawing question that kept pressing against your ribs: Why had you come? Inside, your mother and Jiyo sat in the sitting room with glasses of white wine that caught the light like glassy honey. Their voices rose and fell in polite crescendos, dulcet tones masking whatever quiet rivalries or histories they once shared. You could see the familiar curve of your mother’s mouth as she smiled too much, nodded too often. The room felt warm and distant, like a dream you weren’t quite invited into. 

You didn’t feel like staying downstairs, didn’t feel like sitting with women who spoke in codes and closed-lip smiles. “Excuse me,” you said softly, stepping into the living room. “Could you tell me where the bathroom is?” Jiyo looked up and gave you a generous nod, her hand gesturing vaguely toward the hallway. “Upstairs, last door on the right,” she said, then turned back to your mother with the easy grace of someone who had already forgotten you were there.

You climbed the stairs slowly, each step creaking beneath your weight like a warning whispered through wood. The house above was hushed, muffled by carpet and secrets. You passed doors half-ajar, the sterile scent of lemon cleaner and aging wood perfuming the air. But when you reached the top of the stairs, something stirred in you, an itch, a pull, the unmistakable gravity of curiosity. You didn’t go to the bathroom. Not at first. You wandered. 

It started as a glance into rooms left ajar. A study with a too-clean desk, a guest room with a bed so stiffly made it looked untouched by any soul. And then, Jay’s room. You knew it without needing to be told. The door was slightly cracked, and the air that filtered through was familiar, cologne and cigarette smoke, sweat and something wild, something him. You pushed it open. The room was dim, cluttered but lived-in. A guitar leaned against the far wall, strings dusty but taut. Sketches littered the desk, some crude, some startling in their intensity. A record played softly in the corner, a crackling blues tune that seemed to slow time. You stepped further in, eyes skating across his world, your fingers itching toward the mess.

You told yourself you weren’t snooping. But then you saw them. A pair of sneakers shoved halfway beneath the bed, saturated with dried blood, crusted around the soles. Beside them, a shirt, rumbled and wrinkled, with a maroon stain blooming like a dying flower across the chest. The sight of it stilled the air in your lungs. Your mind raced. You knew that shirt. Or thought you did. It haunted the edges of memory, like a face seen once in a dream or a name heard in a half-slept conversation. Your fingers hovered above the fabric, not quite brave enough to touch it, not quite smart enough to turn away.

“What the hell are you doing?” His voice broke across the room like thunder ripping through a still sky. You spun around. Jay stood in the doorway, a silhouette carved in shadow, his face unreadable and hard. The kind of hard that wasn’t born overnight, it was forged, sculpted in fire and violence and too many buried truths. “I — I was just —” you stammered, your throat drying like sand beneath sun.

“You were just what?” he growled, stepping forward. “Looking through my shit?” His eyes blazed with something you didn’t recognize. Not anger exactly, something deeper, more wounded. Betrayed, maybe. Or scared. You opened your mouth, tried to explain, tried to make it sound innocent, but the room felt like it was tilting, spinning around the bloodied cloth and your thundering heart. He was inches from you now, his chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile. “You shouldn’t be in here,” he said, his voice low, like gravel and regret.

You swallowed hard. “I’m sorry.” But even as you said it, you knew sorry wouldn’t fix this. You stiffened, the air around you charged like the moment before a summer storm breaks, still, electric, heavy with the promise of thunder. Your fingers twitched away from the shirt just as his voice split the silence again. “I was looking for the bathroom?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Jay said, his voice cutting through the space between you like a cold blade. “You weren’t looking for the bathroom.” You turned to him, spine straightening like iron pulled through a fire, and lifted your chin. You took a breath, steadying your pulse, willing your voice not to tremble. “Don’t talk to me like that,” you said quietly, firmly, like a line drawn in the sand. “I asked you not to.” 

He blinked, thrown off by your calm. His chest rose sharply with a breath he hadn’t meant to take. For a heartbeat, the fire between you crackled without direction. Then you reached down, hand hovering once more above the bloodied shirt, and asked the question that had begun clawing at your ribs since the moment you saw it. “What is this, Jay?” Your voice wasn’t accusatory, just soft, curious, laced with something more dangerous than suspicion. Concern. “Why is there blood on this? Are you hurt?”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes flicked to the shirt, then back to your face, something stormy building behind his lashes. Without a word, he stepped forward and yanked it from your hand with a violence that wasn’t meant for you but sliced through the moment all the same. “Mind your own damn business,” he growled, gripping the fabric so tightly his knuckles turned white. “Don’t touch my things.”

The room seemed to grow smaller, the walls pressing in. Your stomach twisted, not in fear, but in hurt. The air between you, once filled with charged possibility, now choked with something unspoken and ugly. “I care about you, Jay,” you said, voice softer than it had any right to be. “If that blood’s yours, if you’re hurt, I deserve to know. I want to know.” He looked at you, really looked, his features warping with conflict. And then, so quietly it was almost a breath, he admitted, “It’s not mine.”

You waited, searching his face for more; anything. But his jaw locked, and his eyes shuttered, and you knew he was already pulling away from you. “Then whose is it?” you asked.

“I’m not telling you.”

“Jay —”

“I said I’m not telling you.” There was finality in his voice, a wall thrown up in a single breath. The boy who kissed you on the church steps, who tapped at your window like a lover from a poem, he was gone now, replaced by something harder, colder, cloaked in silence. Something broke in you. Not loudly, not with fireworks; but quietly, like frost spreading across glass. “Fine,” you said, each syllable clipped and cool. “Keep your secrets.” 

You turned and walked past him, your shoulder brushing his as you stormed through the door. His scent lingered; cologne and smoke and something wild, and you hated how your body still ached for him even as your heart folded in on itself. You didn’t look back. Not even when you heard him sigh behind you. 

The hour was brittle with sleep, the kind of silence that makes the world feel like it’s holding its breath. Your room was bathed in pale moonlight, the only sound the hum of the summer night outside; until the tapping began again. First gentle, like fingertips brushing a memory. Then louder. More insistent. A quiet desperation dressed in knuckles against glass. You curled tighter beneath the covers, clutching the edge of your pillow like it might anchor you to the dreamless dark. You didn’t want to see him. Not tonight. Not after that. Your heart was still bruised from the words he’d thrown like stones, from the blood he refused to explain, from the locked vault of his silence that you could not pick no matter how softly you knocked.

But the tapping wouldn’t stop. You hissed under your breath, casting a panicked glance toward your door; no footsteps yet, no flickering hallway light. If your mother woke, if Minji stirred... you’d never hear the end of it. Gritting your teeth, you kicked off the covers and padded to the window, throwing back the curtain with a fury that masked the fluttering inside your chest. There he was.

Jay. Like some bruised ghost conjured from a fever dream, standing half-shadowed in the night. But the moment your eyes landed on him, all that anger, the sharp, glittering shards of it, melted away like ice against fire. His face was a tapestry of pain: lip split, eye swelling, blood at the corner of his mouth. There were scratches across his neck, and he was holding his side like something inside him was broken. You pushed the window open without a word and stepped back. He climbed in slowly, like every movement cost him something. And when his feet hit your floor, his strength gave out, he sank onto your bed with a groan, his head tipping forward, hair falling over his eyes.

“Jay,” you whispered, kneeling beside him. You reached for him instinctively, your fingers ghosting along his arm. “What happened?” He winced, jaw tightening. “Don’t ask.”

“Jay —” 

“I can’t tell you,” he said, voice raw and quiet, like something torn. “Just — don’t ask.” And for once, you didn’t. You swallowed your questions, letting them die inside your throat. Because the way he looked, beaten, broken, and showing up at your window anyway, was answer enough for now. You fetched the first aid kit you kept hidden in your drawer, remnants of scraped knees and childhood falls, and returned to him. The bed dipped under your knees as you leaned in close, the soft sound of tearing wrappers and unscrewing ointments the only conversation. He hissed as you dabbed antiseptic across a gash on his temple, his hands gripping the bedsheets so tightly his knuckles went pale. But he didn’t pull away. 

You worked in silence, your touch gentle despite the chaos churning inside you. There was a sacredness to the moment, a kind of intimacy that didn’t need words, just breath, and closeness, and the quiet permission to fall apart in front of someone. You brushed the blood from beneath his nose, cleaned the dried smear along his jaw. Your fingers trembled, not from fear, but from the unbearable tenderness that unfurled inside you. He looked at you then, through one bruised eye and one clear, his lips parted like he might say something. But nothing came out. 

You could’ve leaned in. You could’ve kissed him right then, let him forget the pain with the press of your mouth. But you didn’t. Instead, you cupped his face, thumb stroking gently beneath the bruise that bloomed like a violet shadow under his eye. “You didn’t have to come here,” you whispered. “I didn’t know where else to go.” And your heart cracked wide open. 

Jay turned his face toward you, and for a moment, he looked unbearably young. Not the smirking boy with chaos on his tongue, not the ghost who haunted alleyways with fists and fury, but just a boy, lost in something far bigger than himself. The confession was quiet, barely more than breath, but it landed heavy in the hollow of your chest. You looked at him for a long moment, searching the shadows in his face for something, fear, regret, guilt. You didn’t find it. Just sorrow. And a strange, bitter tenderness. 

There was a silence, then. The kind that doesn’t ask to be filled. The kind that stretches its limbs across a room and curls up beside you like an old friend. Your fingers found his beneath the covers, roughened knuckles grazing your softer skin, and for a time, you just breathed together, matching rhythm for rhythm, heartbeat for heartbeat. But then it spilled out of you, like water through a cracked dam. “I hate the secrets,” you said, voice catching. “I hate not knowing. I hate feeling like I’m being kept away from something real.” 

He turned to face you fully, his brow furrowed. “They’re not to hurt you,” he said. “They’re to protect you.” You scoffed lightly, the sound bitter on your tongue. “That’s just another way of keeping me in the dark.” Jay reached up, brushing your hair back from your face. His fingers were still trembling slightly from whatever hell he’d crawled out of, but his touch was impossibly gentle.

“There are men out there,” he said slowly, “much worse than the one who grabbed you in that alley. Men with no soul behind their eyes. Men who would burn down your world just because it’s beautiful. If they ever came for you…” His jaw tightened, that fire lighting behind his gaze again. “I’d burn the whole fucking earth down first.” Your breath caught. There was no poetry in his words. No soft metaphor. Just pure, raw promise. And it hit you harder than any poem ever could.

Your chest ached with a tenderness so sharp it almost felt like grief; for the boy in your bed, for the pain in his silence, for the thousand versions of himself he had to bury just to survive in the daylight. And in that quiet ache, you leaned in. Your lips met his like a secret, like a prayer. Not rushed. Not ravenous. Just two souls pressing together in the quiet lull of honesty. His hands cupped your face with reverence, as if you were something sacred he wasn’t sure he deserved. You kissed him again, and again, letting the silence slip away with every touch. This wasn’t heat. It wasn’t the chaos that had sparked between you before. This was slower, deeper, an unraveling.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, and he whispered something you couldn’t quite make out; maybe your name, maybe a plea. You didn’t ask. Because for now, this moment was enough. 

The night seemed to stretch on forever, suspended in the quiet hush that followed whispered promises and half-spoken truths. The air in your room was still, yet it hummed with something electric and unspoken; like the pause before a storm or the moment just before a symphony begins. Jay lay beside you, his fingers threading gently through yours, his gaze roaming your face as if memorizing it, committing it to something deeper than memory, carving it into bone, etching it into breath. You turned to him, eyes wide and open like the night sky, and he met your gaze with the same soft wonder. No more walls. No more masks. Just two young hearts aching for something real in a world built on silence and shadows. “I want this,” you said, voice no louder than a falling feather. You were ready to give yourself to him; completely. 

Despite the lord's word of marriage before intimacy this felt right. At this moment you couldn't think of anything more perfect than this. He didn’t ask if you were sure. He saw the truth written in the way your hands trembled as they found his face, in the way your breath hitched not from fear but from anticipation, from a kind of reverent awe. The kind that settles between two people who have never done this before; who, even if one of them had, had never done it like this. 

There was no rush. No fumbling urgency. Just slow hands and soft sighs, as if the whole world had narrowed to this moment; the curve of your cheek beneath his touch, the shape of your name in his mouth, the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips. Outside, the night pressed close to the glass, the moon a silver sentinel watching over the hush of your room, the silence of surrender. When you gave yourself to him, it wasn’t with hesitation; it was with trust, wrapped in candlelight and starlight and the unspoken understanding that nothing would ever be quite the same. Not after this. And in that moment, you weren’t the daughter of a man wrapped in danger. 

“Oh my god.” You sighed out as he thrust into you with a decadent ease. His touch light, his hands roaming your body like he owned it. And tonight, he did. Your moans were quiet — not to disturb your mother and sister. The soft thump of the headboard against the wall only slightly worrisome to your otherwise clouded judgement. Tonight, He wasn’t the boy with blood on his hands and secrets behind his teeth. You were just two people, breaking open beneath the weight of something delicate and real. 

He held you like something precious, like a wish whispered into the dark, and you clung to him like a prayer. And when it was over, when your bodies stilled and the world exhaled around you, you lay in his arms with your heart thudding softly against his chest. Not afraid. Not uncertain. Just full. And maybe that was the real miracle. Not the act itself, but the way you both emerged from it; still whole, but changed. Softened. Strengthened. As if love, in its quietest form, had found you in the dark and called you home.

Morning came like a whisper you didn’t want to hear; pale light creeping through your curtains, unwelcome, stirring you from the warmth left behind on your sheets. You reached instinctively for him, for the imprint of his body beside yours, but your fingers met nothing but the cool quiet of an empty bed. Jay was gone. You sat up slowly, sleep still crusted in the corners of your eyes, the remnants of last night clinging to your skin like faded stars. It wasn’t disappointment that he’d left, he was never the type to stay but a hollow ache bloomed in your chest all the same, tender and unnamed. You didn’t know if you expected a note, a goodbye, or even a lie wrapped in sweetness, but the absence spoke louder than anything. And still, you weren’t sorry. 

Your house felt changed when you walked through it; heavier, like the walls had swallowed some of the night’s truth and were trying to keep it secret. Your father and Taehyun had returned, the sound of the front door slamming earlier than sunrise pulling you halfway from sleep. Now they were back and the air was different, taut like a fraying wire. You didn’t know what had happened during their absence, but Taehyun carried the shadows like a second skin. He moved through the house like a ghost with a fuse in his chest, snapping at your mother over nothing, brushing past you with glass in his eyes, his hands shaking when he thought no one could see. You stayed out of his way. The silence between you two felt sharp and uncertain, like the edge of something waiting to be named.

Dinner that night was a ritual gone wrong, a prayer said with a mouth full of venom. You sat at the table, poking at your food, the warmth from your mother’s cooking doing little to ease the unease curling in your stomach. Your father, red-cheeked from whatever he’d been drinking, leaned back in his chair like a king on a crumbling throne, waving his glass with a crooked smirk. “That bastard Chul still thinks he can outplay me,” he muttered, voice thick with contempt. “His whore of a wife putting on fakeness like she’s better than the rest of us. And that boy of theirs... that Jay. Arrogant little shit. You can see the rot in him from a mile away.” 

You stiffened. The words felt like claws scraping against your skin, peeling away the quiet you’d wrapped around yourself. You looked up, your fork frozen in your hand. “He’s not like that,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, but it rang clear through the room like a church bell cracking. “You don’t know him.” The silence that followed was immediate and suffocating, like the house had stopped breathing.

Your father’s face twisted, his eyes going dark in an instant. The chair groaned as he shoved it back and stood, fists curling like thunderclouds. “Don’t you ever defend him again,” he snarled, the words spit like poison. “Do you hear me? If I ever hear you say that bastard’s name in this house again, I’ll lock you away so tight you’ll forget what sunlight feels like. There is nothing about that boy worth defending.” Your breath caught in your throat, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs. Your mother said nothing, eyes fixed on her plate like it could save her. And across the table, Taehyun stared at you; not with anger, not with disgust, but with something else. Something unreadable. Suspicion, maybe. Or worry. Like he was trying to put together a puzzle that suddenly had one too many pieces. 

You looked away first, throat burning, fingers shaking under the table. The warmth of last night felt galaxies away now, replaced by the cold realization that you were dancing with danger on a threadbare stage. And everyone around you was starting to notice. 

Sunday returned like clockwork, draped in solemn hymns and ironed dresses, as though the week’s secrets hadn’t been dragging behind you like chains. You found yourself sitting in the same pew as always, hands folded politely, head bowed beneath the weight of a hundred stares that whispered like ghosts behind you. The church was beautiful in that way all cages are, ornate, holy, and full of silences no one dared name. Incense curled like serpent smoke in the air, clinging to your lungs, your clothes, your bones. Jay was there. He always was. 

But today, he looked like the devil in disguise, ink-black suit pressed sharp enough to wound, and that crooked halo of hair that caught the light like it knew exactly how to tempt. He didn’t sit near you, didn’t look your way. Not really. But you felt him, his presence a gravity that tugged at your pulse. You couldn’t breathe right, couldn’t think right, not when the ghost of his mouth still lingered on your skin like last night had never ended. When the time for confessionals arrived, you rose slowly, walking the familiar path toward the booths. The red velvet curtain felt like blood between your fingers, and the small wooden seat creaked beneath your weight. You bowed your head, ready to whisper into the lattice the half-truths you’d rehearsed in your mind. But then you heard it. 

The rustle of fabric. The soft push of the curtain behind you. The scent of cigarette smoke and something darker, familiar. Before you could turn, Jay slid into the booth beside you, his body too close, his knee brushing yours in the dark. “What are you doing?” you hissed in a breathless whisper, heart already rioting in your chest like a church bell rung wrong. 

He didn’t answer at first. The space was small, too small, like a secret made physical. You could feel his breath at your temple, the heat of him seeping into your skin. “Forgive me, Father,” he murmured, voice low and sacrilegious, “for I am about to sin.” You turned sharply toward him, eyes wide. But in the dark, you could barely make out his expression, just the glint of something wild in his gaze. His hand found yours in the stillness, fingers threading through with the quiet urgency of someone drowning. 

Jay—” you tried to protest, but he leaned in, forehead resting against yours, and the world tilted. “I want you so bad.” he said, softer now, like a confession. “I couldn’t help myself.” Your breath caught, and suddenly you weren’t in a church anymore. You were in a storm. You were in a dream. You were in that fragile place where you didn’t know where faith ended and he began.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whispered, though you didn’t really want him to go. 

“I know.” His hand slipped to your jaw, tilting your face toward his. “But I had to see you. Had to let you know that you’re still mine.” His lips brushed yours like a prayer, slow and reverent, and you kissed him back, like you were trying to absolve every wicked thought in your head, every rule you’d ever followed, every chain you were ready to break. The booth was a confessional, ye; but what you whispered into each other’s mouths were not sins. They were truths. Unholy. Beautiful.

You hear a rustle next to you — the priest had entered the booth beside you, ready to hear your sins. Your eyes widened with a mix of panic and excitement. You were not the type of girl who hopped into confessionals with their boyfriend. You weren’t the type of girl to rebel in anyway, it seems like lately that's all you've been doing. 

“Good morning.” Father Lee sighed from the otherside of the confessional. “I will begin with a prayer.” Jay’s fingers danced delicately along the lines of your dress, pulling the hem up slightly. Your eyes are wild as they shoot to his face. Jay only sends you a smirk in response, his thumb ghosting over your panties. 

“Dear heavenly Father..” Father Lee starts the prayer but his words fall on deaf ears, the only thing you can concentrate on is the way Jay’s fingers feel over your clothed clit. Circling his thumb like a bird on prey. “We’ve come here today to atone for our sins..to seek forgiveness… —” 

Jay’s moves your panty to the side; now ready and bare for him. Your breath shutters in your throat as a moan threatens to spill past your lips. You let out a squeak as Jay’s fingers found your sensitive nub rubbing slowly up and down. Jay looks at you with a devious smile, lifting his unoccupied hand to shush you with a finger against his lips. Your eyes narrow in his direction. This was so wrong. So so very wrong. How could you let him do this? How could you like? 

“We ask you, our lord, to bring peace unto us. To help us prosper —” Your hand grips Jay’s shirt, a sigh leaving your lips as he dips one single finger into your entrance. 

“Oh god —” You let slip out. A wave of panic washes over you. 

“Yes.” Father Lee hummed. “Call onto our lord and our savior..” Jay adds another finger his pace quickening along with your breathing, your chest heaving and moans knocking at lips begging to be set free. 

“Yes, god.” You whimpered, moving your hips to better aid Jay’s fingers. “Yes, yes, god.” 

“That’s it.” Father Lee nods. “Call unto him, as he is the only one who can judge you.” You feel your orgasm building in your belly, clutching onto Jay’s shirt and the arm chair you sat in; the small booth becoming hot and humid. Luckily your chants had been mistaken for prayer — something you knew you’d be ashamed of once the haze of Jay’s magnificent fingers faded. 

“I’m–” You whispered low, so close you’re not even sure Jay had heard you. He continued his movement inside you catapulting you closer and closer to your end. 

“Do you accept this prayer and are you ready to confess all your sins?” Father Lee says as a closing statement. Your orgasm washes over you like a wave, pleasure coursing through your veins straight to your belly. You convulsed around Jay’s fingers withering under  his touch. 

“Yes! Yes!” You chanted “Oh my god.” Your breathing was uneven. Father Lee shuffled beside you. “We can begin..” He trailed off. 

“Tell me, what would you like to confess?” Your eyes find Jay’s once again as your breathing slows. What did you just do? Jay flashes you a smile, a shit eating grin that you can’t help but send back. You were in trouble with him, you were falling in love with him. And nothing good could come from that. 

The morning opened soft and unsuspecting, wrapped in the perfume of maple syrup and brewed coffee, the clink of cutlery on porcelain playing a quiet lullaby in the kitchen. You sat across from your mother at the table, a gentle spring of sun dripping through the curtains, casting golden bars across her cheekbones. She looked peaceful, almost angelic, eyes trained on the television in the other room, the morning news murmuring low and steady in the background. Minji giggled somewhere down the hall, her laughter like bird song, but your focus remained tethered to the screen, distant, detached, until you heard the name. “Breaking this morning,” the anchor announced, her voice dipped in solemnity, “the body of Lee Felix, was found submerged in Blackwater Lake just after midnight…”

You froze. The fork slipped from your fingers and clattered against the ceramic plate, a jarring sound in the otherwise delicate quiet of brunch. Your breath caught like fishbone in your throat, your entire body leaning unconsciously toward the screen, as if proximity could rewrite the story you were hearing. The screen flickered. A photo filled the frame. Felix.

Smiling in that too-cocky way he had at the bake sale, his cheek bruised, his eyes alight with some reckless thing. But it wasn’t his face that rooted you to the ground like a gravestone. It was the shirt. The unmistakable burgundy fabric. The fraying collar. The splash of print along the bottom edge. The shirt you’d held in your hand just days before, trembling with unspoken questions, stained with blood and too many terrible possibilities. Felix was dead. The shirt was his. You couldn’t breathe.

“Oh my God,” you whispered, a tremor leaking into the quiet air. Your mother looked up in surprise, her brows creasing with maternal concern. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?” You were already moving, scraping your chair back so violently it nearly tipped, heart pounding so loud you could barely hear her through the static in your head. You mumbled something, a headache, a book you left at the shop, you weren’t sure. Lies came too easily these days. 

You didn’t wait for her permission. You ran. Out the door, down the walk, across the street. The wind caught at your hair like fingers trying to pull you back, but you didn’t stop. The streets blurred around you, faces passing in a smear of color, sunlight too bright and air too thick. Every step closer to Jay’s house was like descending deeper into a question you weren’t ready to ask, but couldn’t leave alone. You didn’t hesitate to slam your knuckles against the front door, the sound thunderous in the quiet morning, like something wild had come knocking. The door opened too slowly for your frayed nerves, and Jay’s mother stood on the other side in a lavender cardigan and confusion painted across her face. 

“Oh… hello, sweetheart,” she said, blinking at your expression. “Is everything all right?” 

“I need to see Jay,” you said, your voice sharp and breathless, like it had been carved from ice. She flinched slightly at the urgency, but stepped aside, her brows drawing together. “He’s upstairs…” You didn’t wait for further instructions. You moved past her like a wave breaching the shore, like fury given legs and purpose, charging up the stairs that once felt so intimate, so safe. Each step was a scream. Each breath a question with no answer.

His door was closed. You didn’t knock. You pushed it open with trembling hands and a pounding heart, ready to wield truth like a blade. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, thumbing through a worn paperback, the early light painting soft shadows along the cut of his jaw. He looked up, startled, and then he smiled. “Hi, beautiful. What a surprise.” You could have wept. For a moment, you could have let the lie of his voice fold around you and lull you into peace again. But the pain sharpened you, drew you back into the wound he left open. 

“Cut the bullshit, Jay,” you snapped.

He blinked, the smile faltering. “What’s going on?”

You stepped further into the room, the space between you tightening like a noose. “Felix,” you said, your voice trembling at first, but hardening with every syllable. “They found his body. He’s dead, Jay. And he was wearing that shirt, the one I saw in here. Don’t lie to me again.” Confusion flickered across his face for the briefest second. A hesitation. Then a breath. Then something darker took root behind his eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking abou — ” 

“Don’t.” Your voice cracked like thunder. “Please don’t lie to me again.” A long silence stretched between you, thick with guilt, with ghosts, with things unspoken and too dangerous to name. Finally, Jay stood. His hands trembled. “I didn’t want to,” he whispered. “But it wasn’t supposed to go that far.”

“So it’s true,” you breathed, your heart crumpling like paper inside your chest. Jay looked at you then, really looked at you. Not with the charm he wore like a second skin, not with that crooked smile, but with a hollow kind of desperation. A boy unraveling in front of the girl he swore to protect. “My dad…” he began, his voice thick. “He wanted to send a message. He made me follow Felix after the bake sale. Said we had to scare him. But things got out of hand. I — he — ”

But his confession never found its end. Because in the next moment, there was a hand. It covered your mouth. Strong. Cold. Reeking of cologne and iron. You tried to scream, but it caught like thorns in your throat. You thrashed, but the grip was vice-like. Jay’s face drained of color. His eyes widened, not in confusion, but in shame. In knowing. He didn’t move. From behind you, a voice like oil and gravel poured into your ear.

“Good job, son,” it said, calm and cruel. “Right where we wanted her.” You couldn’t see him, Jay’s father, but you could feel the venom in his smile. The triumph.

Your blood ran cold. You looked at Jay. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t reach for you. Didn’t fight.

And that was the worst part of all. The boy who once held you like he could protect you from the world now stood silent as it swallowed you whole. Everything went black. The last thing you remembered was his eyes. And how he didn’t even blink. 

The world came back to you slowly, like a fog lifting, like a dream turning to ash in the light of dawn. The first thing you noticed was the ache. Not just in your limbs, which were bound tight and cold against the wooden arms of a chair, but deep in the soft animal center of you, where all tenderness used to live. There was a throb behind your eyes, a ringing in your ears that ebbed and pulsed like the ocean, but no comfort came with the sound. Just dread. Just the realization that this wasn’t a nightmare. You were really here. The room was dimly lit, bare walls stained with time and secrets. The air smelled like mildew and something sharper, gasoline, maybe, or the acrid ghost of sweat and fear. Your heart pounded in its cage as your vision cleared and faces came into focus.

Chul was there. So were two men you’d never seen before, both cloaked in the quiet violence of people who had done unspeakable things too many times to remember. One was smoking, the other cracking his knuckles absently, like he was waiting for permission to break something. You realized with a start that the "something" was you. And then there was Jay.

He stood a little apart from the others, like the guilt itself had pushed him away. His eyes were on the floor, fixed on a crack in the tile like it was the only thing holding him to this earth. Not once did he look at you. Not when you stirred. Not when you cried out his name. Not when you whispered, “Jay?” as if saying it softly enough would undo everything. You struggled against the ropes that held you, panic rising in your throat like a scream half-formed. “What is this?” you demanded, voice raw and hoarse. “What the hell am I doing here?” 

Chul stepped forward, all easy menace and slick suits, the kind of man who wore his power like a second skin. His mouth curled into something that was almost a smile, but not quite. “Payback,” he said simply, like that single word explained the rot in the walls, the bile in your throat, the betrayal eating you alive from the inside out. He crouched beside you, eyes level with yours, and you hated how calm he looked, like this was just business, like you were nothing more than a bargaining chip on a bloody chessboard. 

“Your father,” he said, voice smooth as oil, “has been a real thorn in my side. Took down nearly every operation I had on the east side. Raided our shipments, turned men against me. You know how much money I’ve lost because of that self-righteous bastard?” You stared at him, your mouth dry, your stomach turning over with nausea and fury. 

“You’re lying,” you whispered, but the words held no weight. “Am I?” Chul chuckled. “You’re just a pawn, sweetheart. Your old man declared war, and war always has casualties. You just happened to be the most… convenient.” Your gaze darted to Jay again, desperate, pleading. But still, he wouldn’t meet your eyes. He stood there, carved of stone, spine rigid, jaw clenched.

“How could you?” you asked him, voice shaking, eyes burning. “Jay, please… how could you?” But something in your question broke him. Or maybe it simply exposed what was already broken. His shoulders heaved once, and he turned abruptly, storming from the room without a single word. The door slammed behind him like a sentence passed. Your heart shattered in real time. The betrayal settled into your bones like frost. You were alone now with wolves.

Chul clicked his tongue, rising back to full height, then nodded toward the men beside him. “Don’t worry, princess,” he said. “We’re not gonna kill you… yet. But if your daddy wants to see you again, he’s gonna have to cough up something big. Otherwise?” He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to. They left you then, all of them, the door groaning shut with finality and locking behind their footsteps. The silence that followed was unbearable. You sat there, in that cold, empty room, and the sob that broke from you was ragged and deep, a sound pulled from the belly of something ancient and wounded. Tears fell hot and relentless down your cheeks, carving rivers through the dust on your skin, baptizing you in despair. 

You had loved him. With the kind of reckless tenderness that only a heart untouched by betrayal could offer. And he had handed you over like a gift-wrapped threat. You didn’t know what was worse, the fear of what was to come, or the ache of what had already been lost.

Four days passed like smoke curling in a dark room, slow, choking, shapeless. Time didn’t pass so much as it bled, drop by drop, down the walls of your confinement. There were no windows in that room, no clocks, no way to mark the hours except by the grumble of your stomach or the ache in your spine. You lived in the rhythm of silence broken only by the door creaking open, just once a day, when she would come. Jay’s mother.  She entered like a ghost, quiet and grieving, her eyes rimmed with something too deep for sleep to ever touch. She carried with her a tray of food, a bowl of water, a cloth to wipe the bruises blooming across your face like cursed flowers. She said little, only the softest of whispers falling from her lips, prayers to a God that seemed to have turned His back on this house long ago. She would kneel before you, brush the hair from your face with fingers trembling as if your pain were a flame she longed to touch but could not bear to hold. “I’m sorry,” she’d murmur, like a litany. “I’m so sorry.” Then she would rise and vanish once more into the dark.  

Jay never came. Not once. And that betrayal festered like a splinter lodged too deep to remove, its pain dull and constant, until it owned you. But the fifth night was different. You felt it before it began, an electricity in the air, a crackle in your bones. The door opened like a breath being drawn, sharp and final, and in stepped Chul with the air of a man who enjoyed drawing blood from stones. His suit was immaculate. His smile, not.

“Well,” he said, striding toward you with slow, deliberate steps. “Looks like Daddy dearest doesn’t want you back after all.” The words crashed over you like waves too high to rise above. You gasped, shook your head, tears leaping unbidden to your eyes. “No,” you whispered. “No, you’re lying — he wouldn’t — he —” Chul crouched, one hand on the arm of your chair, the other cupping your chin with mock gentleness. “Don’t cry, sweetheart,” he said, tone slick with venom. “This is what happens when you pick the wrong side.” And then the slap.

It came like thunder, a sudden crack of bone against bone that left your ears ringing and your vision swimming. Your head snapped to the side. The copper taste of blood bloomed on your tongue. You barely registered the movement beside him until a voice, hoarse, breaking, cut through the din. “Stop!” Jay shouted, lunging forward, only to be yanked back by one of the other men. “Don’t touch her!” Chul’s laughter was a bark, cruel and sharp. He turned to Jay and struck him hard in the stomach. Jay doubled over, coughing, and Chul’s voice hissed through the room like smoke curling from a fire.

“You idiot. You love her?” he spat. “You really think that means anything here?” Jay didn’t answer. He couldn’t. But his eyes oh, his eyes, finally found yours. And in them you saw ruin. You saw remorse painted in broad, bleeding strokes. You saw a boy unraveling beneath the weight of his choices. A boy who had built his house upon the sand and now watched the tide take it all away. Chul pulled out his phone, leaned down, and took a photo of your face. “Let’s send this to her dear old dad,” he sneered. “Maybe this’ll make him reconsider.” 

You tried to turn your head away. You tried to disappear into the corners of the room, to become so small the violence couldn’t find you. But the blow came anyway. Sharp, final, slicing through your mind like lightning through a tree. The force of it sent your chair tilting, your cry echoing like a bell rung in mourning. “Stop it!” Jay shouted again, voice ragged with desperation. Chul raised his hand for another strike, and then the world changed.

The gunshot split the room in two. It was not the loudness that startled you but the silence that followed. A breathless, unnatural stillness, as if even the air had forgotten how to move. Chul’s eyes widened in shock before his body pitched forward, collapsing like a house gutted from the inside. Blood pooled around him, red as prophecy, thick as grief. Behind him stood Jay. Still. Gun in hand.

Smoke rising from the barrel like a spirit torn from its shell. He didn’t move. Not at first. Just stood there, breathing hard, his expression hollow and carved from something beyond pain. He looked older in that moment. Not like a boy. Not even like a man. Like something ancient. A myth unraveling in real time. Then he dropped the gun, and it clattered to the floor like a broken promise. He rushed to you, hands trembling as they touched your face, your shoulders, your bindings. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, again and again, as if the words could erase the hurt, the betrayal, the pieces of yourself that now lived in a place too dark to name. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know — I didn’t know how to stop him. I should’ve — God, I should’ve…”

And for the first time, you saw him for what he truly was. Not your savior. Not your villain. But a boy who had been used like a blade and turned back to find himself stained in the blood of everyone he loved. Jay’s fingers worked at the ropes in frantic desperation, his breath uneven, ragged with panic and something else, grief, maybe, or guilt so deep it had built a home inside his lungs. The ropes gave with a rough snap, and your hands were free, your legs unbound but the weight that clung to your chest, to your soul, was not so easily unknotted.

And then the world broke open. The thunder of boots against tile. Shouts reverberating down the hall like echoes from a war long lost. The door burst open in a flurry of violence and authority, police in black and navy, weapons drawn, voices commanding surrender. Behind them, a storm of familiar faces: your father, his jaw set in stone, and Taehyun, eyes wide with something between horror and relief. And in the center of it all, your body still trembling, Jay standing before you with blood on his hands, his father’s, and maybe his own. They pointed the guns at him. They shouted at him to step back, hands up. 

He did. Quietly. No resistance. Just a soft exhale from lungs that had been holding the moment too long. His eyes flickered toward you once more, and something like peace passed through him, fleeting and fragile. The cuffs clicked around his wrists like fate locking its teeth. “No!” you cried, stumbling forward before your knees could give way. “Wait — wait!”

The officers halted just long enough for you to cross the room, pushing past your father’s grasp, past Taehyun’s startled call. You stood in front of Jay, close enough to feel the heat of him, the sorrow radiating from his skin like the fading warmth of a star long burned out. He blinked at you, the shimmer of unshed tears catching on his lashes like morning dew. You reached up, took his face between your hands as if to memorize it, every angle, every flaw, every beautiful, broken piece. And then you kissed him. Fiercely, tenderly. Like the world was ending, because maybe, in some way, it was.

Your forehead rested against his when you finally pulled away, breath mingling with breath, time halting between heartbeats. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, the words shattering against your skin. You didn’t say it was okay. Because it wasn’t. Not really. Not ever. But you let him hold your gaze, let him see that despite the betrayal, despite the blood and the lies, despite everything, you still saw him. Beneath the wreckage. Beneath the boy who had chosen wrong and tried, far too late, to make it right.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, voice breaking. “I love you.” And then they took him. Through the door and out into the blinding blue morning. The house echoed with the quiet that follows storms, shattered glass and distant sirens, your own pulse pounding in your ears like a drum. You stood there long after he was gone, your wrists red and raw, your heart half in your chest and half walking away in a squad car under the watchful eye of justice and tragedy alike. Your heart is split open like a wound that hasn’t quite healed. Like a prayer said to a god who may or may not be listening. You carry him with you, in the silence between breaths, in the spaces love once occupied. Some nights, when the wind howls just right through the trees, you swear you can hear the echo of his voice.

Not calling for forgiveness. Not even for understanding. Just saying your name like it was the only true thing he ever had. And somewhere out there, the world goes on.

(★) @izzyy-stuff , @beomiracles , @dawngyu , @hyukascampfire , @saejinniestar , @notevenheretbh1 , @hwanghyunjinismybae, @ch4c0nnenh4, @kristynaaah , @simj4k3 , @sangiewife , @hyunj00 , @firstclassjaylee , @teddybeartaetae , @i-am-not-dal , @xylatox , @desistay

[gay-dorito-dust]

Hey! I know you’ve been writing a lot of Bob and Void stuff, but do you write for Walker? I don’t k ow why, and maybe I’m a little odd for thinking this, but I would like him as my big brother figure. Prehaps I could request platonic hcs of him where he and reader act like siblings? Reader is chaotic sunshine and they get on each other’s nerves, but they do truly care for each other!! Bonus points for bits of Bob x reader x void hehe

I love Wyatt Russell (hate Walker tho) so I’ll make an exception for you anon. this might have more bob x reader x void then necessary. I think Walker would be an okay sibling at best.

Major PSA for idiots and dipshits: Also if you don’t wanna read the John and reader sibling dynamic, just skip to the Bob x reader x void section do the headcannons or don’t bother reading this, I’m not holding your hand when most of you are grown adults who are responsible for what you read. (Though I question that level of responsibility everyday the more I hear you moan about fuck all since you’ve got nothing else to do) so don’t blame me for what you consume. Grow up or continue to show your ass like you typically do.

you didn't like walker and you typically liked everyone and will always let it be known as whenever you were working on your aim, you'd intentionally aim for him much to Walker's annoyance.

'Can you stop shooting for me, for five mintues!' he exclaims as he looks at you as you only smiled innocently back at him.

'i don't know what your talking about.' you tell him 'i'm trying to shoot for you but you keep moving like an annoying cockroach that refuses to die.' you added as Yelena, who was stood next to you this entire time, tried to hold back a laugh but failed.

'i'm really feeling the love here team.' walker says sarcastically, lightly swatting your bicep in a repremending act, only to get a smack to his bicep in return.

'we love you too john!' you called after him as you looked back at Yelena as she looked at you with a knowing smile. 'what?' you asked her.

'you might not be family but you and john act like you could've been siblings in another life.' yelena says and you couldn't help but make a face. You were well aware that your relationship with US Agent was an odd one, you acted like you hated each other but the way it came across was more like siblings flipping each other off from the doorways of your own rooms.

which is something you both actually did do on the odd occasion, walking by the doorway of eachothers rooms within the Watchtower and flip each other off wordlessly, it didn't matter if you had company either, you'd still flip each other off regardless. much to the amuesment of the other Thunderbolts.

you both often get asked if you two were in fsct siblings, only for you and john to look at each other as though it was an insult as you both replied simultaneously with a ‘no.’ even if there were times where John did make sure you ate, drink and took proper care of yourself when he thought that you were neglecting yourself more then you should.

He’s even drag you out of the room if he felt that you were isolating yourself in there for his liking. I’m talking busting down your door and dragging you out by your legs as you kick and scream at him to let go, all the while he’s telling you to get out and socialise with the rest of the team instead of being a hermit/ bedroom gremlin. ‘Fuck off!’ You scream at John, ‘what if I want to stay in bed and do nothing.’

‘No can do, now go out with Yelena, Ava or Alexi and socialise and get some fresh air instead of suffocating in the stuffy air of your room for god sake.’ John replied as he shoved you towards Ava and Yelena as you shot him a look over your shoulder as you followed your favourite teammates. ‘Have fun!’ He sarcastically waves at you while you only show him your middle finger. ‘Kids.’ He mutters under his breath as Alexi pats him on the shoulder ‘you’re a good older brother.’ He tells John as the dirty blonde waves it off.

He didn’t think he was fit to be an older brother figure, but you brought that side out of him with how easily it was to annoy one another, he still remembered when you took his helmet and gun and painted them a glittery pick mess. He couldn’t complain at the time as the mission was integral, but he did indeed give you a mouthful afterwards about touching his stuff and fucking with them.

John swears you give him a headache almost on the daily but he’s certain that he does your head in too. So the feeling was mutual as far as he was aware.

Yet you do have moments where the care you had for one another comes through on missions as you two were usually paired up together and the protectiveness came out when the other was in close proximity to danger. You’d shove John out the line of fire, he would shove you behind him when he saw someone aiming for you, shielding you both when they open fired on you both.

Your care for each other was silent but it was there in the small acts you do for one another in a rare moment of reminding that while you acted like you couldn’t stand each other, you were there for one another regardless of the shit you’ve both done.

BOB X READER X VOID

Now when you met Bob, you found him to be cute, slightly clumsy and awkward but in an endearing way that made you want to know him more, his puppy dog eyes didn’t help make matters better as you as you were quick to find yourself spending more time with Bob and ultimately catching feelings for him.

He was meek and barely meet your eyes half of the time when you talked to him, but yet he seemed to stay with you in comparison to the rest of the group, always shoulder to shoulder to you and sharing smiles with you from across the room as butterflies fluttered within your stomach.

‘What’s your name.’ You asked.

‘Bob.’ Bob replies with a small smile, a cute smile you’d determine as you noted how small he tried to make himself look despite his tall and strong stature. There was more to him then you could see clearly, you could tell that this man was of great importance that you assumed that even Bob himself wasn’t aware of just yet.

‘We’ll get along just fine Bob.’ You tell him as he made a face similar to that of a confused puppy, a handsome cute man that you could already tell you’d get dangerously attached towards within embarrassingly short time. ‘How’d you know that?’ He asks.

You shrug your shoulders. ‘Call it a hunch but I just think we’ll work well together.’

‘I’ll trust your hunch then.’ Bob says with a smile and you knew immediately that you were fucked, he was even pretty when he smiled too with how his eyes shined and how his poetically radiated warmth and comfort that you wanted to bask yourself in forever.

Bob would find himself trusting himself within your presence more than others on the team, even going so far as you reach out and grab your hand in his and audible sigh at the touch, having gone without it for longer then he could remember. So needless to say you had become his primary person to look out for him, or just be there for him when the others went on missions and needed someone to be there with Bob until they get back.

You didn’t care as it meant you got to spend all the time possible with him as you made sure that when you were cooped up in the watch tower you would make sure that you and Bob were having fun however you could. Whether that be trying -and failing- to get into baking some cookies or watch tv together where characters make questionable decisions and Bob got to be highly amused by how annoyed you’d get when someone does something stupid.

Sometimes it got so bad to the point where he’d have to stop you from doing something rash as you ate half burnt cookies in a rather aggressive manner as you scowled at the television. It was a highlight for Bob as he got to be with you and experience all of you in your entirety. Only to end up finding himself falling more and more for you yet still being hesitant in calling the deep feelings he had for you as love or like.

So Bob takes his time with you and learns just as much about himself as he does learn about you in the process the longer he got to know and like every single part of you the more quality time you both shared without the rest of the Thunderbolts ruining it with their loud selves.

Void was equally intruded by you as much as Bob was and while he didn’t come out as often, he still was there within Bob as he got to go out with you on small trips together, or simply spending moments together in the watchtower.

He’s aware of all the moments shared between you and Bob and decided that he wanted that too, and to be selfish and more forward then meek, awkward Bob was about his own feelings that were now fully developed. Void understood what it was that he felt towards you and didn’t need anymore time to dissect and digest it, for whatever he wanted he would get sooner or later.

So don’t be surprised when you thought you were sharing a moment with Bob, only to be met with the pinprick eyes of Void as the entity merely chuckles at your look of surprise as he walks through your room as though he’s done it many times before.

‘Don’t look so surprise little bird.’ He tells you, his voice more confident and fuller then bob’s second guessing one, as though he wasn’t confident in using his own voice never less recognise it as if own, whereas void was fully aware of who he was and didn’t need to second guess himself when everything he did was absolute and precise.

‘You shouldn’t wear that face with me, when you look at Bob as though your moments away from grabbing him and kissing him at least.’ Void adds as you looked at him as he admired the photos you’ve took of yourself and fellow thunderbolt teammates and Bob.

Now with void you were a little more conflicted on how you felt towards the shadowy entity who could make people into shadows with a wave of his hand, a powerful being whom you’ve came across on occasions but he never did anything for you to detest him, only ever caress your cheeks and standing rather close to you for whatever talk to be considered casual.

He was bolder than Bob in what he wanted as void had kissed the back of your hand, drawn you close to him and even held you on rare occasions that you still think about at night, occupying your thoughts as you were conflicted on how to feel about void after what Bob had told you about feeling this endless darkness within him. One that only got worse when you were near him, as though it wanted to greet you personally.

Yet you couldn’t help but find Void charismatic and intriguing as the more you got to see him, which was mainly when you and Bob was alone or when everyone was asleep at night. He was dangerous and you knew that well enough to be cautious towards him but yet at the same time you couldn’t help but be drawn to Void whenever you do get to talk to him.

‘Where’s my kiss little bird? Am I not deserving of one unlike your precious Bob? Hmm?’ Void asks as he stepped close to you, his pinprick eyes looking deep into your own as your forced to admit that they were beautiful in their own right, in their own unique and unsettlingly way but beautiful nonetheless.

You would respond but you didn’t get the chance to becuase as soon as you blinked Bob was back in front of you, leaving you to process what had just happened just moments prior while Bob only looked at you in concern.

‘Are you okay? He didn’t do anything to you did he?’ He’d ask as he placed his hands on your shoulders, looking you in the eyes for anything that could give away to him if void did anything or not.

‘No, he didn’t.’ You replied to calm his nerves as he pulls you into his arms, rubbing your back as you gripped him tight, not truly grasping what you had gotten yourself into.

[ambiguouslady42]

High Tea featuring Choso

Pairing: Choso Kamo x Fem! Reader WC: 1.4K CW: All the fluff Description: Choso surprises you with a reservation at the Tea Room at the Botanical Gardens!

Note: BB, I hope you like this! Let me know how you felt with Cho! <3

Tags: @pixelcafe-network, @dreamingkitsunewrites

Choso kept bouncing his knee up and down in the apartment, waiting for you to come home. He wanted to surprise you with something you and he haven't done. It was different from visiting pubs, listening to bands that were up and coming, bantering back and forth with each other, laughing, and sharing the softest kisses in between. However hard his exterior, Choso deep down was soft, and he adored the floor you walked on.

You walked into your flat, exhausted from the day you had at work. You crash onto the couch and exhale loudly. You cover your eyes with your arm, just waiting for the outcomes of the day to wash away and joyful to be here with the one you love. You move your arm, looking over at you nervously. Choso didn't know if this was a good time to bring up the surprise. He doesn't want to burden you, but he also wants to know if you'll like or hate the surprise.

You relax and take his hand into yours. The way that your fingers interlace with his helps his racing heart slow down and grants him the courage to tell you what he has planned. "I…have a surprise. I know it'll be different from our usual outings…but you deserve beauty and beautiful things…" He stutters as he's trying to just tell you where you're going. He pulls an envelope out of the back pocket of his trousers. He hands it over to you in the most gentle way that he can. You can see that he's trembling, your heart melting, the desire to quell his anxieties and just hold him. You take it from him and open it. Within the contents, it's two tickets to the Botanical Gardens and confirmation of a reservation to have high tea within the grounds. You look over to him, his eyes are telling you that he needs to know what you think. You pounce on him on the couch, embracing him. You can smell the shampoo on his hair, further melting into the hug. "This is such a thoughtful gift! I'm so excited to do this with you, but are you sure you'll feel comfortable doing this?"

He stares at the ceiling, contemplating the answer to your question. "I don't know if I'll like the food, but I know that I'd be the happiest man to be surrounding my lady with the most beautiful flowers. If it gets too hot, we can hide in the small museum archives, I'd still have something beautiful in the end." His ears are red, but his shy smile steals your heart. You see how much thought he put into this for you. You feel so lucky that he wants to spend time with you at the gardens, but also that he nabbed a reservation at the tea room. It's very coveted by many to get a reservation on that specific day and time. The way his arms rest on your waist makes this feel all the better, and you couldn't wait for your big date with Choso.

The day came; You both had agreed that you could not go to the tea room wearing t-shirts, jeans, and flannel. Instead, you both compromised on dressing in your best garments. You both decided to go thrifting and find a nice dress to complement your outing. He helped you choose the one that would make you stand out amongst the flowers. You chose a blazer and a tie that would match the colour of your dress. He found a pair of trousers that were not denim, putting the whole look together in the dressing room. You both feel the buzz as you pose in front of the mirror, wondering how today's outing will turn out.

He drove in a car that belonged in a junkyard, but it still ran and got him from point A to point B. The car has never broken down, so it was a perfect carriage for both of you. He was acting more gentlemanly than usual, opening the door for you and offering his arm as he escorted you into the grounds. He eagerly handed the tickets to the attendant. The attendant gives you a sticker each to signify that you paid for your entrance. You're informed to always have the sticker visible at all times. They hand you a brochure and also signal to follow the signs if you need to get to the tea room in the centre of the gardens.

Entering the grounds, you're in awe of how well-maintained everything is. You quickly observe that they're selling parasols as it will be a high of 29°C. Choso observes you staring at them. "Which colour do you want?" You turn to him with a beaming smile and point to the one that caught your eye. He would gladly buy you anything and everything you want. He worked those extra shifts a while back to be able to provide you with this perfect day today. He holds the parasol for you as you walk towards the tea room. The sun is beaming, but he won't let it bother him; he just knows that today is all about you.

The tea room is beautiful. There is an indoor section with beautiful tea sets and linens. In the patio area, it overlooks a meadow of tulips. For today, your reservation is outside, perfect for this present moment. You are given a menu with a tea selection, along with a menu and a separate one for specific dietary restrictions. There is light banter between you and him, and you try to keep the noise down as there are other patrons nearby, but you'll never change for anyone, and you don't want Choso to do so either. He lets you choose from the menu what you want, and you both select your own choice of tea. He goes for the Jasmine Green tea, with you deciding to go for a recommendation, feeling a little adventurous in the moment. Your serving towers of food include cucumber sandwiches, ham & cheese sandwiches, various spreads, and a variety of cookies and tarts for dessert. Choso resists making a face, but he does not enjoy the texture of the cucumber sandwiches. He makes an effort to enjoy the various spreads, but his face sours at the spices used. You offer him the ham & cheese sandwiches instead, and you'd happily eat the other choices for food. He's ashamed that he couldn't conceal his reactions, but you're always happy to accommodate him. He wasn't as keen on the tarts either, so you settled for eating the tarts and he could enjoy the cookies. You're proud of him for making an effort to try new things with you. "Thank you, baby." You lean in to kiss his cheek, causing him to blush slightly.

After settling the bill, you walk around the various gardens. There's a Japanese garden with a built-in bridge overlooking a koi pond. He decides to photograph you with the parasol, near the blossoms; you were so beautiful in this moment, he needed to keep this memory to himself forever. You pull him close when he's done, so he can take a selfie with you. The way the sunbeams beneath you forces Choso to close his eyes as the picture is taken. The smiles are never concealed, making this a picture-perfect moment. He guides you through the various gardens with flora and structures unique to the country that inspires it. Each one is more unique and beautiful than the last. The afternoon makes the skies above a shade of orange and pink, and you wonder how you got so lucky. Just as you are about to share how you feel with him, you hear a giant rumble. Choso grins, concealing his embarrassment that he's very hungry.

"How about your favourite place tonight? My treat!" You take his hand and pull him towards the exit. He rushes to open the door for you and then gets in the car. He loosens his tie and takes off his blazer. He starts the car, chasing down the sunset, driving to his favourite dinner spot, excited to finally eat something that he knows he will enjoy.

[bolddeducktionneverfails]

For years, I had been wanting to create an easier way to share my most recent basis for this couple. And since the Speculation Timeline I wanted to put together isn't going to be completed anywhere near now (and since I'm being indecisive about whether I'd want to post it on here), I thought putting several images together was a good option.

I've had a general idea of what people think about my artwork, and the ship itself, for a long time and I'm sure a lot of those sentiments haven't changed. The other major reason as to why I made this post, is because I wanted to show people that I'm not oblivious to how Launchpad and Della were portrayed in canon. That I'm not picking two random characters to ship out of boredom. I put a lot of thought into how their dynamic could be and why we ended up with what we got. I was hoping to see a build up to something more meaningful. And now that I've been made aware of the show not getting to follow its initial plan, I'm trying to figure out what that was going to be, while also putting my own spin on it.

______________________________________________________________

Ok, so, more on the basis details: 

|    Cover

Dunno if I made it clear enough, but just in case I confused anyone, this is meant to be set within the same timeline as the show. It just goes a little farther than where the show left off. When I was restructuring my ideas, I was going to make an alternative timeline where Season 3 would be closer to what Plan A could have been. (I wanted to see a season revision so bad, but I knew it would never actually happen. 😭) As time went on, I considered what show would be like if it was able to pick up after the finale and I think I might like this case a little more, due to it being the most believable scenario. 

|    Della's Pages 

I undoubtedly believe that Della was supposed to have a turnaround with Launchpad and that "Trickening" was a strong indication of that. She doesn't know what LP is truly capable of because she's never around when he's at his best. And this feels very intentional because it's one of the biggest things that prevented their relationship from getting the development it needed. Keeping them stuck in this stage prevents anything...significant from happening. 

There's not much of a reason for them to be kept here if there's nothing to hide...they're capable of getting along and Della's assumption about Scrooge hiring Launchpad, would have easily been settled if the characters were given a chance to talk it out. 

In order for them to progress, Launchpad needs to do something amazing to catch her attention. I haven't come up with a solid answer to this in my personal timeline yet; it'll probably have something to do with saving Dewey, Della or both. But can you imagine what her reaction to Suavepad would have been like?! Or talking to Gosalyn about what it means to be a hero? The way she looked at Kit when he was cloud kicking could have definitely been giving us a good idea.

While not openly expressed in canon, perhaps another reason why Della is irritated with Launchpad is because there are things about him that remind her of HDL's Dad. Or maybe a bit more generally, how much she hates failure; I've been theorizing that Della had secret intentions of saving him when she headed into the cosmic storm. If this is true, she believes that she failed to save him. She could still be mourning that loss, so, if she began to have any feelings for Launchpad, there's bound to be a lot of resistance.

|     Launchpad's Pages

In the alternate timeline, I was going to have him completely stuck in friend mode and not notice anything until Della finally got more comfortable about her feelings. But I think having them both silently struggling to conceal their feelings, is a lot more interesting. 😂

I always thought it was strange that he was never written to show a prior interest in her...or even prior knowledge about her at all. In earlier essays, I noted how odd it was for Launchpad to know who Scrooge was without knowing about The Duck Twins. They were only out of action for ten years. Launchpad was alive before this happened and being that close to someone as popular as Scrooge...he would have seen them from time to time. 

I've also noted how LP was connected to Della from the first time we met him. His conversation about the snowstorm on the Drake Barrier Reef and the Atlantic trip as a whole, reflected the Spear incident. The way he was talking to Scrooge, sounded a lot like he wanted to encourage him to come out of retirement so he could be his pilot. That would mean that he did know something about Scrooge being an adventurer. So, how would he know about that without the Donald and Della portion?? It's the most recent part! He would have grown up with this! Either there's something up with him, or this is one serious plothole...

When Dewey and Webby started their investigation on Della, they never considered prying information from him...and after Scrooge shared his perspective on the Spear incident, Launchpad didn't have anything to say about Della's decision...(I'd expect someone who's supposedly a latchkey kid, to be...a little vocal about child abandonment...) and while his name carried over from original show, it's still very related to rockets. Why wouldn't the showrunners want to incorporate that into something bigger when the show has such a heavy space theme?! All this stuff feels a little too conveniently ignored...🤨

Speaking of the original, LP's family is full of pilots! If the reboot was going to borrow more from LP's history, that's yet ANOTHER way he should know who she is!! If one of your fellow aviators were related to the richest duck in the world, and they're travelling all over the place with him, surely their name and exploits would be brought up multiple times...Heh, if Della appeared in the original, I think it's safe to say he would immediately have a noticeable crush on her. 😂 The reboot hinted that Launchpad's romantic side is just about as active as it was in DT87, but it's a lot more private in comparison. It's really odd to have him dating around without extending any of that to Della...maybe there was something more subtle in "Coot" where he wanted to impress her...but c'mon, that's a fishy thing to do.

Anyway, I got the impression that LP found out about something having to do with Dad when the Timephoon sent him to the future. A lot of people took his delayed reaction to Louie's remark as taking too long to realize he was talking about Della. But I think it was because he wasn't initially thinking of her. The remark was said as if Louie's actions were hereditary. If not Della, then who else could Louie have "gotten" the idea of taking off with a powerful machine? 

Della's recording in "GlomTales!", warned Louie that he needed to stop his plans and schemes if he wants to be a part of the family. Dad doesn't seem to be part of the family. Could he be missing due to a plan or a scheme in relation to the Spear and the cosmic storm? In "Coot", the characters discussed how something valuable was being sought after on the non-McDuck side of the family and how everyone related to the family were frauds and cheats. If Louie was after valuables in his situation, and his situation was compared to Della's, then couldn't Dad fall under both of these categories?  

When thinking of what Launchpad could have seen during the end of the world, I amused myself with the thought of seeing them kiss, but it doesn't make sense for him to crush on someone else after that. If it was anything romantic, it would have to be a lot more subdued.  (I still do believe they were supposed to share a kiss in the original finale plans...) 

|   Ages

When it comes to pairing the pilots, shippers tend to be met with comments about Launchpad being too young. This is largely because of some statements from one of the showrunners and how they were perceived.

When I had asked the showrunner on his blog about whether Launchpad was around the same age as Donald, the answer confirmed this, and that it may have been agreed amongst the writers that Donald was little older; thus making Della the same.

In the following year, someone else asked for exact ages on Drake and Launchpad and were told that both were in their late 20's to early 30's. It was also mentioned that the twins were in their mid 30's for comparison. 

A month later, there was a question that mentioned the twins being a few years older than LP and Drake with no additional correction from the showrunner.

Later in that year, another fan asked for Donald and Della's ages and were given the answer "36".

The year after that, someone asked for the age difference between the twins and Launchpad. They were told "About seven years, I think.". 🤨 

This was a really strange thing to say after the information I was given, but once I thought more about it, I realized that this was pretty much just another way to reiterate the late 20's to early 30's range that was said before. It does...not sound like Launchpad's age is set in stone. And even though we got a precise number for the twins, it may not have been chosen with sincerity. The same showrunner had said in another age-related answer regarding the kids, that he didn't want to give them canon ages, only age ranges. This might also extend to the other characters in the series. Maybe any number in the mid-30's could be correct for Della's age and 36 was chosen at random for that question...

Similarly, some fans are proclaiming that Launchpad was officially confirmed as 31 because of a "Duckburg Life" podcast episode. But this takes place during an earlier time in the show, that wouldn't be his current age. (I remember hearing things that implied the first season, while others say it takes place in the earlier half of the second. I don't feel like checking right now, lol) How do we know the writer for this ep also wasn't just picking any number within LP's age range? Because it isn't part of the main show, this audio series is either semi-canon or not canon at all. And it wasn't helmed by the regular showrunners, so, we can't take the events and mentions too seriously without their confirmation.

Whatever the matter is behind the confusion and hesitancy surrounding their ages, a three-year age gap between the pilots could still work with how I want to see them. Just because Launchpad could be several years younger than Della, doesn't automatically mean that his is. He could be a lot closer.

That window of possibility could have easily been shut. And what helps to keep it open, is that there are multiple characters who have been placed in...highly unusual situations, that affected the way they age. Dating a mermaid, all the way out in Mid-Atlantic Ridge somewhere, sounds pretty unusual...who's to say it's impossible for him to be part of this trend in some way?

I've been theorizing that he has amnesia. Maybe that caused him to get his age wrong. We've already seen him time travel, and timeless dimensions exist in the show. What if one of his adventures lead him to a place where the passage of time works differently? We've been given at least three examples of characters being frozen. What about that?

______________________________________________________________

I would have loved to see a natural progression for Delpad in the show, but now that it's over, I don't have the patience to completely follow this timeline in chronological order. I'm mostly just going to elaborate on whatever points I feel like and work on organizing them later. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ (🎶 can we skip to the good part 🎶 lol)

But don't worry, I'm not going to keep you too in the dark on this. I'm going to publish a light draft of my timeline...somewhere! Each section has been broken up into eras and will be tagged accordingly:

(PreSp-CE)

(PreSp-PDE)

(PreSp-DE)

(PreSp-SE)

(CSE)

(PostSp-SE)

(PostSp-UE)

(PostSp-FCE)

(PostSp-DE)

And I guess anything I'm not sure about adding to my headcanons in general, can be labeled "Up in The Air" (UiTA)

Will there be anything about my basis or these eras that are subject to change? Maybe. Will I create more "How I Ship" pages with other parts of timeline? There's a good chance! Did I purposely exclude an era somewhere in here for a secret reason? I'm not going to answer that. 😶

Whatever happens, I'll be sure to make an update about it! 😁

[222freya]

Can we talk about why Gale is SO hated on by everyone? Hear me out, I'm not exactly saying him and katniss would of made a good couple, i don't think him and katniss would if been happy. But i see a lot of people completely picking apart every. Single. Thing. He does! How they treated eachover wasn't healthy but everyone completely dismisses how katniss was leading him on ALOT during the trilogy, we see her thought process on how she treats gale but we never see gales thought process. Unreliable narrater. "Gale gave me a sense of security I'd lacked since my father's death. His companionship replaced the long solitary hours in the woods." Is what katniss says and is a prime example on how beautiful their platonic relationship could have been.

Gale most definitely knew katniss didn't have feelings for him, we know this because he says "you only kiss me when im in pain" (which id cringey ik) but it just proves Gale understood the fact she was only doing this to try and help gale, the same way she dragged herself through the games to save peeta. Gale raised his family and the Everdeen's once his and katniss' fathers, he had alot if responsibilities on his shoulders since the beginning of the trilogy.

Nobody thinks straight during a war, in the same way katniss was deemed unfit for decision making during the end of mockingjay – no gale hadn't been in the arena but he had everything taken from him. He was whipped doing the only thing he knew how to do. His support and best friend was taken into the arena twice and was going through an emotional rollercoaster; he carried the burden of beliving he didnt force people into the woods during the firebombs.

"So many kids i could've carried" is what he said during the war, he knew how much value the children had, not as tributes but as real people!

This is why calling him the prim reaper was so inaccurate (although it is funny...) he saw prim as his own sister, he saw how much potential she had, especially when she started as a nurse in D13. Alot of people act like he calculated where primrose was and dropped a bomb on her out of spite, but thats not what happened! He created the bomb and left coin to do whatever with them, if your going by this theory beetees a bad person because he used to work for the capitol!

To say gale wanted to war to end was a understatement, he hated the capitol and everything it stood for. Even more so when the war struck, district 12 was somewhat of a community especially the poorer area when all they had was each over.

However a major point people make when calling gale a bad person is him saying "I don't care! I would never say what he just said. Not if they torture me, not with a gun to my head." Which although how he presented the message was wrong, really wrong. It just showed how deep his morals ran, he didn't know peeta was hijacked, nobody did!

Another major point people make is his jealousy, especially towards katniss and finnick. Gale never really understood finnick, and when they were close enough to even talk they were on a mission. So to him all finnick was, was a victor, a victor that applauded the capitol and everything it stood for (kinda similar to effie) and again, nobody thinks straight during a war!!!

If you have any similar (or opposing arguments) just leave a comment or dm me!

[receivedhope]

receivedhope's certified top 10 yandere blaine moments that all made me go "wow he's a FREAK. love him"

i don't accept criticism or opinions at this time.

10. using a heart shaped eye patch in Heart

i think there is simply something sickly romantic about using a heart shaped eye patch over a serious injury he got because he protected his cute boyfriend. it's symbolic... i also find it extremely funny how he lowkey didn't gaf about his ex-friends co-signing at the very least on blinding him. his brain is full of kurt parasites.

9. the kelliot selfie obviously bothering him + screaming "HE'S MY FIANCÉ NOT YOURS SO BACK OFF" at elliott

while i'm already a huge fan of the scene where becky shows blaine the selfie, on its own it could be okay, reasonable even. but then you get to NNY and you realize Wow... he was REALLY jealous. incredible... kurt had One gay male friend and he saw red. king.

8. comparing kurt's mom's funeral to pavarotti's

masterful gambit to tell his new boyfriend immediately he knows his mom died and wants to remind him of that just before he tells him he’s the one good thing in his life. "sorry you lost regionals against your friends and your mom died and your bird died but you have. Me ♥ don’t forget that" AND IT WORKED TOO. "kurt hummel has had a prettyy good year" kurt my love, your dad almost died, your friends decided to hate you because they couldn't sing church music, you were sexually assaulted, you were publicly humiliated at your prom and you kept struggling most of the semester in a new school you lowkey hated. congrats on your crazy fucking boyfriend though i guess.

7. kurt puppet

so many things to love here.

there is no normal person explanation for this one. stop pretending otherwise. when god gives you a beautiful yandere who wishes to be with his beloved one forever and ever you don't go "oh well he just has abandonment issues and the gas leak-" NO... that's my strange tiny doe eyed pervert and i accept him as he is.

6. the dalton!kurt hauntings of tested + barely breathing + it's too late

at first i was like "oh okay this makes sense. the gilded cage of dalton where everything is fine, things were easier and more clear cut and now blaine feels left behind kurt. this all makes sense" but then i got to tested,

"I guess it started when we first met, and you came to Dalton because you were trying to get away from Karofsky and I wanted to help you through that. [...] And I loved the way that felt. I loved, I loved being able to protect you, but now I look at your life and… it's completely different."

and i'm sorry but everything about this speech is crazy, it's like getting punched in the face over and over again with a hammer. what's this guy's problem? never change.

5. keeping up his kurt shrine even ~6 months after their break up

on his nightstand too so it can be the first thing he sees when he wakes up and the last thing he sees when he falls asleep. he is manifesting. (and it worked! good for you! go get your man)

4. blainofsky in general

not dating kurt's high school bully that he also sort of misses from their life (see his tested rant above) was always an option. but if he can't have kurt, hallucinations are fine. also "we got to talking... mostly about you" AND this look that he gives when kurt excuses himself?

oh there is something in that head of his and i need to see more. kurt get back in that makeshift electric chair of a bar stool right Now i need to observe further.

3. talking to burt in sexy

"oh receivedhope, you need to turn off the filter that makes you see blaine in this strange twisted light" NO!!! i love my weird cat. i completely get, acknowledge AND advocate for his place in the story and that he ultimately did a very good thing. i will even come to his defense in the turbulent landscape of blaine discourse - i still think it was an objectively weird choice and i'm fascinated that after being visibly interested in talking about sex with kurt the next best thing is talking to kurt's dad about kurt having sex. according to him. this is my post and i get to present canon disingenuously.

2. soft launching his proposal to kurt BEFORE getting back together

asks for burt's approval. buys an engagement ring. all before he can even confirm if kurt and adam are together, let alone if kurt would be open to dating him again. i love him.

1. cheating on kurt with eli c....

yes really... the desire to externalize his pain at least a little... when blaine is not texting this guy he sees visions of dalton kurt looking at him sadly... the immediate regret that causes him to grovel at kurt's feet for the entirety of the rest of the season... the public humiliation he inflicts on kurt and himself both by singing a depressed acoustic version of teenage dream to an entirely unsuspecting crowd... i'm really tempted to count eli/blaine as a ship i like just because it gave us so much.

[vinniestargirl]

I SHOULD BE OVER ALL THE BUTTERFLIES | V. H.

𑁤 pairing: vinnie hacker x fem!reader.

𑁤 summary: to make your mom happy now you have to endure a three day trip paired up as bridesmaid and groomsman with your brother's idiotic best friend. vinnie never knew why you hated him so much, maybe this is his chance to figure it out.

𑁤 warnings: reader being judgy and stubborn. sa mention (not explicit.) angst. hurt/comfort. english is not my first language.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ xoxo, priscilla: i'm really so very sorry, this was supposed to be way shorter and different but i got carried away and now this is me processing my own experience through writing. part two if this gets an ounce of attention.

—part two

You want your mom to get married and be happy with the man she loved, you really do. The biggest proof is how hard you worked for months to convince your brother to come back home. You understood why he ran away when your mom used one of your family dinners to let you know she was engaged, after all it was his former highschool coach and the man he had been looking up to as a father figure for years who she had fallen for after he graduated. She had kept it a secret for years already feeling his reaction coming but after all this time they had decided it was the right moment to take it to the next level.

Of course it all sounded very romantic and dreamy from their perspective but from yours and your brother's it was actually shocking. It took you days to process the whole thing but you felt obligated to, somebody needed to fix that mess and as usual it would have to be you. It took you months but you finally convinced him to come back home with just enough time for the last preparations for the wedding. The mood was still a bit tense around the house but it was civilized enough to get through the wedding trip.

Or so you thought until your mother decided to tell you just twenty minutes before leaving that you were paired up with Vinnie as bridesmaid and groomsman for the party and during all the activities previous to it. Vinnie of all people. She had said it was because you two were the only ones single but you knew her ways too well to believe that, all this was a set up for you to get along with him and it made you want to rip all your hair off.

Vinnie Hacker, your brother's best friend since first grade and the most annoying guy you had ever known. It was not a secret for anyone in the family and closest friends that you two couldn't be in the same room without making it look like a funeral and your mother would not allow that on her wedding. The thing is that everyone has always thought that it was your fault, that you were the crazy one as Vinnie had never done anything that would suggest he had a problem with you but you had your reasons, good reasons.

“Who has more cheetos?” said your brother when he realized he ran out of his, his words made you press your purse hard against your chest so he won't try to steal yours.

In other circumstances you would have shared, you didn't even like cheetos that much anyway but not today, this is what two hours trapped in a car with Vinnie sitting next to you can do to a person, or just you, who knows.

"I know your dirty little secret” your brother looked at you like you were hiding nuclear codes in your bag instead of junk food. He was leaning dangerously closer and without warning he pulling your stuff away from you.

You fought for it with your life with Vinnie trapped in the middle of everything and your mom scolding you from the passenger seat. "Come on man, leave her alone” Vinnie tried to defend you.

However his words had an opposite effect as your brother pretended to be offended that his best friend took your side and fought harder and you, you hated that he had acted like he cared and decided to let your brother win just because you didn't want to give Vinnie the satisfaction to know he had saved you. For a moment he looked at you like you had grown a second head but you ignored him and your mother's glare by putting on some music on your air pods to be able to endure the rest of the ride.

At some point you must have fallen asleep because your mother had to wake you up by shaking your arm when you made it to the place. With music still blasting in your ears you allowed yourself to admire the location, your mother had decided to get married in the woods in the middle of nowhere and you could have sworn you've never seen so much green in your life, it was majestic. The trees were impossibly big and the air was so clean you felt like you were reborn.

When you came back to earth you realized almost everyone was already there and starting to prepare everything to go to sleep. It wasn't that late but it had been a long and exhausting trip so they didn't even bother with lighting a bonfire. You went to get your bags from the coach's trunk but when you tried to get inside your mom's tent she stopped you pointing to another one.

“Tents are for two, darling” she said with the calmest voice, as if she wasn't sending her own daughter to Mordor. “You go with your partner”

“This is absolutely nuts, mom!” you tried to reason with her even though you know she won't listen. “If I go in there with him we are going to end up killing each other”

“It's okay honey, Vinnie won't bite you” you hated when everyone treated you like you were crazy for hating him. “please don't kill him until after the wedding”

She was unbelievable, she had planned this whole thing of getting there a day before to 'reconnect with nature and each other' but you knew that was all bullshit. The woman didn't have a single plant in her house and would slap dead any type of bug that would dare to get inside her home. All this thing of dragging all the bridesmaids and groomsmen to the middle of nowhere earlier was all to get you to be closer to Vinnie or to at least tolerate him. After all this wasn't her first attempt and she wasn't the only one, over the years she had tried stuff like this every chance she had, your brother did too and even the coach had made an attempt or two but you simply couldn't get yourself to spend more than two minutes in his presence without feeling sick.

He was an asshole and everyone treated you like you were the one being a bitch.

“Hey… which side do you want?” he said once you walked inside the tent.

Without a single word you let yourself fall on the left side turning your back on him, you could hear his deep sigh loud and clear and it only made you roll your eyes at him even though he couldn't see you.

Next morning the chirping of the birds around woke you up, still in the haze of sleep you could feel a strong arm and a firm chest holding you and for a second it was the most peaceful and cared for you've ever felt. That was until you remember where you were and with who.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” you pulled away in a matter of seconds not caring if you woke him too harshly.

“Wha- i'm sorry…” he apologized, still a bit confused and half asleep looking around as if he was lost “I was sleeping… i shouldn't have…”

“You're right, you shouldn't have”

Once out of the tent with your bag on your shoulder you couldn't find anyone around, all tents empty and there was a note stick to your mom and the coach's tent.

you looked so cute together, we figured you wouldn't want us to woke you up.

today's mission is to bring the bride and groom something significant and unique you can find around. you have till midday and sadly you are slightly delayed. good look baby!

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” this couldn't get any worse, though you realize it can when you hear his footsteps behind you. he stops to read the note and takes a deep sigh but doesn't say anything.

The first ten minutes you two walk in silence and you can't stop thinking about what would happen if you get lost in the middle of nowhere and how imprudent your mom's plan is. Vinnie walks a step behind you probably knowing is best if he gives you your space in a moment like this, what the hell are you even looking for? A heart shaped rock? A finger? Probably the one leaving the house after this is gonna be you.

“So… what are we even looking for?” he asks almost as if he didn't actually want you to hear him.

“Seriously you never stop making the stupidest questions!” you say in the most arrogant tone you can without looking at him as if you weren't asking that same question to yourself only two seconds ago but you just can't help it. You hate when he tries to act like he's all nice and innocent.

He curse under his breath and keeps walking behind you muttering things to himself you can't actually understand and you don't know what is more maddening, his annoying voice talking out loud or not being able to decipher what the hell is he saying.

“Look!” you hear him say before you get the chance to explode but you turn around anyway in case he found something worth going back to the camp finally.

Disappointment. There's no other word to describe your expression when you turn to him with all your high expectations thinking he might have found whatever it is that you need, however what your eyes meet is everything but useful. Vinnie is holding up a rock with a weird shape the size of his head with the stupidest smile you've ever seen painted in his face.

“It’s me!” he says comparing it with himself as if challenging you to point out the differences between them.

“He’s bold though” for some reason you answer and you find yourself having to fight back a chuckle… that damn smile. “And more handsome”

“So you think i'm handsome” his smile grows bigger and you facepalm yourself mentally.

“I never said-” he interrupts whatever your trying to say to defend yourself.

“You said he's more handsome” he holds the rock against his stomach now to rest his arms. “In order for that to be true i had to be handsome too, just not as much as him.”

Unable to think of a comeback fast enough you just roll your eyes and walk away from him but he still goes after you, you hear him drop the rock at some point but you keep pretending to look around to find something, anything at this point remotely unique to take back to the camp without the need to talk to him ever again.

“Are you ever going to tell me what did i ever do to deserve your eternal resentment?” he asks as if he's the one being aggravated here.

“You are not serious!” you say trying not to look back at him but feeling like you could punch him any second.

“Of course i am!” he shows his hands as a sign of rendition. “I'm sure it's somehow my fault so I ask you to make it pretty clear so i can apologize and fix it and end whatever this is.”

Can he be more maddening?!

“You wanna know what you did?!” you are too far gone to try to maintain a civilized conversation. “Being a heartless asshole! That's what you did!”

“Wha-” he looks genuinely confused and you almost clap and congratulate him on his performance. “I’m going to need you to be a bit more specific”

“Emily?” and with a single word his face falls in less than a second and you've never seen him this tense.

“What did she told you?” he asks clenching his jaw but his posture was restless.

“She didn't told me anything, I heard you!” it had been four years but you co sti reme as is if was yesterday.

It was your seventeenth birthday party. your first “big girl party.” Your mom agreed to leave for two days as long as you had the house intact and clean for when she came back.

You invited all your friends and managed to convince your brother to invite some of his, your brother and his buddies were a bit older so that had him exceptic but he did it anyway. either wat the goal was to get Vinnie to come, it wouldn't be hard anyway he was practically glued to your brother.

You've had a crush on Vinnie ever since you were little kids and your brother first brought him home with him after first day of school. Sadly you had always been too shy to keep a conversation with fore than three words with him but this had to be the day. Your best friend Emily had been encouraging you to finally make a move on him, after all you're only seventeen once.

Vinnie was there, as charming as ever and when he give you a birthday hug and a small pink velvet box you felt like you could die right there. With your best friend by your side telling you what to do and say you were actually able to have a nice conversation with him, every time he looked at you was like your heart was ready to jump outside your chest.

At some point you had to leave to receive more guests that you didn't even know but you were polite and they had presents so you didn't mind. It took you longer than you expected and when you went back to where you were trying to win your dream guy over you couldn't find him there or anywhere else. Asking around some guys told you they saw him go upstairs and you went looking for him remembering he was a bit tipsy already so maybe he wanted to throw up or something

But the bathroom was open and empty. Every door on the second floor was open except for one, your room's door that was cracked open letting you hear some strange noises coming from inside that made you want to go inside and tell whoever was using your room to go to a damn hotel or something but a louder sound froze your hand on the doorhandle.

“Vinnie!” your heart dropped to your feet when you recognize the girl's voice, it was your best friend Emily with the boy you had been daydreaming your whole life.

You turned around not daring to look inside and just when you were about to leave something else ended whatever remains there were of your beating heart.

“We shouldn't… she'd be devastated…” your best friend sounded mortified and that made you squeeze your eyes shut.

“I don't care about her… i just want you”

You didn't stayed for the rest of the party and ran away to the closest McDonald's where you parked your mother's car and cried for hours until the sunrise when you went back home to clean whatever mess your guests left that was nothing compared to the mess inside your mind and heart.

Next day at school your best friend hugged you and cried asking for your forgiveness again and again saying she was drunk and he had taken advantage of her state that she would never do something like that to you. You wanted to be angry at her but you couldn't, she looked so bad and you couldn't believe the sweet boy you had loved for so long had done something so disgusting and unthinkable.

After that day you couldn't even look at him without feeling physically ill and you were forced to spend the past four years with him practically living at your house.

“Look… i don't know what you think you-” you didn't let him finish when your hand slapped him hard on his right cheek, all this years of pent-up frustration were marked on his face now.

“You took advantage of her! She was drunk and you…” you couldn't even bring yourself to say it out loud.

“That’s what she told you?!” you tried to slap him again but he held your had, it wasn't a painful grasp, it wasn't even tight. he was just trying to stop you.

“Was she supposed to stay silent forever?” you asked with pure resentment in your voice. “God i can't believe i ever felt something else for you other than hate!”

His eyes look down at you with a strange glow on his eyes for half a second when his breathing started to get uneven. For what felt like an eternity there was just silence, only the noises of nature around you and his lip trembling as if he was fighting his own internal battle.

“She…” he hesitated, but it was as if looking at you give him the strength he needed. “She drugged me”

“What?” it was impossible, right? That was your best friend, the girl who had been by your side for years.

“She put something in my drink” his jaw clenched but his eyes never left yours as if he was hoping you could see the sincerity in them. “i was so confused… i, i remember thinking it was you that night”

You look at him, the tears he was fighting back were there for you to see and the vulnerability in his voice broke you. Even if you tried to hold on to Emily's version, this felt wrong.

“I remember you telling me you felt bad because she liked me to when we were…” he had to drag his hand over his face to keep focus but it was painfully evident how hard it was for him to talk about it. “The next morning i woke up next to her, she told me she would say i forced myself on her if i try to tell anyone. I just never thought she would say that to you either way”

You were speechless, a part of you still wanted to believe Emily's side of the story but the more you thought about it, the more you could see the differences between them. His voice, his eyes, his body language, everything about him say that this was still something so painful to think and talk about, he look devastated after four years.

Emily, she had cried in the moment but it wasn't nothing even close to what he looked like and he wasn't even crying. She just cried until you forgive her and went on like nothing happened and she even continue the past years making off-putting comments about Vinnie and how sexy she thought he was. Back then you thought it was some twisted coping mechanism but now…

You felt like you were going to throw up.

“Vinnie…” you tried but nothing came up, there was so much you wanted to say.

You wanted to apologize, you wanted to comfort him. Four years and he couldn't even talk about it fearing the consequences. But your voice and words were gone.

“It’s okay” he tried to brush it off but it was too late for that.

“No it's not” you shake your head feeling like it was about to explode.

There was so much tension, so much pain in the air and the only thing you could find yourself able to do was to hug him, wrapping your arms around his waist, your face on his chest where you could hear his racing heart breaking yours again but this time it was worse, it wasn't a teenage heartbreak. It was guilt and shame, you had been punishing him for years for something that left an irreparable mark on him.

Not long after his arms were around you too, it was a small comfort and it made you feel like a monster after everything you put him through.

“I'm so sorry…” you mumble, shaking your head still resting on his face. “If I hadn't invited you”

“It wasn't your fault”

“Yes it was” your legs were shaking and all you could think about was the amount of times you brought her home after that forcing him to be on the same place as her. “I wanted you there, all because some stupid crush… I did this to you”

“She did it” he rub small circles around my back. “I had a crush on you too… I would've find the way to show up at that party either way”

His admission took you by surprise but you couldn't bring yourself to give it a second thought, there was so much more going on.

“I should be the one comforting you” you said, your hand looking for his own on your back and he met you halfway intertwining his fingers with yours making your heart stop.

“You are” his intense eyes locked with yours was a drowning feeling and you were yet to decide if you liked it or not. “Knowing you believe me, that you don't hate me anymore, it's all i could ask for”

You stayed there standing in silence just looking into each other's souls for what it felt like hours, maybe minutes, time was so relative in that moment. You barely notice when he reached for something on the pocket of his sweatpants.

“Would you be my date for your mom's wedding?” he said holding up a thin golden chain with a heart shaped locket on it. It was the one he gave to you on your seventeenth birthday.

“How?” you look at him confused but the anticipation in his eyes softened you in a second. “Yes… of course i will”

This time wasn't a task, it wasn't an order from your mother. It was your choice and you wouldn't have it any other way.

“Your brother found it on the trash and give it back to me” there was a hint of nostalgia on his expression but he smiled, that damn smile.

“And you carry it everywhere?” you tried to joke but you were also confused when he nodded.

“It reminds me of you… the last time you looked at me with those beautiful bright eyes i've been dreaming of since i met you” there was nothing negative in his expression or voice and that disarmed you. “And you are looking at me like that again.”

He positioned himself behind you and helped you put it on. You had to touch and look at it at least twice to start to believe it. It was the first time you got to use it.

Am hour later you were back at the camp where everyone was already sharing some sandwiches and soda, different conversations around but all of them stopped like they've just seen a ghost when they're eyes locked on you two. Walking and laughing tougher. Holding hands, fingers intertwined.

“Well i think we won the game!” Vinnie said with an enthusiastic tone hugging you by your shoulder making you blush.

[goodnightmoonvale]

Okay so I'm not religious anymore, so don't take this as me Promoting the Bible or something, but you all need to know about one of the wilder parables Jesus told.

Most parables are pretty straightforward, or at least the ones that have filtered into general cultural Christianity. Things like "Don't refuse to help people just because they're your enemy or it's too much work" (the Good Samaritan), "Giving a little, if it's all you have, means a lot more than giving a lot if you have plenty" (the Widow's Mite), etc. Aesop's Fables stuff. (nevermind the fact that some of them are actually much more complicated than they're made out to be, but that's a digression I'm not getting into)

The parable I want to tell you about is usually called "The Parable of the Unjust Judge" or "The Parable of the Persistent Widow" or something like that, and its moral basically boils down to "the squeaky wheel gets the grease", or as I like to say, "being SO GODDAMN ANNOYING about something is the only way to get things done."

Basically, it goes like this:

There's this judge, and he's an asshole. He doesn't try to do the right thing, he doesn't care about morals or social censure or anything. He's corrupt, he doesn't do his job, he's probably trying to do as little as possible and get away with it.

There's this widow, and someone has done her wrong. What happened to her is not specified, but whatever it was, she needs the judge to rule on it for the sake of justice. And he doesn't wanna. Whether he's avoiding his work, or there's nothing in it for him, or he's protecting the adversary, it's not specified other than that he just doesn't feel like doing it.

Except the widow is persistent. She hounds him about it constantly, day in and day out, begging him for justice, pleading for him to take on her case.

So finally, he gets sick of her shit. She's being so goddamn annoying, just whining all the time and making his life a living hell. And so even though he doesn't care about her problems, or about justice, or about doing her job, he takes on her case and gets justice for her and resolves everything to her satisfaction.

And then Jesus finishes the parable by saying "if someone as terrible as the unjust judge was compelled into doing the right thing because of someone's complaining, imagine how much more God, who is good and just, will listen to you if you bother him incessantly with your prayers."

And this parable always baffled me as a kid. Usually the protagonist of the parable "wins" through being "kind" or "obedient" or "compassionate" or something. But "being a stubborn little bitch"? That didn't seem to vibe with ANYTHING I knew about what "being a good person" is.

But I will say, that time and time again, the older I get, the more I like this parable. I HATE bothering people. I HATE being annoying. I would rather keep my head down and tough things out in silence rather than be bothersome. But sometimes, it's the only way to get anything done.

And time and time again I realize... whether the person you need something from is an asshole, or good and well-meaning, your request can just slip through the cracks of daily life. The only way to make sure that you get the things you need, get something done that you want done, is to make your problem someone else's problem too.

(I was reminded of this today bc my friend is trying to renew her driver's license and now that it's REAL ID hours in the US, renewing your license has gotten REAL DIFFICULT, and she somehow managed to get an appointment to renew it after being on hold for hours with the wrong person just because she literally wouldn't let them hang up until they did.)

Anyways. Go forth and be your best, most stubbornest self. And if someone gives you grief about it, just tell them Jesus told you to :)

[saesbangs]

doubling down. (pt. 1)

itoshi sae x fem idol!OC (Ikariya Seira)

heavily inspired by a fic about accidentally saying you hate him which passed my timeline yesterday? i forgot to save it but if you know who wrote it lmk!! ><

due to reason above, i didnt write this for x reader hehe so...

a yumefic.

also based on my thoughts of Sae treated Rin that way because he cares for Rin. and thus, whats stopping him from doing it to you?

1 > 2

"Stop it, Sae."

"Maybe if you actually wish for it and not only because you were feeling left out that me and Rin had a dreamー"

"Shut up," her voice remained firm despite being on the last layer of patience she had.

"ーyou wouldn't be so easy to give up."

"I told you to stop," her voice cracked, at the end.

"Does your little brain finally comprehend what I'm saying? You should've just remained home if you weren't being serious."

She glared at the floor, one might mistaken the floor to be the killer of her pet from the intensity of it.

"Your dream is too half-baked, your effort too lukewarmーno, it's not even warm one bit it's as cold as an ice cube. Just give it up."

Silence fell, intense. Only voice to be heard was her sobbing uncontrollably despite her best effort in concealing it.

"You might... be just as worthless as Rin."

Slight shake could be heard from his delivery of the last statement. Gathered her courage filled with anger ablaze, she rose her head up, meeting his unreadable gaze.

"Oh, yeah? You talk big for someone who abandoned his dream, don't you think? You, Itoshi Sae the genius kid, dare to talk about my dream being half-baked or whatever when you couldn't even turn yours true?"

It came out firm and stable despite the underlying anger and betrayal seeping through, much to her surprise.

"You, who ran away from your own dream, who ran away from Rin, have the audacity to shit on my effort? To shit on my dream?"

"You don't know what happened."

"Speak for yourself! Do you know what happened? Do you know how many sleepless night I pulled through to practice a script, to perfect my dance, to better harmonize with a melody?"

He remained unwavered.

"Of course you don't! All you think and care about is yourself and your godforsaken soccer! Don't even talk to me about playing in the European league when you haven't even touched the main league! Here is the worst warzone for idol industry so don't you dare say I know nothing about fighting for your life over a dream!"

Her words seemed to had touched a mark signaled by the way his eyes twitched, teeth gritted.

"... Finished?"

"GOD! I hate it so much when you act like this. You could've just stayed silent and stop commenting on my journey. I mean, you did mention you don't give the slightest fuck towards things outside of your soccer bubble! Or I don't know, show some support? You've been nothing but judgemental towards the way I strive for my dream!"

She took a couple seconds to catch her breath. Her eyes had already dried up, replaced by fury.

"Sometimes... Sae, sometimes... I can't help but to hate you sometimes."

The silence dropped hard. Intense, heavy, almost as if it was trying to devour them both. It wasn't the first time she had stated 'I hate you.' towards him. But this one was different. There was not at all any hint of playfulness behind it. None. Instead replaced with sincerity. Real weight in each words. Prompting a snort from the receiver.

His distressed face turned into a thin smile, eyes went empty. This time, it wasn't only his orbs. His entire self was being cold and distant from her.

"Ah, it has come to that. Out of all the words that exist on the vocabulary, you picked hate?"

Turning around, he picked up his belongings laying around on the couch and coffee table before quickly reaching for the door. She could only watch. She could only witness the way Sae was leaving without hesitation in horror.

With his hand on the doorknob, once again he slightly turned back, stating his final piece for the day.

"Even I never said I hate you, Seira."

Within a blink, he was gone. Leaving her alone in her dorm room which still faintly smell like his cologne.

She dropped down to the floor. The barrier of her cry let loose. Her hands shaking hard as her wail reached every corner of her room. She embraced herself, tightly gripping her shoulders.

"No... No, Sae, No! I could never hate you... I would never!"

--

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[chericherilvr]

Hi Hi! Could I request a gaon fic that starts off as angst but ends in fluff plz?

I was thinking reader meets jiseok's friends and feels like he has better chemistry with one of them. Reader feels jealous but also saddened coz they don't think they're good enough for him and starts distancing from him. Reader and gaon could be in a relationship or close friends on the verge of a relationship.

The human experience - Gaon x gn!reader

summary: you show Gaon your latest writing work. w/c: 831 warnings: angst with really fluffy ending. the first part is the writing y/n aka you did (congratulations for writing so pretty, need a therapist?) deep questions and thoughts of not being enough. the fluff part is there at the end, the comfort, but it is not really long a/n: if there's something about me, I hate reading pure angst… but I love writing about it… kinda took a different twist from the request idea, but I hope you like it either way!!

"The human experience is whole. You sign for it before being born. It's hard to accept it sometimes—that we're here to learn to be happy. It's hard to accept that you learn through mistakes, failure. That you have to fail at being happy to learn how to feel it. It's borderline impossible to accept that through light, there's darkness, that you must experience pain before you can laugh.

A good support system is the key to not fallback. We all jump over and over and over again into the unknown, we dive into pain as if it was another way of breathing. But we don't always have a soft landing. We do not all have that privilege. It's hard to get that privilege.

The human experience it's a joke, really. A juxtaposition of itself, a paradox, when you being thinking about it; you get lost. How could you envy who you love? How could you deem yourself so unworthy that you dare look at someone else and say "you deserve better"? How much of that is true? How much of that could ever be true? When do you give up? When do you let go? When do you fight?

There's times that it is not worthy to fight.

I can't help but look at you. A laugh that once filled me with love suddenly is bitter. I would like to say I've healed enough. That I love enough. That I am enough. But then you smile and I feel like the worst person in the whole world. How could I ever be loved if I can't move the stars? How could I ever deserve you, when love is only my feeling; and you deserve more than that.

The human brain it's the worst. You think it's the feelings that get you. But a feeling only comes from the brain. Emotion, emotion only lasts for about 90 seconds before it's gone—what's left is feeling. We humans torture ourselves through our brain. We feel through memories and thoughts. And that's what gets you. Because you could bury a feeling so deep inside it never sees the light. But most have a voice that travels—whom digs your grave and hunts down anything to make you feel bad.

The ego.

I'm sure most of you will know, that the ego is just a protective mechanism meant to defend you. Yet why does it try to make me unloved?

I stare as you joke with your friends, and that voice snaps inside. He looks better with them. Happier with them. He looks more loved with them. And I just know it isn't healthy. I just know it isn't true. Yet the ego doesn't search for true. It searches for feelings and, even buried, I am a mare human—I am filled to the brim with them.

I don't realise when I drop my first tear. The space between you and I so long apart.

You realise immediately when I go silent. You get closer, grab my hand, and give me your best smile.

I shall thank you for how you treat me. I shall thank you for how you love. Because with you the voice quiets. Because of you, I am human. Because of you, I feel love."

The world is still loud when Jiseok finishes reading. The birds still sing, the neighbour is still doing the obnoxious house renovations, the wind still whistles, and silence feels so loud.

"This is…" He doesn't finish, as if no words could ever explain how he feels.

Jiseok looks at you, with his teary eyes filled with love.

"You are amazing. I hope you know that."

"You are a big reason why I know." You say giving him a weak smile.

"Thank you for showing me this, I genuinely loved it. Made my heart break a lot and expect big cuddles after the emotional damage but," he holds your hand, discarding your phone softly on the side. "You mean a lot to me, and I pray every day you could see the way I see you. You are loved, and not only by me, but by so many people too." Jiseok holds your face softly, like a fragile rose petal. "And if they don't see it, I'll force them to."

You chuckle softly at his empty threats.

"Don't you dare laugh! I mean it! You are the most amazing, brilliant, talented, pretty, smart—"

Jiseok goes on a ramble that makes your heart flutter, and the world spins a bit. Twenty-seven seconds in—when he started listing adjectives that you're not so sure even exist—you decide to stop it. You pull him close by his shirt and kiss him. His words melt under your lips. Deciding to show you just how much loved you are, his hand glides to your neck and deepens the kiss.

You are both breathless and flustered when he speaks again.

"You're also hot as fuc—" you cut him off with another kiss.