#i have been thinking about this too much and i HAD to write it before i exploded

[artficlly]

his girls [one-shot]

marvel au bucky x reader alpine barely tolerates anyone but bucky, so when she curls up in your lap without a second thought, the team is left reeling—especially when it leads to the not-so-subtle revelation that you and bucky have been sneaking around for months.

Warnings: fluff, so much fluff, alpine is a troublemaker, secret dating, swearing, kissing, alcohol, tony knows all, natasha too, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 2.2k

A/N: hello! once again a fic no one asked for lol. i'm supposed to be on hiatus buuut i took some time this afternoon to write this because i'm procrastinating a uni assignment. i'm sure this concept has been done before, but i was thinking about that scene in rivals with the dog (iykyk) and yeah! step away from the usual angst and heartbreak i normally provide you all with. sorry for any typos - not proof read.

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You were careful.

Or at least, you thought you were careful.

For months, you and Bucky had kept your relationship under wraps. It wasn’t that you wanted to keep secrets from the team, but there was something thrilling about stolen moments and hushed conversations. About Bucky’s hand on the small of your back as he guided you through a crowded room, or the way he’d brush a kiss against your temple before disappearing down the hall.

You figured no one had noticed.

Until today.

It all started with one of many white hairs stuck to your t-shirt.

Natasha plucked it off you mid-conversation one morning in the kitchen while you were praying—desperately—to whatever all-seeing god might finally make the coffee machine work faster. Between the groaning, spluttering sounds and the blinking lights, it felt like the damn thing was possessed. With flawlessly manicured nails, Natasha held the hair up to the morning light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the compound.

“Is this Alpine’s fur?” she mused aloud, twirling the long, pale strand between her fingers.

“Probably.” you replied absently, more concerned with the coffee machine’s latest refusal to cooperate. You jabbed the buttons harder, ignoring the way Natasha’s eyes flickered with something dangerously close to amusement. 

“For all of Tony’s money, you’d think we’d have a coffee machine that actually works,” you grumbled.

“Turn around?” Natasha asked. There was a particular lilt to her voice, that barely concealed intrigue she tried—and failed—to mask whenever she was onto something. It set you on edge instantly, the tone that meant she was clicking a mystery into place, giddy with excitement beneath a thin veil of indifference. You didn’t trust it for a second.

“No, just—” You smacked the machine in frustration. It whined pathetically before the lights blinked off entirely. You let out a long, exasperated groan. “Why won’t this stupid fucking thing ever work—”

“Jesus, you’re covered in it—”

You froze mid-motion as Natasha yanked at your shirt, effectively grooming you like a monkey. Her sharp lips had turned up into a wicked smirk, the type of smirk that made dread pool in your gut. 

“Everything is covered in her fur,” you said quickly, still trying for casual. You reached for the plug, praying Natasha would drop it. “She sheds everywhere, especially on the couch.”

“Mm.” Natasha tilted her head, her smirk deepening. “And yet, I thought Tony hired cleaners for that? Especially with Kate always bringing Lucky around?”

You yanked the plug from the socket a little too forcefully. “Honestly, Nat, I don’t know. I just want this damn machine to work.”

Right on cue, a familiar voice rumbled behind you.

“Machine giving you trouble again?”

Your heart stuttered in your chest before resuming its normal rhythm—though maybe a little faster. You turned just as Bucky strolled in, looking frustratingly good despite the early hour. His hair was a little dishevelled, sleep still clinging to him in a way that made him look too soft for someone who could snap a man’s spine in half.

“There’s a trick to it, remember?” He stepped in close beside you, skin brushing yours as he reached for the machine. The scent of his aftershave lingered, warm and familiar. You tried—and failed—not to watch the way the muscles in his forearm tensed, veins shifting beneath his skin as he pressed a series of buttons.

“Barnes, you’ve got cat hair all over you,” Natasha noted, not even bothering to be subtle. You didn’t dare look at her. Instead, you busied yourself wringing your hands, pretending you weren’t hyper-aware of Bucky standing so damn close.

“Huh?” Bucky barely spared a glance at his shirt, where Alpine’s fur was unmistakably clinging to the fabric. “Oh. Yeah, guess I do. She always wants attention in the morning.”

Then, with one final smack, the machine roared to life. The rich aroma of coffee filled the air as liquid finally poured into your mug. You sighed in sheer relief.

“There you go,” Bucky said, looking down at you with a small smile, a few strands of dark hair falling across his forehead.

Your stomach did a stupid little flip. You smiled back, warmth creeping into your face. “Thanks.”

The machine beeped again, snapping you back to reality. You quickly grabbed the mug with both hands, muttered another thanks, and let Natasha tug you away.

“What was that?” She hissed, voice low as she turned to you with narrowed eyes.

“Huh?” You weren’t entirely listening to her words. You found yourself glancing over your shoulder, a ghost of a smile tugging at your lips. You could still see Bucky standing in the kitchen, both hands braced on the counter as he waited for his own coffee. His back was turned, but even through the thin material of his fur-covered t-shirt, you could see the way his muscles shifted beneath it—

Natasha didn’t even humour your innocence. She crossed her arms. “You and Barnes?” 

“What about him?” You mumbled, pulling your gaze away as the elevator dinged, doors sliding open.

Her lips twitched, amusement clear. “Are you two—?”

You made a face at her. “What are you on about?” 

Natasha didn’t look convinced, but she let it go.

For now.

As the elevator hummed and Bucky was cut from your view as the doors shut, you took a sip of coffee, the liquid a few degrees between too hot and burning. It scalded your tongue, and with the phantom smell of Bucky’s aftershave no longer haunting you, you felt your mind snap back into action.

Right. Focus.

“We’re going to be late for the meeting,” you declared, shaking your head. “And that damn machine is the reason. You know what? Let’s take a detour to Stark’s lab and demand a better one.”

Natasha chuckled, pressing the button for a different floor.

“I like the way you think.”

—

You knew Alpine would be your downfall.

The little white menace was notoriously selective. If you weren’t Bucky, she wanted nothing to do with you. Everyone at the compound had suffered her wrath at least once—Sam even had the scars to prove it. Alpine liked to play dangerous games that usually ended in blood or a yowl of pain. You swore the Avengers bled more dealing with the feline than fighting aliens, wizards, or whatever else tried to obliterate Earth every other week. She was a cunning little creature, lurking around corners, hiding under tables, prowling along bookshelves. And just when you least expected it—bam. Teeth and claws bared, she would pounce, latching on like a tiny, vengeful spectre. This was her idea of fun. The Avengers had learned to tread carefully, tip-toeing around the compound whenever they knew she wasn’t safely curled up in Bucky’s room, where she ruled with an iron paw.

So, when you sat down on the couch one evening, and Alpine immediately hopped onto your lap, you knew you were fucked.

She didn’t hesitate, didn’t so much as sniff at you in consideration before curling right up, purring loud enough to be heard over the football game droning on in the background—which you were only half paying attention to. 

You stiffened, caught between awe at the rare privilege and sheer dread at the witnesses currently gaping at you.

Bucky, for his part, had been sitting at the other end of the couch, flirting with danger in his usual way—stolen glances, conveniently placed touches as he shifted in place. Alpine, just as obsessed with him as you were (Bucky had taken to calling you both ‘his girls’ in private, which always managed to make you swoon.), had immediately perched in his lap when he sat down. Only when he carefully pried her off to grab another round of beers did the little white she-beast decide you were a worthy substitute, strutting over with lazy, languid confidence before settling down, blissfully unaware of what she had just unleashed.

The room fell into stunned silence. Several pairs of eyes locked onto you, breath collectively held. They were waiting for the yowl, for the inevitable attack, for you to tense up and leap to your feet in pain. But to your horror, the little sadist simply settled in. Cosy, unbothered, as if this had been the plan all along.

“Okay, what the hell is this?” Sam finally demanded, pointing an accusing finger.

You blinked down at Alpine, then up at Sam, stroking the soft fur like nothing was amiss. “Uh… a cat?” 

You were foolish and desperate enough to pretend this was completely normal, to gaslight the others into believing Alpine was a perfectly gentle and affectionate cat. A sweet, loving companion. Not a tiny, vengeful menace who had terrorised them all—and definitely not a creature who had only warmed up to you in recent months because you spent more time in Bucky’s bed than your own.

“The same cat that tried to claw out my eyeball for getting too close? And now she’s just—” He gestured wildly at Alpine, who flicked her tail with the smugness of a queen on her throne. “—cuddling with you like you’re her best buddy?”

“She likes me, I guess.” You blinked innocently, turning back to the TV, hoping he would drop it, but Sam, ever the dramatic, was not satisfied.

“Are you kidding me? That cat has tried to kill me.”

Natasha snorted into her drink. 

Alpine smugly licked her paw before resting her head upon your thigh and blinking her wide blue eyes at Sam, who shook his head with an exaggerated shudder.  “This is bullshit, and you know it—”

“Maybe she just doesn’t like you, Sam.” You huffed, scratching Alpine behind her ears. “She’s always been fine with me.”

“That is not true!” 

“She took a chunk out of my arm once,” Natasha added, ever the instigator.

“Remember when I gave her a treat and she bit me?” Steve piped up.

Bucky returned at that moment, frowning as he saw the conversation unfolding before him. You turned to him with wide, desperate eyes, silently pleading for help. Alpine, the little traitor, merely pressed her pink nose to your hand, rubbing her face against you with a contented sigh.

“She only likes people she’s comfortable with,” Bucky offered, setting the beers down with a clink, but his pitiful attempt to be helpful only added fuel to the fire.

The room exploded into a series of overlapping voices.

“I didn’t realise you spent so much time with Alpine?” Natasha’s sharp gaze flicked between you and Bucky, her smirk primed to taunt you both. 

“Buck, doesn’t she spend all her time in your room—?” Steve leaned forward, forearms braced against his thighs, invested now.

Sam jolted upright like he’d just solved a murder case. “Now, hold on a second—”

“You have been covered in cat fur a lot lately,” Natasha mused. “And you two have been suspiciously close—”

As you glanced over at Bucky, you couldn’t tell if his repeated blunders were intentional or borne out of genuine panic. He cleared his throat, his brows raising as he casually popped off the cap of one of the beers with his vibranium thumb in faux nonchalance.

“Coincidence.” He muttered with a shrug, tipping back a mouthful of the brew. 

Alpine, completely oblivious (or entirely aware of the chaos she’d caused), didn’t budge as Bucky sat back down beside you, levelling you with a look that screamed we are so screwed.

“You two aren’t even going to try to lie?” Natasha pressed.

“Lie about what?” You feigned innocence, but the act was flimsy at best. The jig was well and truly up.

Bucky, clearly done with this little charade, let out a long-suffering sigh that might’ve sounded exasperated if not for the telltale smirk tugging at his lips. Without another word, he slung an arm around your shoulders, pulling you effortlessly against his chest, Alpine still coiled contentedly in your lap. The smug little she-beast didn’t even stir. She just purred loudly—too loudly, like she was taking credit for the entire thing.

“Wait a second!” Sam pointed a dramatic finger between the two of you. “How long has this been happening?”

“How long has what been happening?” Tony strolled into the room, a glass of amber liquid that looked suspiciously like whiskey in hand.

“Her,” Steve announced, gesturing between the both of you. “And Barnes.”

Tony didn’t even blink. “Oh, I already knew that. You didn’t know that?”

Bucky turned so fast you were surprised he didn’t give himself whiplash.  “You what?”

“Oh, come on,” Tony drawled, making himself comfortable on the armrest of the couch like this was all just another day at the office. “You really thought I wouldn’t notice her sneaking out of your room at ungodly hours for the past six months? F.R.I.D.A.Y. kept flagging intruders, and, shocker—it was just you two, utterly failing at stealth.”

Sam threw up his hands. “Did you say six months?!”

Bucky rolled his eyes, but instead of answering, he just turned to you and, without hesitation, kissed you.

It was sudden but warm, his lips soft against yours like he’d been waiting for an excuse. The room erupted into even more noise, Sam shouting something unintelligible, Natasha making a sound of smug satisfaction, and Steve groaning like he should’ve known, but it all faded into the background.

You laughed against Bucky’s lips, breathless but entirely unbothered. “This is definitely her fault.”

Alpine, still purring in your lap like the devious little mastermind she was, flicked her tail.

Bucky just hummed, brushing his nose against yours. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Not complaining, though.”

And, truthfully, neither were you.

[delugyu]

i preface this with an apology for how long my reaction is… you’re gonna click read more and go DAMNNNN 😭

DIVING RIGHT IN!!! i always say this but you seriously do write so well, and you paint such a good image of your scenes. i could feel how hollow and fake that wedding was for mc, and how no one’s heart was really in it. also soobin is such a sweetheart and i’m so glad she had him as some sort of saving grace

the whole school sequence of mc constantly being beomgyu’s hero meanwhile he doesn’t even know shows so much about her character 😖 i love her so much omg she deserves better.

“The next time you see him is on your wedding day.” DAMN. honestly at this point in the fic i can’t really blame beomgyu too much, and i don’t hate him for being resentful for the position he’s forced to be in. he had someone else he wanted to be with but instead had to enter a marriage with someone he barely knew. but poor mc my god 😭 she’ll be stuck feeling like the other woman for the rest of her life, like she’ll never be good enough for beomgyu. it especially stings when you remember that she was pretty much groomed into this idea that her whole future is just being a wife, and how that had to be her ultimate goal in life.

goddd it’s so haunting how isolated and alone mc was in preparing the wedding… this whole section is just leaving me with a pit in my stomach. AND THE PARALLEL BETWEEN GYU AND MC FIRST MEETING VS THEIR WEDDING.. beomgyu bringing mc to soobin when they were kids being the start of it all, and then beomgyu leaving mc to cry to soobin on their wedding day feeling like the end of all things. you genius omg come here and kiss me.

“Someday, you'll have children, and your child will give you a new purpose.” i smell foreshadowing 😇 also mc picturing her imaginary child across from her to keep her company is actually gut wrenching. i feel for her so much

beomgyu thinking about mc if only for a second before getting interrupted by jiwon. NOOOOOO 😭 wait but why do i kinda feel bad for jiwon omg. her asking if gyu thinks they’d be married by now… there’s such heartbreak in that question. all these characters are so three dimensional and well-developed, kudos to you on that 👏

when he wanted to see her face while they were fucking ACKKKK i got butterflies but also it was so sad that she was literally sobbing cause she couldn’t separate physical intimacy from emotional intimacy like beomgyu could. and then beomgyu feeling so bad abt it afterwards omg

GYU BRINGING MC TO HER BED AFTER SHE FELL ASLEEP IN THE COUCH!!!! unless i’m crazy and i just jumped to that conclusion out of nowhere. either way my heart is fluttering 🙈 “A wave of nausea rushes through you, sharp and sudden.” omg is she pregnant. he came inside her. FAWKKKK “untouched box of tampons” OH MY GODDDD. beomgyu getting jealous about the flowers is making me heat up ngl. i’m such a whore for jealousy i can’t help it

ryujin calling mc pretty girl and spoiling her with gifts… they should scissor lowkey omg who said that. LMFAO but i love ryujin so much, i always ALWAYS love it in a fic when the mc has a girl best friend to go to hehe

sooo glad mc is finally getting to voice out her thoughts with beomgyu! she’s been bottling everything up for so long and she deserves to let him know how his apathy has been hurting her. “You can feel his eyes on you, and it's your turn to refuse to meet them. You’re done searching his face for answers that will never come.” QUEENNN

ACK i can feel beomgyu’s panic so well in the scene where mc has her bag packed and ready to go. him feeling hurt by her taking off the ring omgggg. mc crying into soobin’s shoulder becoming a common theme… 🥲 i’m glad she has him and yeonjun though. and ryujin. shit’s hard but that support system will help u power through!!

“He had to see you. Alive. Breathing. Anything less would destroy him.” AHHHHHH

OMG YEONJUN AND GYU GETTING INTO IT… beomgyu getting defensive over her n calling her his wife, this has me kicking my feet. omg yeonjun’s really handing it to him, deserved honestly like get him again! beomgyu feeling kind of threatened by yeonjun is everything sorry i love jealousy 😭😭😭

“‘Yeonjun…’ she starts hesitantly. ‘You’re not… in love with her or something, are you?’ Her words made Yeonjun’s head snap up. His eyes meet hers, and for the first time, Ryu-jin sees it—really sees it. The glassy sheen in his eyes, the way his lips part but no words come out. The heartbreak painted so clearly on his face that it makes her chest ache. ‘You idiot,’ she whispers, her voice soft with pity.” omg i try not to copy and paste whole paragraphs but this one i just couldn’t help myself… this whole part is so perfect.

WHEN BEOMGYU CALLED HER BABY AFTER SEEING HER AGAIN… i died i actually died. HIM SAYING I LOVE YOU??? ack if only it didn’t take him so long to realize, hope this isn’t a too little too late moment 😣

this little fantasy world where they’re happily married and talking about what their kids will be like… ughhh mourning what could have been. if only gyu realized he was in love sooner. then mc waking up from her coma and not even thinking about or mentioning beomgyu at all, the heartbreak of losing a child conquers all ☹️ i feel so bad for her. she’d been looking so much forward to having a child one day too

godddd beomgyu being worried sick about mc and not even being able to see her in the hospital… “But by night, when the world quiets, he’s left with nothing but his tears, falling asleep with the weight of your absence pressing down on his heart.” go fight for herrrr gyu!!! need to see him pathetic and begging for her back.

my wish came true like two scenes later YAYYY him drunk texting her asking for another chance THIS IS WHAT WE LIKE TO SEE!!! and then the whole jiwon call leading to her booking a flight far away… i mean honestly good for her. she’s been living her whole life letting her obsessions and jealousy take over, she needs a fresh start away from everything. i like the window of opportunity she’s given there to grow hehe

“He doesn’t make a scene or beg to be let in. He just waits, bouquet in hand, a fragile hope flickering in his eyes.” FUCK MY LIFEEE this is so fucking AGHHHHHH i need him. OH MY GOD literally a few paragraphs later THE DIVORCE PAPERS?? HELLO?? my life is over

beomgyu sleeping in her bed. my mind is spinning. this is poetic levels of patheticness <3 HIM BEGGING NOW EEK THIS IS EVERYTHING. i feel insane sorry i’m just so obsessed with desperate men as u know by now 😭 him asking DO YOU NOT LOVE ME ANYMOREEEE gawd gyu is just pulling out all the stops i luv it. and then how he can’t take the ring from her im literally so obsessed u don’t get it

“He won’t take the ring, so he takes your hand and pulled you to him, kissing your lips fervently and enduring the slam of your fists against his body and chest. It was all him; it was all his fault. He is an emotional wreck who doesn’t know what to do and how to contain his feelings.” AHHHSJJSHDJJSJV here i go quoting a whole paragraph again but this is literally rewiring my brain i’m short circuiting

omg this is everything a smut scene should be: desperate, needy, raunchy, sensual, steamyyyy whew thank u raya this scene’s gonna be in the back of my mind for a few weeks. the divorce papers being forgotten hell yeahhhh fuck her so good she forgets why she wanted to leave you 🔥🔥🔥

wait i feel kinda bad for yeonjun omg when mc kisses him on the cheek and he’s like “anything for you.” like i just realized he has to live his whole life in love with her while she’s in love with someone else 😭 beomgyu and soobin getting along like brothers now ack my heart is warmed.

raya you did your thing with this one. seriously this was insane im telepathically kissing u so hard rn. ur writing is so stunning and i just adore your creativity. this was an amazing read i love you so much

THE SLOW SURRENDER

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

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

Your deepest fear. Your husband.

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

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

wc: 24k — playlist here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everyone claps.

It's official.

He is now your husband.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until death do us part.

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

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

Untouchable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Though you could never quite pinpoint when it began.

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

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

This place wasn’t fun at all.

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

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

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

“Use this,” he said.

“No,” you mumbled.

“Huh?”

“I said I don’t want it.”

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

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

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

You nodded, surprised that he knew.

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

That day was the day you first met your husband.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He's impossible to ignore.

"He's sick again… ugh."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You had no right to.

Beomgyu wasn’t yours to defend.

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

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

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

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

It's no surprise that he got sick.

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

Not even Beomgyu himself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It felt like you were leaving your heart with him.

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

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

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

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

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

“Babe?”

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

“Oh,” she says casually, stepping closer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

That wasn’t the last time.

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

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

And something about that stuck with you.

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

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

Because you didn't want anything back.

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

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

It wasn’t for him. It couldn’t be.

It was for you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's cruel.

Happy 26th birthday baby girl! xoxo

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe even as a friend.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Omg, Beomgyu?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her warm hands envelop his.

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

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

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

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

And then, she leaned in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All he could see was your face.

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

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

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

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

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

He sees you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nights like this made it hurt more.

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

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

You should push him away.

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

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

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

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

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

It burns, and it burns so good.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You wake up, heart racing.

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

Even in sleep, he doesn’t let you go.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They were given to me.”

“Two dozen?” he presses, “By who?”

“Soobin,”

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

“Yeonjun,” The name lands heavy between you.

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

Because it's your birthday.

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

Silence.

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

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

He's painfully beautiful.

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

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

It doesn't surprise you anymore.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I know."

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

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

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

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

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

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

He wasn't.

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

The name made your stomach drop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You're waiting.

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

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

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

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

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

"Why are you still awake—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?"

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

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

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

The line clicks immediately.

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

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

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

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

And the sight of your tears now terrifies him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perhaps, it is his turn to wait for you.

It’s the longest elevator ride of your life.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you didn't.

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

The wedding photo.

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

How could he have been so blind?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Right. You’re at his place now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You can’t go there—not now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You ignored them all. You had to.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s why I came to apologize,”

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

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

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

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

You can’t breathe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ryu-jin? Hey, long time no see.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She’s been in an accident,”

You got into an accident.

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

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

You got into a car accident. Something terrible happened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beomgyu floored the gas pedal.

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

He had to see you. Alive. Breathing.

Anything less would destroy him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So soft that it terrifies Beomgyu.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How much you mattered to him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then—it shifted.

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

You woke up, panting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did you have to lose your child too?

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

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

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

Your baby.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then there was you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The messages sat there, unanswered.

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

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

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

“I just wanted to know how you’re—”

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

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

The line ends.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gone, but forever in our hearts. Moon.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The week after your discharge was unbearable.

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

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

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

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

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

But then your eyes caught the window.

It glows. The moon.

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

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

It’s been six months since you woke up.

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

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

Seven months since everything fell apart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He closed the door softly behind you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You finally stayed.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your hand never leaves Beomgyu’s as he drives.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A beginning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

They look like... brothers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because without you, there’s no him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And maybe they have.

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

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

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

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

You’ll be okay.

THE END.

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

[stellamarielu]

late night visits

michael robinavitch x female reader

summary: somehow your neighbor is always finding himself at your front door hoping to find relief through casual hookups, but you both can’t deny your feelings any longer

content: nsfw, 18+ mdni, mutual pining, oral f!receiving, mention of an age gap because i can’t help myself, just dr robby having a realization of feelings while going down on you

author’s note: told y’all i was gonna write some dr robby smut!! like usual, it didn’t feel right to jump right in with nasty jaw dropping smut so here’s a little fluffy— but still saucy, hookup drabble with the hunkiest emergency doctor i know

Michael Robinavitch was your neighbor. 

Your apartment doors faced each other which lead to many casual exchanges and brief interactions.

They started off innocent; shy waves and polite smiles.

Then, they turned into conversations about what each of you did for a living and how long you’d lived in the city— just a culmination of small talk and harmless banter that took place in the little hallway of your apartment building.

But then, after weeks of coy chitchatting outside of your front doors, your exchanges escalated.

Your conversations with Robby had turned into hushed moans and deep throaty groans as his hands gripped furiously at your hips while he thrusted into you after an exhausting day at work. 

The first time you tested the waters of shared desire was a little over a month ago. You spontaneously invited him over to join you for dinner as he was getting home from work. Neither of you thought much about it. It felt like a simple invitation to get to know a new-ish neighbor. Just a friendly meeting over a quick meal, but it turned out to be something entirely different. 

That evening ended with his calloused hands greedily sliding up your body with your back pressed against a wall.

Both of you were stewing with pent-up frustration and using the other for an easy thoughtless release. 

The next time you found yourself underneath his body was just as unexpected but far more impassioned.

He had knocked on your door, his expression unsure yet somehow laced with anticipation when you answered. 

He started trying to make up some excuse as to why he was interrupting your nighttime routine until you pulled him into your apartment, meeting his lips with your own in a hurried and desperate kiss. 

It continued like that for weeks, late night visits full of eager touches and sinful craving.

The exact nature of your relationship was unclear. You just found one another for physical connection, never getting in too deep or finding meaning in your dubiously satisfying meetings. 

But, of course you had feelings for the guy, he had his dick buried in you on a nightly basis. You just weren’t sure if he felt the same way. 

You couldn’t help but assume he saw you as a quick fuck— an easy way to detach from his day in a bout of vulgar connection.

But that couldn’t be further from the truth.

Sure, the first time had been because Robby needed a distraction. You were just stood there, cooking a meal for him and listening intently as he told you about his profession. You were completely enthralled with him, your lips turning up into a cute little smile, and he couldn’t remember the last time someone looked at him like that; let alone a beautiful woman nearly half his age. It was almost criminal how fast he gave into temptation, letting himself get a taste of you through hungry kisses and tainted intentions.

After that he became addicted to you.

He even found himself thinking about you at work— a place that didn’t allow more than a sliver of space in his mind to think about anything other than the task at hand, yet you occupied nearly every corner of it. 

So he kept showing up— kept seeking you out in hopes that he could stay high on your presence long enough to stay satisfied before getting the next inevitable taste.

You seemed to enjoy the unspoken arrangement. He didn’t want to ruin anything with the complication feelings and exclusivity. Plus, he was a busy man, relationships never seemed to work well for him, so maybe this situation was for the best. 

But now, his face was buried between your legs, and he peered up to find your head thrown back and your eyes squeezed shut in pleasure, and he didn’t think he’d ever seen something so picturesque. So undeniably perfect. 

“God, You’re beautiful.” His voice was a hum against your skin as he stopped to place a sloppy kiss on the inside of your thigh along with his words. 

Your fingers tightened into his hair as his mouth hungrily worked at your core. 

You opened your eyes to glance down at him, unsure of how to take his compliment while he was busy doing such lewd things to you. 

He caught the silly grin on your lips at his words— so pure and gentle. The innocent curve of your mouth only made him want more. He gently grabbed at your thighs, spreading them even further.

The soft moan of approval slipping from your tongue had an involuntary groan breaking from his chest. 

With every sweet sound off your lips he dived deeper into you. His mouth was expertly working you toward your release, and just as you felt the pressure getting ready to snap, he pulled away.

He rested between your legs, his torso propped up just enough to get a good look at you.

“Let’s grab a bite to eat after this.” His statement came out in a breathless whisper. It seemed more like a question with the way his eyes were looking up, watching intently. 

You tried to hide the giggle that at your lips as a small smile took over your expression.

What on earth prompted him to bring this up while he had you on the verge of coming undone on his tongue?

But also, why was it so sweet? The way his words held such sincerity felt extremely intimate.

“Just- I want to take you out somewhere.” His grin was wide as he watched you react to his ill-timed inquiry.  

He knew it was late and maybe you wouldn’t be interested, but he couldn’t help but ask. 

Watching your back arch under his touch and hearing your sweet whimpers fill his ears had him losing his patience.

He needed more of you.

Needed it so badly that he was stopping himself from tasting your sweet release just to ask for more of your time. The two of you were only ever together in a dimly lit apartments under bed sheets, he wanted to go out with you; somewhere different, somewhere new. He wanted to take you to grab a coffee down the street at that place that stays open until 2am. He wanted to ask you questions about yourself and watch you smile while you talked— to see the sweet curve of your lips that he'd grown so attached to. 

Maybe he wasn’t much of a relationship guy, but he couldn’t deny the feelings he harbored for you. 

“Like a date?” You were leaning back on your elbows with your eyebrows raised subtly at his suggestion. 

“Yeah, a date.” 

“Ok Robby. I’ll go on a date with you.” Your smirk met his idiotic grin as he dove back down, satisfied by your answer.

He resumed his previous actions with a fervor of victory.

“Perfect.” The word was messy as it left his lips and landed directly on your core. 

It wasn’t long before your body was tensing, and mumbled profanities filled the room at your release. Even though you had just finished on his tongue, you weren’t done. You wanted to let him fuck you into the sheets, to repay him for getting you off, but he refused. No— he was determined to follow through on his promise.

The two of you walked side by side to grab a coffee at nearly midnight; you laughing and him watching, as he got to know you outside of the walls of your apartment.

[theonottsbxtch]

ANXIETY FINAL PART | CL16

an: and this series comes to wrap! thank you to all of those who were interested in following it - i hope this end does it justice, thank you for supporting my writing. much love <3 i may have some drabbles in mind lemme know what you guys think

wc: 8.6k

warnings: smut, mdni 18+ hehe written by the beloved @iimplicitt

part one | part two | part three |

SHE WAS DRIVING HIM CRAZY.

This was her form of revenge, it had to be.

Charles sat in his usual chair in the library, the book in his hands long forgotten. He hadn't turned a page in at least twenty minutes. His jaw was tight, his fingers gripping the edges of the paper, but his mind wasn’t with the words. It was on her.

It had only been a day since that conversation—since she'd looked at him with those eyes, seeing through him, picking him apart, laying him bare without even trying.

And now?

Now she was everywhere.

Floating in and out of the room, trailing her fingers along the spines of books, standing too close behind him when she reached for something on a higher shelf. She let her touch linger when she passed by, featherlight, barely there. But he felt it like a brand.

She was testing him.

He wasn't stupid.

He knew she had read those books in his library, knew she had picked apart his weaknesses, dissected his mind the way a scientist would a specimen under a microscope. And now—now she was toying with it.

Because she had realised.

She had realised that he was the one teetering on the edge now. That the dynamic had shifted. That she held all the control.

It terrified him.

And worse?

It thrilled him.

He had spent weeks keeping her in place, watching her movements, calculating her reactions, ensuring she never tipped too far one way or another. But now.

Now she was the one watching him.

Now he was the one bracing himself every time she stepped near, unsure if she would touch him, unsure if he wanted her to or if he’d crumble beneath it.

And she knew.

He could see it in the way her lips curved ever so slightly whenever he tensed. The way her fingers skimmed his sleeve just long enough to make him ache with the need to either pull her closer or bolt from the room entirely.

She was relentless.

And he was losing.

The book snapped shut in his hands, the noise breaking the quiet hush of the library.

She turned from where she stood by the window, blinking at him.

He forced his voice to remain steady. "Do you need something?"

She tilted her head, studying him like she was debating how far to push.

"No," she said eventually, "I was just thinking."

"About?"

Her gaze flickered over him, slow and deliberate.

"You."

His throat went dry.

He stood abruptly, turning away before she could see the effect she was having on him. "I need to—" He didn’t even bother finishing the sentence before striding from the room.

Her quiet laughter followed him down the hall.

It was taunting.

Charles barely made it to his room before closing the door behind him.

His breathing was uneven, his hands shaking as he raked them through his hair.

She was doing this to him. On purpose.

He knew it.

The worst part? He couldn't even blame her. He had stolen her life, caged her like some helpless bird, played mind games with her for weeks. And now?

Now, she was winning.

Because she knew.

She had figured him out, unravelled his layers with every book she had read. She knew about his disorder, knew how his mind worked, knew that deep down, beneath the cold, calculated exterior he had worn for so long—

He was desperate.

He needed.

And she was testing just how far that need ran.

Charles sat on the edge of the bed, gripping his knees, trying to breathe. He had spent years trying to suppress it, trying to push down the unbearable, gut-wrenching fear of being left, of being unwanted, of being a burden.

But she saw it now.

She saw him.

And she wasn’t running.

She wasn’t screaming or fighting or trying to claw her way back to the life she had before.

She was staying.

And worse than that—

She was pulling him in.

Charles squeezed his eyes shut, but it didn’t help.

He felt her everywhere.

In the walls, in the shadows, in the air thickening around him like a noose.

He clawed at his own skin, nails biting into the flesh of his arms as if he could peel her out of him—out of his head, his thoughts, his bones.

His breathing was erratic, chest rising and falling too fast, too sharp, like he couldn’t get enough air no matter how hard he tried.

She knows. She knows. She knows.

The thought was a drumbeat in his skull, relentless, suffocating.

She had seen him. Seen every pathetic, twisted, needy part of him. And she wasn’t running, she wasn’t screaming, she wasn’t even fighting anymore.

She was just watching.

Toying with him like he had once toyed with her.

And he deserved it.

He deserved all of it.

A sob tore its way out of him, raw and broken, and he pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, as if he could force the shame back inside. His chest ached with the weight of it, the suffocating, unbearable weight of himself.

He was evil.

He had taken her.

He had played with her mind, broken her down, twisted her into something else just to make her stay.

And now—

Now, she was the one in control.

His fingers fisted in his hair, pulling hard enough to sting.

You’re disgusting.

You’re a monster.

You don’t deserve—

A quiet knock at the door.

His whole body stiffened, breath shuddering to a halt.

She was there.

Right outside.

And she had heard him.

The knock at the door came again, softer this time.

“Charles?”

Her voice.

He squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to breathe, but it only made it worse. His chest locked up, his throat tightening like a fist was closing around it.

No, no, no—she couldn’t see him like this. Not her.

He pressed himself back against the headboard, his body curled in on itself, hands still tangled in his hair, his skin burning where his nails had dug too deep.

The door creaked open.

He wanted to tell her to go away. Wanted to force out something—a warning, a snarl, leave me alone. But all that came was a wrecked, gasping sound as he struggled against the panic clawing its way through him.

She hesitated in the doorway, then stepped inside, shutting the door quietly behind her.

He couldn’t look at her. He could feel her gaze, though—steady, unreadable.

He turned his face into his knees, but it was too late. She had already seen.

The way his shoulders trembled. The way his whole body was curling in like he was trying to disappear.

Like he had nowhere to run.

And then—

A soft rustle of fabric. A shift of weight on the bed.

She sat down beside him.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

His breaths were short and fast, hitching in his throat, his heart slamming against his ribs like a caged animal.

Then—

“Breathe,” she said quietly.

He let out a sharp, broken laugh, but it only made his chest tighten more.

“Breathe?” he choked. “You—” Another gasping breath. “You’re telling me to—?”

But he couldn’t even finish the sentence.

He felt her move before he saw it—slow, deliberate. A hand, warm and steady, holding his.

He flinched.

She didn’t pull away.

Just kept her hand there, a grounding touch, not demanding, not forcing—just offering.

His mind was spinning.

His body wasn’t used to this—her being the calm one. Her being the steady one.

“Breathe in,” she said again, quieter this time. “Hold for four.”

Her voice was gentle, measured. The same way he had spoken to her that time in the office—when she had been the one gasping for air, when she had been the one drowning in panic.

His chest was tight, painful.

But he listened.

He dragged in a breath—ragged, unsteady—held it.

“Now out,” she murmured.

He let it go, but it shuddered on the way out.

“Again.”

He obeyed.

In. Hold. Out.

Again.

Again.

His head was still spinning, but—slowly, slowly—the crushing weight on his chest loosened.

The air started to return.

The trembling in his hands softened.

He swallowed hard, then finally, finally let his head tip back against the headboard, his eyes fluttering shut. His pulse was still too fast, his breathing still uneven—but he wasn’t drowning anymore.

For a long moment, there was silence.

Then, he forced himself to look at her.

She was watching him, her expression unreadable.

The strangest, sickest part was—he had never felt more exposed in his life.

Not even when she had been his prisoner. Not even when he had forced her into submission, played with her mind, made her his.

This—this—was so much worse.

Because she had seen him.

The real him.

The weak, pathetic, broken him.

And she hadn’t run.

She hadn’t screamed.

She had stayed.

And he didn’t know what to do with that.

The silence between them stretched, heavy and charged. His breathing had steadied now, though his hands still trembled faintly at his sides. He felt drained—like something had been ripped out of him, leaving him raw and aching.

And then, out of nowhere—

"Why me?"

His stomach twisted.

He didn’t look at her. He didn’t want to look at her. Not while she pulled her hands away.

Her voice had been quiet, but there was an edge to it—something sharp, something demanding.

He exhaled slowly, pressing the heel of his palm against his temple.

"I don't—" His throat tightened. "Don't do this."

"I need to know."

His jaw clenched. He forced himself to his feet, suddenly desperate to put distance between them.

But she followed.

"Charles," she said, and there was something different in her voice now—something that sent a cold shiver down his spine. Understanding.

He looked down, facing his sheets, but it didn't matter. He could feel her gaze burning into him.

"You planned this," she said, and it wasn’t a question.

He swallowed hard. "I took advantage."

She stilled.

The words hung between them, thick and suffocating.

Her voice, when she spoke again, was barely above a whisper. "Explain."

He let out a low, bitter laugh. Explain? How could he possibly—

But he owed her this much.

His hands curled into fists at his sides. His voice was hollow when he finally answered.

"I saw your meds." His throat was dry. "I saw your emails with your therapist."

A sharp inhale from behind him.

"I knew you were vulnerable," he went on, hating himself with every word. "I knew how to break you."

A pause. Then, she whispered, "You chose me because you knew I’d crumble."

His eyes squeezed shut.

He wanted to tell her no, that she was wrong, that it had never been about that.

But wasn’t that exactly what he had done?

Used her struggles against her. Bent her mind to need him.

And now—

Now she was sitting in front of him, not running, not screaming—just sitting there.

And somehow, that was worse than if she had put a knife through his heart.

The air between them felt razor-sharp, stretched too thin, like it might snap at any moment. Charles kept his gaze down, his eyes focused on the sheets, but he wasn’t seeing them. He could hear her breathing, steady but too quiet, as if she were holding something back.

She should be screaming at him. She should be trying to run.

Instead, she just sat there.

"You knew how to break me," she repeated, softer this time.

His fingers twitched at his sides. "Yes."

"And yet... here we are."

That made him turn. He expected anger, disgust—anything but the look she was giving him. It wasn’t quite pity, but it wasn’t hatred either. It was something else. Something he couldn’t decipher.

His pulse pounded in his ears. "I never wanted you to know."

"But I do."

His breath hitched.

Her eyes scanned his face like she was trying to see inside of him, and he hated how bare he felt beneath her gaze.

"I thought I was going insane," she murmured. "The dreams, the way I started needing you, the way I made excuses for you even when I knew I shouldn’t. You made me this way."

His stomach twisted painfully. "I know."

She inched closer. "And yet you were the one falling apart tonight."

He exhaled shakily, shaking his head. "I—"

"You pulled at your hair," she interrupted. "Just like I did, that time in the office."

Charles swallowed hard.

She kept going, her voice quiet but relentless. "You couldn’t breathe. You thought you were being watched. You felt like you were losing yourself."

His jaw clenched.

"That’s what you did to me."

Her words landed like a punch to the ribs. He shut his eyes for a second, as if that might shield him from the weight of them.

But then, before he could say anything, she did something he didn’t expect.

She touched him.

A light press of fingers against his wrist. Not forceful. Not demanding.

Just there.

His entire body went rigid.

Her voice, when it came again, was barely above a whisper. "You knew exactly how to break me, Charles. Because you are just as broken."

His breath hitched.

And she wasn’t wrong.

Charles felt like he was standing on the edge of something—something vast, something dangerous. Her touch on his wrist was barely there, but it burned like a brand. He should move away. He should make her move away.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he let himself look at her, really look at her. The defiance was still there, flickering beneath the surface, but something else had taken root alongside it. A dangerous, quiet understanding.

"You think you’ve figured me out," he murmured. His voice sounded rough, unsteady.

Her fingers twitched against his skin. "Haven’t I?"

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "I don’t know."

It was the truth. He didn’t know anything anymore.

She studied him, her gaze tracing the shadows beneath his eyes, the tightness in his jaw, the tension in his shoulders. And then, in a voice so soft it was almost cruel, she asked, "What happens now?"

Charles stiffened.

She wasn’t asking him to let her go. She wasn’t demanding freedom.

She was asking what happens next—as if she already knew there was no escape.

He should tell her that nothing happens. That she should still hate him. That whatever shift had begun between them was wrong, twisted, sick.

But when he opened his mouth, all that came out was, "I don’t know."

Her head tilted slightly, as though she’d expected that answer.

Then, before he could stop her, she did something that made his stomach flip.

She turned his wrist over, palm up, and pressed her thumb lightly against his pulse.

Charles shuddered.

His heart was pounding.

"You’re scared," she murmured.

He flinched. "I’m not—"

She squeezed his wrist, just enough to make him stop talking. "You are."

She was right. Of course she was right.

Because for all the control he had taken—stolen—from her, for all the ways he had manipulated her, somehow, against all logic and reason, she was slipping through his fingers.

And he was letting her.

No, worse.

He wanted her to.

The silence between them stretched, thick and unsteady, like a fragile thread pulled too tight. She hadn’t let go of his wrist. She hadn’t moved away.

Charles could feel the warmth of her fingers against his skin, the steady press of her thumb against his pulse. It was unbearable. It was intoxicating.

She was still watching him, waiting—though for what, he wasn’t sure.

"You're doing it again," she said quietly.

His brow furrowed. "Doing what?"

"Pulling away."

Charles inhaled sharply, only just realising that he was—not physically, not yet, but in the way he tensed, in the way his breath had caught, like he was bracing himself for something inevitable.

She didn’t let him.

Instead, she shifted, closing the space between them, her legs tucked beneath her as she faced him fully. Her presence was overwhelming, a quiet force pressing against every carefully built wall he had left.

"You’re not supposed to be this close," he murmured, though he didn’t move.

"Neither are you," she countered.

His mouth went dry.

Charles had always been the one in control. From the very beginning, he had dictated how close she was allowed to get, how much she was allowed to see. But now—now—the balance was shifting, tilting wildly in a way that made his chest ache.

She was letting him see her.

Worse still, she was choosing to see him.

Her touch trailed from his wrist to his forearm, fingertips barely grazing the fabric of his sleeve. It sent a shiver up his spine.

She noticed.

Charles swallowed hard, his breath coming a little faster now, a little less steady. "You should stop."

Her lips parted slightly. "Do you want me to?"

No.

God, no.

But he didn’t say it. He couldn’t say it.

Her touch moved again, fingertips ghosting over the back of his hand before curling lightly around his fingers.

He closed his eyes for half a second, and when he opened them, she was even closer.

"Tell me to stop, Charles."

His pulse thundered.

He couldn’t.

His free hand lifted of its own accord, trembling slightly as his fingers brushed against the curve of her jaw.

She exhaled, her breath warm against his skin.

It was maddening. It was inevitable.

She leaned in first.

And then he closed the distance.

The second their lips met, it was like something broke. The tension that had been simmering beneath the surface for weeks—months—finally cracked open, spilling over in a way neither of them could control.

Charles barely had time to process the heat of it, the way her mouth moved against his, before panic clawed at his chest.

He tore himself away, breath ragged, heart hammering.

"This is—" His voice was hoarse, like he had been drowning in her and had only just come up for air. "This is wrong."

She didn’t even hesitate.

Her fingers curled into the front of his shirt, gripping tight, and before he could talk himself out of it, she pulled him back in.

The second kiss was nothing like the first.

It was desperate, heated, intentional.

She felt him stiffen for a split second before he gave in with a low, shuddering whimper, his hand coming up to cup the side of her face, fingers slipping into her hair as though he had wanted to do it for far too long.

She kissed him harder.

A noise escaped him—something between a gasp and a groan—and then suddenly, he was the one pulling her closer, pressing her down against the bed until she was beneath him.

He was shaking.

She could feel it in the way his hands hovered, in the way his breath hitched when she parted her lips against his.

Charles had spent so long controlling everything—controlling her—and yet here he was, completely at her mercy.

And she knew it.

Her fingers skimmed the nape of his neck, feeling the slight tremor there, the way he whimpered at the contact.

He broke away for a second, forehead pressing against hers as he tried to steady himself.

"You're not afraid," he murmured, half-disbelieving, half-dazed.

She could feel his breath on her lips, still uneven, still wrecked.

"Should I be?"

His grip on her tightened.

"Yes."

But he didn’t move away.

She wasn’t sure she had ever seen such unadulterated longing before. It was an odd thing to try and come to terms with. 

“I want you in a way I’m not sure either of us can handle,” his voice was rough and gravelly. A rasp dancing up from the back of his throat.

When his grip tightened on her, perhaps to ground himself, the sound that left her made them both freeze.

Only a moment. A tick of the clock.

Charles was all over her.

His hands slid from her face, down and down, dancing over her throat as his mouth collided with hers harshly. Two stars crashing into one another and lighting up the night sky in diamonds. 

Charles twisted them around, guiding her as if they were in a pas de deux. Her mind was spinning and rationality was cut right off her shoulders. All she felt was him. All she could think about was him. How he was touching her. How wonderful it felt. 

Stumbling through space, she wasn’t scared as she fell because she knew Charles had her. The way his rough hands held her as he laid her down on the sheets beneath them, making sure she knew she wasn’t going to get hurt. 

Her breath was coming out hot and heavy, erratic as her fingers dug into his hair and pulled slightly. Delighting in the way he moaned into her mouth,

tongue sliding against hers. Exploring and greedy. 

Charles climbed over her, slowly, giving her time so she didn’t think she was being trapped. She felt the mattress dipping with each adjustment and it made her heart stumble over itself. Not in fear. But in anticipation. Closer and closer.

She could still tell between the kisses and needy hands. He was still hesitating. Terrified he’d frighten her. Scared she’ll change her mind and leave. 

“Charles,” she spoke his name softly, her own hands trailing down from his unruly brown hair to his face. Taking in how truly stunning he was and the technicolor that were his eyes. 

She brushed her thumbs over his cheekbones, watching him as he watched her. His shoulders slightly coiled in tension. 

For the first time in what felt like ages she smiled, “I want all of you. Every piece.” She could physically see the relief pulse through his veins at her words. His eyes glowing as he pressed his forehead against hers, her heart beat thrumming in her ears as she felt the weight of his hips settle against hers.

The hardness of him. How warm he was. The comfort of his body so close to hers.

“Give me everything,” she whispered. 

He kissed her again, a little bit harder. His fingers pressed a little bit further into her neck. Inching but not quite. Being treated so delicately while knowing he was trying to hold back was driving her crazy. She wanted to know. Needed to know. What he was like.

Sudden determination slammed into her, making her lose her breath for a moment before it caught up again. 

Her hand danced up into his hair again, and then she yanked. Hard. 

A wince left him but something else lingered. Darker. More sinful. 

“Charles,” she practically bit out the plea. “Everything. Please.”

His eyes flicked between hers, his pupils blown wide with desire. “I don’t want to hurt you, mon ange.”

“You won’t.” She didn’t hesitate in her response.

So neither did he. 

She cried out into his mouth as he ground his hips into her. One hand tight on her throat and she immediately felt dazed. His other hand snaked down to her knee,

hiking it up around his waist so he could grind into her harder. A better angle. His cock running directly over where she needed it most and the sounds that we’re leaving her didn’t seem real. 

Her head was spinning. Her mouth falling open on its own accord as he explored every inch of her mouth with tongue. His hand still squeezing. Applying the perfect amount of pressure to cut off blood flow but not

air. 

Charles’ mouth found her jaw, danced down her throat, teeth grazing against her skin. Wanting to take in all of her. Terrified this was some dream he might wake up from. His breathing was unsteady, frenzied. Hungry. 

Her own breathing came out in stuttered gasps, her hands everywhere. All over him. Dancing over his back, shoulders, his face. His wild hair. Her fingers tugged at his roots as he sucked on a space just below her jaw, getting carried away. A clear bruise being left by his mouth. 

It was clear she wanted him to be rough with her. The trust she was handing him made his heart stutter. 

He could. Be rough. It’s what he was good at. What he was familiar with. But with her… his heart was aching. Feeling as though it was lodged in his throat as he explored her sweet skin with his mouth. He wanted this to last. 

Charles’ fingers danced under her shirt, feeling her gasp and responding to his touch. Arching as he slowly pushed the fabric up and out of the way. His tongue slowly ran a line up from her navel to her throat. She tasted heavenly. Sweet. 

He was unraveling. Her soul pulling at the threads of his own, yanking and yanking. 

He wanted to kiss more of her but her stupid fucking clothes were in the way and before his brain could catch up with what he was doing he had torn her skirt off, ripping her underwear in the process and the threads of cotton were frayed in his hands.

His eyes met hers, wild and glittering. 

Her chest was heaving. “Please.”

Charles leaned down, tossing the torn fabric aside and brought her bottom lip between his teeth, tugging gently. Eyes glowing. A dragon unfurling at the sight of gold. 

“Beg me to.”

She inhaled sharply, her pupils blown wide and lips swollen. 

It was twisted. Fucked up. A horrible, awful thing to ask her. 

She did it anyway, words tumbling out and greedy hands reaching, nails digging into his skin and he practically shattered in her palms. Her fingers hooked into the belt loop of his trousers, yanking him closer. Desperate. 

When he freed himself, he took in her face as she stared down at him. Her hair falling over her shoulders, eyes glazed, swallowing. Looking like an angel. 

He took hold of her chin, making her look at him as positioned himself before sinking into her, shuddering and a moan left him as his forehead fell against hers. Always watching, taking in how her lips fell apart, her brows furrowed, the sharp intake of breath as he bottomed out. 

She was warm. Tight. Hot velvet and he felt like he was slipping under an opium induced haze as he slowly pulled back out. Finally he looked down at where he was connected to her, gripping her chin to tilt her head. He needed her to see. 

“Look at you.” Charles sank his cock back into her. “You take me so well.” 

“Charles,” his name left her lungs in a trembling breath, her nails raking down his back. Leaving red streaks he wanted imprinted into his flesh for forever. 

He leaned back, taking hold of her hips in a bruising grip. He wanted her to feel everything. Every touch. Wanted her to remember everywhere he had touched her. The thought of marking her up would’ve terrified him, but when he looked at her and she nodded, he snapped. 

His fingers dug into the flesh and bone of her hips, his own nails digging crescents into her skin as he pulled out and thrust back in. Setting a brutal pace. Each roll of his hips was barely tempered, dancing on the edge of violence. 

She clenched down hard around him, throwing her head back into the sheets and crying out. His name dancing out into the heated air. 

The lewd sound of skin hitting and how wet she was, was echoing around the room. Sounding like the bells of heaven in his ears. 

“Fuck, you’re perfect.” He pressed one hand down just below her navel to feel his cock as he fucked her, his other hand rubbing circles into her clit and the combined sensations made her hips buck into him. 

“Oh my god—“

He laughed lightly, drowning in her. “Not quite.” He pressed down a bit harder, feeling the way his cock dragged in and out of her. “But you can pray to me, if you’d like.”

frewffgghjfdx

Her own laugh left her, but it was cut off by a choking cry of pleasure. “I’m going to—“ her hips rose to meet his. 

Charles snapped into her harder, leaning down on his elbows to drive his hips forward, rolling, dizzying. Pressing his forehead into hers as he caught her mouth in a kiss, breathing in her moan with his own as he felt her come undone beneath him. Stars danced behind her eyes as she came. 

Her cunt squeezed him and he shut his eyes, shuddering. “Fuck me,” he lowered his head and bit into her neck, his pace now sloppy and erratic. Messy. Sweat coating their bodies. 

Her nails dragged against his scalp, trembling beneath him. Her voice shaky, delicate. “I’ve got you, my love.”

He came with a cry of his own, teeth sinking even further into her throat and her wince turned into a near mewl as he rode through his high. His stomach clenching as he buried himself as deep as he could. 

Their panting breaths danced in the air and he felt light headed as he lifted himself with his arms, his eyes taking in the marks he left, scattered constellations of bruises and broken blood vessels. 

His eyes danced down, down, hissing as he slowly pulled out and watched as his cum spilled out of her. 

Charles’ body acted on its own accord, his conscious on the back burner as his fingers danced down her stomach, grazing over her clit and gathering what had spilled out, fucking it back into her pussy with two fingers. 

“Charles,” her moan was guttural. 

He seemed to snap out of it, rationality catching back up to him and he only just realised what he was doing. He flinched back, trepidation crawling up his spine. Too much, too much—

“Don’t you dare,” her hand shot out and grabbed his wrist, bringing his hand back to her scorching skin. 

God, how he had gotten so lucky? 

Charles let his body guide itself again, his fingers trailing up. 

“Open.”

Her lips parted, her eyes glazed over as she did as told. 

His breath hitched as his fingers slid into her mouth, dragging against her warm tongue and he felt like he could come again as she sucked on his fingers. 

He dragged the digits back out, the pads hooking on her teeth to pull her towards him and he kissed her. Tasting a mixture of them both and he groaned.

His hand slipped around her neck, hands twining in the hair at the nape of her neck. His other arm snaked under her waist, flipping them around so she straddled him and his hands fell to her hips, gently tracing the bruises that were starting to develop and the crescents of his nails he had left. Marks of greed. 

Charles looked up at her, stars in his eyes. 

And they started again. 

Charles lay awake.

The room was silent, save for the steady rhythm of her breathing beside him. The sheets were tangled around their bodies, clinging to sweat-dampened skin, but he barely noticed. His mind was elsewhere—fractured, spiraling, unable to settle.

She had undone him.

Not just physically—though the memory of her hands, her mouth, the way she had taken control still burned through his nerves like a brand—but something deeper than that. Something irreversible.

His fingers twitched against the sheets.

She was asleep, or at least pretending to be. He didn’t dare turn to look. If he saw her eyes, saw the quiet calculation in them, he didn’t know what he would do.

Because she had him now. Completely.

Charles swallowed against the tightness in his throat. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was the one who had taken her, manipulated her, crafted every careful thread of her dependency. He was the one who had made her need him.

So how had it come to this?

Why was he the one who felt like he was unravelling?

She shifted beside him, just slightly, and his pulse spiked. The movement was small, barely noticeable, but he felt it like a ripple in his bloodstream.

For a terrifying moment, he thought about reaching for her. Pulling her closer. Burying his face in her hair and breathing her in until his mind stopped racing.

But he didn’t.

Because he knew—he knew—if he touched her now, it wouldn’t be him holding her in place.

It would be her letting him.

And that was worse. So much worse.

Charles exhaled shakily and closed his eyes. But even in the darkness, he felt her presence pressing in on him, inescapable.

She wasn’t running.

She wasn’t screaming.

She was staying.

And for the first time, he wasn’t sure whether that was his victory—

Or his downfall.

He lay rigid, staring at the ceiling, his mind an endless loop of static.

The room was too quiet. Too still.

He could hear the faintest sounds—the whisper of her breath, the rustle of fabric when she shifted in her sleep—but it wasn’t enough to anchor him. It only made the thoughts spiral faster.

His body ached, not from exertion but from something deeper, something he refused to name.

He had given in.

He had let her pull him under, let her take control, let her do to him what he had once done to her.

And he had wanted it.

That was the part that unsettled him the most.

He had wanted it.

Needed it.

Somewhere between her lips on his skin and her voice in his ear, he had stopped being the one holding her in place. And now, lying here in the aftermath, he felt something curdling inside him, something dangerously close to desperation.

Because she could leave.

She had always been able to leave, he knew that now. The locks, the walls, the carefully constructed prison—it had never been those things keeping her here. It had been him.

And if she ever decided she no longer wanted to stay, he would have nothing left to hold her.

A slow exhale.

He closed his eyes, forcing himself to steady, but then—

A shift.

A quiet inhale.

And then the subtle change in her breathing that told him she was awake.

He felt it before she moved, before she even opened her eyes. The weight of her awareness pressing against the space between them.

He didn’t turn to look at her.

Didn’t dare.

But then—softly, tentatively—

"Are you awake?"

Her voice. Groggy with sleep but clear enough to cut through the silence like a blade.

His fingers twitched.

"Yes."

A pause.

He could feel her looking at him. Studying him in that unnerving way of hers, peeling him open with nothing but silence.

"Charles."

The sound of his name sent something sharp through his chest. He exhaled carefully, measuring his voice before he spoke.

"What?"

Another pause.

And then, quieter—

"What now?"

The words settled heavily between them.

He swallowed. What now? As if he had an answer.

For months, he had dictated the course of things. Had controlled every moment, every breath between them. But now, in the aftermath, it wasn’t his decision to make.

He didn’t know what was worse—the uncertainty or the fact that he was waiting for her to decide.

After a moment, he finally turned to face her.

She was watching him, eyes unreadable, her hair a tangle against the pillow. She looked different. Not softer—no, she had never been soft—but something had shifted.

She looked like she knew.

Like she had all along.

His throat tightened.

"What do you want it to be?" he asked, the words tasting foreign in his mouth.

Her gaze flickered, something unreadable passing through it. She was silent for so long he thought she wouldn’t answer.

But then—

"I don’t know," she admitted.

Something in his chest twisted.

Neither of them knew.

For the first time, they were on even ground.

And that terrified him.

The silence between them stretched, taut and expectant.

Charles felt the weight of it pressing down on his ribs, making it harder to breathe. He had spent so long crafting their dynamic, pulling her strings, manipulating every interaction to keep her where he wanted her. But now…

Now she was the one leading.

"You never answered me," she said at last.

His brows pulled together. "About what?"

She studied him, head tilting slightly against the pillow.

"What now."

Charles exhaled through his nose, glancing towards the ceiling as if it might have the answer.

"I don't know," he admitted. The words felt foreign. He wasn’t used to not knowing.

"Liar," she murmured.

His jaw tensed.

Of course he knew. Of course he had spent the past hour running through every possibility, every outcome, every way this could all fall apart. He had been raised to plan ahead, to anticipate, to always have control.

And yet, here he was, utterly at her mercy.

He turned his head slightly, looking at her properly now. Her gaze was steady, unnervingly perceptive.

"Tell me about them," she said suddenly.

His stomach twisted.

"Who?" he asked, though he knew exactly who she meant.

"Your family."

Charles stilled. His fingers curled slightly against the sheets.

"Why?"

She shrugged, but there was intent behind it. "I just… want to know."

His throat felt tight. He had spent so long keeping her separate from that world, keeping everything controlled. His family was expectation, obligation, duty. She was chaos, unpredictability, something that he had slipped through the cracks of his carefully constructed life.

He shouldn’t let the two overlap.

And yet—

"They expect things from me," he found himself saying.

Her brows lifted slightly. "Like?"

He swallowed, forcing himself to keep his voice steady. "Like a wife. An heir. A life that fits into the perfect little box they’ve built for me."

She blinked. "And do you want that?"

He hesitated. Then— "I want the inheritance."

A humourless huff of laughter left her. "Honest, at least."

Charles shifted, suddenly uncomfortable. He wasn’t used to talking about this, not in any real way. Not with someone who actually wanted to listen.

"My father left conditions in place," he went on, voice tight. "If I want my inheritance, I have to be married before I turn thirty."

Her expression didn’t change, but something in her posture did. A slight shift. A subtle awareness.

"How old are you?" she asked.

"Twenty-eight."

Another pause. She sat with that for a moment, then—

"So you're running out of time."

He didn’t answer.

Because she was right.

Another silence settled between them, thicker than before. But then—she moved.

She sat up slowly, the sheets pooling around her waist, bare skin catching in the dim light.

Charles stilled.

He looked—just for a second—before guilt curled through his chest like something rotten.

He shouldn’t. He had already taken too much from her.

His gaze dropped away, jaw tightening.

But then—fingertips, warm and soft, trailing over his cheek.

He flinched, just slightly, but didn’t pull away.

Her thumb brushed over the sharp edge of his cheekbone, slow and deliberate, and when she spoke, her voice was quiet. Measured.

"Why don’t we then?"

His breath caught.

His eyes snapped to hers, searching, desperate, trying to figure out if she was toying with him again, if this was just another way to tip the scales back in her favour.

But her gaze was steady.

Unwavering.

His pulse hammered in his throat.

He had wanted control over her. Had wanted to make her his.

But now, looking at her, watching the way her lips curved just slightly, the way she ran her thumb over his skin like she was memorising him—

He realised she had already won.

And he wasn’t sure he wanted to stop her.

Charles swallowed, his throat tight, his mind caught between a dozen conflicting instincts.

Her words hung between them, weighty and deliberate. Why don’t we then?

He should have laughed. Scoffed. Told her she was insane.

Instead, all he could feel was the unbearable pressure of his own pulse.

His fingers curled into the sheets.

"I’m scared," he admitted.

It was barely a whisper, but it felt like a confession, like something ripped from the darkest part of him.

Her gaze didn’t waver. She was still close, still watching him like she could see straight through his skin.

"Why?" she asked, voice soft.

Charles forced out a breath. His thoughts tangled, chaotic, but she was waiting. Expecting.

"Because," he said, voice strained, "you already have too much of me."

A flicker of something passed through her expression. Not triumph, not cruelty—just something knowing.

She didn’t move her hand from his cheek. Instead, her thumb traced over the skin again, slow and deliberate.

"You know how I work better than I do," she murmured. "I know how you do. It’s perfect almost, no?"

His chest tightened.

Perfect.

The word lodged itself inside him, curling in the spaces between his ribs.

She wasn’t wrong.

He had built this. Had shaped her mind to fit against his own, had twisted and moulded her fears until she couldn’t breathe without thinking of him.

And now—

Now she had done the same.

Not by force, not by manipulation.

By knowing him.

By understanding him in a way no one else ever had.

His stomach twisted painfully.

It should have terrified him.

Maybe it still did.

But as he looked at her, bare and unflinching before him, something else stirred beneath the fear.

Something far, far worse.

He wanted it.

He wanted her.

And perhaps, in some strange, awful way—

She wanted him too.

What Charles hadn’t expected was for things to go the way they did.

For the shift to be so seamless.

For her to stay.

And yet, here they were.

She slept in his room now. Not because he made her, not because of some unspoken rule, but simply because she did. Because she climbed into his bed at the end of the day, settled against the pillows like she had always belonged there.

She moved around the house with familiarity, no longer stepping carefully, no longer treating it like a place she was trapped in. It unnerved him.

Because it wasn’t control keeping her here anymore.

It was something else.

Something he didn’t know how to name.

He still caught himself slipping. The disorder was a living, breathing thing, curled in the depths of his chest, waiting for a reason to claw its way out.

Every time she left the room for too long, every time she didn’t respond to something he said, the thoughts would creep in—She’s leaving. She’s changing her mind. She’s going to realise what you are and run.

But then—her hand on his arm, her voice pulling him back.

"I’m here, Charles."

"I’m not going anywhere."

"Breathe."

It was unnatural, this thing between them.

It shouldn’t have worked.

And yet, it did.

Somehow, it did.

He stood in the doorway of the kitchen now, watching as she stirred sugar into her tea. She was still in her nightdress, her hair loose, her bare feet silent against the tiled floor. She looked soft in the morning light, nothing like the girl he had taken all those months ago.

She caught him watching.

Her lips twitched slightly. "What?"

Charles shook his head, exhaling. "Nothing."

But it wasn’t nothing.

It was this.

The domesticity of it. The ease. The way his world had been rearranged without him even noticing.

And the strangest part?

He wasn’t sure he minded.

He had never thought this would be his life.

Not because he hadn’t wanted something like it—not because he hadn’t craved the warmth of another body in his bed, the certainty of knowing someone was there—but because he had always known he was broken.

He had known it since childhood, since he first realised that his love felt different from other people’s, that his need for closeness was something raw, something desperate, something people recoiled from when they saw it too clearly.

He had never imagined there would be someone who stayed even after seeing the worst of him.

Yet she had.

She had stayed through every manipulation, every cruel game, every attempt he had made to own her, to keep her.

And now, somehow, impossibly—she wanted to stay.

This time he watched her across the room, curled in the corner of the sofa with a book in her lap, one leg tucked beneath the other. She looked so at ease, as if this had always been her place.

It still startled him sometimes, how quickly things had shifted.

How easily she had taken control of him.

And when his parents next came unannounced, he wasn’t forcing her to play a role.

He thought of the time he had put a knife to her throat and forced her to be his fiancée. The way he had held her so tightly, whispering threats in her ear, making sure she played along.

And now?

Now she did it willingly.

He hadn’t even had to ask.

She had smoothed down her dress, glanced at him once, and slipped into the part as though she had always belonged in it.

His mother kissed her cheek. His father nodded in approval. The conversation flowed.

Charles sat beside her, his fingers twitching slightly against his knee, his mind caught between past and present.

He had made her into this.

But she had remade him in return.

It was late. The kind of late where the house felt like it existed in its own pocket of time, separate from the rest of the world.

The fire had burned low, the glow casting flickering shadows along the walls. She was sitting at the foot of the bed, her legs crossed beneath her, watching him.

"When was the last time you left the house?"

Charles blinked. The question was so unexpected, so out of place in the quiet, that it took him a moment to process it.

His fingers flexed against his knee. "I went into the garden last week."

She gave him a flat look. "Out, Charles."

His jaw clenched slightly. "Since the day at the office."

Her expression didn’t change, but he saw the flicker of understanding behind her eyes.

"Because of me."

It wasn’t a question.

He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "Because I was scared that if I left, you’d be gone when I came back."

Silence settled between them. Not heavy, not uncomfortable. Just there.

Then, after a moment, she tilted her head. "We should go out."

Charles tensed. "Out?"

"To celebrate our engagement."

His stomach twisted.

It’s a trick.

That was his first thought. His immediate, panicked, irrational thought. That she would get him out of the house, that she would leave—slip away, disappear into a crowd, and he’d come back to an empty home, to silence, to nothing.

She must have seen it on his face, because she sighed, lifting her left hand, holding it up between them.

Her ring finger was bare.

"I won’t leave," she murmured. "And anyway—" she glanced towards the door, then back at him—"the front door has been unlocked for far too long. I would have done it earlier."

His breath hitched.

She wasn’t lying. He knew she wasn’t lying.

She had seen the worst of him, and she was still here.

And now, she was asking him to trust her.

He swallowed hard.

Maybe it was time to see what happened when he did.

Charles stood, dousing the last of the fire with the poker, watching as the embers faded into darkness. The warmth in the room dulled, but the air between them remained thick with something unspoken.

She was waiting for him. Already beneath the sheets, watching as he moved through the motions of closing the house for the night. It was strange, how natural this had become. How effortless.

He slid into bed beside her, lying on his back, staring at the ceiling.

Then, as he did every night, his fingers reached for her hand.

And, as she did every night, she placed it on his chest.

The tension in him melted—just enough. Just enough to let sleep take him.

Morning came gently. Light filtered through the curtains, spilling golden across the room. Charles stirred, feeling the absence of warmth beside him before he heard the soft shuffle of movement.

He blinked up at her.

She was standing near the dresser, pulling her hair away from her face, already dressed.

In the clothes he had bought her.

A simple dress. Modest. Nice. Something unassuming, something she had never objected to, never even commented on.

And yet, seeing her in it now, he felt something shift inside him.

Because she had chosen to wear it.

Not because she had to.

Because she wanted to.

His throat felt tight as he sat up, watching her.

"You’re staring," she murmured.

"It suits you."

She glanced at him in the mirror, eyes unreadable. Then, after a pause—"Good."

Charles watched her move around the room, the quiet rustling of fabric filling the space as she finishing taming her hair. She didn’t need to ask for help, didn’t need his input. She simply got ready, as though it was something so ordinary, so simple. Yet for him, it was another reminder of how much had changed.

He sat up slowly, still watching her from the bed, the sunlight streaming in through the gap in the curtains. The golden light made her skin glow, made everything in the room feel warmer, more familiar. Her movements were so natural now, and it unsettled him—this—the way she seemed to fit, like a puzzle piece finally snapping into place.

When she finished adjusting the dress and her hair, she turned to him, meeting his gaze. There was something different in her eyes now, something more certain.

She wasn’t running. She wasn’t pretending.

He cleared his throat, his voice suddenly thick. "You look…"

She raised an eyebrow, a quiet smile tugging at her lips. "I know."

He couldn’t help but chuckle, even if it was a small, dry sound. There was no need for words anymore, was there? They had learned each other so well, learned how to communicate in the silences between their sentences.

She walked towards him, the hem of her dress brushing the floor with each step, and paused just before him. Her eyes flickered to his hand, then back to his face.

"Do you think we’re ready?" Her voice was soft, steady.

He didn’t know what he was ready for—what they were ready for—but he reached for her, his hand trembling slightly. When she placed her fingers in his, there was an unspoken understanding between them, something that hadn’t been there before.

"I think so," he replied, his voice low. "But I’m still scared."

She didn’t answer with words. Instead, she placed her hand gently over his, holding him as if to steady him, as if she were the one in control now.

"We’re both scared," she whispered. "But that doesn’t mean we have to stop."

The front door loomed before them.

Charles hesitated. He hadn’t stepped beyond it in months.

But then—her fingers in his, firm, grounding.

"Come on," she murmured.

And so, together, they stepped outside.

The air was sharp, cool against his skin. The world stretched out before them, vast and open.

And for the first time, Charles didn’t feel like he was losing her.

Not as long as she was still holding his hand.

the end.

taglist: @charlesgirl16 @lilorose25 @obxstiles @mimiastroos @theoslove @taetae-armyyyyy @fastandcurious16 @iimplicitt @carlossainzapologist @iamred-iamyellow @curseofhecate @number-0-iz @dozyisdead @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @n0vazsq @dying-inside-but-its-classy @hzstry8 @oikarma @amyelevenn

[moonstruckme]

hii i was wondering if you could write something for poly! jily? i have reynaud syndrome which means times in the past my fingers have started going black when im really cold but i will always refuse to wear gloves (they make my hands itch), maybe a little bit of angst of them arguing over reader needing to take care of herself better and her not really understanding what the big deal is as she’s had it all her life,

love your work so much <33

Thank you for requesting gorgeous!

cw: reynaud's syndrome/hints at gangrene

poly!Jily x fem!reader ♡ 1k words

“—cause it’s dangerous, lovely.” Lily hears the upset in James’ voice as soon as the door opens. “It’s scary.” 

Yours is low and soothing to balance it. “I can barely even feel them.” 

“That’s the scary part!” 

Lily sets aside her novel, turning around on the couch to see you both. James has two grocery bags in one hand and your hand in the other. He holds it close to his chest protectively. 

“What’s the matter?” she asks. 

Your eyes go to hers with a familiar our boyfriend is a nutter look. “Nothing,” you say. 

“Stop that.” James is shocking in his sternness. “Can you move them?” 

“I can move them fine, Jamie. It’s okay.” 

“Let me see.” Lily’s known you long enough to put together what this must be about. She sits up on her knees, reaching over the back of the couch for your hand. Frowning, James releases it into her care. “Oh, sweetheart…” She cradles your discolored fingers. Irrationally, she’s afraid they might break if she’s not careful. “Let’s run some water over them, okay?” 

You both let her lead you into the kitchen. James looks terribly uneasy, a concern in his soft brown eyes that Lily sympathizes with. She turns the tap on, letting it get warm before drawing your hand underneath. 

Your expression twinges, but you don’t complain. “I’m really fine,” you mumble, uncomfortable with all the worry being directed at you. 

“Just wiggle them around for a while,” Lily murmurs in reply. James is watching the water run. He still hasn’t set down his bags. “Jamie, the groceries?” 

“Right.” James’ voice is clipped. He lifts the bags onto the counter. Takes a couple of steps backwards, starting to unwrap his scarf. “I’m just, I’m going to…” 

You turn to watch him disappear into your bedroom. For all the insouciance you’ve projected, now your expression is worried too. 

“I don’t think he’s ever been so angry with me,” you say. 

Lily steps closer to you, putting her hands under the stream of water with yours. She begins gently massaging your cold fingers. It is rare for James to be so upset. It makes it scary when it happens, not because of his response but because you know you must have done something very grievous to provoke it. 

“He loves you a lot,” she says after a moment. Pressing her shoulder to yours. “I love you a lot, too.” 

“I love you,” you murmur, shy. 

“I think it scares both of us when you let yourself be hurt. I know it doesn’t feel like a big deal to you, but it does to us.” 

You bite down on your lip as she coaxes blood back into your fingers. Lily’s heart twinges, but she knows it’s a good thing. It hurts as you’re getting better. 

“This has always happened,” you say, wiggling your fingers as if to demonstrate. “I can’t avoid it, it’s been like this my whole life.” 

“You could wear gloves,” Lily points out. 

Your mouth twists. “They itch.” 

Lily fights the urge to roll her eyes. You’ve had this argument a dozen times before; it’s a pointless battle. 

“We’d just worry less if you did.” She kisses your cheek. “How do they feel?” 

“Okay.” You’re grimacing, the circulation returning. “Almost back to normal.” 

She releases your hands, drying hers on a tea towel. “Keep them there for a few more minutes, please? Just to be safe. I’ll check on James.” 

Lily unloads a few groceries before she goes, ensuring everything that needs to be refrigerated goes in. Your fingers are nearly back to their normal color by the time she steps out. 

James is sitting on the edge of your bed. He hasn’t removed his scarf or his coat. His shoulders are slumped. When James is upset like this, he droops. Like a plant that’s full of too much water, like his body is suddenly too heavy to hold up on his own. He leans, he slouches, he finds something else to bear the weight. 

Lily smiles commiseratively. “Hi.” 

He looks up, eyes big and tired. Droops further when she steps between his legs, hugging him. 

“Hi,” he says. 

“Are you in a fight?” 

“No. I don’t think so.” James’ arms come around her middle, squeezing. “I sort of thought you’d be in a fight once we got home, honestly.” 

Lily laughs. “Guess I’m not in the mood.” 

“Caught you at a bad time?” 

“Something like that.” She uses her nails to scratch lightly between his shoulder blades. “She’s alright.” 

A deep sigh. “She carried one of our bags most the way home. I didn’t even think about how she couldn’t put her hand in her pocket with it. And of course she didn’t have gloves.” 

“It’s not your job to think of it, love.” 

“I know it sounds loony, but I really thought her fingers were going to fall off.” 

Lily rests her chin on his shoulder. “I had a similar thought,” she admits. 

“She’s alright now, though?” James’ voice is fretful. 

“Yeah. She’s alright.” 

When they return to the kitchen, you’re still holding your hand under the tap. 

Lily smiles. “I think you’re alright,” she says. “Thank you.” 

You turn it off, watching James nervously as you flick water off your fingertips into the sink. He goes over to you, and your expression melts with relief as he wraps his arms around you. You go up on your toes to hug him back, damp fingers pushing into the curls at his nape. 

“I need you to take better care of yourself,” he says, voice soft but not thin. 

“Okay,” you agree readily. “I’m sorry I scared you.” 

James hugs you tighter. Your face turns in towards his neck. “I’m sorry for being so harsh.” 

You and Lily both laugh. She boosts herself up onto the counter, crossing her legs and watching the two of you with a fond ache in her chest. 

“Jamie, your harsh is everyone else’s mild.” 

“I was harsh,” James argues. “I didn’t say I love you all the way home. I do, by the way.” He pulls back to look at you, urgent. “I love you so much.” 

You roll your eyes, but a good deal of the acerbity is lost when you smile. “I know.”

[spindlta]

If Suzanne Collins writes another hunger games book, I think it will be Finnick's, and I think it will show what you've written above.

Finnick is from a career district, he's gorgeous, he has trained for this his whole life. He gets the most expensive sponsor gift that Katniss has ever seen in the games. He's a killer, but he's also only fourteen - perhaps too young to see through the Capitol/Career propaganda of glory and victory. He must have shone during the parade and the interviews, and then he goes on to win his games (comparatively) easily.

But he's also 14, and was presumably reaped rather than volunteering, as surely you would wait until age 17/18 before volunteering? He realises in the games how much damage you do to yourself by killing someone, and after he comes out of the games he realises how naive he has been. He is prostituted and passed around the Capitol, and whatever arrogance or bravado he had before the games is destroyed in the knowledge that Snow can kill whoever he wants back home in 4

At least he thinks that he can keep kids alive every year, because surely someone who has won the games so easily would be able to teach others how to - but then they die, year after year, and the only one he can save is Annie who is then broken and also his greatest vulnerability. Finnick is completely powerless in the face of the capitol, and whatever pride he felt as the stunning, precocious, talented boy who entered the games is destroyed by what he faces afterwards .

The themes of this book would in some ways be even darker, more violent, and more adult than the other hunger games books, but if Suzanne Collins writes another one at any point, I hope it's this. The story could say so much about institutionalised sexual violence and the way survivors of sexual violence are treated. Also, Finnick's path from arrogant glory-seeker who thinks he can win the games to the realisation that he will never be treated like a real person would point to the reality in our current world that working class and middle class individuals look at the billionaires and think that if they just work hard, they too can be that successful, when actually the system is not set up to allow that.

no matter young Haymitch's characterization in Sunrise, I'm always going to be partial to the interpretation that he was a smart-ass punk who thought he knew better than everyone until he was crowned & punished.

the Games changed him, all right. they made him face death and finally flinch, finally see how small & finite his life was and that the world didn't care how clever he was or how above-it-all he acted.

one wrong move, one missed chance encounter with Maysilee, and he would've been dead. and no amount of bravado, or hat tricks, or snarky comebacks would've made any difference.

he went home without the innocence he came with, that he didn't know he'd had to begin with. he'd been so sure of himself. (he'd been so afraid.) he was smarter than the other tributes. (the girl looked like an airhead but she was bigger than him and just as fast, and she'd-)

47 50 other people had to die for young Haymitch to learn he didn't know anything about anything, actually.

because what's more, he had a debt bigger than his own life to pay when he got home. he hadn't expected that. I imagine it took him by surprise. I imagine he felt angry and guilty and powerless, with unimaginable sorrow that cut him down to size... as very small, & stupid, & only sixteen.

imagine that as a coming of age.

[fireinmoonshot]

Pairing: Joaquín Torres x Reader Summary: You're away for a few days for a work trip and even on the first night, Joaquin is making sure you know how much he misses you. Warnings: Mentions of food. Word Count: 1k A/N: I've wanted to write something regarding Joaquin + facetiming before and then I got this as a request the other day so it was perfect. I think Joaquin would be so cute in this scenario... 🥹 I adore him, my sweet angel boy.

You’re in line at the grocery store getting some things to take back to your hotel room when your phone starts buzzing. The photo on the screen, a selfie of your boyfriend that he’d taken on your phone, shows that Joaquin is trying to Facetime you. You cancel the call and quickly type out a message to him before putting your stuff up on the counter.

Sorry, baby, I can’t answer right now – in line at the grocery store xo ❤️

The phone buzzes again just as the cashier starts scanning your items and asks you how your day is going. Once you’ve paid, you check the message, smiling as you read it.

Ok…🙁

You’re away for four nights on a work trip and Joaquin is clearly already struggling having the house to himself. At first, you thought he’d enjoy the freedom of being alone… but now that you think about it, it sounds like his worst nightmare.

You reach your rental car and unlock it, climbing into the drivers seat and putting your groceries and bag on the passenger seat. Pulling your phone out from your bag, you send Joaquin another quick text to check in before heading back to your hotel.

I’m in the car now, I can call on my way to my hotel? The car has hands free.

A message from Joaquin appears seconds later. No, too dangerous. Call when u are in ur room pls, I miss u ❤️😢

You can’t help but smile at the message, sending a quick okay back to him before putting your phone in your bag, putting your seatbelt on and starting up the car. The entire drive back to the hotel, you hear your phone going off every minute or so. He says it’s too dangerous to call you via hands free but will distract you by texting you every minute… yeah, makes complete sense…

Despite your desire to check it after you park, you wait till you’re in your hotel room before getting your phone out of your bag. It would’ve been a hassle to try and read and reply to his messages while navigating the elevator and trying not to lose your room key card.

You almost laugh as you see why your phone was going off so often.

Joaquin has sent you a detailed list of everything he did today while you were gone – ever since he dropped you off at the airport at 9am right up until now at 7pm. He’s even included pictures – a variety of zoomed in photos and a couple selfies. You save them all to your camera roll. Your favourites are the one where he’s giving a thumbs up to the camera after successfully doing grocery shopping alone, another one blowing a kiss to you because he misses you and, probably the best one of all, him flipping off the microwave because it didn’t properly heat up his lunch. 

Sitting down on the edge of the bed, you text him back.

Why did you send all of these? 😂 I mean, so cute, but are we not about to Facetime so you can tell me all about your day anyway, baby?

Unsurprisingly, his reply comes through instantly.

In case I had to go before u got back.

Go where? I thought you were staying in tonight.

Yea but what if Sam called and I had to go and help him save the world. 🦸🏽‍♂️

You can’t not laugh at that. Especially with the little superhero emoji. He’s adorable – so utterly adorable – and you miss him even more upon reading his words. You climb back up onto the bed so you can sit properly on it and hit the Facetime button, immediately calling Joaquin. 

He answers straight away.

“Angel,” he drags out the word as his face appears on the screen, a pout on his lips. 

“Hi baby,” you chuckle, smiling down at his face on your phone screen. “I’m glad Sam hasn’t called and asked you to come help him save the world yet.”

He grins. Through the screen, you can see that he’s laying on your bed, his face a little smushed into the pillow. He looks sleepy and you wish you were with him. “Me too,” he replies. “I miss you… how am I meant to sleep alone for four more nights? I’ve started a countdown on the fridge. I made it with post it notes. I should’ve sent a photo of it… I’ll take one tomorrow. I’m too comfy to get up right now. Did you see the photo about the microwave? I think I need to go buy a new one. It’s not working properly. And Fred, our neighbour, threw his dogs shit over our fence again earlier, so I had to go and ask him politely to stop doing it. Oh, and I did the washing but I think I pressed a button wrong cause it said it’d be three hours before it was done and I think that’s a bit too long. And–”

“Joaquin.”

You interrupt him, a smile on your face from listening to him ramble on about everything that had happened today. He blinks, his eyes focusing on the screen where your face is again. A sleepy smile makes its way onto his own face.

“Sorry,” he says sheepishly.

“Don’t be,” you shake your head. “I miss you too, baby. But it’s only four nights. I’ll be home before you know it. But I’m going to hate sleeping without you too.” 

He squishes his face into the pillow a little more. “It should be illegal to separate us,” he huffs. 

“I doubt that they’d make that a law, baby.”

He groans into the pillow before sitting up a little so his face is a little more visible. “You know what should be illegal though? Microwaves that don’t heat up all your food… I mean, seriously, I put it in for like six minutes and it was still cold on the inside! It’s gotta be faulty, right, angel? Do you think I should go get another one tomorrow? Maybe ours is still under warranty. I’ll have to try and find the paperwork. Do you know where it is?”

Amused, you continue to listen to him waffle on about the microwave and several other things that had happened to him today… if this is what’s in store for your next few nights away… you’ll definitely have your hands full…

––––

Joaquín Torres Tag List (Please let me know if you’d like to be added!)

@sidkneeeee @dead-inside-but-happy @lay-lay-5 @marchingicenotes7 @phucboy @davinashifts333 @lomlbuckybarnes @laurenjbb @chansburgah @blackwidownat2814 @mischiefmanaged71 @madzlovez @marvelwitchergilmore @brittnicki @rheas-ripley @bcystar @victorsbathroomstall @giona45-5 @voodoo-tofu @happypopcornprincess 

[yourstrulyrani]

Hi luv!

I am new to Simon Riley but I am DOWN BAD lmao

Could u please write something about mommy reade being insecure and struggling with like body image after pregnancy and during post-partum. Like being a REAL MAN he is, he just adores his mama and loves how her body changed and created their baby.

U can totally change it however u like, i am bad at explaining 😭😭

I absolutely loved ur last dad!Simon imagine, I could never 😭

Keep it up 🫶🏻🫶🏻

dad!simon riley x mom!reader

blurb: dad!simon soothes your insecurities about your postpartum body. cw&tws: body image/weight, suggestive right at the end // wc: 1279

a/n: aw hii you’re so kind, thank you! & don’t worry you explained it perfectly and i am so in love with this idea so here it is, thank you for your kind words btw 🥹🫶🏼 i want to bring attention to anyone reading who needs to hear it, that no matter your weight or how your body looks: you’re enough. your looks are not “hideous” or anything else along those lines just because society tells you otherwise. in no way do i have the intention of promoting body negativity/shaming. every body is a body worthy of love and respect as long as you treat others the same. please take care of yourselves & love yourselves as much as possible 🤍.

With the spare time you have now as your baby is asleep in her nursery, you take off your tank top, now clad in only a nursing bra and your underwear.

You step in front of the mirror. You thought your heart sunk enough when you saw the number on the scale, but you were wrong. You run your hands along your stomach. The skin is still saggy from the pregnancy and birth, and the stretch marks from your pregnancy that were once faint now boldly start at your hips and vine their way to your belly button. At this point, you let the tears fall. You want the body you had before pregnancy. You want the body where you could see where your waist ended and your hips started. You want the body where your breasts don't have stretch marks. You want the number you had on the scale from before. You don’t even recognize yourself.

You think: How did I let myself go this much?

You break down on the wooden floor of the bedroom, the hot tears falling on the cold floor.

“Sweetheart?” His voice calls out to you.

You forgot he was home too.

You look up through your tears, a blurry image but enough to know it's your husband at the doorway of your shared bedroom. Simon doesn’t hesitate to walk over and sit down with you on the floor, placing his hands on your cheeks and rubbing your tears off with his thumbs. “Baby.”

Your eyes shut, letting more tears fall at the pressure. You can’t look at him. You can’t be with him. Your body isn’t enough. Enough for you. Enough for him. “Baby, look at me.” His voice tightens along with his hands on your face.

You whimper in pain, “No.”

His hands move from your cheeks to your elbows, lifting you up gently. “Here, let’s get you up on the bed.” You have been recently so happy with the arrival of your baby, Simon too. It pains him to see you like this. “What’s wrong? Talk to me.” He pleads gently until you finally open your eyes.

As soon as you sit on the bed and your bloodshot eyes weakly gaze at him, his chest tightens. Your breathing is labored yet you manage to get out a few words, “My body, Simon.” You wrap your stomach around your arms, clutching at the body that’s giving you trouble. “It’s so ugly. I’m sorry.” You hiccup, the crying making it harder to breathe. “My stretch marks, my belly, my swollen legs and feet. Everything. I’m sorry I’m not as pretty as before.”

“You don’t think you’re pretty?”

“I’m hideous, Si.”

Simon’s ears rang when you called yourself that word: Hideous. His gorgeous, dedicated, sweet wife. The mother to their baby, the love and light of his life, and here she is talking about herself like this.

“Stand up for me, sweetheart.” Simon grabs your hands and you reluctantly do as he says. He tugs at your bra, “Can I take this off?”

“But the doctor said no sex for six wee—“

“I know, baby. Don’t worry. Not planning on that right now. You need to heal." Your nod of permission makes him unclasp your bra. He cups your cheek and places a kiss on your forehead before guiding you by the shoulders to the mirror. Here you are, again, facing the woman you can’t stand.

Simon stands behind you, his chin resting on your shoulder and his hands on your arms. “You’re so beautiful.” He kisses your neck, the touch of affection featherlight but heavy with love.

Simon’s hands move down to your breasts, cupping one in each hand. His hands are big enough to let his thumbs trace over the stretch marks on them. “These stretch marks are normal and perfect. Your body grew selflessly for our girl and this shows it.” His eyes gaze into yours through the mirror. “I don’t think your stretch marks are hideous. I think they’re a physical sign of your strength.” His hands give your breasts a final rub, then move on to rub the stretch marks across your hips and stomach. You turn your head to the side, disgusted at looking at yourself for any longer.

Your husband clicks his tongue. “Look, baby. Please. Right there in the mirror. Look for me.” Simon glides his hands along your stomach. He squeezes gently, enough to feel the softness without hurting you. You turn your head back to face the mirror, and Simon gives you a warm smile through the mirror. You look at your body, analyzing every inch. The stretch marks you once saw as something that should be disgusted over, you now see them as a physical witness to your pregnancy. You start to think they're not so bad.

His hands circled all around your stomach. “And your belly you said? Here is where you carried our baby. You let her grow here. Your stomach is not hideous. It changed beautifully. It’s softer than before and I love it. I love feeling it. I love looking at it.” He keeps reassuring you in your ear and you can't help but to shiver. You always loved Simon's voice, but the combination of it and his honest reassurances does something else to you.

You slowly start to feel better, but your doubts still rise about how Simon feels. “But I don’t feel pretty enough for you. I’ve changed so much after this pregnancy.”

“You are always pretty enough for me. You are always beautiful. You’re perfect, mama. Your body changed because you got pregnant and that’s normal. I’m not disgusted. If anything I am in awe of you and your body’s ability.”

Simon walks around to stand in front of you now, making you look up at him by lifting your chin up with his finger. His head lowers to kiss your forehead, his lips kissing their way down to your cheek, and lastly to your neck. “Believe me when I say your body has changed in the best way possible, my love. Every inch. Every stretch mark and curve. It’s all beauty to me. You are beauty to me. Love yourself, please.”

Your eyes tear up. Not because you hate your body anymore, but now realizing just how much you should love it and how much the man you love loves it. "I love you," you whisper. Both of you look into each other's eyes, none of you denying the amount of love in each pair.

"I love you too, mama." Simon brings you into an embrace, wrapping his forearms around your upper back. His face finds the crook of your neck, his lips grazing your most sensitive spot as he speaks. "My beautiful woman. Just a few more weeks and I'll prove it to you just how beautiful you are." He softly kisses your neck, thinking about how fortunate he is to have a woman who loves him like you do.

You giggle and cross your arms playfully, “How so?” You know exactly what he means, but it wouldn't hurt to hear it out loud.

Simon chuckles before moving his head away from your neck to look down at your face. He admires every slope. He loves the way your eyelashes compliment your eyes, the way your lip color is the perfect shade to kiss, and your cheeks soft enough to hold in his hands. He does the latter, his words laced with suppressed desire as he whispers, “The same way I got you knocked up.”

You think: How did I get so lucky?

(brb gonna go cry UGH i need a man to praise me like he's doing RIGHT NOW.)

~ yours truly, rani ♥︎

[eileenrry]

ROOMMATES pairing: Roommate!Harry x Fem!Reader summary: You and Harry live together, but with the huge amount of responsibilites you're lately caring, he starts missing you (maybe more than he should) word count: 2.7K contains: FLUFF, teeny tiny bit of angst, roommates and best friends trope + little song reference (let’s see if you’ll find it) a/n: My first writing, please be kind! Would be grateful for feedback, ideas, anything! My dms are opened always. Also HUGE THANKS to my beloved @this-is-tiny-mia, prof-read by the best one! All my love, E

The sun had already dipped behind the horizon when you shut the door of your apartment. The rushing world was finally left behind for a second, giving you the much needed oasis of calm, a moment to breathe.

Muffled sounds of some British show made their presence as they seeped through the thin walls to the hallway, following by an unmistakable scent of Chinese takeout. A clear sign that your roommate, Harry, was home.

You kicked off your shoes quickly without a second thought, not bothering about each one being on the other side of the room or even putting them neatly by the front door, and made your way into the living room.

“Hey H, I’m home-“ You stopped in the mid of sentence, your breath hitching at the sight of your best friend’s half naked form lazily sprawled on the couch, his tattooed arm draped over his face to shield his eyes from the light and lips slightly parted, each steady breath turning into quiet snort and blending with low hum of the TV.

Judging by the mess of his hair, damp and unruly, he must have showered not too long ago.

Your expression softened instantly and without hesitation, you put your overstuffed bag with groceries and textbooks on the floor and grabbed a fluffy blanket from the armchair, carefully covering his bare chest to prevent his body from cold. In a hoarse baritone a small ‘thank you’ came out from his velvety lips as he snuggled into a pillow he’s been leaning on, mistaking it for you. You watched him for a few seconds before reaching for the remote beside him and switching the TV off. The room was instantly enveloped with darkness, only faint light came from the connected kitchen.

You grabbed an open bottle of wine from the coffee table, along with a full glass that seemed untouched since he’d poured it and you took a long sip, letting the maroon liquid warm your body in slow waves.

A quiet growl of your stomach reminded you how hungry you really were and within seconds you were heating up the Chinese food Harry had put aside for you - just like he always did.

Some nights, Harry stayed up and waited for you, just to make sure you arrived home safe. Other nights, like tonight, he wasn’t that successful. In these cases, he left you a sweet little note on the fridge or on a mirror in your bedroom and food on the kitchen counter.

“Mhm… Love, you’re home?”

You jumped in shock at the sound of Harry’s raspy voice, his hand rested lazily on your shoulder.

“Harry! You can’t sneak up on people like that- oh god…”

You gulped down the last drops of wine before setting the glass in the sink and turning your attention back to the timer on the microwave.

1 minute and 32 seconds left.

Harry shuffled behind you and leaned against the counter, making his presence known by clearing his throat.

“Umh, I was thinking if you’d want to come to the studio with me tomorrow. Or just you know… hang out. It’s been a while.”

It’s been ages.

Harry said softly, fidgeting with his hands in his lap and avoiding your gaze.

“H, you know I can’t. I have to finish the essay I told you about… And I have some other work too.”

A long sigh left your lips before you even get the words out and Harry’s eyes flickered up to meet yours instantly.

The thoughts of all the things you did and still had to do for school rushed through your mind, making you only nauseous again. The frown on your face only emphasized your feelings.

“No way you’re gonna spend another day buried in work. You need to rest…” Harry was quick to argue, not satisfied with your response at all.

The blanket he’s been wrapped in slipped from his shoulders and pooled around his feet on the cold wooden floor as he took a few steps closer, his hands finding home on your shoulders again, firm yet gentle.

“Harry…” You mumbled under your breath, cursing yourself for not just going straight to bed instead of letting this conversation happen.

“Don’t ‘Harry’ me!” he shot back, voice pitching higher in a dramatic imitation of yours. You only roll your eyes, refusing to let him know how eerily accurate it was.

“Your essay, work, the bachelor party - it all can wait a day or two. You need a break. I see it on you!” Harry pressed, his voice more stern.

“You won’t fool me with the little makeup you use to cover the dark circles under your eyes, those fake smiles and the many mugs of coffee you drink every day…”

You froze, your breath hitched at the confrontation. You didn’t expect him to pick up on every little detail. The extra time you spent in the bathroom every morning to cover the evidences of restless sleep. The bachelor party you’ve been planning for your close friend and mentioned just once or twice in passing.

You swallowed hard. “Uh… thanks?” Shaking his hands off your shoulders, they slowly fell down your arms, his fingers burning your skin as they stopped at your elbows.

“Ugh just… you’re not you.” His voice got quieter, softer even with each word and breath, speaking until his lungs stopped him and with his grip on your elbows tightening, he only emphasized each letter. Like if he was mentally preparing himself for saying something more - something final.

“And I miss you.”

You felt like you didn't hear him right, maybe not at all. He whispered it so quietly, it would be easy to miss it. Your head felt like spiraling and you weren’t sure where this conversation was coming from or even worse, coming to.

“What…?” You shook your head at his statement, a nervous laugh slipping out. “That’s- that doesn’t make sense. That’s silly”

You dropped your gaze down to your bare feet, your toes curling against the hardwood as you tried to ignore the way his stare could burn a hole through the crown of your head.

“We barely spend any time together. You’re always in school or work, and when you’re home, you’re studying. And I don’t care how crazy or desperate I sound right now, because in ten minutes, you’ll be in bed, and by the morning, you’ll be gone again to library! Please, love. I miss you. I miss us.”

Harry whispered the last three words like if they were the most precious thing in the world, barely audible, yet you both knew you heard them right - there was no space left between you now.

You shut your eyes tightly, trying to process the whole situation. He was right, of course he was. You couldn’t even remember the last time you two did something together, aside from the occasional late night dinners you ate in silence.

“You don’t miss it?”

His voice was raspy, heavy on emotions he’s been treasuring deep inside. His left hand delicately traced your arm up, like if he was touching a baby deer, while his right cupped your cheek gently.

You felt at loss for words. Of course you miss him too.

When your body collided with his, your arms wrapped tightly around his waist and face buried in his bare chest, few moments haven passed. Silence. Heavy, defeating silence.

This time, Harry was the one caught off guard. But almost instantly, his arms encircled you, holding you close without hesitation and his lips were pressing soft kisses in my hair.

“Are you crying?” He murmured quietly before pulling back just slightly to see your face.

"No I'm not!" You lifted your head, chuckling as you gave him a sincere reassuring smile and without any more words said, you nestled back.

Harry’s heartbeat was frantic as yours and breath was uneven. You could feel his fingertips tracing slow, gentle patterns up and down your back, making you shiver.

It felt strange, but not unwelcome.

His hands kept moving subtly - up and down, up and down, lower and lower until they found their place on the curves of your ass.

You could feel your breath hitching at the sudden touch, and for a moment, it felt like the kitchen was losing oxygen. Like you forgot how to breathe.

But when Harry gave you a slight squeeze, suddenly every thought and worry from your mind disappeared. Your fists tightened around the fabric of his grey sweatpants, gripping his waistband so hard your hands started to ache.

Harry’s long fingers, decorated with a few silver and golden rings slid lower again, gripping the backs of your thighs. Instinctively, you tightened your hold on his upper body as he lifted you up with ease, securing you on the kitchen counter where your dinner had been just few minutes ago.

Harry stood between your parted legs, his fingers toyed with the loops on the waistband of your jeans, bringing you even closer to his body by them. Your eyes locked, holding each other’s gaze, unwavering, and didn’t look away even for a second.

"I don't wanna ruin this..."

"You won't"

Your hands slowly traced their way from his back, across his stomach, and up to his chest. Your left hand came to rest over his heart, feeling the erratic rhythm beneath your palm that quickened with every touch, matching the unsteady rise and fall of your own breath. Overwhelmed, your eyelids fluttered shut.

Harry’s breathing grew heavier, louder. You felt it ghosting over your lips before his mouth finally found yours. But it wasn’t a kiss. Not yet.

Your lips brushed against his, barely touching, and yet he didn’t push for more. He just waited, patient, still, expecting you to pull away any second now.

He was ready for you to start screaming in his face, calling him crazy and stupid, demanding to know why in the hell he did it.

Ready for you to tell him this would only make your friendship complicated.

Ready to feel the sting of your palm against his stubbled cheek before you’d run off to your room, tears streaming down your face, slamming the door behind you as sobs would echo through the walls.

But none of that happened.

You didn’t yell at him. You didn’t run away. Your eyes stayed dry. The door remained untouched. No cries filled the space where your bed is.

And your hand didn’t meet his cheeks in anger. Instead, one rose slowly and with your fingertips grazed his skin before settling down. Soft, warm, careful.

The moment your hand made contact with his skin, he shivered. Not from cold, not from fear, but from the realization that every worst-case scenario running through his mind had just been proven wrong.

Harry opened up his mouth slightly and let himself drown in the slow movements of your lips, softer than he could ever imagine and with the hint of red wine. Your nose brushed against his one snuggly, taking in the scent of him before his hands moved from your waist up to your cheeks, cupping them in his palms in firm yet gentle grip.

You let out a quiet moan, not able to hold yourself back anymore, when he took your bottom lip between his teeth and started sucking on it lightly. The corners of both your mouths curled into small, knowing smiles at your reaction, soft giggles escaping between the shared kisses. Yet neither of you pulled away. Neither of you wanted to. You need each other like flowers need the sun. His tongue traced over your lower lip again, a silent plea for more, and without hesitation you obliged him, slightly parting your lips.

With every second, every kiss, the craving for more grew stronger—his taste, his touch, his hands, the warmth of his body against yours. He was like an addiction. You couldn’t stop the quiet moans slipping from your mouth, your lips parted further as the kiss deepened, pulling you deeper into him.

“Harry-” you hummed against his mouth, but Harry was quick to shush you with whispers between soft pecks and kisses, his voice dancing on your tongue. “Shhh, darling.”

Another kiss, this time more hungrier, landed on your lips, it felt as if he was diving into you - exploring every part, every curve, everything you’re willing to give him and more, yet still it’s not enough. His curls, darker than the night surrounding you, tickled your forehead and burning red cheeks and you slid your hands up into his hair, brushing away a few stray locks before settling on the back of his neck.

A quiet moan escaped your lips as your mouths pull apart, but only slightly - your lips still brushing, foreheads resting together. The only sound in the overly quiet apartment was your heavy breathing, you were both struggling to steady and you had to blink a few times before your eyes found his. He slowly drifted his right hand down to your hip, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your jumper in an innocent manner. Harry thumbed your skin gently in slow circles, leaving hot touches behind and making you shiver. You both glanced down at his touch before your eyes met again and you tried from all the left strength put a few words together.

“Harry… I’m tired.” you mumbled quietly, your lower lip caught between your teeth as you bit down nervously.

“I know, darling. I know…” he murmured in an answer, tracing comforting circles on your skin in an attempt to calm down your racing mind.

“Take me to bed?” you whispered against his lips, your own pouty and voice barely more than a breath. Your eyelids grew heavy with exhaustion, lashes brushing softly against your cheeks as a soft sigh escapes you. Though your body felt numb, your grip on his neck only tightened, desperate to be as close as possible to his bare chest.

It didn't took much, nothing at all, and you nuzzled your face in the crook of his neck while his hands caressed your thighs in a firm hold, carrying you effortlessly as he made his way to the nearest bedroom.

“I meant my room…” You took note of your surroundings, realizing your body was sinking into his mattress. Harry just tsked at your quiet remark and sitted down on the edge of the bed as his gaze lingered on your body, still dressed in jeans and soft jumper.

“Lay with me, please.” Your quiet mumble echoed between the four walls securing you in safe and secure space and you buried your face in Harry’s pillow that smelled just like his cologne and a little scent of musk. Reaching out your arm to him on the empty and cold side of the bed, you pleaded for his presence in the sheets.

“Of course” Harry muttered and the sound of shuffling covers and the slight dip of the mattress beneath his muscle-covered body made you aware of him actually joining you. But for some reason, he wasn’t as close as you had hoped and a small frown tugged at your lips, drawing his attention fully to your face once more.

“Everything okay, love?” He asked, turning onto his right side to get a better view of you, though he still kept some distance between your bodies.

Had he already started regretting the kiss?

The lust and tension between you were undeniable and the electricity only grew as you slowly moved your hand toward his, your fingers hesitantly slipping through his. His breath, just like yours, hitched at the sudden touch. His palm felt warm against your skin, and you couldn’t help but notice how much bigger his hand was compared to yours.

“So, what are our plans for tomorrow?” You whispered, your lips still swollen from the kissing and your eyes slowly fluttered shut. Meanwhile, Harry brought your intertwined close to his face, pressing soft kisses to each of your knuckles.

“Anything but library, sweet one.” Harry murmured against the back of your hand, his gentle touch making you even weaker for him.

“Good night, Harry… And thank you.” The last words of the night left your lips before exhaustion embraced you fully. And Harry, he followed just a few minutes later - only after he was sure your sleep was peaceful. But with him, it always was peaceful.

[written-and-readen]

imagine your making out with anaxa and your brother (Mydei or Phainon your choice not mine) walked in at the worst time?

Interrupted at the Worst Time

Anaxa x reader

Summary: Phainon is becoming a nuisance to Anaxa. First, interrupting his date with you and now...

a/n: Getting caught has to be one of my favorite things to write

"Kiss?" You tap your lips with a finger. Anaxa raises a brow at your signal.

"No, we're in public." He continues walking. Indeed, the two of you are strolling through Marmoreal Market, but it's not that busy. Despite knowing Anaxa isn’t the biggest fan of PDA, you thought he might give you a quick peck if you asked nicely.

"Awww, fine." Anaxa takes your hand in his as some sort of compensation. His eye watches the way your lips pout, already letting his imagination run wild with how they’d feel against his. Of course he wants to kiss you. The problem is he might want it too much. He’s not about to draw everyone’s attention just because he can’t hold back and ends up making out with you in the middle of Okhema.

A shout of your name diverts your attention, and you're searching around for the familiar voice.

“Phainon!” You spot your brother in the crowd, waving at the snowy haired Chrysos Heir.

“Ah, there you are! And with Professor Anaxa…” Phainon’s tone goes flat upon seeing your hands locked together. He’s always been protective over you. After the destruction of Aedes Elysiae, the only thing you have left of your hometown is each other. At the same time, Anaxa’s hold on you tightens.

“Where are you headed?” You ask, hoping to ease the animosity somewhat.

“I was going to see if Theodoros has any new antiques.” His voice is cheerful again once he turns to you.

“Sounds fun!” You reply in a nearly identical chipper tone.

“Yeah, have fun with that,” Anaxa deadpans, peeved at having his time with you interrupted. Just as the conversation has started he's already pulling you away. For a scholar, he’s stronger than he looks, and you’re forced to stumble after him.

“I’ll see you later I guess!” You say over your shoulder to Phainon who’s back to glaring daggers at your boyfriend.

“What was that for?” Anaxa says nothing, continuing to string you along until you reach a more secluded alley in Okhema. You find your back hitting a wall and the scholar's hand placed next to your head.

"What...?" The words die in your throat when you realize just how close he is as he leans towards you.

"You said you wanted a kiss, right?" You can feel his breath against your lips.

"Yeah..." You affirm before he closes the distance. The insistent press of his lips has your knees weak, but when you go to lean back against the wall, Anaxa's hand catches your waist, pulling you into his chest instead. It's not the kiss you had imagined when you requested it, but you're certainly not complaining. When you part for air, Anaxa takes a good look at your flushed face, faintly smirking at his handiwork.

"Did you want to take this somewhere more private?" You ask, once again becoming cognizant of where you are. It's clear you both want more from the way you tug on the edge of his jacket and how his hands still hold your hips against his.

It's a desperate run through the streets of Okhema back to your house. You slam the door to your room seconds before Anaxa claims your lips again. You manage to slip his jacket off, tossing it aside to a chair before he backs you into the bed.

As you fall into the mattress, the kiss is broken, and Anaxa climbs on top of you. You think he's about to say something with the way his eye takes you in, seemingly studying every feature of your face with quiet contemplation. Instead, his lips collide with yours again.

You smile as his hair hangs down to brush against your cheeks, hands going to card through the turquoise strands. For someone who didn't seem interested in kissing you at all earlier, he's pretty eager once you're alone, effectively stealing your breath over and over.

The two of you don't even notice how you fall into a rhythm until it's broken by the door being flung open. Phainon was probably checking to see if you'd returned from your date with his professor, not expecting to find you beneath said professor. Your eyes are just as wide as your brother's at his intrusion. On the other hand, Anaxa is sending a glare equivalent to pointing his gun at Phainon's forehead.

"Out," You and Anaxa say at the same time, you more understanding yet insistent and him more commanding but both equally breathless. Without a word, your brother does as told and closes the door. Your body relaxes once it's shut.

"Annoying," Anaxa scoffs. You rub soft circles into his shoulder as if that's going to soften his anger (it does).

"We'll lock the door next time," You assure him with a smile that has him wanting to kiss you until he goes stupid. So, he leans down to reconnect your lips, and you melt underneath him again. With how lost both of you become in one another, neither of you remembers to lock the door.

[sevsgiirl]

hi, ive been reading a lot of your fics lately and i absolutely adore how you write sevika mwehehe can i have a request? can you make a fic where reader unintentionally raised her voice at sevika during an argument and sevika went teary eyed with her puppy eyes, and after that reader promised sevika that she'll never do it again, maybe a lots of angst and fluff/comfort? thank you so much and please never stop writinggggggg AAAAAAAAAHHHHHH

— sevika when you raise your voice at her

synopsis: you and sevika had one promise to each other; no matter what happens, you won’t blow an argument out of proportion. if either one of you senses you’re about to say or do something spiteful — you walk out. so what happens when you fail to do that and hurt her in the process?

tags: arguing, mentions of violence, screaming, miscommunication, hurt/comfort, angst, reader is kind of a bitch (I was lowkey projecting when I wrote this)

note: I’M SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG but as a girly who has serious temper issues this req hit too close to home :’) because my biggest fear is accidentally letting my anger out on my partner so thank you for sending this req in and for your kind words. ily <3 I hope you like this.

it felt like you two were running around in circles at this point.

you only ever asked sevika one thing and one thing only - to look out for herself and to stop playing martyr all the time. you get it. she has a job to do and she looks out for people. but how much more of playing sacrifice will it take before her actions eventually backfire on her?

maybe you sounded selfish, but you didn’t care. you were exhausted seeing your girlfriend come home all the time looking so beaten up - sometimes her prosthetic was missing, she’s limping, blood smeared all over her and there have been occasions she didn’t even come home. you ran around zaun in search of her during those days just to find her sporting new bruises and another broken limb in the last drop, clearly not wanting you to see her in that state.

but you did. you always do and you were getting tired fearing for her life 24/7.

“sweetheart, it’s not that big of a deal-“

you scoffed, throwing your hands up “of course you don’t think it’s a big deal, you’re only thinking about yourself, vika.”

you’ve been going on about this for almost an hour now and yet neither of you can’t seem to reach an agreement. you were both stubborn but the minute she walked into the front door adorning another black eye, bruised upper lip and new stitches, you knew enough was enough.

you shook your head, setting the medicine kit aside as you turned away from her because you knew if you stared at her for too long you were going to end up having a nervous breakdown. because how much longer until she realizes her self destructive behavior is not only hurting herself but you as well?

she sighed, leaning against the couch as she watched you gripped the kitchen counter, refusing to meet her eye.

“it’s not like I wanted this to happen. who wants to get their ass beat? but it was inevitable and if I didn’t get those payments silco will-“

“oh my god, who gives a fuck about silco?” you exclaimed, whipping around to look at her with a scowl “he is not worth getting your ass whooped every. single. day, sevika. he really isn’t and you need to get it through your head that this need to put your life on the line for people who treat you like crap is not doing you any good and it never will.”

“he has a plan. I wouldn’t be trusting him if he didn’t.” she argued through clenched teeth, trying to sit up and you only threw a glare at her.

“sevika, sit your ass back down before you hurt yourself-“

“no, because I hate it that you’re treating me like I’m so fragile and acting like my work means nothing and that everything I do is just for nothing.” she hissed and you only looked at her with your mouth agape.

“when did I say any of that?” you said as you stalked towards her “stop making it seem like my concern for you is just me trying to undermine you and your job when I’ve been here to support you since day one.”

“well, it doesn’t feel like it-“

“because fucking look at you, sevika!” you couldn’t hold it in anymore, your anger finally boiled over and words were thrown just to spite “you look like a fucking idiot every time you walk through the door and you have a new black eye, your mech arm is ripped off, your leg is limping or you can’t feel your left fucking ass cheek. I take care of you every single time yet you still to go back to silco just so he can put you through the same bullshit over and over again!”

“so what? are you just reckless or too stupid? which one is it?” you were breathing heavily and sevika could only stare at you with wide eyes and her lips parted.

she’s never seen you this mad before, not only that but what you just said to her… it hurt not only because you wanted your words to hurt, but because all she could think about is how you once promised each other that you’d never let your arguments get this far.

she understood where you coming from but if there was one person she’d never expect to blow up on her, it was you.

she closed her eyes and tried to muster up a response, but she found nothing. instead, you were greeted with silence as sevika turned her back on you and placed her hands on her hips.

you were still recovering from your outburst but the second the dust settled in and you realized your mistake, it was as if your factory settings were switched and you immediately walked over to sevika, your hands trembling.

“vika…” you said as you laid a tentative hand on her shoulder “vika, I’m sorry I didn’t mean-“

“j-just forget about it,” you didn’t miss the way her voice shook. she was never the type to cry in front of anyone, not even you most times, but you recognized the signs of her resolve crumbling.

with that, you wasted no time hugging her from behind, holding onto her like she was your life support.

“vika, baby, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to raise my voice I just…” you let out a shuddering breath and held her tighter “I just got so worried. I hate seeing you get hurt all the time and I know it’s your job and you know much I appreciate what you do for this city but just… I can’t afford to lose you, baby.”

you nuzzled against her broad back and let out a sniffle “because what if one day you just don’t walk through those doors anymore? what if it’s not your mech arm that’s gone, but you entirely? I can’t keep risking letting you get hurt until eventually I just lose all of you. that’d be the end of me and I can’t fucking do that.”

“I’m so scared of losing you, vika.” you said, your voice trembling “you’re the only one I have left and if I lose you I wouldn’t know what to do.”

it was quiet. so eerily quiet you could hear a pin drop before finally, sevika lets out a deep breath and loosens your arms around her so she could face you.

what you see once she turns around nearly shatters your heart into smithereens - tear stained cheeks and glossy eyes, she looked absolutely torn apart and you wanted to beat yourself up for even raising your voice at her in the first place.

“oh baby,” you cupped her cheek and almost as if on instinct, she leaned into it “I’m so fucking, sorry. I’m so sorry, vika. please f-forgive me. I just-“

she shook her head, placing her palm on top of yours “i-it’s okay,” she said “just… I understand where you’re coming from, and I’ll try to look out for myself more properly. but just know you’re never gonna lose me, okay? I’ll always be here with you. no matter what. forever and always.”

she squeezed her eyes shut and intertwined your fingers together “let’s just not fight like that ever again, okay?”

you nodded, engulfing her in a tight embrace “I promise.” you said, emphasizing every word “never again.”

[calebsangelbby]

・❥ I TOLD YOU NO , PIPSQUEAK

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊|• 0:10

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ rundown :: caleb goes through your phone and finds out something he most likely wasnt meant to find out . frustrated , he ignores all your attempts to flirt with him ... that is , until it gets too much .

WARNINGS :: NSFW! 18+ , porn w/ no plot , dom!caleb , sub!reader , use of y/n , overstimulation , slapping , oral sex (reader receiving)

a/n :: tysm for everyone who voted on the poll for this ! i apologize for taking so long to write it , been busy w/ personal things . hope you enjoy nonetheless 💋

it all started when caleb found out you were sending the pictures of yourself looking all cute to other men. he didnt know what to expect when going through your phone , but it definitely wasnt that .

he should be the only one you're talking to .

he's spent the last few hours sitting in silence & staring at his ceiling , contemplating whether or not to confront you about it or stay silent and let it build up . his time for thinking ends abruptly when he hears his door creak open and views you walk in . it's late at night but it's not rare of you to come in because of a bad dream ... but your reasoning of barging in is a lot more sinister than something so innocent like that .

you close the door behind you and lean your back against it , making eye contact with him before beginning taking small steps toward him , swaying your hips purposefully just to have the pleasure of watching his eyes roam down to look at them .

once you reach his bed , he breaks eye contact as you sit on the edge of the it; too upset to look you in the eye . not thinking much of it , you twist your body to lay a hand gently on his thigh . "caleb," you utter, trying to make him look at you . "caleb, i have a favor to ask .." at that , he props himself up on his arms to meet your gaze with his .

"what is it, pips?" he asks with furrowed brows and a tone with just a hint of irritation , something you can only pick up on . "i dont really feel like talking to you right now , let alone do something for you . " he says and you can see the frustration on his face now , eyes narrowed and lips pulled into a straight line .

your eyebrows rise up to your forehead , your hand flying to your heart . "oh, you're mad at me ? what'd i do ?" you question with mock innocence . at that , he scoffs and brings his arms out from under him so he can fall back down on the bed . "im really tired , could you let me get some sleep please ? it's been a long day . thanks . "

you smirk at his response , letting out the smallest snicker . "woah there , i didn't think you were that mad at me to ignore me .." you mumble , fixing your eyes to look down at the bed and bringing your hands to your lap; gazing up at him through your lashes . "do you want help getting it out of your system ..? i can surely assist with that."

you're almost sure you can see the way his body tenses up once he hears that.

he swallows hard and you can view from where you are the way he hesitantly shakes his head , crossing his arms over his chest . "no , pips . not tonight .. im exhausted and i was about to go to sleep before you came in . leave , please , now ." his voice is asserting , or at least ... attempting to be . after looking over the images you messaged those men , truth be told he has had a boner ever since and instead of going to bed like he told you he was ... he was actually just about to jerk off . thank god you havent noticed .

"oh come on, dont be so lame . we both know thats a lie," you point out , shifting your body completely to make it easier to slip your hand over his thigh once more , sliding it higher and higher . "let me help you , caleb ... if you wont tell me why you're angry then at least allow yourself to let it out in a way thats healthy ."

"my god, y/n, give it up already!" he yelled , the sexual frustration in his voice clear . he jumped up from his laying position into one that was on his knees , standing up rather than sitting down on them . before you knew it , he was grabbing you by the arms and slamming you down into the mattress beneath him. "you want this so fucking bad, huh? you're such a damn slut, arent you? say it . tell me you're my slut."

all that comes out of your mouth is a gasp, your brain short-circuiting at the pace of which things just switched around . you're hastily sliding your eyes over his face , taking in the crazed look in his pupils , the way his nostrils are flared , his lips in a scowl ... taking in how divine he looks when he's angry .

"i-... i dont-" you whisper , your voice box not capable of saying anything above the tone .

"i didnt ask what you know , i asked you to tell me how much of a whore you are . coming into my room , unannounced, in a skimpy little outfit ... trying to make my dick hard by touching me the way you did . if anything , we both know you know what you are," he says , leaning in to whisper in your ear . "a touched-starved little pipsqueak ."

you shake your head in submission, knowing how scary he could get when he's mad . "no... i-i'm sorry, caleb, i'll leave you alone . i dont know why i even messed with you in the first place ."

almost immediately after those words go through his brain , he leans back up on you and slaps you hard enough to definitely leave a mark . you squeal , bringing a hand up to your face to feel where he hit . before you could reach your cheek , he grabs your hand and pins it up above you; swiftly dragging your other along with it .

"quit talking , y/n , it'll only bring you more trouble to lie . be a good girl and stay quiet while i punish your perfect little pussy for being so needy all the time . you can do just that one thing for me , cant you ? don't make a sound . " he purrs into your face , breath hot against your skin before he crawls down lower; taking your hands with him to rest on your stomach . once he meets with your core , he uses his free hand to briskly take off your scrap of lace that you call panties with his pointer finger . looking up at you , he grins when he sees the look of resistance written all over your face . "spread . now ."

he looks down to make eye contact with your cunt again , taking in the wetness glistening in the moonlight . he takes it upon himself to lean down and blow a flow of cold air right onto your needy clit , making you thrust your hips into his face . he doesn't react , though , only laughs a greedy laugh at your attempt .

"you're only making this worse for yourself , baby . stay still and silent for me and this will be over before you know it ." and with that , he brings his head down to suck on your clit .

it's such a perfect feeling you cant help but moan , tipping your head back and allowing your eyes to flutter shut . the moment of bliss is stolen as quick as it came when he slaps his hand on your thigh , making you jump .

"make a sound and i'll stop ."

------

over an hour has he been torturing you . an hour . sixty minutes .

it's long after you've cum (multiple times) on his face , but he still won't stop . you're thrashing and squirming , crying and screaming , kicking and begging at him but nothing works . you're convinced he's committed to making you pass out ... and maybe he is .

he won't talk to you , won't stop you from pulling at his hair , all he does is pull your thighs closer around his face; using all the strength he has to keep you there .

you can see how hard he is and the evidence of his release on the bed , but he refuses all your offers to make him cum in an effort to get him to stop . he refuses everything and anything , all hes focused on is your core and making you pay for all the hell you've put him through . especially those fucking pictures you've been sending to people .

at this point , his jaw hurts , and he's almost incapable of going on for longer . he finally lifts up off your poor abused core , giving you a moment to breathe and relax your muscles . he drags himself on his hands and knees over you to meet your face , moving a hand to touch under your chin; making you meet his gaze .

" have you learned your lesson yet , pips ? or do you need me to go a little longer ?" you quickly shake your head at his question, you normally would answer with a string of nononononos but you're too fucked-out that you cant . he brings the hand on your chin to your eyes and wipes a tear there . "i'm sorry , baby . i know i'm cruel . i know you'll never do that to me again ." he says , a sincere tone in his voice .

"lets go get you cleaned up ."

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ in conclusion :: caleb is without a doubt a 'fuck around and find out' typa guy .. :3

[cutiefulism]

cw. nonmc!reader, reader n sylus r close long-distance friends, reader has a bf, implied stalking, lowk dialog for sylus is hard to write. also, based off of that one scene from you. i just needed to post🪫🪫

the beauty of shopping with sylus is that it’s so easy.

not just because of his black card (though, that definitely helps), but because he always seems to know exactly what you want and need.

you’re low on body wash? he’s already placed it your cart, waiting like a smug cat for you to notice only at the self checkout.

you’ve been craving some new, trendy sweet treat? he deliberately lingers around the aisle and watches you longingly gaze at the bag before dropping it in the cart for himself. (he’ll end up giving the whole thing to you later, claiming he didn’t like it.)

your bedroom door has been creaking? he casually brings it up just as you two pass the aisle, and you can’t help but agree. it really has been squeaky, and sometimes, late at night, you swear you can hear it opening and closing. weird.

plus, you thought sylus couldn’t hear it over the phone.

huh. maybe it’s louder than you thought.

his infinite wisdom doesn’t seem to end at mere grocery store runs, either. he does big purchases too, when you finally get away from your boyfriend and return to him.

you two walk through the mattress store with sylus a firm presence behind you and the salesman thoroughly scared away. they don’t know what’s best for you, he does.

you’re a cute shopper, he thinks. if it’s even possible for shopping to be cute.

then again, you make anything cute.

you’re just so concentrated, brows knitted together and your top row of teeth gnawing at your bottom lip, like you’re going into battle rather than buying a bigger mattress for you and your boyfriend.

sylus would prefer you be buying that bigger mattress for yourself and not that . . boy, but he keeps that venomous thought to himself.

as long as he makes you happy, sweetie.

even though sylus could make you much happier.

“sylus.”

like a dog heeding its master’s call, he stops right beside you, both of you staring down at a king-sized mattress.

he knows this brand. in fact, he’s invested a hefty amount of money into it. they’re pretty good, with cooling and heating features, along with being able to change the angle of it.

top of the line, of course.

you test out every aforementioned feature, and he doesn’t even need to use his evol to see that you’re sold. that’s the kind you want.

and so, that’s the kind you’ll get, price tag be damned.

you pat the space beside you, and sylus lies down. considering he’s practically 6’5, the bed isn’t quite long enough to accommodate him, and his feet dangle off the edge, earning a giggle from you.

again, cute.

“you probably had to get a custom-made mattress, huh?” you tease, and sylus only scoffs, a little smirk tugging at his lips.

“i’m not that long.”

you kiss your teeth. “but your feet are dangling off the edge! i bet you curl up all cute like a kitty just to fit, then.”

he hums. “definitely not.” you do, though.

you shoot sylus a flat, disbelieving look, one of which he only responds to with a smirk. “still . . this is a really nice bed,” you mumble and press yourself deeper into it, as if you can simply sink into the foam and springs. “so expensive, though . .”

he lets out an affirmative hum this time. “downsize. it’s cheaper, and your bedroom can’t fit a king.”

true. you’d probably have to take all your furniture out to even squeeze it in there.

“yeah, i think . .”

wait.

how does sylus know that?

you turn your head to look at him, the amusement now vacant from your face as you stare at him. he stares back.

“how do you know that?”

. . .

silence. not the peaceful kind, but the kind where you’re both holding your breath, tension and anxiety (moreso on your part) seeping into your frames.

the kind of tension that makes you rethink your boyfriend’s words, about how “weird” and “creepy” your friend is.

the kind that has you wondering if, perhaps, his words hold some truth.

sylus shrugs his broad shoulders, a move that should be casual but seems just a little too stiff. “a guess. it isn’t all that hard to figure out your layout from video calls.”

it was the briefest of pauses, but it was long enough for you to notice that there’s a strange twinkle in his crimson eyes, as if he knows something you don’t, like you’re a pig being led to the slaughter with a dangling carrot.

but no. no way. that’s ridiculous!

for one, sylus is your friend. you two have been friends for a couple of months now, actually, and have gotten pretty close.

two, his answer makes perfect sense. you’ve probably shown off your room without even noticing it, and he’s always been perceptive.

there’s no ill will here. why would there be?

you sigh and the tension deflates out of you like a balloon. this is what you get for watching all those docuseries late at night. you’re definitely watching something different tonight, like a cheesy romcom or a corny action movie.

“eh, you’re right,” you say as you push yourself up and off the mattress. “it’d probably be way too much to try and squeeze a king in there, and then i’d have to move all my stuff around . .” you tsk. “i should just stick with a queen.”

sylus follows your lead and gets up, and whatever was in his gaze earlier is gone now. “mm, yes.”

that boyfriend will be fine. he doesn’t have a choice but to be.

regardless, he doesn’t let you two leave without a swipe of his card. you’ll get that mattress, and he’ll get to watch you roll around on it when it comes.

a win-win, no?

[abiatackerman]

Could I make a request if it's not too much? I was hoping you could write something where Levi defends you from being assaulted it would help me a lot to get over some things but I understand if it's too much keep up the great writing!

Hello sweetie! Thank you for requesting! You didn't specify how the reader would get assaulted so I wrote in my way! Hope you'll like it!

Safe in his arms

⚔️Levi Ackerman x Female Reader ⚔️

⚠️Mentions of physical violence and harassment⚠️

Canon universe! Captain Levi Ackerman X Female Reader! Overprotectiveness! Argument! Make-up! 2.1k words!

Summary: After a heated argument, you storm off, only to be cornered by a drunken man. Just as fear sets in, Levi arrives—furious and relentless.

Tags: @theremainsof @spouseofleviackerman @levisbrat25 @itsnathateasy @violentvaleska @dreamerofthewest @meowmewow7 @mikabella7 @satorella @sugacor3 @darkstarlight82 @derealizationns @happygiverbluebird

🩷If you wanna be tagged let me know🩷

✨Masterlist✨

🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷

The barracks are quiet right now, save for the distant murmur of soldiers finishing their nightly routines. But the tension inside your room feels suffocating. The air inside is thick with tension, heated by an argument you barely remember starting. You and Levi are standing inches apart, locked in a battle of sharp words and stubborn silence.

"You're not going."

You stiffen but don't turn around. You had expected this.

Levi is standing by the doorway, arms crossed, posture rigid. His sharp gaze is locked onto you like a command.

"It's too dangerous."

A slow breath leaves your lips as you tug your satchel over your shoulder.

"I know the roads, Levi. I grew up there."

"I don't care," he snaps. "It's the middle of the damn night. Do you have any idea what kind of shit lurks out there?"

You turn to face him now, frustration simmering beneath your skin. " That's why I'm taking a carriage! Also I can handle myself."

Levi's expression darkens. "Tch. That's what I'm afraid of."

You exhale sharply, already knowing where this is going. He has always been overprotective, but this—this felt different. More annoying.

"I don't need you to babysit me," you mutter.

"You think this is about babysitting?" His raises his voice slightly, something rare for him. "It's about not being a reckless idiot. You have no idea what could happen if you—"

You cut him off. "So what? I should just sit here and wait for permission like some helpless girl? You know Levi, my mom is sick! I'm worried!"

Levi's jaw tightens. "That's why I'm saying I'll take you there myself tomorrow morning. Erwin haven't given you the permission to go either. So you can't leave!"

"So what? I can just leave right now and then I'll apologise to Erwin later!" You step closer, anger flaring as your voice raises. "Why do you always act like I can't do anything without you watching over me?"

Silence stretches between you, heavy and charged. Then, Levi's expression shifts as his features hardens-

"Because you're weak."

The words slammed into you like a punch to the gut.

You know it too that you're weak. Compared to him. But that doesn't mean you're so weak that you can't even go to somewhere far just because it's the middle of night. It's too much.

And just to make the situation worse, Levi doesn't stop.

"You don't think. You just act. And one day, that's going to get you killed." His tone is sharp, cutting through the air like a blade. "Maybe I should stop wasting my time worrying about you."

You swallow the tightness in your throat, forcing yourself to keep your voice steady.

"If that's how you see me, then I guess there's nothing left to say."

You step past him with your suitcase, your shoulder brushing against his as you walk out.

"Tch. Do whatever you want."

That was the last thing he said before turning his back to you.

And it stung.

You storm out, desperate for air, for distance—anything to stop your chest from aching like this. The streets of the district are quiet at this hour, save for the occasional patrol. The cool night air does little to ease the tightness in your chest as you quicken your pace, your destination set.

A dimly lit tavern comes into view, the flickering lanterns casting long shadows on the worn wooden walls. This isn't just any stop—it's where you need to collect medicine for your mother. From here, you'll catch a carriage that will take you home.

Letting out a quiet sigh, you push open the heavy door. The scent of alcohol and smoke envelops you immediately, thick and cloying. The low hum of conversation barely registers as you make your way to the counter.

Sliding the list of medicines across the worn wooden surface, you glance up at the tavern keeper. He takes it with a nod, scanning the contents before speaking. "Give me a moment. I'll get these for you."

You nod in response, shifting your weight as you glance around. Your eyes land on the large clock mounted on the wall. There's still time before the carriage arrives.

With another quiet sigh, you decide to order a juice, hoping it will help settle your nerves—even if just a little.

"You shouldn't be alone, y'know," a voice slurs beside you.

You stiffen. A man reeking of alcohol leans too close, his bloodshot eyes scanning you in a way that made your stomach twist.

"You lost, sweetheart?" He grins, his teeth yellowed and uneven. "I can keep you company."

You kept your expression blank. "Not interested."

"Aww, don't be like that." His starts to brush his fingers against your arm up and down, slow and deliberate.

You pull away. "I said no."

But he wasn't listening. His hand clamps down on your wrist as the another grips your thigh, fingers digging into your skin. Your heart pounds as you try to yank yourself free.

But you're too tired. After the busy day and the argument... You're too tired!

"You're actin' like you got a choice," the drunk man sneers feeling your tiredness, yanking you toward him.

Suddenly there's a scrape of a chair. A shadow moved.

Then, a loud crack.

The man's head snaps to the side as he crashes onto the floor.

A hush falls over the tavern. The few patrons lingering in the room shrink back, whispering amongst themselves.

Levi stands over the crumpled man, his fist still clenched. His knuckles are already bruised, his chest rising and falling in steady, controlled breaths. But his eyes—his eyes are anything but calm. They burn with something dark, something lethal.

The drunk man groans, rolling onto his hands and knees, but Levi dosen't give him the chance to recover. He grabs him by the collar, lifting him just enough to slam his fist into his gut. A strangled gasp left the man's lips as he crumples again.

"You fucking bastard," Levi mutters, his voice low and sharp. A chill runs down to your spine because you can tell by his voice that he's furious.

Another punch.

The man coughs, spitting blood onto the floorboards. But Levi dosen't stop. He grabs a handful of his hair, yanking his head back.

"You think you can touch her and walk away? What were you planning to do with her, huh?" Levi's voice was dangerously calm, almost detached. His grip tightens. "I should kill you right here."

His fist reels back.

"Levi."

Your voice barely wavers, but it is enough to make him pause. His chest is still heaving, his fingers still curled into a fist, but something in his expression shifts.

He looks at you.

And for a moment, it felt like the whole world has gone silent.

"That's enough," you whisper, stepping closer. You reach for his hand—the same hand that has just shattered the bastard's nose—and cover it with your own.

Levi exhales sharply through his nose. His body is still tense, but after a few seconds, his grip loosens. He let the man collapse onto the floor, unconscious.

His attention shifts fully to you now, his gaze scanning you for any sign of injury. "Are you hurt?"

You shake your head. "Just shaken."

Levi's eyes darkens, and his fingers twitched like he is resisting the urge to turn back and break the man's ribs. But instead, he reaches for your hand, the same way you had reached for his. His touch is firm, grounding.

"You scared the hell out of me," he mutters. "So I followed you to make sure you make it to the carriage safely but-" He looks at the unconscious drunk man and clicks his tongue again.

"I'm sorry."

That's all you could just say.

Levi scoffs as the tavern keeper comes back with the medicine and apologises for the mess. Sighing you take the medicine and walk out with Levi before he can even start to give the keeper a piece of his mind.

"Thanks for coming levi." You say in a soft-grateful voice as you hand levi a tissue to clean his hand.

"Idiot. Of course, I did. I had to make sure you got into the carraige safely." He says as he wipes off the blood with an irritated expression on his face.

"Tch, filthy-"

You smile at his adorable irritation and slowly you step closer, resting your forehead against his. He stiffens at first—Levi isn't one for public displays of affection—but after a second, you feel his arms wrap around you, one hand slipping to the small of your back, the other curling into your hair.

"You smell like alcohol," he mutters against your cheek.

You huff a laugh. "You smell like blood."

His grip tightens, his lips ghosting against the top of your head. "Next time you're mad at me," he says, voice quieter now, "just punch me instead of running off."

You smile and meet his gaze, your hands gripping the front of his jacket. "Maybe I will."

His eyes softens. Then, with a quiet sigh, he leans in. His lips brushes against your forehead—slow, lingering.

"Let's go home," he murmurs.

And this time, when he leads you away, you followed without hesitation.

[cherrychilli]

18+ Eddie Munson x F! reader, reader has an oral fixation, slight blood play, biting, tiny bodily injury (it's all consensual) WC: 771

A/N: It's been a while so I can't remember what exactly spurred this idea on but I thought it was super romantic and I had to write it. Think of that what you will. Enjoy!

It started when you began biting your finger nails when you were younger. The urge only stayed with you, progressing as the years went by, the only improvement being that your nails were no longer marred because you found other things to latch your lips and teeth on.

Eddie knew about it long before you two got together, never showing any judgement even those few times you forgot yourself and left bite marks on the pencils he let you borrow. He used them just the same, even favoring them over his unmarked stationary whenever he mapped out a new campaign or song, running his thumb along the little depressions carved in the shape of your teeth.

And when you started seeing each other you couldn't help wanting to place your lips on him in this way too. For a start, you'd bite him over his clothes, always making sure to be gentle. Then on his bare shoulder, his bicep, his forearm, his waist, anywhere you could fit your teeth over him.

He found the whole thing endearing, lucky for you.

It's always gentle at first, light biting and nibbling to calm yourself. But then you found yourself wanting to mark him too.

At first it was just a bunch of hickeys, like splashes of wine on his alabaster skin but when you sucked on his fingers your mind turned full with thoughts of a particular kind of mark you wanted to leave on him.

A mark much more significant than the rest.

You tried to hide it at first but he could always tell whenever you were holding back. Eddie treated you delicately when he managed to coax it out of you one evening, large, warm hands cupping your cheeks, the sweetest smile on his lips and all just for you.

You were reluctant at first, afraid of possibly hurting him but once you finally let it out, Eddie was onboard instantly.

"Are you sure? it's going to hurt", you tell him, still not entirely convinced this was a good idea.

"Baby, I'm built for pain, look at me", he pulls up his sleeve to show off the puppet master tattooed on his forearm, gesturing to the others as well as a reminder that he's more than capable of enduring pain after all those lengthy stick and poke sessions.

"Okay...but if you change your mind at any point you have to tell me Eds, promise?" you make sure to let him know only for him to reply, grinning. "There's no way this isn't happening, babe. I'm all yours so let me have it".

So carefully, you hold his left hand by his wrist, kissing the pad of his ring finger before you slowly take it into your mouth, sucking lightly on the digit, taking more and more of it into your mouth until you could reach the knuckle.

There's always that whisper of arousal that rises up like smoke whenever he lets you do this to him, the sight of your soft lips circling him so perfectly, the slippery silk of your tongue draping over his callused fingers.

But the best is yet to come.

Your eyes flick up to his face and he gives you the go ahead with a nod, no hesitation evident on his face. Only excitement.

So you bite down, harder than all the times before but still showing some restraint. Copper and salt flood your mouth, confirmation that you've broken the skin and you immediately pull away to look at Eddie's bloody finger. You lick up as much of the blood as you can, red working its way between your teeth.

You both sit there staring when most of the bleeding ceases, a thin, jagged bleeding ring carved into his skin.

If anyone were to ask him which of all his rings he liked best he'd say it's this one - the one that'll never come off. The one that matters the most.

"Okay. Now it's your turn, beautiful", he smiles at you and you smile back all excited, eagerly placing your left hand in his.

When Eddie bites down it feels like the beginning of something new, your ring finger throbbing with a matching bite mark and you couldn't feel happier about it.

Once the blood clears and the wounded skin heals over the next couple of days you look at your matching scars, overcome with emotion because they mean so much more than any band of gold or silver or any of the finest jewels ever could.

Your commitment to each other is bone deep and written it blood and you wouldn't want to have it any other way.

[skyrim-forever]

This is gonna be a very personal post but given the situation I wanted to say something here but

My 6.5 year relationship has ended, I have nothing but love for my ex but it was clear that we need different things in life. We met at 20 and went through 3 years long distance together spread across the country. We had hopes to be together forever and he is the only person I've pictured spending my life with. Despite our differences, we had some great times together.

I particularly wanted to say something here because he was the person who got me into Skyrim. My relationship before him (my only other relationship), my ex got me to play through the tutorial and I said "it was alright but I don't think it's for me" *bombastic sideeye*

After I had moved in back in 2019, he had a spare pc and suggested I try Skyrim because it was one of his favs. I had some time over winter break from uni and got instantly obsessed. I played the game a whole bunch but never dipped any further than what the general Skyrim audience knows. It wasn't until 2022 while I was bored during the summer in grad school that I started playing again, watched all the lore videos I could find and eventually on July 4th 2022 I made this blog because none of my friends where into Skyrim and I needed an outlet for it. Then of course I discovered people made ocs for their Dragonborn's and the imperial named Theodora started to develop in my head. Initially, she hated the Thalmor but as you all know that didn't last long :P

Then I started interacting with some of the cool people here and seeing them write fanfic made me think I could too and even put it out on ao3. And then I made more friends, and I took up beading and I combined it with tes. And then meet more people, wonderful people I now chat with in discord servers and in the dms where we are *very normal* about elves :P I've even had a few voice calls with some and I hope to have many more in the future <3

So all this to say that although my life is in upheaval, my anxiety in particular is really rough now, that relationship did much good for me and one of those things was helping me find this community. Tumblr really has been my refuge throughout the difficult time I had in grad school and the loneliness I've experienced moving away from my irl friends. Thank you all for being funny, kind, creative, very normal :P I'm blessed to have not only a good community around me but a good online community. I hope to have blorbo thoughts again soon <3